The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  “Tired. And I still can’t feel with my hands and feet. No more weaving for me, Uvoren’s done me a favour.”

  Roper smiled. “You look better. What does the physician say?”

  “He says that the feeling may never come back. He thinks my hair might, though.”

  “It looks that way,” agreed Roper, surveying her scalp. She looked hopeful and raised her hand to her head but, unable to feel anything, she tutted and dropped the hand again, frustrated.

  She and Roper talked, Roper telling her about Vigtyr; about the trials of Unndor and Urthr. He was describing the surly reactions of the Lothbrok legionaries they had encountered on the way, when the door to the street outside opened. Roper blinked, the flow of his story interrupted, and Keturah leaned forward in her chair to try and see who was coming in. To enter a house without first knocking and waiting to be let in could scarcely have been ruder.

  The face that appeared around the side of the door was a new one to Roper. It was a pale woman, dark-haired and dressed in well-made, well-fitted clothes. He supposed she might have been beautiful if she had not looked so fraught. She was looking directly at Keturah and managed a tremulous smile. “May I come in?”

  “Hafdis?” said Keturah, evidently baffled. “Yes, do.”

  Hafdis scurried inside and shut the door behind her, casting a glance out onto the street before she latched the oak into place.

  “Hafdis, wife of Uvoren?” said Roper, eyes unblinking. “What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t be rude, Husband,” said Keturah. “Come join us, Hafdis.”

  Hafdis moved closer and, once her eyes had adjusted a little to the gloom and she was able to see Keturah properly, she clapped her hands to her mouth. She stared at Keturah for a few moments, her eyes shining. Then she began to weep, her face filling with colour. She dropped to her knees and shuffled forward, clutching the arm of Keturah’s chair and drawing in a shuddering gasp every few moments to fuel her silent tears. She bowed her head and rested it on the backs of her hands that still clasped the chair, quivering with grief. Keturah took the opportunity to throw a look of astonishment and amusement at Roper, before patting the other woman’s head. “Pull yourself together, now, Hafdis,” said Keturah. “I was feeling rather good about my condition before you appeared.”

  Hafdis spoke in a tiny voice, her head still bowed. “I know who put you in this condition.”

  Roper and Keturah glanced at one another.

  “Who?” asked Roper, leaning forward.

  Hafdis looked up at Keturah. “It was Baldwin’s idea. Baldwin Dufgurson, the Legion Tribune. I heard him suggest it to my husband.”

  “How did you hear?” Roper’s voice was full of suspicion.

  “He came to our house,” said Hafdis. “Uvoren sent me away so they could talk. But I stayed outside the door and listened.” Keturah rolled her eyes. Even Roper knew Hafdis had a reputation as a terrible gossip and on this occasion she seemed to have heard more than she wanted to.

  “And Uvoren agreed to the plan?” Keturah pressed Hafdis.

  Hafdis nodded miserably. “But it was Baldwin’s men who did it. Baldwin gave them the poison. I’m so sorry, Keturah.” A fresh tear ran down her cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” said Roper, a bite in his voice.

  “For not coming to warn you, and coming—”

  Keturah flapped for Hafdis to be quiet. “You’re sorry, you’re sorry, I know. Too late for that now, Hafdis. It’s done. Dry your tears and leave at once, before you’re seen by anybody. Uvoren must not know you came to me, understand?”

  Hafdis nodded, hands at her throat. Keturah pulled her close and gave her a kiss. “Go on. Off you go.” Hafdis flashed a glance at Roper, then stood and scuttled from the room. The door slid gently closed behind her.

  “We can’t take that to the Ephors,” said Keturah at once. “Uvoren would know she helped us and it would only be her word against both of theirs.”

  “You believe her?” said Roper, staring at the door through which Hafdis had departed. “She’s probably just trying to save her husband.”

  “She hates her husband,” said Keturah, staring into the fire. “I believe her.”

  Roper gazed at her for a moment, then nodded. “Helmec!” The guardsman entered, eyebrows raised expectantly. “I want you to take a message to Vigtyr the Quick for me. Tell him: Baldwin next.”

  “Baldwin next,” repeated Helmec.

  “And tell him to make sure the punishment fits the crime.”

  “And he’ll know what all this means, lord?”

  “He will.” Helmec bowed and was gone.

  Stimulus and reaction.

  Just two days later, the Hindrunn was set abuzz. Word was travelling from household to household and scattering between tables at the officers’ mess that the Legion Tribune, Baldwin Dufgurson, had been placed under house-arrest amid allegations of deliberate military sabotage. Farriers and fletchers both reported that he had deliberately withheld vital supplies from the Black Lord’s army as it had set out on campaign, seeking to bolster the chances of his friend Uvoren maintaining his grip over the Hindrunn.

  Those charges proved to be baseless. Baldwin fought hard and could bring enough witnesses of his own to make it clear that the lack of horseshoes and arrows had not been his fault. But a closer look at the meticulous tally-systems that he supplied in evidence revealed that they did not match up with those of the Hindrunn armourers. For years he claimed to have been sending iron and steel to the armourers that had never arrived, instead siphoning it off for his own household.

  “I suspected embezzlement,” Vigtyr had reported to Roper, late one evening. “But it’s hard to prove without close access to his records. So I found men to accuse him of sabotage so we could get the evidence we needed. He’ll pay for what happened to your wife.”

  “What’s the punishment for embezzlement?” asked Roper.

  “That will be up to the Ephors, lord. But it will be exceedingly harsh.”

  This latest move shocked the Hindrunn more than what had happened to Uvoren’s sons. Baldwin was a powerful and influential figure, and had been Legion Tribune for many years: it was a scandal right at the heart of the Black Kingdom. It was also the first time people who were not affiliated with Uvoren began to suspect Roper’s involvement. The rapid disintegration of Uvoren’s power block no longer looked like a coincidence. There must be a powerful hand guiding the demise of Uvoren’s allies and he had no more powerful enemy than Roper.

  Baldwin did not do well. His crime had been going on for decades and had deprived the Black Kingdom of resources desperately needed for defence. Two days after his trial, he was led to one of the “honeypots” situated around the Central Keep: enclosed courtyards with intentionally fragile doors, designed to attract the interest of invading armies who would then flood the space. The walls were mounted with fire-throwers and Baldwin was locked in the centre of the courtyard.

  Roper watched from atop one of the walls in his wolfskin cloak, the Ephor who had sentenced him nearby with his mighty eagle’s wings enfolding him. Keturah, making her first foray outside since having been carried into her father’s house on a litter, stood at Roper’s side, bundled in a long cloak with a cowl up over her head, covering her baldness. Legionaries were pedalling on the fire-throwers to pressurise their tanks. They exhaled clouds of mist into the freezing air, blurring the view of the watchful score that lined the walls. The bubbling noise elicited by the pedalling caused Baldwin to drop to his knees in the snow that dusted the courtyard and hold up his hands towards the Ephor.

  “Lord, please …” His voice came at first as a tiny cheep. He glanced at the silent watchers surrounding him and then back at the Ephor, eyes two enormous white jewels. “Please, my lord. Please!” Suddenly he was wailing. “I will do anything! Don’t, my lord! My family can repay all costs to the fortress double! If you spare me, I will dedicate my life to duty! Anything, Lord Ephor, anything!” The
Ephor looked on, expressionless.

  The pedalling stopped.

  “Please! Please! Please!” The tanks gurgled themselves quiet and everything fell still. Even Baldwin seemed to be breathing too hard to beg any more. He threw a glance at Roper and then his gaze flicked left, resting on Keturah. He shook his head a fraction.

  Then one of the legionaries seized a lever, hauled it back with a clunk and, almost simultaneously, boiling sticky-fire spewed from the bronze-mouthed fire-throwers. Baldwin was engulfed at once; Roper could not even see him beneath the molten waves being sprayed over the courtyard. It seemed to him that the very snow was burning and black smoke billowed into the sky. The hurlers operated, grinding and shrieking, for just a few heartbeats, and then they dribbled themselves quiet. Down in the courtyard, Baldwin’s flesh had almost fallen apart. What was left protruding from the blazing ocean, just a stump, was not easily recognisable as a man.

  Roper turned away before the remains had stopped moving.

  Three gone from the table. Five remain.

  He and Keturah moved away from the swirling courtyard and Roper was rather surprised when the elderly Ephor fell into step beside them. “Not a good sight, Lord Ephor,” said Roper. “He’d have done better not to have begged.”

  “Indeed, Lord Roper,” said the Ephor before seizing Roper’s arm with a bony talon. “The speed with which Uvoren’s closest supporters are falling may be a coincidence, Lord Roper,” he hissed vehemently. “I do not know: I shall judge each case by its merits. But if I discover that your people are fabricating evidence against these men, I will bring down vengeance upon you.”

  “Baldwin’s own records condemned him,” said Roper, unflustered. “I hardly think I can be blamed for that.”

  “But the claims of sabotage were baseless. They only served to make him present his tally in evidence, which, conveniently, condemned him of a further crime. I will be keeping a very close eye on you.”

  “As are the Kryptea. Who do you think I fear more?”

  “That depends on whether you have any sense,” fired the Ephor.

  “These are guilty men, my lord,” said Roper stubbornly. “You have found that yourself.”

  “The question, Lord Roper,” said the Ephor in a voice like grinding metal, “is whether they are guilty of any more than having been your enemy.”

  Roper could hardly explain that the man whose earthly remains had just been atomised was responsible for the poisoning of his wife. He feared Uvoren’s retribution, though, and from then on, kept Keturah close, giving both her and Tekoa their own escort of trusted guardsmen.

  But men were beginning to fear acting on Uvoren’s behalf.

  Next to fall was another Sacred Guardsman, Hartvig Uxison. This one had two Prizes of Valour to his name and a big reputation. But three witnesses said that they had seen him strike a woman in the aftermath of the post-campaign feast, when he had been slighted by not being invited to the Honour Hall to dine with the Black Lord.

  Hartvig went down with more honour than those before him. He quietly admitted that it was possible he had done such a thing; he had, after all, been blind drunk. But he had no memory of the incident and professed never to have met the woman he was accused of striking.

  Guilty.

  He was stripped of his place in the Guard, but allowed to remain a subject, with the Greyhazel agreeing to take him in as a legionary. The Ephor also left it in Roper’s hands whether he should be stripped of his Prizes of Valour; it was the Black Lord’s power alone to remove or bestow those. Roper considered the legionary. “Hartvig earned those prizes,” he spoke at last. “And in my view, a single drunken error does not change that. Keep your prizes, Hartvig. I hope that one day you earn the right to wear the Almighty Eye again.” Hartvig inclined his head in genuine gratitude. He was disgraced, but it was not over for him.

  That had been on Gray’s advice: Hartvig was already taken care of and, in the future, Roper might want to welcome him back. There was no sense in making enemies unnecessarily, especially as there might be a time after Uvoren when he would need men like Hartvig. Roper also considered that Hartvig, though he had been with the army at the time, had not been one of those who had attacked him beside the fire atop Harstathur, when Pryce had intervened. Perhaps Uvoren had not truly believed that Hartvig was enough of a friend of his to slay the Black Lord. Perhaps he had been ordered to, and refused.

  Empty chairs were appearing at the ancient oak table in the Chamber of State and Roper filled them with men beholden to him. Sturla Karson, legate of Ramnea’s Own Legion, took one. Skallagrim took another. Those of Uvoren’s supporters who remained were much quieter. Uvoren spoke out, as ever, against Roper but his proclamations were now followed by a tense silence. Vinjar, the Councillor for Agriculture, had ceased to come to the councils at all. Perhaps he hoped that Roper would consider he had renounced his alliance with Uvoren. His place was duly filled, but as far as Roper was concerned he had not escaped.

  It was after Hartvig’s disgrace that Uvoren struck back. Helmec had reported as usual to train with the Sacred Guard whilst Gray had been advising Roper. Uvoren took full advantage of the Lieutenant of the Guard’s absence, commanding Pryce to beat Helmec.

  “Why, sir?” Pryce demanded coldly. “He isn’t late.”

  “I have found him insolent, Lictor. Do as I tell you,” said Uvoren, fixing Pryce with his narrowed glare and taking a pace towards him.

  “When was he insolent, sir?” Pryce had no choice but to be respectful in front of the rest of the Guard, many of whom owed their stations to Uvoren.

  “Yesterday, Lictor. Beat him.”

  Pryce was still for a moment. “No, sir.”

  Uvoren took another pace towards Pryce and reached forward to seize his long black ponytail. He bent Pryce’s head back and pressed his own into the lictor’s face. “Are you disobeying my orders, Lictor? Beat him, or the others will beat you.”

  “No, sir,” said Pryce through gritted teeth, holding eye contact.

  Uvoren burst out laughing and let go of Pryce’s hair, letting him straighten up. He placed his hands on Pryce’s shoulders affectionately, chuckling in Pryce’s raging face. “It’s a joke, Pryce, calm down!” He patted Pryce’s hollow cheek and then glanced at Helmec. “But seriously, Helmec, get out of here or I’ll have you torn apart.” Helmec stood his ground for a moment, face expressionless, and then turned and walked away across the training hall. “Don’t even think about coming back. You are no guardsman!” roared Uvoren after him. He glanced at Pryce. “And you’re not a lictor. Lictors obey their commanding officer’s orders.”

  Pryce was breathing hard but did not respond.

  Roper was with Gray when Helmec arrived to break the news of what had happened to him and Pryce. “Helmec? What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve just been dismissed as a guardsman, lord,” said Helmec. “And Pryce is no longer a lictor: Uvoren forced him to disobey an order and demoted him.”

  Roper watched Gray’s face fill with rage at the story of what had befallen his protégé and quickly suggested that they should take the air on the roof of the keep. “Come, you two. We’ve been inside too long.”

  He led the pair up the broad staircase of spiralled stone outside his quarters, climbing thirty or so steps to a locked oak door at the top. Roper produced a key from a leather pouch at his belt and the lock clunked open. Behind the door, the leading of the roof was almost entirely hidden beneath a pristine white cape. A broad fire step protected by a crenellated wall ran the whole circumference of the roof, tracing the outline of the Central Keep and the towers which studded it. From above, it would look like a giant, round-toothed cog. Inside the fire step, the slate roof rose towards the centre of the keep like a mountainside.

  These were the materials of the Hindrunn: slate, lead and granite. Everything was made of unyielding stone to prevent fire spreading within the tight walls of the fortress. Roper, Gray and Helmec broke a fresh path through the snow and
walked on the fire step around the roof, Helmec gazing intermittently through the crenellations at the fortress sprawling beneath them. “Uvoren was never going to go quietly,” said Roper, tugging his cloak tight about his shoulders.

  “He has just sent out a powerful message though, lord,” said Gray. “The Sacred Guard is the most esteemed institution in this country. Every ambitious man dreams of the Almighty Eye on his right arm. If he’s saying that friends of yours cannot serve in the Guard; that is a compelling argument for not siding with you.”

  “It is,” agreed Roper.

  “There’s also a rumour going around, my lord,” put in Helmec. He hesitated.

  Roper glanced over at him. “Tell me,” he said, shrugging.

  “The rumour is that you have been unfaithful to Keturah on several occasions. People think you are now revolted by her appearance so have started inviting other women into your bed. If I’ve heard this rumour, lord, so has everyone else. People know I’m your man: I will have been one of the last to hear.”

  Roper nodded. “That rumour has Uvoren written all over it. Do people believe it?”

  “Some do,” said Helmec.

  “Then we must finish him before he can do us too much damage,” said Roper.

  Roper’s two companions were silent a moment. “What have you offered Vigtyr for his services, my lord?” said Gray at last. “He is a man even you do not want to be in debt to. I cannot think what you can offer him that has made him so willing to act.”

  “He thinks he’s going to be a Sacred Guardsman,” murmured Helmec. Gray stiffened.

  “He thinks what?”

  “I didn’t tell him that,” said Roper, carefully.

  “But if you led him to believe it, you may regret disappointing him.”

  “Why couldn’t he be in the Guard? He is the best swordsman in the country.”

  “He is not a guardsman,” said Gray without hesitation. “Yes, one-on-one, Vigtyr would probably kill Uvoren, Leon, Pryce; any comer. He is exceptional. For the Guard, fighting skill comes into it, but only insofar as it is not possible to survive acts of extreme valour without it. I promise you, however bad you think Uvoren is, Vigtyr is so much worse. He scares me.”