Amron mused in silence for a moment. Snow was no friend to the Agarathi, and if it fell thickly to the north, it would slow them, weaken them, even kill them. The dragonfolk were not conditioned to fighting in such conditions; to the men of the north, it was as common as mud in a marsh to battle beneath a blizzard, but not them. “This helps us,” he said. “They will not be properly garbed for such weather. Many might freeze.”

“Dragons aren’t fond of snow either,” said the Ironfoot. “It messes with their fires when the air’s too cold, and they don’t like that. Makes them scared.”

“And we have you,” added Lord Randall, in his choked whisper. “Now maybe I’m wrong, Amron, but I’d guess the Frostblade’s not a bad weapon to wield in the snow.”

Like the Windblade in the storm, Amron thought. Elyon spoke of how at home he felt in the tempest, how the thunder and lightning enlivened him, made the Windblade sing. Could it be the same for him here? He had travelled the Icewilds with the blade, true, but back then he was new to its power. And battle brings out the best of us, he knew. Maybe…maybe…

He stepped away from the window, crossing the room to look south. It was like looking upon another world. Past the burning towers and licking flames, the Brindle Steppe spread out to the edge of his sight, dull in shades of brown and green, a vast scrubland speckled with ten thousand little ponds shining silver beneath the sun. There were signs of the abandoned enemy camp out there, raised beyond the range of their trebuchets and catapults. Hundreds of small tents; dozens of larger pavilions, their canvas walls in red and black and gold, rippling in the wind. Most had slept upon the open ground, however; he saw old cookfires and pits staining the earth for miles, bare patches in the tundra when dragons had curled to rest, called dragon circles in the north. They ringed the border of the camp, shielding them from harm. There looked to be some dozens of them, though from here it was hard to be sure.

The size of the camp supported what Sir Reginald had said. Sixty thousand men, Amron thought. And added to the rest…

He pondered a little longer, then turned back to face the others, all hard northmen to their bones, like thousands of others below. Randall Borrington, even with an arrow-shaped hole in his neck, had the air of a defiant man. He would play no part in any battle, not for a while, but that wound would not be the death of him, Amron knew. “Rogen,” he said. “Come in. I’d like you to meet Lord Robert’s older brother.”

The ranger appeared from the darkness beyond the chamber, clad in smoke grey godsteel, stained and scratched, with an overcloak of black wool draped heavily from his shoulders. His hair and beard were black and grey-streaked, ragged, long like his face, eyes amber and upturned, wolf and steel.

Lord Randall gave him an appraising look. “The ranger,” he said. “Yes, I’ve heard about you. You served under Robert for long years, is that so?”

“Since I was a boy, my lord.” Rogen rasped.

“And his best, I’ve heard it say.” He continued to study him. “You accompanied Amron to the Icewilds. Led him safely there and back. And now here you stand, his shadow and protector. That’s quite the story you’re building, Rogen. Perhaps Amron ought to make you a knight.”

“That is not what I want.”

Lord Randall gave a smile. “No. I can tell. Not a man for all this courtly nonsense.”

“I escaped that fate when my lord father sent me away.”

“A lesser son, are you? It’s often the case with the best rangers, Robert would always tell me. Good houses, lesser sons, rich Bladeborn bloodlines. I suppose you hailed from a strong house, did you?”

Amron smiled at the choice of words. “His father is Lord Styron Strand, Randall. Strong is in his blood.” He looked at Rogen, hard and lean and lupine, and sensed something brewing in the air, some faint hope that the enemy might have made a grave mistake. “The Agarathi should have put you to the sword, Randall,” he said. “They should have taken their time to kill every last one of you before moving up the pass. Now all they’ve done is enter the bear pit…and there are wolves about.”

“Wolves?” Lord Borrington was not understanding. “We’re a quarter their size, Amron. The Agarathi may be a bear, and us a wolf, but I count only the one.”

“Two,” Amron said, hoping he was right…hoping Sir Gerald had ridden hard and done as he’d asked. “And big ones, Randall, more direwolves than common wolves… more than a match for a frightened Agarathi bear, trudging through the northern snow.”

Borrington’s brow twisted into an impatient frown. “Wolves, direwolves, fellwolves, call us what you will. I still only count the one.”

“Two,” Amron said again. “Because if the gods are good, Lord Styron will be marching to our aid. And that bear will have nowhere to run.”

43

He climbed up over the lip of the rift, the rope straining against the weight of his godsteel.

“Anything?” Gerrin asked, as Jonik got to his feet and brushed himself down. The word was not loaded with hope.

“Nothing,” Jonik said.

The old Emerald Guard gave a nod; it was hardly an unexpected result. For long days they’d been searching the chasms and rifts and thus far their search had yielded no reward. They had begun optimistically, excitedly, even, but by now their enthusiasm had withered away like a desiccated plant caught in the grips of an unending drought.

“Right.” Gerrin pulled out the map he’d made and scribbled through the chasm from which Jonik had returned. There were a lot of scribbles on the parchment now. He looked across those that remained, and tapped the tip of the quill down at random, selecting one of those they hadn’t yet searched. “This one,” he said. “Who’s next?”

Sir Owen stepped forward. “It is my turn, I believe.”

Of course it was his turn. His turn came after Jonik’s turn, and Jonik’s came after Sir Owen’s turn, and so on and so forth. Barring the occasional descent by Gerrin, those two had taken the lion’s share of the spelunking duties, owing to their age and vigour. Harden claimed he was too old for this sort of nonsense and had only taken his turn once. Apparently that was enough. “I’ll only fall and hurt myself, and you’ll have to come down and fetch me back,” he had said. “No sense in adding to your workload. I’ll stay at the top from now on.”

Jonik supposed there was some sense in that, and hadn’t disagreed. From that point on, he and Owen Armdall had searched eight or nine out of every ten trenches, with Gerrin making up the difference when they had exhausted themselves from their toil.

“Right then,” the former Shadowmaster said. “Let’s get you roped up, Owen…”

“Wait,” Jonik said. He looked at the map in his old master’s grasp. The chasm he was pointing out was another of the shallow ones, those of which you could see the bottom when standing at the edge. There were dozens of those spread all across the hillside, all of varying depth, and they’d searched over half of them, all to no avail. Jonik shook his head. “We’re never going to find anything in these baby rifts,” he said. “It’s time we went deeper. Adult.” He jabbed out at random, prodding a finger at one of the rifts marked with a cross, signifying that they could not see the bottom. “That one. It’s time, Gerrin.”

The old Emerald Guard rubbed at his grey-bristled chin. “Why that one?”

“Why not? They may all link together down there anyway. Some of the shallow ones do.” Sometimes, when searching the bottom of a ravine, they had gone through a tunnel or cave and ended up in another, saving them time by searching two at once, or even three on one occasion. Jonik had the sense that there was a great underground world beneath them just waiting to be explored. Great caves and echoing caverns and colossal chambers with lakes and rivers within them. It was impossible to say how deep it all went unless they went down there and had a look. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe not. But from up here they’d never know. “We have to try,” he finished.

Harden’s face was dour. “We don’t know what’s down there. But my guess is nothing good. There are too many monsters roaming the world to have come from the woods and mountains.” He scowled over the edge of the nearest rift. “Half have been hiding underground, I’ll wager. And many will still be there.”

Gerrin agreed with the old sellsword. “We’ve all heard the noises…” he started.

“That’s just wind,” Jonik came in. He only half believed it. “It’s just the sound it makes when it rises from below us.”

“Sometimes. Not always. I know a growl when I hear one.”

“That’s just your mind playing tricks.” A part of Jonik agreed that there would be creatures down there in the depths, but that didn’t serve his argument, so he chose to ignore it. “If the Mistblade is down there, we have to find out.”

“It could be anywhere, lad,” Harden said. “Might have fallen through the world and come out the other side for all we know. Perhaps it’s time to give this up.”

“Give it up?” Jonik couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you ready to roll over and die so easily, Harden?”

“Been ready for that for a while, in fairness.” His grey lips twisted into a smile. Then he shrugged. “I’m not saying give up completely. Just that we need help. There aren’t enough of us for a project this size.”

“There might be if you pulled your weight.” Jonik couldn’t refuse the barb. He blew out a breath, frustrated. “Do you want to go and join the others, is that it? Ride off to Rustbridge and die alongside them?”

“I’d sooner not die at all. But aye. We ride to Rustbridge and maybe we find them. We could bring them all back here to help…be one big happy family again. A dysfunctional family of sailors and sellswords and soldiers, aye, but still…”

Jonik would not let the old man tempt him. “We don’t know what’s happening in the city and cannot spare the time.” He poked at the map again. “I’m going. If anyone wants to join me, they’re welcome.”

“I’ll go,” Sir Owen said at once. He had proven most dutiful had the Oak of Armdall. “If there are creatures down there, it would be wise to go together. All of us.”

“No,” Gerrin said. “We’d best keep someone up here should things go wrong. We all know who that’s going to be.”

Everyone looked at Harden.

The old man folded his arms. “What is this, some guilt trip? Well bugger you all. I’m beyond caring. You go for all I care. I wouldn’t go down there for all the godsteel in the Steelforge.”

That settled it. They returned to their camp to prepare, gathering provisions, dressing in the essentials of armour, hitching their swordbelts around their waists. Sir Owen made the bright suggestion that they gather up a large stack of green maple leaves to mark a trail, should they find the depths hard to navigate. Harden stood by all the while muttering of their folly and shaking his head.