“I will, my lady,” promised Roper.
The second time, she seized Keturah’s hand and spoke at length about how she wished for her happiness. Roper expected Keturah to bat her away with one of her waspish retorts, but instead she clasped her mother’s hand between her own and paid close attention throughout. Her expression was serious and when her mother was done, she beamed at her and planted a kiss on Skathi’s cheek. “Thank you, Mother,” she said softly.
One of the legates wearing the mighty eagles’ wings led the prayers in the Holy Temple, a stone’s throw from the Central Keep, before Roper and Keturah exchanged vows and a pair of identical silver arm-rings. Roper swore to always keep her safe; she to be a dutiful wife. They finished by both saying the words, “You bury me” to one another, expressing the wish that they should die before being parted.
Tekoa remained unhappy that they were about to cede the fortress to Uvoren, but nonetheless presented Roper with a wedding gift of some splendour. It was a horse. A monstrous destrier, fully trained for battle. “Zephyr is his name,” Tekoa had growled, leading the beast over to him. “He’s twenty hands. Probably the biggest ever produced in a stable of the Black Kingdom, certainly ever in a Vidarr stable. Your enemies will see you coming on this one.” He patted the beast’s pale grey flank.
Roper had learned much since he last passed through the Hindrunn’s Great Gate. The last time, Uvoren had humiliated him in front of his people, dressing him in untouched battle-gear and parading him at the front of a shamed army. Now, Roper kept his own counsel. He would leave as he had arrived, in resplendent plate armour at the head of the army, but the effect would be quite different.
They mustered the legions that would be under Roper’s command in front of the Central Keep. Though it was scarcely more than a half-call-up, close to forty thousand men, rank on rank with armour sand-burnished and gleaming, they still made a magnificent spectacle.
And Roper led them.
Cold-Edge was sheathed at his side. He was dressed in his steel cuirass, oiled and polished, with overlapping layers of steel providing a flexible defence for his shoulders and upper arms. Inlaid into the cuirass in silver wire was a snarling wolf and a skirt of chain mail protected his thighs. High leather boots inlaid with concealed strips of metal covered his calves and a black cloak enfolded him. He wore Kynortas’s battle helmet, the helmet of the Black Lord, with his hair threaded through the back in the style of a Sacred Guardsman. He looked every inch the warlord; the visor and cheek-plates of the helmet even hiding his young, unmarked features. Even Uvoren on seeing him had smiled slightly and nodded. “You cut an impressive figure, my lord.” He and Roper had been civil as they bade each other farewell, both knowing that they now led two opposing armies.
The sun had broken through the dark blanket that had covered it for months and bathed the Hindrunn in watery gold. Roper led the army through the streets that were lined once again with women and children. Eyes penetrated Roper’s armour like nothing else as he rode Zephyr towards the Great Gate. There was no ridicule this time. Perhaps it was the assassination attempt that Roper had foiled alone. Or perhaps it was the fact that he was leading the army that was finally to take on the Sutherners. Or maybe it was just that he now looked so much the part, riding his immense battle-steed. Whatever it was, he was being accorded something approaching respect.
Roper’s gamble was more than simply ceding the Hindrunn and a host of armed men to Uvoren’s control. He faced dreadful odds in battle against the Sutherners too. He led forty thousand men and eight thousand heavy cavalry. Nobody knew how large the Suthern force they rode against was, but their best reports indicated that it had increased by half again since the last time Roper had fought them. Some said they were moving against an army of two hundred thousand men. Roper did not believe that, but there was no point denying that they were drastically outnumbered. Plans of campaign were normally met with fevered anticipation, but when Roper had summoned the legates and bade them follow him to war against this Suthern horde, he had seen the shock on their faces. He had issued his instructions and witnessed a surreal haze descend on the room. The legates had made no reply. They staggered from the room, gaping at their own hands. The armoured men who marched behind Roper bore that same expression. The women who lined the roads read it and stood with white knuckles and slender lips. The atmosphere was one of shocked farewell. This was so sudden, and victory so implausible. How could they possibly triumph?
Roper ignored it all. His face was set, his doubts hidden behind it and able to escape only when he opened his mouth. So he said nothing. Gray, riding behind him, wore no expression at all. He stroked the neck of his horse with a gloved hand and smiled every now and then when he caught the eye of one of the onlookers. Tekoa, next to Gray, was unyielding.
The two great sheaths of iron-clad oak were hauled open before Roper and he drew his sword in preparation at passing through the Outer Wall. He raised Cold-Edge over his head in a retrospective salute to the crowds who lined the street, wondering if he would ever re-enter this fortress.
And to his very great surprise, somebody
