“My thanks.” Lythian had found Barrow to be more accommodating these last weeks, despite their early differences. Unlike Kindrick, he’d played no part in the slaughter of the prisoners, and had cursed his fellow lord for a traitor when he heard he had taken off. Barrow had even suggested they send out men to hunt Kindrick down, but Lythian had decided against it.
No, I’ll want that pleasure myself one day, he’d thought. He’d even dreamed of it by night, and more often than he’d care to admit. Lythian Lindar, noble Knight of the Vale…turned dark harbinger of justice and vengeance. In his dreams he would stalk the north in search of deserters and act judge, jury and executioner upon them. Some he might forgive if he felt the pull of mercy, but never a lord in command of thousands, never an anointed knight. Oh, those men would suffer the full brutality of his retribution, and nothing so simple as hacked-off heads either. No, he would take his time with them, and that’s just what he did in the dreams. They were dark dreams, bloody dreams, dreams from which he woke feeling hateful, and angry, and dangerous. And all the while, the Sword of Varinar would be calling from its chest, whispering, hissing, fuelling his rage with its want for blood and battle.
He was looking at it now, he realised. Staring straight at the chest. He dragged his eyes away and saw that the men were averting their eyes from him, uncomfortable. “My lord,” prompted Sir Ralf. “You were talking about the Rosetree men.”
Lythian nodded. How long had he been staring at the chest? “I’ve said what I need to say. You heard what Fitz said, before he died. We can’t have his four hundred men causing problems.”
“Three hundred,” said Sir Storos. He had a gulp of wine and went to fill his cup. Another ally drifts, Lythian thought. Even Storos had grown listless of late, drinking at any chance he got to wile away the long dull days here in this city of ghosts. “At least a hundred have deserted by now.”
Barrow coughed into his cloth again. “I’ll see to it…as I said. Some will try to run. The rest...I’ll keep a watch on the rest…but Fitz…he was never much liked among them. Most saw him as…as an upjumped fool.”
Lythian nodded. It was an apt description of the knight. He looked up as Sir Adam Thorley entered, ducking through the flaps. “Are they ready, Adam?”
“They are, my lord.”
Lythian stood. “We’ll reconvene at a later time,” he said to the others. “See to your duties.” He went to collect the Sword of Varinar from its chest, lifting the great golden blade from inside. When he turned he found Barrow watching him. “A problem?”
“No, I…I was not aware you kept the blade in a trunk, is all.”
“Occasionally. For safekeeping.” Lythian did not need to explain his mental struggles to this man. Only his close allies were privy to that, and Barrow was not a part of that circle. No doubt he had guessed, though. All that staring, Lythian thought. He had no idea he was even doing it, and that was a troubling thought.
He stepped out of the tent with Sir Adam Thorley, fixing his swordbelt as he went. The rain soaked through his hair at once, trickling down his spine. “Have many gathered to pay their respects?”
“A few dozen, my lord.”
A few dozen, Lythian thought. It was hardly a strong show of support for Sir Fitz, and many of those would have come for the other five men. Not much liked, he reflected. Barrow was not wrong. Lythian wondered idly how many would gather if it was Amron, or Elyon, lying in some grave. What if it was me? Once before many might have come, but now…
He heard the sound of splashing footsteps behind him, and Lord Rodmond came up to join them. “I ought to be there too,” the young lord said. “To pay my respects.”
Lythian nodded. “As you say.”
They walked out of the gate together, a few of Rodmond’s guards trailing behind in the dull blue cloaks of his house. A little south of the gate, near the outer curtain wall, some firm ground had been found and into it six graves were dug, dirt heaped at their sides. At another time the bodies might be returned home to their loved ones, but not now. The likes of Sir Vesryn Daecar and Lord Dalton Taynar had been placed in the crypts, to be brought to the Steelforge to rest with the other First Blades at a later time, but these common men and deserters would be granted no such honour.
They should feel lucky they get their own graves, Lythian thought. Some of the men had even cut headstones to mark them, and Lythian had allowed that as well. I permit much, he reflected. But why? Why do I even bother? They all just hate me anyway.
He was not wanted here, he knew, but duty compelled him to come. Men glared at him through baleful eyes as he took his place nearby, standing a little aside so as not to interfere. Once all had gathered, men stepped forward to tell stories, speak verses, sing their sombre songs. Some trinkets were thrown into the graves of each man. A necklace of stones here. A favoured blade and scabbard there. A letter from a loved one. The toy of a favourite child. Lythian watched alone. Some might think his presence perverse, but no, it was honour that brought him here. I still have my honour, he told himself. I am cursed, tainted by the touch of Eldur…but it is honour that still defines me.
The rain was falling in a thick black deluge by the time the burials were done. Lythian took his leave before the men dispersed, returning to the River Gate where Sir Adam stood waiting. “I’m going to visit with Vilmar. Keep watch for my return; I may not return for some hours.”
“Do you want an escort, my lord?”
“I want to be alone.”
He stepped away across the broken coastlands, walking through the deepening puddles and bogs beneath a tar-black sky. The mud was so deep in places it went right up to his knees, and sometimes he had to veer around great tracts lest he get caught in the mire. He thought of Pagaloth as he went, and Sa’har Nakaan and Sir Hadros. They’d still had no word from them, and the men that Lord Kindrick had sent out to bring word had not come back either.
Small wonder. He could not imagine how it must be in those woods now. The rain would make navigation hard and there would be new rivers where there were none before, washing through the valleys, new lakes forming between the hills. Here at least the men had shelter, but out there? They’re not coming back, he thought. His hopes for unity were as dead and done as his failed attempts to catch dragons. It was always folly, all of it. Everything I touch is cursed.
The river had become a wild thing. The drawbridge that spanned it was kept down, and the water rushed over it in places now, rising higher and higher each day. To each side debris had become caught and was starting to clog on the banks, piling high with wood and bits of broken stone, bloated corpses trapped and crushed amid the tangles, of man and horse and deer. South of the bridge, the watercourse spread and opened out into a great estuary where the Dread’s coming had warped its shape, breaking the banks and causing it to wash over the lands, carving new furrows of its own. Now a half dozen smaller rivers rushed into the Red Sea with islands rising up between them.
Lythian crossed the bridge, the water surging past his ankles and washing the mud from his boots. On the other side the land was a little firmer. He walked toward the edge of the woods where it gazed south toward the sea. A small fire was flickering in the trees, burning beneath a raised canvas roof tied between the branches. There was a hammock there too, swaying in the breeze. Vilmar the Black sat hunched before the flames, turning a rabbit on a spit. He wore black from heel to head, a huge bush of beard pouring out from under his hood. His dark eyes did not lift at Lythian’s arrival. “Knew you were coming,” he growled. “They always stir when you do.”
Lythian scanned the trees, saw the shapes scattered among the trunks. Most of the gruloks were sleeping, indiscernible from boulders. A few had awoken at his arrival, as they were prone to do when he came with the Sword of Varinar. They stood gigantic, over twenty feet tall, staring from the dark with those ice-chip eyes. Several others were staring out to sea. “What are they looking at?” Lythian asked.
“Agarath. They’re always staring out that way.”
Lythian looked a little closer. By his judgement they were looking more south-east than due south. Eldurath was due south, he knew. Further east meant they were staring at the Nest, or perhaps even the Ashmount. “Do they sense something out there, do you think?”
“Dragons,” Vilmar grunted. “That big one. He’s waking up again, Lythian. That’s what Hruum thinks.”
Lythian scanned the giants, searching for their captain. “Is he awake now? I’d like to speak with him.”
“Sleeping. But you’ll get nothing much more than that.”
Lythian stepped closer to the fire. “If he knows something…”
“Then what? There’s nothing we can do about that big one anyway. He’ll wake when he wakes and we’ll all do what we can to outlive him. There’s no preparing for that.” He turned the spit. “Want some rabbit? It’s almost done.”
Lythian removed his cloak and threw it over a low branch. “That’d be nice.” He envied the huntsman sometimes, living out here alone. He turned over a fallen tree stump and sat down, the wood crunching beneath his weight. “Any trouble of late, Vilmar?”
“Not like you’ve got,” the man said. “A few wolves came sniffing around last night, but I scared them off easily enough. That’s bread and butter for me.” He prodded the fire. “How many did you kill today, then?”
“Six. Sir Fitz was one of them.”
Vilmar shrugged. “You expect me to know who that is? I can’t keep up with all you lordlings.”
“He had command of the Rosetree men after his uncle’s death in the battle.”
“Battle? Wasn’t much of a battle, far as I’ve heard.” He inspected the meat, then pulled the rabbit from the flames, laying it on a cut stone. “Help yourself.” He tore a length of flesh from the bones and chomped hungrily. Lythian ate with a little more dignity.
