“It might,” he had said, after a short consideration. He had spoken to Vilmar about it, who had spoken to Hruum, and two days later, here they were. All staring at the butchered corpse of a young grey dragon that only made Lythian think of Neyruu, and by extension Talasha, who had become a dragonrider herself, Elyon had told him.
He shook his head and gave a sigh. “Did anyone see what happened?”
Vilmar huffed. “We know what happened.”
“I want details,” Lythian said. He looked to the others. “Storos?”
Storos Pentar had been in the ditch-shelter overnight, along with his men Tucker and Marsh, the Agarathi pair of Sir Hahkesh and Bah’run, and a few other soldiers from the city. “I was sleeping,” Storos said. “Denton had the watch.”
Lythian looked at the man in question. He hadn’t met him as yet, but that was not uncommon. Every night there were different men out here now, eager to be part of the scheme. Mostly out of morbid curiosity, Lythian knew. Few took it all seriously, and he sensed that those who raised their hands to help only wanted to have the chance of putting steel through the scales of a dragon. If one was caught in a net, after all, it was unlikely that either Hahkesh or Bah’run would realistically be able to calm it, or tame it, in which case it would need to be put down instead. Every man worth his salt wants to call himself a dragonslayer, Lythian knew. They see this as an easy chance to win a bit of glory.
“Denton, was it?” the First Blade said.
“Aye, milord.” He was a common man from that voice, no older than twenty. He had a large mole where his narrow nose met the pocked flesh of his cheek, and slightly dimwitted eyes. “I’m a Brock-man, King’s Point born and raised.” He seemed very proud of that.
Lythian could tell his loyalties from the sigil sewn onto his jerkin: a black tower against an orange sky, the arms of House Brockenhurst. That tower was meant to represent the Spear. Perhaps put your dagger to the stitching, he thought. Cut that tower down. It would make more sense like that now. “Tell me what you saw,” he said.
Denton’s face scrunched up. “Not much, to tell it true, milord. Was dark, real dark, you know how it gets at night.”
A few other men chuckled. Clearly Denton was a bit of a dolt.
“Yes, I am aware of what happens at night, soldier. So you saw nothing?”
“Well, I saw shapes. Shadows, like. One came down from the sky. Dragon, that must have been.”
“As opposed to the grulok,” Tucker put in, grinning. “Would that they could fly as well.”
Lythian smiled. Flying gruloks would be quite a sight, he agreed.
“Anyhow,” Denton went on, oblivious to the mockery. “Dragon came down, and I heard it sniffin’ about, toward the bait we set. Was thinkin’ of waking Sir Storos, but thought that might frighten it off. So I stayed watchin’ instead.”
“And?”
“And then the giant reached out. Not the whole body. Just the hand. Grabbed the dragon by the leg, then it stood up, and tore it to pieces. I barely saw anything really. Just movement. Was dark, like I said, and I’m no Bladeborn. The noise, though…”
“We all heard the noise,” said Sir Storos. “I woke as soon as the fighting began, Lythian. We all did. Never knew a dragon could scream like that.”
The others nodded.
“So there was no struggle?” Lythian asked Denton. “Hruum didn’t even try to restrain it?”
“No, milord. Not that I could see. Just went for him, all savage-like. Tore him limb from limb.”
Lythian looked at the evidence of that once again. It had been a brutal killing. If Hruum, the grulok captain, and the one who conversed with them most, could not be trusted to restrain his impulses, then there would be no further sense in deploying the gruloks to this task. That was fine. It was an experiment only and Vilmar was not wrong. Another dead dragon could only be a good thing, if not the outcome he had wanted.
Storos was looking at the carcass too. “What do you want us to do with it, my lord? I don’t suppose a dragon will come near if they see a dead brother down here.”
“Sister,” Lythian said. The dragon was female by its size and colouring, the sparkling scales of its underside. “Butcher it for parts, Storos, and store the meat in barrels, to be salted and stewed.” The flesh of a dragon was tough and gamey, though nutritious. It was best boiled for hours in a pot to soften. Such a large animal was not to be wasted, times as they were. “Bury whatever’s left. Deep enough so another dragon cannot smell it.”
“As you say, my lord.”
Sir Hahkesh did not seem pleased. “Dragon is sacred. Flesh…no eat.” He frowned a hard frown at him.
“I’m afraid we have no choice, Sir Hahkesh. In the north we eat horse meat when times are tough. This is nothing different.”
“To you.” Sir Hahkesh hit his chest, then gestured to Bah’run. “We no eat dragon. No Agarathi eat dragon. Is sin. Great sin.”
Lythian understood. “I will take that into account when your rations are served.” Some spots of rain were falling. To the south, the seas were rough, the horizon dark. The weather was coming from there, and did not look like it was going to improve any time soon. That settled something in Lythian’s mind. He had been pondering it for days, ever since Amron left, and with the rain refusing to relent, and more on the way…
It’s time, he thought, nodding to himself. The men will just have to accept it. “Get that dragon butchered, Storos. These rains are only going to get worse.”
He nodded at the knight and made to step away. A word from Storos Pentar called him back. “And after, my lord?”
Lythian turned. “After?”
“When we’re done with the dragon.” He left a long pause. “Shall we fetch another net-ballista out here? All this…” He gestured to the pits, the shelters, the traps. “Do you want us to continue?”
Lythian looked at each man in turn, judging their reactions. With Amron gone, he had been left in charge of the city and coastal defences and had much to occupy his time. This venture had only ever been speculative. If these men wanted to wipe their hands of it, and spend their energies on other endeavours, he wasn’t going to argue. “What do you say?” he asked. “All of you. Are you willing to keep trying?”
The men exchanged looks.
“No harm in it,” said Tucker, first to speak. “Not like we’re lacking for recruits, my lord. Always fresh faces out here.”
The senior men came out here on rotation, Lythian knew. Sometimes Storos was in charge, sometimes Sir Oswin, and sometimes Nathaniel Oloran took command by night. Tucker and Marsh always came together, spending three out of every four nights in the shelters. The rest of the recruits came and went. Only the two Agarathi, Sir Hahkesh and Bah’run, had been here every single night, without fail. Both of them wanted their chance to try to tame a dragon, even if it meant their lives, and so far neither had been given that opportunity.
To little surprise, they both wanted to stay.
“We not stop,” Sir Hahkesh said, firmly. “Me. Bah’run. We not stop.”
