by Leo Carew
“As expected, Aelfwynn. Reply in basic cypher that we expect nothing for at least another fortnight, until the Anakim have shipped their arms and armour.” Bellamus dismounted and handed his reins to the thin woman. He turned his back to the Cobweb and raised his arms to the street. “Join me, my comrades! Come! Come and hear what fate has in store for us!”
People emerged from the buildings all around, converging on the spymaster. There was a special atmosphere here. So dangerous was their work that each day might be their last, which lent this town a giddy energy. To address this, and make life tolerable for his agents, Bellamus had allowed a hedonistic streak to develop. He found as much alcohol for them as he could, and cared little for the amount they consumed. So long as they could still ride and fight the next morning, he would tolerate any excess.
He beamed at the gathering crowd: soldiers who had entrusted their fortunes to him even in his state of disgrace and exile. Outlawed from Suthdal for their service to him, despised as “Hermit-Crabs” by the Anakim, they referred to themselves as the Thingalith. Isolated from both sides, hand-picked and salvaged by Bellamus from campaigns and conflicts against the Anakim, they were resourceful and dependable folk, with a stubborn isolationist streak. Bellamus encouraged them to think themselves better than their fellow Sutherners, and they did. Every one of them could read. Every one had a set of Anakim bone-armour.
With them were scores of specialist spies, mostly women as they could pass across country with less suspicion, each recruited by Bellamus himself and still clutching the messages and ingeniously crafted devices that were the tools of their trade. Every face was lean and tanned, but invested with their fierce belief in their work here.
And in Bellamus himself.
Dark smudges lingered beneath his eyes, there was more grey at his temples and his most constant companion was a skin of wine. Still he grinned around with his old energy. “My brothers and sisters, my Thingalith, my spies, my soldiers: the hour is upon us and the news is good. The enemy number a mere sixty thousand.” He waved a hand dismissively and the crowd laughed. “And we here will be their downfall. I should ask no more of you than you have given already. Never has a man been blessed with such dedicated and resourceful comrades. But more is what I must ask. The Anakim must not know, but Suthdal is weak. So weak. Our forces were stripped by the invasions last year; our king is a cabbage,” more laughter, “and we have neither the strength nor the leaders to resist them on the field.” He paused, letting his face assume the only expression that did not take immense effort these days: weary, worn certainty. “So we are all there is. Our resistance must be with subtler weapons than those used by our enemy. With writing, information, misinformation, poison and disruption. We must resist passively, infuriate and block them at every turn, make them wallow in the homesickness that possesses the Anakim in alien lands. And finally, when we have weakened them enough, we will at last be able to turn them back on the field, or send them home to think again. Believe. Believe, and have faith: we can win this conflict, and tomorrow it begins. You all know what you have to do. You are all prepared. You must remember: we are all there is. We are all there is.” He let that settle on them for a moment, and then grinned again. “But tonight, I want to hear you celebrating, because the waiting is over. Get drunk, swap stories and reminisce about when life was easy and our future certain. It starts tomorrow.” They cheered him, and Bellamus made a modest gesture, turning back to the Cobweb, ducking below the thatch and inside.
Within, a fire crackled in a grubby hearth and two huge tables dominated the room. One was festooned with maps of every scale and kind, fully half of it covered by a great tapestry of Suthdal, massed with random tokens and toys denoting soldiers and strategic positions. The other was piled with neat stacks of paper, weighed down by clean rocks so that the sudden draught as he opened the door merely shivered the corners of each pile. The huge companion who had ridden with Bellamus ducked in at his back.
“Spiced ale?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.
“Do we have milk?”
“Gallons.”
“You’re a good man, Stepan.”
“Pie?”
“What kind?”
“Pork, apple, sage.”
“You’re a very good man.” Bellamus removed his cloak, draping it behind a chair and settling himself at the paper-laden table. He stared down for a moment at a brooch of silver and ruby, crafted into the form of a spider—the symbol he used with his spies—which the queen had sent him. It would be valuable, but strangely he felt he could not sell it. It was a new sensation for him, being attached to a material object. However small, it was the only recognition he had received of their efforts here.
Stepan, the amber-bearded knight, brought him a pewter plate bearing a thick slice of pie, its insides glistening with jelly. “You’re slowly turning into my chef,” observed Bellamus, picking up the cold pie and taking a bite. It was salty, rich and fatty and he leaned back, savouring it.
“Easier than spying,” said Stepan, cutting himself a prodigious slice, which he set down next to Bellamus. He left it there for a time, striding back and forth across the room as he combined ale, milk and spices in a large black kettle.
“You’re fond of ginger,” noted Bellamus through a mouthful of pie.
“It’s the best bit,” said Stepan, transferring the kettle to a hook over the fire and giving it a vigorous stir before he came and sat with Bellamus. “While you’ve got it, I’ll use it.” The two had talked the whole day, and were quite happy to eat in silence. Stepan appeared more interested in food than fighting since their escape from the Black Kingdom, and Bellamus had pretended not to notice how frequently he now excused himself from raids and confrontations, pleading other outstanding duties. He sensed that the great knight was done with conflict, and seeking greater peace in his life. In time, he feared that desire would split them apart. Bellamus was still ambitious. Still hungry. They were both captivated by the Black Kingdom, but Stepan seemed increasingly reluctant to return there by any means besides reminiscing. Bellamus wanted to stand once more between the mountains and giant trees, smelling the strange musk and listening for the howls of unidentifiable beasts.
To do that, they would need to stop this invasion, and Bellamus’s abilities to influence how it proceeded were limited. He was disgraced at court. If he were to send a messenger south with word of all he knew, the messenger’s head would likely be sent back in a bag. The only reason his stubborn band had not yet been erased was that King Osbert had bigger problems than a miniature rebellion.
Bellamus could rely on just one ally: Queen Aramilla, and she had little formal power. She could flatter, manipulate and blackmail with the best of them, but if it was discovered that her information came from Bellamus, that would be the end of her. The upstart had been forced to grow expert in getting encrypted messages to Her Majesty. They arrived concealed in books, in eggs, the heels of shoes, the bandages of cripples that she took pity upon, sewn into new garments, and rolled into wine corks.
To defeat the Anakim, they would need to be clever. Bellamus had tried meeting them in open battle, with little success. Suthdal was weak, and they would not defeat them toe to toe. The legionaries were too good, their sense of camaraderie too potent, and they were well led by the young Black Lord. This war needed new arenas: ones where the Anakim were at a disadvantage, and Bellamus had redoubled his efforts as a spymaster. Because they did not write, it did not occur to an Anakim how valuable a written parchment might be, and they seemed unaware of the flock of messages that flitted silently through the Black Kingdom, all bound for this village. There were no Sutherners north of the Abus, so Bellamus had to turn individual Anakim against their peers. This was a difficult feat. Having no value for physical objects, they were not usually susceptible to bribery, and they mostly hated the Sutherners and adored their people with equal fervour. But they had their weaknesses, like everyone.
Stepan finished his pie firs
t and stood to inspect the kettle of spiced ale, the mere smell of which was a tonic. He stirred and tasted, fetched a little more milk, added it, stirred again. There came a knock at the door.
“Come!”
The door opened and a figure stooped beneath the lintel, inappropriately huge in this dingy inn.
Bellamus did not stand up, beckoning to the figure. “Unndor, isn’t it?”
The figure nodded. This was one of the Anakim messengers who sometimes visited the town, carrying word from the agents embedded within the Black Lord’s army. His face was sour as he held out a scroll to Bellamus, sealed with a wax spider.
“Thank you.”
Unndor turned on his heel and left without another word, Bellamus staring after him.
He broke the wax seal over the scroll and discovered blank insides. Stepan came back to the table with two mugs of the ale, and Bellamus coughed slightly at the power of the ginger that wafted up from his mug. “Bring me a candle, would you, Stepan?” The knight obliged before taking a seat next to Bellamus, who dragged the candle close and held the scroll over it.
“This chap again,” said Stepan, gazing at the scroll. “His messenger doesn’t seem too happy.”
“He’s getting resentful,” Bellamus agreed. “Doubtless thought he’d be doing something more interesting when he was recruited.”
Stepan watched as Bellamus moved the scroll gently back and forth over the candle flame. “I don’t know how you read these letters, they’re awful.”
“It is a struggle,” admitted Bellamus. “Though his aptitude for letters is not bad at all for an Anakim. I should like to try teaching an Anakim child to write, and see if they are more adept. The adults mostly cannot learn at all.” Slowly, the candle singed dark, broad letters into the scroll; the lines drawn with raw sheep’s milk which smouldered before the paper around it, until the hidden words were revealed in burnt brown. They were barely comprehensible. The letters were backwards and malformed, the words elided or broken at odd places, and the Saxon meanings obfuscated. “The shipment of Unhieru armour has been accelerated,” said Bellamus, frowning at the paper. “I think… I think he’s saying they’re reforming the chain-mail barding for their horses rather than forging it all from scratch. He thinks they’ll be ready to ship out in four days.” He let the edges of the scroll spring together once more, and dropped it on the table, picking up the hot ale and taking a sip. “We must make sure the shipment never arrives,” he said, setting down his ale and reaching for another message from a pile on the table.
Stepan fidgeted at that, and changed the subject. “Who is supplying this information? Do we trust them?”
Bellamus frowned. “In some ways. In others, not at all. He calls himself the Ellengaest, and he is the only one who contacted me first. We’ve got leverage over everyone else,” he explained, waving a hand at the stack of letters lying on the table. “He seems to be self-motivated, which does make me a little suspicious.”
“It’s more than a little suspicious,” said Stepan. “Why on earth would he want to help us?”
“I have never met him,” said Bellamus, brow furrowed. “Only his messengers. But I must admit he does not seem entirely normal from his letters. They often finish with tirades against the Black Lord. And he seems to envisage a future for himself in Suthdal. He’s made references to earning a place at King Osbert’s court as an honoured adviser, responsible for the downfall of the Anakim.” Bellamus laughed bitterly. “If I could secure such a position, I’d reserve it for myself. But it does no harm to encourage him.”
“So he’s disillusioned?”
“That’s how it seems,” said Bellamus, picking up a new paper. “And he is protected by some faction within the Black Kingdom that prevents him being uncovered. He himself is being used in some way I do not fully understand. But if you wish to know why I trust his information, it is the waft of terrible self-loathing in his messages. That convinces me as to his motives. And his information has always been right so far.”
“I’d be careful with that source,” said Stepan dubiously.
“I am as careful as I can afford to be,” Bellamus replied, without looking up.
They were silent a time longer, before Stepan spoke again. “Did you hear they lost three hybrids this week?”
Bellamus frowned down at his paper. “I thought they were being given less dangerous work now.” There were dozens of Suthern-Anakim hybrids in this town, used by the villagers as slaves. Bellamus had tried to improve conditions for them. At the back of his mind was the thought they might make good soldiers, if he could incentivise them properly. After all, Garrett Eoten-Draefend was a hybrid warrior of considerable renown, and he now served Bellamus. But the change in conditions had yielded no change in their behaviour whatsoever. They remained dangerous and unpredictable beings. Still, Bellamus flirted with the idea of using them as soldiers. They did not necessarily need to be controlled; just unleashed in the right direction.
“It wasn’t the work,” said Stepan. “Slave-Plague, I am told.”
“Slave-Plague,” repeated Bellamus, tiredly. “Have they quarantined them?”
“They said they don’t need to.”
Bellamus set down his mug and looked up from the cypher. “What? They haven’t enforced a quarantine?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Bellamus cast about for a heartbeat, seeking some response from the inn’s dark corners. “For God’s sake!” he declared, getting to his feet, swinging his cloak about his shoulders and heading for the door.
“I’ll keep your ale warm,” said Stepan comfortably, but Bellamus was gone, prowling through the night and seeking the damned fool whose plague-ridden slaves were still permitted to wander the village.
He stalked through the dark, heading for a barn to which the Cobweb’s erstwhile owner had been banished. Arranged around the barn was a score of rough kennels that housed the hybrid slaves, and Bellamus pulled his cloak over his nose as he passed them. He could sense their wakeful yellow eyes follow him through the gloom. Bellamus ignored them, hammering on the door to the barn. It was opened, after considerable delay and several additional hammerings, by a balding, braided man with the drooping face of a hound. “I have heard there is plague,” announced Bellamus.
The balding man hated Bellamus, who could not really blame him for that. He had, after all, taken his inn and reduced him to living in a barn with a trio of oxen. The drooping face was scrunched into an expression of great sourness, and he gazed coldly through a narrow chink in the door. “What’s that to you?”
“Because your slaves are all still out here, un-quarantined,” said Bellamus, waving a hand at the kennels behind him. “And if a single one of my men gets plague because you failed to act, then I will burn your barn down.”
“Idiot foreigner,” snapped the man. “Plague is caused by bad air. I cannot contain the air, and it is up to God which of my slaves breathes it in.”
“No,” said Bellamus curtly. “It is caused by close exposure to the sick. Quarantine your slaves at once, or my men will do it.”
The man opened the door wide enough to extend an arm, poking a shrivelled finger into Bellamus’s chest. “Your men cannot catch Slave-Plague, fool. It is not the normal sort, it only spreads among the hybrids.”
Bellamus felt his rage diluted by a strange, unidentifiable hope. It gave him pause for a moment as he tried to identify its source, but being unable to find it, returned to berating the old man. “I don’t care for your opinions on infection. Quarantine them this instant.”
“What do you know?” demanded the old man, jabbing Bellamus’s chest once more. “All my life I’ve been dealing with hybrids. All my life! I’d have caught the plague a dozen times by now if I could have. We cannot catch Slave-Plague!”
Bellamus felt his anger abate a little in the face of this man’s certainty, but the old innkeeper was still being careless. He removed the man’s finger from his chest and tried to speak more calmly. �
��I want them quarantined. Even if what you say is true, one of my warriors is a hybrid.”
“I’ve seen him,” hissed the old man. “Never heard madness like that before, training a hybrid for war.”
Bellamus waved the argument away. “Quarantine them quickly and I can pay you for it.”
“I know how reliable your offers of payment are,” grumbled the old man.
“Well believe me and hope for payment, or refuse. Either way, there will be a quarantine.” Bellamus fished in his pocket and found a penny, which he passed to the old man. It vanished into some bottomless fold of his cloak, and Bellamus found himself distracted by that odd hope that seemed to have come from nowhere. “Sorry to disturb. But quarantine.” He nodded at the old man and turned away, ignoring the tut at his back as the barn door slammed shut.
He re-entered the Cobweb with a frown on his face, shutting the door slowly behind him.
“What did he say?” asked Stepan, clutching a second mug of ale. Bellamus looked at his friend, and became suddenly aware of the source of that hope. Once he had identified the connection, the hope he had felt became horror. He pushed it away, replying to Stepan.
“He seems pretty certain we… Sutherners, can’t catch it.”
“That’s what he said to me,” said Stepan. “Do you think he’s right?”
“I would need to test,” said Bellamus, softly.
“Oh.” Stepan chuckled. “You have a loyal band, my captain, but good luck finding a volunteer for that. Just be cautious and have him quarantine them anyway.”
“I will, I will. But I still need to know if it affects Sutherners.”
Stepan’s eyes were white in the firelight. “Just tell me you’re not going to test it yourself.”
