The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  “There could be no more fateful omen than passing through Harstathur,” he said. There was a murmur of agreement.

  “It would be a proper battle,” said Gray, staring down at the map. His tone made Roper blink. “Two powerful forces crammed into a battlefield that small. The intensity. It will all come down to nerve and endurance.” He looked up at Roper. “I like it, my lord.” Then, more quietly: “What a test that shall be.”

  “Let’s get this over with, then,” said Pryce. “Our food is running low too.”

  “And I’m still hungry,” complained Skallagrim.

  “I’ll alert the herald,” said Tekoa nastily.

  “Githru,” said Roper again. “Then we have thirty leagues to march.” He stood abruptly. “Peers; prepare yourselves. We leave in an hour.”

  “That’s ambitious,” commented one of the legates.

  “But we will do it nonetheless,” said Roper, departing.

  The news that they were heading for Githru ran through the legions like a roll of thunder. The soldiers seemed re-energised and Pryce made it his personal mission to ensure they departed within an hour. As a lictor, he was invested with considerable authority and threw every bit of it at the Sacred Guard, strutting through their encampment and roaring the men into a flurry of activity. “Our lord has ordered our departure for Githru! On your feet, you sacred bastards! We rest not a moment longer; not one more! Put out your fire; pack your cloak and your food! Bring your helmet and put on your armour; we are marching to battle!”

  The one guardsman who did not move was Gosta, who remained seated by his fire and stared insolently up at Pryce, stirring a bubbling pot of oats. Pryce took one look at the expression on his face and swung his boot into Gosta’s pot of food to send it soaring. Kicking the heavy iron pot must have hurt terribly but Pryce did not show it and next he kicked apart the fire in front of which Gosta still sat, gritting his teeth in rage but powerless. “There, Gosta, I’ve got you started,” said Pryce calmly. He stalked off.

  “You are Sacred Guardsmen! You are the beating heart of this army! You are our vengeful angels, servants of Ramnea! You are steel, you are oak, you are granite! You are our claws! You have sworn your life to this country; march now for Githru!”

  Their route would take them over the mountain crossroads of Harstathur and, as they prepared, the bards sang of the great battle that had taken place there almost fifteen thousand years before. Against this backdrop, the horses were loaded and saddled. The stakes used in fortification were packed into the baggage train. Fires were doused. Food was wolfed down and the pots and utensils stowed without cleaning. Armour was carried by being worn. Helmets were hooked to each legionary’s pack by the chinstrap. The horses, ponies and oxen had their hobbles removed. Pryce’s energy was contagious and the men set to.

  “Prepare yourselves, if you think you can, for a scarlet, bleeding slab of a battlefield! The thirty-league march is your rest! The climb up Harstathur is your sleep! Your only waking moment shall be the battle by the sea! You are the chosen few! When you have memories of that field; you will laugh to hear the word fury, shrug when another man says terror, and when a peer tells you he is exhausted, you will say you were at Githru! You will understand rage! You will reconsider the word violence! Fortitude is a pale shadow of what you will need by the sea! Everything you’ve got, you bastards!”

  Githru. The pass by the sea. The legions were ready within the hour and Roper, mounted on Zephyr this time rather than marching with his warriors, led the column north-east; back towards the Suthern army and towards the battlefield. Tekoa and Gray flanked him and Pryce and Helmec marched behind, eyes roaming the landscape. The Skiritai spread forward, scouting the hills surrounding the column. The end was in sight and, tinged with shades of Pryce’s manic energy, the legions were hungry. No matter that they were still outnumbered two to one and had not even begun to fight the Suthern elite and heavily armoured knights; they wanted this challenge. Their morale was high and they were assured in their cause.

  “I bloody hate horses,” grumbled Tekoa, tugging irritably at his reins as he trotted alongside Roper. “They’re arseholes. They’re overly sensitive, they’re selfish. They’re not attractive or affectionate. I do not find their inability to produce art or music endearing. They’re useless unless you’ve put their shoes on for them. They make a fuss when you try and put their shoes on. What a mediocre animal. So I thought it might make a suitable wedding gift for you, lord,” shot Tekoa, glancing straight-faced at Zephyr, trotting alongside him.

  Roper restrained a smile. “What animals do you favour, Tekoa?”

  “Hounds. Loyal, loving, obedient and born useful. You don’t have to give a dog shoes, do you?”

  “I suppose not,” said Roper. “I’m pleased with Zephyr, though. He is a warrior as fine as most in the Sacred Guard.” He patted the beast’s thick neck.

  “I had no idea what I was going to do with that monster,” Tekoa admitted. “I wasn’t going to ride it but I’ll be damned if someone like Pryce has a bigger horse than me.” They rode in silence for a while. “So I doubt you’re looking forward to the end of this campaign, Roper, what with the coiled viper that is waiting for you back home.”

  “Uvoren?”

  “Keturah,” said Tekoa. “You’ll be glad for someone as easy to handle as Uvoren once you’ve tried being married to my daughter.”

  “Oh,” said Roper, smiling. “That is a challenge I’m looking forward to tackling.”

  “Keep your tackle out of this, young man,” growled Tekoa.

  Gray burst out laughing and Roper even heard Pryce let out a snort behind them.

  “She may have found someone else,” called Pryce. “My cousin is not short of suitors.”

  “Following her around like lapdogs,” snapped Tekoa, frowning suddenly. “A pack of fools.”

  “Worry not, my lord,” said Gray. “Keturah strikes me as someone who can handle a fool.”

  “So, you’ve had it, I’m afraid, Roper,” put in Tekoa.

  Helmec laughed again and Gray was grinning broadly. Roper observed dryly that Tekoa was in fine humour.

  “Naturally,” said Tekoa. “We’re on our way to a good fight and, even better, thereafter we’re back in the Hindrunn. It is the only comfortable place north of the Abus.”

  “You have been south of the Abus?”

  “There was a time when we went south regularly,” said Tekoa, furrowing his brow. “Your grandfather, Rokkvi, considered it wise to terrorise the Sutherners as a defensive strategy and in those days we would march with impunity. The Sutherners were more or less powerless. They had no standing army, but every town was fortified and when we moved south they would retreat, like an oyster closing its shell.”

  “Did you make it as far as Lundenceaster?” Suthdal’s sprawling capital.

  “We occupied it,” said Tekoa. “But Rokkvi considered it decadent, infested and corrupted; and besides, he had no wish to rule over the Sutherners. So he returned it to them in exchange for an extremely large quantity of iron.”

  “But you liked it?”

  “It had something about it,” said Tekoa, shrugging. “But Rokkvi was right: it was more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “I never met my grandfather,” said Roper.

  “Lucky you,” said Tekoa, grimly.

  “Rokkvi was a fine leader, my lord,” said Gray. “But almost as cantankerous as Tekoa, here.”

  Tekoa spared Gray a contemptuous look. Roper wished to know more, so between them Gray and Tekoa told him the stories of their campaigns. The two had shared many battles and had an unexpected fondness for each other. Everyone seemed fond of Gray, but what was more surprising was that Gray had equal regard for Tekoa. They were not natural friends but made good company for the march.

  Roper asked to hear about the siege of Lundenceaster, fishing for inspiration on how he could ultimately retake the Hindrunn. The question was followed by a pause which told Roper that both men had understo
od what he was really asking.

  Gray spoke first. “The thing about assaults, my lord, is that there are always casualties. You cannot attack a well-prepared fortress without losing many, many men. That’s just the way of things.”

  “They are the very worst of warfare,” said Tekoa. “There is no glory. Just bodies. Thousands and thousands of them. And fire. And the fear is worse than anything else.” There was silence for a while. “Gray won us Lundenceaster.”

  Gray laughed hollowly. “So it was said.”

  “He did,” said Tekoa. “Rokkvi focused our forces in too small an area and the Sutherners were fighting fiercely. We were rebuffed again and again, and the ditch before the wall was filling with bodies. Uvoren was knocked out by a bouncing shot from a catapult. He was lucky not to have his head smashed in. Gray took command, seized a couple of ladders and led the rest of the Guard onto another wall, leading them onto the battlements and drawing enough defenders to allow us to gain a foothold. Clever fighting.”

  “I didn’t want to die in that ditch,” said Gray. “And Uvoren did very well. He came to in time to bully his way onto a ladder. It was he who gained the Guard the space that we exploited.”

  “By all accounts, yes; he did well,” allowed Tekoa. “That got him the Prize of Valour. But no matter what claptrap Gray tells you about being frightened, Roper,” he continued sternly, “you will never meet a braver warrior. People say Uvoren is courageous. They say my nephew, Pryce, is courageous. These are lions. It is easy for a lion to fight what’s in front of it. Gray thinks. He observes; and then he does what must be done. He has a mind made for battle.”

  “So how would you take the Hindrunn?” Roper asked Gray.

  “I would not consider it yet, lord. We finish the Sutherners; then we can worry about Uvoren.”

  They discussed the remainder of Rokkvi’s campaigns, with Gray relenting and telling Roper of how three other sieges had ended in a successful assault. Tekoa mostly left this to Gray, but would interrupt every now and then with his own perspective.

  “I was told once,” said Roper, “that the greatest warriors can fight in any theatre. Do you think that’s true?”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Gray. “The warrior’s greatest gifts are endurance and courage. There are very, very few who are born natural fighters, and even they will never be more than passable if they don’t work at their skill. If you do not flinch from hard work and you have the grit to pick yourself up again and again when you fail, then you will be hard to overcome in any field.”

  “So is Uvoren one of those?”

  “He is,” said Gray. “He is in love with his own reputation, but do not underestimate him. He works very, very hard. When he first adopted Marrow-Hunter, he was something of a joke. It was to enhance his own prestige; no more than that. He was one of the very few privileged to use a weapon other than a sword, so he did, just to underline his status. He was not used to the weight, and when he fought, he looked clumsy and childlike. But he trained every day, longer and harder than those who used a sword. And then we all saw him fight at Eoferwic, knocking knights flat left and right to gain access to King Offa. Suddenly, these armoured men looked as vulnerable to him as an upturned limpet. Yes: he can fight in any arena.”

  “Damn,” said Roper.

  “Indeed,” said Gray. “Well, my lord, think about this: the greatest warriors can fight in any theatre, but perhaps the greatest leaders do not need to fight at all.”

  They rode on. On the first day, the legions covered eleven leagues, four of which they had swarmed across country, between tree trunks and across swollen streams, before joining with the road. It was sheltered by the forests, moving gently in Anakim fashion with the terrain, rather than through it.

  That night, over a bowl of boiled, salted mutton, Roper observed that though tired, the legionaries seemed in high spirits. In part their morale had been boosted by the victory they had already won over the Suthern army, but it was Roper’s first encounter with the fact that the men under his command were happiest when they had a purpose. They knew where they were going and why, and so served more readily than ever. There was no longer a disconnect between their duties and the ultimate aim of the campaign. Each man could see how every action he performed contributed to defeating the Sutherners.

  Roper pushed the legions hard the next day. He dismounted Zephyr, shouldered his own pack and set out fast. Marching along the line, Roper soon came abreast with the Pendeen Legion. He had been apprenticed to them earlier in the year: plucked from his position in the berjasti—the second stage of education in the Black Kingdom—to be given accelerated training in what it meant to be a leader. Some called out to him as he passed, Roper returning the greetings and exchanging a few words. Many of them knew him and this was the only legion that had felt some fondness towards him when he had taken command. Presently, he came across a half-dozen of his particular friends, who hailed him.

  “Lord!”

  “Young lord!”

  Roper gave a genuine smile of some scarcity, falling into step beside them.

  “You’re walking straight again, lord,” said a short legionary with an irrepressible grin.

  “Let’s not talk about that,” said Roper. The last time he had seen these men was at the Feast of Avadon in the Pendeen mess; Roper’s first warrior feast.

  “I think we should talk about it, lord,” said another with a flattened, crooked nose.

  The short legionary took pity on him and changed the topic. “So what’s it like, giving the orders now, lord?”

  “It is what it is,” said Roper, cautiously. They might be friends of his, but Roper was not prepared to shatter the image he was cultivating by revealing too much to them. “I get to add the Almighty Eye to my coat of arms, though. That counts for something.”

  The short one chuckled. “What coat of arms would we give the young lord if we could?” It was a favourite marching game.

  “An owl, perhaps?” said one of the legionaries.

  “He’s not as sensible as an owl,” said the legionary with a flattened nose. “He can be a shrew. For his unhinged solo ride through the Suthern encampment.” That found favour and was met with a hoot of laughter.

  Roper looked sour. “Unwise to say that to the man who genuinely has the power to change your arms, Otar,” he said. “Yours shall be a thistle.”

  They marched on. In front of the Pendeen marched Ramnea’s Own Legion and Roper quickened his pace so that he could inspect the elite of the Black Kingdom. He noticed that even when marching, these were trying to differentiate themselves from the ordinary legionary. They walked straighter, talked more, and had an unmistakable swagger even now that was only produced by appointment to this esteemed institution. It was widely said that when appointed to Ramnea’s Own, you bade farewell forever to the friends you had made in your old legion, who would henceforth find you unbearable.

  Roper frowned as he watched them. One of the legionaries, a particularly tall figure, was walking without a pack while the man next to him carried two, one strapped to his back and one to his front. The tall figure did not appear to be particularly tired: indeed, he was laughing merrily with the figure on his other side. He had simply bequeathed his pack to a neighbour, who appeared to be carrying it willingly enough, though wearing a sombre, strained expression. Drawing level, Roper saw that the legionary without the pack was Vigtyr the Quick, the extremely tall lictor he had seen watching the Sacred Guard at prayer. He observed him thoughtfully as he marched past, wondering if there were any more to this scene than the apparent idleness.

  They marched until the sun had passed overhead and sunk again below the horizon. In the afterglow from the west, the men hurried to set up camp before true darkness made their work clumsy. Roper had counted thirty-five mile markers along the road: nearly twelve leagues. Seven to Harstathur.

  His reunion with the Pendeen aside, there had been less talk on this march. The men had little energy for anything but the road. And in
the evening, Helmec, hands shaking with fatigue, had taken a full ten minutes to strike a fire. Too proud to take a flaming brand from any of those bursting into life around him, he had persisted until at last a spark had caught the fragment of charred linen he used for tinder. Then he waited patiently, drawing several deep breaths and composing himself before adding the smouldering cloth to a bundle of stripped bast and blowing a fire into life. The darkness, nearly complete on a night when the clouds smothered the moon, was insatiable.

  They gathered in the fire’s shifting light and boiled another pot of salted mutton. Tekoa brooded hopelessly, scarcely bothering to reply to anyone. Even Pryce was largely silent; spent by the day’s effort. To Roper’s relief, Gray kept talking. With little input from anyone else, he held court with his weary audience.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I got put on grave-digger duty?” Gray began unprompted, looking around the fire. “Stop me if you’ve heard it. This was after Prestaburgh. I’d forgotten to hobble some of the baggage ponies the night before and managed to earn myself a flogging and a stint on burial. We were at it all day: the bodies kept arriving and we kept digging them graves. It was raining a bit and the work was slow. Then one of the peers went to fetch water and it was agreed that we should play a joke on him. I’d cover myself in mud and battered armour and lie down with the other bodies, pretending to be dead, and then when he came back to try and hoist me into the grave, I’d grab him.” Some of the men were grinning. “Seemed like a good idea; I was young and keen so I got ready, lay down in the mud next to one of the other bodies and waited. I was there for a while, waiting for the man to come back. Then the body next to me grabbed my hand and said, ‘Bit damp down here, isn’t it?’”

  Laughter rang out across the fire.

  “One of the bodies was alive?” asked a guardsman, earnestly.

  “The body was the man I’d been waiting for,” said Gray. “Dressed up while I was digging to terrorise me. It was obviously a joke they did quite a lot but my screams seemed to be of particular satisfaction.”