The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  On the fourth floor (this with doors of walnut), they at last stopped outside a room bearing a “III” carved into the wood. The humming was still reverberating through the door and the Chief raised a knotted fist, battering at the boards. The humming stopped abruptly and there was a pause before the door opened to reveal a cream-robed acolyte on the other side. “My lady,” said the acolyte, a little surprised. She stepped aside and the Chief Historian swept inside, Keturah on her heels. Within the room was bare, grey stone, adorned only with a fragrant oily scent which Keturah could not place. Another acolyte sat in a corner and three historians knelt on thick rush mats. Unlike the acolytes, their robes were black, with a system of cream bands representing the time period in which each cell specialised.

  “Peers, this is Keturah Tekoasdottir,” announced the Chief. “Perhaps you can help her. She wishes to hear the chant that details the formation of the Kryptea.”

  A look of swift surprise passed between the two acolytes, and the two peripheral historians glanced at their central colleague. She was older than they, perhaps a hundred and eighty years, her black hair heavily lined with grey and her face the spider’s web of lines that denotes someone who has lived a life outside. “Certainly we could sing it, take a seat, Miss Keturah,” she said and she gestured at the bare stone floor before her.

  Keturah folded graciously at the waist and knelt. “Good,” said the Chief Historian. Her eyes rested on Keturah once more, and then she left without another word. To Keturah’s surprise, the acolytes stood and scurried after her in silence. She was left alone with the three kneeling historians.

  The two peripheral women shuffled around so that they were facing inwards, towards their senior colleague in the middle. She herself faced Keturah, but was staring at the floor just before her. She cleared her throat, sat up straight and gave a low, soft opening note. It drew what Keturah at first took for a surprised gasp from one of the peripheral women, before her opposite number blew the same sound back at her. It was like an involuntary expulsion: the sound made when someone has struck you in the back while you are talking. The two outside women exchanged this sound again and again, forming a rapid dialogue before the noise changed. It became a breathless gasp, like nothing so much as the sound of shock. The two women grew faster and faster, the sound becoming more and more percussive until it seemed to fill the room and Keturah could feel her own breath growing short and her heartbeat quicken. She was assaulted by it, surrounded by it, and when it had almost become too much it changed again, becoming something sweeter. The two women exchanged gasps of pleasure and surprise, as though they were old friends caught up in a cycle of delighted recognition.

  These sounds and more interweaved, providing a throbbing, unearthly background tune to the central historian, who had begun to sing. Her words were growled over the top; almost choked on in the very back of the throat.

  Near forty-eight thousand years after the Deep,

  Lelex, mighty Black Lord, sat on the Stone Throne.

  His hair was dark as clotted blood, his judgement

  Measured and calm; slow to come, and sweet to hear.

  Steel is sooner etched with a fingernail,

  Than fear was drawn from his swift, rain-grey eyes.

  The Black Lord’s allies were the wolf; the wind;

  The mighty river and the ragged sky.

  When Mighty Lelex took the throne, his duty

  Was clear to all. The folk of the north wearied

  Of bones and steel. The warrior yearned to lay

  Down his armour, and take saddle and barding

  From his horse; and the fletcher make his arrows

  For hunting alone. So was it hoped that

  Mighty Lelex might nurture a wilted peace,

  Shrivelled by a sea of blood and endless war.

  For three full years, through summer and winter both,

  Mighty Lelex did all his people desired.

  The Black Kingdom knew the order it had craved,

  Scarce and consoling as a still, iron sea.

  But peace, precious as a newborn, and fragile

  As one too, was dashed at last by Suthern band

  Striking north. The legions marched, their swords still sharp,

  And met them on the field, at Gusanarghe.

  The fight was quick, the Sutherner defeated,

  But at conflict’s dawn, Mighty Lelex’s son,

  Brave Amundi, was cut down by Suthern band.

  Mighty Lelex saw him die: watched immobile,

  Aghast and accountable as his firstborn

  Was drowned beneath a sea of Suthern bodies.

  Mighty Lelex’s heart, once so sure and so hard,

  Crumbled like a rock in the fire’s blazing teeth.

  The fragments of once-mighty Lelex were left

  With his son’s, and he, who came home from battle,

  Could not remember the man he had once been.

  His eyes were frozen and his voice was muted.

  His council’s words sank slowly through his ears,

  And his wife, Cleocharia, did not know him.

  Mighty Lelex, once so bright, began to twist

  The Black Kingdom into an ugly thing.

  Anguished and confused on a hunt soon after,

  Mighty Lelex quarried his dear friend Agnarr.

  His many companions, even he himself,

  Grew still among the trees when he’d hurled his spear,

  Silent as his dear comrade crashed to the earth.

  After, two councillors were hung as earrings

  From the gate; testament to unwise comment.

  The people were muted, songs no longer sung,

  Of Mighty Lelex, bereft of his mind and his son.

  The Sacred Guard, who had once been so holy,

  Became poisonous fume at their lord’s command,

  Spreading through the streets so both man and woman,

  Were disquieted at the tread of their boots.

  One Ephor dared object, summoning Lelex

  To court, to match crime with its retribution.

  Five guardsmen came instead, breaking down the door

  And flinging the Ephor from off his own roof.

  Lord by birth, father by love, hero by war,

  And tyrant now, to his blasted heart,

  Mighty Lelex was beaten at last by war,

  The drug that had consumed him and exacted

  A fate far crueller than death and long lament,

  That waits for the unswerving warrior.

  That man was gone, and it was proved beyond doubt

  When he drew a knife on his crying daughter.

  Cleocharia now suffered the same fate

  Which had discharged her husband’s mind. She watched

  With no whisper of shelter from the screaming

  As her own dear child was slain before her. Yet,

  Unlike Mighty Lelex, she was not finished

  By the ordeal. Her form realigned; her task

  Was clear. The watchword was vengeance, she would see

  That her husband got all that his actions deserved.

  One night, when darkness consumed both stars and moon,

  When the hearth had burned low and a bitter wind

  Mourned through the north, Cleocharia summoned

  A band that came forth in greatest secrecy.

  “By this way or that, our lord must die,” she said.

  “But though his mind is gone and his tongue directs

  Evil deeds alone, the Almighty’s chosen

  He remains. The Almighty must bless our plan

  Before we can still that hateful tyrant’s heart.”

  So she spoke, exposing a pale silver coin,

  The captured moon, flattened to bright reflection.

  “By Suthern silver was our lord’s mind discharged,

  Suthern silver now decides his fate once more.

  When our lord unjustly kills an innocent,

  By the fall of
this coin shall god’s will be known.

  By this side he lives, to chance against the fates

  Once more. By this side has the cuckoo flown,

  And my second son shall occupy the throne.”

  The bright coin was laid in bronze eagle feathers

  To yield Almighty blessing; and the true men

  That Cleocharia had summoned scattered

  To their homes, their purpose now to train through night,

  Cold and blue, in the sacred craft of death;

  Achieved with the knife, with poison and with wire,

  That lacks the honour of the face and the chest,

  And seeks instead the inky sufficiency

  Of the back, and of the slowly pulsing neck.

  Each day that Mighty Lelex or his Sacred Guard,

  Killed an innocent without cause, Cleocharia

  Cast her silver token. Seven times it flew,

  Seven times it fell, delivering fate’s judgement,

  Seven times it said Mighty Lelex should live;

  That his soul should not yet walk the Winter Road.

  Finally, Mighty Lelex killed an Ephor

  With his own hands, nailing his flesh to a tree.

  The Almighty felt the nails hammered into place.

  Once more, Cleocharia threw the blessed coin,

  And now, it came down on the side of vengeance.

  “At last!” she said. “The Almighty delayed

  The consent of chance so that now my soldiers

  Are fully trained and cannot fail in their task.”

  Word went out to her warriors: that night,

  Mighty Lelex would die. Three suffused his house,

  Their route unperceived and their footsteps unheard.

  When dawn broke, Mighty Lelex did not awake.

  He was found where he slept, life strangled from him

  And the cuckoo burnt into his troubled brow.

  “My men disquieted his sleep,” said Cleocharia,

  “As they shall for each tyrant from now, until

  The overturning of the earth.” It was she

  Who took the throne, ruling with grace for four years

  Until her son by Mighty Lelex, young Rurik,

  Had learned to use seasoned eye and studied ear.

  The Ephors saw the wisdom of Cleocharia’s

  Deeds, and that she had acted in full deference

  To Almighty will. They blessed those who worked

  Beneath the cuckoo, and decreed that if the pull

  Of tyranny once more gripped a Black Lord,

  Then retribution would be dealt between them

  And the Almighty. So formed the Kryptea,

  To protect these lands when the Ephors could not.

  By the cuckoo shall their dusky work be known.

  For the final two lines, the peripheral historians had fallen silent and it was only the senior cell member who kept chanting. It finished, leaving only a fading echo off the cold stone. Keturah beamed at them in gratitude.

  “That was wonderful,” she said.

  “A sad one to sing,” said the middle historian, clearing her throat.

  “Why so?”

  “I believe it to detail the greatest mistake our country has ever made. Forming a band of killers with unlimited power was a drastic overreaction to the reign of Lelex. And who has killed more people since? Black Lords who felt ‘the pull of tyranny,’ or the Kryptea? It is the Kryptea, I tell you. The Ephors were frightened; they felt reverence for their office had been lost when two of their number were killed. They acted out of un-Anakim vengeance and nobody has questioned their ruling since.”

  “That is a novel take to me,” said Keturah. “And though I have been in the Academy only a few hours, it is not the first time I have heard it.”

  “That’s because we’re the people who know,” said the old historian. “Go and tell your husband what you’ve learned here. Tell him the Kryptea have proved again and again that they have no code. Whether they still use that silver token to gain Almighty approval for their killing is doubtful. Tell the Black Lord to watch his back.”

  The plague had finally surrendered, providing Roper with the response he needed to placate the Kryptea, albeit temporarily. But he had to do more. In an effort to consolidate his power and prevent the captain from making trouble, he sent Uvoren north to “act as an inspiration” to the young lads of the haskoli and berjasti. It was a nothing job and all knew it, but he no longer had the voice to resist.

  Keturah, her strength returning and her hair regrowing steadily, was spending more and more time at the Academy, trying to discern a pattern in what had caused the Kryptea to act in the past and therefore how Roper might avoid its wrath. She was besotted with the ancient sisterhood and spent so much time there that Roper had had to visit twice to ask for her, only to be told she was witnessing a chant and he would have to wait. There were no further sinister warnings from the Kryptea and Roper assumed that stamping out the plague had placated Jokul. That, and Uvoren’s declining influence.

  To be sure of their favour, Roper needed to rebuild his popularity with the subjects. To that end, he took another loan from Tekoa and used it to purchase livestock. Twice a month, he held a feast on the streets just as Uvoren had done, staying for long enough to ensure he was connected with the genuine pleasure which this gesture created. He was gratified to discover that, when he returned to the fortress from observing an early spring exercise for the Skiritai, his reception had been almost as positive as that which greeted Uvoren whenever he walked the streets.

  Though it remained a lonely post, Roper was becoming used to the responsibility he had for these people and even developing a deep satisfaction at their growing relationship. He found that leadership suited him well. He had always known about people: how to read them and how to motivate them. Now he learned the importance of small gestures and self-sacrifice in cultivating a willing populace. He was absorbing some of Uvoren’s most effective techniques and began to understand what Gray had meant about hatred clouding his ability to fight the captain.

  It was during one of the feasts that a ranger came to find Roper. He was engaged in handing out rye bread at the time and had been reluctant to follow the legionary, but something in his manner told Roper that he should obey. They were in the courtyard before the Central Keep and he followed the man up its broad stone steps and inside, heading for the Chamber of State. There, they found Tekoa, Gray, several Skiritai officers and Sturla Karson, legate of Ramnea’s Own. A forest-floor of maps had been laid out on the ancient oak table and the men were engaged in heated discussion. Tekoa looked up as he entered the room. “How do you feel about another test, Lord Roper?” he asked.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Bellamus has happened.”

  A party of Dunoon legionaries had been ambushed as they undertook a spring exercise near the bank of the Abus. “It was Bellamus. He’s got the whole army this time. A bunch of knights rode our men down and cut them to pieces. They weren’t armed, they weren’t armoured and they weren’t prepared. It was a massacre.”

  “How?” demanded Roper. “The snows are barely melted, it isn’t even properly spring yet. How was he ready to march?”

  “I don’t care,” snarled Tekoa. “Let’s just put an end to this.”

  “Recall the legions,” said Roper. “At once.”

  “The Skiritai are already riding; we are to muster here. And I’ve recalled Uvoren as well.”

  Roper froze and Tekoa, seeing his resistance, waved a hand impatiently. “We shall need him.”

  Part III

  SPRING

  21

  Garrett Eoten-Draefend

  As though the Hindrunn were the drain of Albion, the legions streamed towards it. Every day for two weeks, men flooded through the Great Gate, swelling the barracks and withering the granaries. Some of the legions were in good order and had not even encountered this fresh Suthern menace marshalled by Bellamus. Other
legions came in already battle-weary; injured, exhausted and demoralised. One, the Hetton Legion, had been broken so completely that it merely dripped through the Great Gate over the course of a week. Individual centuries of men, or sometimes even fewer—a score, a dozen—found their way to the fortress never having received the order to withdraw; just knowing that if there was one safe place to which they could retreat, it would be here.

  In private, Roper and Tekoa had argued extensively over Uvoren’s recall. Roper did not want him anywhere near the Hindrunn. They could break the Sutherners without his help, Roper insisted, and bringing him back sent out the terrible message that they relied on him. Tekoa had said that was childish; that men fought better when they knew Uvoren was with them or watching over them and Roper had to consider the wellbeing of the country above his own leadership. On this point at last, Roper conceded and grudgingly had allowed the Captain of the Guard to be recalled.

  Roper nevertheless afforded himself a passive-aggressive glare at Tekoa when they saw the welcome Uvoren received as he marched through the Great Gate. The fortress had chattered about his impending arrival for days and when finally he appeared, there was a crowd waiting for him on the other side of the gate. He came in on horseback, accompanied by half a dozen stern Lothbrok warriors and dressed in the full finery of a master of war. He was cheered lustily by the crowds. They mobbed him so intently that Uvoren could scarcely advance up the street. He held out his hands to them, assured them everything would be well now that he was here, and told them that they had driven back the Sutherners many times and would do it again.

  “This is the worst of it,” said Tekoa in answer to Roper’s deepening scowl. “We’ll need him in the battle, but there you might get lucky. Sacred Guardsmen die like newborns.”

  “We can dream,” said Roper, turning away from the sight in disgust.

  Where this invasion was different from all those that had preceded it was that Bellamus had caught them unawares. They had had no idea that the Sutherners, who had seemed whipped, could be ready to march as soon as the roads had reopened. The legions Bellamus faced did not even have their swords and plate armour with them. They fought with axes, hunting bows and billhooks as they retreated from the hordes. Bellamus had broken one legion entirely and scattered several others, killing thousands. There were already almost as many Anakim dead from this invasion as there had been in all the battles of the previous campaign put together. Roper had to strike the Hetton Legion from the rolls: there were simply not enough men to fill it.