by Leo Carew
“Why are we here, Lord Roper?” Pryce asked. “They are savages. We can’t trust them. We can’t fight alongside them.”
Roper was silent a while. “I want to know that whatever happened here, we gave our very best. I fear we are doomed without their help.”
Pryce nodded. “Gray told me this is how you would be. He warned me you would not turn back.”
Roper turned to the sprinter. “He what?”
“He said that no matter how fruitless this became, how impossible the Unhieru seemed or how much danger we were in, you would not give up. He warned me that when faced with a challenge, you cease to question whether it is a good idea. It becomes something you have to do, because it is hard.” Pryce offered these insights flatly, without any sign that he might be revealing something Roper found uncomfortable.
Roper frowned, looking back at the slumbering Unhieru and wondering if that was right.
Tekoa cleared his throat pointedly. “That may be accurate, lord. Look at how strong they are now. And they want weapons and armour as part of the deal. Are we to create a second enemy, even more deadly than the first? Do we really want these people with us?”
“Yes,” said Roper at once. But after what he had seen last night, he was not sure if he meant it.
“They are asleep,” Tekoa went on, softly. “They drank so much last night, they won’t be stirring for hours. We can go now.”
“You may go if you wish, Tekoa,” said Roper. “I do not hold you here. If you want to leave, you should. I am staying.”
Their conversation woke Vigtyr, who did not come to join them. He stayed on his blanket with his back against a drystone storehouse. “Vigtyr,” said Pryce, not looking at him. “Did you manage to sleep without your tent?”
“I slept fine, Pryce,” said Vigtyr coldly.
They waited for the Unhieru to stir, Pryce growing bored and stepping over the slumbering bodies to collect several smoking dogends from the hearth, which he brought back to make another small fire on which they toasted biscuits. It was midday, the clouds overhead in fine shreds, before the Unhieru started to rouse. Gogmagoc was one of the last to wake, and his golden eyes travelled immediately to the Anakim, huddled together away from his people. “Let us have our contest,” he said, pushing himself into a seat.
“And what do you propose?” asked Roper.
Gogmagoc did not answer at once, rising instead and prowling to a storehouse, from which he produced two pieces of wood. The longer one was a vast war-bow, which Gogmagoc strung with a fraying twist of sinew. Even bent, the weapon was nine feet long; the wood stiff, dark and reinforced by a sliver of horn over the belly. In his other hand he clutched a five-foot wooden streak, fletched with black feathers and tipped crudely in iron.
“The final contest is this,” Gogmagoc growled. “You match my shot.” The giant nocked the arrow and hauled on the string, raising the bow to the sky. His huge arms trembled as the instrument bent to a perfect fragment of circle, the arrow resting an inch clear of the grip and quivering to be set free.
Gogmagoc unleashed it with a shriek like a buzzard, and the bowstring cracked straight so loudly that Roper thought the bow had snapped. The arrow was a distant splinter, climbing above the sides of the valley where it plateaued, cruising for an impossible time before plummeting back to earth. It landed pointing nearly straight down, five hundred yards down the valley, in line with a small storehouse. The distant clatter of its landing carried over the still air and Gogmagoc turned to face them, using a palm to silence his singing bowstring.
Roper stared at the bow. It was gorgeously constructed: a weapon of such enormous size and power that it had to be made for an Unhieru, and that ingenious sliver of horn over the belly was joined with a precision that Roper struggled to imagine even an Anakim bowyer matching. It seemed that these giants were capable of great craft after all, if only given the right motivation.
Roper looked at Tekoa. “Can we beat that shot?”
“The record for a Skiritai bowshot is a touch over four hundred yards,” said Tekoa bleakly. Even that mighty shot would have fallen well short of the monstrous arrow Gogmagoc had just unleashed. “Aledas has come close to matching it on a number of occasions,” he added, which still rendered the Skiritai’s chances of succeeding in this task next to hopeless.
“Choose,” said Gogmagoc, pointing at the Anakim.
Roper looked at Aledas. “I suppose it’s down to you, Aledas.”
The Skiritai did not reply. He merely did as Roper bade, removing the bow from his pack and stringing it with a twist of tendon taken from the side of his boot. He took this and a single arrow to Gogmagoc’s mark, and gazed down the valley, chest rising and falling three times. He nocked the arrow, lifted his bow to the clouds and braced his shoulders, beginning to load the string.
“Wait!” said Roper, suddenly. “Wait, wait, lower your bow.” Aledas eased the arrow forward, silently looking to Roper for further instructions. “I would like you to gather your strength before you shoot,” he explained. “Please, take a seat.”
Aledas just stared in response, the bow still held out before him. “I do not need rest.”
Tekoa seemed to have discerned Roper’s plan. “I think you’ll find you do,” he hissed, each word enunciated precisely, eyes boring into Aledas. “Unstring your bow, you thoughtless oaf.” Under Tekoa’s gaze, Aledas used a knee to bend the bow and unstring it once more, sitting down and coiling the string.
Gogmagoc stirred minutely. “He should shoot,” said the king, looking at Roper.
“My bowman has immense mental strength,” Roper replied. “In order to summon it, however, he must concentrate for some time. It will help him shoot further.”
Gogmagoc lost interest, turning back to a storehouse for apples.
They waited. Roper instructed his party to gather warm clothes and sit down together. The Unhieru stood restlessly around them, prowling and staring at the Anakim party. Some uttered low howls, with Aledas the focus of particular attention. “Do not acknowledge them in any way,” said Roper.
“Vigtyr,” said Pryce, after a pause, “how is it that you speak Saxon?”
Every head turned towards the tall legionary, who sat on the edge of the group.
“Do you?” asked Roper.
“He understood what Gogmagoc said to you yesterday,” said Pryce, lightning-blue eyes boring into Vigtyr. “Didn’t you?”
Vigtyr gave his wry smile, not looking at any of them. “I don’t, really,” he said. “But I was raised on the banks of the Abus, and there are Saxon phrases in common use there. I picked up some bits and pieces.”
“On the banks of the Abus?” said Roper. “Did you ever encounter Sutherners?”
“Sometimes we could see them, over the water,” said Vigtyr, sounding amused. “We would just stop and stare at each other. Sometimes we waved. And once I found one of them, hiding out in our pigsty.”
“And what did you do?” asked Tekoa.
“I remember he made a strange gesture.” Vigtyr raised one finger, pressing it perpendicular to his lips, his eyes narrowed as he remembered.
“What do you think it meant?”
Tekoa answered, eyes still on Vigtyr. “It means keep your mouth shut. So what did you do?”
“I ran and told my father.”
“Who did what?”
“Killed him.” The story was related in Vigtyr’s default tone. When speaking, he seemed to relish what he was saying, eyes slightly humorous throughout. When spoken to, his affect was flat, as though bored and doing a poor impression of attention. His manner kept company placated, but did not invite familiarity.
They spoke for a little longer about the Sutherners, discussing the lands they had passed through on their way here, before Pryce asked suddenly: “What are we waiting for?”
Roper nodded up the valley. “Look up there, Pryce.” The sprinter turned, and Roper saw the comprehension on his face as he felt the evening breeze now streaming down the val
ley. He looked back at Roper and gave a curt nod. Vigtyr made a soft noise of understanding. Aledas did not react or look up the valley, having either discerned the plan some time ago, or been so offended by Tekoa that he no longer cared to acknowledge them.
At that moment, Gogmagoc prowled over to the group. “Shoot,” he said. Roper felt just the tiniest edge of that fear that the giant was able to command. It rattled in his chest for a moment, then was gone.
“Soon,” Roper replied, firmly. Behind Gogmagoc, the other Unhieru were edging closer, leaning towards the group and making snatching gestures.
“Now,” Gogmagoc demanded. The fear swamped Roper and he nearly retched. He felt his companions recoil around him, and was no longer certain whether this feeling was genuine or of Gogmagoc’s design.
“No,” he replied, with all the calm he could muster. “Soon.” He looked up into the golden eyes, and imagined that all he felt was contempt for the giant king. To win his throne the previous year, he had engaged in an immense confidence trick. The price of failure had been death. He had had to embody the role of a man who believed himself born to rule: unwavering in every situation. He had learned to control his face; become used to walking straight-backed, chin raised, stride slow and measured, so that even in a room of warriors who despised him, none raised so much as a word against him. His entire life had been spent preparing for this confrontation with Gogmagoc, and the giant king would find no weakness here.
Nor did he. All at once, the fear abated. Gogmagoc seemed to lose interest in Roper, turning away and proceeding to the cold body of the Unhieru thief killed the night before. The other giants kept their attention on Roper’s band, circling them restlessly, but Roper paid them no heed. The Anakim might lack the extreme size and strength of the Unhieru. They did not have the subtlety, appetite or symbolic capacity of the Sutherners and their complex writing, which was, Roper quietly considered, impressive. But it seemed to him they possessed most a virtue that outstripped all those. Confidence.
In the face of this, some of the Unhieru were losing interest and joined Gogmagoc, who was dismembering his dead kin and spitting his limbs for roasting. “Cannibals,” said Tekoa, eyes narrowed. The feast at least distracted the Unhieru briefly, Gogmagoc parcelling out hot flesh to a favoured minority. But when the meat was exhausted, those who had not received any returned to harassing Roper’s band, more agitated than ever.
“Hold on,” Roper said. “Keep waiting.”
In twos and threes, some of the Unhieru were beginning to advance close to the circle, minded to force Aledas to shoot, or else punish the Anakim for their delays. Pryce stood abruptly when one came too close, sweeping a sword clear of its scabbard and forcing one of the Unhieru to retreat rapidly. But it stayed just out of reach, growling rough words at him. “Calm now,” said Roper. “Just a bit longer.”
The wind tore the clouds apart. Behind, the sun was balanced on the edge of the valley, as though it might fall in and roll down the side. It was soon gone, taking its feeble warmth with it. They fell into shadow and, as before, the katabatic wind started to howl.
“Now?” suggested Tekoa.
“Wait,” said Roper. “We must be certain.” The Unhieru were becoming angry and Roper instructed his comrades to stand. “Back to back,” he said. “Draw swords. Aledas, you stay at the centre.” More and more Unhieru were coming, emboldening the group. “Just hold on,” Roper insisted. “Hold on.”
It was now nearly completely dark, the pressure of the wind forcing Roper to lean forward. Clumps of moss, lichen and dried weeds tumbled away from the Anakim, and though it was no longer snowing, the spindrift streamed across the stones like high clouds. Gogmagoc finished eating, his glare turning to the Anakim. He got to his feet.
“Now,” said Roper, tapping Aledas on the shoulder. “Quickly.”
Their circle flared slightly, swords flashing, as they gave Aledas space at the centre to string his bow. The Unhieru fell still as they saw the Skiritai readying himself. Even Gogmagoc, who had started towards them, stopped to watch, golden eyes shining through the dusk. Aledas drew his bow, aiming high above the valley, and loosed. The arrow streaked into the night and floated upwards, shrinking to a dark sliver in the evening sky. It soared down the valley, swept onwards by the wind and beyond the storehouse which marked Gogmagoc’s shot. It had disappeared from sight before landing.
There were none of the roars that had followed Pryce’s victory. In the bitter evening, cloaks swirling about their knees, the Anakim turned towards Gogmagoc. He had seen Aledas’s shot, but not reacted. “Wait here,” said Roper. Alone, he advanced towards Gogmagoc, making a gesture that said: It’s over. “We have beaten your shot, Lord King,” said Roper, stopping before the giant and staring up at him. “As we beat your hound. We will send you weapons. We will send you armour. Now, will you join us?”
Gogmagoc stared down at Roper. Then he smiled his mad smile. “No. I do not need to join you, river-man.”
Roper let out a long breath, deflating a little. Rage and frustration began to bubble within him at this final proof that Gogmagoc had been toying with them. He had kept them there for entertainment, no more. And now, even Roper did not believe he would turn Gogmagoc’s mind. They stood facing each other in silence. “We had a deal,” said Roper, at last.
“I do not understand your deals,” said Gogmagoc, flatly.
“But even you have rules,” Roper protested, stubbornly. “Like the wrestling, last night. You have laws you will not break. Not unless you go red.”
Gogmagoc made a gesture like a shrug. “Red?”
“When your kin killed the thief who stole his trophies,” said Roper. “And he flushed bright red. All the rules were gone. Is that what this is?”
Gogmagoc gave his abrasive laugh. “The other-mind? No river-man, this is not like that. If this was the other-mind, I would not even remember you. And you would be dead. You win your freedom. You may go. You are lucky for that, after threatening Fathochta.”
Roper was blank for a moment. Then he realised what Gogmagoc must mean. “Your son?” Before this latest task, he would have stopped there, but he no longer cared if he inflamed Gogmagoc. “I heard Fathochta was dead. I met the man who killed him.”
Gogmagoc froze, gaze fixed on Roper, who suddenly felt that dreadful fear once again. At the same time, he became aware that Cold-Edge had started rattling in its scabbard. “Eoten-Draefend,” growled Gogmagoc. “Where? Where did you see him?” As soon as the giant opened his mouth, Roper’s fear faded, and Cold-Edge fell still. Perhaps it was some sound that Gogmagoc made, too deep for the Anakim to hear, but still able to elicit terror as it reverberated through their lungs.
“In my country,” said Roper. Garrett Eoten-Draefend was a hybrid whom Roper had met months before, and who had boasted of killing Fathochta in single combat. “He came north in the invasion earlier this year.”
“He is your enemy?” pressed Gogmagoc.
“He certainly is.”
Gogmagoc was silent, watching Roper with a new expression on his face.
“So, he did kill him?” said Roper.
“The last Fathochta was killed. My eldest son. This is the new one.”
Roper remembered the Chief Historian saying that Unhieru names were colours. It seemed they were titles as well, with the name Fathochta passed to Gogmagoc’s second son, after the first had been killed. He remembered Gogmagoc’s rage at seeing his son threatened, and the close bond he seemed to share with his wives, and thought that perhaps he at last understood a little about these people. “If we become friends,” said Roper, “we could fight the Eoten-Draefend together.”
Gogmagoc did not move a muscle.
“I can promise you revenge,” said Roper. “If you join us, the Eoten-Draefend is yours. We will help you get to him. We can kill him together.” Roper could almost feel the eyes of his companions boring into the back of his head as the longest negotiation he had yet managed with Gogmagoc played out. At last, he had
the maned giant’s full attention, and terrifying though it was, he held it.
“Send me the metal skin,” said Gogmagoc, slowly. “Send me the weapons. When they come, I will join you. And I will kill the Eoten-Draefend.”
Roper licked his lips. “So you’re with us, Lord King?”
“To fight him,” said Gogmagoc. “To avenge Fathochta. Yes, I will come for that, River-King.”
Roper did not feel the satisfaction that he had imagined. Instead, there was a strange foreboding. Since he had seen the flushing male brutalise his own kin the night before; since Pryce’s words that morning, his doubt at the wisdom of what they were doing here had grown. Now that he had this powerful ally, whom they had worked so hard to recruit, he was not so sure that he wanted him.
“Good,” he said to Gogmagoc. “Good. We’ll send you what you need for the war. And then you’ll come with us.”
10
The Trial
Inger shut the door of the dark room, muffling Hagen’s frenzied sobs. The fierce attention which had slowly grown over her during the interrogation had subsided into her usual vague manner. “Let’s go upstairs. We won’t get any more out of him for a while. Seems he’s been living under pressure for a long time and that’s finally broken. He needs to pull himself together.”
“What is the Ellengaest?”
Inger led the way up the stairs. “I have no idea,” she said pleasantly.
“But that meant something to you,” Salbjorn persisted.
“Oh yes. Who that is has been a repeated question from both Ephors and Kryptea for a while now. Someone with more power than we would like, whose objectives appear to have recently diverged quite dramatically from those of the Black Kingdom.”
“A traitor?”
“I suppose so. A spy, too. The Kryptea do not often share information with us, but they believe he’s been passing secrets to the Sutherners.”
