by Leo Carew
“There’ll be an inn,” replied Bellamus. “Which will prove too much for some of our men.”
“I’ll keep them in line, Captain,” said Stepan. He glanced sidelong at Bellamus, his gaze lingering thoughtfully on the upstart’s face. “You haven’t failed, you know,” he said. “When you’ve been over there,” he cast a thick finger into the swirling snow on their left, through which lay the far bank of the Abus, “just coming back is an achievement.”
“I haven’t failed,” agreed Bellamus. “Not until I’ve given up.”
“Good lord, sir!” Stepan burst out laughing. “You’re planning to go back?”
Bellamus smiled. “You and I together, Stepan. Why do you think we’re heading south?”
“Our terrible experiences in the north?”
“To ask the king for more men,” said Bellamus, patiently.
Stepan just laughed again. “Find me an inn, then try putting that to me again.”
The village did indeed have an inn: barely larger than the surrounding houses and with a roof so laden with thatch that it extended down to the level of Bellamus’s shoulders. An enclosure in front contained a dozen chickens sorting through the snow, which they shared with three enormous, shaven-headed men. These last sat with their backs against the inn, a clay jug between them emitting potent fumes which Bellamus could smell from ten yards away.
“Good afternoon, friends!” boomed Stepan, striding forward and holding out a spade-like hand to the nearest of the three. The sitting man made no attempt to take it, merely looking up at the knight. Stepan withdrew his hand abruptly. The eyes raised to meet him were yellow: a shocking, feverish sulphur which caused the knight to take a pace back. Before he could say any more, Bellamus laid a hand on his arm. The upstart gestured down at the men’s ankles, which were bonded with dark iron shackles. All three of them had now looked up: three pairs of yellow eyes scouring Bellamus. All were extraordinarily lean, with twisted, knuckle-busted hands protruding from beneath the mangy furs that collected snow about their shoulders.
Bellamus nodded at the three of them and held the door of the inn open, gesturing Stepan inside and stooping beneath the thatch to follow him into the pungent gloom. He had to crouch low to accommodate the huge war-blade strapped to his back: one of his few possessions to survive the retreat.
“What was that?” said Stepan, as soon as they were inside, the rest of their men crowding the door behind them.
“Anakim–Sutherner hybrids,” said Bellamus. Stepan fell still and Bellamus gestured him onward. “They’re common slaves here, but dangerous. Be careful with them.”
“Dangerous?” Stepan enquired, looking around the tavern’s interior. “This place smells like parsnip.”
A dozen villagers already sat drinking inside, the convivial atmosphere falling away as they turned to stare at the new arrivals. Though it was clear from the villagers’ stature and expressive faces that all were Sutherners, they looked nearly as alien as the hybrids outside. All of them, men and women alike, had the sides and backs of their heads shaven; with the hair above twisted into long, brightly coloured braids. The braids were embedded with brass, copper, iron and stone ornaments, and rattled as each head swung round to examine Bellamus and Stepan. The villagers also wore vibrant necklaces and bracelets, similar in style to their hair-braids, which contrasted starkly with their dark, threadbare clothes.
One of the braided men stood at the sight of them, a skin of drink clutched at his side, and strode over to Bellamus. “Welcome, strangers,” he said. “You look like you’ve been travelling for a spell. Is it ale brings you here? Or food?”
There was a short pause while Bellamus tried to decipher the thick accent. The words the innkeeper had used for “travelling” and “spell” had both been Anakim, to Bellamus’s ears. “Both,” he said eventually. “But food first.” He produced a golden bracelet from his pocket and dangled it in front of the innkeeper. “Is there enough food in this village to feed four hundred? And five barrels of ale.”
The innkeeper blinked at the gold before him. “I might have to get some supplies from a neighbouring town. No more than an hour away.”
“We’ve waited a long time,” said Bellamus, giving him a tight smile. “We can wait a little longer.”
The innkeeper rubbed his hands together and glanced at the vagabonds clustered in the door behind Bellamus. “I’ve got the ale now, if you want it.”
Bellamus hesitated, turning to look at the beaming soldiers behind. “That would be welcome,” he said, eventually.
The innkeeper recruited help from the table of regulars and departed to fetch the ale.
Bellamus went outside to address the column, informing them that the first thirty could enter to share the inn’s warmth for an hour, and the rest would have to wait their turn. “No trouble, boys,” he warned them, and then gestured at the shackled hybrids sitting in the snow. “Don’t bother the slaves. Or the chickens.” Back inside, Stepan had saved a seat for him at one of the long tables.
“Why are they dressed like that?” demanded the knight as Bellamus settled next to him. He was glaring suspiciously at the heavily adorned villagers, who were staring back with equal curiosity.
“These people use Anakim words in everyday language,” said Bellamus. “They tell each other translated Anakim poetry, and are separated from their enemy by no more than a narrow strip of water. They are more alike than they would care to admit, so they separate themselves with their appearance. The Anakim wear no adornment and do not value colour. People dress like this throughout northern Suthdal to create a barrier more resilient than the Abus. Stop staring, my friend,” he added.
Stepan looked back towards Bellamus. “And what did you mean those boys outside are ‘hybrids’?”
“Cross-breeds of Anakim and Sutherner,” said Bellamus. “The yellow eyes always turn up in the hybrids. They’re livestock here, as common as oxen. The villagers breed them, and enslave them with chains and drink.”
Stepan raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous, eh? I’d be dangerous too if they kept me in drink and chains.”
Bellamus smiled briefly. “Not dangerous like them, I think,” he said. “They’re dangerous because they’re unpredictable. Hybrids are unstable.”
A braided woman arrived, placing leather beakers of ale down in front of Bellamus and Stepan. “What?” asked Stepan bluntly, reaching for a cup. “Ah! That’s not bad.”
Bellamus left his own cup where it was. “The Anakim can be reasoned with,” he said. “Our kind can be reasoned with. For whatever reason, hybrids cannot. Whatever decision-making process they go through, I’ve yet to meet anyone who can interpret it. The most unexpected stimulus can evoke a feral rage.”
“Strange though, to keep a farm animal capable of plotting against you,” said Stepan.
“Using them is an art,” acknowledged Bellamus. “For these folk, one that pays off more often than not. If you can’t work out how they’ll react, then don’t give them anything to react to. Keep their conditions exactly the same and, through trial and error, you can find a way to keep them calm.”
Stepan stared into his cup for a while. “And they breed them?”
“Captured female Anakim are used to breed,” said Bellamus. “But the hybrids are infertile, and most don’t survive childhood.” Bellamus had intended to leave it there, but Stepan had lowered his heavy brow. He went on. “The males have trouble breathing and, more often than not, both sexes succumb to unbearable headaches.” He shrugged at Stepan’s expression. “It is their way, up here. They have a hard life, and the hatred of the Anakim runs deeper than we can possibly appreciate.”
“It sounds a grim practice,” declared Stepan. “I wouldn’t breed a horse that had only an evens chance of making it to adulthood.”
“Neither would I,” said Bellamus, “but the Anakim are not just an animal they feel neutral towards.” He gestured over at the table of villagers, who were now sitting in silence as they continued to star
e at the new arrivals. “All of these people will have lost family to them. Their lands are terrorised every year and their livelihoods destroyed.” Bellamus was silent for a moment. “Though I’d like to think otherwise, I cannot say with any certainty that if I were in their position, I wouldn’t do the same. Many of them must be good folk, and yet I have heard no common objections to the use of hybrid slaves. If I were born in this village, what are the chances that I’d be the only one of them to renounce the practice?”
“You could say the same to excuse any behaviour,” said Stepan, mildly.
“You’re right,” said Bellamus. “Were I here in a different capacity, perhaps I would judge them for it. But my role in these lands is as a student, as it is north of the Abus. If I judge them, I might miss something important.” Bellamus reached for his cup at last and toasted Stepan. “But let us not talk of this, my friend. To survival.”
“To ale,” replied Stepan, knocking his cup against Bellamus’s.
They drank together, and before long the lucky few who had made it inside the inn had been supplied with drink as well. All manner of receptacles, from livestock bowls to boots, were filled with foaming ale and passed to those outside, where they were received with muffled cheers that came through the walls and made Bellamus smile. The warmth of a grubby hearth that crackled at one end of the room began to reach through his damp clothes and even Bellamus found himself on the verge of a glowing euphoria. For now, survival would do. His score with the Black Kingdom could wait.
Next to him, Stepan was on the defensive from good-natured jeers. It transpired that in their first victorious battle on the flood plain, he had swung his sword so wildly against the Black Cavalry that he had cut into the neck of his own horse, fatally wounding it. “Hilarious, hilarious,” said Stepan, as the men around him rested their heads on their arms, tears of mirth leaking down their cheeks. “I promise, it’s easier than you’re imagining,” he said. “And it saved me! I hit the horse and it toppled, ducking me beneath a blade being swung at my head.”
The innkeeper returned, still clutching his skin of drink, and declared the food was on its way from a larger village nearby. Bellamus thanked him, which seemed to be taken as an invitation to join their company. The innkeeper, whose braids were slowly ceding ground to his forehead, and whose cheeks would have drooped below his jaw had the folds of skin there not been equally pendulous, squeezed in between Stepan and the man next to him. “It’s been a long while since we had travellers here,” he said. “And I wasn’t expecting anyone this winter, let alone four hundred of you. Where are you from, lord?” Several Anakim words had once again squeezed their way into his speech, and Bellamus could see Stepan frowning thunderously as he tried to decipher what the innkeeper was saying.
Bellamus smiled wryly. “I’m not a lord, friend. We’ve come from beyond the Abus.”
The innkeeper nodded as though he was not surprised. “I thought you must have.” He leaned close to Bellamus. “There was an army, headed up there recently, under that Earl William. You haven’t heard tell what happened to it?”
Stepan sat up straight, clearly delighted to have understood this last sentence, and spread his arms as wide as the crowded table would permit. “You’re looking at it!” he boomed.
The innkeeper nodded again, as though he had suspected this too. “I’m only surprised there’s as many of you as this,” he said. “Not many who go beyond the river end up coming back.”
“Well, not many are led by our captain, here,” said Stepan, gesturing at Bellamus. The knight’s ears seemed to have attuned themselves to the innkeeper’s dialect.
“You must have a tale or two from past the river,” said the innkeeper, looking shrewdly at Bellamus. “How is it that you survived out of the thousands who crossed into the Black Kingdom? Last I heard, your victory was assured. Earl William had banished them in battle and had the devils on the run.”
“That’s almost true,” said Bellamus. He glanced at Stepan. “It is a fine tale, but my noble friend is a better storyteller than I.”
Stepan needed no second invitation. “A mighty tale it is, my friend,” he said, wrapping an arm around the innkeeper’s shoulders. “As you say, things did not seem to be going so badly until the battle beside the sea. After that, we discovered the Anakim to be the warriors of legend that we’d been promised.”
“I could’ve told you that,” said the innkeeper.
“I don’t doubt you could have,” said Stepan, winking at Bellamus. “A ferocious clash it was,” continued the knight, now placing his palms flat against the table. “A tight pass beside the thrashing ocean, the warriors obliterating each other as wave upon rock. Our side fought bravely and we were holding them. I even dared believe we might exhaust and break them with our superior numbers. But there was no room for manoeuvre and their flanks were secured by the sea on one side, and the mountains on the other. Our captain, here,” Stepan gestured at Bellamus once more, “came up with a plan. We’d built a couple of hundred crude boats to help us forage from the sea, and Bellamus bade us fill them. ‘We’ll row around behind their lines,’ says he, ‘and crush them on two sides!’ We got a good few thousand into the boats, the best we could find. Bellamus took his own soldiers: a frightening bunch, a fair few of whom sit listening to me now.” Stepan raised a hand to indicate the assembled company. “Not nobly born, but experienced Anakim-slayers from across Erebos, loyal only to the captain. We supplemented these with as many knights as we could find, and loaded up the boats.
“It was a good plan and we put to sea, hopeful of seizing a second victory against our old enemy. We began to row and were nearly behind the Anakim lines when we saw a change occur in the battle on the shore. Our line was collapsing, right in the centre. We understood later, when we heard that our brave leader, Lord Northwic, had been cut down by some Anakim hero.” Stepan paused here and raised his cup. “I will not simply let his name pass by. To Lord Northwic. May God take him!”
This was met with a murmur and a toast. Bellamus held his own cup aloft a moment longer than everyone else, bowing his head as he took a drink.
Stepan went on: “Without Lord Northwic’s stout presence, and with the elite troops of the enemy on the rampage, our centre lost its nerve. All this we heard later, but it looked inexplicable to those of us riding the sea. As we watched, the whole line crumbled and was overthrown by pursuing Anakim. Bobbing among the waves, we saw nothing less than a massacre unfold. Every man who turned to run was cut down and Bellamus, here, said the battle was done, and ordered us to row south.
“Through luck, we alone had survived. The Anakim cannot swim, and had no boats, and so we were safe as long as we stayed at sea.” Stepan sobered a little, the theatrical glint extinguished from his eye. “We floated south, Bellamus commanding us to throw our armour into the sea. ‘Strength of arms is no longer our primary weapon,’ he told us, ‘and if you fall overboard you will drown. Keep your weapons only.’ We did as he bade, saving only a few breastplates to bail out our leaking tubs.
“We wanted to put ashore: dark clouds were gathering on the horizon and a strong wind was building up the swell, but bands of Anakim scouts were shadowing us along the coast. We had to wait until night fell, but fortune was against us that day, and an early winter storm overtook our company. Lightning cracked the sky and the waves towered above us. Every last boat was overturned and we had to swim for land. Though it was not far, thousands drowned in the rough waters, unable to see the shore beyond the waves which crowded them. Every last one of us would have joined them if our armour had not already been committed to the sea, and we crawled back onto the shores of the Black Kingdom. Quite rightly, our captain left us barely a moment to rest on the sands. We were too exposed on the open beach, and though it was the last thing any of us wanted, the flash of lightning lit our path as we retreated into the dark forests.
“They are places of unnatural evil, my friend. The trees are like mighty towers, and make those here in Suthdal
look like shrubs. Little light makes it from the canopy above to the floor below, which is haunted by nightmare creatures and strange phantoms. The howl of the wolf is a constant ringing in your ears. Woven eyes and carved hands have turned the trees into barbaric totems of worship. Suthdal seems like a pleasant dream to me now. Over there, beyond the river, is reality.”
Bellamus, listening intently, smiled as he heard that. He felt a small thrill run through his fingers, and picked up his beaker again to hide the wistful expression he could not keep from his face.
Stepan had not noticed. “We struggled south under cover of dark, Bellamus here navigating through such subtleties as the growing places of lichen and the stars glimpsed through the canopy on rare cloudless nights. Among the trees we lost dozens more: poor souls who fell victim to bears and wolves, or simply disappeared on the march, never to be seen again. I pity any man wandering alone among those forests.
“We were the lucky few. By avoiding campfires and through no small fortune, we were not discovered by the enemy. We made it to the northern bank of the Abus, and there waited three days for a moonless night, constructing rafts so we could steal across that cursed water and back into the south. That was last night, and I can barely believe that here we now sit, in a comfortable inn with good ale.” Stepan raised his cup to Bellamus. “One more toast, I think. To our captain. Every one of us owes him their life.” The table toasted Bellamus lustily, Bellamus raising his cup with them.
“I’ve always said they couldn’t swim,” said the innkeeper. “Demons cannot stand water. We’ve lost a good few of the hybrids to the river.”
“Probably because their legs were shackled together,” said Stepan, from behind his cup.
The braided innkeeper did not seem to have heard. Instead, Bellamus could see his eyes lingering on the inhuman sword he had strapped to his back. The innkeeper opened his mouth to comment on it, but was intercepted by a roar from outside. Bellamus was on his feet at once and running for the door, the innkeeper staggering up behind him and Stepan on their heels. Bellamus burst into the blue snow glare outside, to find one of his men, a red-haired knight, flat on his back just beyond the door. One of the hybrids, spitting and swearing, was in the process of being dragged off the red-headed man’s chest by another three soldiers. The snow all about was adulterated with specks of blood and clumps of cream feathers, drifting gently over the spoilt surface. Another soldier with hollowed cheeks stood nearby, a limp chicken hanging from each hand.
