“Excuse me,” Sir Ralf of Rotting Bridge said. He turned and stepped away.

The door to the undercroft and store-chamber was heavy oak, iron-banded, with hinges that had not been oiled in decades, by the sound they made when in motion. The bolts that barred the door, too, were in need of a polish. All groaned as Sir Ralf opened the door and slipped out, returning a few moments later with a slightly amused look on his face.

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” he said. “I am told the prince has returned.”

At last. “Where is he?”

“He landed by the River Gate, my lord, some ten minutes ago.”

“Then my training for the day is done.”

Lythian strode at once toward the exit, passing the Sword of Varinar that he’d left lying in its guard on the floor. He stopped, thinking that rather disrespectful, went over to it and lifted it back to its brackets on the wall, removing the guard. Golden light spilled out, the heart-light of a long-dead god. The very core of him, Lythian thought. The essence of his godly strength. Now mine to protect and bear.

Sir Ralf was watching him as he joined him at the door. “Ought you not take it with you, my lord?”

Lythian paused for thought. “No,” he decided. “Amron said that I should train with it down here, at the start.”

Sir Ralf corrected him. “In actual fact, I recall his exact words. He said, ‘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’.”

Lythian gave a sigh. “Your famed powers of recall are still in good working order, I see.” Sir Ralf was known to have an extraordinary memory, among his other gifts. “But all the same, what Amron said is subject to interpretation. I do not yet feel strong enough to carry it at my hip, not without causing great strain to my body. That will not serve, sir. I will leave it down here for now.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Lythian turned. “Walter, are you coming?”

“Yes, just a moment.” Walter was scribbling something in his book. Once done, he thrust his pencil behind his ear, slammed the book shut, stood up and picked up a dark wool blanket. He draped it over the Eye of Rasalan, concealing it, then dragged the pedestal atop which the Eye sat into a darkened corner. The undercroft beneath the ruin of the Spear was fiercely protected from above, and few even knew the Eye was here, but it paid to be careful.

Walter bustled over once that was done, book clutched at his chest, looking like a mad professor with that unwashed hoary hair and scraggly, patchy beard. “Well then, what are we waiting for?”

Lythian led the way, spiralling upward around the serpentine stair, until they reached the surface half a dozen floors up. The Spear had toppled all around them, the great tower of Amron the Bold brought down by the jaws of the Dread. Somehow this passageway leading down to the underground sanctuaries and crypts had remained intact, however, when everything else had come down around it. Amron had called that, “The Walter effect.”. He had been on the third level at the time.

Sir Taegon Cargill had command of the guards today, his duty to make sure that no one went down and disturbed them. “My lord,” he boomed at Lythian, bowing that enormous head. “How’d it go?”

“That would not be for me to judge, Sir Taegon.”

“It went well,” old Ralf said. “He will be carrying the blade at his hip in no time.”

The Giant of Hammerhall squinted out into the broken city. “You be careful when you do,” he rumbled. “That villain who stabbed Dalton in the guts is still out there, somewhere. Might come for you next, my lord.”

It was not an unreasonable concern, though just as likely the assailant was dead, or deserted. “Others may too,” Lythian said. “In these dark times, men will be drawn to the blade, Sir Taegon. I hope we can count on you to watch over us? And not submit to that lure yourself?”

The big man stood taller, squeezing past seven feet, and smashed a steel fist against his breastplate with a loud, resounding clang. “Never,” he exclaimed. “I’m here to serve you, my lord, and the king. Be your hammer. And your shield.”

Lythian smiled up at him. There could be few better, he thought. “We’re lucky to have you, Sir Taegon,” he said. “Your loyalty and strength gives us all great succour.”

He dipped his chin and stepped away, moving briskly through the wreckage of the city, Sir Ralf pacing easily at his side, despite his advanced years, Walter Selleck waddling hard to keep up. It did not help that he kept that great book of his clutched to his chest everywhere he went. It was a very large tome indeed.

When they reached the River Gate they found it thrumming with its usual bustle, men coming and going, seeing to their duties. Gloomy skies glowered above them, threatening rain, though by the many puddles glistening about the cobbles a strong deluge had already fallen. Down in the undercroft, it had been impossible to tell.

Lythian looked around, searching for the prince. He saw no sign. No groups of men drawn to the prince’s return, buzzing about him like flies. Elyon tended to have that effect, but so far as Lythian could see, it was business as usual here.

He marched over to the men guarding the gate. “Where is Prince Elyon?” he inquired of them. “We were told he landed here a short time ago.”

“He did, my lord,” the lead soldier told him. He was one of the Pointed Watch, a junior captain under the command of Sir Adam Thorley. A finger pointed out onto the open fields. “He came down just outside, and went straight out there, to talk with Sir Storos. That’s him, there. In the blue cloak.”

“And with the Windblade at his hip, perchance?” Walter said, with a crooked grin.

The soldier didn’t catch the sarcasm. “Aye, that’d be right.”

“My thanks,” Lythian said. “Your name, soldier?”

“Trembly, my lord. Jett Trembly.”

“Trembly,” Walter repeated, smiling. “Is that your real name or did you get it the day the Dread came? Must be ten thousand Tremblys out here. Myself for one. I was quaking in my boots.”

Sir Ralf gave that an amused smile. The soldier remained entirely oblivious to the man’s humour, however. “No. It’s my real name. Jett Trembly. I was born with it.”

“So you were,” said Lythian. “And a fine name too.” He liked to know the names of as many men under his command as possible. With Walter’s jape, he would be sure to recall this one. “You’re doing a great job, Jett. Any dragon sightings today?”

“One, my lord. Far out to sea.”

Lythian frowned. “Why was I not told?” A dragon at sea could augur the return of the enemy armada. “I should be kept updated on such reports at once.”

“I…I’m not sure, my lord. I only heard of it while guarding the gate here. Didn’t see the beast myself.”

Sir Ralf of Rotting Bridge turned to look at the southern battlements, where the Bladeborn sentries were on their watch upon the broken walls. “I will look into it for you, my lord,” he said.

Lythian thanked the old knight with a nod, then continued through the gate, Walter bustling along with him. The plains outside were a desolation. The blackened, scorched earth, churned and stained with blood from the battle, had now been assaulted by the spring rains, turning them into a sticky quagmire. The mud sucked at Lythian’s boots as he walked, bellows of thunder in the distance growing closer with every peal.

Lythian saw Sir Storos standing with what remained of his men. That number had once been much greater, though now only Sir Oswin Cole still lived, along with a pair of non-Bladeborn men-at-arms called Tucker and Marsh, good stout soldiers both. Sir Nathaniel Oloran was there as well, to his surprise. And two others in ragged red cloaks. Agarathi, clearly. Men taken from the prisoner camp, Lythian thought.

He hailed them as he approached, Elyon and the others turning. A quick smile broadened on the prince’s lips as he saw his old mentor appear. “I hear congratulations are in order, Lythian,” he called out, stepping over. “The First Blade of Vandar. I always thought you’d make a good one.”

“Congratulations for a curse,” Lythian said, though with a smile. He shrugged. “You know I never wanted the honour, Elyon.”

They locked forearms, shaking. “The best rarely do, Lord Lythian. You know, it rather suits you.”

“As prince does you.” Lythian looked his old squire in the eye. He needed to hear it at once. “Tell me of Varinar, Elyon. How bad is it?” He braced for the worst.

“Bad,” Elyon said. “Though perhaps not as bad as we had feared. Parts of the city are salvageable, at least. But the inner city…” He shook his head. “The Ten Hills are largely in ruin. The palace, the greathouse keeps…”

“Keep Daecar?” Lythian asked.

“A husk,” Elyon said. “Burned out, blackened, but standing.” He turned to Sir Storos Pentar. “Keep Pentar is similar, and Keep Oloran,” he said to Nathaniel. “Only Keeps Taynar and Amadar are entirely destroyed, that I saw. The rest can be restored. Keep Kanabar was untouched, that I saw.”

Lythian pondered that, wondering if there was some omen in it all. Some would remark that the fate of the greathouse keeps might mimic the fate of the greathouses themselves, but Lythian preferred not to put so much stock in signs and portents. “What of the palace,” he asked Elyon.

“Rubble,” the prince said. “Drulgar shattered it himself with his bulk. It is chaos there, as you would expect. Fires still burning. Turmoil across the Lowers. Soldiers deserting. The cost of life…unfathomable.” He breathed out, sounding exhausted, and turned to look north, into the Wandering Wood. “Sir Storos tells me my father isn’t here, Lyth. That he left this morning, with Rogen Strand and an individual he described as ‘more beast than man’. I take it that Vilmar the Black has returned?”