“I have faith in you. Just take it off the damn wall. I’m sure you’ll be able to wrestle it to the ground.”
Lythian’s posture tightened. He steadied himself, studying the blade as though it was some complex mystery to be riddled out. “Is there any particular trick to it?” he asked. “Anything in particular I should know?” He looked over at Sir Ralf. “You helped Dalton, I hear, when he was struggling to master the blade. What did you tell him?”
“It doesn’t matter what he told him,” Amron bulled in. “You are not Dalton Taynar. Now stop delaying and pick up the blade. If you drop it, so be it. We’ll go again. Pick it up.”
“Damn you, then.” Lythian thrust forward with his hand, gripped the handle, lifted, and pulled the Sword of Varinar from its brackets. The blade fell at once, drawn down by its enormous weight, though he managed to arrest its momentum as it swung, holding it off the ground. He turned, straining to raise it, up and up, so that the tip was pointed right at the chest of his king. There was a look of defiance painted upon the face of Lythian Lindar, the Knight of Mists. “There,” he grunted. “Satisfied?”
Amron smiled. He raised a hand, sensing Lythian was about to let the blade fall back down. “No, wait. Hold on. Let me see.”
The seconds passed. One, two, three, four…only then did the strain grow too much for the man, and he let the blade fall. Even so, he held it off the ground. Another eight or nine seconds passed in that state before he puffed out a breath, stepped to the wall, and leaned it up against the stone with a dull heavy clunk.
Sir Ralf was looking on in admiration. “You take to it like a duck to water, my lord. A rare thing indeed. You will take no time to master it, I feel.”
“Let’s hope so.” Amron and the old knight of Rotting Bridge had discussed the option of Lythian being given the Sword of Varinar before the battle, as a stand-in for Dalton, though at that time Amron had been confident Dalton would carry it forth himself, no matter his physical state. In truth, he had used the man, a fact that had nibbled at his conscience ever since. At any other time Dalton Taynar should have remained abed, convalescing, but Amron had needed his First Blade to inspire the men. He had, and he had died for it. Perhaps I never should have sent him out at all…
It made no matter now. Whichever way he wanted to cut it, the result was the same; Dalton, dead, Vesryn, gone, the Sword of Varinar sitting vacant. While Amron would typically prefer for official procedures to be observed, there was no time for that now.
I need a man I trust to carry it, he thought. I need someone to protect it with his life, someone who will not submit to its lure. Someone who will give it up when the time comes. I need a soldier, and I need a steward. Lythian was one of the few who truly understood how important the Blades of Vandar were. Uniting them might be their only chance, if the prophesies were true. He had one, his son another, Lythian would take a third. That left only Jonik and Janilah. And the gods only know where they are…
“I want you to make mastering it your first priority, Lythian,” Amron went on. “It won’t take long, if your first touch is any judge. Train with it down here for now, until you’re able to carry it at your hip. Then take it everywhere. The bond will soon grow strong.”
“That’s what concerns me. A strong bond is hard to break.” Lythian looked at the blade, grand and gold and misting, wreathed in light and history and expectation. “I did not tell you what happened with Dalton during the battle, Amron. There was a point where the blade was dislodged from his grasp, and the look in his eye…the sound of his voice as he demanded I not touch it. There was a wildness to it. A frenzy. That obsession…”
“Will not dominate you, as it has done others,” Amron was quick to assure him. “You are not Dalton Taynar. You understand that your guardianship of the blade will only be temporary.”
“Then why bother at all? Why not keep it here, under guard, or in Varinar should we return there?”
“Because the future is uncertain, Lythian, and our goals may yet be disrupted. In the meantime, we may well be called upon to fight, and I cannot in good conscience allow the Sword of Varinar to sit down here, idle and unused. Now, do you have any other concerns? By all means speak them, so we can move on.” He waited. No further complaint was proffered. “Good. Then come. I would like to speak with Skymaster Nakaan before he leaves.”
Amron made for the door, shuffling a little on his right leg as Rogen opened it back up with a scream of hinges and let him pass through. He limped his way up the stairs, heaving his weight around the spiralling stone, ignoring the jolts of pain and darting spasms in his muscles as he went. They were not so acute today; manageable, even without his tonics. Still, as soon as he stepped out into the open, he gave the pommel of the Frostblade a little touch to dismiss his ails entirely. From then on he walked upright and strong and straight-backed, through the ruin of the city and past the men. The shambling creature was a private show, only witnessed by those deep in his trust. At all other times he maintained his image - regal, powerful, dominant. A lie.
Sir Oswin, leal man of Sir Storos Pentar, had the charge of the River Gate today. “Has my son returned?” Amron asked him.
“No, sire, no sighting of the prince just yet.”
Amron nodded, displeased.
“It’s only been twelve hours,” Lythian said. “Give him time, Amron.”
“We don’t have time.” Amron had asked Elyon to assess Varinar from the skies only, to perform a fly-by, and return as soon as possible. But he knew his son. He would want to land and hear reports from on the ground. He would want to find out about Lillia and Amara and Jovyn. He would want to know where the Dread had gone, and whether other cities had been attacked and destroyed. He will be pulled in a hundred directions, Amron thought. Who knows when he’ll be back.
It was a source of great frustration to him, having to rely upon his own son to convey messages across the north. At any normal time, a thousand crows would be flying from coast to coast, city to city, kingdom to kingdom, relaying news. As a king and commander he needed to know what was happening, and yet he didn’t. He was blind. And only his son had eyes.
Amron closed a fist, squeezing. His eyes moved south. Upon the broken battlements, he had positioned many watchmen, and in the southeastern corner of the city, where the massive drumtower of Bowman’s Bluff had stood, a tall wooden scaffold had been erected to act as a watchtower. Their task was to look for dragons in the skies and ships on the seas, with horn-blowers ever in attendance to raise the alarm if the Agarathi armada was spotted sailing their way. Some boats had been sent out that morning as well, their purpose to watch the waters. That duty had been given to a commodore by name of Eustace Fairside, one of Lady Brockenhurst’s trusted naval commanders. The only one still alive, Amron thought. The rest had been killed during the battle.
The king spotted the man in question upon the battlements, surveying the rough waters of the Red Sea from beside the scaffold watchtower. He strode to join him, up the broken steps and past the pitted parapets. One of the watchmen saw the king coming and hailed Commodore Fairside’s attention. The man turned as Amron arrived before him, removing a monocular from his eye.
“Report, Eustace,” Amron said.
The commodore was short, well upholstered, with thinning brown hair atop his head and a great, stylish moustache deeply rooted above his upper lip. It was the sort of facial hair that a man took years to cultivate to give him a particular air, and without which he would look rather plain. Three-day stubble had spouted around it, though usually the commodore was clean-shaven. He wore once-white breeches - now badly stained in soot - a dark blue frock coat with golden lapels - torn and frayed - and epaulettes to signal his rank.
“Five ships have sailed, my lord,” he said, gesturing out to sea. His voice had a good strong quality to it, common among naval commanders. “Two galleys, a carrack, and two large skiffs, all swift on the water. We lost sight of them an hour ago, all except Kite.” He presented the monocular. “If you look west, you should be able to see her. She’s a few miles out from the coast.”
Amron looked west, clutching at the godsteel dagger attached to his swordbelt. Faintly, he could see the shape of a vessel in the far distance, though of what type he couldn’t say. “I see her, Commodore.”
“Of course, yes. You have no need of my instruments to improve your sight.” Eustace Fairside smiled and tucked the monocular into a pocket. “My augurs inform me that the weather is set to curdle and grow gloomy over the coming days. Propitious conditions for a hunt, my lord. It should provide ample cover.”
Amron nodded. “Kite is making for Green Harbour, I presume?”
“Yes.” Eustace Fairside nodded, his moustache waving like a fan. A stumpy finger gestured out across the Red Sea, moving from east to west. “The ships have been given orders to disperse, as you asked. Kite will fly west, to bring news of Green Harbour, the Twinfort, and elsewhere. Swift will make straight for the Trident, and get as close as she dares. The crew are brave, the captain braver. If the enemy armada has returned home to lick their wounds, there is no better boat to spot them, and get back to us in one piece. Sparrow will report upon the Tidelands. I would not expect her back for some time. Tern will sail for the Claws, and see what she sees along the way, and lastly Thrush…she’ll sail the space in-between all that and search the Wooded Isles. It’s possible some enemy ships limped there, or they may even have taken it as a short-term harbour. My birds will find out.”
Birds, yes. He is fond of them, by those names. Amron had a direct question on his tongue. “Do you expect any of them to return?” He knew that Lady Brockenhurst had stopped sending out scouting ships, as they simply stopped coming back. “Answer truthfully, Commodore.”
“I have hope,” is all Commodore Fairside said. “But if a dragon spots them…”
He needn’t say anymore. “Keep me informed.”
Amron left him there, Lythian still at his side, Rogen his heel, and returned back down to the River Gate. Great stacks of arms were being gathered in the square - swords, short and long and broad, axes, spears, pikes and halberds, bows and sheafs of arrows, crossbows, shields, and armour. Most were steel and iron and wood, though there was a stack of godsteel weapons too, taken from the dead. Sir Torus Stoutman had been put in charge of taking inventory of them; a job that would keep his mind from the deaths of his sons, Amron hoped.
“We won’t want for weapons,” Lythian noted. They had taken many weapons from the dead southerners too; Agarathi dragonsteel swords and spears, fine curved khopesh blades and scimitars from Aramatia, brutal maces and morning stars from Pisek, Lumaran longbows and throwing knives and many more. “I wonder if some of the men might be willing to bear dragonsteel. It may not be as potent as godsteel, but its more lethal than our own castle-forged weapons. Our best non-Bladeborn swordsmen would become more deadly with dragonsteel in their grasp.”
“Marginally,” Amron said. “Don’t oversell the properties of dragonsteel, Lythian. And I doubt too many proud Vandarians would be willing to make the switch.” It was common enough for lords and wealthy merchants to hang dragonsteel weapons on their walls as trophies, but soldiers bearing them in battle…that was another matter. “If this plan of yours works, perhaps we’ll be united enough to share what we have. But that remains a big ‘if’ at this point. Most of our men will never stop seeing the Agarathi as their enemy. I trust you understand that?”
“I trust a man’s ability to look beyond his resentments. To fight together for a common cause. We have one; our very existence. That is a reality we all must face.”
Amron nodded, though gave no other reply, and passed through the gate. The man was too idealistic and it would come back to haunt him, he feared. Beneath the darkening skies, men worked tirelessly to collect the dead, pilfer them of their possessions and prizes, heap them and burn them. Many of the prisoners had now been recruited to tend to their own, mustered by the hedge knight Sir Hadros. By now a dozen great fires were pouring smoke into the air.
The host was assembled east of the prisoner camp, beside the broad stone bridge that spanned the Steelrun River a short way up the coast. Lythian had put Sir Hadros the Homeless in charge of the northern contingent, including several Bladeborn men-at-arms, a household knight or two, and a score of stout swordsmen, spearmen, and shieldmen who had plenty of experience in war. On the southern side, Sa’har Nakaan was to take charge, with some dozen of his own Agarathi, a pair of dragonknights included, and three Lightborn to represent the Empire; a Lumaran Starrider, Piseki Sunrider, and an Aramatian paladin knight. In total some fifty or so men were assembled, a strong host and one quite unlike any Amron Daecar had ever seen.
