Lythian smiled at the man. “I had a feeling you would say that, Sir Hahkesh.”
Sir Storos Pentar pondered some more, then gave a shrug. “It’s early days, my lord. And most of the men are sitting idle. Let’s give it a little more time before we give up.”
Lythian was happy for the show of faith, though did not let it show. “Very well, then. I’ll be in the city if you need me.”
He crossed the broken plains, a mile of sludge and filth and churned brown earth, walking alone beneath the drizzle. Lythian did not have his own version of a Rogen Strand to shadow him, as Amron did, though supposed he would be wise to assign someone that duty.
He pondered who that might be. Sir Taegon was gone, Sir Quinn as well, and Amron had taken Sir Torus with him too. Sir Gerald was off in search of his father - though he’d proven himself a rather poor protector in the past - and Sir Nathaniel, though still here, had the same chequered history. Lythian did not doubt that this new iteration of Nathaniel would do a fine and dutiful job, but something about it smelled off. Sir Ralf had stayed to give Lythian counsel, but the old knight was too long in the tooth to play protector now, and Sir Storos was busy with his schemes. Who did that leave? Sir Oswin, maybe? Might Sir Adam join his side, handing the keys to the Pointed Watch to another?
If Rodmond was still a Varin Knight, he would be ideal, the First Blade reflected. But the young man had become a greatlord now and the duty was far beneath him.
He put the matter aside as he veered toward the prisoner encampment, a great festering bog in the shadow of the eastern walls. Every day it grew worse, the puddles deepening, the awnings they’d set up to shelter the prisoners collapsing under the weight of the rain and torn apart by the swirling winds. Those were new, those winds. The rain had been coming down for long weeks now, unnaturally heavy and growing colder by the day, but the winds had only just started. Fierce they were, and wild, with great sudden squalls that would shred a shelter in moments if it had a mind to. That was all well and good for the men who camped in the city, protected by walls of ancient, mortared stone, but not the southerners exposed to the elements.
It’s high time that was changed, Lythian thought.
He strode to the shelter erected up against the city walls, a simple but sturdy dwelling where the camp commander was based. That duty was being seen to by a knight named Sir Guy Blenhard, a biddable and affable man who no one would ever say a word against. Sir Good Guy, men liked to call him, or just Good Guy without the ‘sir’, which was always received with a great big smile from the man. Lythian had selected him for the duty on account of those qualities, but also his probity. If any of the prisoners were being mistreated by one of the men, he expected Sir Guy to come to him at once, and he had. Thus far his reports had included few occasions of violence, though of slurs and insults, there had been many. The offending men were usually rotated to another duty, but that was just papering over cracks, and oft as not, the new guards were just as bad.
There’s too much hate here, Lythian knew. These men are hungry, and angry, and they fear for their loved ones. Standing out all night in the pouring rain and howling wind, their cheeks bitten at by hail, their bodies soaked to the bone, was not helping their mood.
“Sir Guy,” Lythian said. The man was at his desk, heaped in a fur coat, scribbling with a quill pen, a fat tallow candle burned low beside him. There were some books on the desk as well, and a stack of papers weighed down by a stone, their edges fluttering in the breeze. The shelter had an open front, looking out over the camp, where an oil lantern swung upon the framework, creaking in the wind. Around the enclosure, the guards were standing at their posts, looking bored and miserable, glancing south at the darkening skies.
Sir Guy Blenhard looked up. “Ah. My lord. I was just compiling my latest report for you.” He put his pen in a pot. “Would you like to see?”
“Tell me,” Lythian said.
Good Guy read out what he’d written. His reports were always very thorough. Today, it was the usual. The typical mutters of displeasure and beginnings of dissent that were always sparking, but never quite catching alight. Mostly Lythian forgave it all. The men had the right to vent, and he would not punish the occasional grumble, but if ever something more organised arose, something approaching mutiny, he would have to act, and act quickly. Men like Good Guy were essential in that fight.
“There’s been a bit more squabbling among the prisoners as well,” the camp commander went on. “Tensions have been running high of late, my lord. The stronger men are all fighting to get the best spots in the shelters. The weak are being left to fend for themselves in the rain, and even their rations are being stolen.”
Problems without and problems within, Lythian thought. This is becoming more trouble than it’s worth. “Has there been any bloodshed?”
“Scant little. Mostly broken noses and split lips, nothing too bad. Without weapons they are unable to cause much harm and my men always get in there quickly enough to break them up, but stopping it entirely isn’t possible. A prison camp always takes on a life of its own, my lord. There’s only so much that can be done to police what goes on inside.”
Lythian took the man at his word. He had some experience in this field.
“There have been a few new arrivals as well,” Sir Guy finished, referring to his report. “It’s all written in here, my lord. Four more men came from the woods - three Lumaran soldiers who walked together, and one Agarathi. He came alone.”
“Fireborn?” Lythian asked. He was always on the lookout for more men to join with Sir Hahkesh and Bah’run.
“No, my lord. He appeared to be a normal soldier to me, by his garb and his manner. Very plain.”
“Plain? What do you mean by that?”
The knight scratched his pointed chin beard. “Well, he looked rather neater than most others who have come from the woods. Wet and a little dirty, but not nearly so dishevelled as the rest. He did not look like he had played much of a part in the battle, my lord. No stains or rips or scuff marks, no burns or injuries. I suppose he must have run into the woods early before he could engage in any fighting, and found somewhere safe to hide.”
“Suppose?” Lythian did not like the word suppose. “Have you not spoken with him yet, Sir Guy? Taken his account?”
“Not as yet, no. I’m told he does not speak the common tongue, but there are some prisoners here who have been willing to translate for me until now. I will ask one of them to help, and find out his story in due course.” He looked down at his report once more, nodded, and then reached out. “For your records, my lord.”
Lythian stepped in and took the parchment from him, to give to Sir Ralf later. He folded it neatly and stashed it in his pocket. Then he got to the reason he had come. “It’s time to bring the prisoners inside the walls, Sir Guy. I will speak with Sir Adam to make arrangements in the city, and require that you do the same out here.”
Sir Guy Blenhard gave that a thoughtful nod. Lythian did not miss the shadow of concern in his mild brown eyes. “When would you like this done, my lord?”
“At once,” Lythian said. He looked away to the south. The rains were still light but would grow more fearsome in the coming hours, and perhaps last through to dawn, as they often did of late. “There’s another storm approaching. I would not see these men have to suffer through it, if it can be avoided. The same goes for the guards. It is a foul charge to stand on watch through this weather. They may appreciate the change in venue.”
“They will, I am sure. The rest of the men, however…”
Lythian understood. This decision would not be greeted with universal approval, he knew that well enough. “They will have to accept it,” he said. “Were the days bright and fine, I would not be considering this course, but they are not. The camp is a quagmire, and some of the prisoners are growing sick. If any of the men come to you with their complaints, send them straight to my door. I will deal with them.”
Sir Guy Blenhard stood from his chair. “I will see to it at once. Do you know where they are to be housed?”
“Not yet. I will have to confirm that with Sir Adam.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Lythian left him, stepping back out into the drizzle. The rain pattered against his armour as he strode beside the wall toward the River Gate. At his hip he wore the Sword of Varinar, its soft gold mists rising from the scabbard, enrobing him in its godly light. His bond to the blade was growing, deepening, and with it came a feeling of power. A dangerous feeling, Lythian knew. He did not like that he liked it.
He found Sir Adam Thorley inside his modest tent in the square beyond the River Gate, where all the captains and commanders had raised their shelters. “I have need of you, Sir Adam,” he said. He told him what he planned to do with the prisoners.
Sir Adam’s reaction was much the same as Sir Guy’s had been. Understanding and accepting, with an underlying tone of concern. “It would be wise to keep them together in one of the city squares,” the young watch commander said. “They will still be exposed to the rains, but the mud will not be such an issue, and the winds are not nearly so fierce inside the city. Any shelters we build should remain standing, lest a terrible storm assaults us.”
Lythian nodded. “Which one would you suggest?” King’s Point, like any great city, was not without its squares and courtyards, though most of them were either heaped with rubble or too small to accommodate so many.
Sir Adam unrolled a map of the city on his table. “Here,” he said, pointing at a market square near the harbour. “There’s some rubble, and I know that some of the men are in camp there, but it would be the most suitable for this purpose.”
Lythian wasn’t certain. “Are there no unoccupied squares?” He would rather not force the men to relocate if he could avoid it.
“None that are big enough to accommodate so many.” Sir Adam thought a moment, looking at the map. “There are a few halls remaining that might offer the space required, but…”
