Amron put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “How bad are your losses, Sir Reginald?”
The man shook his head. “I could not say for certain. Thousands fell outside. Perhaps thousands more when the forts were besieged. The dragons came in force, and at once, focusing on the towers to declaw us. Most of our siege weapons were destroyed. And the last weeks, my lord…we have lost many men trying to hold the enemy back as they crossed the Brindle Steppe. But you…” he looked at the Ironfoot, and Stoutman, and Coddington, and the other men-at-arms behind with Rogen Strand. “I heard shouts from the battlements that you have brought a host, Lord Daecar? You came from the woods, as they did…”
“We chased them here,” Amron said. “But too late.” He was not about to explain how they were deceived, not now. “I have some six thousand swords and mounted spears with me.”
“Six thousand?” The man seemed disappointed. “We may not have more than double that after the losses we have suffered. Only twenty thousand combined, perhaps. The enemy has four times that number.”
“Four?” blared Lord Gavron. “We chased no more than twenty here. You’re to say the host from the south numbered sixty thousand men?”
“It is a guess, my lord, but yes, roughly that. And dragons. They came from the Trident in a great armada and crossed the Brindle Steppe. We rallied to slow them but they were too strong. And as soon as they opened the Fists…” He coughed, a cloud of smoke passing from a burning tower. “It was mayhem, my lords. We were outnumbered and outmatched.”
And outwitted, Amron thought bitterly. It hurt like a punch to the gut.
But he’d heard enough for now. “Farwatch,” he prompted. “Take me to Lord Borrington.”
The rest were left behind, save the Ironfoot, and Rogen, who walked as Amron’s shadow. Farwatch Tower stood at the northeastern corner of the fort, thick and strong and tall, and a watchtower first and foremost without defensive weaponry built upon its dome. The dragons had not targeted it for that reason, Sir Reginald explained, only singeing and scorching the stone as they flew by but elsewise leaving it alone.
They found Lord Borrington in a warmly furnished bedchamber, high up in the tower with ranging views in all directions from its tall, narrow windows. There were rugs on the stone floor, tapestries depicting famous victories here at the Twinfort hanging between the slitted windows. A large bed rested against one wall; atop it lay the lord, feverish beneath sweat-soaked covers, his neck wrapped up in a bandage. It was dark with blood on one side. There was an acrid tone of pestilence in the air and a doctor stood at a side table, fiddling with his pots and potions.
“Arrow,” Sir Reginald said, in a quiet voice, before they entered. “Slipped right between his gorget and helm. Unluckiest shot I ever saw.”
“Will he live?” Amron asked.
“I’m not dying from this,” rattled a voice like death. Lord Randall’s eyes opened a crack. A thin smile crept onto his lips, crusted with blood. “Amron. Is that you, old friend? I thought I recognised that heavy tread.”
Amron moved up to his bedside. “It’s been too long, Randall.”
“Blame the crows,” Borrington said. He shifted to sit up against the headboard; Amron helped him, propping him against his pillows. “I’ve sent more than I care to count your way. Did you not…” Lord Randall’s face spasmed in pain. Clearly talking was of great discomfort to him. “Did you not receive any of them, Amron?”
“Not for long months.”
“But you’re here.”
“We had word from Green Harbour. The city is lost, Randall.”
“Ah. So that’s where those Agarathi came from.” His smile was wan, his skin pale; sweat dappled his brow despite the chill. “They got the gates open, I suppose you saw? Killed thousands. But my host…” He winced again, coughed. “We have strength enough still to oppose them.”
Amron gripped the man’s hand. Lord Randall had always been his staunchest bannerman, the Borringtons second only to the Daecars in power in the west of the realm. He was stout, severe, but a fierce and noble friend. Not a man to laugh like his younger brother Robert, who had the command of Northwatch Castle, but that was oft the curse of the elder son. I never laughed half so hard and often as Vesryn, Amron thought. And Aleron and Elyon were the same. Heirs always tended to be more grim and solemn than younger sons, though these days all men were much the same, and all laughter seemed to have left the world. There was too much hurt for that now.
“When did you take the wound, Randall?” Amron asked him. It was not fresh, that was clear.
“I led a skirmish against the Agarathi,” he said in a whispered rasp. “A week or so ago. Didn’t fix my helm properly to my gorget, Amron. More fool me.” He smiled grimly. “Been in this bed ever since. But I’ll be damned if I die in it. No. Not until I see my son again. He’s back, you must have heard? Lenard. Returned after three long years, Oloran told me.”
Amron had heard that from Elyon. It was his other son, his secret son, the son he’d never known he had, who had saved Sir Lenard Borrington and many others from those pits, Lady Kathryn Merrymarsh and old Lord Leyton Greymont among them. There was a great nobility in what Jonik had done, saving those stricken souls.
He smiled down at his friend. “I pray you get to see him again, Randall. I still remember the day he went missing.”
“From a brothel,” the man’s father said, with a grunt. “Lenard always had a weakness for women, stupid boy. Maybe he’s learned a thing or two from this experience?”
Amron couldn’t think what. He had been drugged, so the story went, kidnapped and taken south on a ship from Green Harbour. He could not imagine how harrowing it must have been to fall asleep in the arms of some nubile girl, only to take in that bleak southern hell.
Where he was now, however, no one seemed to know. The latest they had heard, he was travelling with Jonik to siege the Shadowfort. Was Sir Lenard still with him? Might he not have come home only to perish in that quest? Amron didn’t want to put that notion into the sick lord’s mind. Hope was a good healer, he knew, and he wanted him to come back strong.
“You say Sir Brontus told you?” he asked. “Of your son’s return?”
Lord Randall nodded, about to speak, then began coughing some more, and groped for a cup of water by the bedside. The doctor bustled over, but Amron waved him back. He served Lord Randall himself, holding the cup to his lips. “Brontus, yes,” the lord croaked when he’d drank his fill; no more than a few sips, painfully swallowed. “Told me your Elyon had brought the news from the east. He flies everywhere, they say, though not here. I could have used him, Amron. And you.” His weary eyes flitted to the Frostblade. “Ah. There is it. It’s got the power to heal, they say.” He pointed gingerly to his neck. “Would you mind?”
Amron gave a low chuckle. “That’s not how it works, Randall. I wish I could, but…”
“I know. I know. Only the man bonded to it can heal.”
Amron took his arm. “Where is Sir Brontus now? Did he live through the fighting?” Amron had endured some bitter exchanges with Brontus Oloran in King’s Point and that was part of the reason he had sent him here, to bolster the western gate. That did not mean he hoped him ill. To the contrary, he prayed he was well. Brontus was a brilliant Bladeborn knight and swordsman, and the king needed every one of those he could get.
But Randall Borrington’s mouth only twisted as he said, “Gone. Took off with some of his men one night and vanished.”
Amron was taken aback. “He deserted? Where?”
“Deserters don’t tend to tell you where they’re deserting to, Amron,” Borrington said in a dry rasp. “The man never wanted to be here, he made that plain. Had some choice words to say about you, though I put him down quickly enough. Bitter man. All this business with the Sword of Varinar. Threatened to take his men and march back to his lord uncle’s lands to spite you, but Lord Mantle wouldn’t have it. In the end Oloran just took off with Steelheart and a few others.” If he’d had the energy to spit, he might have. “Cowards,” he said instead. “But at least we kept his men. Lord Mantle’s taken a firm charge of them. He’s disgusted by what Brontus did.”
Amron was glad to hear that there was a firm hand here to guide the Oloran host. “What of Sir Marcus Flint? Did he leave with Brontus too?”
“No. He stayed, like Mantle. Good men, those two. I thought Brontus was as well until he got here. Always complaining. Bleating of his injustices.”
“He was the same at King’s Point,” the Ironfoot came in. He limped heavily over from the doorway. “Lord Borrington.” He gave a courteous bow. Borrington was the greater lord, an order of magnitude more powerful in lands and incomes, and a warrior to boot, and that made him worthy of Lord Gavron’s respect. There weren’t many men who fit that profile. “Sorry for the neck. And for sending Oloran over to you. You ask me, you’re better off rid of him.”
Lord Borrington nodded from his bed. “How’s the foot, Lord Grave? Not yet rusting, I hope?”
Gavron gave his best version of a smile. “No. Just the rest of me. They’ll find me one day…a dusty old skeleton with a pristine godsteel leg. And sooner than I’d hope.” He snorted to himself, then said, “There was an attempt on Dalton Taynar’s life. While back. A man got into his bedchamber and stabbed him in the gut. That wound…weakened him enough that he bled out on the battlefield. Whoever it was murdered a greatlord. My greatlord.” He glanced at Amron. “We think Brontus was to blame. And now you say he deserted…” Amron knew what he was getting at. “When was that craven last seen? That’s what I want to know.”
