“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Give me time to think about it.”
“You’ve had time. He’s been with us for a week.”
“Maybe he’s not dead,” Harden said. “Janilah. Maybe he’s off somewhere, hiding in the woods, and he’s planning to creep out and kill us one night.”
“Why?” Jonik asked, humouring the old man. “I’m his grandson. Why should he want to kill me?”
“For the Nightblade.”
“I don’t have the Nightblade.”
“Aye, but does the Oak know that? You’ve not pulled out Mother’s Mercy since he joined us, and…”
“He’s seen the crossguard, the handle, the pommel, and the sheath,” Jonik interrupted. “That should be enough for him to know it isn’t the Nightblade, Harden.”
“Aye. So why haven’t you told him?”
Jonik was confused. “Told him what?”
“About everything. Ilith and the refuge and all that. Leaving the Nightblade behind. You haven’t told him.”
“He hasn’t asked.”
“Exactly. He hasn’t asked about the Nightblade…and you haven’t told him…so that means you don’t trust him…and he…well, he doesn’t want to get into those sorts of conversations, because he’s planning to betray us anyway.” He smiled craggily, as though terribly proud of himself for coming up with such utter nonsense.
Jonik was less impressed. “Are you done? Can we focus on the task at hand now?” He made sure the sellsword wasn’t going to say anything more, then gestured up the slope. “The hilltop is just ahead. If you’re so worried about Sir Owen Armdall’s loyalties, by all means keep scowling at him, but so far as I see it, he’s the best chance we have right now of tracking down the Mistblade, and that’s all that matters.” He gave his horse a spur and left the old man behind.
Within a quick canter he had caught up with the others. Gerrin looked back. His eyes were wary. “Sir Owen says this is the place. The old castle ruins are right ahead, where they made their camp. The battle took place beyond.”
Not much of a battle, so far as Jonik had heard it. The word battle conjured a good contest and fair fight, two foes evenly matched, or at least enough to put the outcome in doubt. There had been no doubt as to who was going to emerge the victor in this fight, even with the gruloks involved. The demigod and the Dread could fell entire armies by themselves. An old man and his small cohort of giants were never going to be enough to stop them.
You were a fool, Grandfather, Jonik thought. You were blinded by your arrogance, and you died for it, and you’ve only yourself to blame.
The hilltop was wreathed in mist, like the valley they’d ridden through below. It hung heavy and still over the sodden, muddied earth, as though trying to shield the world’s eyes from what had happened here. That dark, ominous feeling still lingered in the air, and the wind was still making that plaintive, wailing noise. Sir Owen’s chest was going up and down. “I see the ruins,” he whispered, staring forward. “Right there. Near those trees.”
The castle had belonged to some river lord once upon a time, though had never been particularly grand. From the earth, the old stones poked out like grey finger bones, and in places the ground was churned and scarred. It was where the gruloks had rested, Sir Owen explained to them. “The night we arrived, the king sat out alone in the rain. He knew there was a grulok out there, and he was right. It came from the darkness, and then a bunch of others appeared. They’d been here for thousands of years, King Janilah said. Waiting for him to come. He said it was fate.”
The others shared a look. None of them wanted to discuss the whims of fate anymore.
Further south, across the hilltop, the mists swirled upon a land scarred and broken. They got only glimpses of it, but it was enough. Jonik saw chasms torn open in the earth, black mud boiled by flame, trees burned down to stumps. It had been a fine open grassland before, Sir Owen had said. “But the dragon and the demon…they turned it to a hell.”
Jonik was seeing that now, though only in the aftermath. Before, fires had blazed high across the hill, the fissures had gushed a black fume, and the very air had seemed to fizz and simmer, the Oak explained. He had been told to stay back by his king and had fought that command at first, but when the Dread drew closer, his own courage had fled him, he admitted. “I ran,” he’d said, in shame. “Took cover further back, and if I hadn’t, I’d be dead. There was nothing I could do. Even the gruloks…I saw them swatted aside like they were nothing. A few cut him, but they were just scratches. I saw one bitten into a thousand pieces, and another was knocked a hundred metres through the air.” He swallowed. “But mostly it was smoke and fire I saw. And the titan’s shadow. And that red light, from Eldur’s staff. It made a sound, like ten thousand men screaming at once. I thought I was going to die just hearing it.”
But that had been then. Now, what they saw was a land black and dead and shattered. No smoke, no flame, just a lingering shadow of dread.
“Let’s leave the horses here,” Gerrin said, dismounting. So far as they could see, the devastation had stopped just short of the ruins. “Is there any cover here to make a fire, Sir Owen?”
“There’s part of an old roundtower still standing, further in,” Armdall said. “That’s where we had our camp.”
“Let’s see it restored. We can begin our search after. Hopefully these mists will have cleared a bit by then.”
It was strange, Jonik mused, to think that a once great king had made camp here, in these mossy old ruins out in the middle of nowhere. The rotted remains of the curtain wall were barely visible among the weeds and sprouts of sedge, the gate had long since gone to rust and blown away, and the yard was full of thorn bushes and saplings. Some had been singed by the hot winds that blew from the battlefield, it looked, carrying here with its burning ashes, though the rains had served to prevent any true fires from catching. Further in, the wooden shelter Sir Owen had erected in the wreckage of the roundtower was still there. It had a roof of latticed branches and twigs, covered in grass and leaves to keep off the rain, and beneath that a small firepit had been dug, scattered with bits of charred wood. Jonik imagined his grandfather sitting here, night after night, brooding on the coming of his foe. He had turned pious, Sir Owen had told them, and called himself Vandar’s herald and his will. He was doing this all selflessly, to try to defeat the enemy and end the war.
Jonik did not believe a word of it. Janilah Lukar had never done anything selflessly, not in all his life. No, he did this for himself, he knew. He hoped Vandar would honour him for defeating Eldur in battle. He still wanted a Table of his own, the old fool.
“Let’s see about getting a fire started,” said Gerrin. “Sir Owen. You took care of that I presume?”
“I did. I built the fires and hunted game and went off in search of tidings.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I came back one day telling the king his grandson was leading a host to Rustbridge. I urged him to leave, to take command of the army. The gruloks might even have followed him, I said, but he wouldn’t listen. If he had, he might still be alive.”
“Then good thing he didn’t,” grunted Harden. “That man earned his death a hundred times over for the things he did.”
Sir Owen lowered his eyes “He was trying to turn to a better path,” he said, in a small voice. “Doesn’t every man deserve a second chance?”
“Are you speaking for yourself, Sir Owen?” Jonik asked him. He’d heard about the death of Rylian Lukar in the throne room. He knew it was Sir Owen Armdall who was the one to deal the killing blow. “You have things to make up for as well.”
“We all do,” said Gerrin. “There’s not a man among us without a chequered past. But honour isn’t a straight path, not like some men will say. Sometimes a dark deed can lead to a bright beginning. Isn’t it all just about perspective, in the end?” He let them ponder that a moment, then said, “So how about that fire, Owen? Where’s best to gather good wood?”
An hour later, the fire was roaring happily, they had a stack of good kindling gathered beneath the shelter, and Jonik had used Mother’s Mercy to slice up some logs as well. When he was done with that, he drew out an oilcloth to wipe down its edge, sitting on a stump. Sir Owen came over. “That blade…do you mind if I ask…”
“I don’t wield the Nightblade anymore, Sir Owen.”
“No. I realised you didn’t have it the day we met at the border. Was it…taken from you?”
“I gave it up willingly.” He slid Mother’s Mercy into its scabbard. “Harden thinks you’re going to betray us. Is that true?”
“Betray you? No.” He sounded offended. “Why would I?”
