“By all accounts, yes; he did well,” allowed Tekoa. “That got him the Prize of Valour. But no matter what claptrap Gray tells you about being frightened, Roper,” he continued sternly, “you will never meet a braver warrior. People say Uvoren is courageous. They say my nephew, Pryce, is courageous. These are lions. It is easy for a lion to fight what’s in front of it. Gray thinks. He observes; and then he does what must be done. He has a mind made for battle.”
“So how would you take the Hindrunn?” Roper asked Gray.
“I would not consider it yet, lord. We finish the Sutherners; then we can worry about Uvoren.”
They discussed the remainder of Rokkvi’s campaigns, with Gray relenting and telling Roper of how three other sieges had ended in a successful assault. Tekoa mostly left this to Gray, but would interrupt every now and then with his own perspective.
“I was told once,” said Roper, “that the greatest warriors can fight in any theatre. Do you think that’s true?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Gray. “The warrior’s greatest gifts are endurance and courage. There are very, very few who are born natural fighters, and even they will never be more than passable if they don’t work at their skill. If you do not flinch from hard work and you have the grit to pick yourself up again and again when you fail, then you will be hard to overcome in any field.”
“So is Uvoren one of those?”
“He is,” said Gray. “He is in love with his own reputation, but do not underestimate him. He works very, very hard. When he first adopted Marrow-Hunter, he was something of a joke. It was to enhance his own prestige; no more than that. He was one of the very few privileged to use a weapon other than a sword, so he did, just to underline his status. He was not used to the weight, and when he fought, he looked clumsy and childlike. But he trained every day, longer and harder than those who used a sword. And then we all saw him fight at Eoferwic, knocking knights flat left and right to gain access to King Offa. Suddenly, these armoured men looked as vulnerable to him as an upturned limpet. Yes: he can fight in any arena.”
“Damn,” said Roper.
“Indeed,” said Gray. “Well, my lord, think about this: the greatest warriors can fight in any theatre, but perhaps the greatest leaders do not need to fight at all.”
They rode on. On the first day, the legions covered eleven leagues, four of which they had swarmed across country, between tree trunks and across swollen streams, before joining with the road. It was sheltered by the forests, moving gently in Anakim fashion with the terrain, rather than through it.
That night, over a bowl of boiled, salted mutton, Roper observed that though tired, the legionaries seemed in high spirits. In part their morale had been boosted by the victory they had already won over the Suthern army, but it was Roper’s first encounter with the fact that the men under his command were happiest when they had a purpose. They knew where they were going and why, and so served more readily than ever. There was no longer a disconnect between their duties and the ultimate aim of the campaign. Each man could see how every action he performed contributed to defeating the Sutherners.
Roper pushed the legions hard the next day. He dismounted Zephyr, shouldered his own pack and set out fast. Marching along the line, Roper soon came abreast with the Pendeen Legion. He had been apprenticed to them earlier in the year: plucked from his position in the berjasti—the second stage of education in the Black Kingdom—to be given accelerated training in what it meant to be a leader. Some called out to him as he passed, Roper returning the greetings and exchanging a few words. Many of them knew him and this was the only legion that had felt some fondness towards him when he had taken command. Presently, he came across a half-dozen of his particular friends, who hailed him.
“Lord!”
“Young lord!”
Roper gave a genuine smile of some scarcity, falling into step beside them.
“You’re walking straight again, lord,” said a short legionary with an irrepressible grin.
“Let’s not talk about that,” said Roper. The last time he had seen these men was at the Feast of Avadon in the Pendeen mess; Roper’s first warrior feast.
“I think we should talk about it, lord,” said another with a flattened, crooked nose.
The short legionary took pity on him and changed the topic. “So what’s it like, giving the orders now, lord?”
“It is what it is,” said Roper, cautiously. They might be friends of his, but Roper was not prepared to shatter the image he was cultivating by revealing too much to them. “I get to add the Almighty Eye to my coat of arms, though. That counts for something.”
The short one chuckled. “What coat of arms would we give the young lord if we could?” It was a favourite marching game.
“An owl, perhaps?” said one of the legionaries.
“He’s not as sensible as an owl,” said the legionary with a flattened nose. “He can be a shrew. For his unhinged solo ride through the Suthern encampment.” That found favour and was met with a hoot of laughter.
Roper looked sour. “Unwise to say that to the man who genuinely has the power to change your arms, Otar,” he said. “Yours shall be a thistle.”
They marched on. In front of the Pendeen marched Ramnea’s Own Legion and Roper quickened his pace so that he could inspect the elite of the Black Kingdom. He noticed that even when marching, these were trying to differentiate themselves from the ordinary legionary. They walked straighter, talked more, and had an unmistakable swagger even now that was only produced by appointment to this esteemed institution. It was widely said that when appointed to Ramnea’s Own, you bade farewell forever to
