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.
And, of course, there was Uvoren himself, who now spoke. “Forget Boy-Roper, he isn’t relevant. Our position is dire. The Blackstones 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.
“You think so?” Uvoren sounded incredulous. Then he laughed at Roper’s furious expression and leaned over to pat him on the cheek. “Calm yourself, Roper.” He chuckled, now pinching Roper’s cheek. “You take life so seriously. You’re not upset about your father, are you?” Roper said nothing. Uvoren laughed again. “It was a good death,” he said, carelessly. “Peers, tomorrow. Goodnight.”
They filed out of the chamber, leaving Roper alone again. He stood and moved back to the Stone Throne, obstinately sitting back down. He rubbed his fingers over the smooth arm rests; polished by the grip of a dozen Black Lords and, most recently, his father. The Black Lord does not cry. So Roper howled instead.
3The Inferno
“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. He might have been in his late sixties but was still fit and mobile. A beard the colour of faded copper extended right up to his cheekbones, above which a pair of rheumy eyes, draped in deep folds of skin, probed the landscape. He looked tough, which he was, and harsh, which he was not. “You have seen the spikes used in battle before?”
“The caltrops? Yes; in Safinim. My father was a pikeman.”
“A pikeman?” said Lord Northwic with a snort. “Good God. You really do come from nothing, don’t you?” Bellamus supposed that Lord Northwic had meant this as a compliment of sorts. “A shame about Earl William,” continued Northwic.
“Do you really think so?” asked Bellamus, eyes crinkling in amusement. Seeing Lord Northwic’s shock, he tried to mollify his tone. “It was quite a spectacular death,” he said, remembering the great figure who had come storming through the flood waters. Half a dozen of Suthdal’s noblest knights had been made to look inadequate by that single, immense warrior.
“No denying that,” allowed Northwic.
The two generals sat on horseback atop the ridge from which Roper’s forces had retreated. The rain continued to thunder down but they were kept dry by a canopy, borne by four aides who waited patiently at each corner, water dripping down their faces. 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 to a more useful size. The rough woollen clothing, though utilitarian, was robust enough to be put to further use. But the most valuable plunder was within the corpses themselves.
Bone-armour.
The Sutherners sliced through the rain-softened skin to expose the overlapping bone-plates beneath. They sawed and wrenched at the ligaments that held them in place, hauling out the flint-hard plates and piling them up. These were not the stark-white or light-cream of other bones; they had a reddish, rust-coloured hue to them. They were lighter and harder than any steel developed by the Sutherners, and Bellamus had very particular ideas about how he would use such a material.
After the battle, an enormous corpse had been dragged up the ridge for his inspection. It was different from the others. Bigger; more magnificently equipped. Those who had seen the individual felled by an arrow to the throat reported that he had been an officer of some kind, mounted on horseback. Bellamus recognised the face. “So we got you,” he had said sadly to Kynortas’s body. “And if you’re dead, that means your lad now rules.”
Bellamus frowned down at the body. “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. Never before have
