The Wolf (Under the Northern Sky #1)

by Leo Carew

They will have nothing to lose. They will outnumber us by thousands. They will not be conservative. They will try and overwhelm the legions and you must be equal to the task, or all we have achieved so far will be for nothing. Forget the bloody Hindrunn.”

“If you do not consider what drives you, you will not notice your own flaws. It is clear that you hate Uvoren and with that I have a great deal of sympathy. He is bad for the country, and hatred is the hardest emotion to control,”

His unbreakable home had turned against him and become a malignant presence in his mind.

“There could be no more fateful omen than passing through Harstathur,”

“Our lord has ordered our departure for Githru! On your feet, you sacred bastards! We rest not a moment longer; not one more! Put out your fire; pack your cloak and your food! Bring your helmet and put on your armour; we are marching to battle!” The one guardsman who did not move was Gosta, who remained seated by his fire and stared insolently up at Pryce, stirring a bubbling pot of oats. Pryce took one look at the expression on his face and swung his boot into Gosta’s pot of food to send it soaring. Kicking the heavy iron pot must have hurt terribly but Pryce did not show it and next he kicked apart the fire in front of which Gosta still sat, gritting his teeth in rage but powerless. “There, Gosta, I’ve got you started,” said Pryce calmly. He stalked off. “You are Sacred Guardsmen! You are the beating heart of this army! You are our vengeful angels, servants of Ramnea! You are steel, you are oak, you are granite! You are our claws! You have sworn your life to this country; march now for Githru!”

Their route would take them over the mountain crossroads of Harstathur and, as they prepared, the bards sang of the great battle that had taken place there almost fifteen thousand years before.

Their morale was high and they were assured in their cause.

The two had shared many battles and had an unexpected fondness for each other. Everyone seemed fond of Gray, but what was more surprising was that Gray had equal regard for Tekoa. They were not natural friends but made good company for the march.

Roper asked to hear about the siege of Lundenceaster, fishing for inspiration on how he could ultimately retake the Hindrunn. The question was followed by a pause which told Roper that both men had understood what he was really asking. Gray spoke first. “The thing about assaults, my lord, is that there are always casualties. You cannot attack a well-prepared fortress without losing many, many men. That’s just the way of things.” “They are the very worst of warfare,” said Tekoa. “There is no glory. Just bodies. Thousands and thousands of them. And fire. And the fear is worse than anything else.” There was silence for a while. “Gray won us Lundenceaster.”

People say Uvoren is courageous. They say my nephew, Pryce, is courageous. These are lions. It is easy for a lion to fight what’s in front of it. Gray thinks. He observes; and then he does what must be done. He has a mind made for battle.”

“I was told once,” said Roper, “that the greatest warriors can fight in any theatre. Do you think that’s true?” “Undoubtedly,” said Gray. “The warrior’s greatest gifts are endurance and courage. There are very, very few who are born natural fighters, and even they will never be more than passable if they don’t work at their skill. If you do not flinch from hard work and you have the grit to pick yourself up again and again when you fail, then you will be hard to overcome in any field.”

He was one of the very few privileged to use a weapon other than a sword, so he did, just to underline his status. He was not used to the weight, and when he fought, he looked clumsy and childlike. But he trained every day, longer and harder than those who used a sword. And then we all saw him fight at Eoferwic, knocking knights flat left and right to gain access to King Offa. Suddenly, these armoured men looked as vulnerable to him as an upturned limpet. Yes: he can fight in any arena.”

“Well, my lord, think about this: the greatest warriors can fight in any theatre, but perhaps the greatest leaders do not need to fight at all.”

They rode on. On the first day, the legions covered eleven leagues, four of which they had swarmed across country, between tree trunks and across swollen streams, before joining with the road. It was sheltered by the forests, moving gently in Anakim fashion with the terrain, rather than through it.

That night, over a bowl of boiled, salted mutton, Roper observed that though tired, the legionaries seemed in high spirits. In part their morale had been boosted by the victory they had already won over the Suthern army, but it was Roper’s first encounter with the fact that the men under his command were happiest when they had a purpose. They knew where they were going and why, and so served more readily than ever. There was no longer a disconnect between their duties and ...

Roper was not surprised they were scared of Helmec. The guardsman stood more than seven feet in height and his face was as scarred as a battlefield. It was one of the reasons Roper had sent him. Nobody negotiates in negotiations. It’s an exercise in intimidation.

That night, they slept in the open; truly close to the heavens and encased in a dome of stars,

“Should you like to hear it, my lord?” he asked, securing the strapping and testing his leg gingerly. Roper said that he should, and Skallagrim stared into the fire for a moment, took a deep breath and began. The chant was often performed with drums and throat-singers accompanying it, but the only adornment that evening was the location; the sense of significance and anticipation that loaded the air. The men paused in the treatment of their equipment, leaned close, and tried to lose themselves in the tale.

The Sutherners were restless, voracious and rootless; incomprehensible to an Anakim mind. The confusion was mutual, the Sutherners not understanding the crude Anakim art and their limited symbolism;

“If there’s a thought going through your head, it means somebody else has put it there you obsequious prick,”

Pryce stared back with hard eyes. Blood was trickling down his arms and dripping off his hands. He seemed to Roper perfectly like a hawk. A hunter. Something to whom the affairs of men did not matter in the ordinary way; whose thoughts were so instinctive that they bypassed the brain altogether, operating entirely on nerve and synapse. He was an order of magnitude faster in thought and deed than any other man that Roper had met. It was true: he was not much of a swordsman. But his movements were so uncompromisingly fierce, so violently rapid, that Roper could not imagine any skill that could overcome Pryce’s speed.

But Roper was not the only one who knew how to inspire loyalty, and Uvoren started from a more elevated position than his rival, commanding considerable respect through sheer reputation.

He trained alongside the legionaries that had been left to him in the fortress, aware that his mere proximity was enough to please his warriors. He saw the way they behaved around him. These grizzled, battle-hardened men stuttered and stumbled under his gaze. They beamed absurdly if he chose to speak to one of them, offered him their water-skins, flattered him, and asked if he might recount the tale of how King Offa had died. Unlike Roper, Uvoren did not seek to earn loyalty through service, but through insisting on service to him. He knew that if men performed a favour for a gracious lord, it quickly built respect. Uvoren was therefore everywhere, making demands of every soldier and thanking them handsomely when they fulfilled them. He made sure to issue a different compliment to each group of warriors he encountered: admiring the sword-craft of one here; professing to have heard of the deeds of another there. He held a tournament almost as soon as Roper was gone, with the aim of keeping the fortress occupied. Uvoren did not himself fight (better to keep his fighting prowess the subject of wild speculation than have it confirmed), but watched and applauded as the warriors clashed and wrestled in front of a roaring crowd. He supplied the tournament prizes (an immensely expensive cuirass of Unthank-silver for the First Sword and a fine Unthank-silver blade for the winner of the wrestling), as well as the food and birch wine served for the grateful crowds. Roper’s reputation...

So that was that. Roper’s nerve had failed him, as Uvoren had known it would, and he had thrown away his warriors and his chance of ruling the Black Kingdom. Uvoren did feel the glow of triumph that he had expected, but also a wave of hot anger. Incompetence: that was all that had killed those legionaries. Roper had no business being a ruler. He was weak.

It seemed they bore no torches, allowing themselves to be guided home by the charcoal glow of the Hindrunn.

They looked almost ghostly, light drizzling from armour and weapons while their bodies remained dark. It was as though this was nothing more than a column of armour coming to besiege their home, having left their flesh behind. But surely armour could not make the ground tremble with the tramp of feet. It menaced the whole fortress. Those subjects waiting inside their homes could hear it shaking the slates on their roofs, and anticipated the first roar of a dragon-cannon that would tell them their home was being assaulted. At the front of the column was the Sacred Guard. Now they had drawn closer to the lime-lanterns, they looked magnificent. Brilliant white light radiated from their armour. They were straight-backed and proud; almost angelic in their bright raiment, and far from the whipped dogs Uvoren was expecting. Among them rode Roper. He looked quite as splendid as he had when he left, mounted on his enormous destrier, a huge presence in his cloak which resisted all attempts at illumination. He and his men marched proudly, showing no signs of trepidation, though they must surely know that Uvoren was not about to open the gates for them.

“The fool wants to die. He thinks standing among the Sacred Guard is going to save him. How touching!” “You would fire a cannon into the Sacred Guard?” murmured Tore. “Ballistae, then,” conceded Uvoren.

There was a satisfying snap as the ballista crews finished drawing their weapons and allowed the strings to rest on the triggers. “Halt!” bawled a voice from behind Uvoren. Irritated, the captain swung around, a remonstration already building in his throat. The only sound he uttered was a slight hiss as the breath escaped his lungs. His mouth fell open. Five hundred warriors stood behind the Great Gate, swords drawn and armoured in plate and mail. They held three banners at their head, the emblems described in cream on a background of black cloth. On the left, a serpent devouring the roots of a tree. On the right, a rampant unicorn. And in the middle, a snarling wolf. House Vidarr. House Alba. And House Jormunrekur. This force was led by a single warrior, tall and broad, who stood alone at the front of the formation. It was Gray. His feet were spread wide, his sword was in his hand and he stared up at Uvoren, jaw set. “What in the name of god?” Every warrior on the battlement had turned to stare, dumbstruck at the sight of these warriors behind them. “Who are these?” hissed Tore. “They’re already inside!” Uvoren’s mind was racing. “Those bloody wounded. That sneaky, underhanded bastard.” His face resembled the wolf on the Jormunrekur banner. Wave after wave of revelations were washing over him, pummelling him and making him screw up his face against it all.

“Gray.” To Uvoren’s fury, Roper slipped his grip and headed instead for the veteran guardsman. He stopped just before Gray, who offered him a smile and a deep bow. Roper raised Gray up and the two embraced tightly. “Thank you,” said Roper as they broke apart. “Thank you for everything.” “‘Don’t think about the Hindrunn,’ I believe was my advice to you,” said Gray. “Where would we be now if you’d listened to that?” “You also gave me another piece of advice. ‘The greatest warriors can fight in any theatre, but the greatest leaders do not need to fight at all.’ And here we stand. We’re back, brother.

It did not matter how late the hour; they would have a feast. A successful campaign always ends in a feast and this one would take hours to prepare. All the warriors would attend, each at one of the barracks sprinkled throughout the Hindrunn. Cauldrons of birch wine, mead, ale, cider and beor would make the tables bow before the food even arrived. Such food! It was not salted, nor smoked nor dried. Freshly slaughtered pork, beef or poultry, roasted over charcoal and stuffed with ramsons.

The crash of the two lines striking one another was a punch to the guts; like an immense volley of cannon-fire, or a tremendous rolling wave of thunder. It was the sound of shields cracking and slamming into steel; of men smashing to the ground; of axes reducing wood to splinters. Beneath all that was a deeper, more subtle noise. It was the “ooph” of five thousand men having the air forced from their lungs. The battle that had followed was quite as intense as had been reckoned. Roper had anticipated a contest of skill: heroic flourishing of the sword and men fighting one-on-one. But Githru was about muscle. The Anakim line exerted huge pressure onto their Suthern opponents, who were warping and buckling beneath it. Bodies falling backwards as if time had slowed, held between the pressure at their backs and the more powerful, more inexorable force pressing from the front. The Suthern line churning and tumbling like ploughed earth. Swords almost forgotten. A great wheezing escaping from that dynamic arc where the two forces met, as the Sutherners being trampled underfoot fought for air.

The meat arrived, with the centre-piece a magnificent boar roasted in honey and crisped with salt, borne by six serving girls who received the biggest cheer of the night. It was accompanied by the Goose Legion, the Duck Legion and the Chicken Legion, a pig per table that oozed butter and the intoxicating waft of ramsons and two hundred loaves of thick-crusted bread.

Keturah looked past Roper to the guardsman on his right, who at that moment was weeping tears of laughter. Tekoa was looking on, amused, and every time it looked as though Gray was about to compose himself, Tekoa would mutter something else to him and Gray would almost collapse into the boar before him. “I think he will be with you as long as you need him.”

Those who survived the ordeal were tattooed with the angel of madness and carried around phials of vinegar that had been infused with the fly agaric mushroom. Once it was consumed, usually directly before battle, they entered a state of hyper-arousal where they were unable to tell friend from foe and attacked on almost any stimulus. Use of this vinegar was governed by strict rules and they were forbidden to take it when they would be fighting in close proximity with their comrades.

“Remember this moment! If you ever need a warrior to take you south and to war; remember that Uvoren Ymerson still lives. Remember that Marrow-Hunter always thirsts for Suthern blood! And if my Lord Roper forgets, remind him!” He grinned and winked at the crowd who burst into applause. Someone started thumping a table and the rest of the hall took it up, chanting “U-vor-en! U-vor-en!” Now Roper stood and Gray, Pryce and Tekoa began to bay for silence, which came after a time. “How fortunate we are to live in an age of such warriors,” said Roper, more calmly than Uvoren. He nodded at the captain. “Peers; rest assured your swords will not lie idle for long. Winter is upon us and the campaign season has ended. Rest, eat well, grow close with your family and, by spring, we shall be ready to march again.” He raised his horn and there was polite applause. Uvoren sank into his chair a fraction after Roper, beaming as though reluctant to surrender their attention.

“Well done, my lord. It was important that you spoke. But this is the problem with keeping Uvoren close. As he said, he’s not done yet.”

If I judge them, I might miss something important.”

“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.”

Suthdal seems like a pleasant dream to me now. Over there, beyond the river, is reality.”

The hounds whined at the sight of the beasts, but Tekoa snapped his fingers and they went silent. Nothing but giant elk would do.

“A great ruler,” agreed the Councillor for Trade. “But he would not be counselled. He rejected a trade agreement with the Hanoverians over a perceived slight, cancelled existing agreements with the Yawlish and the Svear and refused to accept emissaries from Iberia whilst they supplied ships to the Sutherners. He also stopped raiding south, to avoid antagonising the Sutherners, so that source of revenue dried up.”

They cannot invade us with impunity and expect to return to safe, intact homes. Vengeance.”

Roper thought about the Treasurer’s words and the only solution he could think of to help the refugees further was to appeal to the generosity of the people. To that end, he appeared on the steps of the Central Keep to make a plea to the subjects of the fortress to receive the refugees into their homes. They responded in magnificent fashion. Just three days after his speech, Roper had made the ride from Central Keep to Great Gate and seen not a single tent. The homeless had been taken into the citadel’s sturdy stone houses, hosted by a generous populace.

King Osbert led through fear. Tekoa did the same; people were motivated by his displeasure. That was not a leader, as Roper knew it. A leader shares in every bit of danger that he asks from his subjects.

A leader commands from the front, not the back. He shows how it should be done and invites others to take their turn with him. A leader’s character is the most potent weapon in his arsenal: sharpened and honed to be the presence his followers need at all times. That was the Black Lord, as Roper saw the role. That was the difference between him and a king.

“It offers recognition,” said Keturah, who quietly coveted the extreme prestige of those three hundred men. “That’s true,” said Sigrid thoughtfully. “Though what sort of person spends their life seeking recognition? A discontented one, I suggest.” Keturah frowned. “Why does Gray do it?” “The same reason we are doing this,” said Sigrid. “To serve.”

“I cannot make your decisions for you, lord. All I can say is no matter how desperate I was, nor how terrible Uvoren seemed, I would never turn to Vigtyr. Do you hear me? Using a man like that would cost you more than you can possibly afford.”

“When Pryce defended me on Harstathur, he told Asger he’d mash his bulging eyeballs into the back of his bastard skull. That’s how it’ll finish for Uvoren. But we’ll leave him all alone first. Tear down his allies and his family, his reputation, his past, his prospects and his friends. He’ll know he’s all that’s left. He’ll know he’s going to die, and he’ll face it alone. And we’ll see how brave Uvoren the Mighty is.”

It was almost disturbing. Anakim status is built on memories and deeds, not embellishments.

At Roper’s invitation, Vigtyr settled himself in a yew chair that squeaked beneath his weight and stretched out his legs before him, looking lazy and content.