He spun about, hoping his presence would be enough to settle things. Some of the Vandarians were lowering their arms, backing down. Others had not seen or heard him and were still hacking away at limbs and torsos and necks and heads. The dead were thick on the ground, the blood wet upon the cobbles, the stink of iron hot in the air. A trio of crazed Agarathi were staring at him. All of a sudden they screamed their warcry and rushed. Lythian heard a shout of “My lord!” and saw Sir Oswin Cole hurrying forth with his misting longsword.
He raised a hand and shouted, “No! Enough killing!” and stepped forward, ducking into the first Agarathi with his shoulder. The man went flying backward as though he’d been hit by a bull in full flight, tumbling insensate to the ground. A second was caught by Lythian’s elbow as he ducked, which smashed against his chest, and off he went as well, barrelling into a group of other men, knocking them off their feet. The third stumbled past him, pirouetting and swinging with an axe, a wild crazed light in his eyes.
Lythian blinked. Red, he thought, disturbed.
He lost his focus for a moment, but regathered it in time to slide sideways, the axe rushing down past him. Instinct wanted him to rip out his godsteel dagger and cut the man through, but he kept it sheathed, needing only its power and not its edge; his fist would do. As the Agarathi heaved to hack at him once more, Lythian phased forward and struck him in the chin, using but a fraction of his strength lest he knock his head clean off. The man joined the rest on the ground.
The First Blade looked about once more. The fighting was fading, but still shadows moved about him. Sir Oswin had taken up his call - “Enough killing! Enough killing!” - and was showing the way by knocking an Agarathi out, as Lythian had, with a strong clean hook to the jaw. Lythian met eyes with him, nodded, then saw past Sir Oswin’s shoulder. Through the churn of bodies, a man was grinning right at him. There was a mad triumph in his eyes, a queer mania, but Lythian saw him only in a flash. A second later a body moved past and blocked him and when next he looked, the grinner was gone.
He stood a moment, disquieted. There was something about the look on his face…
“My lord!” Sir Oswin shouted. “Look out!”
Lythian snapped out of it, saw the knight’s eyes looking behind him, flared in warning, and threw himself away at once. A sword came slashing through where his head had been. Sir Oswin Cole roared a cry of “For Vandar!” and flew forward, spear-tackling the assailing to the ground. More of the men echoed him, calling for Vandar and for the king, and the violence erupted anew. Swords slashed out, axes hacked down, blood sprayed across the cobbles.
Lythian Lindar had seen enough. He pulled the Sword of Varinar from its sheath and raised it to the skies. A golden light spread forth to fill the square, and the last few Agarathi hissed and shielded their eyes, shying away. “Enough! I say enough!” His voice was a thunderclap, given power by the blade. His very eyes shone like golden flame. “Enough killing! ENOUGH!”
His words rang out through the square, the city, echoing off the broken towers and walls. The final few Agarathi quailed, stunned, and Marc Torrence and Willim Winters sped in to disarm them, knocking them down. Quiet settled across the square. Slowly, Lythian lowered the blade, returning it to its sheath. Darkness drank the light once more, the golden mists receding, until only the glow of torchlight remained, flickering in the gusting wind.
Lythian turned to the men. “Marc, Will. Bind the unconscious and gather the weapons. Sir Oswin, on me.” He spoke calmly, marching back the way he had come to rejoin Sir Guy Blenhard on the steps. “It’s done,” he said. “Get this place in order. Seal the square and start asking questions. I want to know what happened. Exactly what happened. I will be in my command tent when you’re done.”
He returned to his pavilion within the main square by the River Gate. Outside, the lords and captains had already gathered, roused by Lord Rodmond Taynar. “I thought you would want to convene a council,” the young greatlord said.
I want to wake up and find this is just some nightmare, Lythian thought. But he only said, “Thank you, my lord. You did the right thing.”
Rodmond smiled. He had the skinny features of his uncle Dalton, the lean build of the men of his house, but had always been much more palatable of character. He’d been a Varin Knight for several years, and all of those serving under Lythian’s command as captain. It made him naturally obedient to him, despite the great power he now wielded as Lord of House Taynar. Power he never wanted, same as me.
They gathered in the command pavilion. Sir Ralf had already lit the braziers to ward off the darkness and chill. They were approaching the midst of the Vandarian summer, where the days would typically grow hot and muggy, yet this weather was autumnal, almost wintery, and there had been news of snows further north. A part of Lythian would welcome it if it decided to come down here. The constant rain was beginning to drive them all to madness, and strange things were starting to happen.
But for now it remained dry, the skies black, cold and quiet. Lythian removed his swordbelt and set the Sword of Varinar against the wide oaken table, just where Amron would rest the Frostblade. His cloak he removed as well, though not his chainmail. He sat in Amron’s seat, and would speak with Amron’s voice.
“What happened?” asked Lord Barrow, once Lythian had taken his seat. He was grey like the grave, his sigil appropriate, with tufts of hoary hair to either side of a banner of baldness from forehead to crown. It made him look older than his forty-five years. We are almost of an age, Lythian thought. Yet he looks like he could be my father. “Lord Rodmond said there was trouble with the prisoners.”
Lythian nodded. “The square broke out into a riot. Involving the Agarathi and the guards. Scores are dead.”
Lord Kindrick gave a snort of triumph. “I warned you, Lindar, didn’t I warn you? Said something like this would happen.”
“He is the First Blade of Vandar,” said Rodmond. “You will use the proper courtesies, Lord Kindrick.”
The lesser lord bowed to his better. “Of course. You’re right, Lord Taynar.” He smiled as sweetly as that weaselly face would allow. “Lord Lindar. I did warn you that this was a mistake.”
Lythian did not recall that occasion. “When, exactly? And what mistake are you referring to?”
“Bringing the Agarathi into the city. I said it would come back to haunt you.”
Lythian was still struggling to recall. He frowned hard at the man. There was still an anger in him, the embers of the battle. His blood was up, his eyes intense. “I did not speak to you that night,” he said bluntly. “I gave the command and moved the prisoners. You only stood by and watched.”
“Yes. I watched, and I shook my head at you. I thought that made my feelings clear.”
Old Lord Warton gave a cough. His voice was tremulous when he spoke. “Are you to say that...that some of the soldiers provoked the prisoners to…to violence, my lord?” His words were punctuated by more coughing, a malady that had afflicted the poor man for long years, and which tended to irritate those around him.
“Yes, my lord. That is certainly one possibility.”
Sir Fitz Colloway gave a haughty laugh. “Now you can’t be serious, my lord. Why would they do that?”
You know why. Colloway was five and twenty, a man who thought he was a great deal more handsome and important than he was. He wore a constant smirk on his lips and slicked his hair back over his scalp with oil. A nephew of Lord Rosetree, Sir Fitz had taken on command of the Rosetree men after his lord uncle perished during the battle. Some four hundred, all told. A paltry number in all honest truth, but it had been enough to earn Colloway a place at this table. That is how few we are now, Lythian reflected. Nine thousand and change. And hardly the best or the bravest.
“There have been tensions between the soldiers and the prisoners for weeks,” the First Blade said. “I am told by Sir Guy that some men were seen entering the pen before the fighting began. He mentioned hearing a clatter. I believe some blades were thrown down, and some of the Agarathi provoked into picking them up and using them.”
Lord Barrow guffawed. “My own men stand guard about that square. None of them…not a single one…would ever do anything so reckless.”
Lythian looked at him flatly. “You have over two thousand men here mustered from your lands. Are you to tell me you know them all?”
The lord fronted up to that. “I know the character of my people, Lord Lythian.”
Lythian considered that an empty boast, but didn’t say it. “I’m not suggesting it was your men, Lord Barrow. Sir Guy is making inquiries as we speak.”
“Sir Good Guy,” smirked Colloway. “Sir Arselicker, more like. He’ll just tell you whatever you want to hear. He’s a sycophant, that man.”
“Do you know him well, Sir Fitz?”
The knight shrugged. “I know a suck-up when I see one, my lord.”
Lythian shook his head. “Sir Guy is known for his honesty. That is why I assigned him to watch over the prisoners in the first place.”
Kindrick sniffed at that. “Exactly. You assigned him. He’s your man, not ours.”
Lythian’s patience with this Ironmoor lord was growing desperately thin. “Since when did this become about me against you?” he demanded.
