Bellamus had charmed and bullied and bribed to achieve what the nobles of Suthdal had considered impossible: a network of reliable Anakim spies within the Black Kingdom itself. In previous invasions of the north, their knowledge of the enemy they faced and their tactics had been woefully inadequate. Bellamus had made himself indispensable through knowing more than anyone else; and had shown a scarcely credible flair for command to boot.
“He was always said to be promising,” he answered Lord Northwic. “But whether he actually commands is in doubt. I am told that a senior officer in the country, a warrior named Uvoren, has been making arrangements to take command should Kynortas die in battle. We met him, incidentally,” he added, glancing at Lord Northwic. “He was the one with the war hammer, on Kynortas’s left side. And the wildcat engraved on his chestplate.”
“Kynortas in the middle, who embarrassed poor Earl William,” said Lord Northwic, screwing up his face so that his eyes disappeared from view completely in his effort to remember. “Uv … Uvora?”
“Uvoren,” corrected Bellamus.
“Uvoren on the left with the war hammer. Roper was the big lad on the right. What about the other one?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Bellamus. “A Sacred Guardsman, from his armour.” The two rode in silence for a while longer, Bellamus content to stay quiet; absorbing the saturated landscape and delighting in the smell of the rain.
“I’m not sure this is a campaign we’ll get to finish,” said Lord Northwic, at last.
Bellamus looked shocked. “My lord?”
“For goodness’ sake, Bellamus,” Northwic snapped. “If I ever actually told you anything you didn’t know already, I’d feel disappointed.”
Bellamus laughed.
The news from the south was that King Osbert, who truly feared the Anakim, was minded to withdraw the army now that Earl William had been killed. Letters had streamed north, illustrating a king who thought he had done enough to placate God’s anger, and who thought, too, that they should take all they had gained and retreat. Northwic, though a powerful lord, was not considered to possess quite the level of vaunted nobility required to lead an army north of the Abus. Winter was fast approaching, and the first battle had gone better than anyone had dared hope. The rumours said King Osbert was considering leaving the campaign at that and calling it a success. It could only get worse from here.
If true, it would spell disaster for Bellamus’s ambitions. He had invested every favour, every piece of influence and wealth he had in this push north. To have it ended so soon, or else to have to deal with another earl sent north by the king to replace Earl William, could ruin everything. But he had few worries. At the first letter, he had sent a reply south with a swift rider, asking Queen Aramilla to intervene on his behalf. She had not failed him yet.
“I’m sure His Majesty will see sense,” Bellamus said after a time. “It would be madness to leave the campaign here. We have an opportunity that is unlikely to present itself again.”
Northwic nodded. “So who killed Earl William?” he growled.
“I can only guess at that, but one man does fit the description,” ventured Bellamus. “Another Sacred Guardsman of considerable renown called Pryce Rubenson. He’s a famous sprinter. They say he’s faster on foot than a horse with a rider over any distance and any terrain. And perhaps the most courageous warrior in the north.”
“See if you can confirm that,” said Northwic. “And make him pay.”
“As you wish,” said Bellamus.
“You’re a valuable man, Bellamus.”
“You know how to use me, lord.”
Lord Northwic snorted. “Yes, I do. Let you do exactly what you want.”
The Black Kingdom was being overrun. The defeat on the flood plain, which had been so humiliating that nobody had wanted to name the battle, had left the Sutherners free to rampage north of the Abus for the first time in centuries. It was as though each soldier had endured that wait personally, such was their appetite to loot and burn.
Especially to burn.
It was common enough, when at war, to set villages and granaries ablaze as you passed through them. It weakened the enemy’s morale, hampered their ability to resist and signified the helplessness of the occupied territory.
Even this, however, did not explain what was happening to the east of the Hindrunn. From atop any one of the great granite walls, or the towers that surrounded the Central Keep, an immense cloud cast the east into shadow. It smothered the light from the sky and stained every sun- and moon-rise a bruised red. Every soldier in the Hindrunn had seen it: the very sky swamped by the atomised infrastructure of their country. Scouts were flooding in, reporting a conflagration so dense that they could not pass through; a wall of flame that swept clear the lands at the back of the Suthern army.
The news grew worse.
The Anakim had always been outnumbered by the Sutherners, but their warlike society and forbidding reputation had made most think twice before attempting an invasion. Now, with the news that they had won a great victory, Suthern reinforcements were streaming north, swelling the ranks of the army that was now commanded by Lord Northwic. He was commanding well, this lord, and seemed content to keep clear of the Hindrunn, seeking instead to vaporise the land around it and so draw the legions swarming angrily from their nest.
Uvoren would have none of this. He met every day in the Chamber of State with a full council of war, the immense oak table
