Lord Northwic jerked his head as though to dispel the mood. “We shall move the army to the coast,” he said. Food was more plentiful there than inland; they could take fish, crabs, kelp and shellfish. There was also the option of being resupplied by ships from Suthdal. “We shall replenish our resources and send a message to the king saying we have seen off a minor raid.”
“It would appear,” replied Bellamus slowly, “that Roper knows what he is doing. My God, we will have our revenge.”
The day was beginning to fade by the time the Anakim had come to a halt. Most of the legionaries were silent as they assembled the camp; in equal measure exhausted, elated and shocked. Physically and mentally, the effort it had taken to march through the night to come down on the Sutherners at dawn, sweep through their camp, ascend the col fast enough to avoid being caught and then retreat so swiftly as to discourage anything other than token pursuit, was at the limits of what even the legions were capable of. Roper had wrung every last drop from his soldiers and been rewarded with an overwhelming victory; though of course they had lost peers as well. Men had watched friends of a dozen campaigns fall raiding the encampment, dampening the light-headed wonder at what they had achieved that day. Crushed by his exertions, Roper was attempting to help the Sacred Guard assemble some rough fortifications, but working so slowly that Helmec took him gently by the shoulders and steered him towards the fire, pressing a bowl of hot hoosh into his hands. Roper stared blankly down at the thick stew for some time before taking up a spoon and beginning to shovel it absent-mindedly into his mouth.
The Black Lord in particular had been at the heart of that effort. He had not ridden alongside the legionaries. He had walked with them, sharing each league, blister and flooded road. He had stumbled with them in the dark of a moonless night as they approached the Suthern encampment. On the advance he had led from the front, and on the retreat from the back; at each stage more exposed to danger than any other man. He wore the risk lightly, joking with those around him and seemingly oblivious to the threat of the Suthern army. When they had at last reached the Suthern encampment and swept down upon it, the Black Lord, oblivious of what might be waiting for them in the mists, had finally mounted Zephyr and rampaged far ahead of his soldiers, Gray and Helmec tearing to keep up and preserve their lord.
If one of his men slipped, the Black Lord would not help them up, marrow-drained though they were. He stopped with them, making jokes, until the fall seemed a small thing and righting it even smaller. There had been no special arrangements for him: he did not use the great, many-chambered constructions of canvas that Lord Northwic and Bellamus brought on campaign with them. He slept beneath the charcoal clouds, wrapped in his great black cloak, a saddle for his pillow.
He did not address his soldiers by rank but by name. So many names, it was a miracle that he knew them all. His secret was that every spontaneous interaction was planned; before he joined a group of men for the march, he would consult their officers. He cooked his own meals, tended his own weapons, minded his own mood and that of every man around him.
These efforts diminished Roper. Sometimes, marching in obscurity with the legionaries, he could not be found to make decisions and the legates would have to take temporary command of the column. Placing himself at risk also placed the army at risk: if he was caught by the Sutherners, or blundered into a sentry, the army would be thrown into chaos. Sometimes Roper was so weary he could barely see, let alone lead the legions effectively. But he always kept that to himself. He had made his choice. This was how he led: by example and without compromise.
Presently, their work finished, a dozen guardsmen joined him at the fire. Pryce sat on his left and Gray on his right. Others filled in the gaps at the hearth, each bowing to Roper as they walked before him. It was a formality that should have been observed all along, but Roper was too weary to notice how his reputation was changing. Word of how he and Zephyr had marauded single-handed through the valley was spreading quickly. The guardsmen took their hoosh from a blackened communal pot hung above the fire on a tripod of greenwood and sat in companionable silence, beginning to eat.
“That was a triumph, my lord,” said Gray, breaking the silence after a few minutes. The guardsmen thumped their feet on the grass in affirmation.
Roper looked up from his bowl with a faint smile, a little hoosh dribbling down his chin. “Wasn’t it?” was all he managed.
“And how was your first victory, lord?” asked Pryce. Of every man Roper had seen, the athlete seemed the least affected by the day’s exertions. His handsome face was marred by a split over his left cheekbone, surrounded by bruising and scales of dried blood, but he was ignoring it. The irrepressible guardsman did not even seem tired.
“I loved it, Pryce,” confessed Roper. “I know there were thousands of dead; I know we have lost many brave peers and that this didn’t even qualify for the full glory of the battle line … but I have never been so enthralled.” He shook his head, not able to articulate what he had felt.
“It is what we live for,” said Pryce, approvingly.
“You were born for this role, my lord,” said Gray. “You cannot tell before you throw a man into battle for the first time how he will respond. I have seen martial prodigies of the
