The commander cut him off. “It’s being done. I’ve given orders for Sir Lenard to be taken upstairs and given a room to befit his station. The doctor is being summoned as we speak. You needn’t worry about him anymore. We’ll see him right, you have my word.” The fort commander took up a cup of wine from the table, and had a swift swallow. He swirled the wine, looking them over. “So…who are you, then? Knights? Sellwords?”
“Both,” Gerrin said. “I was a knight of the Emerald Guard once before.” He gestured to Harden. “He sells his sword, though is a distant kin to the Strands.”
Lord Ghent smiled as though enjoying a private joke. “An Ironmoorer? Yes, you have the look, there’s no doubt there.” Harden was a grey man, grim and lean and hard-looking, features typical of those lands. “And how about you, young man?” Ghent said to Jonik. “Do you have a name?”
Something told Jonik he already knew. “You know my name,” he said.
The commander gave a bark of laughter. It rang through the hall, up into the rafters. A nesting bird flapped away in fright. “So I do. I know all your names, in fact. He did tell me you were a perceptive young fellow. A bit of a dour lad, true, but not the monster you’re made out to be. ‘Greatly misunderstood’ he said of you.”
“Who did?” Gerrin asked.
The answer was obvious. “Borrus,” Jonik said. “He passed this way not long ago.”
Ghent gave another barking laugh, a short abrupt sound. “Perceptive indeed. Yes, the Barrel Knight rolled on through, and what a bloody shock it was for me to see him! Told me a funny old tale of ships and pits and long-lost knights saved from the clutches of a Piseki warlord. And much more besides. I’d heard some rumours of all that, of course, but hadn’t thought much of them. Borrus Kanabar riding with the Ghost of the Shadowfort? And this Emeric Manfrey too?” He had another swallow of wine. “Nonsense, until I heard it from the horse’s mouth. Before then I was one of those who wished you dead, Jonik. Now? Not so much. You sound more hero than villain to me.”
Jonik could not help but smile. He even felt a bit of blush rising up his neck. “I…thank you, my lord,” is all he managed to say.
“Not at all. Not at all. Now come, come. Have a cup of wine, and let’s talk.”
They approached the table, as Commander Ghent set about filling them each a goblet. He passed them out, looking over them as he did so. His eyes finished on Jonik again, looking at his cloak, the glimpse of armour beneath, the shape of his sword within the folds. “You don’t mind if I take a look, do you? I’ve seen the Sword of Varinar up close a few times, when Lord Daecar has passed through, but never the Nightblade.”
“You’ll have to leave your post if you want to see that blade,” Harden said to him.
Ghent wasn’t understanding. “How’s that?”
“He gave it up,” Gerrin explained. “The Nightblade has been left in the Shadowfort.” They had to assume that Borrus had told Ghent about all of that as well. The journey to the Shadowfort, the destruction of the order, perhaps even the Book of Contracts. But not Ilith. Borrus and the others had never known of him.
“Oh?” Ghent raised his eyes. “Seems odd to leave it up there. Turning over a new leaf, are you Jonik?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you know which way Borrus went, Lord Ghent?” Gerrin asked.
“South, down the Rustriver. There’s battle brewing that way, we’ve heard. Prince Raynald marched an army through here not long before Borrus appeared. Been a busy few weeks.” He drank again, then refilled his cup. “But back to Sir Lenard. Was it the Crabby Onion where you found him?” He gave a sigh when they all nodded. “Then I guess my men never made it. Been expecting their return for days.”
“Men?” Gerrin asked. “You sent men out to fetch him?”
“A half dozen of them,” Ghent confirmed. “With a sturdy carriage so they could bring Sir Lenard back here nice and dry and out of these blasted rains. Borrus didn’t want to be moving the knight in such a bad condition, so asked that I fetch him back. Him and this young lad he left to look after him.” He paused, thinking. “Forget his name.”
“Devin,” Jonik said, feeling a hot stab of anger in his chest. “His name was Devin. And he was murdered while he waited.”
Commander Ghent was not aware of that. “Oh. What happened to him?”
“A group of deserters came upon the inn,” Gerrin explained. “They killed the inkeep and his wife and slew young Devin as well, leaving Sir Lenard to rot in his bed.”
Ghent exhaled. “Gods. How foul. I trust you made these men suffer?”
“Not enough,” Jonik growled. “They died too quickly. Badly, but quickly.”
“Three others escaped,” added Harden. “But we got the leaders.”
“And you saw no sign of my men? No carriage on the road?”
They looked at each other. None of them had seen a sturdy wagon on the road, though for the most part they had kept to narrow tracks and trails down which a carriage would not be able to travel. Most likely the men had been attacked and killed by some creature before they made it to the inn. A dragon seemed the likely culprit. Gerrin put that to the fort commander, and he gave a sour nod.
“You’re probably right. Those dragons swarm like flies these days, and one…” He paused, looking down over the letters and scrolls on the table. “Word’s been coming in about…” He swallowed, almost unable to even say it. “The Dread,” he managed at last. His voice was choked. “It’s being claimed that Drulgar’s arisen, can you believe that? They say he’s as big as those twin titans out there. A thousand feet across at the wings. Picture it. Just try to picture it. A thing like that, haunting the skies.” He gave a visible shudder. “Rumour is he’s taken down Varinar. It’s unthinkable.”
They had heard those rumours as well, while in Ilithor. Ghent had another large gulp of his wine to steady himself. “So, you’re, um...to continue south as well, I take it? The gods know we could use men like you down there.”
Gerrin gave answer with a nod, choosing not to elaborate on their mission. “We are in need of a Bladeborn-bearing horse, if you have one. One of ours broke a leg, not long ago. We had to put her down.”
“Ah. Terrible business, that. Always terrible to have to put down a good horse. I’ll have an ask around for you. We don’t have one going spare here in the fort, but perhaps they do on the Tukoran side. I’ll talk with Commander Hopham, see if he can help us.”
“We have a dog as well,” Jonik said.
“I know. I can hear him scratching at the door.” Commander Ghent smiled and called for the door to be opened. At once the big mastiff loped forward, all floppy skin and drooping chops, running up to Jonik’s side. Jonik smiled, giving him another good scratch under the chin. “He was the innkeeper’s dog. From the Crabby Onion. Will you find a home for him?”
“Seems you’re his home,” Ghent said. “The beast likes you.”
“I know, but…”
“But you can’t take him.” The fort commander understood that. He stepped over, stroking at the dog’s head with a stocky-fingered hand. “We’ll keep him here in the fort. The men will like him.”
That pleased Jonik a good deal. “Thank you, my lord.”
Ghent gave the dog another scratch. “Will you be staying the night? You’re welcome to sleep in here. No rooms unfortunately, but the hall will be quiet by night and we like to keep the fires going to keep it warm.”
The three men convened in a silent council, meeting eyes. Then Gerrin said. “We’d be much obliged, my lord.”
