It was not the answer Amron was hoping for. Lythian was looking at him with a frown - he had already told him all of this - but the Crippler of Kings wanted to conduct his own interrogation. Lythian was friend to Sa’har, more easily deceived if the Skymaster had a mind for it. But no, he’s telling the truth, Amron decided. We can trust this man.

“And Eldur?” he went on. “Would he have returned to Eldurath?”

“Yes. That would seem likely.”

“And what do you imagine his plans are now? You were with him, in the palace, and shared in his counsel. You have a knowledge of his mind that we do not. So tell me. Will he seek to assault us once again? We are concerned here of another attack.”

The old Skymaster took his time, pondering. “The will of Agarath seeks chaos, calamity. It desires the end of culture, the destruction of kingdoms, the obliteration of a world that Eldur himself helped build. This is not his will, we must make clear. We say Eldur, but truly we are speaking of Agarath, embodied within him. I fear his power will continue to grow, as it awakens. This is just the beginning, my lord.”

Amron set his jaw, steeled his eyes, and looked south across the sea. He wondered what his namesake would do if he were here now. He would be bold, he thought. He would not go north, to Varinar. He would gather his forces and go south. He would find his way to Eldurath, and lay it to a terrible siege. He would take the fight to this enemy, no matter the risks and cost. He would slay the demon before he brought the world to total and unrecoverable ruin.

History remembered Amron the Bold as the name suggested; utterly fearless and unabashedly staunch. No king had been so ruthless in his assaults upon the Agarathi - a fact that many celebrated him for, and many others condemned, for no king had been so divisive as Amron the Bold either. To many he was a hero who had finally avenged his grandfather’s death. To many others, a warmonger, who had caused unutterable hurt and harm. Amron had never cared to enter that debate. I ruled by proxy for Ellis through peacetime, he thought. I was more Ayrin the Wise than Amron the Bold through those years. But now he wondered if he had grown too insular, too meek, to averse to the risks that his namesake would take. When an animal was cornered, it had no option but to attack. And perhaps that’s what we have become? A cornered animal, coiled to spring…

The sun would soon begin to set, and already the world was growing gloomy. Above them the skies were thickening as the augurs had promised; spring rains were on the way, and they could last for days here. “I’ll not keep you any longer,” Amron said. He had wanted to get a read on the Skymaster, and see Sir Hadros, and the rest of their men. What he saw was promising enough. “Prove this concept of unity for me,” he said to the pair, and to Sir Pagaloth as well. “Gather as many deserters and fugitives as you can under your wing. Show them that you are one force, one fist, working toward a common goal.”

“And if they don’t want to join our little jig?” Sir Hadros asked. “We’ll try to get everyone doing the same dance, my lord, but not everyone’s going to stand in line and wiggle their legs.”

It was a question with no easy answer. The troubled cousin of unity, Amron thought. If it was just Sir Hadros and his host hunting southerners, those who didn’t submit would be slain. Add in Nakaan and his men and it wasn’t so easy. They’ll want to protect their own. They might even recognise the deserters, might know them well. Amron could see a hundred ways where this plan would turn to blood. “I will let you trust your own judgement on that,” he said. “You carry my word, the word of the king. Any northern deserters who you bring back will suffer no punishment, so long as they swear to me their loyalty and service. All southern men will be given a choice; join in our cause, or be cast out to sea. We do not have the necessary food or provisions to feed thousands of prisoners, nor can we allow foreign men to wander freely across our lands.”

“And those who spit on both options?” asked the hedge knight. “There might be more than a few of those.”

He has me cornered. “I want blood to be avoided wherever possible. But if it must be shed, it must. Strong voices, strong wills, gentlemen. Show them the light, and they’ll follow.” He had nothing more to say on it. “Lythian. I will let you conclude, and see them off. I’ll be in my pavilion musing on strategy.” He nodded to the men, turned, and left.

Walter was waiting some ten paces behind, easily within earshot, of course. He joined Amron’s side as he marched back for the gate, leaving the host behind. Rogen Whitebeard trailed them, eyes glaring left and right and above them, forever wary. Amron liked it when it was just the three of them. It reminded him of their adventures into the wilds, a simpler time. He still thought often of Stegra Snowfist and his tribe, of the beauty of the land in which they had settled. The woods, thick with game. The rivers, teeming with fish. The wide rugged coast, looking out into the endless sea. He wondered whether there were terrors rising in the Icewilds as well, as was happening across the north. Then he remembered that the terrors had always been there. They never left, he thought. It was into the Icewilds that we drove them. That’s the only life Stegra knows.

“How’s that fence, Amron?” Walter asked, lifting a lopsided grin. “Must be uncomfortable up there, with one leg on either side.”

Amron Daecar was not amused. “You think I’m ducking my responsibility, Walter?”

“Well, you were prevaricating a bit, from what I heard.”

“You shouldn’t have been listening. I told you not to.”

“You told me not to go far. You didn’t tell me not to listen.” He began opening his book. “Here, I’ll show you. I drew a sketch of you all while you were talking. I sense the start of something important here.”

“I know. And while you may not believe me, I see the merits in this mission as well. That is precisely why those leading it must have their own agency. I was not prevaricating. I was delegating. There is a difference.”

“They seem mighty similar to me. But then, I’m just a humble scribe and carpenter. Not a great leader like you. What do I know?”

Plenty, Amron thought. Walter had always possessed a certain wisdom, he wasn’t going to deny it, even if his manner of delivering it was too mocking for his tastes. He walked on for a time, silent, troubled. Through an opening in the clouds, the glow of sunlight pierced, sending a wash of light across the field. It seemed, for a moment, to illuminate the united host, bringing out the many colours of their cloaks, gleaming off their armour. It felt like an auspicious sign, that sudden light amid the gathering dark, as they mounted their horses and set out toward the bridge. A sign from the gods, from Vandar, or just the weather of the world? Amron Daecar couldn’t decide.

The first spits of rain were coming down when they passed through the gate, across the bustling square, and stepped into Amron’s tent. They pattered against the canvas, growing stronger, hitting harder. It’ll be a deluge soon. The king removed his cloak, setting it on a peg. His armour underneath had been given a scrub that morning, the worst of the soot and stains removed. It caught the light of the brazier as good godsteel should, misting. He removed his swordbelt, setting the Frostblade aside.

“So, what did you want to speak to me about?” Walter asked.

Amron settled himself down onto a block of stone, taking the weight off his right leg. He breathed out heavily, closing his eyes against a sharp stab of pain. When it passed, he said, “The Eye of Rasalan. I want you to spend time with it.”

Walter thrust his stubby fingers into his shabby beard, scratching. He looked perplexed. “I think you might be mistaking me for someone else, Amron. I’m hardly Rasal royalty. Only the line of Thala can peer into the Eye.”

“I don’t expect you to peer into it. I expect you to let your own light sink into it. Vandar is not done with you, Walter. You still have your luck. That became clear the day the Spear fell down.”

“So you say, Amron. I remain unsure…”

That line was beginning to wear thin. “It is proven, Walter, time and again. Were it not for you, Lady Brockenhurst and Lord Florian and Lord Warton would all be dead, and that’s to say nothing of the others who were with you. Your mere presence there saved their lives. As it did Amara, years ago in Varinar. And there is Vesryn to consider as well. For months I caught you whispering in prayer every time my brother was brought up. Then the day the Dread comes, the very hour, the very minute, he appeared to take up the Sword of Varinar and face the beast as Varin Reborn. He restored his honour, and won his seat. That would not have happened were it not for you.”

Rogen was at the door, standing straight as a spear. “I long suspected the same,” he said. “Lady Amara…she asked you to help her husband.”

“To help him go free,” Walter said. “Not die. I never wanted that.”

“He died well, Walter.” Amron heaved to his feet, stepping to a table set up to one side. He poured the man a cup of wine and returned. “Drink. And don’t doubt yourself. If Vesryn had still been in his cell beneath the palace, perhaps he’d have died anyway. We’ll only know when my son returns, but until that time, let us assume the worst. What you did saved my brother from that fate. That is an extraordinary power you have, to influence events from so far away.”

“I…I didn’t really do anything. I only…” He drank his wine. “I just channelled my thoughts into his freedom, as Amara asked me. Neither of us truly believed anything would come of it. This was your son’s doing, Amron. The prince released your brother, not me.”

“You influenced events.” Amron was convinced of that now, and hoped he could do it again. “Elyon believes that the Eye of Rasalan can be commanded by one of Hadrin’s cousins. Before Thalan was destroyed, we know that they were there, some of them at least, within the walls of the city. Elyon aims to find one. And you’re going to help him.”

Walter visibly paled. “Go to Thalan? Me? But…”

Amron cut him off. “That’s to be decided. It may suffice for you to spend time in the vaults, with the Eye. To channel your thoughts, as you did with Vesryn, into finding someone who can master it. The Eye of Rasalan is mysterious, Walter. Perhaps the light of Vandar that shines from you will connect to it somehow, I don’t know. This is not my field. I delegate this duty to you.”

Amron twisted his lips into a smile, and waited for the little man to chuckle. It was more of a huff, really, but when it came he knew he had him won over. “Fine. There’s not much I could do to deny you even if I wanted to. You’re the king. Your word is law. So yes, I’ll do what I can, see if it makes a difference. But as I said to Amara, I’m making no promises. Most likely it’ll come to nothing. When do you want me to start?”

“Right now. Rogen will take you to the vaults.”

“The vaults? Beneath the Spear?”

“It’s where the Eye of Rasalan is being kept. Though try not to openly declare that fact. There are few who know that it’s here, and I would prefer to keep it that way.” He nodded to Whitebeard, who swung a hand to open the flaps. The rain was falling harder. “Go ahead, Walter. A bit of rain won’t hurt you.”

“I…how long do you want me down there? In those vaults. It’s hardly a pleasant place to spend time alone.”

“You’ll not be alone. Lythian will be with you.”

“Sir Lythian?” Walter frowned. “Now surely he has better things to do…”

“He does. Training with the Sword of Varinar.” Amron had it all figured out. Lythian, mastering a shard of one god’s heart. Walter, himself imbued with Vandar’s mysterious light, toiling with the eye of another. He had the suspicion that placing Walter at Lythian’s side would help hasten his own task as well. That luck of his…we’d be wise to use it. “I know you two have spent scant time together, but I’m sure you’ll get along. He’ll be down shortly. Go ahead. Get started.”

When the man had shuffled off, Amron stepped to his command table, looking over the maps and scrolls, the scribbles of strategy. Much remained uncertain. It was a puzzle without half its pieces, and until he had them, he could not confidently steer their course one way or another. It rankled him. History said that all great kings had clarity, and direction, and right now Amron Daecar had neither.

He was deep in thought, musing on much and more, when he heard a voice at the flaps. “My lord, hope I’m not disturbing you.”

He raised his eyes. A spearman stood there, amour shining from the rains. His hair and beard were soaking wet. Amron could see the shadow of another man outside, all in black and heavily bearded. “Yes? What is it?”

“This man says he knows you, my lord.” The spearmen moved aside, and the hunter stepped in. He looked wilder and more ragged than ever; a look that had always suited him.

“Vilmar,” Amron said. “You’re back.”

“I am.” The huntsman’s voice was a growl. “And I didn’t return alone.”

9