Roper was not surprised they were scared of Helmec. The guardsman stood more than seven feet in height and his face was as scarred as a battlefield. It was one of the reasons Roper had sent him. Nobody negotiates in negotiations. It’s an exercise in intimidation.
“So they led us into a massive dark tent, tricked out with skins and tables and chairs and servants, and Bellamus was there. He sent for Lord Northwic and offered us wine while we waited.”
“Wine and servants!” said Roper, amused. “Perhaps I would lead more campaigns if that was how I lived out in the field.” Helmec grinned, and Roper almost shrank away from that smile. “How was the wine?”
Triumphantly, Helmec took his water-skin off his belt and held it out to Roper, who laughed incredulously and took a sip. He had rarely tried grape-wine and it was intoxicating. “You don’t reject hospitality like that, lord,” said Helmec earnestly. Roper, Helmec and his Skiritai companion shared the wine together in the evening’s gentle dark, the cool light of the stars smouldering above. “So then Lord Northwic arrived and I said we would wait for them tomorrow at Githru to finish this war. And Bellamus started joking and asked whether we would actually fight them this time.”
“You promised we would?”
“I promised, lord. And Lord Northwic said that that was where we were going to die. Then Bellamus said he had something to show us before we left and led us up a little hill. He was chatting away, very friendly.”
Was Helmec friendly back?
“No.”
What had been on top of the hill?
“It was just a vantage point. He wanted us to see the army, spread out over their campsite. There are a lot of them. He pointed us towards a huge patch of tents, which took up more space than our entire encampment, and said it was just their knights. He said he had thirty-seven thousand of them and that they had so many horses they were stripping away the hillsides. He said they’d been resupplied by sea.”
Which was nonsense. Roper would have been prepared to wager the Hindrunn that they could not have got a message to the south and received a response in the time since they had destroyed the wagon park. Thirty-seven thousand also seemed a drastically unlikely number of knights. “He wants you to spread that rubbish among the legions,” said Roper. “So what are you not going to do?”
“Spread that rubbish among the legions?” suggested Helmec, sweetly.
“Very good. So they’re coming.”
“They’re coming, lord.”
The word spread through the camp: tomorrow, they would fight as Pryce had promised; in the narrow pass beside the sea, until their lungs were raw.
11The Fight by the Fire
The night over Harstathur threatened to disappear altogether. No sooner had the sun set than it looked ready to rise again: an ominous, flickering glow staining the sky from the east, as though dawn quivered just beyond the horizon. The sight was met with dismay by the legionaries, who desired nothing so much as a few hours of soothing dark to sustain them for the crush by the sea. A memory of quiet to set against the smash of weapons and armour.
But the glow was no unnatural dawn. It was the distant blaze of the Suthern campfires; thousands upon thousands of them. A galaxy, spread on the distant plains.
It gave Roper an idea. He commanded each group to build a bonfire, rather than the more practical-sized cooking hearth that they would usually have used, and imagined with satisfaction the immense blaze that the Sutherners would be able to see emanating from the plateau.
That night, they slept in the open; truly close to the heavens and encased in a dome of stars, sliced open every now and then as one of them tumbled from the cosmos. The camp went quiet. The legions brought their equipment to the fireside and began to check it thoroughly, burnishing and oiling the plates of their armour. They patched the holes in their leather and honed swords and axes obsessively. Some talked, usually too loudly. Roper noticed that his own bonfire was quiet: Gray had gone to address the Sacred Guard, reminding them of their duty the following day. They were still outnumbered at least two-to-one, and the expected intensity of the battlefield weighed heavily on the camp.
“Skallagrim,” said Roper, breaking the silence. “You never told us of the Battle of Harstathur.” Such a tale was delivered in the form of a chant, learned by heart. There were thousands of them; tens of thousands, documenting the history of the Black Kingdom and all safeguarded by the sisterhood of historians who lived in the Academy, the pyramid nearby the Central Keep. It formed a living record of the Black Kingdom’s history, of utmost importance to a society which had no writing. The Chief Historian and her deputy attended each council, giving historical precedents when called upon, and forming a narrative of this latest stage of the Black Kingdom’s history. They had committed a broad outline of the recent past to memory. For in-depth assessment, or for anything beyond twelve thousand years ago, they would need to visit a cell: a trio of historians who specialised in a particular period of history. There were hundreds of these. Anyone who wished to add the bard’s skill to their repertoire could make an appointment with the Chief Historian, who would arrange for a cell to tutor them in as many poems as they wished. The bard could then deliver the poem as entertainment at a great feast. For now it would make a fine distraction before battle.
Skallagrim was an old warrior, and there was not much of him that ran as easily as it had done in his youth. His right shoulder was ruined to the extent that it would dislocate if he moved it suddenly upwards. He would groan as he stood up or sat down, stretching scar-tissue that had formed in both his thighs
