Sir Connor’s delay was telling. “We will arrive late, if we make it at all,” he admitted. “If the snow slows us too much, there is a small hilltop fort called Raymun’s Watch that may be able to host us instead. But our preference would be Gully’s keep.”
“His son was a knight of our household,” Amara added in. “Sir Gilmore. He perished when Varinar was attacked, and I would like to be the one to tell Lord Gully myself. If he is there.”
There was no guarantee of that. Any keep or castle could conceivably have been attacked and burned by dragons, though that seemed less likely out here than in the south or east of the kingdom, where the fighting had been fierce.
“And your niece,” Sir Ryger said. He was an attractive enough man, stern and unsmiling, and wore a green cloak over silver armour. Carly liked to call him Ryger the Tiger, or just Tiger Ryger, for his growly voice and striped hair, which was a reddish brown with streaks of grey at the temples. “You think she might have gone there?”
“It is possible, yes. Lillia was fond of Sir Gilmore, as the rest of us were. Sir Daryl may have taken her there.”
“Or a dozen other places, so I’ve heard,” said Sir Ryger. “Meaning no offence, my lady, but how long are we going to search for her? It could take months to scour every keep and castle in the northeast.”
He was not wrong. And it could all come to nothing in the end. “I would hope to learn more of her whereabouts soon,” she only said. She doubted that Sir Daryl would have settled permanently in Gully’s keep, small and poorly provisioned as it was, but if he had passed this way with Lillia he might well have stayed the night. If so, Gully would know where they had gone. And the lands of Daryl’s lord grandfather were only a half week away besides, and he surely would have stopped in there. If old Lord Blunt had not heard from his grandson, then Amara would begin to fear the worst. Until such a time as she spoke with him in his hall, she would hold to hope, however.
Eventually, she said, “I will not keep you to your oaths that long, Sir Ryger.” Those oaths had been to serve her, though she knew these men wanted more. The knights she had taken from the lake in particular were all keen to restore their honour. Spending months in search of a teenage girl would not grant them that. “I know it is battle you want, and you’ll have your chance to seek it, I’m sure. That is not something I would ever deny a knight.”
The Green Harbour man bowed from the saddle of his horse. “My thanks, Lady Daecar. That is all I ask.”
Her words were proven to be strangely prescient. Several hours later, as they stopped at an icy stream to water the horses, Sir Talmer called out that Sir Montague and Brazen Ben were returning. They were easy enough to differentiate even at a distance. Ben with those big ears, flapping in the wind like sails; handsome Sir Montague in his golden cloak, a relic of his time among the Suncoats half a lifetime ago. Their horses even matched them. Montague’s was an athletic courser, racing along proudly; Ben’s a rather more ungainly young stallion, with a slightly clumsy-looking stride.
But in the flush of their faces, both looked alike, and the fervent light in their eyes as they came reining up before her. It was Sir Montague Shaw of Rasalan who spoke. “Lady Amara, we sighted a great host ahead,” he said, panting. “They are marching west along the High Way in great columns, bearing banners of gold and brown.”
“Strands,” added in Ben Barrett, with that bucktoothed grin. His cheeks were as red as Carly’s hair…redder than they’d gone when she followed through with her promise to kiss him after the coup, in full view of all the men during their feast down on the beach. “Those banners, m’lady. They bore his standard. The bare-chested knight wrestling the giant.”
There was no standard in the north quite so macho as that of House Strand. Amara had to smile. “Lord Styron,” she said. “How large is his host?”
“Hard to say for sure, my lady,” said Sir Montague. “The snows fall even thicker further west, and they served to obscure his numbers. Ten thousand at least. Perhaps double that.”
“That would be his entire strength,” said Sir Connor, thinking. He looked at Amara. “He must be marching toward the Twinfort, my lady.”
They had heard rumours that Styron the Strong was coming down from the Ironmoors, where he ruled over a great tract of land beneath the banners of House Taynar. It was assumed he was heading to King’s Point to help protect the coast, but if an enemy assault was expected upon the western gate then perhaps his course had been diverted.
Others had gathered around to listen. Jovyn was one of them. “That would take them past Blackfrost,” the squire said. “My lady, ought we not ride to join them? We could accompany them there.”
They had intended to make for Blackfrost eventually, though via a more circuitous route, pending what they heard of Lillia. Sir Connor, as always, knew what his lady was thinking. “We can send riders out,” he said to her. “To Lords Gully and Blunt and others, to hear tidings of Lady Lillia. But it would be wise to join Lord Strand, my lady. A strong host we may be, but against certain perils we remain vulnerable.” He let her think it over a moment, turning to the scouts. “How far away are they?”
“A good long gallop,” Sir Montague said. “We only sighted them distantly, and from a rise. But they’re moving more slowly than we are. At a hard push we might reach them by nightfall.”
“Or tomorrow at an easier pace,” Connor said. He seemed to notice that Amara did not want to subject herself to a ‘good long gallop’. He addressed her once more. “My lady. I suggest we make for Raymun’s Watch for the night. We should reach it shortly after dusk at this pace. I will send men to speak to Lord Gully. Tomorrow, we can ride for Lord Styron’s host.”
They all seemed to be of the same mind, the men nodding and murmuring, and who was she to deny them? She smiled at Sir Connor, nodding assent, and then turned to look at Sir Ryger Joyce. “Well, Sir Ryger, it looks like you may yet get your wish,” she said.
39
Wolfsbane hurdled a root, his godsteel barding rattling.
The caparison he wore across his back fluttered heroically against the dim hue of dawn, trailing with small ribbons in the colours of his kingdom. Across the wooded valley, warhorns rang out, blowing loudly to mark the break of day…and battle. Amron hoped they would provide distraction.
Draw the enemy eye, he thought.
He burst out into the open where the Agarathi had stopped for the night, spread out across the vale. The trees were sparse, the canopy thin; Amron’s sight pierced far and wide. He could see the tents at the heart of the night camp, see the men emerging from within, rushing to snatch up sword and spear. Hundreds were still lying here and there on the ground, waking to the sudden commotion, throwing off their blankets and scrambling to their feet. There was shouting, barks of command as the horde stirred to life, men mustering to meet the challenge of the warhorns, coming from the hill.
We caught them unawares. It was just as he’d hoped.
Right ahead, the guards at the camp border were turning to meet them, swishing about in their crimson cloaks, lowering their long black spears. Shouts of alarm spread like wildfire. Amron rushed forth. Two spearmen thrust up at Wolfsbane as he reached them, but the steel just pinged right off the barding, and the men were bashed aside. “For Vandar!” the king bellowed, barreling straight through the men beyond. “For Vandar!” echoed a hundred other riders, smashing through the lines.
Amron bore the Frostblade in his grasp, misting ice. He swung it left and right, twisting at the torso, hacking men apart as Wolfsbane galloped fiercely onwards. In the span of ten heartbeats ten men were dead, crushed and cleaved, Wolfsbane trampling grown men like they were nought but crops in a field. A trail of iridescent dust marked their passing, glittering off the edge of the blade with each swift swish and slash, ice particles sparking and melting in shades of red and blue and green and gold and a hundred other hues. “For Vandar!” Amron roared again. “For Vandar! FOR VANDAR!”
The horns were still blowing from the north, ringing out from the wooded slopes at the edge of the vale. Their cadence had quickened now; a series of shorter, sharper peals to call the men to charge. Sir Torus Stoutman would be blowing on one of them, Sir Bryce Coddington another, Sir Lambert Joyce a third, the three knights leading the charge of the men afoot, six thousand Vandarians with naked steel in their grasp.
For Vandar! they called as one. For Vandar! For Vandar!
The sound was stirring. Amron led his host onward, mowing the Agarathi down. In front came the barded beasts, many of them monstrous warhorses strong as broadbacks. Sir Taegon rode the biggest of them, The Hammerhorse he called him, a broad-shouldered, muscular brute who stood a full hand and a half taller than even Wolfsbane. The giant bore his greatsword in one hand, his warhammer in another, bellowing “Hammerhall!” at the top of his lungs. Others called out for their houses, their homes, their kingdom and their king. “To the Grave!” roared Lord Gavron and his men; the words of their house. Tall Sir Dederick Dudden shouted, “Green Harbour!” The boy Sir Tyrstan Spencer rode in the van as well, his gilded armour gleaming in the dawn, his fine slim horse barded all in gold. Further down the lines Amron sighted Sir Quinn Sharp leading fifty riders into the teeth of the camp, and behind them all came the bulk of the charge led by Sir Harold Conwyn.
The enemy broke before them.
They ran them down like weeds in winter.
Such was the power of the sudden charge. They had marched hard to catch up with their enemy, and this was their reward. This valley, sparse with trees, the earth flat and open with scant roots and rocks to trip them. The trees thickened upon the slopes to the north and they had provided ample cover for the bulk of the army to work around their flank unseen. Overnight, Rogen Strand had crept out with the best killers he could find to silence the sentries, so their advance would not be known.
And it had worked. Everything that they had hoped for, planned for, had worked.
But it felt too easy.
And Amron Daecar didn’t like it when things felt too easy.
“My lord, we have them! We have them, my king!” Sir Harold came riding up from behind him, panting, his blade dripping red. His pockmarked face was split in a smile and there was an enraptured energy to his voice. It was the thrill only blood and battle could bring. “They’re falling like wheat to the scythe!”
