by Leo Carew
It swarmed with Anakim. Thousands crawled over the hills, every immense warrior gleaming as though coated in dew, polished as bright as steel would allow. They were climbing the side of the valley, heading up towards a chip below the rim: a col slumped between two powerful shoulders of rock.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Bellamus dragged his horse to a halt and those around him did likewise. They stared, every warrior silent and transfixed by the three figures before them. Scarcely fifty yards away, the three horsemen they had pursued were staring back. They were facing them, watching Bellamus’s few hundred horsemen intently, so still that the hooves of their horses looked rooted to the ground.
The central horseman was huge. Even among fellow Anakim, he towered over his companions. Or maybe it was just that he sat atop the largest horse Bellamus had ever seen: a pale grey beast piled with muscle, hooves the circumference of a medium-sized barrel. The man astride it was black-cloaked, with shoulders of steel plate immense and brooding, and a helmet that Bellamus recognised.
The Black Lord. Their enemy stood before them: still, cold and watchful.
He wants to see how we’re responding. Bellamus looked up at the col. It was perhaps two miles across, with a knotted outcrop of rock to each side rearing some two hundred feet over the col. A fearsome defensive position, with a perilously steep approach. There, the first Anakim were arraying themselves, hundreds of banners silhouetted against the sky behind. “This stinks,” said Bellamus. “Every bit of this. They’ve planned it.”
“Planned what?” asked one of his retainers.
Bellamus shook his head. “I don’t know. They’ve got something in mind.” He glanced at the man who had spoken and winked. “Strip your shirt. Let’s go and ask them.” Nobody else was better equipped to discern the Anakim plan, and in any case, there was nobody else on the scene. Whatever was at play, Bellamus needed to uncover it. He turned to another retainer. “Would you head back down the valley and halt our little band? Let’s not show our hand just yet.” The man departed and Bellamus affixed the filthy white shirt presented him by the first retainer onto the head of his spear. He held it up as a dismal banner and, with two companions, rode forward to meet the Black Lord.
They advanced and the three horsemen before them waited for them to close the distance, until Bellamus and his companions had drawn up before them. The central figure—the Black Lord—looked up at Bellamus’s pathetic flag of truce. In Anakim he asked: “Is that supposed to be a white flag, Bellamus?”
“You know it is, my lord. And as I have heard you are an honourable man, I know you will not violate such a gesture,” said Bellamus. He paused, trying to spot a house crest that told him whether he addressed Roper or Uvoren beneath the Black Lord’s battle helm, but he could see none. “I see you received the helmet I sent for you.”
The figure was still for a moment. His two companions looked to him for a response and Bellamus wondered whether he had gone too far. He had no doubt who would win a contest of strength if the Anakim decided not to accept his feeble flag. “I did,” said the warlord, at last. “I wish you’d sent it attached to the rest of my father’s body.”
Roper. “You don’t have many men, my Lord Roper,” observed Bellamus, looking up at the ridge. “Enough for a surprise attack, not enough to repel our forces. Unless there are more that I cannot see, I think you will struggle, even with your good position.”
“We have enough,” said Roper, as though surprised Bellamus would think such a thing. “Where is Lord Northwic?”
“Below, with the army. You wouldn’t gain much by killing me here.”
The stern exterior cracked and Roper burst out laughing. He glanced at Bellamus’s bodyguards, who could not understand the plosive words he and Bellamus exchanged and sat tense upon their horses. “I’m not so sure about that. I hear Lord Northwic is capable, but you? You’re something a little different, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps a little, my lord,” said Bellamus modestly. Roper was smiling to himself and Bellamus found himself unexpectedly liking this lad.
“Well, Bellamus, we won’t kill you. Not here. Not under a white flag. But I’d like to know what you did with my father’s sword.”
“Bright-Shock, was it?” queried Bellamus. Roper did not object. “It’s being put to good use,” he said. He saw Roper’s eyes rake his person, searching for some evidence of the blade, and Bellamus chuckled. “Forget it, my lord. You won’t get it back. I must congratulate your smiths on its quality, though.”
Roper grunted. “It is hard to see which Sutherner would have use for an Unthank-silver blade. Well, Bellamus, did you have something you wanted to discuss? Because I must say we have conclusive ideas about what’s about to happen.”
“What is about to happen?” asked Bellamus, bluntly.
The Black Lord laughed again. “You should attack us, Bellamus,” he said. “And you will find out.” He nodded at Bellamus and turned his monstrous horse back towards the col, followed by his two companions. Bellamus watched them go for a moment before turning back towards the mists.
“A general who rides a destrier?” said one of his bodyguards as soon as they were out of earshot. “What is the range of that thing, four hundred yards?”
“A strange choice,” agreed Bellamus. More appropriate would have been a courser: faster, lighter and much better suited to spilling orders over a battlefield. A destrier—a full and heavily muscled battle horse—was a shocking beast to ride into combat but would tire quickly beneath a general. Still, Bellamus had been impressed by Roper, who seemed to have grown into his role in what must have been testing circumstances.
They collected the horsemen who waited below and descended back into the mist, Bellamus silent and his face crinkled. Swallowed again by the haze, it was not long before he discovered his restless infantry waiting for him. Lord Northwic was there on horseback, pushing his way up to the front of the line, followed by a great banner featuring a black bear on a white background.
“You’ve seen them?” he called out to Bellamus.
“I’ve spoken to them,” said Bellamus, pulling his horse about, next to Northwic. “Roper is in command, riding what looks like a hippopotamus.”
“A what?”
“Forget it.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Perhaps thirty thousand,” supplied Bellamus. “And they’re defending a col further up the valley.”
Lord Northwic frowned. “Why? They’re hoping we’ll attack them?”
“I doubt it,” said Bellamus. “They’re up to something. This is planned.”
The mists were dissolving in the sunlight that permeated the valley, obliterating the frost that encrusted the grass. Thousands of men were gathering around Bellamus and Northwic, and knights dressed in their full plate armour were beginning to appear on their flanks.
“Well, we know where a sizeable portion of their army is,” said Northwic. “Let us wipe it out.”
“Yes, yes, but what are we missing?” said Bellamus, distractedly.
Northwic raised an eyebrow as if to say it hardly mattered. He turned away and began assembling the soldiers, barking the longbowmen into an advance, pulling those warriors with shields to the front of the line, pushing the knights back in reserve.
Bellamus ignored all this. He rode aside from the preparations, the frown still on his face. What are they trying to achieve here? If this is a diversion, it’s a big one. He looked up at the col, becoming visible as the mist continued to evaporate. It was a formidable defensive position, but gave the Anakim few options for springing surprises. So if there was more to this situation, it was unlikely to be here. What if it is a diversion? What are they distracting us from? There was one obvious clue to that: they had attacked the southern end of the valley. If this was a diversion, it was probably calculated to tie up their forces away from the northern end. And what is at the northern end?
Bellamus grew still. “Dear God.” He looked around for Lord North
wic, who was by this point a hundred yards away. Bellamus did not immediately react. For a moment, he merely stroked the mane of his horse gently. He patted its warm neck a few times. At the northern end of the valley: the wagon park. Their supplies, their equipment; their lifeline in this alien world. At that moment, the vast majority of their army was flooding towards this Anakim force. They had responded mindlessly, like a pack of dogs, to this simple threat, and had left the irreplaceable undefended. Bellamus had no proof, but it suddenly seemed glaringly obvious. “And we’ll be too bloody late,” he said bitterly. He snapped his fingers and looked up. “Lord Northwic!” he bellowed. The old lord half turned towards him, eyebrows raised. “Lord Northwic!”
8
Two Hanged Corpses
The fortress was always deathly still after a march-out. Even with only half the legions gone, the energy that usually animated the Hindrunn had dissipated. Those who remained were subdued, waiting for the moment their husbands, peers and brothers appeared again on the horizon. Many preferred it so quiet. The legions were absent more often than not and some of the Hindrunn’s women had become accustomed to the peace, the space and the community they had grown without the warriors.
Not Keturah. She loved the throng as the legions returned. She loved the vigour of the feast that followed a successful campaign and the euphoria of the markets as legionaries who had been on marching rations for months bought everything they had desired in that time. She loved the talk of what had happened at war: the stories that circulated of campaign and the inevitable rash of betrothals that followed. She loved the return of her friends and admirers among the legionaries. But most of all, she just loved that more happened when the legions were resident. She felt part of something greater: a community of souls with a synchronised purpose. There was a sense of cooperation; that they were contributing to the symmetry of the earth.
That day, Keturah walked alone up one of the Hindrunn’s cobbled roads, a leather sack over one shoulder and her face, though relaxed, stained with an expression of slight impatience. She was thinking about her father’s departure. She had thought of little else for the past several days, for it had been uncharacteristic. Clad in his mighty eagle-feather cloak for the march-out, a helmet held beneath one arm, he had fussed excessively over his equipment, claiming he could not locate his task-knife.
“You have a dagger,” Keturah had said, pretending not to know that her father had no equipment problems and almost never had. He delayed because he had something to say.
“Keep your suggestions to yourself, Daughter. God knows how the estate will look after a month or so in your hands but I take it you’ll do your best?” She nodded, looking at him flatly. “Don’t let anyone swindle you when you sell. And don’t buy anything either … And we need more rams at Loratun, but just leave that. And don’t talk to the estate manager at Trawden, he’ll just confuse you … Actually, it’s best if you just do nothing at all, Keturah.”
“Yes, Father.”
Tekoa looked sour. “You acquiesce far too readily. On my return, I shall look for the column of smoke which means you’ve attempted something unwise. Look after your mother.” He had turned away, preparing to stride from the room. Then he faltered and turned back to her. There was a brief pause. “Stay safe.”
Keturah was delighted. She laughed and took a few steps towards her father, placing an arm over his shoulder. “Are you worried for me, Father?”
“Worried for whoever has to deal with you while you’re unsupervised.” And then he had shocked her. He took her hand gently from his shoulder and held it in his own. “You have declared a side now, Daughter. And most of your allies are about to leave this fortress. They may never return.”
She rolled her eyes. “You will return.”
“Maybe. Whether or not that is true, Uvoren is the ultimate power in the Hindrunn as soon as we have left. You will have to tread carefully with him. As I said: stay safe, Daughter.” Then he had turned on his heel and was gone, his cloak lingering in the doorway for a brief moment before it too swept out of sight.
It had been sufficiently out of character to give Keturah pause for thought, but she had not taken it seriously until she had first encountered Uvoren two days later. There was more swagger in his walk. He was more insistent, more confident and had shown a great interest in Keturah. She supposed that her marriage to Roper had brought her to his attention, which was not welcome.
A right turn and the market appeared before Keturah. A rope trickled down the face of the building to either side of the path, each noosed about a corpse that hung fourteen feet from the ground. The sight had been shocking to Keturah when the bodies were fresh, their throats cut and their guts spilling out. Now the guts were gone, taken by carrion birds, and the corpses had shrunk and stiffened as the moisture left too. The mark on their forehead was still visible though: a spread-winged cuckoo.
The mark of the Kryptea.
These were the two legionaries responsible for stealing the Kryptean effects that had been used during Roper’s attempted assassination. They had been hanged unseen beside the market, one of the busiest places in the fortress, as a mark of Kryptean subtlety. They can act whenever and wherever they like, the corpses said. Do not steal from the Kryptea. Since then, nobody had dared cut the bodies down, not even the poor souls whose houses they hung against. They could not be sure whether the Kryptea considered them their own property so the corpses were left, staining the stone walls behind, teeth bared by shrivelled lips.
Keturah barely noticed them now. She had passed this way often enough and they were easier to look at now that they did not so much resemble living flesh. She was heading for the market, which was more subdued than usual but scores still moved among the covered stalls and voices called out to her as she passed. “Congratulations on your marriage, Miss Keturah!”
“Fruit leather for you and your mother today, my lady?”
“A sight for sore eyes, Miss Keturah!” She smiled at each of them, cocking her head and giving them a few words in return, though she could not linger.
“My dear!” called one woman from behind a stall laden with bolts of fabric, a softly bulging sling joining her shoulder and hip.
“Sigurasta!” Keturah stepped towards her and embraced the woman over her wares. “Thank you for the last time,” she said, employing the fond greeting of the Black Kingdom. “How’s your beautiful girl?” With care, Keturah pulled back the edge of the sling to reveal a sleeping baby, its head turned into its mother and wearing a stubborn frown.
“Healthy, so far,” said Sigurasta. “I hear you have a problem of your own to take care of?”
She referred to the Vidarr estate which had been left in Keturah’s control. “No problem,” said Keturah. “Father likes to complain but it is a minor responsibility. I have some timber to sell so I must move, before Avaldr is inundated. Will you come drink wine with us tomorrow?”
Sigurasta said that she would and Keturah gave her and her baby a kiss on the cheek before they parted. As she turned away from them, her face resumed its impatient repose.
The woman was Sigurasta Sakariasdottir, wife of Vinjar Kristvinson, Councillor for Agriculture and close personal friend of Uvoren the Mighty. Roper’s business was now Keturah’s business, and Roper needed Uvoren’s war council to be destroyed. Vinjar Kristvinson had to fall and perhaps his wife would have the key to that. Keturah thought of herself as much a warrior as any of those away on campaign. This was her battlefield and Sigurasta, whether she knew it or not, was one of her allies.
Keturah headed for a stall around which a small crowd had already assembled and behind which was a short, stocky man, evidently enjoying the attention he received. His wandering eyes caught Keturah’s and opened wide. “Almighty preserve me!” He threw up his hands in mock dread, a look of horror crossing his face. “No, not today, Miss Keturah. I am stretched enough as it is without one of my encounters with you.”
She laughed at this and slid through th
e ranks of other customers, placing a hand on his arm. “Avaldr, I am here to do you a favour.”
“She always says that,” Avaldr declared to his other clients. “What is it this time, Miss Keturah: a mighty bog-oak? A crystal from the Winter Road?” Avaldr always liked to share his jokes when he saw Keturah and now he had an audience. “And what shall you have as payment? The stall itself? My shoes?”
“There’s no need to be so melodramatic, Avaldr. I’ve some fine ash for you today but there’s always Bjarkan or Parmes, if you don’t want it.”
“Not while the Ulpha are away on campaign,” said Avaldr slyly, referring to the legion in which his two rivals served.
Keturah was amused. “It’s timber, Avaldr. It will keep until they’re back. I’ve no desire to sell it to you while you think you’re the only buyer in the fortress.”
He gave her a delighted smile. “But I am the only buyer in the fortress!” He gestured at the customers arrayed about him.
“But Avaldr, we’re such old friends.” She reached across to his cheek and gave it the lightest of caresses. “You’re still going to give me your best price.” Avaldr threw up his hands again and gestured as though to shoo her away, though he looked mightily pleased.
“It seems that I have little choice. How much have you got?”
“Three tons, twenty-foot lengths.”
“Green?”
“For now. Felled two weeks ago at Trawden.”
The two shaped an agreement, Avaldr agreeing to bring iron to Tekoa’s household in payment for the timber, which was being stored outside the fortress walls. Keturah bade him farewell, extricated herself from the crowd and went on the hunt for a stall selling yarn. She found one and traded some copper for it, extracting it from the leather sack hung at her shoulder and handing it to the woman behind the stall who used a broad chisel and hammer to gouge a few chunks off the copper, handing the rest of the ingot back to Keturah. The next stall along had goose eggs and, using the rest of her copper, Keturah purchased a crate of them nestled in short straw. Looking to her right, she spotted a familiar face.