A dozen villagers already sat drinking inside, the convivial atmosphere falling away as they turned to stare at the new arrivals. Though it was clear from the villagers’ stature and expressive faces that all were Sutherners, they looked nearly as alien as the hybrids outside. All of them, men and women alike, had the sides and backs of their heads shaven; with the hair above twisted into long, brightly coloured braids. The braids were embedded with brass, copper, iron and stone ornaments, and rattled as each head swung round to examine Bellamus and Stepan. The villagers also wore vibrant necklaces and bracelets, similar in style to their hair-braids, which contrasted starkly with their dark, threadbare clothes.
One of the braided men stood at the sight of them, a skin of drink clutched at his side, and strode over to Bellamus. “Welcome, strangers,” he said. “You look like you’ve been travelling for a spell. Is it ale brings you here? Or food?”
There was a short pause while Bellamus tried to decipher the thick accent. The words the innkeeper had used for “travelling” and “spell” had both been Anakim, to Bellamus’s ears. “Both,” he said eventually. “But food first.” He produced a golden bracelet from his pocket and dangled it in front of the innkeeper. “Is there enough food in this village to feed four hundred? And five barrels of ale.”
The innkeeper blinked at the gold before him. “I might have to get some supplies from a neighbouring town. No more than an hour away.”
“We’ve waited a long time,” said Bellamus, giving him a tight smile. “We can wait a little longer.”
The innkeeper rubbed his hands together and glanced at the vagabonds clustered in the door behind Bellamus. “I’ve got the ale now, if you want it.”
Bellamus hesitated, turning to look at the beaming soldiers behind. “That would be welcome,” he said, eventually.
The innkeeper recruited help from the table of regulars and departed to fetch the ale.
Bellamus went outside to address the column, informing them that the first thirty could enter to share the inn’s warmth for an hour, and the rest would have to wait their turn. “No trouble, boys,” he warned them, and then gestured at the shackled hybrids sitting in the snow. “Don’t bother the slaves. Or the chickens.” Back inside, Stepan had saved a seat for him at one of the long tables.
“Why are they dressed like that?” demanded the knight as Bellamus settled next to him. He was glaring suspiciously at the heavily adorned villagers, who were staring back with equal curiosity.
“These people use Anakim words in everyday language,” said Bellamus. “They tell each other translated Anakim poetry, and are separated from their enemy by no more than a narrow strip of water. They are more alike than they would care to admit, so they separate themselves with their appearance. The Anakim wear no adornment and do not value colour. People dress like this throughout northern Suthdal to create a barrier more resilient than the Abus. Stop staring, my friend,” he added.
Stepan looked back towards Bellamus. “And what did you mean those boys outside are ‘hybrids’?”
“Cross-breeds of Anakim and Sutherner,” said Bellamus. “The yellow eyes always turn up in the hybrids. They’re livestock here, as common as oxen. The villagers breed them, and enslave them with chains and drink.”
Stepan raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous, eh? I’d be dangerous too if they kept me in drink and chains.”
Bellamus smiled briefly. “Not dangerous like them, I think,” he said. “They’re dangerous because they’re unpredictable. Hybrids are unstable.”
A braided woman arrived, placing leather beakers of ale down in front of Bellamus and Stepan. “What?” asked Stepan bluntly, reaching for a cup. “Ah! That’s not bad.”
Bellamus left his own cup where it was. “The Anakim can be reasoned with,” he said. “Our kind can be reasoned with. For whatever reason, hybrids cannot. Whatever decision-making process they go through, I’ve yet to meet anyone who can interpret it. The most unexpected stimulus can evoke a feral rage.”
“Strange though, to keep a farm animal capable of plotting against you,” said Stepan.
“Using them is an art,” acknowledged Bellamus. “For these folk, one that pays off more often than not. If you can’t work out how they’ll react, then don’t give them anything to react to. Keep their conditions exactly the same and, through trial and error, you can find a way to keep them calm.”
Stepan stared into his cup for a while. “And they breed them?”
“Captured female Anakim are used to breed,” said Bellamus. “But the hybrids are infertile, and most don’t survive childhood.” Bellamus had intended to leave it there, but Stepan had lowered his heavy brow. He went on. “The males have trouble breathing and, more often than not, both sexes succumb to unbearable headaches.” He shrugged at Stepan’s expression. “It is their way, up here. They have a hard life, and the hatred of the Anakim runs deeper than we can possibly appreciate.”
“It sounds a grim practice,” declared Stepan. “I wouldn’t breed a horse that had only an evens chance of making it to adulthood.”
“Neither would I,” said Bellamus, “but the Anakim are not just an animal they feel neutral towards.” He gestured over at the table of villagers, who were now sitting in silence as they continued to stare at the new arrivals. “All of these people will have lost family to them. Their lands are terrorised every year and their livelihoods destroyed.” Bellamus was silent for a moment. “Though I’d like to think otherwise, I cannot say with any certainty that if I were in their position, I wouldn’t do the same. Many of them must be good folk, and yet I have heard no common objections to the use of hybrid slaves. If I were born in this village, what are the chances that I’d be the only one of them to renounce the practice?”
“You could say the same to excuse any behaviour,” said Stepan, mildly.
“You’re right,” said Bellamus. “Were I here in a different capacity, perhaps I would
