Lord Randall frowned, thinking. “How long was it, Reggie?”
Sir Reginald stepped over. “It must be close to three weeks now, my lord.” He looked at Amron. “When was it that Dalton was attacked, Lord Daecar?”
“Long before then,” Amron said, scratching at his soiled black beard. Crusts of dirt fell away. It had been a good long while since he’d washed. The timings didn’t line up, though he had never thought it was Brontus himself who had committed the act. More likely a catspaw left behind to slink through the shadows, and seek revenge on his behalf.
Or was it more than vengeance? Was his coming here, and then leaving weeks later, a part of some larger scheme? A slither of concern moved up his spine. He didn’t like the stink of this one.
But he had to put the matter aside. Men were deserting every day, and in their thousands, from a hundred posts across the north. Green boys fleeing to their mothers was one thing. Deserting Varin Knights was another, and Brontus Oloran, whether he’d had a part in Dalton’s death or not, had now made his own life forfeit. When caught, he would be condemned to die, just the same as Sir Ramsey Stone, who had abandoned Lord Dalton during the fighting. I need warriors, and knights, and as many as I can muster…but not cowards. Amron would come down hard upon such men.
He drew a breath and refocused on the matter at hand. The Fists had been prised open, the enemy had breached the Last Bastion, and tens of thousands of Agarathi were now pouring up the pass, right through the western gate. He had an army a fraction of that size to call upon, and those he had led from King’s Point were almost too exhausted to go on. Much as he might want to rally them and give chase right now, he knew he couldn’t. The men needed to rest, to sleep, to regroup. It was no good hurrying after the enemy if they had no strength to fight when they caught them.
He went to the north-facing window and looked out. But for the smoke and morning mist, the view from here would range for long leagues. He might even be able to see the enemy marching away into the distance. But he couldn’t. The skies were choked and grey. “They came in the night you said, Sir Reginald?”
The knight spoke behind him. “They did, my lord. Most of the fighting happened under cover of dark. By dawn the horde had begun moving up the pass, but for a few stragglers who stayed to hold their rear. They will be a half-day march away by now.”
Amron continued to stare out, considering. When the wind came just right, pulling off the mist and fume, he caught glimpses ahead. A frown furrowed his brow. “There’s snow,” he said, surprised. “A few miles to the north.” The air had grown colder the further north they’d gone from King’s Point, the mornings dawning with a hard and bitter frost, but they had not seen snow as yet.
“It started only days ago,” Sir Reginald said. “We were all shocked when we first saw it.”
Amron mused in silence for a moment. Snow was no friend to the Agarathi, and if it fell thickly to the north, it would slow them, weaken them, even kill them. The dragonfolk were not conditioned to fighting in such conditions; to the men of the north, it was as common as mud in a marsh to battle beneath a blizzard, but not them. “This helps us,” he said. “They will not be properly garbed for such weather. Many might freeze.”
“Dragons aren’t fond of snow either,” said the Ironfoot. “It messes with their fires when the air’s too cold, and they don’t like that. Makes them scared.”
“And we have you,” added Lord Randall, in his choked whisper. “Now maybe I’m wrong, Amron, but I’d guess the Frostblade’s not a bad weapon to wield in the snow.”
Like the Windblade in the storm, Amron thought. Elyon spoke of how at home he felt in the tempest, how the thunder and lightning enlivened him, made the Windblade sing. Could it be the same for him here? He had travelled the Icewilds with the blade, true, but back then he was new to its power. And battle brings out the best of us, he knew. Maybe…maybe…
He stepped away from the window, crossing the room to look south. It was like looking upon another world. Past the burning towers and licking flames, the Brindle Steppe spread out to the edge of his sight, dull in shades of brown and green, a vast scrubland speckled with ten thousand little ponds shining silver beneath the sun. There were signs of the abandoned enemy camp out there, raised beyond the range of their trebuchets and catapults. Hundreds of small tents; dozens of larger pavilions, their canvas walls in red and black and gold, rippling in the wind. Most had slept upon the open ground, however; he saw old cookfires and pits staining the earth for miles, bare patches in the tundra when dragons had curled to rest, called dragon circles in the north. They ringed the border of the camp, shielding them from harm. There looked to be some dozens of them, though from here it was hard to be sure.
The size of the camp supported what Sir Reginald had said. Sixty thousand men, Amron thought. And added to the rest…
He pondered a little longer, then turned back to face the others, all hard northmen to their bones, like thousands of others below. Randall Borrington, even with an arrow-shaped hole in his neck, had the air of a defiant man. He would play no part in any battle, not for a while, but that wound would not be the death of him, Amron knew. “Rogen,” he said. “Come in. I’d like you to meet Lord Robert’s older brother.”
The ranger appeared from the darkness beyond the chamber, clad in smoke grey godsteel, stained and scratched, with an overcloak of black wool draped heavily from his shoulders. His hair and beard were black and grey-streaked, ragged, long like his face, eyes amber and upturned, wolf and steel.
Lord Randall gave him an appraising look. “The ranger,” he said. “Yes, I’ve heard about you. You served under Robert for long years, is that so?”
“Since I was a boy, my lord.” Rogen rasped.
“And his best, I’ve heard it say.” He continued to study him. “You accompanied Amron to the Icewilds. Led him safely there and back. And now here you stand, his shadow and protector. That’s quite the story you’re building, Rogen. Perhaps Amron ought to make you a knight.”
“That is not what I want.”
Lord Randall gave a smile. “No. I can tell. Not a man for all this courtly nonsense.”
“I escaped that fate when my lord father sent me away.”
“A lesser son, are you? It’s often the case with the best rangers, Robert would always tell me. Good houses, lesser sons, rich Bladeborn bloodlines. I suppose you hailed from a strong house, did you?”
Amron smiled at the choice of words. “His father is Lord Styron Strand, Randall. Strong is in his blood.” He looked at Rogen, hard and lean and lupine, and sensed something brewing in the air, some faint hope that the enemy might have made a grave mistake. “The Agarathi should have put you to the sword, Randall,” he said. “They should have taken their time to kill every last one of you before moving up the pass. Now all they’ve done is enter the bear pit…and there are wolves about.”
“Wolves?” Lord Borrington was not understanding. “We’re a quarter their size, Amron. The Agarathi may be a bear, and us a wolf, but I count only the one.”
“Two,” Amron said, hoping he was right…hoping Sir Gerald had ridden hard and done as he’d asked. “And big ones, Randall, more direwolves than common wolves… more than a match for a frightened Agarathi bear, trudging through the northern snow.”
Borrington’s brow twisted into an impatient frown. “Wolves, direwolves, fellwolves, call us what you will. I still only count the one.”
“Two,” Amron said again. “Because if the gods are good, Lord Styron will be marching to our aid. And that bear will have nowhere to run.”
43
He climbed up over the lip of the rift, the rope straining against the weight of his godsteel.
“Anything?” Gerrin asked, as Jonik got to his feet and brushed himself down. The word was not loaded with hope.
“Nothing,” Jonik said.
The old Emerald Guard gave a nod; it was hardly an unexpected result. For long days they’d been searching the chasms and rifts and thus far their search had yielded no reward. They had begun optimistically, excitedly, even, but by now their enthusiasm had withered away like a desiccated plant caught in the grips of an unending drought.
“Right.” Gerrin pulled out the map he’d made and scribbled through the chasm from which Jonik had returned. There were a lot of scribbles on the parchment now. He looked across those that remained, and tapped the tip of the quill down at random, selecting one of those they hadn’t yet searched. “This one,” he said. “Who’s next?”
Sir Owen stepped forward. “It is my turn, I believe.”
Of course it was his turn. His turn came after Jonik’s turn, and Jonik’s came after Sir Owen’s turn, and so on and so forth. Barring the occasional descent by Gerrin, those two had taken the lion’s share of the spelunking duties, owing to their age and vigour. Harden claimed he was too old for this sort of nonsense and had only taken his turn once. Apparently that was enough. “I’ll only fall and hurt myself, and you’ll have to come down and fetch me back,” he had said. “No sense in adding to your workload. I’ll stay at the top from now on.”
Jonik supposed there was some sense in that, and hadn’t disagreed. From that point on, he and Owen Armdall had searched eight or nine out of every ten trenches, with Gerrin making up the difference when they had exhausted themselves from their toil.
