The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  “Agreed. How on earth do you intend to placate him?”

  “I have given him an estate in the north and commissioned him an Unthank-silver blade.”

  Gray looked at Roper for a while, face frozen in a grimace. “You might find that new blade being shoved up your arse.”

  Keturah, who had returned to fumbling at her weaving, laughed delightedly without looking up. Roper nodded seriously. “It’s a distinct possibility.”

  “Remember the ease with which he dragged down the great men of the country? And that was without the benefit of a court full of Ephors who are looking for any excuse to punish you.”

  “I couldn’t have done this without Vigtyr. Uvoren’s death at Harstathur would have triggered open civil war if his lieutenants hadn’t already been disgraced. We had to leave his body there: it was in bits. I wish Pryce had held back a little. So it is what it is, and I will have to face Vigtyr’s displeasure.”

  Gray nodded slowly. “I’m sorry to force this on you, lord.”

  “That’s all right, Gray. As long as you help me deal with him, now that he’s incensed.”

  Gray snorted. “We can die together trying to untangle this fiasco. But what next? You are the Black Lord, without rival or challenge. What would you have this country do?”

  Roper beamed. His whole body seemed to relax and he drummed his fingers excitedly. “First, we are going to defend our home. Never again will a Suthern army be able to cross our borders and raid with such impunity. We’re going to expand the canal, Gray. The Great Canal will stretch right across Albion and be controlled by a dam behind the Hindrunn. It will be impossible for an army to cross without building rafts or a bridge, and that will slow them enough to give us time to respond.”

  Gray was listening with eyebrows raised. “An ambitious legacy. The sums involved, my lord; where will the money come from?”

  “I have already discussed it with Tekoa: the Vidarr will fund the construction.”

  “And how shall you repay them?”

  Roper pushed his chair back from the desk and stood, heading to a stand from which he took three goblets. “Birch wine?” he asked Gray, beginning to fill the goblets.

  “Before the feast?” Gray grinned. “You like to live dangerously, lord.”

  Roper did not need to ask Keturah, who had inherited her father’s fondness for drink. He gave his two companions a goblet apiece and sat back down. He glanced at Keturah before he continued. The two had not spoken about this. “The Vidarr are not the only debt waiting to be paid. My father promised that we would take Lundenceaster as revenge.” He paused to sip from his goblet. “So we will go to Suthdal and the Sutherners will know we are there because they dared to start this war. But that is not all. The memory of Harstathur is still very raw, so it is difficult to say. But I think I have come to love war.” He stopped again to look at Gray, but the guardsman was impassive. “I never thought I would. There is so much death; so many have their lives ruined and their loved ones taken away. My father died before my eyes. Helmec was crushed to death. It is blood and corpses and grief. But I find my mind travelling back to every battle, over and over again. It is so much starker than normal life. Everything is crystallised: you have one unalloyed purpose. Every action assumes a lifetime’s significance. And in spite of it all, I love it. Nothing compares.”

  “Battle is sacred for that reason,” said Gray. “Death, euphoria and purpose combine altogether. There will never be an experience more moving. That reaction is far from unique to you, lord. Many of our peers love war. But do not lose sight of what it is. Do not allow it to consume the rest of your life. If you allow yourself to forget to live when you are not at war and simply lust after your next fight, that is possession. You may think this once that life is dull by comparison; you cannot control your thoughts. But you can control your habits.”

  “You’re right.” Roper sipped his drink again. “Of course you’re right. And, as powerful as war is, our country becomes less and less under its influence. We are more outnumbered than ever by the Sutherners, and we must finish this war while we still have the strength. We’re not just going to take Lundenceaster, Gray. We’re going to take Albion. We’re going to end this war, once and for all. No more tenuous peace treaties and double-crossed dealings. We will subdue Suthdal.”

  “And what of the Sutherners who occupy it?”

  “I have not thought that far,” confessed Roper. “Perhaps we expel them. Maybe they would till the land and pay us a tithe, and be forbidden from creating weapons. I have not thought. But one way or another, the Black Kingdom will fall one day if we do not secure its future. And the only way to do that is to control the whole of Albion. Only when there is ocean between us and the Sutherners will peace prevail.”

  “What of the Unhieru?” If the Anakim were to take Suthdal, it would open up a new border with Unhierea, in the west of Albion. At present, the Anakim had so little contact with them that they were almost mythical. Roper was not even sure that Gogmagoc, the man said to be their king, was a real figure.

  “I would have them join us,” said Roper. “We offer them the return of their ancestral lands if they march with our army. I do not think they are interested in expansion, as the Sutherners are. They are not so voracious, and may be satisfied with their small kingdom. With them, perhaps we could form a lasting peace. Do you have any experience of them?”

  “None,” said Gray. “But I have heard stories, and those suggest we will not find them easy to control. So loot from Suthdal will repay the Vidarr.”

  “Yes. The south has become fat and wealthy. There is more than enough to settle our debts.”

  “Well,” said Gray, at last taking a drink himself. “At least the breadth of your military ambition matches your infrastructural ambition. It may save you from becoming known as Roper the Engineer.”

  “A fine title,” said Roper.

  “Wait, my lord, and you shall have finer.” Gray had spoken matter-of-factly. The Black Lord smiled and raised his goblet, Gray returning the salute.

  “Will you help me?” Roper asked.

  “Yes, lord,” said Gray.

  Epilogue

  There was a knock on the door. Vigtyr, sitting in a chair with his long legs outstretched towards the fire, a cup of wine in his hand, turned his head towards the sound. He was still for a moment, staring at the back of the door. The fire fluttered in the hearth next to him, animated by the wind that roared over the chimney above. He drained his cup, eyes always on the door. The knock came again. Vigtyr placed the cup carefully on the floor beside him and stood, stretching for a moment before answering. He opened the door to reveal a messenger behind; a short, stocky, black-haired legionary who carried something long, wrapped in lightest, softest leather. The messenger bowed.

  “Lictor Vigtyr Forraederson of Ramnea’s Own, I assume?”

  Vigtyr nodded. The messenger beamed.

  “Ah! An honour, Lictor. I come with Lord Roper Kynortasson’s greatest compliments.”

  Vigtyr stood aside with a knowing tilt of his head and gestured the messenger inside. The man hesitated, but Vigtyr’s eyes were unwavering and the messenger gave way, muttering thanks as he entered.

  The room was bizarre. Barely an inch of wall was visible; hidden by dozens of tapestries. Not all of them were Anakim. Some were evidently Suthern work: less stylised, and coloured with all manner of reds, blues and golds; barely the same art form as the black and cream Anakim banners. Adornment was everywhere: on a dozen tables set around the room was a chalice of silver, richly engraved; pewter plates leaned against the wall; weapons so shiny and with edges so perfect that they could never have been used; unforgivably ornamented oil lamps, gleaming with care; a pair of mighty animal tusks; a tiny harp; carved wooden pieces a forearm in length that depicted bird-warriors, lion-headed men, and angels with giant, spidery hands. The floor was not covered with skins like most Anakim houses but with rugs, finely woven and intricate. Most extraordinary and unfamiliar
of all was the heavy perfume that overlaid everything; a potent, fragrant miasma that was almost too thick to breathe.

  The messenger faltered slightly. The room was uncomfortably crowded. There was too much to look at, too much to consider, and his eyes flickered from one object to another, then at Vigtyr, then back at an object and then, seeking familiarity, finally settled on the hearth. The messenger was blinking and spluttering slightly at the perfume but could see Vigtyr looking expectantly at him and so began, trying not to inhale the overwhelming fragrance. “As I say, Lictor, I come bearing the Black Lord’s compliments and reward for services to the Black Kingdom.” He held forth the long, leather-wrapped item. Vigtyr took it, unravelling the leather to reveal a sheathed sword of some splendour. The tang was the full width of the handle, each rivet set perfectly and the division between metal and elm blanks too small for human eyes to discern. Each binding and material of the scabbard was faultless and as tightly assembled as the handle; the only flourish the sheen of its constituent parts. Anakim craftsmanship, which was ill-fitted to this room.

  “Unthank-silver,” said the messenger, seeing that Vigtyr had not unsheathed it, and struggling to keep his eyes open in the caustic atmosphere. “The blade, however, is merely …” The messenger stopped and took a shallow breath. “Merely a token of a fifty-hide estate granted you in the north. You have the Black Lord’s very great gratitude.”

  Vigtyr examined the sword for a while. “Thank you for delivering this, Legionary,” he said, looking up after a moment. “Anything else?”

  “No more than that, Lictor, and to express the Black Lord’s gratitude once more. He was quite specific on that.”

  Vigtyr was looking back down at the sword and smiled at it. “How pleasing,” he said. “May I offer you wine, Legionary?”

  The messenger’s eyes flickered towards the hearth once more. “I’m afraid I must decline, Lictor. I have other messages that I must see to.”

  “What messages?”

  The messenger tried a smile. “Alas I cannot tell you, sir; business of the Black Lord.”

  Vigtyr gazed at the messenger for a time. “Come, now,” he said at last, turning away. “You cannot refuse a single cup.” He poured birch wine from a silver pitcher that rested on a stand behind him before turning back to the messenger and holding the cup out before him. The messenger hesitated. Vigtyr was wearing that unshakeable look again and the messenger stretched out his hand, taking the cup.

  “Thank you, Lictor.” He took a sip and Vigtyr smiled at him pleasantly.

  “You were at Harstathur, I assume?”

  The messenger nodded, lifting his eyebrows as he tried the wine. “Yes, Lictor.”

  “How was your battle?”

  “It was hard on our portion of the line, if I may say, Lictor. The pikeline was exceedingly difficult to penetrate. We lost many men, and opportunities to strike back were few.”

  “It is not a glorious place to fight,” said Vigtyr. “I love to fight knights. They’re so slow, they may as well not be armed at all. The only difficulty lies in penetrating their plate.”

  “Slow to some of us, Lictor,” offered the messenger, taking another sip of wine.

  “Well, indeed,” said Vigtyr. “Pike. Knight. It’s all the same to me, they’re all too slow.”

  The messenger made a polite sound.

  “You wonder how many nobles you killed during a battle like that one,” continued Vigtyr. “How many of them were thought of as among the best of the realm.”

  “I imagine they’d be in the Hermit Crabs if they were the best,” suggested the messenger.

  Vigtyr grunted and turned his attention to the sword. After inspecting the handle once more, he unsheathed it suddenly.

  “Built with your hands in mind, I believe, Lictor,” said the messenger. It was hot in the room and perspiration had begun to stand out on his brow.

  Vigtyr, holding the blade left-handed, gave it a graceful sweep. His eyes lingered on the messenger again and he switched the sword to hold it in his right. For a moment, he levelled the sword at the messenger. The eye contact was so forcible, the sword so threatening that the moment, no more than a heartbeat, was distorted beyond recognition. The messenger took a half-pace back. Then the sword was lowered and Vigtyr gave it another graceful swing. “Well-balanced,” he commented. The instant had been so brief that the messenger might have imagined it.

  Vigtyr turned to refill his own goblet, still holding the naked blade, and the messenger took the opportunity to drain the rest of his wine. “So what are these messages you have to deliver?” pressed Vigtyr again, turning back to the messenger. The sword was still low but he was no longer holding his goblet. It sat on the table behind him.

  “Outside of the fortress,” said the messenger, unwillingly.

  “Ah. A little wilderness for you?”

  “Yes, Lictor. I’m heading north.” Vigtyr looked at the messenger expectantly through the long pause that followed. “To the haskoli. I have a message for the Black Lord’s brothers.”

  Vigtyr raised his chin, his mouth slightly open. “Ah … Roper’s brothers.” He licked his lips. “Yes. I’d forgotten they were still in the haskoli. Which one is it?”

  “Lake Avon.”

  “Beautiful. Telling them that they’re safe, now that Uvoren’s threat has been extinguished, I should imagine.”

  “Something like that, Lictor.”

  Silence prevailed. The perfume was stifling and the messenger had to look away from Vigtyr. Then the huge lictor smiled. “Well, my friend: a long journey lies ahead of you. And I must take up no more of your time.” He laid the sword aside on another of those little tables. Relief broke over the messenger’s face and he set down his goblet.

  “Thank you very much for the wine, Lictor. I must indeed depart.” The messenger bowed and straightened rather suddenly, eyes on Vigtyr, who stood perfectly still. The messenger backed away slowly, smiling weakly, and then turned and trotted for the door. Vigtyr watched him go, not moving. He turned away then, moving for the fire which he fed with another log before straightening and staring into the flames, hands clasped behind his back. He frowned a little. Then he gave a low, tuneless whistle. After a pause, a short, squat legionary with the substantial hands of a workman entered from a door by the hearth. He glanced at Vigtyr, who was still staring into the flames.

  “Sir?”

  “I have work for you at Lake Avon, in the north. You leave before the feast.”

  “Lake Avon?” said the legionary. “At the haskoli?”

  “Yes, at the haskoli.”

  “What kind of work, sir?” asked the legionary, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

  Vigtyr looked up at the soldier. “A message,” he said.

  Roll of Black Legions

  Full Legions:

  Ramnea’s Own Legion

  Blackstone Legion

  Pendeen Legion

  Greyhazel Legion

  Skiritai Legion

  Auxilliary Legions:

  Gillamoor Legion

  Saltcoat Legion

  Dunoon Legion

  Fair Island Legion

  Ulpha Legion

  Hetton Legion

  Hasgeir Legion

  Soay Legion

  Ancrum Legion

  Houses and Major Characters of the Black Kingdom

  Major Houses and Their Banners:

  Jormunrekur—The Silver Wolf

  Kynortas Rokkvison m. Borghild Nikansdottir (House Tiazem)

  Roper Kynortasson m. Keturah Tekoasdottir (House Vidarr)

  Numa Kynortasson

  Ormur Kynortasson

  Lothbrok—The Wildcat

  Uvoren Ymerson m. Hafdis Reykdalsdottir (House Algauti)

  Unndor Uvorenson m. Hekla Gottwaldsson (House Oris)

  Urthr Uvorenson m. Kaiho Larikkason (House Nadoddur)

  Tore Sturnerson

  Leon Kaldison

  Baldwin Duffgurson

  Vidarr—Catastrophe
and the Tree

  Tekoa Urielson m. Skathi Hafnisdottir (House Atropa)

  Pryce Rubenson

  Skallagrim Safirson

  Baltasar—The Split Battle-Helm

  Helmec Rannverson m. Gullbra Ternosdottir (House Denisarta)

  Vigtyr Forraederson

  Alba—The Rampant Unicorn

  Gray Konrathson m. Sigrid Jureksdottir (House Jormunrekur)

  Indisar—The Dying Sun

  Sturla Karson

  Oris—The Rising Sun

  Jokul Krakison

  Algauti—The Angel of Madness

  Aslakur Bjargarson

  Randolph Reykdalson

  Gosta Serkison

  Kinada—The Frost Tree

  Vinjar Kristvinson m. Sigurasta Sakariasdottir

  Neantur—The Skinned Lion

  Asger Sykason

  Hartvig Uxison

  Rattatak—The Ice Bear

  Frathi Akisdottir

  Other Houses and Their Banners:

  Eris—The Mother Aurochs

  Atropa—The Stone Knife

  Kangur—The Angel of Divine Vengeance

  Alupali—The Eagle’s Talon

  Keitser—The Almighty Spear

  Brigaltis—The Angel of Fear

  Tiazem—The Dark Mountain

  Horbolis—The Headless Man

  Denisarta—The Rain of Stars

  Hybaris—The Mammoth

  Mothgis—The Angel of Courage

  Nadoddur—The Snatching Hawk

  Acknowledgements

  It is fair to say that, since writing this, my image of the author as the lone creative dynamo behind each book is in smithereens. Particular thanks must go to my agent, Felicity Blunt, and my editor, Alex Clarke—both of whom not only had faith in this book, but also substantial creative input, helping to shape a much better novel than the one I originally submitted to them. Very many thanks must also go to the rest of the team at Wildfire, Headline and Curtis Brown, particularly Ella Gordon, Katie Brown and Jess Whitlum-Cooper.