Atop the plateau, they prepared themselves by placing fresh stone tips on their spears and creating the first shields by splitting wood found nearby and bracing it with rawhide, as defence against the Suthern arrows. It was clear that even together, there were not enough Anakim to defeat the Sutherners. So they also prepared for death, Chlodowich leading his men in prayers atop the Altar.
It was not long until the great tribe of warriors from the south had found them. The two armies formed up, the Anakim resolved not for victory, but to face oblivion on their own terms. Volleys of Suthern arrows made the air hiss and sting, but it became clear they were ineffective against the shielded Anakim. They would fight spear-on-spear: stone tips clashing and cracking. The fanged lines advanced and met one another atop the Altar. With each attack and parry it became clear: the Almighty had not forgotten them. Chlodowich and his Sacred Guard had been invested with holy power. The Sutherners’ stone spearheads shattered as they touched them, and Chlodowich and the Guard were insatiable in the middle of the plateau. The battle lasted for hours; the lines drew back and attacked many times, but at last, Chlodowich and the Sacred Guard broke through the centre of the Suthern line and turned on them, tearing their formation apart. The Sutherners broke and retreated, pursued by the horsemen of the Oris, who were able to cut down thousands.
Through faith, victory had been won. In their very darkest hour, the stubborn resolution of the Anakim had been rewarded by the Almighty. But a pact had been made. As the lines split apart for the last time, Chlodowich, his purpose completed, was at last struck down by an axe. The Almighty is just, and cannot be cheated. The great man’s bones were buried here, atop Harstathur, an offering to god.
Skallagrim finished his chant. The fire crackled and the silence in the circle was deeper than before. There, at the very site of this holy and primeval triumph, and beneath a clear and beautiful sky, every man had envisaged the ancient heroes. Skallagrim was a fine bard and he had charged the air. At the soft edges of the firelight, Roper thought he could see shadows moving. Gently shifting coagulations of darkness; watching him in return. There was the faintest gleam, as though a dark flint spear tip was moving in the night. What was this? The ghost of one of those giant heroes? Chlodowich himself? Those around the fire saw where he was looking and followed his gaze out into the blackness. The pattern of the night responded. There was something moving away, Roper was certain. He was not sure if he could see it or hear it. Or maybe he was feeling it, the vibration of weighty footsteps exiting via a dark corridor.
Looking around, Roper discovered everyone else had sensed it too. “Peers, you have heard how holy the place in which we rest is,” he said. “There could be no more fateful omen. Go now, and address your legions. Let them know that atop this anvil, our country was made.” The legates dispersed into the night, leaving just Roper and Pryce by the fire.
Roper, who had ceased running a whetstone along Cold-Edge to listen to Skallagrim, began sharpening the blade again. Pryce was casting around him, looking into the night and seeming restless. It was quiet but for the fire and Roper became very aware of the fact that this was the first time he and Pryce had been alone together. He found the guardsman’s presence uncomfortable.
“Skallagrim is quite the bard, is he not?” ventured Roper.
“In a place like this, such a story tells itself,” said Pryce dismissively. There was a pause. “Chlodowich is said to have been your ancestor, Roper.” Roper. “His great achievement was to end the most shameful chapter in Anakim history: the Uprooting. And now here we are, at the same battlefield, with a leader in whose veins the same blood flows, soon to face the same enemy.” He was giving Roper an odd look across the fire. “I can only conclude that Chlodowich bought us time; no more. His blood is much diluted.”
Roper had stopped sharpening Cold-Edge. “Make yourself clear, Guardsman.”
Pryce looked at him coldly. “They all seem to have forgotten your retreat. I haven’t.”
Roper’s mouth was open. “I stand by that retreat,” he said, face growing warm.
“As I said: Chlodowich’s blood is much diluted.”
“Is this treachery, Guardsman? Have you forgotten your oath?”
“I want to know what you have done to deserve my loyalty. I can’t think why I should die for you.”
“Though you kneel each day before the Almighty, you are arrogant, Pryce.”
Pryce did not care. “I am what I am.”
Silence fell again and Roper returned to sharpening Cold-Edge. His hands were shaking so much that the whetstone chattered against the blade. It was as though a loyal dog had turned on him. At the edge of his vision, Roper could detect the movement as Pryce turned his head towards him, evidently having heard the chattering whetstone. He did not have to look up to know that Pryce’s expression would be scornful.
Presently, another guardsman appeared at the edge of the fire. “My lord? Captain Gray urgently requests your presence at the edge of the encampment.”
Roper stood abruptly, grateful of the chance to escape. He sheathed Cold-Edge carefully and hurried after the guardsman into the darkness. Pryce, evidently assuming he was Gray’s problem now, let him go. “What is the issue?” asked Roper, falling into step with the guardsman.
“I cannot say, lord, but he was most insistent that you should come as soon as possible.”
Roper nodded to himself. The guardsman led Roper past many bonfires, surrounded by silhouetted and silent warriors. They all
