“Battle is sacred for that reason,” said Gray. “Death, euphoria and purpose combine altogether. There will never be an experience more moving. That reaction is far from unique to you, lord. Many of our peers love war. But do not lose sight of what it is. Do not allow it to consume the rest of your life. If you allow yourself to forget to live when you are not at war and simply lust after your next fight, that is possession. You may think this once that life is dull by comparison; you cannot control your thoughts. But you can control your habits.”
“You’re right.” Roper sipped his drink again. “Of course you’re right. And, as powerful as war is, our country becomes less and less under its influence. We are more outnumbered than ever by the Sutherners, and we must finish this war while we still have the strength. We’re not just going to take Lundenceaster, Gray. We’re going to take Albion. We’re going to end this war, once and for all. No more tenuous peace treaties and double-crossed dealings. We will subdue Suthdal.”
“And what of the Sutherners who occupy it?”
“I have not thought that far,” confessed Roper. “Perhaps we expel them. Maybe they would till the land and pay us a tithe, and be forbidden from creating weapons. I have not thought. But one way or another, the Black Kingdom will fall one day if we do not secure its future. And the only way to do that is to control the whole of Albion. Only when there is ocean between us and the Sutherners will peace prevail.”
“What of the Unhieru?” If the Anakim were to take Suthdal, it would open up a new border with Unhierea, in the west of Albion. At present, the Anakim had so little contact with them that they were almost mythical. Roper was not even sure that Gogmagoc, the man said to be their king, was a real figure.
“I would have them join us,” said Roper. “We offer them the return of their ancestral lands if they march with our army. I do not think they are interested in expansion, as the Sutherners are. They are not so voracious, and may be satisfied with their small kingdom. With them, perhaps we could form a lasting peace. Do you have any experience of them?”
“None,” said Gray. “But I have heard stories, and those suggest we will not find them easy to control. So loot from Suthdal will repay the Vidarr.”
“Yes. The south has become fat and wealthy. There is more than enough to settle our debts.”
“Well,” said Gray, at last taking a drink himself. “At least the breadth of your military ambition matches your infrastructural ambition. It may save you from becoming known as Roper the Engineer.”
“A fine title,” said Roper.
“Wait, my lord, and you shall have finer.” Gray had spoken matter-of-factly. The Black Lord smiled and raised his goblet, Gray returning the salute.
“Will you help me?” Roper asked.
“Yes, lord,” said Gray.
Epilogue
There was a knock on the door. Vigtyr, sitting in a chair with his long legs outstretched towards the fire, a cup of wine in his hand, turned his head towards the sound. He was still for a moment, staring at the back of the door. The fire fluttered in the hearth next to him, animated by the wind that roared over the chimney above. He drained his cup, eyes always on the door. The knock came again. Vigtyr placed the cup carefully on the floor beside him and stood, stretching for a moment before answering. He opened the door to reveal a messenger behind; a short, stocky, black-haired legionary who carried something long, wrapped in lightest, softest leather. The messenger bowed.
“Lictor Vigtyr Forraederson of Ramnea’s Own, I assume?”
Vigtyr nodded. The messenger beamed.
“Ah! An honour, Lictor. I come with Lord Roper Kynortasson’s greatest compliments.”
Vigtyr stood aside with a knowing tilt of his head and gestured the messenger inside. The man hesitated, but Vigtyr’s eyes were unwavering and the messenger gave way, muttering thanks as he entered.
The room was bizarre. Barely an inch of wall was visible; hidden by dozens of tapestries. Not all of them were Anakim. Some were evidently Suthern work: less stylised, and coloured with all manner of reds, blues and golds; barely the same art form as the black and cream Anakim banners. Adornment was everywhere: on a dozen tables set around the room was a chalice of silver, richly engraved; pewter plates leaned against the wall; weapons so shiny and with edges so perfect that they could never have been used; unforgivably ornamented oil lamps, gleaming with care; a pair of mighty animal tusks; a tiny harp; carved wooden pieces a forearm in length that depicted bird-warriors, lion-headed men, and angels with giant, spidery hands. The floor was not covered with skins like most Anakim houses but with rugs, finely woven and intricate. Most extraordinary and unfamiliar of all was the heavy perfume that overlaid everything; a potent, fragrant miasma that was almost too thick to breathe.
The messenger faltered slightly. The room was uncomfortably crowded. There was too much to look at, too much to consider, and his eyes flickered from one object to another, then at Vigtyr, then back at an object and then, seeking familiarity, finally settled
