The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  Silence fell again and Roper returned to sharpening Cold-Edge. His hands were shaking so much that the whetstone chattered against the blade. It was as though a loyal dog had turned on him. At the edge of his vision, Roper could detect the movement as Pryce turned his head towards him, evidently having heard the chattering whetstone. He did not have to look up to know that Pryce’s expression would be scornful.

  Presently, another guardsman appeared at the edge of the fire. “My lord? Captain Gray urgently requests your presence at the edge of the encampment.”

  Roper stood abruptly, grateful of the chance to escape. He sheathed Cold-Edge carefully and hurried after the guardsman into the darkness. Pryce, evidently assuming he was Gray’s problem now, let him go. “What is the issue?” asked Roper, falling into step with the guardsman.

  “I cannot say, lord, but he was most insistent that you should come as soon as possible.”

  Roper nodded to himself. The guardsman led Roper past many bonfires, surrounded by silhouetted and silent warriors. They all stared into the flames, thinking on the next day. The sky still blazed overhead and the path that Roper was being led on was in line with the great river of stars that cut through the sky. The Winter Road, they called it, and they followed it now towards where it began at the horizon. Soon enough, the fires around them had begun to dwindle and finally disappear until Roper could see just one in the distance, which marked an outer sentry. Figures shifted around it, temporarily blotting out the orange pin-prick.

  The guardsman he walked with was silent and Roper felt sick. Had he not just had the confrontation with Pryce, he would have recognised his discomfort for what it was: a creeping unease over the way this situation was developing. He was walking further and further into the dark with this guardsman, whom he did not know. They had left the encampment behind and Roper was now quite isolated.

  As he drew close enough to make out who was beside this outer fire, he froze.

  Or rather, he tried to. The guardsman he walked with gripped the back of his neck and pushed him onwards, steering him into the fire’s light and forcibly sitting him down on a log within its glow. Sitting about the fire were three other figures. One was another guardsman Roper did not recognise. The other two were Asger and Gosta.

  You idiot, he thought to himself. You god-damned bloody fool. There had been no message from Gray. These guardsmen, surely Uvoren’s closest allies, had used his trust of Gray to draw him out here. With what purpose, Roper dared not think. Then he thought about the presence he had felt on the edge of the fire. Had it been one of these men, coming to check if he was vulnerable?

  “My lord,” said Asger ironically, glancing at Roper. Even on this cold night, his face shone in the firelight. The guardsman who had escorted him went and sat down on Asger’s other side, holding his hands out to the fire.

  “What am I doing here, Guardsman?” asked Roper. He did his utmost to sound authoritative, rather than aggressive. “Where is Captain Gray?”

  “Captain Gray is where he belongs; a long way from here.”

  Roper gathered himself. “Then I must go. Excuse me.” And he stood.

  “Sit down,” said Asger. Roper glanced at Gosta, sitting next to him like a compressed spring, and decided to sit. He licked his lips, staring from one guardsman to the next.

  “So what is it that you brave men intend to do with me, all the way out here? Because if you are to kill me, it is the very worst hell that awaits you.”

  “We have sworn no oath to you,” said Asger simply. Still seated, he drew his sword very slowly from its sheath and balanced it tip-first on the ground, just as Gray had done with Ramnea. With two fingers atop the hilt, he began to spin it about its tip, looking at Roper with a grin. The blade flashed in the firelight.

  “I know the pressure you must be under from Uvoren,” said Roper. “But you’ll be hunted down. You can’t possibly get away with this. If you leave me now, I swear I will seek no vengeance. We can just forget this.”

  “I don’t want to forget this,” said Asger coldly. “You took the Guard from me.”

  “I had to. You were Uvoren’s man, but it is not too late to serve a different lord. Chlodowich’s blood flows in my veins. I am the rightful Black Lord.”

  “Your army is doomed tomorrow, my lord.” Asger still twirled his blade. “But Tekoa will take command if you do not survive the night. He is a practical man. He may see the sense in withdrawing to the Hindrunn, where Uvoren will, of course, welcome him as a loyal servant.”

  “More likely he’ll unleash the Skiritai on you,” said Roper.

  “No member of this army would dare kill a Sacred Guardsman.”

  And there, Roper thought, he might be right.

  “So there’s just one thought going through my mind at the moment, Roper,” said Asger, now standing and hefting his sword. Roper sat back, taking a deep breath.

  But there came an unnatural pause. Both Roper and Asger could sense a presence approaching once more. There were footsteps coming from the darkness.

  Roper and Asger, one seated, the other standing, stared into each other’s eyes for a long while as the footsteps grew louder. Gosta shifted restlessly, turning to strain his eyes into the darkness. Someone was moving towards them.

  And, into the glow of the fire, stepped Pryce. He looked from Roper, coiled, hand resting on Cold-Edge’s hilt, to Asger standing above him, sword drawn. He chuckled softly to himself and sat down comfortably on the log next to Roper.

  Asger let out a breath. “Oh, Pryce.” He smiled and, after a moment of hesitation, sat back down again. The fireplace was suddenly restless. A new piece had entered the game, and Roper had no idea for which side it fought. “We’ve been talking with Roper, here,” said Asger smoothly. “About how he thinks the battle tomorrow will go.”

  “We’ll probably lose,” grunted Pryce. He gave Asger a meaningful look.

  Shit.

  “I must say, that’s what we rather thought. Better not to waste a half-call-up on a fool’s errand.”

  “True, true,” said Pryce. He was sitting back on the log, relaxed and content.

  “Well, then,” said Asger, beaming now. “As I said. There’s just one thought going through my mind at the moment, Roper.”

  “If there’s a thought going through your head, it means somebody else has put it there you obsequious prick,” exploded Roper. Pryce burst out laughing. He glanced at his lord, grinning, but Roper did not meet his eye. He was still staring at Asger. “And you refer to me as ‘my lord.’” He would not die begging.

  Asger looked as though Roper had just struck him about the face. He stood up suddenly. “I do not kneel to a boy. I have not sworn my allegiance to you.” He raised his sword, but froze as Pryce too got to his feet. He was still smiling, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  “Pryce,” Asger said blankly. “Step aside. I have no wish to kill you.”

  “That is just as well,” said Pryce. “You entirely lack the ability.”

  A sneer crossed Asger’s face. At his side, Gosta stood abruptly, followed by the two other guardsmen. For his part, Roper stood up as well. “Sit down,” snapped Pryce. “You cannot fight these men.”

  “You call me ‘my lord,’” snarled Roper, feet planted firmly on the ground.

  Asger looked on, smiling unpleasantly. “For years now, all I’ve heard is ‘Never fight Pryce; you’re going to die whether you win or not.’ And yet … you are not much of a swordsman, really. You’re reasonably quick, but all the speed in the world can’t make up for a complete lack of finesse. ‘Don’t fight Pryce.’ I’m tempted to find out why not.”

  “I invite you to do just that. It would be my greatest pleasure to mash your bulging eyeballs into the back of your bastard skull.”

  Asger stared for a long while. Very quietly: “You’re going to die for this boy?”

  “One day.” Pryce was no longer smiling.

  “I know where this order has come from,” said Asger, so
quietly now that Roper could hardly hear the words. “How rich, Pryce, to have mocked me when your real allegiance has always lain with Gray Konrathson. The great Pryce simpering and bowing to that talentless killjoy. You follow him like a wet dog.”

  “That is my honour,” said Pryce. “My loyalty and life are at his disposal. For your man Uvoren, I have no words base enough.”

  “You’re a headstrong fool, Pryce. A fool. You would take on the four of us single-handed? Uvoren will hear of this treachery when we are done with you. And when he does, you know Gray will die too.” Roper could hardly breathe. The night had solidified about him, holding his limbs fast in sheer blackness. A log on the fire cracked loudly, vomiting sparks into the night and causing Roper to blink.

  And so he missed the instant when Pryce’s sword leapt from its scabbard and sliced straight through Asger’s neck. Asger’s eyes opened wide and he dropped his sword, raising his hands to the blade that had pierced his throat. Pryce ripped it away and Asger was dead before he hit the ground, a great fountain of blood spurting from the wound as he sprawled in the dirt. With the speed of a striking serpent, Pryce stepped into Gosta, who had managed to draw his own sword. The blades clashed three times in quick succession, releasing a shower of white sparks on each occasion before Pryce headbutted his opponent to the ground.

  By this time, Roper and the other two guardsmen had also drawn swords. The one opposite Roper came to kill him; the other to help his downed comrade defeat Pryce. Roper and the guardsman clashed, causing Roper to retreat and lose sight of what was happening to Pryce. There were screams, roars and the clang of blades smashing together but Roper heard none of it. His entire world was in the slender piece of alloy held before him.

  He managed to block a first attack, then a second. The third was a feint but Roper knew it and stepped aside, sliding his opponent’s blade past him to release a great curtain of white sparks and bringing the pommel of Cold-Edge forward to smash into the guardsman’s face. It connected with a wicked crack but barely seemed to register with the man. He struck Roper a dizzying blow with his gauntleted fist. Roper staggered back and was unable to block the next attack, which slammed into the bone-armour of his chest and hammered him back again. Another attack and Roper could not block this one either, sweeping below his guard and cutting his legs from beneath him. The blade had struck the bones of his ankle and, for the second time in his life, Roper found himself on his back fighting for survival.

  The guardsman lunged for his throat and Roper parried desperately, more sparks staining his vision. He wafted a counter-attack in the guardsman’s direction but his sword was batted aside dismissively and this time he had to use his gloved left hand to deflect the blade from his throat. It cut deep into the flesh of his hand but he did just enough to avoid having his neck filleted.

  The night went black; blood had got in his eyes somehow and all he could see was the blotch of those sparks. Something heavy dropped on top of Roper and he could feel hot blood pouring down his side. He struggled to thrust his sword into the body atop him but the blade was too long and he flailed, unable to plant the tip in the guardsman.

  “Enough!” snarled a voice above him. “He’s finished.” Roper obeyed, freezing. The body on top of him was limp and still. It was dead.

  His attacker was dead.

  Roper drew a few deep breaths and wiped the blood free from his eyes. He wriggled out from beneath the body and sat up to see Pryce standing above him. The lictor was dreadfully cut on both his arms, had a deep gash in one calf and appeared to have lost an ear but he still stood. Around him were sprawled the bodies of four dead Sacred Guardsmen. Roper simply stared.

  Pryce stared back with hard eyes. Blood was trickling down his arms and dripping off his hands. He seemed to Roper perfectly like a hawk. A hunter. Something to whom the affairs of men did not matter in the ordinary way; whose thoughts were so instinctive that they bypassed the brain altogether, operating entirely on nerve and synapse. He was an order of magnitude faster in thought and deed than any other man that Roper had met. It was true: he was not much of a swordsman. But his movements were so uncompromisingly fierce, so violently rapid, that Roper could not imagine any skill that could overcome Pryce’s speed.

  “‘Don’t fight Pryce,’” said Roper, voice trembling. “Thank you.”

  “That was my pleasure.” Roper thought he meant it. “Back now, and quick.”

  He helped Roper to his feet. His left hand was cut deep and he could barely limp on his wounded ankle, but his injuries were nothing compared to Pryce’s. Blood was pouring off the lictor and he was ignoring it, even hooking Roper’s arm over his shoulders and helping him walk back into camp. “Quickly,” he urged. They began passing by fires and Pryce roared out instructions, scattering men from their hearths and sending them out in all directions. They needed surgeons, they needed water and, most of all, they needed Gray. “Somebody find him!”

  But he found them. He was at their side in a flash, white-faced and furious. “What the hell is this? Asger?”

  “The bumptious prick is dead,” said Pryce savagely, still supporting Roper back to his own hearth. “Gosta did almost all of this.”

  “Thank god you were there,” said Gray, before taking command. The camp was in uproar; officers clucked and swarmed about the little group and Gray batted them away. “Search for the bodies! Bring them to me!” he commanded. The surgeons were there and began seeing to Roper’s wounds. He lost sight of Pryce but could hear him snarling as he too was attended to.

  “Gray?” called Roper.

  “Lord?”

  “Pryce saved my life. Will he live?”

  Gray gave a short laugh. He placed a hand on Roper’s shoulder. “It’ll take more than a pair of Uvoren’s finest to kill that man.”

  “There were four of them,” muttered Roper. “Four guardsmen.”

  This shocked Gray. “Forget it, lord. We have you now; you’re safe. There is only one important thing to think of: tomorrow’s battle.”

  12

  Open the Gates

  Uvoren was not accustomed to being absent during campaign. Ordinarily, he would be shaping the victories on the field rather than waiting anxiously within the Hindrunn for news. It had raised no more than an ironic eyebrow from him when he had seen the crowds cheering Roper as he led the legions out of the fortress. But news of the first victory had been rather harder to accept. Word had reached the Hindrunn of a dawn raid in which Roper had played a tactical master-stroke. The legions had marched and fought like heroes and people were saying that Roper had ridden alone through the Suthern encampment, killing dozens. That could not be true, of course, but it smarted.

  Taking the Hindrunn when it was offered to him like a ripe fruit had been the right decision, but Uvoren could hardly bear to wait within its walls. When he had been sure that Roper was leagues away, he had taken some of his remaining cavalry out, looking for a fight, but found nothing. The Suthern army was more cohesive than expected for such a horde. He was restless and infuriated.

  But Roper was not the only one who knew how to inspire loyalty, and Uvoren started from a more elevated position than his rival, commanding considerable respect through sheer reputation. He trained alongside the legionaries that had been left to him in the fortress, aware that his mere proximity was enough to please his warriors. He saw the way they behaved around him. These grizzled, battle-hardened men stuttered and stumbled under his gaze. They beamed absurdly if he chose to speak to one of them, offered him their water-skins, flattered him, and asked if he might recount the tale of how King Offa had died. Unlike Roper, Uvoren did not seek to earn loyalty through service, but through insisting on service to him. He knew that if men performed a favour for a gracious lord, it quickly built respect. Uvoren was therefore everywhere, making demands of every soldier and thanking them handsomely when they fulfilled them. He made sure to issue a different compliment to each group of warriors he encountered: admiring the sword-craft of one here; prof
essing to have heard of the deeds of another there.

  He held a tournament almost as soon as Roper was gone, with the aim of keeping the fortress occupied. Uvoren did not himself fight (better to keep his fighting prowess the subject of wild speculation than have it confirmed), but watched and applauded as the warriors clashed and wrestled in front of a roaring crowd. He supplied the tournament prizes (an immensely expensive cuirass of Unthank-silver for the First Sword and a fine Unthank-silver blade for the winner of the wrestling), as well as the food and birch wine served for the grateful crowds. Roper’s reputation might be growing, but Uvoren made sure his grew faster.

  He next staged one of the brutal games of pioba in the streets. The rest of the Hindrunn delighted in watching as two huge teams wrestled for control of the inflated pig’s bladder used as a ball, each side throwing punches and seeking to carry the ball into their opponent’s district. The ball-carriers weaved down backstreets with cheering subjects looking down at them from the windows; or else joined one of the great presses of men, seeking to build some advantage for their side in a main street by heaving the opposing team backwards.

  Finally, and most effective of all the entertainments Uvoren laid on, were the athletics contests. There were sprints with and without armour, contests of strength and, the Hindrunn favourite, a gruelling twelve-lap race around its perimeter. The races had not been so open in years, with lesser athletes emerging from Pryce’s shadow for the first time in decades to claim his titles in the sprints.

  Uvoren made a great show of riding every day on the back of his finest horse, dressed in full war gear and accompanied by a retinue of esteemed warriors, down to the Outer Gate, where he would stand on top of the gatehouse and survey the horizon, as though seeking some indication of how Roper was doing. He accepted the adulation he received sternly, raising a hand in acknowledgement but neither cracking a smile nor looking at the subjects who saluted him: the gracious ruler, who expected total obedience and received nothing less. Now, if the moment arrived and his soldiers were forced to fight fellow Black legionaries under Roper’s command, he was sure they would obey.