The legions should be kept in the fortress. It was regrettable that the surrounding lands were being put to the torch but they had to look to the long term. Within the Hindrunn, they would outlast any attack. As long as the real wealth of the Black Kingdom—the legions—was kept safe, then they could retake all they had lost.
The Chief Historian was one of the few prepared to speak out against this course of action. A woman of steel-grey hair, angular features and unswerving rectitude, her role was to provide perspective on the situation, drawing the council’s attention towards historical precedents. “You should all realise that this may be the first time the Hindrunn has been used so defensively. Its construction was justified as a wasps’ nest, not a strong-box. In all previous invasions, the councillors have concluded that we cannot survive without supplies provided by the kingdom, and we have met our enemies in the field. Outside the walls of this chamber, the Black Kingdom is in flames.”
“We are the Black Kingdom,” growled Uvoren. There were not many prepared to speak out against him; it was obvious which way the wind was blowing.
So the legions sat inside the Hindrunn. And waited.
At his first full war council, Roper, trying to limp as little as possible on his damaged thigh, strode straight-backed to the Stone Throne and sat down in it, coldly meeting the gaze of anyone who looked at him. That had raised eyebrows, but Uvoren had not dared repeat his lie about three days of mourning in front of so many. Beyond that, Roper had no idea how to progress. He had tried to speak in the councils but Uvoren had snarled at him to be silent, followed by the rumble of agreement. That was becoming Roper’s default position. Silence.
Five full days after the legions’ return to the Hindrunn, they were still there. Another council had ended with the decision to weather the storm behind granite. It had further been decided that the gates were to be shut to the swarm of refugees arriving at the Hindrunn. Uvoren said they were to stay outside the walls, citing concerns over hygiene. As the numbers of refugees grew yet greater and became a restless mob at the fortress gates, Roper suspected the decision would be attributed to him.
Roper stood from the Stone Throne as the council filed from the room. He watched as the Chief Historian arrested one of the other councillors, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and whispering in his ear. The man, who, Roper had learned, was called Jokul, stood motionless and listened, still facing the door. The other councillors, thwarted and frustrated, had eyes only for the exit. They split around the pair, before finally Jokul turned and looked directly at Roper, locking eyes with him. The Chief Historian was still murmuring in his ear as Roper and Jokul shared a long appraisal. Finally, Jokul nodded. He had not said a word. The chamber drained until it was just the three of them, Jokul and the Chief Historian both examining Roper. Uvoren was last out of the door and looked back at them. He snorted, calling something to the sweaty-faced Guardsman Asger, who laughed uproariously and tried to steal a glance at “Boy-Roper” before Uvoren shut the door.
Roper knew about the Chief Historian, and had been watching Jokul over the last few days. He was one of the few who had stood against the idea of sheltering in the Hindrunn. Even more unusually, when he spoke, his words were not treated with scorn by Uvoren and his baying supporters, but warily considered. He was treated delicately, like one of those toxic-mouthed snakes that sometimes arrive on trade ships from distant lands, which even Uvoren dared not enrage. There was no obvious reason why. He had no reputation in battle, he was not backed by any great house that Roper knew of, and he was certainly no orator. Indeed, when he spoke, it seemed to suck the energy from the room.
“May we speak, lord?” the historian asked.
“Of course,” said Roper, resuming his seat heavily. He still felt a penetrating ache whenever he employed leg or shoulder. The Chief Historian strode nearer and Jokul drifted in her wake, both taking seats on Roper’s left.
“Do you know who we are, lord?” the historian asked, her voice steady.
“You are the Chief Historian,” Roper said. “Frathi Akisdottir. And I know your name,” said Roper, turning to Jokul. “But not your station.”
“No,” said Jokul, his voice small and crisp. “My title is Master of the Kryptea.”
And suddenly this figure made sense.
Roper stared at him for a moment, his mind swirling. He glanced at the old historian, who looked back unshakeably, tapping a finger on the table as though trying to raise the tempo of this meeting. Roper turned back to Jokul and, in the end, managed a slightly aggressive: “Well?”
“You know of the Kryptea, but our function is purposefully obscure. I would not kill the Black Lord in front of the most reliable witness in the kingdom.” Jokul gestured at the Chief Historian.
Roper licked his lips. “Then why are you here?”
Jokul sat back in one of the yew chairs that lined the table, legs folded over one another. He was excessively thin. Had a tangle of veins not wound around his forearms, he might have looked like a corpse. Roper remembered Uvoren’s words about him a few days before: I’ve seen
