“My name is Amron Daecar,” he said, calling over the song of the storm. “I was chosen by Vandar to bear this blade. Come forth and join me.”

He raised the Frostblade higher, its light spreading forth. White shards cut through the trunks and branches, past the birch and beech and aspen, the blackthorn bushes and brambles. And there he saw them, the hulking rock giants, long-armed and wide-shouldered and stump-necked, eyes like ice staring at him through the gloom. Short, thick legs stamped forward, three-fingered hands all but trailing along the ground, granite arms swinging from side to side as they went.

Then, suddenly, one of them was stepping out, past the trees, hulking into view. Amron sucked a breath, eyes rising to its towering size. The body must have been over a half dozen feet thick, a pillar of rock, thickening at the chest. A boulder-head rested upon that short block of neck, glowing eyes staring down at him. He saw features, blunt and basic. A small mouth, vague shape of a nose, craggy jaw, chipped and pitted. The creature had holes for ears. One of its arms was shaped almost like a spear, though much thicker, a weapon for cutting and hacking and stabbing. He could skewer right through my armour with that thing, Amron thought, marvelling.

The king stood his ground. The blood was rushing through his veins, pulsing in his head, heart thumping at his ribs. But he stood his ground. “My name is Amron Daecar,” he said, even louder than before. “Champion of Vandar, your maker, and mine. King of the realm in his name.”

The grulok before him was monstrous, over three times his height, fifty times his weight. It came to a stop a mere ten feet away. Behind, others were emerging, plodding forth, arms swinging, to a rumble of grinding rock. Amron counted two, four, six of them. Vilmar had told him there were half a dozen in total but now he saw another, and another, and more, back through the trees, walking single file, hiding their numbers like any good soldier should.

He looked to their leader, with the spear for a right arm. Others had weapons of similar menace, blunts and maces, swords and spears, straight and curved, some thick, some thin, long and short, every one of them savage. Most were weapon-limbs like the leader, but a few bore them in their grasp instead, clinging on with those three-fingered hands. Amron saw one holding a tree trunk, making it a club. Another was holding a longer branch with a large shard of flint wound about its end in vines, forming a rudimentary axe.

They make their own weapons, Amron thought. He would be happy to help in that regard.

The lead grulok was staring down at him with those ice-chip eyes, lidless and unblinking, though there was a primitive intelligence in them, Amron saw. Several others were coming to a stop now, slightly to the sides and behind him, lining up, still as stone. Amron did not know what else to say or do. He twisted his neck, glancing back. “Vilmar,” he hissed, through the side of his mouth. “What now?”

The huntsman either did not hear him, or chose not to appear.

“Vilmar,” Amron repeated. “Come. Translate, or…or something.”

Eventually, the huntsman came stalking out of the trees, moving slowly, tentatively, with his hands out to his sides, showing he bore no weapon. The gruloks all turned to watch him, eyes following his step, judging the threat. The leader seemed to recognise him, by the slight shift in his gaze.

“My friend,” Vilmar said, in a deeper, more guttural growl than usual. “Your strength has grown since I last saw you.”

The lead grulok gave a deep rumble in response.

“This is Amron Daecar, our king. He leads our people against the legions of Agarath.”

More rumbles, this time, from several of the creatures. Darker, and more dangerous.

“Vandar has awoken you, to help win his war. This man…he is Vandar’s chosen champion. Will you follow him? Will you serve?”

The rumbling stopped. The leader stepped forward. His primordial eyes looked at the Frostblade, and then at Amron. The giant dipped its broad rock chin at him, and from its narrow mouth, came a rumbling rockslide of a voice. Two words were all he uttered.

“We serve,” the grulok said.

12

The blade hit the ground with a resounding thump that shook dust from the ceiling of the undercroft. A heavy pant burst out of Lythian’s lungs, one knee dropping to the gritty stone floor.

Sir Ralf of Rotting Bridge watched on appraisingly. “Good. Very good, my lord. You are leagues ahead of where Lord Dalton was at the same stage.”

Lythian nodded, taking a moment to catch his breath, then stood. The Sword of Varinar lay before him on the floor, issuing its ethereal golden light, the ground pitted and cracked where he’d been training with it. Though, at this stage, it was hard to call it training. Bonding was more apt. Mostly, he just held onto the blade for as long as possible, letting the blood-bond build as he learned to bear its weight. On occasion, he would throw in the odd swipe or slash, even a forward thrust, to test the blade’s balance. It had been one such swipe that had caused him to lose his grip, sending the sword crashing loudly to the ground.

“A break, perhaps?” Sir Ralf offered. He stood leaning against a stone pillar with legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded, dressed modestly in brown leather jerkin, godsteel mail, and an old surcoat stitched with the broken bridge of his house. “You have been going since dawn, my lord.”

Lythian stared at the blade, as though it was some great riddle to be puzzled out. In truth it was merely time he needed; he had proven already that the Sword of Varinar would yield to him. How quickly, was the question. “I still have some strength to spare, Sir Ralf,” he said. “I’ll train until I’m spent.”

He stepped forward to pick it up, heaving it from the floor and setting its point to the stone. He held it there with his sword hand as his spare hand ran across his forehead, wiping away a sheen of sweat. “The guard, Sir Ralf. I want to have a go at that mannequin.”

Sir Ralf stepped to the wall, where stacks of weapons rested, swords and spears in racks, sheaves of bundled arrows. He returned with a special leather guard that could be sheathed over the Sword of Varinar, blunting its lethal edge. Elsewise it would cut through anything, if applied with proper force.

Lythian slipped the guard over the blade with his spare hand, its golden glow vanishing, then turned to face an armoured mannequin, dressed in heavy godsteel plate, dinted and old. Its mists were fading, the power in the metal close to exhaustion.

The Knight of the Vale drew in a long breath, preparing, then attacked, shifting his feet into Strikeform, lunging forward on his right leg, swinging in a side-cut. The leather guard crashed into the mannequin’s midriff with a blunt thud, causing it to wobble on its heavy base. At once Lythian pulled, hauling the Sword of Varinar up with all his strength, and slashed down in a diagonal strike, left to right. Once more he struck his target, the blade crashing into the mannequin’s right shoulder pauldron, its vast weight leaving a deep dent. A great shudder ran through the room from the impact, and once again Lythian lost his grip, the Sword of Varinar crashing to the floor with a shatter of stone. A web of fracture lines spread from a larger fissure, walls shaking, more dust and grit cascading from the ceiling above them.

Walter Selleck gave a cough, looking over from his wooden stool. “Careful now,” he said. “Much more of that and the entire roof will collapse on top of us.”

Lythian dropped his hands to his knees, panting heavily from the effort. “Isn’t that…why you’re here, Walter? To make sure…that doesn’t happen?”

“My luck has its limits,” Walter said to that. “Right now, I’m channelling it into this.” He pointed at the Eye of Rasalan.

Lythian filled his lungs once again, stood, and stepped over to join him. Walter had set the Eye onto a pedestal in front of him, and had spent the entire day on his stool staring at it, murmuring to it, even stroking it, from time to time. He had also taken notes, Lythian had seen, and sketched drawings in his leather-bound book. Once or twice Lythian had caught him napping too. Understandable. It was hardly thrilling work.

“How are you faring, Walter?” he asked. “Do you feel any sort of…connection to it yet?”

The man’s shoulders bobbed up and down. “Hard to say. I’m not expecting the pupil to open for me, Captain Lythian.” He paused, checking himself. “Lord Lythian, I should say. The First Blade takes the title of lord, is that right?”

Lythian nodded. “Officially. Though down here, you can call me what you wish. Lythian is fine, if you prefer.”

He looked at the Eye of Rasalan once more, admiring its wondrous colours, the pulsing aura that emanated from the artefact. The orb itself was in shades of blue - sea and sky, lake and river - with a great web of golden sunlit veins branching off from a jet-black, slit-like pupil. It was said that the pupil would dilate, opening, showing visions to those who mastered it. The stronger the mastery, the clearer the vision. Even great kings and queens of Thala’s line could take decades to peer clearly through the Eye.

“Have you ever been to Thalan, Walter?” Lythian asked.

“Once, yes. Many years ago.”

“Did you visit the palace?”

“No, though I tried. There was some official function going on, and public visits were not being allowed.”

“So you never saw the Book of Thala?”

“No, and nor did you.” Walter’s smile was knowing. “The one on public display there is a fake. Unless of course King Godrin permitted you to see the real thing?”

Lythian shook his head. “We were led to believe the one on display was the real one. You know the story, then?”

“Of its theft? Yes. By the order of Janilah Lukar, I heard. Though where it is now…”

“No one knows for sure,” Lythian said. “But Ilithor would seem likely.” He scratched his chin with a weary arm, fingers already aching from his toil, muscles burning. The strength of grip required to heft the Sword of Varinar was something he had not considered. My hand and wrist will be a ruin come morning. “I wonder what Janilah was searching for,” he went on. “We all know he was seeking the Five Blades. Perhaps it was the location of the Frostblade that he sought?”

“The efforts of a man cannot match the power of prophecy, my lord. Amron was always going to find the Frostblade. Janilah Lukar was never one of Vandar’s chosen.”

Sir Ralf stepped over, his stride neat as new-barbered hair. The old man moved with a smooth grace most rare for a man of his years. “Perhaps we ought to make an effort to recover the Book of Thala?” he suggested. “Prince Elyon wishes to utilise the Eye of Rasalan, find one of King Hadrin’s cousins. You are here, Walter, to lend your luck to this endeavour. But perhaps more can be done? It might be that the book contains some secret to mastering the Eye of Rasalan. Something one of the cousins could use, should they be found.”

Lythian nodded. He had been wondering the same thing. It was said that the Book of Thala was passed down, from monarch to monarch, for them to add their prophecies and visions. Could it not be that certain instructions were included as well? “Elyon plans to fly to Thalan,” he said. “If he does so from here, Ilithor is on the way. A short stop would not add to his workload.”

There was a sharp knock at the door, a brisk tap tap tap on wood.