The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  “Bellamus of Safinim,” he said, savouring the words. “I thought you might survive. The universe is a perverse place.” This was Earl Seaton: father of Queen Aramilla and thus uniquely elevated among King Osbert’s courtiers. The earl was tall and extremely lean, with a narrow face and a slightly effeminate stance, as though his joints moved more freely than those of most men. His clothes were black, his eyes were black, his hair was jet-black and great clusters of gold had congealed about his extremities.

  Bellamus stopped before the earl. “A feat in itself,” he said. “Not many return from the Black Kingdom.”

  “Which still stands,” observed Earl Seaton. “Though I’m sure you did your best.”

  Bellamus laughed. “I look forward to seeing you lead our next campaign, my lord.”

  “I cannot deny I feel more at home here in the south, Bellamus. And what have we here?” The earl hauled a gold-weighted hand over Bellamus’s shoulder and tapped the handle of the great war-blade that hung there.

  “A trump card,” said Bellamus. “His Majesty is through there?” Bellamus pointed to a door at the back of the hall, beside which two royal guards waited.

  “He certainly is,” said Earl Seaton. “His mood is fickle at present, Bellamus; watch your head as you leave.” Bellamus walked past the earl, staring fixedly at the door to avoid the gazes of the other courtiers, who watched him pass in silence. Standing a little way beyond the noble cluster was Queen Aramilla, who appraised him coldly as he approached. He caught her eye and winked, a gesture invisible to the courtiers at his back. She did not respond, but as he passed she turned to watch him go.

  “I did what I could,” she murmured at his back.

  Then he was past, lifting the latch of the door and slipping into the dark beyond. This room was much smaller, with the floor covered in deerskins and a hearth set into the wall on Bellamus’s left. Between this and a single window, located high on the other side of the room, illumination was provided. The air quivered with the soft tones of an unseen harpist. Directly opposite Bellamus was a platform, on either side of which stood a retainer. One of them was uncommonly tall; so tall that Bellamus blinked and stared at his shadowed form for a moment. It could not possibly be a Sutherner.

  On the platform was a throne of oak, ornately carved and stained like dried blood. A plump bishop, purple of face and robe, was stooped next to the throne, and on the throne sat King Osbert.

  The king was fat and bearded (which explained the hirsute state of his courtiers). His nose was broad and flattened, his cheeks so pink as to be almost cherubic, and he stared at Bellamus from beneath a pair of spectacular eyebrows: black, and ending in a mighty upward flourish. They gave him the appearance of an owl and Bellamus often privately considered that the king’s eyebrows did more to rule the kingdom than the rest of him combined. Though it had been decades since he had swung a sword in anger, King Osbert retained many of the affectations of a warrior. Bellamus had never seen him without the gilt-circleted helmet he wore on his head, and against his throne was propped a polished, unsheathed sword. A gold chain rested upon his shoulders and he wore a robe of dark shaggy bear-fur, which must have been feverish in the warm room.

  Bellamus ignored the retainers on either side and knelt before King Osbert, who was now leaning back in his throne, eyes closed. “Your Majesty,” he said.

  “A new one,” the king rumbled, voice so deep as to be almost ludicrous. The harp paused briefly and then began a fresh tune. “This is wonderful,” he said with a sigh, eyes still closed.

  “This music, Your Majesty?” enquired the bishop, sympathetically.

  “I know it’s music,” snapped the king. Bellamus grinned down at the floor. “Wonderful,” repeated the king. He hummed lightly with the harp for a few moments, plucking imperceptible strings with a thumb and forefinger. “We should send harpists out onto the streets: I should say that’ll brighten the city a bit. My dear people can forget the floods, the storms, and that menace to the north as long as they have good music. I have always believed in its restorative power.” Bellamus wondered how many people’s homes would be restored by the sound of the harps. The king kept ignoring him and kept talking, his voice melodic, as though he were telling a story. “It is my great ambition to some day rule a country in which harpists outnumber swordsmen.”

  “Amen, Majesty,” said the bishop.

  “Where harpists outnumber swordsmen. A gift from Heaven,” said the king. Then he opened his eyes, resting them on Bellamus. “Bellamus of Safinim,” he said, leaning forward and licking his lips as though the upstart was a particularly plump mouse that he intended to devour. He cocked his head a little and gave a smile of indulgent benevolence. “Has God granted the Anakim the gift of music?”

  “Of a kind, Majesty,” said Bellamus, raising his head a little. “They sing, they chant and they drum. They play with wind as well, using flutes and trumpets of bone; but they have no harps.”

  “No harps? I am ever astonished by their crudity.” He inspected Bellamus a while longer. “Here you kneel,” he said softly, his voice an earth tremor. “I thought you must be dead.”

  “By the grace of God I survive, Your Majesty,” said Bellamus piously.

  “When Earl William and Lord Northwic did not,” said the mighty voice.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Many men died: more than survived. Through great fortune and some skill of my own, I was preserved.”

  “Fortune has ever been yours, Master Bellamus,” King Osbert said with a mighty heave of his furred shoulders. “But I do wish it extended to the men around you. It sometimes seems to me that you strip their luck from them and spend it yourself. Hum, hum.” The king shook his head and tutted softly. “It should not be so, Master Bellamus. It is not natural that a commoner should be favoured above a noble. I think there is a touch of sorcery in you,” and he prodded a ringed finger at Bellamus. His voice was still low and whimsical, but the king was puffing out his feathers. He was swelling on his throne until it could no longer hold him and he rose slowly, suddenly filling the entire platform and forcing the bishop to retreat onto lower ground. The harp faded discreetly into silence. The king still looked down on Bellamus with that air of kindly interest, but it was now joined by a tinge of regret. He opened his mouth to say more and Bellamus intercepted him from where he knelt.

  “The only sorcery at my disposal, Majesty, is my skill with the men I lead. I brought four hundred of them home from beyond the Abus and your kingdom will need that experience more than ever in the days to come. The Anakim have sworn vengeance on us.” The king closed his mouth abruptly. I recognise that look, Majesty, thought Bellamus. I am not another servant of yours to be brushed aside. This king’s affable manner, his indulgent tone and his soft appearance disguised a monster. Very few people were of true value to him, and certainly not a foreign upstart. Bellamus had to make himself valuable, at least enough to give the king pause to remember the words that Bellamus hoped Aramilla had planted in his ear. Osbert was still frozen, his eyebrows raised. “They are coming south, Majesty.” Bellamus kept his voice low. “I heard the Anakim king swear it with my own ears.”

  Colour and expression were abandoning Osbert’s face. This was the most valuable piece of information that Aramilla had given Bellamus: above all things, the king feared the Anakim. He had watched his father slain by one at the Battle of Eoferwic, and had had nightmares about them from that moment. The Sacred Guard had caught his father’s bodyguard and, like a fire licking at a thatch roof, consumed it. One warrior in particular, immense in its steel and rage, had stepped forth and flattened Suthdal’s best knights with an inexorable hammer. This horrifying weapon had then been turned on the king’s horse, slamming down on its back and oddly denting the beast, which fell with a scream. King Osbert’s father, King Offa, had rolled to the feet of the antihero. He had stirred, trying to raise himself from the ground under the weight of his armour, and the war hammer had come down on his head.

  King Osbert ha
d seen it all. He had watched, little more than a boy, as this formation of the noblest men in the land was ripped apart, and their forces overwhelmed. And then, as his father was killed before his eyes, the figure responsible, that monster with the war hammer, had raised a gloved hand at the young prince being ushered away and pointed directly at him.

  I’ll come for you, the gesture had said.

  The king still felt the shock of that moment. In the fertile flesh of his brain, a seed had been planted. Something vigorous and unyielding, whose roots had sunk deep and resisted all attempts at extraction. For him, the Anakim were at the heart of everything. At the lowest level of his mind, of every action he undertook, was that image of his father’s head being crushed within its own helmet; that gloved finger pointing at him. So great was his fear of the Anakim that his other courtiers dared not even mention them. Only Bellamus spoke of them to the king, and he could do so because he was so knowledgeable on the subject. Only he could provide the balm that soothed the king once he was agitated. He did so now.

  “But my tidings are not all ill, Majesty.” Bellamus fumbled at a belt over his chest, unbuckling the enormous sword that was strapped to his back. He pulled it forward and, shuffling a little closer to the dais, laid it before the king. “I bring you the sword of Kynortas Rokkvison. The Black Lord who defeated your father at Eoferwic and who is now dead.” The king gazed down at the weapon before him and sank slowly back into his throne. “It is yours, Majesty. It is one of the great weapons of their race and I give it to you as tribute. Long may you reign.” Bellamus had not laid a tribute so much as an ace. He knew what the sight of a sword on that scale would do to the king. That was why he had thought better of giving Kynortas’s skull to the king: this was equally magnificent, but more intimidating by far.

  “You believe the Black Lord will carry out his threat?” King Osbert asked, his voice a touch quieter.

  “Undoubtedly, Majesty, if we allow him.” Bellamus stayed calm. “But we also have an opportunity to destroy them for ever, if we take the right actions at once. But it must be now, and we must have help. I counselled that this might happen when I last saw you, but Earl William was quite insistent. Now we have broken the peace. They plan to take Lundenceaster by way of vengeance. They are coming, Majesty, and the only way we can stop them is by resuming the fight north of the Abus before it infects our lands. We must keep the war there, with help from our allies on the continent, before they can reach us here and before they are ready to fight again.”

  The king’s head was shaking fractionally to each side, gaping eyes accented by his brow. “We are not ready for another invasion, my dear Bellamus. We shan’t be for a year.”

  “The longer we leave them, the graver this threat becomes. Please, Majesty,” Bellamus shuffled closer, still on his knees which were now shaking slightly. “Hear me now. The Anakim live more than two centuries, but their numbers are kept under control by war. If we leave them, if we allow them to multiply unchecked, then it will not be long before they are quite as numerous as us. Now that we have started this war, we must finish it. Every season that we delay makes our task more difficult. Though they were victorious, they have been weakened. Do not give them the opportunity to gather their full strength and unleash it on us. Attack; as soon as the roads reopen. Let us assemble an army.”

  “You are a man of action, Master Bellamus,” said the king. “But to reinforce failure would be the worst we could do.” Bellamus almost rolled his eyes at that. “We cannot defeat them.”

  “We can, Majesty. I can.”

  King Osbert gazed sympathetically at Bellamus for a moment and then picked up his own sword which leaned against his throne. He heaved onto his feet and hefted the weapon in his hands, beginning a shuffle back and forth across the dais, taking care always to step high over Bright-Shock, which still lay where Bellamus had presented it.

  The king paused, looking down at Bellamus still kneeling beneath him. “Rise,” he ordered. Bellamus stood slowly, his knees cracking as they straightened. “My dear queen,” said the king, “counsels that you are our best hope against the Anakim. She is a wonderful woman. Blessed with a great many virtues and graces. An example to us all.” He nodded humbly at Bellamus. “But I cannot place an army of nobles under the command of an upstart. You are a sudden blaze, Master Bellamus. You have no name to protect and so I have no assurances of your conduct. I need assurances.”

  “You have my word, Majesty.”

  “Your word, your word …” The king flapped the phrase away with his free hand. “I need more, as you very well know. You are cleverer than you allow, I think, but you shan’t wriggle your way out of this. Garrett?” The enormous shadow on the king’s left stirred and then stepped up onto the platform. It was the huge retainer; the one Bellamus had stared at as he approached the dais, who now knelt before the king. King Osbert motioned him up quickly. “Rise, Garrett. Will you watch Bellamus for me, as he returns north?”

  Garrett stood and Bellamus’s eyes followed as he straightened up, his form towering above the upstart. This man would have looked down on most Anakim, Bellamus was sure. He had a breadth and solidity about him that lent his flesh the cold nature of stone. His hair was a bright-blond shock and his countenance dominated by the skull-like cross-section of a severed nose, which left two tall nostrils stranded in the middle of his face. But of his shocking appearance, it was the eyes which disturbed Bellamus most.

  A febrile, sulphurous yellow.

  Garrett nodded at the words of the king, who turned back to Bellamus. “There, Bellamus. You shall go north again, this time with the Eoten-Draefend as my representative. He will guide your conduct.” Osbert gave Bellamus a satisfied nod, the matter settled.

  Bellamus was dumbstruck for a moment, appalled at the proposition of campaigning with Garrett at his back. He could hardly believe that anyone had allowed a hybrid to become a warrior, let alone one with such close access to the king. But this was not just any warrior: Garrett Eoten-Draefend was famous across Erebos, though Bellamus had thought he was a Sutherner. He had faced the Unhieru: the savage and giant race of men that inhabited the hills in the west of Albion. There he was said to have lost his nose in the process of killing Fathochta, an Unhieru warrior-prince. He had hunted Anakim in the borderlands below the Abus, and was famed as a warrior of surpassing skill and uncontrollable violence. “Majesty,” said Bellamus carefully, “perhaps I have been unwise. I would accept—”

  The king interrupted Bellamus with a jocular laugh, causing the upstart to take a breath and almost a pace backwards. “No, Bellamus, it is I who have been unwise and you who have been correct. You warned us before our last invasion. You said that Earl William was not up to the job. I should have listened to you.” The king smiled down at him. “You want to go north and finish this war? Very well. My kingdom will gather what forces remain to her; we will seek help from the continent and raise another heregeld. You will gather the army together in the north, and be ready to go beyond the Abus as soon as the snows have melted. But, when you pass into the Black Kingdom, you will be watched by my Eoten-Draefend. And should you fail, your luck will have at last run out.”

  You mean you’ll tell him to cut my head off. “I won’t fail, Majesty,” insisted Bellamus. “There is no need for supervision. I have the measure of the Anakim.”

  The king shrugged sadly. “If you won’t fail, then there is nothing to worry about. And you have gained a valuable warrior.”

  Bellamus cast around, speechless for a moment. But he thought he would rather risk the wrath of the king than a campaign with Garrett at his back. “I won’t return with him, Majesty,” he said at last, indicating the huge man.

  The king, still standing above Bellamus on the dais, gently brought the tip of his sword down to rest on the crown of the upstart’s head. “Go back, Bellamus. With the Eoten-Draefend. If he doesn’t come back, you die. Finish this war, or you shall not leave this hall. That is my royal command.”

  19


  The Stump

  Roper and Helmec walked together to Tekoa’s household. When he saw the faces of the Lothbrok legionaries that they passed, Roper was glad of his grizzled companion. All fell silent and stared at him, evidently certain that he had been behind the disgrace of Unndor and Urthr. Roper ignored them, though he could not help but feel this war was beginning to slip out into the open.

  He hammered at the door to Tekoa’s household and it was opened by the familiar face of Harald, who ushered them inside. Within the room in which Roper and Keturah had agreed their engagement just a few months before, Roper found his wife sitting up in a chair by the fire, covered in a blanket. The sight of her heartened him: she had been improving steadily under the physician’s care and now glanced up at him with something close to her old energy. Her eyes were still bloodshot, her face still sunken and the skin dry, but colour was returning to her lips. Roper thought he could even detect a faint fuzz of new hair growing on her bare scalp. She raised an ironic eyebrow at him. “Husband. Hello, Helmec.”

  “Good morning, Miss Keturah,” said Helmec, offering a bow before he and Harald retreated into a neighbouring room.

  Roper dragged a seat close to Keturah and sat. “How do you feel?”