The Spider

by Leo Carew

  It was done.

  Suthdal was as good as theirs. The vast majority of the enemy forces had been within these walls, and were now destroyed. King Osbert was dead. Earl Seaton had not been found, but was surely among those now cooking in the streets. This was a hammer blow for Suthern morale, and with no leaders, no capital and few fighters, resistance was surely at an end.

  Roper could feel his heart slowing. He could feel that dread leaking out of his chest, the self-doubt lifting, and cool relief running through his veins. Ten thousand had been lost to the breach, with casualties for the whole campaign at perhaps sixteen thousand. That was worth it, for the future of their people. If he had been offered that before they came south, he would have taken it. He had known what this would be.

  Gray placed a hand on his shoulder, and they embraced once again. “It isn’t over, my lord,” he said gently. “But it’s not far.” He gripped Roper’s shoulder. “With Lundenceaster taken, our supplies restored and the Unhieru with us, nothing the Sutherners have can stop this army.”

  Roper just breathed, tasting the soot on the air. Every strand of him was weary. “We will need to go west soon,” he said. “Make certain we can overwhelm any resistance before it has time to form properly. But I doubt they are as well prepared for us down here as they were in the north. We’ll be able to find food more consistently.”

  “That’ll cheer Pryce up,” said Gray. “Perhaps we should send heralds west, rather than legions. Ask them for surrender?”

  “Nobody asks for surrender as convincingly as a legion,” said Roper.

  “The Unhieru might.”

  “They might,” Roper agreed. “They might also refuse to accept that surrender.” That was another reason Roper wanted to move the legions: to get them away from the Unhieru. The assault would not have succeeded without them. Roper himself would certainly be dead. But they could not share a camp.

  Dazed soldiers ambled past Roper and Gray. There were more Anakim dead in a single battle than there had been for years, and yet pipes and murmured song were breaking out. The pressure of months; the belief that they and their unfeasible mission were doomed, had been relieved in one night’s violence.

  Some had come through the breach too late to fight at all. Their metal still shone, weapons clean at rest in their scabbards; the dust on their boots the only sign they had been involved in an assault. Quietly, they helped each other unstrap cuirass and helmet, dropping them unattended, just this once. Swords were loosed and cast with them, and these untested warriors laughed together softly, staying on their feet, staring dreamily at the column of smoke, soaring across the heavens.

  Among them walked the petty injuries. Men clutching strips of linen to blossoming crimson slashes, their armour battered, blood-smeared and dishevelled. They reached a fire and dropped to the floor, where their peers descended on them, raising their wounds, ignoring their moans as they cleaned, sewed and bound. A rare few had fought and emerged unscathed, fouled weapons clutched at their sides, wandering aimlessly until hailed gently and sat down with hot breakfast. For the first time in months, they could fill their stomachs, and had enough rations to fill them again tomorrow.

  Roper could not eat yet. He ached like he had been trampled. He stung. His calves and hips cramped with each misjudged movement. He was bewitched by the inferno and the air swimming above.

  “My lord,” came a voice behind him. It sounded like Tekoa, but so broken and exhausted that Roper was filled with a sudden foreboding. He ignored the voice for as long as he possibly could, managing just two heartbeats before turning.

  It was Tekoa. He stood before Roper, his face stained with tears and his helmet clutched to his chest. “Legate?” Roper leaned to one side to see what was coming behind Tekoa. Four men, bearing a stretcher between them, a body in a dreadful state of laceration lying on top of it, and a great streak of a ponytail lying alongside.

  “No,” said a desperate voice from Roper’s side. “Please, no…” The voice was Gray’s. That was when Roper recognised the corpse. He saw it, but did not believe.

  Pryce.

  Gray staggered past him and into the stretcher, capsizing its burden into his arms. He bent his head over the corpse, listening at Pryce’s open mouth for five heartbeats. Then leaned his head into Pryce’s. “Oh, my brother,” he said wretchedly, tears sliding down his cheeks. He uttered a moan that shook Roper to his foundations: a gentle mewing, which plucked at him like a harp-string, and set his heart rattling in his chest. “Not you,” he whispered.

  Tekoa looked silently over them, twisted face wringing tears down his cheeks. Roper dropped to kneel next to Gray as the captain emitted another noise of pure agony, one hand rising to his chest as though to hold it together. The tight reins he held over his emotions had vanished without trace. His reasonable, calm and reflective nature disintegrated, and he made again that profound noise: a gentle howl like the last wolf alive, leaning his head into the corpse. “My brother, I’d take it for you…Please.”

  Roper felt it would have been more appropriate to cry now than it had been on the battlements. But no tears came. “What happened?” he asked, dully. “I thought it was over… I thought we were done.”

  Tekoa paused, gathering himself. “He was found in the camp,” he murmured.

  “The camp?” Roper stared down at Pryce’s terrible wounds. “Where?”

  “By the eastern perimeter. No one else around. We don’t know what happened. Sutherners, or traitors, or…” Tekoa shook his head helplessly.

  Roper had no energy for wonder. He did not feel curiosity, nor the grass beneath his knees, nor the weariness in his limbs. Just the despair radiating from his side, and the tearing, visceral pain in his own chest as one of the foundations on which he had built everything crumbled to dust.

  Pryce, more of a force than a man, could not be dead. Not after all they had survived together. Not after coming through that breach, those streets. Not when their great task was so nearly completed, and peace so close. A champion whom Roper had always been shocked and delighted to find at his back and his command. A soul of pure energy: inflexible, direct, unyielding.

  Dead.

  Epilogue

  Roper sat by the hearth, head in his hands. The crumpled heap that had once been Gray lay next to him, silent at last. Tekoa, on his other side, brooded so intently that he might extinguish the fire. A few legates were with them, suffering more from the horrendous casualties to their legions than the influence of the shrouded cadaver, which lay just beyond the fire’s reach. From one side of the shroud protruded the end of a long, black ponytail.

  Vigtyr was there too, or what was left of him. He was limping heavily on a stuck foot, bleeding through the dressings at his neck, chest and eye, and had lost most of his front teeth. The surgeons thought he was unlikely to recover good sight in the injured eye, and he seemed a watery reflection of the man he had been. But anyone would be at passing through that breach.

  Roper stared dully at a single patch of grass, the food he had prepared left untouched above the flames, slowly boiling dry. Eating was utterly impossible. Even the act of drinking felt intolerable. He just sat, unable to imagine how he had had the energy to storm the breach just hours before.

  On the other side of the fire, Vigtyr stood and muttered something about going to his tent. He limped into the dark, skirting some distance around Pryce’s body. His were the only words spoken for the next hour. The fire burned low, the night grew cold, and a rotten, yellow moon rose. Gray raised his head to look at the last of the flames, and then climbed unsteadily to his feet, Roper eyeing him without the energy to ask where he was going. Gray kept his head down, and said one hoarse word: “Sigrid.” He began to stagger away, but came to a halt after just a few steps. It took Roper some time to realise why.

  There were hoof beats coming from the dark.

  A horse was drawing towards them, and the gait, though fast, sounded uneven. The regular tattoo was upset by stumbles, and after a
time Roper could hear the beast wheezing. Roper and Gray shared a glance, Roper wearing the hint of a frown. The wheezing grew louder and dirtier, and when the beast in question was at last illuminated by the fire, knees trembling, flanks quivering and streaked in foam, it seemed its flesh was spent. Some force went out of it and the horse collapsed onto its knees, falling to one side and pitching its rider to the ground. There it lay, utterly blown, as the rider fought his way clear and staggered upright.

  Roper had never seen a horse in such a state of exhaustion, and standing above it was a face he had not seen in months. “Leon?”

  “My lord, the assault!” Leon blurted.

  Roper stared at him, unable to think what he might be doing here. “Over,” he replied.

  Leon let out a breath and slumped, looking as though he was half considering doing as his horse had done, and dropping to his knees. Then he shook himself a little, looking around the fire at the blank, incurious faces, most not even returning his gaze. “Vigtyr,” he said. “Where is he? Vigtyr the Quick.”

  “In his tent.”

  Leon’s chest was heaving. “Him. My lord, it’s him. He is the spy. The traitor. I heard it from the mouth of the man who killed your brother. The assassin operating on Vigtyr’s own orders. Vigtyr works for the Sutherners. He ordered Numa’s death.”

  Roper just frowned, not quite understanding what he was being told. Nobody else had reacted, but some power drew Roper to his feet. “Vigtyr?” he said, wondering at the anger in his own voice. Then he shivered a little. “Vigtyr? You’re quite sure?”

  “Beyond doubt,” hissed Leon, urgently. “That bastard ordered the death of your brothers. He is Ellengaest.”

  The world was coming back into cold focus.

  And everything was changed. Energy was returning to Roper’s limbs, and he found he was panting. Gray was by his side, surprising Roper, who had not heard him approach. “He killed Pryce,” said the captain. “He was sent to find Vigtyr. And was murdered.”

  Tekoa was on his feet too. “He told them where our breach would be. They were prepared, because of him.”

  Roper glanced at Cold-Edge, unbuckled and thrown carelessly down by his side.

  “Where is the tent?” hissed Leon.

  Then Gray laughed. A freezing noise, which made Roper’s hair stand on end. “I’ll take you,” he said quietly. “But he’s mine, Leon.” He stooped to pick up his sword. Roper snatched Cold-Edge. Tekoa’s weapon was in his hand already, and Leon’s blade rang clear of its scabbard.

  “We’ll share him,” said Roper.

  “No calls,” said Tekoa. “Give him no warning.”

  The four turned and ran together, the legates on their heels. Blades flashing, boots thumping, they prowled into the dark. The tent was not far, and sprinting seemed no effort at all. Roper was consumed by a focus he had never experienced before, eyes so wide they were starting from his head as they closed on the tent’s flimsy outline.

  “Vigtyr!” called Gray in a voice of horrible sweetness. “Vigtyr! Your friends are here.” They did not slow for their approach. Gray carved an entrance in the canvas with a shriek, and ducked through. Roper, Tekoa and Leon flooded after him, into the dark. There were no candles lit inside. They could see nothing.

  Nothing.

  There was just the sound of their panting, of someone emitting a low, enraged growl, of a sword hacking wildly at something, of a strange and desperate keening. Roper’s groping hand felt a shoulder and he pulled it suddenly close, but it was Tekoa. “Who has him?” Roper hissed. “Anyone? Is he here?”

  Nobody replied.

  It was just the four of them in the tent.

  Vigtyr was gone.

  They stared at what little they could see of one another. “After him,” said Roper. “Tear this camp apart. After him!” Gray plunged outside first and bawled at the legates, scattering them to rouse their soldiers and turn the camp upside down.

  Tekoa was after him, swearing that the Skiritai would find him first and boil the flesh off him, limb by limb, for this treachery, for Pryce.

  Leon followed, loping with silent intent like a dog on a trail, and Roper emerged last, scanning the night, his heart ticking once more like a clockwork spring. “Vigtyr,” he whispered, too quiet for anyone to hear but him. “I swear, Vigtyr, I swear we will find you. We will find you. Treasure the hunted moments you have left. We are coming.”

  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

  A second book, it turns out, is harder than a first. Or it was for me; most days at work spent with the feeling that I was outrageously plagiarising myself, and suppressing a palpable sense of imposter syndrome. As a result, the assistance I received from a great many quarters was even more appreciated than last time. Huge thanks to my editors, Ella Gordon and Alex Clarke, for their splendid creative input, and great patience and understanding during the delays in executing it. I am equally grateful to Lucy Morris and Felicity Blunt for their fantastic support, and Becky Hunter for her sterling efforts and company on many publicity engagements. Patrick Insole produced another fabulous cover design which I shall be admiring for years to come, and there is a legion of others at Headline, Wildfire and Curtis Brown to whom I owe thanks, but are too numerous to name here.

&nbs
p; Closer to home, my earliest drafts were examined (as ever) by my mother, whose judgement and input I trust very much, and which comes with plenty of sage advice too. This was also supplied in quantities by the rest of my family and friends, who have had to put up with higher levels of mania than I like to think is normal.

  Finally, thanks to you, the reader, for engaging with this book and making it real. I don’t take it for granted, and still feel absurdly pleased and embarrassed any time someone writes to say they enjoyed one of my books. Feel free to keep doing it, should you feel so inclined.

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  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Leo Carew

  LEO CAREW is a Cambridge graduate of biological anthropology, currently studying medicine at Barts and the London Medical School. Apart from writing, his real passion is exploration, which led him to spend a year living in a tent in the High Arctic, where he trained and worked as an Arctic guide. The Wolf and The Spider are the first two books in his Under the Northern Sky trilogy.

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