The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  “Where is that swarm now? Those who once feared to tread upon our lands now flock across the Abus in thousands. And those figures who once haunted their nightmares now sit at this table and preach patience.” Roper let his eyes linger on Uvoren. “Their victory is assured as long as we skulk behind high walls, facing none of the terror that those outside experience. I am ashamed! Our subjects have placed all their trust in the legions and we have shackled them. Our women sacrifice their sons, brothers and fathers to our army with a glad heart, knowing there could be no destination more valiant or force more committed to the defence of this realm. They work tirelessly to support our ability to resist. Imagine their dismay in knowing an invading army is on their doorstep and we do not even have the guts to take them on. Our lads train and compete from the age of six to wear the armour of our realm and carry the badge of their legion into battle. How can you commit so fully to a life that we strip of honour by lingering in safety while families are slaughtered and rounded up as slaves?

  “Do you know what they use Anakim slaves for, in the south? We are beasts of burden. They yoke us to carts like oxen, or strap loads to our backs like mules. Our women are turned into breeding machines; their one purpose to give rise to a race of hybrid slaves that will toil on the land until they die.

  “We can allow not one more son or daughter of the Black Kingdom to undergo this fate. We cannot delay another moment under this disgrace. I shall tell you what we will do and you can see whether you find my plan or Uvoren’s more in keeping with your honour. I will take a force—any force—and we will fight a battle. Any battle. The legions cannot disgrace themselves more shamefully than we have forced them to thus far. Defeat would be of little consequence. We must fight.”

  As Roper finished, the Vidarr and even a good few others rapped their knuckles thunderously on the table, but Uvoren was straight on his feet. “Roper makes an admirable appeal to sentiment,” he declared over the hubbub. “Where was his fighting spirit when he was last on the battlefield?”

  “You should have seen it, Uvoren,” said Roper coldly. “It was much in evidence when I rode after my father’s body. Or when I fought alone in the waters. Tell me, where were you then?”

  This was met with silence. Several councillors shifted in their seats, eyes turning to Uvoren. The captain was gazing at Roper with flint-hard eyes. Roper stared right back.

  “Roper should apologise at once,” intervened Asger. “He has questioned Uvoren’s honour and should count himself lucky if Uvoren does not make him pay for it.”

  More silence. Gray clapped Pryce on the shoulder and the lictor moved to stand behind Asger, who sat very still in his seat, looking to Uvoren. His master offered no helping hand. Roper’s chess pieces were intensifying their pressure on Uvoren’s, seeking a victory on this small portion of the board. His pieces were in the better position: now Roper had to convert that into a victory. He did not move his eyes from Uvoren as he replied. “Asger, if you are to speak, you will refer to me as the Black Lord. If necessary, Pryce will make that clear to you.” Asger appeared to be holding his breath. Over his shoulder, Pryce looked impassive.

  Roper continued. He did not want to give Uvoren time to speak. “Here is our course of action. I will take the Skiritai, the Pendeen, Ramnea’s Own and five auxiliary legions. The Sacred Guard will also accompany me. I will take the battle to the Suthern horde, and I will secure this country. I will leave Uvoren as commander-in-chief of the Hindrunn in my absence. He will have the Blackstones, the Greyhazel and four auxiliary legions: more than enough to keep the Hindrunn secure from the greatest of armies.”

  The table seemed to rustle at this proposal. Pryce and Gray looked swiftly at one another, Pryce wearing an expression of disgust. Tekoa sat back in his chair with a slight sigh. Uvoren’s jaw had swung open. A slight smile began to pull the corner of his mouth as he glanced at some of his supporters. Roper took note of whom: Tore, legate of the Greyhazel; Baldwin, Legion Tribune.

  “That’s bold,” said Uvoren, licking his lips. “Very bold.” He was not talking about the prospect of battling the Sutherners and everyone at the table knew it. Roper could see some of the Vidarr looking betrayed, turning hurt or angry eyes to Tekoa, who had steepled his fingers and was staring at the table before him, wearing a slight frown. “Very well, my lord,” said Uvoren. Lord. “I shall safeguard the Hindrunn against all invaders. I pray you triumph over the Sutherners.” He leaned forward and offered Roper his hand, beaming with his whole body. Roper, every inch as tall as Uvoren, clasped the captain’s hand.

  “I shall re-enter these gates victorious,” he told Uvoren, smiling gently.

  Excited chatter broke out at the table on both sides. Some of the Vidarr stood, purple in the face with rage, but Tekoa smashed a fist down on the table before any of them could speak, muzzling them. Several of Uvoren’s supporters were embracing with delighted laughter.

  For it was a desperate gamble on Roper’s part. Once he had removed his legions from the Hindrunn, there could be no way back in. He was leaving the greatest fortress in the Known World, with enough men to defend it twice over, in the hands of a ruthless enemy. He was leaving Uvoren in complete control.

  If Roper wanted to re-enter the Hindrunn, it would have to be with battering rams, siege weapons and slaughter.

  It was civil war.

  6

  Ash

  Roper and Keturah married the next day. As he had no parents, the affair was witnessed simply by Roper’s bodyguards (Gray, Pryce and Helmec) and Keturah’s own parents, Tekoa and Skathi, as well as two Skiritai officers. Skathi—escorted by the same serving girl who had scowled at Roper when he appeared in Tekoa’s house—was calmer and more distant than she had been on their first encounter. She spoke twice. The first time, she addressed Roper, sternly commanding that he put her daughter above all things on this earth.

  “I will, my lady,” promised Roper.

  The second time, she seized Keturah’s hand and spoke at length about how she wished for her happiness. Roper expected Keturah to bat her away with one of her waspish retorts, but instead she clasped her mother’s hand between her own and paid close attention throughout. Her expression was serious and when her mother was done, she beamed at her and planted a kiss on Skathi’s cheek. “Thank you, Mother,” she said softly.

  One of the legates wearing the mighty eagles’ wings led the prayers in the Holy Temple, a stone’s throw from the Central Keep, before Roper and Keturah exchanged vows and a pair of identical silver arm-rings. Roper swore to always keep her safe; she to be a dutiful wife. They finished by both saying the words, “You bury me” to one another, expressing the wish that they should die before being parted.

  Tekoa remained unhappy that they were about to cede the fortress to Uvoren, but nonetheless presented Roper with a wedding gift of some splendour. It was a horse. A monstrous destrier, fully trained for battle. “Zephyr is his name,” Tekoa had growled, leading the beast over to him. “He’s twenty hands. Probably the biggest ever produced in a stable of the Black Kingdom, certainly ever in a Vidarr stable. Your enemies will see you coming on this one.” He patted the beast’s pale grey flank.

  Roper had learned much since he last passed through the Hindrunn’s Great Gate. The last time, Uvoren had humiliated him in front of his people, dressing him in untouched battle-gear and parading him at the front of a shamed army. Now, Roper kept his own counsel. He would leave as he had arrived, in resplendent plate armour at the head of the army, but the effect would be quite different.

  They mustered the legions that would be under Roper’s command in front of the Central Keep. Though it was scarcely more than a half-call-up, close to forty thousand men, rank on rank with armour sand-burnished and gleaming, they still made a magnificent spectacle.

  And Roper led them.

  Cold-Edge was sheathed at his side. He was dressed in his steel cuirass, oiled and polished, with overlapping layers of steel providing a flexible defence for his shoulder
s and upper arms. Inlaid into the cuirass in silver wire was a snarling wolf and a skirt of chain mail protected his thighs. High leather boots inlaid with concealed strips of metal covered his calves and a black cloak enfolded him. He wore Kynortas’s battle helmet, the helmet of the Black Lord, with his hair threaded through the back in the style of a Sacred Guardsman. He looked every inch the warlord; the visor and cheek-plates of the helmet even hiding his young, unmarked features. Even Uvoren on seeing him had smiled slightly and nodded. “You cut an impressive figure, my lord.” He and Roper had been civil as they bade each other farewell, both knowing that they now led two opposing armies.

  The sun had broken through the dark blanket that had covered it for months and bathed the Hindrunn in watery gold. Roper led the army through the streets that were lined once again with women and children. Eyes penetrated Roper’s armour like nothing else as he rode Zephyr towards the Great Gate. There was no ridicule this time. Perhaps it was the assassination attempt that Roper had foiled alone. Or perhaps it was the fact that he was leading the army that was finally to take on the Sutherners. Or maybe it was just that he now looked so much the part, riding his immense battle-steed. Whatever it was, he was being accorded something approaching respect.

  Roper’s gamble was more than simply ceding the Hindrunn and a host of armed men to Uvoren’s control. He faced dreadful odds in battle against the Sutherners too. He led forty thousand men and eight thousand heavy cavalry. Nobody knew how large the Suthern force they rode against was, but their best reports indicated that it had increased by half again since the last time Roper had fought them. Some said they were moving against an army of two hundred thousand men. Roper did not believe that, but there was no point denying that they were drastically outnumbered. Plans of campaign were normally met with fevered anticipation, but when Roper had summoned the legates and bade them follow him to war against this Suthern horde, he had seen the shock on their faces. He had issued his instructions and witnessed a surreal haze descend on the room. The legates had made no reply. They staggered from the room, gaping at their own hands. The armoured men who marched behind Roper bore that same expression. The women who lined the roads read it and stood with white knuckles and slender lips. The atmosphere was one of shocked farewell. This was so sudden, and victory so implausible. How could they possibly triumph?

  Roper ignored it all. His face was set, his doubts hidden behind it and able to escape only when he opened his mouth. So he said nothing. Gray, riding behind him, wore no expression at all. He stroked the neck of his horse with a gloved hand and smiled every now and then when he caught the eye of one of the onlookers. Tekoa, next to Gray, was unyielding.

  The two great sheaths of iron-clad oak were hauled open before Roper and he drew his sword in preparation at passing through the Outer Wall. He raised Cold-Edge over his head in a retrospective salute to the crowds who lined the street, wondering if he would ever re-enter this fortress.

  And to his very great surprise, somebody behind him cheered. The noise swelled as the crowd took it up and began to applaud. Roper had not even considered what leading the army would do for his popularity. It had been a way for him to gain enough allies and martial repute to flatten Uvoren, as well as banish the Sutherners from this land. He had forgotten that the people of the Hindrunn would love it. This was the most warlike race in the world. Their love for the legions and any who commanded them ran to the bone.

  Absurdly pleased, Roper trotted Zephyr through the tunnel and onto the plains beyond, where the refugees still gathered, sheltered crudely beneath old cloaks and blankets. And even they, who had been shut out of the fortress for weeks after the destruction of their homes, got to their feet and cheered him. Roper acknowledged the applause with a raise of his sword, still beaming uncontrollably. He moved to the right to allow the column marching behind to pass him and turned back to look at the wall. Atop it stood a lone figure.

  Uvoren.

  Roper held Cold-Edge aloft, tip pointing at the Captain of the Guard. A salute; of sorts.

  Uvoren raised a hand in acknowledgement, a wry smile discernible on his face. Let us play.

  Leading an army was more complicated than Roper could ever have predicted. The legionaries were trained from the moment they entered the haskoli at the age of six to forage and procure their own food. Nevertheless, keeping the legions fully supplied was a near impossible task. Close to fifty thousand soldiers (including the troopers of the Cavalry Corps, whom Roper had discreetly removed from the fortress before Uvoren realised he was taking them), eight thousand horses and god knew how many beasts in the baggage train required vast granaries of wheat, beans, barley, oats and rye, as well as a small army of sheep for slaughter. They had taken supplies for two weeks with them, each warrior carrying much of his food on his back, but they would struggle to find more out in the field.

  They were two days’ march out from the Hindrunn when someone realised that while each legionary had, as always, brought his own bow, they had no arrows with them. The legates informed Roper that this was usually the duty of the Skiritai. Tekoa, who commanded them, exploded that they had been working harder than anyone had a right to expect and that it had been somebody else’s responsibility to bring the bloody arrows. Men were sent back to fetch them.

  Hours after the men had returned with wagons of arrows (still not enough; they would blaze through them in just a few minutes of battle), a trooper of the Cavalry Corps had reported to Roper that they were low on horseshoes. Roper had asked how that was possible just two days out of the Hindrunn and was informed that they usually had more notice if they were going on campaign. More men were sent back for horseshoes.

  It was late autumn. Ordinarily, the campaigning season would be over already. The Sutherners had left them nothing; Roper’s forces moved through a scorched land. They trudged over blankets of hot, damp ash that had once been great villages. Forests had been felled and added to the conflagration. Sheep carcasses, sucked dry by the hungry Sutherners, were scattered liberally over the hills. Grain pits, granaries, storehouses: all had received special attention to ensure not so much as a bean survived obliteration.

  And everywhere, there were human bones. Some black, grey and half-consumed by fire. Some white and gleaming, washed clean by the rain, resting on a bed of ash. Skulls. Vertebrae. Teeth.

  At one village, they found a massacre. Anakim bones, bearing savage cut-marks that showed their owners had died by the sword, protruded from the ash. They were surrounded by axe- and spear-heads, the wooden shafts long destroyed by flame. “Ribs. Not bone-armour,” said Gray with disgust, kicking through the ash. “Not a single piece of it.” He looked up at Roper, eyes filled with rage and hurt. “These are women. They were here, fighting with axes and spears while we cowered behind granite!”

  Roper looked down from Zephyr’s broad back. There were children’s bones amongst the women’s. Boys younger than six or girls below seven, who had not yet been sent away to their academies. With the legions called away in the Hindrunn, the women had mounted a last stand in defence of their village. “You once told me,” said Roper quietly to Gray, “to forget revenge on the Sutherners. Fight them for those that are still alive. What do you say now, my friend?”

  Gray drew a deep breath. “There is no need for revenge. But our lands are better off without creatures that would do this.” He gazed down at the bones. “They must be defeated.”

  Roper nodded. “Spread word amongst the men of what is here. We will need all the motivation we can get if we are to defeat this horde.”

  The legionaries had all known this land when it bloomed with health. The fire caught them. It fed the rage inside them with each ruined village; each well and river poisoned by animal carcasses; each Anakim bone that peered so starkly back at them. While some of the soldiers’ families had fled into the refuge of the Hindrunn, most had stayed at their homesteads. These legionaries wandered the places where they thought their houses had once stood, seeking bones they mi
ght recognise. Some even picked up those that they found, eyes brimming, sure that they held in their hands their wife; their daughter; their son.

  The rage in each man grew, smothering the fear of the enemy they hunted. Morale was low, but any thought of desertion or retreat was out of the question. A desire for vengeance flourished and Roper encouraged it, though Gray cautioned that this was not the way of the legionaries. Such all-consuming emotion was possession, pure and simple.

  Finding the Sutherners would not be difficult. An army of such vast size could hardly stay hidden; all they had to do was follow the smoke that rose steadily from the horizon. Roper sent the Skiritai, the army’s skirmishers, lightly armoured and chosen for speed and fitness, out in all directions. They searched for supplies, survivors and errant Sutherners.

  Survivors began to appear first. They fell into the army with enough gratitude to make Roper ashamed. They wept at the sight of the legions marching to their salvation after being helpless for so long. At the van marched the Sacred Guard: men so highly esteemed that many survivors ran to embrace them or fell sobbing at their feet, assuming that their presence meant victory.

  And Roper? They stared in awe at this great warlord. It had been whispered that the Jormunrekur were spent and the Lothbroks poised to succeed them. But here was a shining warrior: tall, stern and covered in steel, atop the biggest horse they had ever seen, riding at the front of a great army. They blessed him, thanked him and swore loyalty to this new lord.