“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 had 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
