The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  “You are fighting a huge army, lord,” said Skallagrim. “If the diversionary force is caught, it will not be in a location of our choosing. We would be surrounded and totally destroyed.”

  “That is why they must not be caught. But nor shall it be. There is no way this bloated force can move through our country as fast as we can.”

  There was a sceptical silence.

  “I think it a rather obvious deception,” said another legate. His name was Sturla Karson and he led Ramnea’s Own Legion. “And one with an extremely high chance of disaster. Our force is already drastically outnumbered. To split it in half seems to be inviting disaster.” There was a murmur of agreement.

  Roper inclined his head in the legate’s direction. “It is a valid objection, Legate. But consider the Suthern mindset. They have been raised at their mother’s knee on stories of our barbarous and brutal race. They have seen our lands: mountainous, untamed and, to their eyes, ghastly. To them, we are vast unholy warriors with impenetrable armour concealed beneath our skin and terrible weapons of destruction. They are here because they have been whipped into a fervour of terror and righteousness; but with such savagery, comes recklessness. Their psyche will be their own undoing. When they see our soldiers, they will not think as hard as they usually do about why we are there. They will not approach the battle as calmly and rationally as they are able. To overcome their own fear, they will respond with utmost force to any attack of ours.

  “Yes, they have won an early battle. I tell you now, they are not thinking how easy this invasion will be and how overrated our warriors were all along. A single encounter is not enough to overcome a lifetime’s education. They still fear us. They will still rush to the attack like a dog whose puppies are under threat. They will be thinking about us, and not their baggage train.”

  The warriors around the fire still looked sceptical, but Roper knew he was right.

  “I understand these people,” he said again. “And the worst that can happen is they do not take our bait, we outstrip them on the retreat, and we can try again. But that won’t happen. Is not a surprise attack at dawn a powerful weapon in its own right? Why, when panicking that your sentries have been overwhelmed, would you do anything other than respond directly to the threat at hand?”

  The silence was broken by Gray. “It is a strong plan,” he declared generously. Tekoa grunted his agreement through gritted teeth. There was a pregnant silence. Roper could tell someone was about to try and quash the idea.

  Then, much to Roper’s surprise, Pryce spoke. “I back my lord,” he said firmly. That swung it for him. Nobody would argue against the triumvirate of Pryce, Gray and Tekoa.

  “So what do you command, lord?” asked a hesitant Skallagrim. Roper told them. And the next day, they marched north.

  7

  Out of the Mist

  Bellamus struggled to rouse himself in the mornings. He liked to play a game with his manservants, challenging them to conclusively wake him by any means besides a pail of water. One, by the name of Rowan, had proved particularly adept at this game and surprised Bellamus that morning by introducing a pony from the baggage train into the sleeping chamber of his tent and sprinkling oats on his master’s chest. Bellamus had awoken from one of the startling dreams that haunted his sleep in the north, to find the beast gently sucking on his woollen blankets.

  “It’s always a surprise with you, Rowan,” Bellamus said sternly to the straight-faced manservant on his way out of the tent. “I preferred the bacon method; you have permission to repeat it.” The last time Rowan had woken him had been by luring him from his chamber with a plate of smoked bacon.

  Bellamus ducked through the canvas flap and out into an exceptionally cold morning. The clouds had lifted during the night and any energy that had clung to the sodden earth had fled into the cosmos, leaving the mud brittle and unyielding. The waters all around had frozen over, down to an inch thick. Even the broad river threading the centre of the valley had marbled plates of ice affixed to its banks; a narrow liquid band still stirring gently between the river’s cold edges. A dense mist had tumbled into the valley and Lord Northwic’s pavilion, twenty yards away, was a mere sketch. Still, it promised breakfast.

  Bellamus entered to discover Lord Northwic, as ever, long awake. He sat at the end of a heavy oak table dressed in split-leather leggings and a cotton shift, with a woollen blanket draped around his shoulders, nursing a mug of something steaming. As his eyes were no longer good enough to read, a servant standing in a corner was reading a classical history to him.

  “Bellamus,” he growled in welcome, tapping a place at the table next to him. Bellamus took the seat and turned to wink at a servant behind him. The servant grinned and departed, returning almost at once to Bellamus’s fervent thanks with a chunk of hard bread and a bowl of wine, watered pink.

  Lord Northwic, who clutched a mug of pine needles steeped in hot water, eyed Bellamus’s breakfast in disapproval. “For a man whose father was a pikeman you have certainly embraced a decadent lifestyle, Bellamus,” he observed.

  “It’s very much about the contrast, my lord,” said Bellamus, removing the bleeding bread from the bowl and taking a bite.

  “I trust you were not disappointed with your servant’s efforts this morning?”

  “Rowan is a good lad,” said Bellamus, his mouth full. “You saw the pony?”

  “I did,” said Northwic, snorting slightly. “Though you are too familiar with them.”

  “I see no need to be a tyrant,” said Bellamus mildly. Silence fell for a moment. “It is cold. I think I shall never complain about a billet again.”

  “We should never have launched a campaign so late in the season, but … His Majesty would not be dissuaded. Perhaps we should restore the roofs to the next village we come to and shelter until we are ready to leave,” said Lord Northwic, sipping his brew. “Though the Anakim buildings are scarcely more comfortable than this tent.”

  “They are a hard race,” said Bellamus. “But when you live for two hundred years, perhaps you accept that no dwelling will last as long as you will and so resign yourself to rebuilding it many times?”

  “It’s just a poor land,” said Northwic dismissively.

  “The Hindrunn will impress you. And there are said to be larger, more solid villages further north. Perhaps if we find one we could turn it into a permanent encampment and wait out the winter north of the Abus.”

  Lord Northwic nodded. “I don’t want to cede everything we have gained to the winter. Thank God His Majesty thought better of recalling us. Perhaps we shall build a fort of our own. Still, it is a lot of men to support in a barren land and we shall struggle to persuade the fyrd to stay.” The fyrd was a militia force, roused into action by promises of wealth and fear of the Anakim. They were poorly equipped and trained, but made up for it in sheer weight of numbers.

  “Sometimes …” said Bellamus, then paused.

  Lord Northwic grunted that he should continue.

  “The Anakim do not lead like we do.”

  “What of it?”

  Bellamus wondered how much he could say to a man as tight-laced as Lord Northwic. “They separate their leaders and their men by distance alone. They sleep in the same way, eat the same food, carry the same burden.”

  “Then the Anakim leaders will be tired when it comes to battle,” said his lordship. “And we shall have the advantage.”

  “That’s possible,” conceded Bellamus. “But I believe the Anakim are inspired by example. They will gladly follow the Black Lord, because he is the best of them. He works harder than they do and takes less rest. Under his gaze, they fight more fiercely.”

  Lord Northwic’s rheumy eyes glared at Bellamus, a touch suspicious at first. Then they seemed to soften. “As you say, they are a hard race. Perhaps it is not possible to command the respect of such hard folk without leadership through deeds, as well as words.”

  “Interesting,” said Bellamus, arching his eyebrows. He could do busi
ness with Lord Northwic so much more easily than with Earl William. “I do not suggest following their example,” he explained. “But there is so much that they do which is different; it is well to consider it.”

  “I defer to you in all things Anakim,” said his lordship, taking another sip from the steaming mug.

  “When we are done here, I think I shall study the Unhieru.” The Unhieru were the third race of men that dwelled in Albion. They inhabited the hills and valleys to the west of the island and were a huge people, even compared with the Anakim. They were famed for irrepressible savagery and barbarism, and said to be ruled by the almost mythical Gogmagoc, a giant-king as old as Albion itself.

  “You think you would survive long enough in their company to study them?” enquired Lord Northwic.

  “It is simply a case of learning to speak their language,” said Bellamus reasonably. “But I think …”

  What Bellamus thought never became clear, for he stopped suddenly.

  A horn had sounded.

  It moaned low and faint through the mist. It came once. Then twice. Then a third time.

  “Enemy Attacking,” muttered Bellamus. Lord Northwic was on his feet at once, barking orders at his servants who now scurried out of the pavilion to fetch his armour, saddle his coursers, find out how far away and in what direction the enemy was, and half a dozen things besides.

  Bellamus drained his bowl and darted out of the pavilion to discover chaos outside. Men dripping with weapons and chain mail were dissolving and reforming in the mist as they prepared themselves. Somehow a herd of goats from the baggage train was loose and was hurtling through the camp, bleating angrily. One man ran through a campfire and upset a pot in a great burst of sparks and steam.

  “What’s the news?” Bellamus called to no one in particular, weaving through warriors in an effort to reach his own tent.

  “The Anakim, lord!” said the young lad Rowan, almost hopping with excitement. “Their army has attacked at the mouth of the valley!” Rowan threw a finger into the air, pointing to an unearthly cloud of mist rising above them, visible over the morning fog against the faint lightening of the sky above. It was the manifest breath of thousands of warriors.

  “Good lord.” Bellamus took just one moment to stare down the valley. “My courser this instant, Rowan!” He was already wearing his war gear. He did not fight in battles. He preferred to give orders from an unobscured vantage point and so wore two thick layers of leather with chain mail in between to protect him against arrows. His horse was brought to him and he mounted, turning back to Rowan. “Tell Lord Northwic I’m going to hold them. I’d be much obliged if he’d come and finish them before they finish me.” He raked back his heels and lunged into the mist. The faster members of his retinue were hauling themselves onto horses and joining him, so that half a dozen mailed warriors were soon with him, thundering into the white.

  His tent was towards the centre of the valley and the Anakim had attacked from the south. Because of the vast size of the army, Bellamus was some miles from the front on which the Anakim descended. He might be too distant, but decisiveness was a disproportionate advantage in war. One word was ringing through his head: attack. The Anakim’s advantage lay in facing an unprepared enemy whose resistance would be scattered and half-hearted. If Bellamus could assemble something unexpectedly stubborn, there was a chance he could hold them. If he could hold them, Lord Northwic would be able to bring reinforcements and overwhelm them. He doubted they were facing the whole Anakim army. The chances of a full call-up approaching undetected were negligible. In any case, his spies had told him of the leadership crisis unfolding in the Hindrunn. It seemed unlikely that one general had managed to gain control over the whole army. This was a splinter force: it had to be, and together he and Lord Northwic could turn this surprise attack on its head. But he had to be fast, and he had to be decisive.

  Bellamus could hear none of the sounds of battle. He could see no figures through the mist. He could smell no smoke on the frozen air. But billowing above him, visible against the sky above, was that malignant cloud of mist. The horn called faintly through the mist again: Enemy Attacking. They were here.

  There were a score of riders with him and a dozen more were unveiled by their progress, dithering about a lord with a thick black beard. “With me!” shouted Bellamus, startling them into movement. “With me! All of you, run or ride now to defence of your home!” From all sides, soldiers coagulated on his form. Some had ferociously gritted teeth and a naked sword, but no armour. Some hurried wide-eyed after his growing band, seizing shields at random and cramming tousled heads into helmets. Bellamus led sixty, then ninety, then one hundred and fifty: swordsmen, horsemen, spearmen, longbowmen, all keeping pace as he advanced. Their enemy could emerge from this mist at any moment, but they built a reassuring momentum that swept up the valley; a pulse of men surging in resistance.

  Bellamus kept his eyes forward, sweeping the bank of white that swallowed everything except the spluttering river to his left. Were those hoof beats he could hear? They were: growing louder every moment. Huge figures consolidated in the mist before him, swarming against his patchwork band. Bellamus swore, fingernails the only weapons that occurred to him. But one of the retainers by his side held out the shaft of a spear, which Bellamus seized with a fevered nod of gratitude. “Charge!” he shouted, as his band faltered. “We stop them here!”

  But as the figures before them solidified, they too baulked and shied away from the conflict. Bellamus allowed the charge to continue for a few heartbeats more, spear held as a lance and eyes gaping, before he realised. These were Sutherners: his own men, fleeing the Anakim at their back. “Halt, halt! Form on us! Back now, back!” and he gestured them back the way they had come. The fleeing soldiers, most of them unarmed, milled around until swept up by Bellamus’s more purposeful band. They began to move as one, more warriors still emerging from the tents to either side, bringing spare weapons to those who had none.

  As they clattered up the valley, the atmosphere became more oppressive, silencing the excited jostling of his band. There was an energy developing, so potent that Bellamus half expected to see sparks jumping between the rings on his fingers, curled tight around worn leather reins. There were hundreds of men with him now. None of them spoke: they just panted and stomped in silence.

  A clatter came from high up on their right and Bellamus turned towards the sound so forcefully that his horse almost turned with him. The mist was shallow, lying close to the ground, but still he could see nothing moving on the steep slopes of the valley. Then he spotted a small rock avalanche tumbling down the slope above him. “Keep moving!” he shouted. If they were around him, there was nothing he could do about it. This Bellamus had learned first of all: whatever your plan is, execute it with utmost certainty.

  Bellamus strained his ears into the fog and, for the first time, thought he could hear his enemy. Sounds carried unnaturally far in the still mist and the first noise that reached him was not the loudest, but that which travelled best on the milky air. It was a faint tinkling; though discordant, deceptively sweet, like water slipping over rock. It could have been the silver music that filled Bellamus’s dreams; bells chiming to the finest touch.

  More human noises began to reach their ears. A retching shriek of pain that visibly knocked some of the advancing Sutherners. Howls of wholly unnatural savagery. Breathing so laboured that it sounded like moaning. Coughing as warriors pressed every breath from their lungs in levels of exertion ordinarily beyond them. The sounds of fighting are infinitely more terrible from the outside, before you have joined them; and they seemed so close. Bellamus was certain they would happen upon the scene with every heartbeat, but the fog was deceptive and they kept advancing into the void. On all sides, there were still upright tents and a steady stream of men retreating from the bank of noise joined with Bellamus’s band, reinforcing them with numbers but bringing with them a creeping nausea. “We’re all there is!” shouted Bellamus over
the heads of those around him. “Nobody else is going to save you! Shed your fear, grit your teeth and put the horror of men from the south into the Anakim. Knock them back; do to them what they think they’ve done to us! Shock them! Hold them! And Northwic will be at our backs!”

  Finally, they came upon the first evidence of the fighting. Bodies draped half out of the wreckage of their devastated tents and strewn across the valley floor. Light flickered from burning barricades, shaded by the mist. Most of the bodies were still alive, crawling on their hands and knees to the sides of the valley, or beneath the shelter of a wagon bed. The noises of fighting sounded as though they were fading a little and Bellamus wondered whether the Anakim had begun to retreat. “Faster!” he roared. “They’re on the run! Faster!”

  The floor of the valley was rising and they strained upwards, Bellamus unable to believe they had yet to happen upon the Anakim. But there was nothing. Just more bodies, more ghostly fire, more of this damned mist. He strained his eyes.

  Nothing.

  Then three dark smudges appeared in the white before him, and were gone. He quickened his horse a little, pulling out in front of the line, gazing forward and holding his breath. The outlines of three horsemen gathered themselves from the mist, so huge that they were unmistakably the enemy he sought. “There! After them!” He charged, the spear still clutched in his hand, his retainers raking back their spurs beside him and the other riders surging out past the line. If the Anakim were retreating, he could pin them down and make them pay for this attack. They accelerated away from the foot soldiers at their back, galloping after the three shapes that had disappeared into the mist again. The three riders came back into view: Bellamus was gaining on them. Or maybe it was because they were still climbing and beginning to emerge above the haze.

  Abruptly, they were out of the suffocating mist. The valley opened up around them, bathed in watery winter sunlight and smothered in fragments of bright frost.