“An entire community destroyed,” said Keturah. She stared across the empty street, mouth slightly open. The buildings were covered in a fine layer of ash, picked up by the wind and dusted over the stone. A few of the wooden shutters were half-open, like the eyes of the dead. There was nothing left to animate the houses.
Sigrid gave Keturah her steady look. “Then there’s nothing else we can do for them. Come, my love.” She held out her hand, which the younger woman took. “There’re people all over this fortress who could do with our help.”
On the other side of the fortress, Roper too was touring the streets, accompanied once again by the resolute presence of Helmec. He glanced at his companion, who did not seem to have been fazed by the devastation unfolding around them and still walked with a bounce in his step. “What are you doing here, Helmec? Go home, I’m in no danger. Uvoren’s best hope at the moment is that the plague strikes me down. I can’t lose you to disease as well. Go home.”
“I’m going nowhere, lord.”
“It’s an order, Helmec. Off you go.”
“I have no interest in your orders, lord,” said Helmec cheerfully.
Roper tutted. “I have no idea how a legionary as mad as you has survived so long.”
“I too am mystified, lord.”
Roper was touched by Helmec’s loyalty, but did not want the responsibility of yet another soul hanging over him. Particularly one so close. Generosity had begun to make him feel guilty; that he had erred so badly and still enjoyed such dedication from those closest to him.
The corpse-smoke hung on his shoulders like a leaden cloak, making him sick to his heart. He had never really considered why he wanted to rule. He supposed, looking back, that it was because this was what his life had been spent in preparation for, and that because the alternative was death. Uvoren had tried to take it away from him and so, naturally, he had fought back. He had not really thought beyond that. But now, standing at night behind a barricade as he watched frail, trembling figures further down the street ignite the piled bodies of their loved ones; or saw the pale faces of his soldiers, who were being forced to contain their friends and acquaintances with a silent, inglorious threat; he was not sure he had wanted it after all. He did not admit this to anyone. Not Keturah. Not Gray. Certainly not Tekoa. There was only one way through this: onwards. Confessing that he was not sure he was the man for this job was a certain way to have others agree.
Perhaps they already did. Returning to his quarters that evening, Keturah had seemed uncharacteristically muted and irritable, just as she had the day before. Was she appalled by what she was seeing and by the man she had married? That thought was better than the alternative. That the invisible infection had crossed the air and infiltrated her lungs.
There was no one so expert at making Roper regret his actions as Uvoren, who challenged him in every council meeting. “You tried to provide justice for the displaced eastern subjects. How can they have justice now that they are being ripped apart by plague? Where is the justice for those already within the fortress, who were unaffected by war and now find their loved ones dying in a manner more ignoble and drawn out than that offered by any battlefield? Ever the man for the grand gesture, Roper, but you didn’t think this one through, did you?”
No, was the honest answer. Roper, overwhelmed for an instant, stood furiously to say they were doing all they could; that they had acted as fast as they were able, and found even his allies shaking their heads at his excuses. One by one, Uvoren’s closest supporters stood to make speeches against Roper, driving home the catastrophe as hard as they were able.
First came the dark, brooding form of Baldwin Dufgurson, the Legion Tribune. “Let us examine the facts of this boy’s rule so far. He has overseen the first ever retreat of a full call-up from the battlefield.” There came a rumbling jeer. “And now, just months later, we have our first serious plague in fifty years as a direct consequence of his policies. The streets are choked with bodies! Our people cannot move for the soldiers that force them to stay and die! Is this what leadership in the Black Kingdom has come to?” He sat to raucous affirmation. The Vidarr and Jormunrekur, perhaps complacent, perhaps tired of this struggle, were quiet and it was the Lothbroks who dominated.
Next up, Vinjar: the rotund, sarcastic Councillor for Agriculture. “Tell me! One of you please, tell me, where is the Hindrunn’s food to come from? It is not merely that we live in such squalid, cramped conditions. This fortress is overpopulated and now that the eastern subjects have been accommodated so generously at Lord Roper’s invitation, the supplies from the east have dried up. At a time when our population is largest and most in need of nourishment, Lord Roper has helped ensure that we have as little food as possible. You must tell us all, Lord Roper, what was going through your mind!” This speech seemed to be particularly effective and was met with a mighty jeer.
Roper tried to stand and retort but was drowned out by the Lothbroks, who were instead insisting that Randolph, legate of the Blackstone Legion, who had also stood, should be heard instead. Randolph was one of the swaggering rogues who did so well under Uvoren, a handsome warrior with a reputation for recklessness. He was grinning as Roper was forced to give way to him under pressure from the table. “It becomes yet harder, Lord Roper, to see where your true talents in fact lie.” The Lothbroks hooted. “While we’ve got you here,
