Roper stopped abruptly and took a deep, steadying breath. He could hear a pair of crows calling to one another behind him. Enough words. Actions now. He seized the shaft of the spear, hauling it from the ground. Holding it up high, he turned back to the fortress and cantered back through the gates. On the other side, Uvoren and Asger had descended from atop the gatehouse and were waiting for him. They both grinned and Uvoren leaned to Asger and muttered something that Roper could hear plainly. “I told you he’d weep.”
Roper stopped in front of them. “Thank you for summoning me, Captain,” he said as calmly as he could. “I hope you feel you can ask for me whenever you need help.” Uvoren was straight-faced, a touch of humour in his eyes. He had heard Roper, but his words were barely worth considering. A nineteen-year-old was no more than a wasp to the Captain of the Guard. He was the most esteemed warrior in Albion. The lad was weak. Roper did not have his skill, his strength, his experience or his resolve.
“He’ll summon you whenever he pleases, Roper,” said Asger, glancing knowingly at Uvoren, who had eyes only for Roper.
Roper snorted at Asger’s words. He had developed a deep disdain for the Lieutenant of the Guard, whose face was glistening even on this cool morning. He was Uvoren’s lapdog; a yapping irritation who possessed no great talent at anything and yet had somehow managed to make it to his elevated position on Uvoren’s coat-tails. If Uvoren made a joke, he was the first to start laughing and the last to stop. If Uvoren made a comment, Asger would agree with it fervently until Uvoren decided that perhaps he had not been right after all, at which point Asger would say how wise that was. He would talk happily with anyone, until Uvoren came into a room. Then he would look superior and aloof, regularly looking over at Uvoren and rolling his eyes as if to say that this company was not worth his time.
“You’ll refer to me as ‘lord,’ Asger,” said Roper. He paused. “You’re always sweating. It must be warm, spending so much time with your head up Uvoren’s arse.”
Even Uvoren laughed at that. Asger bristled but Roper just nodded to them and spurred his horse forward, Helmec falling in behind him. He felt a not inconsiderable glee at enraging Asger.
Roper took the head to the physician in the Central Keep and requested that the flesh be stripped from it and the skull returned afterwards. The wire-haired man he left it with seemed surprised but pleased to help. Roper would bury the skull somewhere in the wilds, where Anakim bones belonged. He then returned to his quarters to drop off Kynortas’s valuable battle helm, which, in truth, he was glad to have recovered.
There was work to do.
His quarters were on the highest floor of the keep, in one of the many towers that braced its exterior. The spiral staircase outside took him down to the foundations. Here, in a cave-like chamber twenty feet high and capped with vaulted stone, Ramnea’s Own Legion, the Black Kingdom’s finest, had their training hall. Thick stone walls and dozens of shafts, lined with polished copper alloy which directed cold air and golden light into the chamber, kept it cool and light all year round.
Following Roper was a fully armed and armoured Helmec. Roper himself wore his plate armour (patched and sealed by the Hindrunn armourers) and carried one of the great swords of his own house, Jormunrekur. It was called Cold-Edge and had been bequeathed by his father four years before when Roper had reached the age of fifteen. It was one of the most distinctive weapons in Albion: a straight-bladed cleaver of the very finest temper and alloy. The Jormunrekur had all the best swords. His father’s war-blade had, perhaps, been even finer. Bright-Shock, it was called. Its blade glittered with diamond-dust, embedded in it during its forging. Even against other Unthank-weapons, it had been known to break them apart before the fight was over. An uneasy legend had also grown up around the sword. People said that Bright-Shock thirsted for blood like no other blade and that, if its thirst was not satisfied during battle, it would drive its bearer to commit murder. That weapon had been lost: it had been in Kynortas’s scabbard when he was dragged into the Suthern ranks.
Roper was glad of Cold-Edge and the memory of its receipt when he saw the legionaries’ faces. Those who were running around the great track that encircled the hall stared at him with hostility as they passed. A squad of legionaries at sword-play beyond the track fell still and gazed at him with aggressive curiosity, their lictor joining them in conspicuous inactivity.
“Wait here for me, Helmec,” said Roper. Helmec had bristled at the lictor but did as he was told, standing by the door as Roper crossed the track and stalked towards the legionaries. The lictor said nothing as Roper approached. Nor did he bow, though it would have been the expected level of deference.
“What are you staring at, Lictor?” asked Roper, coming to a halt before the officer. Roper was taller than he and stared down at the smaller man, standing as his father had taught him. Back straight, shoulders back, hands joined behind his back.
“Nothing,” responded the officer, returning Roper’s gaze.
“For your sake, I shall assume that your shocking lack of respect is because you do not know who I am,” said Roper, taking a step closer to the man and raising his voice. “I am, after all, new to my role. My name is Roper Kynortasson, of the House Jormunrekur. I am the Black Lord; your master. You refer to me
