“And that’s all you are, Captain,” said Gray. Uvoren was very close to him, eyes boring into Gray’s. Uvoren was a little taller than the guardsman and looked down at him coldly, stepping a little closer. Gray’s sword, still clutched in his right hand, moved very slowly between them, coming to rest just below Uvoren’s chin. “That’s all,” he repeated softly. “That’s all.”
“Uvoren!” called a voice behind him. “I thought you were going to open fire on us!”
Uvoren whirled around, the grin returning to his face in the time it took him to turn. “My lord!” He and Roper strode towards each other and embraced like brothers. Uvoren broke away first, gripping Roper’s shoulders and beaming at him. “We merely wanted to greet you properly!”
Roper laughed delightedly, looking into Uvoren’s face with genuine pleasure. “Githru was a triumph, Uvoren! The campaigning season is over and the Sutherners have been driven south of the Abus.”
“Oh,” said Uvoren, allowing the grin to slip a little. “I wonder where the rumours we heard came from.” He stared at Roper for a moment. The boy was bigger than he remembered. Broader, taller and certainly bolder. Roper shrugged. At his back, the legions were re-entering the fortress. Uvoren’s forces on the battlement were looking on, nonplussed. “And I thought these men were your wounded.” Uvoren jerked his head behind him to where Gray and his five hundred stood.
“You are surely overjoyed to be mistaken,” said Roper.
Uvoren re-engaged his smile. “Naturally, lord. Come!” He turned away from the gate and placed his hand in the small of Roper’s back, steering him towards the keep. “We must prepare a victory feast!”
“Gray.” To Uvoren’s fury, Roper slipped his grip and headed instead for the veteran guardsman. He stopped just before Gray, who offered him a smile and a deep bow. Roper raised Gray up and the two embraced tightly. “Thank you,” said Roper as they broke apart. “Thank you for everything.”
“‘Don’t think about the Hindrunn,’ I believe was my advice to you,” said Gray. “Where would we be now if you’d listened to that?”
“You also gave me another piece of advice. ‘The greatest warriors can fight in any theatre, but the greatest leaders do not need to fight at all.’ And here we stand. We’re back, brother.”
Part IIWINTER
13The Honour Hall
Victory.
The word was nectar to Roper. He and Gray wandered through the streets as though drunk. The cobbles were deserted: the residents had dared not emerge.
“Victory!” Gray would hiss, to Roper’s joy.
“Again,” demanded the Black Lord.
“Victory!”
It did not matter how late the hour; they would have a feast. A successful campaign always ends in a feast and this one would take hours to prepare. All the warriors would attend, each at one of the barracks sprinkled throughout the Hindrunn. Cauldrons of birch wine, mead, ale, cider and beor would make the tables bow before the food even arrived. Such food! It was not salted, nor smoked nor dried. Freshly slaughtered pork, beef or poultry, roasted over charcoal and stuffed with ramsons. With it, burdock baked in clay ovens and flagons of buttermilk.
Roper’s feast would be the most magnificent of all. Two hundred of the country’s most esteemed figures: legates, councillors, historians and warriors, would process up the steps into the Central Keep and cram into the Honour Hall. Those who had fought most bravely on campaign would be rewarded with an invitation and perhaps a place at High Table with Roper and his most honoured guests.
No one had known there would be a feast, so celebrations had to be started from scratch. The clay ovens were packed with wood and brought up to temperature. A small battle was fought between an army of pigs and their drunken herdsmen. After but half an hour, the herdsmen declared themselves triumphant and their vanquished enemies were loaded onto wagons to be sent to the kitchens. The drink was lifted from cool cellars by the jar and barrel, swinging pendulously beneath cranes and dumped onto carts from which they were distributed around the citadel. They were almost ready to begin cooking before anyone realised that the chefs were nowhere to be seen. They were still hiding within their barricaded homes, unable to tell the difference between the noises outside and the sound of an army sacking the fortress.
They were coaxed out and set to with gusto once they realised this was not a sacking but a celebration. Roper issued the summons for those who would attend his feast, with fifty-three Sacred Guardsmen, thirty-two Ramnea’s Own legionaries, twenty-one Skiritai, eleven Pendeen legionaries, forty-three auxiliaries and a score of berserkers joining the nobles of the country in the Honour Hall. Roper was not convinced all of the berserkers had earned their invitation but Gray had advised him otherwise. “Any feast with less than a dozen berserkers won’t be worth attending, lord.”
It was hours past midnight when the kitchens finally declared themselves ready and the double-height doors to the Honour Hall (more bog-oak) were opened. Roper sat in the centre of the High Table, raised on a dais and overlooking the other great tables where his subjects sat. The Honour Hall itself was solid granite with a high roof of vaulted stone. Small windows that permitted no light on this moonless night were set just below the roof, with illumination instead provided by two-score blazing braziers which lined the walls. These cast their flickering light on the thousands of carvings that rippled the wall, depicting the outlines of endless scenes of battle, victory, slaughter, treaty, duty, hunting and coronation.
That evening, Roper’s right-hand man was Gray and on his left sat a stranger: his wife. On her other side was Uvoren, and next to him was Pryce. On Gray’s other side was Tekoa.
First, the drink. Roper noted that Gray, Pryce,
