“Be silent!” bellowed Tekoa. And silence there was. “It ill-befits this noble council for half its number to bay like a pack of dogs. Possession.” Tekoa cast the word in their direction and it sobered his enemies at once. There were a number of cardinal sins to a subject of the Black Kingdom. Foremost was self-pity. Then perhaps jealousy. Second to these alone was possession: acting as part of a mob, rather than as an individual. Allowing base emotions like hatred, scorn and even adulation to cloud one’s judgement and turn one into an unproductive, unthinking animal.
“Wanted by the Kryptea, is he?” continued Tekoa. “Forgive me, my lord,” he looked at Roper, “but perhaps before you speak we should put these claims to the Master of the Kryptea, who sits among us. What say you, Jokul? Did you send your men to take the life of the Black Lord, as is your right?”
Jokul stood before the councillors, pale eyes locking with Uvoren’s. “On my honour,” he said, “on my office, on my life: the assassin, Aslakur Bjargarson, was no Kryptean.”
Uvoren scoffed. “While I would never question Jokul’s honour, the rest of us are bound by different laws than he. We cannot expect the Master of the Kryptea to divulge the orders he has given to his men.”
“That sounds very much as though you are indeed questioning his honour,” said Tekoa. “Given that he swore on his honour. You must admit, Uvoren, your insistence to pin the blame on the ancient institution of the Kryptea makes this business look decidedly murky.”
“What are you suggesting?” enquired Uvoren, dangerously.
“In summary, Captain, that you have no need to be out of your seat. The Black Lord is about to speak.” Those Vidarr at the table, who were many, rapped their knuckles on the ancient oak in support of Tekoa. Roper noted the Chief Historian adding to the noise, her unshakeable gaze fastened on Uvoren.
Uvoren sank slowly back into his chair and then leaned across to Asger and began hissing in his ear.
“Thank you, Tekoa,” said Roper, inclining his head in the legate’s direction. He glared around the table, steely eyed and straight-backed. “Peers,” he employed the term of honour that subjects use between themselves, “we find ourselves at an impasse. The Captain of the Guard, Uvoren, counsels that we should stay within these walls, conserve our strength and await our moment to strike back at the Sutherners.” Roper inclined his head to Uvoren. “It is an honourable course, and I cannot question his motives. We have all heard and seen how many warriors Marrow-Hunter has put down. Nobody could accuse Uvoren Ymerson of cowardice.”
“Be quick about what you have to say, Roper,” snapped Uvoren. Asger rapped his knuckles on the table.
“I will say what must be said,” replied Roper. “Uvoren’s aims are honourable. Has he not proved many times how much he loves himself?” Roper stopped for a moment, then blinked, shook his head and snapped his fingers. “Ah! I meant, loves this country. Sorry, Uvoren. I always make that mistake.” At first there was a disbelieving titter from the table. Then it opened up into a full-throated roar of hilarity. Roper even spotted Randolph, legate of the Blackstones and one of Uvoren’s closest supporters, laughing. Uvoren’s best course would have been to grin along with the others. But his inability to laugh at himself was one of the reasons that the joke had gone down so well. Instead, he fixed Roper with his narrowed glare, just as Roper had hoped. He sensed the sympathy of the council shift slightly in his direction. This was a game of chess and Roper had just taken a bishop.
He allowed the laughter to subside and then raised his hands, as if he might speak seriously for a moment. “Peers, we must look to our own motives. We here, in the Hindrunn, are not the Black Kingdom. No more are the legions.” Roper stood aside so that they could see the rain-flecked window and the smoke that lingered on the horizon. “The Black Kingdom is out there. It is the grass being flattened by a swarm of Suthern boots; the rain-sodden ash that once made our greatest towns. It is the fire that rises from this land, every flame a vaporised part of our precious forest; somebody’s home, harvest or family.
“And we here have one purpose alone. We are the Black Kingdom’s greatest assets. This fortress and our brave warriors are here to defend that which the Sutherners destroy so contemptuously. They rape and enslave our women. They murder our peers and children. They raze to the ground trees that have stood for thousands of years, uproot our ancient villages and carry all they can find back to their gluttonous countrymen.
“Our martial reputation lies in tatters. Nobody stands before this horde as it commits atrocities. This land used to be entirely dark to the Sutherners. For every man who set foot north of the Abus, a severed head was thrown back onto its southern bank. Invading armies were met with uncompromising steel. We torched their lands with impunity when they threatened our people. The Sutherners whispered about us. We were unconquerable: a hornets’ nest that they dared not kick for the vengeful swarm that they would unleash upon themselves.
“Where is that swarm now? Those who once feared to tread upon our lands now flock across the Abus in thousands. And
