He smiled at that. “Do not put such thoughts into my head, Lady Payne. If I slay Sunlord Avam it will be on the field of battle, with godsteel to grasp.”

“Yes, to defeat your enemies on the battlefield is more noble, of course. That would suit you better. You do not live in a world of spies and sneaks like I do. I have always found your ideals of honour too restrictive myself.”

“They are what have always guided me,” he said. “Even during my exile.”

“Sir Oswald would be proud.”

He furrowed his brow at that. “You need not mock me, Lady Payne.”

“I’m not mocking you, Emeric. I’m praising you, so take it. You’ve shown great strength to continue living a life of probity after what you went through.” She clicked her right pauldron into place. “How have the Tukorans reacted to your return? I have not asked you yet.”

“Well enough,” he said, though it was much more complicated than that. Some of the older men still seemed convinced of Lord Modrik’s slanderous accounts and had not taken kindly to his arrival. They looked away as he passed them, muttering unheard remarks, and once or twice he’d been spat at as he went by. But those occasions were few and far between. Most of the men were too busy with their own concerns to spare much of a thought for a lord long exiled and recently returned. “Not everyone knows who I am. Some have had kind words for me. The rest all ask of my ancestors as though I knew them personally.” His smile was long-suffering. “I’ve had that all my life.”

“People are interested in heroes,” Lady Marian said. She took her left rerebrace and wrapped it about her arm. “Do they ask of Lord Bedrik as well?”

“You know your history, my lady. Yes, some have done so.”

Lord Bedrik Manfrey was Sir Oswald’s grandson, and a staunch ally of Galin Lukar, who was Lord of Redhelm, Warden of the South, and the First Blade of Vandar at that time. When Galin threw down the Sword of Varinar and called his banners to march upon Tukor, Lord Bedrik had gone with him to help siege Ilithor and win the kingdom. The rest was well known. Galin Lukar ousted the last of the Ilithian kings and granted his bannermen lands throughout Tukor. Lord Bedrik was given a tract in the north, and the castle he named Osworth, in honour of his famous grandfather. They flourished, for a time, but not long. Over the centuries their power began to wane, and when Emeric’s father Lord Emerson perished in the war, the strength of House Manfrey had all but been forgotten. I was the last flickering light of a once great house, Emeric thought. And then Lord Modrik Kastor waved a hand, and the flame went out for good.

He gave a bitter shake of the head. “Some say my house is cursed,” he said. “That Lord Bedrik damned us when he joined Galin Lukar in his invasion of Tukor. Sir Oswald was one of the greatest ever Vandarians, and his grandson abandoned the kingdom that made him. I like to think that, sometimes…that we were cursed. It helps to mask my own failures.”

“What failures are you referring to?”

He looked at her. She had stopped dressing and was staring right at him. “My exile, my lady. Most would consider that a failure. No matter the circumstances and injustices. I presided over the fall of my house.”

“And you will preside over its restoration,” she told him.

He shook his head. “Prince Raynald doesn’t have the power. Only a king can grant a pardon.”

“Which he very well may be, should his brother not return. But that is not what I am talking about. Tell me, Emeric…who was Sir Oswald before his rise?”

He sensed a trap but answered anyway. “A knight. Of promise…if not renown.”

“And who did he become?” She smiled and answered for him. “He became the First Blade of Vandar. A hero without equal who sits at the side of Varin for all time, his knights will have you believe. His deeds granted him a lordship, and a house of his own, that famous name you bear. But men don’t care about lands and the titles, Emeric Manfrey. They care about feats. They care about his duel with Karlog and Bagazar. They care about his triumphs with the Sword of Varinar, and the many battles he won by the edge of his blade. So you go out there and wipe away your dishonour with deeds. With feats and triumphs. That is what men care for.”

She was right, he knew, and her words had stirred him. Men did not remember lords, they remembered heroes. If he wanted to restore the name of Manfrey, he would do it by the blade Sir Oswald bore, the eagle-blade at his hip. He gave Lady Payne a low bow. “Thank you, my lady. I will leave you to finish dressing.”

Roark was standing outside with a smile. “Stirring stuff,” he said. “I don’t often hear her talk like that. She must see something in you, my lord.”

“Do you always listen in on her private audiences, Roark?”

“Not always. Sometimes it’s Lark or Braddin with their ear to the flaps.” He grinned at him. Coarse grey stubble covered his cheeks and chin. “Best go get armoured, though. You’re not going to be killing any dragons like old Oswald wearing nought but leather and fur.”

Emeric took the old soldier’s advice, returning to his own small tent in the northwestern corner of the ward. The noise of the encampment was so loud that he couldn’t even hear the river rushing outside. He pushed through the churn of men heading for the walls to find the sailors in conference outside their communal tent. They had a fire going, covered with a tarp to keep off the rain. Grim Pete was cooking a pot of something over the flame and Soft Sid was adding some logs when Emeric arrived. The others were talking in heady tones.

Jack spun to him at once when he saw him appear. “My lord…they say the Agarathi are coming? Is it true?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“How far?” asked Braxton, standing.

“They’ll be here by nightfall. We don’t yet know if they will divert their course. They may be bluffing, or trying to unsettle us.”

Grim Pete shuddered. “We’ll be expected to fight, then? If it comes to that.”

“Every man capable of bearing steel ought to take up arms,” he said. “You’ll be in the reserves, Pete. There’s no safer place on the battlefield.”

“There’s no safe place on the battlefield,” Captain Turner said to that. “Not when there’re dragons about.” He sat on a camp stool in his tan coat, rain dripping from his flaxen beard. “You lot go ahead and fight. I’ll be taking the bridge over into the city when the fighting starts.” He had a bite of bread. “Call me coward all you like. I’m an old sailor and no fighter and I’ll only get in the way. Said that a thousand times.”

Emeric nodded. “No one will object to you sitting this one out, Gill.”

Pete’s eyes widened in hope. “And me?”

“That is not for me to say. I am not your commander.”

Soft Sid stood from the fire, towering above them all. He towered above everyone, even Mooton. “I’m fighting,” he said, in his enormous voice. He had a childlike slowness to him. “Me too. I fight.” He slapped his chest and frowned.

Emeric smiled at him. “You’ll kill many men, Sid. Make sure you’re well armoured and there will be few men who can match you.”

The giant grinned.

“But I hope it will not come to that. We have high walls and a shield above our heads. If sense prevails, we’ll be here a little while longer at least.” Emeric sniffed the air. “What’s on the pot, Pete?”

“Onion broth. Bit of turnip in there too, m’lord. Not much to it, really, but it warms the belly.”

“I’ll have a bowl when it’s ready. Just let me dress in my armour, and I’ll be back out.”

By the time he’d done all of that, the Silent Suncoat had joined them, sitting by the fire with that thousand-yard stare in his eyes. He still sent a chill down the spine of most who looked upon him, but the men had grown well used to him by now. “Borrus wants you in the van,” Emeric told him. “If and when the time comes.”

The man nodded. He wore fine godsteel armour beneath his tattered yellow cloak, both plate and mail, polished and gleaming. From the armoury of Lord Humphrey Merrymarsh the knight had taken a helm crested with a crab, its claws outstretched and open, ready to pinch. Emeric had wondered if that was some clue to his true identity. House Swiftwater’s sigil was a crab with godsteel claws, so perhaps he was a relation? Or maybe he just liked the helm? To this day, the big knight had not spoken a word about his past, or a word at all, mute as he was. He speaks with steel, and that’s all that matters. The man was a fearsome swordsman.

“Here, m’lord, a bowl of broth as requested.”

“Thank you, Pete.” Emeric took the bowl and sat at the fire. The Blackshaws had joined as well, the big burly men all sitting around, eating and sharpening their blades and boasting to one another, as they liked to, occasionally breaking into laughter as one of them made a bawdy jest. Sir Bulmar had the charge of them. He was the only one without a beard and easily the most genteel. He sat with Jack, sharing what advice he could impart.

“You’ll fight with us, when it all begins,” Emeric heard the knight say. “All of us together…we’ll be stronger like that.”

“You’re honorary Blackshaws now,” declared Regnar.

Sir Bulmar nodded. “Any battle goes easier when you trust the men about you. Those bonds are important, Jack. You have the back of the man next to you, and he’ll have yours. A fist is stronger than an open hand, remember that.” He made a fist to show him.

Jack gave a nod and fixed his jaw, trying to look brave. But his eyes showed the truth. He’s nervous, Emeric thought, and so he should be. He was nervous as well, in truth. Emeric Manfrey had crossed swords plenty enough over the years, but he’d never fought in a battle like this. He missed out on the last war on account of his age, and though he might have been there as a squire, his father had insisted he remain at Osworth should it go ill for him. “Our house needs an heir,” Lord Emerson had said, the day he rode to war. “If I should not return, do us proud, Emeric. May you bear many sons. And bring honour to our name.”

They were the last words his father had spoken to him before he smiled down from his horse and called his men to ride, and off they went in a column, cantering off to die. Last words, and a last request, and I failed him in all of it.

He sat alone and ate his soup, brooding on what was to come.

A quiet had fallen over the great ward following the early furore. Across the battlements, the bowmen took their places, and by now every man had put on his armour and readied his weapons to fight. In that state the hours ticked by. A sense of anticipation prevailed, until at last they heard the horns once more. Everyone stopped what they were doing and their eyes went east. A darkness was creeping out upon the world, the unseen sun moving away west beyond the hills. It’s as though it wants to hide, Emeric thought.