“What’s the news?” Bellamus called to no one in particular, weaving through warriors in an effort to reach his own tent.
“The Anakim, lord!” said the young lad Rowan, almost hopping with excitement. “Their army has attacked at the mouth of the valley!” Rowan threw a finger into the air, pointing to an unearthly cloud of mist rising above them, visible over the morning fog against the faint lightening of the sky above. It was the manifest breath of thousands of warriors.
“Good lord.” Bellamus took just one moment to stare down the valley. “My courser this instant, Rowan!” He was already wearing his war gear. He did not fight in battles. He preferred to give orders from an unobscured vantage point and so wore two thick layers of leather with chain mail in between to protect him against arrows. His horse was brought to him and he mounted, turning back to Rowan. “Tell Lord Northwic I’m going to hold them. I’d be much obliged if he’d come and finish them before they finish me.” He raked back his heels and lunged into the mist. The faster members of his retinue were hauling themselves onto horses and joining him, so that half a dozen mailed warriors were soon with him, thundering into the white.
His tent was towards the centre of the valley and the Anakim had attacked from the south. Because of the vast size of the army, Bellamus was some miles from the front on which the Anakim descended. He might be too distant, but decisiveness was a disproportionate advantage in war. One word was ringing through his head: attack. The Anakim’s advantage lay in facing an unprepared enemy whose resistance would be scattered and half-hearted. If Bellamus could assemble something unexpectedly stubborn, there was a chance he could hold them. If he could hold them, Lord Northwic would be able to bring reinforcements and overwhelm them. He doubted they were facing the whole Anakim army. The chances of a full call-up approaching undetected were negligible. In any case, his spies had told him of the leadership crisis unfolding in the Hindrunn. It seemed unlikely that one general had managed to gain control over the whole army. This was a splinter force: it had to be, and together he and Lord Northwic could turn this surprise attack on its head. But he had to be fast, and he had to be decisive.
Bellamus could hear none of the sounds of battle. He could see no figures through the mist. He could smell no smoke on the frozen air. But billowing above him, visible against the sky above, was that malignant cloud of mist. The horn called faintly through the mist again: Enemy Attacking. They were here.
There were a score of riders with him and a dozen more were unveiled by their progress, dithering about a lord with a thick black beard. “With me!” shouted Bellamus, startling them into movement. “With me! All of you, run or ride now to defence of your home!” From all sides, soldiers coagulated on his form. Some had ferociously gritted teeth and a naked sword, but no armour. Some hurried wide-eyed after his growing band, seizing shields at random and cramming tousled heads into helmets. Bellamus led sixty, then ninety, then one hundred and fifty: swordsmen, horsemen, spearmen, longbowmen, all keeping pace as he advanced. Their enemy could emerge from this mist at any moment, but they built a reassuring momentum that swept up the valley; a pulse of men surging in resistance.
Bellamus kept his eyes forward, sweeping the bank of white that swallowed everything except the spluttering river to his left. Were those hoof beats he could hear? They were: growing louder every moment. Huge figures consolidated in the mist before him, swarming against his patchwork band. Bellamus swore, fingernails the only weapons that occurred to him. But one of the retainers by his side held out the shaft of a spear, which Bellamus seized with a fevered nod of gratitude. “Charge!” he shouted, as his band faltered. “We stop them here!”
But as the figures before them solidified, they too baulked and shied away from the conflict. Bellamus allowed the charge to continue for a few heartbeats more, spear held as a lance and eyes gaping, before he realised. These were Sutherners: his own men, fleeing the Anakim at their back. “Halt, halt! Form on us! Back now, back!” and he gestured them back the way they had come. The fleeing soldiers, most of them unarmed, milled around until swept up by Bellamus’s more purposeful band. They began to move as one, more warriors still emerging from the tents to either side, bringing spare weapons to those who had none.
As they clattered up the valley, the atmosphere became more oppressive, silencing the excited jostling of his band. There was an energy developing, so potent that Bellamus half expected to see sparks jumping between the rings on his fingers, curled tight around worn leather reins. There were hundreds of men with him now. None of them spoke: they just panted and stomped in silence.
A clatter came from high up on their right and Bellamus turned towards the sound so forcefully that his horse almost turned with him. The mist was shallow, lying close to the ground, but still he could see nothing moving on the steep slopes of the valley. Then he spotted a small rock avalanche tumbling down the slope above him. “Keep moving!” he shouted. If they were around him, there was nothing he could do about it. This Bellamus had learned first of all: whatever your plan is, execute it with utmost certainty.
Bellamus strained his ears into the fog and, for the first time, thought he could hear his enemy. Sounds carried unnaturally far in the still mist and the
