The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  Even so, there was a saying among the legions: “Never fight Pryce.” His movements might be wild, but they were an order of magnitude faster than any man Gray had met. He was also well-balanced, with exceptional footwork and any who had seen him fight in combat understood the saying all too well. Never fight Pryce. His brutality and energy overwhelmed most of his opponents, and he appeared invulnerable to pain. The theory was that even if you could deliver a lethal blow to Pryce, he would still have the time and inclination to savage you with his own sword or, if you had somehow disarmed him, simply tear into you with his teeth and fingernails.

  The Second Trumpet blasted across the hall, indicating that the legionaries should cease training to eat. Gray waited as Pryce clapped his opponent on the shoulder and laughed with him, gesticulating rapidly in an impression of one of their bouts. The guardsman looked absurdly pleased that he was laughing with Pryce; everyone was pleased when Pryce showed an interest in them. Gray had his own measure of respect, but knew that people did not fawn for his approval like they did for Pryce’s. The young sprinter was a force of nature.

  Pryce clasped his opponent’s hand, bade him farewell and re-joined Gray. “So how was your conversation with Boy-Roper?”

  “Satisfactory,” said Gray as they began to walk together to the mess hall. “He knows what he has to do.”

  Pryce frowned. “So you’re going to back him? That child who inflicted the ignominy of a first ever retreat on a full call-up?”

  “That was the correct decision,” said Gray without hesitation. “We might still have won the battle if he’d advanced, but at a terrible price. Honour is everything, but I refuse to accept a definition of honour that places higher regard on tactical suicide than it does on the security of future generations.”

  “You may be right,” deferred Pryce. “But still: a boy, on the Stone Throne?”

  “He has shown much promise, growing up. And the alternative is a bleak one. Your uncle won’t rule; it’s too much like hard work for him. So that leaves us with either Roper or Uvoren. I know which one I’d choose. With the right support, he may even be exceptional.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Gray smiled into the distance. “I don’t know. Once you’ve had as many peers standing next to you in the battle line as I have, you learn to tell very quickly who you can trust with your life. There’s something about Roper. He’s clever, he understands leadership and, most importantly, he’s calm. His emotions are differently calibrated from most here.” Gray waved an arm at the chattering legionaries, all moving for the mess hall. “He masters himself, and those can be the best leaders of all.” Gray smiled again, tapping Pryce in the small of the back. “You are with me?”

  “You know I am.”

  The Black Lord would usually have had a pair of guardsmen standing watch over his quarters, day and night. However, as far as Roper knew, there were only two, perhaps three guardsmen he could trust not to turn on him if Uvoren gave the word. Since he could not have Gray and Helmec guarding him at all times, Roper had dismissed any sentries. He would sleep unguarded and simply trust that Uvoren was not as underhanded as Roper believed he was. He was trying desperately not to hate the captain, but simply saying to himself over and over again: “There’s no need to hate him; just defeat him” was having no effect. He despised Uvoren.

  It was late. The moon was high; the sun long since submerged beneath the horizon. The Central Keep was indented with small alcoves, purpose-built to provide shelter for a population of owls, whose tenants now called glumly to one another. As committed as any servants of the Black Kingdom, the owls fought the only army to have ever successfully occupied the Hindrunn: its rats. Besides this, the fortress was quiet. The legions and their families had retired, too accustomed to the sickly orange glow on the eastern horizon for it to trouble their sleep.

  Roper sat at a table that faced a leaded window. He had done his best to banish the dark from this little corner of his quarters and the collective effort of three oil lamps was providing him with light by which to plan a speech. Anakim had no writing, but when memorising long verses they used small, crude pictograms in linear fashion to be broadly representative of a theme and to ignite the memory. Roper scratched out a chain, the ink black as the night. It smelt faintly of soot, making Roper pause, standing the quill in the ink pot and staring through the rippled glass. A feathered, moonlit knife cut the dark as an owl slid past the window.

  This would be his first speech. He had no idea whether he would get a chance to deliver it, but he must be ready to take the opportunity when the time came. Roper could not afford to leave to chance anything that was within his control. He took up the quill once more and carved another symbol onto the page: a warrior, this time. It sounded odd. He looked at the tip of the quill, frowning.

  And heard the noise again.

  It was a creak. The slight strain of thick leather as it is stretched; insignificant as a cat’s footfall. But Roper heard it. And I wouldn’t have done if I was asleep.

  As quietly as he could, he extinguished the lamps by retracting the wicks and slid his legs to the side of his chair so he could stand without the need to move it. Three quick, silent strides in the dark and he had reached his weapon chest; iron-bound oak behind the door, on top of which lay Cold-Edge, its handle rich with wax from his ministrations.

  The noise came again from outside the door: a boot contracting slowly as its owner brought their weight down upon it. Roper eased Cold-Edge from its scabbard, eyes wide as he tried to adapt to the gloom. The window glowed with just enough moonlight for Roper to be able to see the latch on the door lift (for he could not hear it). It swung open by ten inches: enough for a dark-clothed figure to slide through and re-latch the door. Whoever it was had not seen Roper; their attention was focused on Roper’s bed and the un-made woollen blankets, piled enough to give a passable impression of a figure sleeping within.

  Roper was certain that the assassin must hear his heartbeat. He could hear almost nothing else as the blood roared through his ears and his hands jumped in time with the savage thump. The figure was masked. He must act. He must kill the man, who would realise at any moment that Roper’s bed was empty.

  Roper stepped forward. Fear slowed his movements as though his blood had turned to tar. The assassin had heard him at last, was turning, drawing a short sword with a black blade and Roper screamed, swinging Cold-Edge with all his might at the man’s neck.

  Roper did not see where the sword struck but he felt the impact. It was less the jolt of blade clashing on blade, more firm resistance. The assassin was knocked flat; poleaxed by the blow. Roper’s darting eyes saw the black sword drop oddly noiselessly onto a deerskin on the floor. He roared again, raising Cold-Edge, wanting to keep his advantage; waiting for the next attack. It did not come.

  The man lay prone, flooding Roper’s floor with thick, dark blood. His head, still masked, was tipped right backwards, like a flower that has had its stem broken. Roper had half-decapitated him.

  It was over. He was dead.

  Roper shook, hauling in deep breaths. Cold-Edge’s tip dropped slowly until Roper released the handle and it fell to the floor. He dropped onto his knees and each heartbeat was so wild that it felt like a hiccough. “Shit,” he said. “Shit.”

  He had killed a man. He had caught him unawares and struck before he had time to defend himself with the black short sword that now lay next to Cold-Edge. Almighty god.

  Roper leaned forward and pulled off the mask with shaking hands. He did not recognise the slack face beneath; did not want to look at the inanimate features that so resembled the decapitated head of his father. He examined the mask instead. It was dark-brown leather, supple and soft. There were only two holes: one for each eye. Not for the mouth or the nose. Instead of a face, the wearer of this mask would bear the stamp imprinted on the dark leather: a spread-winged cuckoo, head turned to one side.

  The mask of the Kryptea. Roper recognised the black-bladed shor
t sword as well. Easier to use at close quarters and alloyed matt-black to make it near invisible in the dark. Kryptea.

  Jokul, for all his words, wanted to kill him. The Kryptea could not be stopped.

  5

  House Vidarr

  Roper spent the remainder of the night positioned behind his door, Cold-Edge propped in the corner next to him. After much searching for a better location, he had placed the Kryptean agent’s body in his own bed; replacing the mask and covering him in rough woollen blankets. If there was another attacker, perhaps they would believe it was Roper.

  Dawn filled the room with painful reluctance. The walls of Roper’s quarters were bronzed by the early light, illuminating the pool of congealed blood on the floor and the wool-covered corpse in his bed. Being able to see the remnants of last night’s panicked slaughter scarcely improved matters, but furnished an exhausted Roper with sufficient courage to strap on his armour and sit upon the chair at his desk. He tried to distract himself by seeing how much of last night’s speech he could remember.

  It was in this position that Helmec discovered Roper. Finding his knocks ignored, Helmec entered hesitantly and first spied the cracked puddle of blood on the floor before travelling up to see Roper, searching the young lord for any sign of a wound. “What happened, lord?”

  Roper could not bring himself to admit last night’s scene. Who would support a man being targeted by the Kryptea? Instead, he nodded curtly at the bed. Helmec crossed to it and drew back the blankets, staring at the masked face beneath. He glanced at Roper, noting Cold-Edge’s blood-stained blade, and removed the mask.

  “I know this man,” said Helmec, quietly. “You have killed one of Ramnea’s Own, my lord. Aslakur Bjargarson; House Algauti.” Roper had not digested Helmec’s words. Helmec was looking at him, and then crossed the floor to place a hand on Roper’s shoulder. “It’s over, lord. You killed him.”

  Roper’s eyes were glazed for a moment and then flickered into life, glancing up at the guardsman. “House Algauti?” he said, finally seeming to register what Helmec had said. A possibility was stirring in his mind. “Helmec, fetch the guardsman Gray Konrathson for me at once.”

  “Lord.” Helmec bowed and departed, returning before long with Gray. Aides from Roper’s own house, Jormunrekur, were summoned to clear away the body, watched closely by Gray and Helmec, both resting their hands on their sword-hilts. “Strip it,” commanded Roper. “Find a pike, plant it in the ground and impale the body.” Gray looked at Roper quizzically but did not question him in front of others. “And summon Jokul,” said Roper, grimly.

  He could not hide the fact that he had been attacked, so he would use it as best he could. Impaling a Black legionary might make him hated, but it also gave him an edge; the beginnings of something approaching respect. He had killed one of Ramnea’s Own in single combat. At that moment, Roper preferred hatred to contempt. Perhaps he would no longer be thought of as a boy.

  Jokul arrived without delay. His pale eyes took in the blood on the floor before staring at Roper, flanked by Helmec and Gray. “Are you going to execute me, lord?” he asked in his dry, quiet voice.

  “So you admit that in spite of your words, you have tried to have me killed,” said Roper vengefully.

  “I admit nothing,” said Jokul. He knelt before Roper, who kept the surprise from his face. “On my honour,” said Jokul, holding forward supplicatory hands that Roper took. “On my station; on my life. That assassin was no Kryptean.”

  “He wore the mask,” said Roper sternly. “He carried the sword!”

  “Stolen,” said Jokul. “I do not want you dead. I do not want Uvoren.”

  “Rise, then,” said Roper and Jokul stood, becoming hardly more physically imposing than he had been on his knees. “The man was Aslakur Bjargarson of House Algauti.” It was almost a question. If anyone could confirm Roper’s suspicions, it was the Master of the Kryptea.

  “That tells you all you need to know, my lord,” said Jokul simply. House Algauti were vassals of House Lothbrok, Uvoren’s family. They were a minor servile house, rewarded by the Lothbroks for their loyal support with wealth, status and protection. This assassin, if Roper believed Jokul, would have been sent by Uvoren and tricked out as a Kryptean. If the assassination were successful, it would be the Kryptea who bore any heat for the murder and Uvoren would be best placed to occupy the Stone Throne. If it were unsuccessful, then it could not be traced to Uvoren and might have the added benefit of driving a wedge between Roper and Jokul, whom Uvoren had seen parley.

  It was brutal and clever. It had Uvoren written all over it and Roper was reminded forcibly of the Chief Historian’s words when they had met in the Chamber of State: The greatest warriors can fight in any theatre. Roper needed a response. He needed to become someone who could not be killed without uproar ensuing, making Uvoren think twice before attempting such a tactic again.

  “I am by your side from now on, my lord,” said Gray. “Send for Pryce as well. You need him.”

  “Do not dismiss me again, lord,” echoed Helmec. “We’ll keep you alive until you can take Uvoren.”

  Roper looked at the pair of them, quite moved. He had few reasons to trust anyone at the moment, but he trusted these two. “What have I done to deserve the service of two such fine warriors?” he asked. “Thank you.” He turned to Jokul. “Uvoren has abused the reputation of the Kryptea for his own ends. What are you going to do about it?”

  Jokul gazed at Roper for a moment. “We preserve the stability of this country. It is certainly not in our interest to kill him. But this will not stand. We will find out who took the mask and blade and they will die. We will warn Uvoren. And …” he examined Roper a moment longer—“you have a reprieve, for the moment, Lord Roper. I will give you a month to gather your strength and then we shall reassess.”

  “It’s all I need,” said Roper.

  Bellamus sat within a pavilion, his desk adrift in an inky sea on the little island of light cast by two oil lamps. The rain thrashed onto the canvas walls, beading them with cold glass droplets that slipped from the roof and down the sides to pool at the edges. There were no windows, the opening was sutured tight, and within, little daylight was admitted. The only connection with the twisted acres that stretched beyond the walls was the drum of the rain, rolling through the darkness.

  This was where he met with his spies, where he interrogated his enemies, where he disciplined his soldiers and where he interviewed captured Anakim. The character of each conversation was much the same, and the pavilion was all part of that, designed in every detail to place his informants at ease. Bellamus had learned long ago that the right environment was often all that it took to dismantle someone’s defences. The soft glow emitted as oil became air lent the space a conspiratorial atmosphere, eliminating distractions and focusing the mind on the conversation. The light was reminiscent of the hearths by which humans of all kinds had sat since their earliest years to spill secrets to those close to them.

  For the Anakim informants, Bellamus had ordered a chair constructed to suit their larger proportions, and one for himself as well, so that the two of them could sit on the same level. Every word of his introduction, every gesture, he had trialled before. It all depended on that, he had discovered. If the right tone was not set at the beginning, there was no hope for the interview. Any hint of antagonism, and Bellamus would find himself frozen out. They were stubborn folk, these Anakim, perhaps unsurprisingly when there was an army camped on their land.

  Bellamus had spoken to one of them that morning: a woman named Adras. It had been just the two of them in this space, along with a jug of wine which Bellamus had unstoppered, decanting generous measures into two goblets. The potent smell of fermentation made the Anakim woman wrinkle her nose as he pushed one of the cups towards her.

  She stared at it, then back up at Bellamus, saying nothing. She was almost entirely rigid, each muscle braced against its antagonist. Bellamus did not appear to notice, taking up his goblet an
d leaning back in his chair to take a sip. He glanced over the rim at the woman and, when he removed the cup, his face was sympathetic. “That cup is yours.” He spoke in Anakim. “Whenever you want it.”

  The woman made no move for it beyond a glance.

  “This must be your home, that we are camped in now,” Bellamus continued. “My very great apologies for that. We’ll be moving along soon and, by that time, we’ll have had a good conversation and you’ll be free to stay here.”

  “What are we going to talk about?” asked the woman.

  “You,” said Bellamus, smiling gently. “You must forgive me for being so personal. My trade back home, in the south, is my knowledge of your people. And I wouldn’t be of much use if I didn’t keep that knowledge sharp. I won’t remain unique in my skills for long. Others will see the value in them and try to catch up: I must always remain a master of my subject. At least, relatively speaking. So if you’ll be very kind, perhaps you could help me with these words.” Bellamus took the top parchment off the table with his free hand and cast an eye over it. “Kip-sun-ga? Am I saying that right?” He leaned closer to the woman. “Kipsunga?”

  “Kipsanga,” corrected Adras.

  “Kipsanga. What does it mean?”

  Adras paused, staring at him for a time. “It is the best kind of friend.”

  “Explain for me,” said Bellamus, taking another sip of wine.

  The Anakim stayed silent, and then took up her own cup. She sniffed it for a moment, glanced at Bellamus (who appeared to be consulting his list of words once again) and took a sip. “A kipsanga is a friend whom you both respect as a person, and get on with particularly well.” She stopped there but, confronted with Bellamus’s hopeful expression, gave a small smile and continued. “Maybe you share a very similar sense of humour, or have an especially good time with them. But you also respect their character.”