Gerrin went around with a parchment in his grasp, scribbling a map with a quill pen, guessing at the width and depth of each rift. When he could not see the bottom, he simply drew a cross. Soon there were many rifts with crosses beside them. “So where abouts was the king, then?” the old Emerald Guard asked.

Sir Owen shook his head, turning around a full circle. “Somewhere around here. I could not say with any certainty.”

“So he might have fallen into any one of these cracks?”

The Oak nodded.

“Did you climb down to check any of them?” Jonik asked.

“A couple of the shallower ones. But I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get back out, without ropes or anyone to help me. So my search was limited. And the ground was unstable.”

Jonik learned that to himself a short while later, when he inched too close to one of the edges and the earth gave way beneath him. His left foot went first, slipping, then his right, and he’d have gone tumbling down were it not for Sir Owen, who dashed in and grabbed his arm, hauling him back.

“Thank you,” Jonik said, panting. His heart had leapt into his mouth for a moment. Most likely this armour would have protected him from the fall, but there was no guarantee of that. “I can see how my grandfather might have fallen in.”

Armdall nodded solemnly. “Even if he survived the fall, he’d have starved to death by now. With all the rain, water shouldn’t be a problem, but food…I doubt there would be much of that down there.”

Just worms and roots, Jonik thought. There was also the chance he was crushed to death, or entombed when some chasm wall collapsed on top of him. That would be a foul fate, lying trapped under a thousand tonnes of rock, with nothing to do but mull on your mistakes and follies until your body eventually gave out. Perhaps that was what had happened. And perhaps it would be just.

Gerrin came over from a nearby fissure he’d been mapping. “Wide one, that, and deep,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s a lot worse than I thought, Jonik. We’d do well to consider going for help. It’ll take a hundred men to search these chasms and even then it could take weeks.”

“We are the help,” Jonik said. “I’d rather not bring anyone else into this if I can avoid it.”

“Then I guess we have to hope we get lucky.” Gerrin looked at Sir Owen. “Maybe Vandar will guide us, how about that? He brought Janilah here after all. Only fair that he helps us find him.” He turned his eyes across the plains as the mists continued to clear. To the south, the signs of the Dread’s passing were clear. Some thickets out there were burned, and the grasses had been scorched to black. Once the dragon and the demigod had dealt with the king, the battle had evidently continued to the west. Down the slope, more pits and scars peppered the land, and here and there were boulders and rocks as well.

“Are those gruloks?” Jonik asked.

Sir Owen’s answer was indefinite. “It’s hard to say. Even when you get right up near them, they’re impossible to distinguish from regular rocks.”

“Could we try to wake them?”

“I…wouldn’t,” the man said. “If you still had the Nightblade, they might have come to you willingly, but you don’t. They may only try to kill us.”

Come to me willingly, Jonik thought. That gave him an idea. “If the Mistblade fell into one of these chasms, wouldn’t the gruloks gather close to it?”

Gerrin thought the notion had merit. He had a look around, searching for a place where there were many rocks and boulders close together. There were none, however, and their hopes were quickly dashed. “Maybe all the gruloks here were killed?” he offered. “How many of them did you see die, Owen?”

“Some…from afar. That one that was bitten…” He gestured to a scattering of stones at the edge of one rift. “That’s probably it, right there. And those down the hill…they might all be dead as well. There were about a dozen of them here, I remember. If any of them lived, they might have gone off looking for another to serve.”

“Did you see any moving away, once the dragon had gone?” Jonik asked.

“None. Though there was a lot of smoke still. I could easily have missed them.”

Jonik pondered which Blade of Vandar would be closest. The latest tidings they’d heard said the Frostblade and Sword of Varinar were still a thousand miles to the west, and Elyon was known to move about a lot with the Windblade. We could use him here, Jonik thought. As ever, thinking about his half-brother made him nervous, but he tried to push that aside and think of the greater good. With the Windblade, Elyon would be able to fly down these chasms one after another just like that. And if he were to find the Mistblade somewhere down there, he’d have the strength to bring it up as well.

But Elyon wasn’t here, and he was, so he’d have to do this alone.

“We’ll start with the smaller rifts,” he decided. “That will give us a better understanding of what we’re dealing with, and we can go from there. Best we go down in minimal armour. Full plate will be too heavy for the ropes.”

Gerrin agreed. “Just the essentials should serve. To protect us should we fall.”

Jonik looked to the skies. It was getting late and would soon be dark. “Should we start now or tomorrow, do you think?”

Gerrin thought about it. “There’s still some more mapping to do. And we haven’t covered the whole battleground yet. I’d say we get a good night’s rest and then attack it full-on in the morning.”

Jonik agreed with the plan. Tomorrow, the hunt would begin.

34

A hand shook him awake. “My lord, there is trouble.”

Lythian blinked, escaping the sweetness of his dreams. Dreams of the princess he should never have loved, of tenderness and warmth. There was no sweetness here in this ruin, no warmth to be had. Only rain and wind and darkness. “What is it, Sir Oswin?” His voice was hoarse, his head heavy. “What trouble?”

“It’s the prisoners, my lord. There has been some bloodshed, I am told.”

Lythian grunted as he sat up, swinging his legs off the pallet bed he slept on in his tent. He rose wearily, picking up the Sword of Varinar as he did so, which he kept on hand beside him. Sir Oswin had been assigned to watch over him as he slept. He did not know how long that had been, but it felt scant, the skies still black as pitch outside. For once it did not seem to be raining.

“What time is it?”

“Dead of night, my lord. Some two hours until dawn.”

“My cloak,” Lythian said. As Oswin went to fetch it from its hook, Lythian pulled on a godsteel hauberk, glittering in the torchlight. Of late he had taken off his plate armour to sleep, to help improve his rest, but there was no time to put that on now. The chainmail would serve. Atop it he garbed himself in his blue woollen cloak, fastening it quickly at the neck with his First Blade pin. Then the pair of them stepped outside.

The night was quiet, the air cold and still. A rare thing. One of Sir Guy Blenhard’s men was waiting, a guard Lythian new as Marc Torrence, a good and faithful fellow and a man from Sir Guy’s own lands, a little north of the city. Presumably he was the one to rush here and tell Oswin of the trouble. “What’s going on, Marc?”

“Blood and butchery, m’lord, in the square.” He had a flush to his cheeks and a slight pant to his voice to suggest he’d run to get here. “Good Guy told me to come fetch you at once.”

Blood and butchery. That sounded worse than the squabble he was thinking of. “How bad is it?”

“Bad, m’lord, and was getting worse when I left.”

Lythian frowned. “It’s still going on?”

Torrence nodded. “Aye, m’lord.”

The First Blade of Vandar set off at a hard march, Sir Oswin trailing behind him, Marc Torrence hurrying to keep up. Two men-at-arms were standing guard outside the silver-blue pavilion of Lord Rodmond Taynar, wearing the gloomy colours of his house. As they passed by, the young lord emerged, rubbing at his eyes, peering at them. “What’s the commotion?” he asked sleepily. “Are we under attack?”

“Nothing so bad as that, Lord Taynar,” Lythian said. “There is some fighting in the prisoner camp. Nothing you need to worry about.”

He marched past at a speedy clip, pressing onward through the square and toward the lane that took them south through the city in the direction of the docks. The noise grew louder as they went. Loud enough to awaken others along the route, who came crawling from their shelters and tents and out of broken doorways. All peered at the skies concernedly. Some shouted out, asking if the dragons were coming. Many were already rushing for their weapons, scrambling to prepare for a fight.

Lythian put their minds to rest. “We’re not under attack,” he called to them. “Go back to sleep. If there are dragons you’ll hear the horns.”

Some heeded him, returning to their dens, but not everyone. By the time they came to the prisoner square, a trail of some dozens were following behind, eager to find out what was happening. As soon as they arrived, Lythian looked out across the cobbles and saw chaos. Scores of men had been killed or maimed. The noise was cacophonous, the fighting ongoing. Men moved through the flickering light of the torchfires, hacking and slashing and screaming.

Lythian turned to Sir Oswin and the men who’d gathered behind him. “Help break them up and stop this damned bloodshed,” he commanded fiercely. He looked to the temple along the eastern side of the square. Sir Guy Blenhard was on the steps, calling orders and trying to restore calm. Lythian marched to join him. “What in the blazes is happening here, Guy? Who started this?”