Lythian reached slowly to take the dagger from beneath his pillow. His fingers closed around godsteel and his sight improved at once. The men were all cloaked, cowled, with swords poking out from the folds. They would be in armour, he knew. Outside, the rains were still coming down thick and hard. A crash of thunder bellowed through the skies, and beneath the cover of that noise, the men heaved a little louder, pulling the blade up and out to stand it on its tip. “Take it, Brontus. You can carry it. I know you can.”
Brontus Oloran took the blade’s handle with both hands and heaved it from the floor. The others helped him to get it up onto his shoulder. Lythian slid his legs from the bed, and the wood beneath him gave a groan.
One of the men heard. “He’s awake,” he said, turning, throwing open his cloak. A broadsword scraped from its sheath. “He wasn’t supposed to wake.”
Lythian stood, letting the covers fall from his frame. He felt groggy from the wine. “Drop the sword, Sir Brontus,” he said. “It isn’t yours to take.”
Brontus Oloran turned to him. His face was warped and wild, reddening from the weight of the blade. “It should have been mine,” he rasped. “It should have been! Dalton cheated. He cheated me!”
“You were beaten fair and square.”
“Says who? Amron? Elyon?” Brontus panted a breath. “You weren’t even there!”
“I have heard a dozen tales of your bout.”
“It was the rain. The rain. It helped him. I was winning easily before…”
“Drop the blade,” Lythian repeated, more firmly.
“No. It’s mine. Mine, Lythian. MINE.”
Sir Symon Steelheart stepped between them. His coiled golden hair was dark with rain and he looked nothing like the pretty man who pranced along at Oloran’s side. There was a cold pallor to his face, and he’d grown out a thatch of beard. His eyes were hard and deadly. “Go, Brontus,” he said. “We’ll take care of him.” He drew his blade and pointed it forward. “We didn’t want to kill you, Lindar. That’s not why we’re here.”
Lythian looked at the dead guards. “And them? They were good men.”
“Necessary sacrifices.”
“The blade should have been mine, Lythian,” Brontus said again, breathing heavily now. “I should have had it before Dalton. You know it. And now he’s dead. You’ve got no right to it.”
Lythian stared at him, holding his knife to his side. He was concerned by how well the man was bearing it. “King Daecar made me its guardian,” he said. “This is bigger than you know, Brontus. Now put it down, and go. This needn’t come to blood.”
“Your blood,” sneered the man beside Steelheart.
“I don’t want that,” said Brontus. “I don’t, Lythian. We’ve served together for years. Just give me what I’m owed and I’ll leave.”
Lythian knew that could never happen.
So did Sir Symon Steelheart. “He’s not going to yield, Brontus. We have to kill him. We have no choice now.”
“I told you no,” Brontus commanded, as a blast of thunder shattered the skies. “Perner, disarm him. Do it quickly.” He turned to lurch outside.
The man Perner pressed forward, but Lythian was quick as a cat. He slipped sideways and slashed out, cutting at the man’s neck with his dagger. Perner reared, blood spouting from his open throat, hand snapping down on his craw. Symon Steelheart whirled forward with the fourth man, a big bearded brute, and the two of them slashed out with their blades. Lythian staggered backward, rolling over his desk, then leapt up over it and slashed down. He caught Steelheart with a glancing blow that cut open his pretty cheek to the bone. The man bit back a roar, swinging in an upcut…but Lythian vaulted away behind the table and kicked it forward, sending it crashing into the two men.
By then Brontus was staggering away with the full weight of the Sword of Varinar on his shoulder, escaping through the flaps. Lythian went to chase, but Steelheart flew in front of him. Blood was pouring from his open cheek. “Just give it up, Lindar. That’s his blade. His. You’ve got nothing to do with this.”
The bearded man reached out and swiped the table aside. He stood to Lythian’s right, Steelheart to his left, the exit beyond. Lythian glared at them. “You’re deserters.” That was the only thing that made sense. Amron had sent them all to the Twinfort, and they’d left to steal the blade. “You’ve abandoned Lord Borrington’s command.”
“We don’t serve him. We serve Brontus.”
There was some noise outside. Voices and movement. Brontus had more men out there. Lythian went to roar for help, but his voice was weak, his head heavy, and a bellow of thunder interrupted him.
Steelheart laughed. “Guess Vandar’s deserted you,” he mocked. “He heard about what you did, Lindar. Down in the south. Maybe this is your punishment?”
Lythian lunged at him, clumsily, slashing with his dagger, but the big man came in from the side, swinging with a mailed fist. Lythian swerved away, but never saw the second blow coming. It swung up from below, crunched hard into his gut, punching all the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, staggering away. He tried to call out, tried to breathe, but he couldn’t.
The big man followed after him, stamping through the tent. Lythian backtracked, felt canvas behind him, turned and slashed, cutting a strip in the wall. He stumbled out into the rain, desperately trying to call out. Distantly, he could hear the sound of fighting somewhere to the north of the city. The yard was deserted. He could not see the River Gate through the rain, nor the walls and the men atop them. He took a step, another, and finally drew breath. Ralf’s tent was near. And Lord Rodmond’s. He had to reach them…
He lurched out across the cobbles, but got only a few feet. A steel boot swung out and took away his legs and he went crashing down to the stone. His chin struck hard, head juddering. He felt a man coming up behind him, felt a boot pressing down on his back, hard and heavy, crunching his spine. Then Steelheart was on a knee, right there beside him. “You’ve had your day, Lindar. But it’s over. And you’re done.”
The Knight of the Vale had time enough to snatch a breath, but not time enough to shout. Something hard came down at the back of his head. And that was that.
Done.
55
Lillia, Amron Daecar thought, as he charged. For Lillia, and for Amara, and for Blackfrost and for Vandar.
He raised the Frostblade and gave out a shuddering roar. “Blackfrost!” he bellowed, as he saw the city under siege before him. “Blackfrost! Blackfrost! For Vandar!”
A thousand voices echoed him. Ten thousand. Twenty. Borringtons and Crawfields and Rothwells and Blunts, Gullys and Spencers, Sharps and Cargills and Graves led by the Ironfoot, Mantles and Flints under the banners of House Oloran. A middling host in size. A powerful one in strength. For Vandar! they roared. For Vandar! For Vandar!
The Hammerhorse was thundering at his side, matching Wolfsbane stride for stride. Lather foamed from the horses’ mouths, clods of dirty snow flying backward at their charge. Sir Taegon Cargill tore his godsteel warhammer from his back and lined up the nearest foe. Amron had his eyes trained on his own, just fifty lengths away. Ahead, the rearguard lines of the enemy army were bracing for impact, lowering their spears and pikes as they hastened into a tight formation. Thousands of them spread across the open field outside the city, all shouting out and crying commands as Amron led his host through the midmorning mists. Muddy puddles of melted snow glittered beneath the sun, and the earth was churned and scorched by the passing of the horde. For once it was not snowing. For once the skies were clear. Arcing east to west, the summer sun shone down from on high. Vandar’s Smile, Amron Daecar thought. He favours us this day.
“For Vandar!” the men were chanting. “For Vandar! For Vandar! For Vandar!”
The northern warhorns sang out everywhere, a great chorus to stir the soul, and ahead the Agarathi were responding with their shrieking battlecry. The thrill was thick in Amron Daecar’s veins. This was like a battle of old. A battle of the last war. Dragons in the skies and a great horde ahead. A thunderous charge of misting knights with thousands of northmen at their backs. A city under siege, a desperate defence, a heroic charge to break the lines. For a moment Amron forgot the Dread, forgot Eldur, forgot the snows in summer and the unending rains, forgot the fall of the Bane and the Point and Varinar and the ending of the world. Today it was just this city, this battle. It was Blackfrost, his home, and his family within it. Lillia, Amara, Artibus, Gereth, young Jovyn was in there too, Whitebeard had said. They were safe in the mines, but for how long? If the enemy broke through…how long?
