“Look to the fringes,” Sir Killian whispered. “Moonbears do not like crowds.”
They all looked but none could see either Tathranor or Jahendroth, the young bear of Risho Ranaartan. Of dragons, however, there were many sightings, rippling like ghosts through the fogs that souped above the trees. Borrus stared out with a scowl. “I want Malathar,” he said, as he often did. “I cut him up two decades ago, and this time I’ll finish the job.”
“You’re two decades older,” Rikkard informed him. “Don’t overstretch yourself or try to play the hero, Borrus. Lancel did that at the Battle of the Bane, and he paid for it with his life.”
“Lancel,” Borrus huffed. “Good lad. Decent sword. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but I’m ten times the swordsman he is. When I come at Ven in Rushform he won’t have a clue what hit him. I’ve been training daily, Rikkard. For months now. I trained at sea and I trained when we rode up through the mountains and I trained when we came back down again. I’m as good as I’ve ever been…better, even. And Malathar’s two decades older too, don’t forget. He’s turned fat in his dotage I’ve heard. Heavy and slow and I’ll have him.”
“I’ll get him if you die, Borrus, don’t you worry,” put in Mooton Blackshaw.
Borrus turned to him with a look of mild contempt. “You think too highly of yourself, Moot. I love you, I do, but you’ve become a braggart without backing it up.” He took him by both shoulders as the two massive men stood face to face. Borrus put his forehead to Mooton’s, pressing. “Prove it to me. Prove you’re as fearsome as you say. I want you killing dragons, Moot. The gods know you’re born for it, so do it. Do it.”
“I will.” Mooton drew back. He had a fire in his eyes. “For your father, Borrus. And for you.”
“For Vandar,” Killian whispered.
They all agreed with that. “For Vandar,” they said together. For Tukor, Emeric thought.
But not yet. For an hour they stood on the battlements until the light faded to black, and the mists closed in, and even the fires were blotted out. Emeric returned to the others at the northwestern corner, updating them on what was happening. “They’re setting their camp,” he told them. “There’s unlikely to be any fighting tonight, and if there is, it’ll be dragons. We’ll let the ballistas take care of them.”
“And if they attack us in force?” asked Brown Mouth Braxton. “We know what happened at the Bane. They took down the fort, and that’s never happened before. There’s magic in that stone, and they took it down all the same. They do the same here, and all of us could burn.”
“If they wanted to do that, they’d have done it already, Braxton. No, I think they wish to engage us in the field. Their dragons numbers have been depleted and are growing precious. Men are much cheaper. So sit fast for now, and try to get some rest if you can. I’ll be in my tent if anyone needs me.”
He retired to his private sanctuary, taking with him a cold bowl of soup. For a while he sat and ate, listening to the gentle murmuring through the camp. Here and there men were singing, their voices rising like islands of noise in a sea of silence, but mostly it was quiet out there. Eventually, the pull of sleep nagged him into his bed. He remained armoured, just in case, removing only his swordbelt and helm, easing down onto the sturdy pallet he slept on. Sleep took him gradually, and the familiar faces in his dreams. The women he had loved. The men he had hated. The swirl of a thousand formless shapes asking for him to regale them of tales of Sir Oswald.
And then Sir Oswald himself stood before him. He looked much the same as the reflection Emeric saw in the mirror, only taller, broader, harder, wiser, stronger, better in every way. Sir Oswald came to him often, but in the dream he never spoke. He just looked at him, judging, searching his soul, shaking his head, and no matter what Emeric said, no matter where he turned, the great man was there, watching, displeased.
He was awoken by the sound of the horns.
His eyes snapped open and he scrambled at once to his feet, rushing groggily out into the ward to find that dawn was breaking, a red light bloodying the eastern walls. He had slept long hours somehow, all through the night. The horns were loud and coming from all quarters, a wild urgent blaring to call the men to assemble.
Emeric blinked and rubbed his eyes, remembering that he’d left his helm and swordbelt in his tent. He rushed to fetch them and burst back out, fixing his belt as he ran to the others. Jack was already awake, Braxton emerging sleepily from the tent they all shared as Soft Sid and Grim Pete followed him out. The Blackshaws were pouring from their tent as well.
“What’s going on?” Jack asked. “Are we to march out to meet them, my lord? I heard someone say we would.”
“I don’t know, Jack.” Emeric looked around. “Stay together, all of you. Captain Turner, best make for the city. I’ll find out what’s happening.” He spun on his heels and dashed off.
Borrus’s pavilion was in an uproar when he arrived. Everyone was shouting over one another, trying to be heard. Borrus stood behind the command table, hands to the wood, face red and boiling with rage. Emeric saw a bloody bag there, on the table. Sir Karter Pentar’s hands were bloody as well.
Emeric moved over to Sir Rikkard. “What’s happening, Rikkard? All the men are forming up.”
Rikkard hardly seemed to hear him, Mooton was shouting so loud, roaring about smashing the enemy to pieces, while Rammas was repeating, “We have to march! We have to march!” as though incapable of saying anything else. Sir Torvyn was calling for calm thought, Killian Oloran looked like he wanted to put his thumb through someone’s eye, and Prince Raynald’s mouth was moving, but Emeric could not hear the words through all that. Lady Marian stood silent to one side, watching everyone else.
“Rikkard,” Emeric repeated, grabbing his arm. “That bag? What’s…”
“Sir Soloman,” Rikkard told him darkly. “And that one…” A grimace passed the knight’s lips and Emeric saw another bloody bag on the table, behind the first. “It’s Barnibus. Their…their heads.”
Emeric felt a sickened churn in his guts. “The dragons. They dropped them, as before?”
Rikkard nodded. “A short while ago. Sir Karter brought them in. There are others. Men are fetching them now, and…”
…and Emeric knew why Borrus was staring down at the table, red-faced and raging. He knew why the horns were blazing and the men were forming up. They all knew it, and all feared what was to come next. And just as Emeric was making that realisation, the tent flaps swayed open and a man burst in with another bloody bag in his hand.
The pavilion fell to a deep and sudden hush. “Bring it here,” Borrus said. His voice was choked. The man came forward and put the bag on the table with a soft clunk. “Open it.”
“My lord, I don’t…”
“Open it,” Borrus repeated. “Now.”
The man’s fingers fumbled as they undid the ties and the canvas bag fell open. Emeric peered forward. He caught a glimpse of a bald head, scraps of red beard, a skull smashed and maimed. There were cuts and lesions all over the face and cheeks and around the eyes as well. One of the eyes looked like it had been put out by a hot poker. “Gods,” whispered Raynald Lukar. “Is that…”
“My father,” Borrus said. He stared at the decapitated head of Lord Wallis Kanabar, battered and beaten and broken. For a long moment he just stared. And then his lips skinned back, and he bared his teeth, and from his lungs bellowed an anguished roar that needed no translation.
A roar to herald battle, and blood.
50
The Tower of Rasalan emerged from the wintry shroud, suddenly and unexpectedly and very luckily, Elyon thought. He allowed a laugh, a burst of mist puffing from his lips. “Well Walter, I finally believe it,” he shouted over the blusterous wind. “That luck of yours is truly something.”
The man gave a humble chuckle from his harness. “I think, and it is so.” A blue grin twisted on his frosted lips. “If only more people knew, good prince. I’d be worshipped as a god.”
The comment was in jest, but there was some truth in there, to be sure. The light of Vandar shone from him, and if that didn’t make a man godly, Elyon didn’t know what did. “We can land there. I see…I think I see figures, Walter.”
At the base of the ancient coastal tower, two large fires burned from within a pair of great iron braziers, cut into shapes of waves around the rim. Between the braziers, a great double door stood open, wood studded in iron, and three cloaked figures were to be seen outside. One was pointing skyward in their direction. Waving, it seemed to Elyon. The enthusiasm of it suggested it was Devrin.
They came in to land, piercing the icy wind, both of them frozen right down to the core. The flight from Thalan had been the most unpleasant of Elyon’s life, though the letter from the dead king had kept his mind warm and busy. Saska, he thought. Gods, so it’s you. He was still coming to terms with that, and would for some time, he suspected. I need to find her at once. I need to find her and bring her to the refuge. To Ilith. I need to help her.
