The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  Aramilla was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was warm. “You have been truly generous in your support of him,” she said, leaning into her husband again. “I have always admired your ability to see beyond his origins.”

  “We must be generous in all things if we are to rule effectively,” said King Osbert sagely.

  “And you are generous too, not to recall them. If Bellamus was truly responsible for that first victory, then you could leave him and Northwic in charge,” she said. “Northwic is noble enough to command the army’s loyalty and Bellamus can compensate for his lack of experience against the Anakim.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” said the king, distractedly. “But I would like a noble of higher standing in the north with them. Perhaps I shall send your father to join them. He is a man of true cunning and would be a fine representative.”

  Aramilla stopped walking abruptly, though she retained her grip on the king’s arm, dragging him to a halt too. She looked at him, her eyes wide. “Please don’t send my father north to fight the Anakim, my love.”

  King Osbert blinked. “No. Of course.” He planted a kiss on her forehead. “How thoughtless of me, sweet woman. He shall stay safe in the south with us. Yes. Yes, we shall leave it to Northwic and Bellamus.”

  Helmec knocked at the door to Roper’s quarters. It was an honour, being summoned to the Black Lord’s private quarters. Or it had been under Kynortas. Roper was simply relieved the guardsman had turned up, and he called him in at once. Helmec entered, his house crest emblazoned on the right side of his tunic: an upright spear capped with a split battle helm. House Baltasar.

  Roper, sitting behind another table of rich bog-oak, stood to meet him, trying out the charm that Kynortas had been able to unleash. “Helmec,” he said with a smile, leaning forward and offering the guardsman his hand. Helmec took Roper’s hand in a huge scarred paw and bowed, an evidently irrepressible grin spreading across his ruined face.

  “My lord,” he said. Lord. Indoors, away from the horrors of battle where he had seemed somehow more appropriate, Helmec was a hideous spectacle. His mangled cheek, through which a constantly working jaw complete with yellowed molars could be seen, was more withered space than flesh. He was missing an eyebrow and whatever had taken it had almost split his left eyelid. The very light grey eyes beneath looked almost ghoulish and his body was a compact box of muscle rather than the broad shoulders and triangular torso so stylised in Anakim carvings.

  Roper invited the guardsman to a chair on the other side of the table and the two sat opposite one another. “Helmec, I wanted to thank you again for the services you rendered me in battle, which amounted to no less than saving my life.”

  “My honour, lord,” said Helmec loyally. “I did what any man there would have done.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “Scared for you, lord,” said Helmec, the smile reappearing on his face. “I thought you’d be dead before I could get there. But you’ve got some speed with that sword of yours.”

  Roper nodded, so intent on winning over Helmec that the compliment did not register. “We need more of your sort, Helmec; even in the Guard.” Too much, he thought to himself. More subtle. “I trust you have been welcomed into your new unit?”

  “Of course, lord.” Roper did a double-take at the guardsman, as though Helmec had just let something slip that he had not meant to. Helmec’s answer had been convincing, but Roper could guess how Uvoren had treated a man appointed to the Guard by Roper.

  “Uvoren has been good to you?”

  “Yes, lord,” said Helmec, a touch more feeble this time.

  “Go on.” Roper leaned forward in concern, as though Helmec had begun to condemn Uvoren but restrained himself.

  “He has been good to me,” said Helmec stubbornly.

  Roper sighed and looked down at the ancient oak. “Uvoren is a great servant to the country and one of our mightiest warriors. But he guards his unit jealously. He will often exclude those who have more right than most to be in the Guard.” Helmec hesitated. “I am firmly against the practice. To be the unit they can be, the Sacred Guard must fight as one, undivided by petty rivalries. He tried to turn the rest of the unit against you?” A wild guess.

  Helmec looked a little dismayed. “Yes, lord,” he said, at last.

  “I’ll do what I can to help you. You have earned that much. Rest assured, Uvoren will not know that you confided in me.” Helmec nodded curtly, already looking ashamed of his admission. Roper kept his face detached, but he was pleased. His man, indeed. “Now, Helmec. I have some special duties I would like from you.”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  “I want you with me for the next few days. You will be assisting me as we attempt to drive the Suthern horde from our lands.”

  “That would be my honour, lord,” said Helmec dutifully. He could hardly refuse; not now he had confided his discontent with Uvoren’s leadership.

  “Very good,” said Roper. “Then I will settle it with Uvoren. To your station, Helmec.” Helmec, looking bemused, stepped outside Roper’s quarters and stood guard over the door.

  And Roper had his first ally.

  Beyond the Hindrunn’s southernmost extremity, from outside the Great Gate, Uvoren dispatched a messenger. A handful of subterranean tunnels aside, the gate was the only way in or out. It pierced the Outer Wall; a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot-high wave of dark granite that marked the edge of the fortress. Studded with bronze cannons and crowned with all manner of siege-breaking equipment, it was reckoned near-enough impenetrable. But that was no concern of the messenger, for the gates, forty feet of iron-sheathed oak, were opening before him. Behind: a deep stone well that tunnelled through the Outer Wall, ending in a far window of light. As the messenger continued and the passage was sealed behind him, the darkness pressed against his eyes. Just discernible above as deeper pools in the blackness were the charred “murder-holes,” through which sticky-fire would pour onto any soldier who made it through the Great Gate.

  But the messenger had passed this way many times before, and the defences were not his concern. His journey to the Central Keep would take him through many structures as intimidating as this. At the end of the tunnel, he emerged into the residential area of the Hindrunn. Beyond him stretched a road of dense cobbles, brushed clean by unwilling legionaries. The roads fed a tight neighbourhood of sturdy stone dwellings, all remarkably alike; built from granite, roofed in slate and guttered with lead. A newcomer would notice that, although this was a cold land, well to the north of Albion, the glassless windows were frequent and large. A newcomer too might wrinkle their nose in preparation for the smell of raw sewage that would greet them in their home town or any of the great fortresses that they had visited before. But it would not come. The air smelt of baking rye bread, charcoal smoke, freshly dyed-cloth, hay, horse dung and of growing things. These last emanated from the small corridors of wilderness that bordered each of the dwellings. Hawthorn bushes laden with maroon haws climbed up the side of the buildings; crab-apple trees and raspberry canes swayed gently in the breeze and lingon bushes bearing pea-sized rubies packed any remaining space. As the messenger passed by, geese marched angrily towards the edge of their gardens and hissed at him.

  He moved onwards, automatically bounding over the small clear streams set in stone beds that sometimes cut across the cobbles. Familiarity made him blind to the many intricacies that might strike a newcomer, particularly if that newcomer were a Sutherner. The carved outlines of hands, impressed into the walls of some of the houses, or of bare feet, ground into some of the larger cobbles. Wings of eagles, falcons and hawks hanging from the doorways or beneath the gutters. Twin stone pillars that stood close together and seemingly at random on top of some of the roofs. The occasional black cobble, strewn amongst the grey. Semi-circular instruments on some of the walls that a Sutherner might think were sundials, but had only four markings. There was a din coming from somewhere to the messenger’s right and some of the residen
ts were making their way towards the noise, laden with sacks of woven cloth or driving a little flock of geese.

  The messenger moved on and presently came to a second wall; another mighty ripple of dark grey granite. Through another gate: another district, this one more pungent. He passed ripe pigsties and sheep-pens; flint and slate but better insulated than the dwellings occupied by their Anakim masters. These gave way to more intense drystone enclosures in which geese and ducks swirled as though draining into the watering hole in the centre. And so far, the fortress had exhibited barely a single piece of wood, with everything worked in unyielding stone.

  Next, the weaving-houses received sacks stuffed with wool, loaded onto pallets and craned high into upper windows. Then the tanneries: deer-, ox- and boar-hides piled outside, the air bitter with the smell of tannins and saturated with the taste of brine. After this, were buildings that received cartloads of barrels, but did not smell like breweries. Instead, the sour aroma of curdling cheese wafted from the windows, and the tight-laced barrels were filled with milk. At the end of this district, surrounding the third wall of this enormous hive, were the barracks. Weapons and helmets were supported on racks outside (carved exquisitely from rugged stone, with wood disdained even for this meagre duty) and ale and warm food wafted from the frenetic kitchens situated at the end.

  Through another gate in another wall, the messenger crossed another river running through the fortress, this one powering a constantly-chewing water-mill, fed endlessly by wagon after wagon of grain. Then another row of buildings, instantly recognisable for the smell of yeast, wood-fired ovens and baking bread that suffused the air. He went past the brew-houses, the mouth-watering smoke-houses receiving wagons of carcasses into a collective maw and spewing wagons of skins back out to the tanners. All the while, the noise and smell were growing ominously. The air had begun to clang and hiss and ring, and the smell of hot metal and charcoal was all around before the messenger had arrived at the smithies. Swords, spearheads, arrowheads, helmets, armour, horseshoes, axeheads, buckles and more, much more, were pumped out by this rough community. Sparks drifted across the street, and here the messenger was briefly reminded of a story he had once heard, that the Sutherners thought the Anakim were fallen angels. In this ringing place of metal and smoke, it was difficult not to be reminded of hell. To a Sutherner, that might seem to be where this road leads: a pit, or a staircase that leads down, down, down.

  Rearing above all this, behind one last curtain wall, were two structures. One was the messenger’s destination: the Central Keep. The other, nearby, was the summit of a vast stepped pyramid, capped by a shining silver eye. It had been visible for some minutes now, watching sleepless over the inhabitants of the fortress.

  The messenger passed through that last wall, which was not a single wall but a system of them. Each gate led to a courtyard surrounded by potent weapons of slaughter, though for now they were filled with horses, munching contentedly on a nose-bag apiece. Through all this—defences and resources almost without limit—the messenger came at last to the Central Keep and, hidden until now by the defences, the Holy Temple. The Temple was an upturned cauldron of stone, caulked in acres of lead, and ghoulishly observed day and night by the desiccated corpses of ancient warriors. Sheltered in stone alcoves, the bodies of these old heroes were held erect by armour; one withered hand resting upon the hilt of a sheathed sword; teeth bared by retreating lips. One foot of each corpse was set slightly further forward than the other, as though the cadaver had been caught in the act of advance.

  Beside the Temple, the Keep was three hundred vertical feet of tightly laid stone, braced by a dozen external towers and wearing a barbaric crown of crenellations.

  Somehow, though it was all built with slaughter in mind, the fortress felt a good place. Throughout, fresh water flowed along custom-made paths, willing in its assistance of Anakim business. It was open and light, with no construction more than two-storeys high save the towers, Central Keep and the eye-capped pyramid. It was fresh and clean; un-soured by waste, sewage and plague. And everywhere were those little gardens of fruit-bearing trees and bushes, adding life to this stone colony. Something about it spoke of clarity of thought and purpose. There was no confusion here; no compromise. Only will, and wild.

  The messenger’s journey was not yet done. He climbed a broad flight of steps that led to the main doorway of the Central Keep. Through this door was a vaulted stone hall, unadorned other than brackets for oil lamps set every few feet into the wall. A dozen doors branched off the hall and the messenger took the nearest on the right, coming to a narrow spiral staircase. He rose up the outside of the keep, the stairs dimly lit by arrow-slits that flashed past every dozen steps, until he came to another door some four storeys up. On the other side was a corridor, and at the end of the corridor was Helmec. The messenger tried to stride past him, but was halted by a firm hand on his chest. He spoke with the guardsman for some time; the messenger shrugging at last and turning away. Helmec watched him go, and then turned to knock on the door behind him.

  “My lord?” Helmec peered around the door. “A message from Uvoren. He says there is something outside the Great Gate that he needs your authority to deal with.”

  Roper was tending to his equipment in his quarters. His cuirass gleamed from the table, and the room smelt of oil and beeswax. He looked up at Helmec, dropping the oil-soaked rag he held and on his guard at once. “He’s going to try and embarrass me.”

  “I don’t know, lord.”

  “Ask him to provide more information.”

  “The messenger was quite insistent, lord,” said Helmec, apologetically. “Said it must be as soon as possible.”

  Roper wondered whether he could refuse. It could be the wise course, but he still hoped that there might be a genuine need for his presence. He had few enough opportunities to lead without turning them down when they presented themselves. He bade Helmec accompany him and together they took a pair of horses from the stables below the Central Keep. They clattered out onto the cobbles, riding for the Great Gate. Helmec, prodded by a question from Roper, began chattering about where his two daughters were. “They’re both working in the freyi, lord, teaching medicine to the young girls there. I had word from one of them yesterday. She said the usual plants they use at this time of year are nowhere to be found: everything has been covered by the flood waters.”

  Roper was not really listening. As they reached the gatehouse, he spotted Uvoren atop it. He was leaning against the battlements and laughing raucously with Asger, the Lieutenant of the Guard. Uvoren saw Roper and waved at him before pointing at something that Roper could not see behind the gate. “Have a look!” he shouted, before gesticulating to a guard that the gate should be opened. The locking bars grated backwards and the counter-weight was released so that the gates ticked open.

  Roper, still mounted, could not immediately see anything through the gateway. The great grass plain before the fortress appeared to be deserted, which was in itself strange. For weeks now it had been home to the thousands of refugees who fled the Suthern invasion, but now only their meagre possessions were in evidence. Their owners seemed to have scattered. Roper rode forward, straining his eyes and casting around. He half expected the joke to be that the gates would shut behind him, so he left Helmec behind to guard against any inclination that Uvoren might have to lock him out. Then he spotted it: an upright stake of some kind, planted in the earth fifty yards away. There was a dark mass on top of it.

  Roper had realised what it was long before he reached it. The stake was a spear, butt-spike planted in the ground and there was a helmeted head impaled on top of it. Roper’s face was drained of colour by the time he reached it, moving more and more slowly the closer he got. He stopped at last, a few yards short of the head. It was suspended at his eye-level. He stared at it for a long while and his father stared back.

  So this was what Uvoren had wanted him to see. He turned to look back at the gate and saw that Uvoren and Asger wer
e still watching him, though he could not make out their expressions. He turned back to the head. “Hello, my lord,” he said, softly. A single tear welled over his eyelid and splattered onto his armour. An expulsion escaped his lips; the plosive sound of the letter “p.” He took a sharp breath and straightened his back. “I’m glad you’re here.” His father just stared, eyes half-open, as if in a drunken stupor. Roper leaned forward and tried to pull the head from the spear, but the vomit rose in his throat and his hands felt so weak that he could not do it. He tried until he retched. He pulled back, trembling and panting. The head reeked.

  “So what do I do now?” he asked the head, voice quivering a little. “Almighty god, what do I do now?” The head looked at him blankly. “I have an enemy, my lord,” Roper continued. He spoke haltingly, as though he were talking to the living Kynortas. He would have had little patience for these emotions. “It is Uvoren and I think he is going to kill me. I want to die on the battlefield. Please, let me die on the battlefield. He could do it now and I don’t think anyone would stop him. But he’ll play with me more.” Roper took a deep breath again and blinked. For the first time, the thing before him appeared dead. “And I’m going to kill him first. Do you hear me, Father? I’m going to kill Uvoren. I’m going to win the loyalty of this army. I’m going to break his traitorous council into a thousand bloody pieces. And then I’m going to kill that exalted bastard.”

  Roper stopped abruptly and took a deep, steadying breath. He could hear a pair of crows calling to one another behind him. Enough words. Actions now. He seized the shaft of the spear, hauling it from the ground. Holding it up high, he turned back to the fortress and cantered back through the gates. On the other side, Uvoren and Asger had descended from atop the gatehouse and were waiting for him. They both grinned and Uvoren leaned to Asger and muttered something that Roper could hear plainly. “I told you he’d weep.”