30

The air was still thick with the stink of smoke, and ash coated the cobbles like new fallen snow.

Amron Daecar sat in the saddle atop Wolfsbane, his mighty black destrier, staring out across the docks of Green Harbour. Scores of ships lay twisted and broken in the water, masts poking up from the depths in a horror of grasping, blackened fingers. Through the swirling smog, it was hard to make out their colours, though here and there a tattered length of sail flapped and fluttered, in black and red and gold.

“How many were there?” Amron asked. He was trying to get a count of the Agarathi ships, but that was proving impossible in this smog. It was more than just the fume of smoke that had risen from the burning corpse of the city, and those ships. This was a coastal mist, thick and unnatural like the rains. And cold, Amron thought. They were a hundred leagues northwest of King’s Point here and he could feel the bitter chill in the air. “We heard an armada of eighty vessels was bearing down on you, Sir Harold. Was that number correct?”

Sir Harold Conwyn confirmed with a stiff nod. He was a short man of three and thirty with a broad nose, large red cheeks, and short, stubbly beard. One of Randall Borrington’s knights, Amron knew. He had met Conwyn several times in the past and found him a genial sort. “Eighty would be about right, my lord.”

“Most are burned,” the Ironfoot observed, glaring out at the ships. “Was it you or them that did that?”

Sir Harold seemed confused by the question. “My lord?”

Amron explained. “What Lord Grave means to ask is…did you burn the ships with your defensive weapons, or were the dragons to blame?”

That did not much allay the knight’s confusion. “The dragons? No, my lords, the dragons wouldn’t burn their own ships.” He seemed bemused by the suggestion.

Grave grunted, and his horse snorted, as though in agreement with his rider. That horse was called Ironhoof and was shod in godsteel shoes. They misted as he trotted. “You weren’t there at King’s Point, Harold. The dragons didn’t seem to care who they slew. Rained fire down on us all, Vandarian and Agarathi alike.”

“Well, um…not here, my lords, no.” Sir Harold gestured with a gauntleted hand to the harbour walls and gate behind them. Atop the battlements were catapults and ballistas, twisted and shattered, though a few of them were still operational. “We threw burning barrels of pitch from the catapults and flaming bolts from the ballistas. Managed to burn ten or so ships before they came ashore. The rest rammed right into the jetties and wharves, harder and faster than you would believe. Then they came spilling out in their thousands. Like termites, they were, swarming from their nests, all black and red and angry. There was a wildness to them, Lord Daecar. The screams they gave out…the sound they made…” He shuddered. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

He is too young to have seen the last war, Amron knew. The king was well acquainted with the Agarathi warcry, a noise made to unman their enemies on the field. He still remembered the first time he’d heard it. A thrilling sound, he had found it to be, heralding the joys of battle. But that wasn’t the case for everyone. “How did they get through the gates?” he asked.

“From the inside, my lord. They had ladders to scale the walls, dozens of them. We fought them off for a time, and went blade to blade on the battlements, but eventually they overwhelmed us and managed to get the gate open. After that they came flooding through.”

Amron turned his eyes about. The docks were piled high with corpses, scattered about like burial mounds, and further back beyond the harbour gates, many fires were still smouldering, sending up plumes of thin black smoke. “How many did you kill, Sir Harold? I want numbers.”

The man took a moment, then said, “Three, four thousand I would guess. We haven’t had a chance as yet to perform a precise count, my lord.”

“And in the waters?” asked the Ironfoot. Well, demanded. Lord Gavron was prone to demand, not ask. “You said you sank ten ships before they landed. How many drowned?”

Sir Harold scratched at his dimpled chin. “I would think at least two thousand drowned, Lord Grave, perhaps more. And there were some skiffs that foundered as well.” He pointed out a few such wrecks, washed up among the tangled masts and hulls and sails. “They came from the bigger galleons that dropped anchor in deeper waters. The rest of them died trying to win the gate, or else when battling through the city.”

Amron was performing the calculations. “So up to six thousand died in total? From a force of how many?”

“Some twenty thousand I would think, my lord, perhaps as many as twenty-five.”

“Then up to twenty thousand may still be alive,” Amron said, musing.

“Yes, my lord. Once they won the gate, we couldn’t do much to stop them moving through the city and into the woods to the north. Sir Tefler tried to harry them as best he could, but their numbers were too many.”

“Where is Sir Tefler now?” Amron wanted to know. He was a senior knight of high battle acclaim. Lord Borrington had mentioned in his most recent letters - though those were months old now - that he’d put Sir Tefler in charge of the forces here.

“Dead,” Sir Harold Conwyn said, with a sigh. “He was at the Green Gate…tried to hold it, but with that many dragonkin coming up the Mossway.” He shook his head. “Lord Westwood perished too. Dragon got him as he crossed the ward of the castle. And his son, Sir Wilas. He was grief-struck, my lords, and wanted vengeance. He gathered a host and went out through a postern door to meet the Agarathi blade to blade at the docks. I told him it was folly, but…well, he wouldn’t listen. They overwhelmed him within minutes. Wasteful death, it was.”

“A valiant death,” the Ironfoot put in. “Same as Tefler’s.” He gave Sir Harold Conwyn a judging look. “And all of that left you in charge, did it?”

“Yes, my lord. I was Sir Tefler’s second-in-command.”

“Did you harry them?” Grave demanded. “When the Agarathi broke into the woods? Did you give chase?”

“I…no, my lord. I was trying to consolidate, and…” He looked at Amron. “I hope I made the right choice, Your Grace. We had lost thousands of our own, and I didn’t think…sending men to give chase…well, I thought it would be too wasteful. Against so many…”

“You made the right choice,” Amron told him, if only to calm his stuttering. He needed to get this done as quickly as possible. “What are your current numbers, Sir Harold?”

The knight’s eyes twisted in thought. “Not sure on the exact figure, my lord, but I’d guess at some four thousand, give or take.”

“And wounded?” Amron asked.

“Five hundred or so,” said Conwyn. “Perhaps a quarter of those are at death’s door, though we’ve hope for the rest. None have the strength to fight, mind. We’ve got others nursing minor wounds, but they’ll be ready to go back into battle if they must.”

“They must,” Amron said at once. “I plan to march at once for the Twinfort and need every sword and spear I can muster. How long ago did the Agarathi break through?”

Sir Harold thought a moment. “Coming up on three days now.”

“And they did not try to occupy the city?”

“No. Just rushed through like a black-red river, and straight out into the Greenwood.”

As I expected, Amron thought. “Green Harbour is the back door to the Twinfort,” he said. “They aim to go west through the forest and attack it from the rear. There is another army marching across the Brindle Steppe. Perhaps you’ve heard? They hope to take the fort from both sides.” He spoke with a rush to his voice. He had only just arrived in the city, and had no intention of staying any longer than he needed. “Harold, how quickly can you muster your men?”

The knight was not used to this level of command. He fumbled for an answer for a while, then said, “How quickly do you need them?”

“As quickly as possible. I want to leave within the hour.”

The man balked. “One hour, my lord? I’ve got men scattered all over. Half are horror-struck from the fighting, and the rest are broken from lack of sleep. Been days since most got any good rest. And the food…the men are hungry, my lord. The city storehouses were all targeted by the dragons, and…”

Amron did not need to hear of all of these ails and issues. They were the same as those occurring across half the kingdom. He raised a hand to stop him. “See it done, Harold. I will hand over some men to help you. You may leave a small garrison here to defend the city. Five hundred should serve. The rest will come with us, and must be ready to move at speed. I want them gathered beyond the western walls in an hour, ready to march.”

“An…an hour. Yes, my lord. I’ll…see it done.”

“Good.” Amron wheeled Wolfsbane around and trotted back the way they had come, with the Ironfoot at his side. He had brought with him a small guard of twenty knights and men-at-arms, though the rest of his army had been left outside the walls. Sir Quinn Sharp had command of the guard. “Sir Quinn. I want you to help Sir Harold muster his soldiers to leave. Have your men move through the city and get them armoured and on their feet. You have an hour.”

The broad-faced Varin Knight gave a single affirming nod. “As you command, my king.”

Amron spurred his heels and moved back through the harbour gate, Grave and Rogen Strand following. Green Harbour was not a large city, but it had once been a pretty one, full of timbered taverns and inns and shops along a waterfront bustling with trade. There was a famous fish market here, a famous summer market too, and each year the main city square played host to a festival of theatre and art. Now all of that was burned to cinders, and the foul smell of death was heavy in the air.

Ash was stirred at their passing, kicked up by the hooves of their horses. Amron coughed and covered his mouth as they rode northward along the Mossway - the main thoroughfare that cut up through the city from gate to gate, linking the harbour with the Green Gate that gave access to the woods. The portcullis was still raised when he arrived, and the drawbridge that spanned the short moat was down. Amron nodded to the soldiers and rode right by. Grave slowed a moment to say, “If you’ve got loved ones here, say your goodbyes. We’re riding west in an hour,” before trotting past.

The woods grew close outside the walls, and in places their branches reached up over the ramparts as though trying to clamber inside. The men were spread out among the boles, taking this rare chance to rest. Some were lying up against the trunks, sleeping; others had started little cookfires with dry kindling they kept in their packs, shielded from the rains. They had pots of broth on the boil and were handing them around to anyone who wanted some. Steam rose up through the canopy, curling into the thick green leaves. Above, the sky was more clear than it had been in long days. Most of the march had been under the rain and that had only made it all the harder, though Lord Gavron’s men were a hardy sort in the image of their lord and the complaints had been kept to a minimum.

Sir Taegon Cargill was waiting for them when they returned, alongside Sir Torus Stoutman. The former overtopped the latter by over two feet. Both wore godsteel from head to heel, and Sir Taegon wore his rich Varin cloak, fastened at the neck with a brooch in the shape of a warhammer that looked just like the one he kept strapped to his back.

“Sir Taegon,” Amron said. “You look thirsty for a fight.”

The Giant of Hammerhall smashed his chest with a clang of steel. “Always. What’re your orders, my king?”