“But those are already full,” Lythian finished for him. “If I force hundreds of tired and hungry soldiers out into the rains to make room for the prisoners, I will have a riot on my hands.”
Sir Adam Thorley did not disagree with him. “The square near the harbour would be best, my lord. I can try to free up room somewhere for the men there to move to. Somewhere dry. That should placate them.”
But for how long? It should not have been this difficult. King’s Point was a large city, and until only recently several thousand more soldiers were situated here. Amron had taken Lord Gavron Grave with him when he left, along with all of the Ironfoot’s men. That should have made space, but it hadn’t, because the remaining soldiers had simply spread out, rushing to secure themselves a better place to rest their heads by night. There had even been reports of fighting over the choicest lodgings. Blood had been spilt, and a man had lost an eye in one such squabble, all because the soldiers were sick to the back teeth of the rain and the rationing and the discomfort of living in this cold grey broken ruin.
There had been some disgruntlement about who got to leave and who had to stay as well. Not all the men were happy to be left behind, to sit and rot and wait for the shadow of the Dread to return. They would sooner be marching to defend the western gate. They would sooner die with swords in their hands, against a foe afoot, rather than cowering beneath the titan. Lythian understood all that as well. He felt restless here, watching the seas and watching the skies, with his schemes all failing around him and the men beginning to darken. He would hear the whispers in the shadows, see their eyes as he passed them by. They know, he would think. They know what I did. They know about Eldur, and Talasha. They are taking me for a dragonlover and a traitor, and are they wrong?
He put those thoughts aside. They were like blunt knives in his mind, poking and prodding, and had grown worse since Amron left, since he started wearing the Sword of Varinar at his hip. Was it the men whispering, or the blade? He was so tired that sometimes he could not say whether he was awake or in some dream. A nightmare, more like, he thought, bitter.
Lythian looked at the map again, trying to focus on the matter at hand. “How long will it take to prepare the square, Sir Adam? I want awnings raised, covers and shelters to protect them from the rain. How quickly can you see it done?”
“How quickly do you need it done?” was the knight’s reply.
Lythian appreciated that. Sir Adam was direct, respectful, eager to get on with the job; what every good knight and captain should be. “There is a storm approaching from the south. A bad one, by the looks of it. It may be here within the next hour or two.” He left the rest unsaid.
Sir Adam Thorley was already stepping over to put on his cloak. “I’ll get right to it, my lord.”
Lythian nodded his thanks and left, stepping through the square to the command pavilion that Amron had vacated. The First Blade would have preferred to remain in his own, much smaller tent, but Amron had been clear that he wanted Lythian to take up here in his stead. He nodded to the guards outside, and passed within to find Sir Ralf of Rotting Bridge at his little table, set aside from the much larger oaken table from which Amron, and now Lythian, sat in command.
“Another report for your records,” Lythian said, handing Sir Ralf the parchment Guy Blenhard had given him.
Sir Ralf looked it over and set it with the others. Lythian stepped over to a stone block and sat down, taking the weight of the Sword of Varinar off his worn and weary legs. A long breath escaped his lungs. Sir Ralf gave him one of those long, querying looks of his. “You look tired, my lord.”
I’m more than tired, Lythian thought. He had spent the best part of the morning down in the vaults, training in the forms with the Sword of Varinar. That had taken a great deal out of him. After, he’d sat in council meetings in this very tent, dealing with mostly trivial affairs. Commodore Fairside reported that the rest of his scouting ships still hadn’t returned. Lord Kindrick came demanding news about the united host. One of his favoured knights, Sir Bardol, had gone with them, along with several more of his best men, and he wanted to know when they would be back. Lythian had no answer for him. It might be days, weeks, months, before they returned. Or never, he had thought. That was the worst outcome.
Lord Kindrick had suggested they send out men to find them. “It’s time to bring them back,” the man had said. Kindrick was a typical Ironmoorer, spare and mean-looking and glum. “This whole thing. Gathering these deserters. Forget it. We send out some of our best trackers to hunt them down and tell them it’s time to come back.”
Lythian didn’t much like Lord Kindrick, though had to admit he had a point. “I am happy to send men to find them, and report back on their progress. But if they are having some success…”
“They won’t be. It’ll be a failure. Was only going to be a bloody failure, we all knew that deep down.”
He would never have spoken to Amron like that. Lythian knew well enough he did not command the same authority as the king here, especially with these middling Taynar underlords. “As I say. You are welcome to muster a small host to track them, and report on their progress. But I trust the leaders of that host to know when it is time to return, Lord Kindrick. If they are having no success, they will come back of their own accord.”
“Or they’ll have run off,” Kindrick spat back. “That Skymaster. Was folly to put him in charge. He’ll be biding his time, gathering up some of his own kin, and then he’ll make his move once Sir Hadros and my men are outnumbered. He’ll kill them all, I know it in my bones. We can’t be trusting these Agarathi, Lindar. They’re rotten to the core, all of them.”
Lythian had been concerned by that. Kindrick had never been so outspoken before Amron’s departure, always nodding along in agreement with any of the king’s decrees. Now he had turned like spoiled milk, and that was a feeling shared among the men. Lythian gave another heavy sigh as he reflected on that. He dreaded to think what Lord Kindrick was going to say when he heard of his plans for the prisoners.
“You should rest, my lord,” old Ralf said. “You have been sleeping poorly, I have noticed, since Amron left. The burden of command is a heavy weight to carry.”
And my shoulders are not near so broad as his. Lythian was not made for command. He was a captain and a quartermaster, an intermediary between lords and men. Being raised so high, so fast, did not suit him. He would rest later. But for now… “There’s a storm coming, Sir Ralf,” he said. “I’ve ordered that the prisoners be brought into the city.”
The old knight assimilated that stoically. “I see. And you are doubting your decision?”
“No. I stand behind it. That does not mean the men will be happy. I am not deaf to the mutterings, Ralf. Half of them want me to put the prisoners on their ships and send them away. The rest would have me drown those ships and send them to the depths of Daarl’s Domain.” Sir Gerald had first suggested that after the battle, and it seemed more and more of the soldiers here were beginning to agree with him.
Sir Ralf gave him what succour he could. “That is not your burden to bear, my lord. You are only following the king’s orders.”
“The men don’t see it like that. They think I’m influencing him. They know it’s me spearheading this vision of unity. Were it not for me, Amron would likely have packed the prisoners up by now and sent them on their way.” He gave a weary sigh. “The men are sick of sharing their rations, Ralf. And they have every right to feel that way.”
“A soldier has a right to feel,” the old knight agreed. “But he does not have the right to act upon that feeling. These men are sworn to their captains and commanders, who are in turn sworn to you. You talk here with the king’s voice. To act against you would be treason.”
Act against me? Would it come to that? Lythian looked into the old man’s eyes. “Treason. That’s what they’re saying about me, Ralf. I fear what I did…” He breathed out. His head was pounding. “There are rumours that I played a part in raising Eldur from the dead. Now with everything I’m doing. These attempts to tame dragons, to gather the deserters, my sympathy toward the prisoners…” He shook his head. “They are starting to wonder what side I am on.”
“The men know which side you are on,” Ralf said, firmly. “You are the Knight of the Vale, the First Blade of Vandar. Vandar, my lord. They know.”
Lythian wanted to believe him. The rain was coming down a little harder outside, splashing in through the open flaps. He did not have time to descend into this vortex of doubt right now. “I need to help them move the prisoners,” he said, wearily. He stood, forcing himself back to his feet, and walked toward the exit. He looked out into the rain. There was a growing fear in him, a paranoia; he could hear the knives sharpening in the dark.
“I’ll come with you,” Ralf said, rising.
No. Stay in the tent. Stay dry, Lythian might have said. But he said nothing. He was always glad for the man’s company, his counsel and calm presence. Amron knew I’d need him. He knew I could not do this alone.
They stepped outside together. It was growing darker, and some fires were coming alive across the square, covered in their tarps and shelters. Distantly, he could see flashes of lighting out there at sea, the far-off rumble of thunder. All agreed now that there was nothing natural about these rains, and strong though they could be during springtime here, they were never so strong and unceasing as this, never so hard and cold and black. Walter Selleck seemed to believe that such extreme weather would likely be engulfing other parts of the world as well. Heavy snows to the north, debilitating heat to the south, wild waves and tempestuous typhoons out to sea. It was part of Agarath’s primordial world, the scruffy scribe had said. Nothing was mild, everything was extreme, and it was only going to get worse.
The drainage in the main square was good, though all the same, puddles had formed in places. Lythian and Sir Ralf splashed through them, marching through the River Gate and back out toward the prisoner camp. Sir Guy had already begun to get the prisoners in order, gathering them up into groups. There was plenty of shouting from the guards as they corralled them toward the plank bridge that spanned the moat they had dug around the pen.
The camp commander saw Lythian arriving and bustled over. “The men are arranged and ready to go, my lord. The women as well.” He gestured. The women were few in number, less than a dozen of them from the empire, and had been kept in a shelter of their own, watched over by the commander’s most trustworthy guards. There had been some concern that the other prisoners might try to assault them, but their efforts to keep them apart had ensured that had not happened.
“Very good, Sir Guy. A place is being cleared in a market square near the harbour. We’ll lead them there in batches, a hundred at a time. Order your men accordingly.”
Lythian returned to the city with Sir Ralf at his flank, then wended down through the alleys and roads that took them to the square in question. Here and there men had made their own nests among the tumbled stone, sleeping under archways and in whatever dry nooks and crannies they could find. Some were sleeping now, ready to take the night watch. Others sat sharpening blades or mending holes in their cloaks, trying to keep themselves busy and dry between one charge and another.
They’re staring at me, Lythian thought. All of them…all of them are staring.
When they reached the square, they found Sir Adam’s men hard at work raising tents and shelters. It was a large space, well littered with tumbled stone and rubble along one side, where the buildings there had collapsed. At the heart was a broken fountain, overflowing with rainwater and bits of drowned debris. It had once shown a figure of Amron the Bold, Lythian remembered. Now nothing but a lower torso and legs remained, the top half obliterated. That was not a propitious sign, with Amron Daecar marching into the jaws of battle.
Lythian did not want to think about that. No more than he did Elyon’s long absence. Too long. He’s been gone for far too long…
Some soldiers were trundling off, looking less than happy. They wore cloaks of dull grey and moody blue, Taynar colours, with pins and badges denoting their houses; Kindrick and Barrow and Rosetree. One or two glared over at him as they left. Sir Adam strode over in his long, strong step, splashing through the rains.
