The Barrel Knight huffed. “I’m sure. And you, Manfrey?”

Emeric stepped forward. “I could try to reach out to Moonrider Ballantris again,” he said. “Lady Marian has sufficient ingredients, she says, to disguise me as before.”

Borrus thought little of that. “Nothing will come of it,” he dismissed. “We’ve lost Sansullio now, and his men. You’d never make it there alone.”

“I made it back alone.”

“That was different. The moonlord let you go. But getting back in by yourself…no. And what would happen if you did? You think Ballantris would urge that my father be freed? You think he would care, or that Vargo Ven would listen? No, is the answer you’re looking for. Ballantris told you he planned to muster his men to leave at once, is that not so? Then why hasn’t he? His army is still in camp so far as we know.”

“These things take time. His allies…”

“What allies? That’s Avar Avam’s army out there, not his. This Moonrider thinks a lot of himself, doesn’t he? They’re all like that, these Moonriders, pompous and superior. He thought he could snap his fingers and Avam’s host would rush to heel. He thought he would tell Vargo Ven he was leaving and the dragonlord would meekly smile and let him go. Well neither of those things have happened. More likely Avam brought him to heel. Perhaps your precious Moonrider is dead.”

Sir Torvyn gave a solemn nod, the lid of his left eye flickering. “He may be right, Emeric. Vargo Ven will not take kindly to any attempts to undermine him.”

“If he has killed Moonlord Ballantris, we would know of it,” Emeric claimed.

Borrus snorted. “How do you come by that? They’re a day’s march from here, twenty miles as the crow flies. Our scouts and outriders don’t get anywhere near…”

“Near enough to hear Tathranor seek his vengeance,” Emeric told him. “You have seen moonbears on the battlefield, Borrus. They are a force of total destruction, and their rage cannot be matched. Not even by a dragon. Tathranor would kill a thousand men getting to Ven. It would take half a dozen dragons to stop him.”

“They have half a dozen dragons. They might have ten times that, for all we know. I don’t doubt the moonbear would kick up a bit of a fuss, but Ven’s power would quickly subdue him. He’d only need to send out Malathar for that.” He drank his wine. “But I take your point. All that fighting would cause a stir, and no doubt we’d have heard it. So Ballantris lives. What of it? Maybe he’s been thrown in with my father? That ought to keep the bear at bay.”

It was a possibility, there was no denying it. But there was another that Emeric Manfrey preferred. “Timor may yet side with us,” he said, with the thin strains of hope in his voice. “His allies might have convinced him of that wisdom, as I failed to do. It will take him months to march his army home, and anything could befall them on the way. Turning on Ven once the fighting begins would be the wiser course.”

“Of course it would be,” Borrus said. “The best way to defend is to attack, that’s what we say around here. Talk to Rammas. He’ll tell you. Well…sometimes that man takes it a little too literally, but the point still stands. I…” He cut himself off at the sound of the horns. All of them turned sharply to the flaps. The sound was low, a long deep wailing. Borrus frowned. “These Pentars…I can’t figure out their calls. What does that one mean?”

Sir Torvyn answered. “Scouts returning.”

He was right. Emeric walked to the flaps and stepped out. A steady, slanting rain was falling, as it did most days, and the great ward at Rustbridge had turned grey and soggy, its drainage system tested to its limits. Emeric could hear shouting from the walls as the horn-blast trailed off, echoing out over the open plains east of the city.

He walked to the crossroad a short distance away, where the main thoroughfare led to the eastern gates. The portcullises were rising, the drawbridge falling, the Pentar captain there shouting commands in his red and silver cloak. Into the city Emeric saw a small host of riders returning, dressed in grey and brown, leather and light chainmail, saddled atop swift slim coursers all frothing at the mouth. Emeric saw Sir Karter appear, hastening out to take report from the scouts. The conversation looked tense.

“What’s happening?” Borrus asked. He had followed Emeric outside, Sir Torvyn as well, and all of a sudden the lords of Rustbridge were emerging from their pavilions to converge at the cobbled crossroad. A moment later Sir Karter Pentar came running.

“My lords,” he said, breathless. “The enemy host…they’re moving.”

“Moving?” repeated Borrus. “Where?” He looked at Emeric, as though to wonder if they’d been wrong. Had Ballantris finally stirred his army to leave? Was Vargo Ven retreating back to the Bane, fearing he no longer had the strength to challenge them?

All such questions passed through the mind of Emeric Manfrey. Until Sir Karter shook his head and said, “Here, my lord. They are coming here. They struck their camp this morning and are marching west with all their strength. They may intend to siege the city.”

“Or they’re just moving camp,” said Rikkard Amadar. He had stepped from his pavilion with Sir Killian in tow. “Their grounds may have become waterlogged in this rain. It is not uncommon to move camp after so long in one place.”

Sir Killian looked to Emeric. The heir of House Oloran was a quiet, intense man who rarely spoke unless he had something to say. When speaking with the blade he was most garrulous, however, Emeric knew, one of the finest swordsmen in the north. “Was their camp waterlogged, that you saw?” he asked in his whispered voice.

“I did not see enough of it to judge, Sir Killian,” Emeric answered. “But what I did see…no, the ground was muddied, but not overly drenched.”

“They’re not moving camp for the hell of it,” snorted the Beast of Blackshaw. He took Borrus by the arm. “We need to beat the drums, Barrel. Get the men ready to attack.”

“Defend, you mean,” Rikkard Amadar said. “We have high walls and deep moats and battlements bristling with bowmen and ballistas, spitfires and scorpions. Leaving the fort would be folly until we are certain what they plan to do.”

Borrus pulled his arm from Mooton’s grip. “You talk too much, Moot. Too much and too loudly.” He thought a moment, then told Sir Karter Pentar to raise the canopy roof. “If the dragons come in force, we’ll need that shield. See to it, Sir Karter. And triple your guard on the walls. I want a bowmen at every crenel, and every scorpion and trebuchet loaded and manned. They will stop out of range, we can be sure, but it pays to be prepared.” He looked around. “Where is Lady Payne? She was not at council earlier.”

“She finds our company overbearing,” said Sir Rikkard. “Rammas, mostly. And Mooton is too boisterous for her tastes.”

“He’s too boisterous for everyone’s tastes,” Borrus said to that. “Even I’m growing tired of him.” He did not bother softening the insult with a smile. “Emeric, you go see her…she seems to like you. Tell her what’s happening if she doesn’t already know and then head back to the others. If we’re to come to blows, I want the Silent Suncoat in the van. That man’s mere gaze is like to freeze a dragon in its tracks. And someone go speak with the prince. Tell him…” He paused. “Actually, I’ll see to it. The lad deserves me to pay him a visit over there. He’s always asking.” He waved a hand to dismiss them. “Go. See to it.” And off he marched, Sir Torvyn at his side.

Emeric made for the small Payne encampment, an orderly place raised amidst the larger Vandarian host. The Payne forces numbered only about two and half thousand, Emeric knew, and were the sole Rasalanian representatives here. There had been some hard words said over that. But for Tandrick Payne, the Rasal greatlords had not sent aid and had chosen to defend their own lands and borders instead. Emeric would not judge them harshly for prioritising their own people, though others were not so forgiving. The word craven had been bandied about a fair bit. Perhaps that was the reason Lady Marian did not attend council so often as the others. Listening to the likes of Rammas and Mooton Blackshaw curse her countrymen did not make for pleasant hearing, and who knew the truth of what was happening over there in the east? They might have sent a great host afoot, only for it to be besieged by dragons on the road. The lords of the bays may have pulled together a grand armada, only for it to founder as it crossed the seas, assaulted by wing and fin. They did not know, that was the truth of it. And no amount of fist-shaking was going to help.

The Payne colours were grey and brown, their sigil a range of hills beneath a raging black storm. The standard flicked and flapped on banners and was stitched into every cloak. The black storm seemed apt to Emeric Manfrey. It was said to denote the Stormy Sea that raged beyond the Stormwall Hills from where Lord Tandrick ruled. But Emeric supposed that black storm could mean something else. The storm of war, black and wild, enshrouding the world in its shadow.

The gruff soldier called Roark was sitting on a stool outside Lady Payne’s pavilion, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. It was common steel, castle-forged. Across the flaps sat another soldier, much younger, plucking on the strings of a lute and humming to himself happily. It was a pleasant sound, an oasis within the growing din that was spreading through the great ward as a hundred thousand men stirred to life. The man Roark lifted his eyes as Emeric approached. “Lot of noise about,” he remarked.

Emeric nodded. “Is Lady Payne inside?”

“She’s putting on her armour,” Roark said. “In case there’s trouble.” He stood from his stool and looked east. “We hear the dragonfolk are flappin’ our way. That so, my lord?”

Word travels fast here. “Yes, it’s true. They will be here by dusk.”

“Dusk. It’s always dusk, isn’t it?”

Emeric did not catch the man’s meaning. “Would you check if the lady is decent, please.”

“Decent? Well listen to him, Lark.” Roark laughed. The soldier-bard called Lark plucked a string and warbled a line from a song, some ballad about decency no doubt. “Aye, I’ll check.” The old soldier disappeared and reappeared a moment later, quick as that. “She’s decent,” he confirmed, finding the word awfully funny for reasons Emeric couldn’t fathom. “In you go, my lord.”

Emeric passed inside. “My lady,” he said, bowing. She was half-dressed in her armour, working from the bottom up. Her torso, chest, and arms were garbed in a padded undertunic, over which her sleek plate would nestle snugly. The usually slicked-back hair was all awry and messy, hanging over her forehead in strands. She swept a hand to put them into place.

“Emeric,” she said. Marian Payne did not call him ‘lord’ as others did, who observed it as a courtesy. There was no malice in that, only truth. The lady was not one to be overly sentimental. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I came to inform you that the enemy host is moving. But I see you already know.”

“Yes. The blaring horns and shouting on the walls did rather spike my interest.” She raised a brow at him. “You ought to do as I am, and armour up, Emeric. The host may still be miles away, but their dragons could come at any moment.”

“I will as soon as I leave you.”

She waited. “And was that it? You came to tell me something I already knew. Or was there something else you wanted?” She lifted her breastplate from its mannequin, sliding it into place with a series of satisfying clicks. “Or perhaps you just came to watch me dress.”

“No, my lady. Just to update you on what was happening.” He paused. “Borrus wondered why you were not at council.”

“Was anything of interest said?”

“No,” he admitted. “It was much the same as usual.”

“Then you have your answer. I never did attend every council at Dragon’s Bane, and nor have I here. Most are tedious affairs that cover the same ground. There’s often a lot of shouting and drinking. I come when I have something to say or there is something interesting to hear.”

She was a blunt woman, to be sure, though Emeric had found her self-possession quite impressive. There were not many women like her in the north, if any. Warrior women were much more common in the south.

She took up a shoulder pauldron. “You are lingering, Emeric Manfrey,” she observed. “Lingerers always have something on their mind.” She clicked the pauldron into place, fitting seamlessly with the rest of her armour, and took up its twin. “Would you like me to make you Lumaran again, is that it? The host is moving closer. Perhaps with all that commotion you might have a chance to infiltrate their ranks unnoticed, and cut the throat of Avar Avam.”