But in the flush of their faces, both looked alike, and the fervent light in their eyes as they came reining up before her. It was Sir Montague Shaw of Rasalan who spoke. “Lady Amara, we sighted a great host ahead,” he said, panting. “They are marching west along the High Way in great columns, bearing banners of gold and brown.”

“Strands,” added in Ben Barrett, with that bucktoothed grin. His cheeks were as red as Carly’s hair…redder than they’d gone when she followed through with her promise to kiss him after the coup, in full view of all the men during their feast down on the beach. “Those banners, m’lady. They bore his standard. The bare-chested knight wrestling the giant.”

There was no standard in the north quite so macho as that of House Strand. Amara had to smile. “Lord Styron,” she said. “How large is his host?”

“Hard to say for sure, my lady,” said Sir Montague. “The snows fall even thicker further west, and they served to obscure his numbers. Ten thousand at least. Perhaps double that.”

“That would be his entire strength,” said Sir Connor, thinking. He looked at Amara. “He must be marching toward the Twinfort, my lady.”

They had heard rumours that Styron the Strong was coming down from the Ironmoors, where he ruled over a great tract of land beneath the banners of House Taynar. It was assumed he was heading to King’s Point to help protect the coast, but if an enemy assault was expected upon the western gate then perhaps his course had been diverted.

Others had gathered around to listen. Jovyn was one of them. “That would take them past Blackfrost,” the squire said. “My lady, ought we not ride to join them? We could accompany them there.”

They had intended to make for Blackfrost eventually, though via a more circuitous route, pending what they heard of Lillia. Sir Connor, as always, knew what his lady was thinking. “We can send riders out,” he said to her. “To Lords Gully and Blunt and others, to hear tidings of Lady Lillia. But it would be wise to join Lord Strand, my lady. A strong host we may be, but against certain perils we remain vulnerable.” He let her think it over a moment, turning to the scouts. “How far away are they?”

“A good long gallop,” Sir Montague said. “We only sighted them distantly, and from a rise. But they’re moving more slowly than we are. At a hard push we might reach them by nightfall.”

“Or tomorrow at an easier pace,” Connor said. He seemed to notice that Amara did not want to subject herself to a ‘good long gallop’. He addressed her once more. “My lady. I suggest we make for Raymun’s Watch for the night. We should reach it shortly after dusk at this pace. I will send men to speak to Lord Gully. Tomorrow, we can ride for Lord Styron’s host.”

They all seemed to be of the same mind, the men nodding and murmuring, and who was she to deny them? She smiled at Sir Connor, nodding assent, and then turned to look at Sir Ryger Joyce. “Well, Sir Ryger, it looks like you may yet get your wish,” she said.

39

Wolfsbane hurdled a root, his godsteel barding rattling.

The caparison he wore across his back fluttered heroically against the dim hue of dawn, trailing with small ribbons in the colours of his kingdom. Across the wooded valley, warhorns rang out, blowing loudly to mark the break of day…and battle. Amron hoped they would provide distraction.

Draw the enemy eye, he thought.

He burst out into the open where the Agarathi had stopped for the night, spread out across the vale. The trees were sparse, the canopy thin; Amron’s sight pierced far and wide. He could see the tents at the heart of the night camp, see the men emerging from within, rushing to snatch up sword and spear. Hundreds were still lying here and there on the ground, waking to the sudden commotion, throwing off their blankets and scrambling to their feet. There was shouting, barks of command as the horde stirred to life, men mustering to meet the challenge of the warhorns, coming from the hill.

We caught them unawares. It was just as he’d hoped.

Right ahead, the guards at the camp border were turning to meet them, swishing about in their crimson cloaks, lowering their long black spears. Shouts of alarm spread like wildfire. Amron rushed forth. Two spearmen thrust up at Wolfsbane as he reached them, but the steel just pinged right off the barding, and the men were bashed aside. “For Vandar!” the king bellowed, barreling straight through the men beyond. “For Vandar!” echoed a hundred other riders, smashing through the lines.

Amron bore the Frostblade in his grasp, misting ice. He swung it left and right, twisting at the torso, hacking men apart as Wolfsbane galloped fiercely onwards. In the span of ten heartbeats ten men were dead, crushed and cleaved, Wolfsbane trampling grown men like they were nought but crops in a field. A trail of iridescent dust marked their passing, glittering off the edge of the blade with each swift swish and slash, ice particles sparking and melting in shades of red and blue and green and gold and a hundred other hues. “For Vandar!” Amron roared again. “For Vandar! FOR VANDAR!”

The horns were still blowing from the north, ringing out from the wooded slopes at the edge of the vale. Their cadence had quickened now; a series of shorter, sharper peals to call the men to charge. Sir Torus Stoutman would be blowing on one of them, Sir Bryce Coddington another, Sir Lambert Joyce a third, the three knights leading the charge of the men afoot, six thousand Vandarians with naked steel in their grasp.

For Vandar! they called as one. For Vandar! For Vandar!

The sound was stirring. Amron led his host onward, mowing the Agarathi down. In front came the barded beasts, many of them monstrous warhorses strong as broadbacks. Sir Taegon rode the biggest of them, The Hammerhorse he called him, a broad-shouldered, muscular brute who stood a full hand and a half taller than even Wolfsbane. The giant bore his greatsword in one hand, his warhammer in another, bellowing “Hammerhall!” at the top of his lungs. Others called out for their houses, their homes, their kingdom and their king. “To the Grave!” roared Lord Gavron and his men; the words of their house. Tall Sir Dederick Dudden shouted, “Green Harbour!” The boy Sir Tyrstan Spencer rode in the van as well, his gilded armour gleaming in the dawn, his fine slim horse barded all in gold. Further down the lines Amron sighted Sir Quinn Sharp leading fifty riders into the teeth of the camp, and behind them all came the bulk of the charge led by Sir Harold Conwyn.

The enemy broke before them.

They ran them down like weeds in winter.

Such was the power of the sudden charge. They had marched hard to catch up with their enemy, and this was their reward. This valley, sparse with trees, the earth flat and open with scant roots and rocks to trip them. The trees thickened upon the slopes to the north and they had provided ample cover for the bulk of the army to work around their flank unseen. Overnight, Rogen Strand had crept out with the best killers he could find to silence the sentries, so their advance would not be known.

And it had worked. Everything that they had hoped for, planned for, had worked.

But it felt too easy.

And Amron Daecar didn’t like it when things felt too easy.

“My lord, we have them! We have them, my king!” Sir Harold came riding up from behind him, panting, his blade dripping red. His pockmarked face was split in a smile and there was an enraptured energy to his voice. It was the thrill only blood and battle could bring. “They’re falling like wheat to the scythe!”

Dozens of riders were charging past. Only a few had been taken down by spear-thrusts and sword cuts to the legs. Hundreds of Agarathi lay trampled and maimed about them, moaning and dying. Men slowed on their horses, thrusting down with their lances to finish them off, or letting their horses crush them. Others dismounted to slash open throats and drive cold steel down into their hearts.

The light of dawn was spreading through the trees, dappling the forest floor, thick with bodies and blood. Amron rode onward, making for the heart of the camp. He found Sir Taegon there with the Ironfoot, riding from tent to tent, slashing them open to see if anyone was hiding inside. Horses reared and kicked out at canvas walls. Lord Gavron’s men dismounted to search, their black and grey cloaks emblazoned with the godsteel scythe of House Grave. It was an apt sigil for such a day, Amron thought. He looked around. The north rang to the sound of battle. He could see his six thousand men afoot out there, swarming upon the enemy as they came boiling from the trees.

But it all looked wrong. Felt wrong.

He knew why. “They’re not all here,” he said.

Sir Harold Conwyn was still with him, and Rogen Strand as well, all in black and grey. His horse was black to match him. “My lord?” said Conwyn.

“Look around.” There were pockets of fighting, but they were far too few. There was noise, but not enough. Amron had been in battles great and small and this was a small one. Hardly more than a skirmish. “We outnumber them,” he said. “There can’t be more than a few thousand Agarathi here.” He was getting a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Did you get it wrong, Sir Harold? The numbers of Agarathi. At Green Harbour.”

The stocky knight shook his head. “No, my lord. No, there were twenty thousand at least, maybe more.” His eyes roamed the vale, looking concerned and confused. “Perhaps this is their rearguard camp? They may have set their main one up ahead… somewhere safer?”

It was a possibility. The cold fist in Amron’s gut was suggesting something more disturbing, however. “I fear we have been tricked,” he said, the truth of it dawning. His voice was thick. He looked around, jaw tightening. “This is no army, Sir Harold. It’s bait.”

Some of the others were starting to come to the same realisation. Lord Gavron rode over from the trampled tents, Ironhoof snorting fog from his nostrils. “There are no captains here,” the lord growled. “No dragonknights. I know dragonsteel when I see it, Amron, and these black spears they’re carrying aren’t it.”

“They’re water men,” thundered the voice of Sir Taegon nearby. He had dismounted The Hammerhorse to fight afoot. A half dozen bodies were decapitated and dismembered about him. He kicked a torso aside, entrails tumbling from its open gut in a gory red splash. “Weakest men I ever fought. Not one of them can fight worth a damn. And half of them are boys.”

Amron had only just noticed that. Many of the dead faces looking up at him were young, green as summer grass. He felt sick all of a sudden. They left their worst behind…their least experienced. The rest…His eyes moved west through the open vale to where the woods thickened anew, knotted and gnarled, dense with oak and ash. “Rogen, gather up your trackers and scout west at once. I need to know how far they’ve gone.”

“Gone?” rumbled Cargill, as Whitebeard kicked his spurs and rode away.

“To the Twinfort,” Amron said. “This host was left here to slow us, delay us, confuse us.” He gave a bitter shake of the head. “It’s all been a ruse, Taegon.”

The Giant was starting to pull it all together. He ripped off his greathelm, crested with a warhammer crushing the head of a dragon, and threw it on the ground in a rage. “Treacherous bastards! I’ll kill them. Kill them all!” He kicked out at his helm with a great clang of steel, sending it flying into a tree where it got lodged in the bark with a crack. “Cowards!” he thundered. “They left these water boys behind and ran.”

“Fool,” the Ironfoot said to that, snorting the insult out. “They didn’t run, Cargill, they went off laughing.” He looked about, snarled, then spat. “The Twinfort’s only a day and night’s march from here, Joyce says. How long have we been chasing ghosts, Amron?”

It wasn’t a question he wanted to confront. For days Taegon and his men had been raiding the enemy rear, killing dozens of men each night, but they were nothing but lambs to the slaughter. As this smaller host kept a slow pace, leading them on this merry chase, the rest might have stormed ahead at speed, making for the rear of the Twinfort. Quick as that, victory had turned to bitter defeat. It was not a taste Amron Daecar much liked.

Sir Quinn Sharp rode over to join them, puffing and panting. “This is all wrong, my lords. We outnumber them two to one. Where are the rest of their men?”

“Where do you think? We’ve been tricked, Sharp.” Taegon Cargill marched over to collect his helm, ripping it from the tree. “The dragonfolk have gone and conned us.”

“The Twinfort?” Sir Quinn said. “How far ahead are they?”

“The ranger’s gone to find out,” said Lord Gavron. He glowered toward the western edge of the valley. Rogen was hastily gathering up several other men and was dismounting from his black steed to slink away into the trees on foot. “It’s worse in there,” the Ironfoot went on. “Fifteen miles of thick forest, dark as sin. Full of monkey lizards and tree wolves and greatboars big as broadbacks. Hard to navigate, you said that yourself, Amron. How the hell did they outrun us? We’ve got hundreds of Green Harbour men here. These are their lands, and they’ve been outwitted.”