The Wolf (Under the Northern Sky #1)

by Leo Carew

“You must pick a side, and then advance it with all your might—must you not? The other side will assuredly do the same. Only by doing it harder will your side triumph.”

“What effect will the rain have?” asked Kynortas. “It will shorten the battle,” Roper hazarded. “Formations are easily broken and men die faster when their footing is unsure.” “A fair assessment,” Kynortas judged. “Men also fight less fiercely in the rain. It will favour the Sutherners; the legions are more skilled and will struggle to assert their dominance in rain.” Roper drank the words in. “How does that change our battle plan, lord?” “We have no battle plan,” said Kynortas. “We do not know what we will face. The scouts report that the Sutherners have found a strong position to defend, so we know

must attack; that is all. But,” he went on, “we must be careful with the legions. They take hundreds of years to develop and because they will not run, they can be destroyed in a single battle.

No man liked summoning all the legions beneath a single banner; the propensity for catastrophe was too great.

On this occasion, there had been no choice. Their enemies had gathered an enormous army that threatened to capsize the balance of power in Albion. The force, a composite of Saxon and Frankish soldiers, with mercenaries from Samnia and Iberia, was so big that nobody knew how many men their enemies commanded. But it numbered many more than the legionaries under Kynortas.

“Why do we not do as the Sutherners do, lord?” asked Roper. “Unify all our peoples under a single banner?” Kynortas did not countenance the idea. “Can you imagine any king surrendering control of his forces to another? Can you imagine a dozen kings all agreeing to back the

Roper could not imagine a lord greater than Kynortas. As strong in face and limb as were his faith and convictions. Straight-backed and stern, with a thunderous brow and a face as yet unscarred by conflict. His men regarded him; his enemies despised and respected him in equal measure. He knew how to court an ally, cow an enemy and read a battlefield like a poem. He was a tall man, though Roper almost equalled him in that regard already. Theirs was reckoned a strong house, with Roper a promising prospect as Kynortas’s heir, his two younger brothers indemnifying the lineage.

At the head of the mighty column, the Black Lord and his young heir crested a hill to reveal a great flood plain. Across almost a mile of wind-rippled water lay a ridge of extraordinary length. Whether a natural formation or some ancient battle-works thrown up in this scarred land was not clear, but it stretched almost from horizon to horizon. Its northern flank was guarded by a great forest and on it was arrayed the Suthern horde. Thousands lined the ridge. Tens of thousands; protected by the mangled and rain-slicked slope. Their banners were as wilted as those of the legions but Roper could make out halberdiers, longbowmen, swordsmen and some who shone greyly on the wet day and must surely be men-at-arms. At the southern edge of the ridge, a vast mass of cavalry sat malevolently.

Kynortas snapped his fingers and an aide trotted to his side. “Deploy our army in battle formation, as close as possible to where the flooding begins.” Kynortas rattled off a list of where each legion should be placed in the line, concluding with the observation that all their cavalry would be on the right, “save for those from Houses Oris and Alba, who take the left.” “That’s a lot of orders, lord,” said the aide. “Delegate.” The aide complied. “Uvoren!” A mounted officer detached himself from the column and rode to join Kynortas. “My lord?” His high ponytail, threaded through a hole in the back of his helmet, identified him as a Sacred Guardsman. A silver eye was inlaid into his right shoulder-plate, his helmet covered his eyes and he grinned roguishly at his master.

“You know Uvoren, Roper,” Kynortas introduced them. Roper had heard of Uvoren; there was no boy in the Black Kingdom who had not. The Captain of the Sacred Guard: a role every aspiring warrior dreamed of playing. There could be no higher endorsement of your martial capability than appointment to such an office. Over his back was slung his famous war hammer: Marrow-Hunter. It was said that Uvoren had had Marrow-Hunter’s gorgeous rippled-steel head forged from the combined swords of four Suthern earls, each put down by the captain himself. When hope had seemed a distant memory at the Siege of Lundenceaster—the greatest of Albion’s settlements, far to the south—it had been Marrow-Hunter which had at last cleared a foothold on the wall. At the Battle of Eoferwic, its great blunt head

Kynortas looked intrigued at the earl’s words and Bellamus raised a hand in acknowledgement. He was good-looking, this upstart, with a touch of grey at the temples of his dark, wavy hair and he appeared prosperous. He alone of the Sutherners present was not dressed in plate armour but instead wore a thick jerkin of quilted leather, with gold hung at his neck and wrists. His high boots were of the finest quality, so new that they looked as if they might rub. He wore a rich red-dyed tunic beneath the jerkin and sat on a bearskin draped over his horse. He also had the two outermost fingers missing from his left hand. Next to the austere, armour-plated lords, it was the upstart who stood out.

“You have invaded our lands,” said Kynortas, his voice harsh. “You crossed the Abus which has been a peaceful border for years. You have burned, you have plundered and you have raped.” Kynortas advanced his horse, bearing down on Earl William. His huge physical presence was more than matched by his implacable bearing. “Leave now, un-harried, or I will unleash the Black Legions. If I am forced to use my soldiers, there will be no mercy for any of you.” He cast an eye over the ridge behind the Suthern generals. “In addition, I doubt you can bring an army like this here and have left anything to defend your homelands. You have violated our peace and once I have decimated your army here, I will advance to Lundenceaster and strip it to the bone by way of reparations.

“We could withdraw,” suggested Earl William, who had not flinched as Kynortas advanced. “But we’re very comfortable here. We are well supplied; we have a strong position. And the reason you even offer us the chance of withdrawal is that you do not want to lose soldiers. You value them too highly and they are too dearly replaced. You do not want to attack us.” Earl William had a slight squint. He gazed frankly at Kynortas, who waited for the offer that was about to be broached. “Gold,” said the earl softly. “For the lives of your legionaries. Thirty chests would make our time worthwhile. That and the meagre plunder we have already taken from your eastern lands.”

Roper watched. Thirty chests was an absurd figure to propose. The Black Kingdom’s wealth was not based on gold; it was based on harder metals, beyond the manipulation of the Sutherners. They could not provide thirty chests of gold, as Earl William would surely have known; not if they scoured the country from meanest hovel to most magnificent castle. The earl had also been provocative in his demand of the tribute, though not obviously so. All of which led Roper to one conclusion; he did not want his offer to be accepted, but was trying to pretend that he did. The Sutherners had some kind of plan and had already decided how they wanted these negotiations to play out.

“Worthless,” said Kynortas, sitting back in his saddle. “And beneath, a feeble sack of bones. You cannot fight my legions. They will cut through your plate like carving a ham.”

“Do negotiations always end like that?” asked Roper as the four of them turned back to their own forces, still assembling on the plain. “Always,” said Kynortas. “Nobody negotiates in negotiations. It’s an exercise in intimidation.” Uvoren snorted. “Your father treats negotiations as an exercise in intimidation, Roper,” he corrected. “Everyone else goes

“They didn’t want to negotiate anyway,” said Roper. Kynortas cast a glance in his direction. “What makes you say so?” “The way he phrased the offer; the fact that he’d have known it was beyond our means anyway. He was goading us into attack.” Kynortas brooded on this. “Perhaps. So they’re over- confident.” Roper stayed silent. Who could be over-confident going into battle against the Black Legions? There must be a reason for their belief. They must have a plan. But Roper did not know the way of these Sutherners. Perhaps their numbers gave them confidence.

The Black Legions were advancing into the flood waters. Holding the right wing, with the vast majority of the cavalry, was Ramnea’s Own Legion; the elite soldiers of the Black Kingdom, second only in martial repute and prestige to the Sacred Guard. On the left was the Blackstone Legion; veteran, battle-hardened and with a reputation for savagery. Some men said the Blackstones were even more efficient than Ramnea’s Own as line- breakers. Most of those men were Blackstones themselves. The legates—the legion commanders—had each ridden out in front of their legion.

His confidence, his faith in the legions, radiated around him like the ripples his horse made in the flood waters.

Kynortas took note: One day, he thought, I will have to face an army commanded by that man alone.

The clockwork failed. The Blackstones began to stumble and fall into the waters. Legionaries started to drop by the handful, with more and more falling until the front rank in its entirety had dropped below the surface, no longer howling but crying in pain. Those who followed met the same fate, staggering and plunging into the flood waters. Kynortas spurred towards his Left, straining his eyes at the scene. Why were his soldiers falling? Was the footing treacherous? But this was Suthern trickery; the water around the Blackstones was turning red with blood. Beneath the flood waters, a trap had been laid.

The Blackstone Legion had stopped dead in their tracks. Every man that attempted to advance stumbled and fell. The Sutherners on the ridge jeered and hooted and their charging warriors, who had seemed to be in chaos, stopped seventy yards short of the stricken Blackstones. They were longbowmen; so lightly armed and armoured that they would never have stood a chance against legionaries in open combat. They had charged to bait the Blackstones and now revealed their true strength: their great curved yew bows. These were unslung, arrows nocked to strings and deadly shafts poured into the legionaries. Their fletching whistled as they hurtled forward; a noise like a sky-full of whirring starlings. At this close range, some of the steel-tipped arrows were able to penetrate tough Anakim plate armour.

When these returned, tradition dictated that they should be greeted by the women and children of the fortress. Crowds would line the streets, armed with little bunches of herbs to be thrown into the path of the legions. The bitter smell of rosemary, lemon balm and comfrey, crushed underfoot, was an evocation of celebration and relief. The warriors had returned home and once again they had been successful. Word would already have reached the Hindrunn of who had fought with particular bravery or skill and their names would be called out by the throng.

The Sacred Guard would be first to enter the Great Gate. They would march in step, always in step, up the cobbled street; the crowds on each side ever-optimistic about the gap through which their legionaries could squeeze. People would lean from the upper windows of the houses to throw their herbs and the warriors, stern and proud, would try not to grin. Roper had been there once; part of the crowds that welcomed back the legions. He had not imagined taking his father’s place, resplendent on a white horse at the front of the column, but a little further back, wearing the armour of a guardsman. Black Lords might be rare, but they were born. A Sacred Guardsman was self-forged; made through his own merits.

He had been here many times before at Kynortas’s side, brought to witness negotiations, campaign plans and even disciplinary hearings. He was not sure why he was here now.

“Lictor,”

A lictor was the disciplinarian of a fighting unit, charged with ensuring that the soldiers do as they are told.

It was an influential position, traditionally given to a man of surpassing self-confidence and bravery. Evidently the role fitted the ponytailed man like a glove: it was he who had killed Earl William.

Roper knew his name and his reputation well: this was the sprinter Pryce Rubenson, twice honoured with a Prize of Valour. He was almost as famous as Uvoren himself; known throughout the Black Kingdom as one of the finest athletes it had ever produced and as much a hero to the young women of the land as to its warriors.

They baited us with a false charge to make sure we were running when we hit the trap.” The legate had shaken his head. “Now that was clever. And the nerve, to get the timing just right. I’m rather sorry you killed Earl William, Pryce. It can only hasten the rise of Bellamus. In him, we have a worthy enemy.” “I’m not sorry,” said Uvoren. “The bickering between Bellamus and Lord Northwic was all that stopped our retreat turning into a full-blown disaster.” He had turned to look sourly at Roper.

“Be silent, Roper,” said Uvoren finally. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Your father was just passable as a leader; limited, but passable. You have absolutely nothing going for you.” Everyone at the table besides Pryce laughed. Uvoren grinned. “What are you doing here?” “You told me to come,” said Roper. He wanted to say more, but knew Uvoren would undermine him, whatever his words. “He told you to come?” put in another guardsman with a sweaty face. “If you can do exactly as you’re told, you might rule after all, Roper.” The table laughed again. Roper kept quiet. He knew his first taste of command could scarcely have been worse, but he had not expected it to be met by this naked aggression. Uvoren, who had seemed so charming and friendly under Kynortas’s gaze,

This was his enemy: Uvoren the Mighty. The most esteemed man in the country and its most glorified warrior. They had started playing a game and Roper had not even known. That was why he had told Roper to change his armour: so that it would look as though he had commanded and panicked from afar, and not been involved in the fighting. That was why he had asked Roper to ride at the head of the column: so that the blame was placed squarely on his shoulders. The laws of succession were clear; Roper must rule. But Uvoren, one of the most influential and respected warriors of the age, at the head of the Lothbroks, one of its greatest houses, was trying to make Roper’s position so untenable that an exception would be made. Uvoren had seemed to support the retreat but it was Roper who had taken the blame for

After that, and with such an obvious and capable rival to his succession, who would support Roper? What chance did a nineteen-year-old with no experience and no name other than that bequeathed to him by his father stand against the greatest warrior alive? He had no idea where to begin; no idea where he would find the allies to support his claim. But he knew where to find his enemies. They were right here; at this table. Uvoren’s war council. Roper memorised them all. He remembered their names, their stations, their countenances. He observed who was personally close to Uvoren, who merely...

Before Roper was arrayed an influential power block: men of wealth and prestige who would support Uvoren’s claim to the Stone Throne. If Roper wanted to rule, he would have to break them all; one by one.

are at half-strength, morale has plummeted and we did not anticipate returning the legions to the Hindrunn. We need more food. The Skiritai have suggested that the Sutherners do not intend to besiege us; they’d rather harry our eastern lands. We must put a stop to that. That is tomorrow’s task. Until then, I’m going to bed.” Uvoren stood and so did the rest of the council. The long-ponytailed Pryce did not wait to be dismissed, stalking past Roper and out of the Chamber of State. Roper remained in his seat. Uvoren stared at him, eyes narrowed. Roper returned his gaze stubbornly. “A Blackstone reported to me today, Roper, informing me you had made him a Sacred Guardsman. Don’t ever try and put your own men in my unit again.” “That is my right, Uvoren,” said Roper, flushing.

“It was a good move, Bellamus,” said Lord Northwic carelessly. The lord had once been a shining young warrior and, though he was now an old man, his experience made him an invaluable leader.

Most of the Suthern army was elsewhere, committing the Black Kingdom to the torch and the sword, but below them several thousand soldiers worked in the flood waters. The pale, rain-bloated Anakim corpses were being stripped and searched for anything valuable. Their prized arms and armour, of which the legionaries had been so proud and which they had treated so lovingly in life, were piled haphazardly to be melted down and re-forged

“Fetch me his helmet.” The master of the horse which had dragged the corpse unbuckled the great war-helm from Kynortas’s head and passed it up to Bellamus. He ran his fingers over it, turning it over in his hands. As he had thought, it was not steel. It was some kind of alloy, duller than steel but also more beautiful. It was almost marbled, with shades of cloud, gloom, iron and moonlight merging and overlapping. “The famous Unthank-silver.

It felt too light for the brutality of combat, though Bellamus knew the Anakim did not suffer equipment that was just for show. War was their business and if this battle helm felt light in his hands, that was no more than a demonstration of how little he knew. He tried it on: much too large for his head. “Unthank-silver, lord?” “I’m not a lord,” said Bellamus to the horse-master. “Just a commoner, like you. It’s the alloy that Anakim make their swords from. Can’t say I know how it’s made but I hear that when two Unthank-weapons meet in combat, they shed white sparks like a blacksmith’s anvil. Maybe there’s a clue in that.”

Bellamus discovered a mighty sword still in Kynortas’s scabbard. It appeared to be made of the same metal as the helmet and so was light and strong, but it also glittered strangely

“So this is your plan. Take the north and you shall be its master.” Bellamus smiled briefly. “Nobody else seems to want it. His Majesty even speaks of building a great wall and forgetting that half of this island lies to the north. Give the north to me; I’ll pacify it.”

“I was as young as you once. Even younger. I can see how you act around Queen Aramilla. She is the only one of us you keep your distance from.” “Better not to play with fire,” said Bellamus, not returning Lord Northwic’s gaze. “Yes, it is,” said Lord Northwic forcefully. “In the eyes of both God and man. Be careful with her.” “I barely know her,” said Bellamus. “I know you both,” said Lord Northwic. “She is inscrutable. But you are hiding something.”

“Perhaps we should move to take the Hindrunn,” suggested Lord Northwic. “Bad idea, Ced,” responded Bellamus. Lord Northwic was relaxed in his leadership and did not object to the informality. “With the legions still inside, that nut is un-crackable. They would like nothing more than for us to attempt a siege.” “More plundering, then,” said the lord, unenthusiastic. “More plundering,”

“The more loot that floods the south, the more warriors will come to our cause. It is also our best hope of bleeding the Black Legions from the Hindrunn before we have to attack it.”

Bellamus had charmed and bullied and bribed to achieve what the nobles of Suthdal had considered impossible: a network of reliable Anakim spies within the Black Kingdom itself. In previous invasions of the north, their knowledge of the enemy they faced and their tactics had been woefully inadequate. Bellamus had made himself indispensable through knowing more than anyone else; and had shown a scarcely credible flair for command to boot. “He was always said to be promising,” he answered Lord Northwic. “But whether he actually commands is in doubt. I am told that a senior officer in the country, a warrior named Uvoren, has been making arrangements to take command should Kynortas die in battle. We met him, incidentally,” he added, glancing at Lord Northwic.

“So who killed Earl William?” he growled. “I can only guess at that, but one man does fit the description,” ventured Bellamus. “Another Sacred Guardsman of considerable renown called Pryce Rubenson. He’s a famous sprinter. They say he’s faster on foot than a horse with a rider over any distance and any terrain. And perhaps the most courageous warrior in the north.” “See if you can confirm that,” said Northwic. “And make him pay.” “As you wish,” said Bellamus. “You’re a valuable man, Bellamus.” “You know how to use me, lord.” Lord Northwic snorted. “Yes, I do. Let you do exactly what you want.”

The Black Kingdom was being overrun. The defeat on the flood plain, which had been so humiliating that nobody had wanted to name the battle, had left the Sutherners free to rampage north of the Abus for the first time in centuries. It was as though each soldier had endured that wait personally, such was their appetite to loot and burn. Especially to burn. It was common enough, when at war, to set villages and granaries ablaze as you passed through them. It weakened the enemy’s morale, hampered their ability to resist and signified the helplessness of the occupied territory.

The Anakim had always been outnumbered by the Sutherners, but their warlike society and forbidding reputation had made most think twice before attempting an invasion. Now, with the news that they had won a great victory, Suthern reinforcements were streaming north, swelling the ranks of the army that was now commanded by Lord Northwic. He was commanding well, this lord, and seemed

Uvoren would have none of this. He met every day in the Chamber of State with a full council of war, the immense oak table crammed with all fourteen legates; representatives from the great houses of the realm; the heads of the offices of state; the Chief Historian and her deputy; and the leaders of various towns who had sought refuge in the Hindrunn from the Suthern horde. Roper was there too, listening as the same voices clamoured again and again for an audience. They would stand and repeat their perspective, either to a rumble of agreement or baying dissent. It seemed that most of those around the table who spoke shared Uvoren’s thoughts on the matter.

Roper knew about the Chief Historian, and had been watching Jokul over the last few days. He was one of the few who had stood against the idea of sheltering in the Hindrunn. Even more unusually, when he spoke, his words were not treated with scorn by Uvoren and his baying supporters, but warily considered. He was treated delicately, like one of those toxic-mouthed snakes that sometimes arrive on trade ships from distant lands, which even Uvoren dared not enrage. There was no obvious reason why. He had no reputation in battle, he was not backed by any great house that Roper knew of, and he was certainly no orator. Indeed, when he spoke, it seemed to suck the energy from the room.