Chatter broke out again and Gray leaned close to Roper. “Well done, my lord. It was important that you spoke. But this is the problem with keeping Uvoren close. As he said, he’s not done yet.”
“What else can we do? It seems we have kept the civil war in the shadows for now, but he is too powerful for us to truly disgrace him, or to have him killed. It would fracture the country. We must just wait until his threat subsides.”
“I’m not sure he’ll give you that chance,” said Gray, watching Uvoren who had turned back to Keturah with a broad smile and begun speaking to her again. She was looking coldly back at him.
Roper’s head was hazy and he was too happy for Uvoren’s words to bother him unduly. There were no more speeches and the warriors feasted until the sun began to slip through the small windows of the Honour Hall, when they stumbled back to their homes. Roper and Keturah had been last to leave, she leading him from the hall by his hand, picking their way over the wreckage and out to the Central Keep.
14The Barn
“Wooden houses,” said the big man. “Bloody hell, they’re beautiful.”
There was nothing especially beautiful about the buildings: a stooped cluster of raggedly thatched timber and daub homesteads, barely discernible through the thick flakes of floating snow. Such poor villages studded every part of Suthdal, but were not to be found north of the Abus, hence their beauty in the eyes of Bellamus’s men.
The upstart could hear cheers and cries of relief echo from his small column as the men behind sighted the village too. He turned and saw that some of them had dropped to their knees at the sight, arms held up at the sky in thanksgiving. Many others were embracing with tears in their eyes or raising fists into the air. He turned away, neither responding to the comment from Stepan, nor the reaction at his back.
The village looked like failure to him.
He had gone north beneath a fluttering stream of banners, leading a column clanking and tinkling with the panoply of war and truly believing his would be the invasion which at last subdued their ancient enemy. As far as he knew, his filthy, truncated band were the only remnant of that proud force to have stumbled back across the Abus. There were barely four hundred of them: all reeking, bearded and dressed in tatters. The others lay still beside the sea.
“God grant this dung heap an inn,” said Stepan. The towering, amber-bearded knight had been Bellamus’s most constant companion on the retreat from Githru, though the two had never spoken before the calamitous battle. He combined easy company with the stoic endurance Bellamus valued so highly in his soldiers. Unusually for a noble, he also seemed more than happy to take instructions from Bellamus, who had come to rely very much on his humour and consistency.
“There’ll be an inn,” replied Bellamus. “Which will prove too much for some of our men.”
“I’ll keep them in line, Captain,” said Stepan. He glanced sidelong at Bellamus, his gaze lingering thoughtfully on the upstart’s face. “You haven’t failed, you know,” he said. “When you’ve been over there,” he cast a thick finger into the swirling snow on their left, through which lay the far bank of the Abus, “just coming back is an achievement.”
“I haven’t failed,” agreed Bellamus. “Not until I’ve given up.”
“Good lord, sir!” Stepan burst out laughing. “You’re planning to go back?”
Bellamus smiled. “You and I together, Stepan. Why do you think we’re heading south?”
“Our terrible experiences in the north?”
“To ask the king for more men,” said Bellamus, patiently.
Stepan just laughed again. “Find me an inn, then try putting that to me again.”
The village did indeed have an inn: barely larger than the surrounding houses and with a roof so laden with thatch that it extended down to the level of Bellamus’s shoulders. An enclosure in front contained a dozen chickens sorting through the snow, which they shared with three enormous, shaven-headed men. These last sat with their backs against the inn, a clay jug between them emitting potent fumes which Bellamus could smell from ten yards away.
“Good afternoon, friends!” boomed Stepan, striding forward and holding out a spade-like hand to the nearest of the three. The sitting man made no attempt to take it, merely looking up at the knight. Stepan withdrew his hand abruptly. The eyes raised to meet him were yellow: a shocking, feverish sulphur which caused the knight to take a pace back. Before he could say any more, Bellamus laid a hand on his arm. The upstart gestured down at the men’s ankles, which were bonded with dark iron shackles. All three of them had now looked up: three pairs of yellow eyes scouring Bellamus. All were extraordinarily lean, with twisted, knuckle-busted hands protruding from beneath the mangy furs that collected snow about their shoulders.
Bellamus nodded at the three of them and held the door of the inn open, gesturing Stepan inside and stooping beneath the thatch to follow him into the pungent gloom. He had to crouch low to accommodate the huge war-blade strapped to his back: one of his few possessions to survive the retreat.
“What was that?” said Stepan, as soon as they were inside, the rest of their men crowding the door behind them.
“Anakim–Sutherner hybrids,” said Bellamus. Stepan fell still and Bellamus gestured him onward. “They’re common slaves here, but dangerous. Be careful with them.”
“Dangerous?” Stepan enquired, looking around the tavern’s interior. “This place smells
