“Certainly I am out of favour now, and that makes me safer up here, even with your presence,” said Bellamus, casting an eye over the huge man. “But in the inevitable slaughter when the Anakim come south, opportunity will arise and His Majesty will need me again. I just need to stay away until then. I’m looking forward to it. You say you want to fight Gogmagoc? I want Roper. This Black Lord is even better than his father.”
Silence fell for a time. Bellamus’s horse tossed its head and twitched its ears and he soothed it.
Garrett imitated Bellamus and turned back to face the Black Kingdom. “So you’re testing me,” he said after a while. Bellamus thought that more perceptive than he would have given Garrett credit for. “If you think your warriors could stop me before I killed you, you are mistaken.”
Bellamus wondered whether that was right. He sat passively, waiting for the big man to finish. Tucked within his jerkin were two letters. One was in Aramilla’s cypher, imploring him to stay away, describing King Osbert’s terrified rage and suggesting that he stay very quiet in the north and hope to be forgotten until he was needed. Wait for this storm to pass, my upstart. When it does, I will come north for you. I will not forget.
The second had been addressed to Garrett, intercepted by one of Bellamus’s men. It ordered the hybrid to decapitate Bellamus and take his head south to be displayed over Lundenceaster’s gate. Now it was damp with Bellamus’s sweat as he waited for the warrior’s response. Garrett had Heofonfyr at his side, though the long-bladed tip was covered in a ghastly leather sheath of his own creation, made from Anakim skin. He was still staring straight ahead. The Hermit Crabs were pressing a little closer to him, readying themselves to stop his response. Stepan’s sword was six inches clear of its scabbard. Bellamus was still. He must trust his men.
“I want what you want,” said Garrett at last. “And the king is a grub. I do not follow men like him.”
Bellamus did not relax. “But you will follow me? You cannot stay here if I can’t trust you.”
“If I am first among your warriors then yes, I will follow you.”
“No one but you can make you first among my warriors,” said Bellamus.
“That I will do.”
Bellamus smiled gently. “The legendary Eoten-Draefend,” he said. “It’s good to have you join us.” Silence fell again.
“There’s nothing there,” said Garrett. He was staring over the Abus at the far rugged country. “Barely even farmland. Just forests and mountains and rivers. Do they love it? The disorder? Or is it just sloth that stops them improving their land?”
“Oh, they love it.” And so do I, thought Bellamus. Gazing across the Abus, the upstart’s eyes were fierce and tender in equal measure. Bellamus knew Stepan felt the same: both were bewitched by the Black Kingdom. Garrett, however, shared the view of most of his countrymen: the north was a barren wasteland. “Wilderness is an essential part of their world,” said Bellamus. “To them, tilled land is empty land. In the wild they feel more … well, they just feel more. To them, the world is outlines and shadows. They have absolutely no interest in colour. To them, memory is colour. In the wild, there is more on which to hang memories. If I could be granted any wish, it would be to see the world through Anakim eyes for just one day.”
Garrett glanced sidelong at his master and Bellamus regretted the words at once. The hybrid had turned against the Anakim with the certainty that only a man with a foot either side of the Abus could muster. He would never be welcome in the north. Here, in the south, his only chance of survival was to be more certain in his hatred of the Anakim than even the most resolute Sutherner. “They are demons,” said the huge man slowly. “It is a whole country of fallen angels.”
“Of course,” said Bellamus, quickly. “It is a foolhardy desire, I suspect. But to fight your enemy, you must know your enemy. They will not be defeated unless we understand them.”
“As you said, we will never understand them,” said Garrett.
“So have you discovered any more about the Kryptea?”
Roper and Keturah sat opposite one another in his quarters; Roper at his desk, the battered equipment spread out before him bearing the signature of Harstathur; Keturah sitting on the bed and attempting to weave.
Keturah was silent for a moment as she fumbled with a line. Her movements became jerkier and clumsier and finally she dropped the malformed square of cloth in her lap with a tut. She stared at it for a while longer before answering Roper. “Yes. I discovered that I will learn no more about them from the Academy.”
Roper looked up at her, frowning.
“I witnessed a chant on the third level while you were away,” she explained. “The Kryptea and the Academy have an alliance, Husband. For the last four hundred years, the Academy has sent anything regarding the Kryptea to their Master for editing. That is why I was warned so heavily against enquiring about them. They protect each other.”
Roper stared at Keturah. “What? The Academy is supposed to be fully independent.”
Keturah nodded. “So are the Kryptea. It seems that the position of both as outsiders persuaded them they would be more secure together. So they struck a deal: the Kryptea gets to filter out any information that might turn people against its existence, and in return, it expanded its role to defend the Academy. So anyone now thought to be endangering the Academy is targeted.” Roper could do no more than stare and Keturah took up her weaving once more. “It is as I heard in that first chant. The Kryptea are a toxic fungus, whose roots have spread too wide to ever be
