“Late last night,” Lythian said. “Your father told me at dawn that Vilmar had something to show him. He took Whitebeard with him and left.”

“Just the three of them? Did he say why?”

“The grulok. At least, that would be my best guess. Your father was quite tight-lipped about it. He didn’t say much, in truth.”

“The…grulok,” Elyon repeated, flatly.

“Yes. The grulok,” Lythian confirmed, nodding.

Elyon Daecar shook his head, looking bemused and weary in equal parts. “I must have missed something. I remember there was some talk of Vilmar hunting a grulok a while ago, but…why? Why would Father care to go and see it, except through some morbid fascination? Is Drulgar the Dread not enough to satisfy his need for monsters?”

Lythian had no good answer for that. “Amron assured me it was worth his time. Or, rather Vilmar did. Your father seemed rather reluctant to go when I spoke with him.”

“They’re soldiers,” Walter Selleck put in. He had a little smile on his face, as though he was one step ahead of the rest of them. “Come on, you all know that. The grulok was one of Vandar’s earliest creations in life. He made them to fight against Agarath in his wars.”

“So Vilmar thinks that this grulok is going to fight for us?” Elyon asked.

“I would imagine so, yes. I can’t think why else he would usher the king away from his army at such a time as this.”

“And do we know when he’ll be back?”

“Soon,” said Lythian. “He left early this morning.”

Elyon gave another tired shake of the head. “I’d expected a reprimand for being gone so long. Now I come back to find he’s off on some misbegotten monster hunt. It beggars belief. And this…” He gestured to the traps that Sir Storos had set up, the pits and chains and shelters in which the men would hide, the rotting corpses laid out as bait. “Apparently Lythian Lindar has turned dragon-catcher. Or dragon-tamer, even. The world’s gone bloody mad.”

Walter Selleck grinned. “Something I think we can all agree on,” he said.

There was muted laughter all round, except from the two Agarathi, standing aside with frowns on their faces. One wore a cloak of deep red over plain padded underclothes, the sort a dragonknight would wear under his armour, which had been stripped from him after the battle, along with his dragonsteel sword. He had stern eyes, a triangular jaw, a braided black beard on his chin. The other man was a common soldier, toad-faced and physically stout. He did not seem to have any grasp of the common tongue of the north, it seemed. The dragonknight had been whispering in translation as they spoke.

Lythian recognised the dragonknight from the prisoner camp. “Your name is Sir Hahkesh, is that right?” he said.

The man nodded. He had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head from a blow he’d taken during the battle. It had been that blow that had incapacitated him, rendering him their prisoner.

“He claims to have fire in his blood,” Sir Storos Pentar said. “That one as well.” He gestured to the other man, whose name Lythian did not know. “I thought it wise to bring them out here overnight, my lord, should we catch some prey.”

Lythian had expected to spearhead this endeavour himself, though as soon as Amron declared him the new First Blade, he had to pass that responsibly to another. Sir Storos had already been helping him set up the traps, so seemed well-placed to take on the duty.

“Have you scoured the camp for others?” Lythian asked.

“Every Agarathi has been questioned, my lord,” said Sir Nathaniel Oloran. “These were the only two willing to try.”

Lythian frowned. “I did not know you were helping in this venture, Nathaniel.”

“Sir Storos asked that I do so, my lord. He is short on numbers, and I have full plate armour. If we should find ourselves in a fight…” The rest needed no explanation.

“Well and good, then. So long as the king has not given you any other duty, that is? This project is somewhat…speculative, shall we say?”

Oloran smiled, his face pleasant, youthful, open. Each day it became easier to forget that he had stood by and let King Ellis be thrown from Janilah’s balcony, murdered before his very eyes. He works hard to restore his honour, Lythian thought. He could at least commend that, treacherous as his crime had been. “I took part in the watch last night, my lord,” Nathaniel said. “But this evening I find myself at a loose end, so am more than happy to help.”

“He speaks a bit of Agarathi too,” Sir Storos added. “That’s been useful, with some of them. Not many speak the common tongue well.”

Lythian pursed his lips. “You have some hidden talents, Nathaniel.”

“Not so hidden, my lord,” the knight smiled. “I studied the language as a younger man so I might be more useful as a Greycloak. Should the king ever have need of an interpreter, or…” He trailed off, remembering what he’d done, eyes dropping at once to the ground. As a Greycloak, the ability to speak with foreign dignitaries, and interpret for a king was no more than an auxiliary duty. The main duty, the one single oath they swore above all, was to protect their liege, defending them with their very lives. In that single directive, Nathaniel Oloran had failed.

“A useful skill,” Lythian said, with a certain bluntness to his tone. At any other time he would have been executed for his crimes. Suffering hard manners and cold stares would be his penance for a time yet. He looked back at Sir Storos. “So these two were the only Fireborn you found?” He had expected more than that.

“The only ones with any courage,” Storos said.

“They fear die,” growled Sir Hahkesh. “Other men. There is fire, in blood, but not brave. But me…” He put a fist to his chest. “Me brave.”

Lythian smiled at those words. “I can see that,” he told him. He looked at the other man. “Your name?”

He let the dragonknight translate.

“Bah’run,” the soldier said, the two syllables colliding in a thick, Agarathi grunt. “Name Bah’run.”

“And you’re from a Fireborn bloodline?” Lythian could believe that well enough with a dragonknight. Those were typically from noble families, rich in the blood of Eldur. But a common man?

The two Agarathi conferred, then Sir Hahkesh spoke for him. “Father was Fireborned. Mother no. She was whore. From Dorath.”

The man-at-arms called Tucker gave a splutter. “A whore? Not many whore-sons ride dragons, that I know.”

“Half of the best Bladeborn sellswords were born in brothels, Tuck,” Elyon told the man. “Sired by one knight or another. They can be just as lethal as the rest of us. No reason why Bah’run can’t be the same.”

“I can think of a few,” Tucker came back. “The fact that we don’t have the Bondstone, for one.”

“We’ve been through that,” said Storos. “Lord Lythian is of the understanding that the Bondstone is not required for a man to ride a dragon. The beasts can be tamed by brave men with Fireborn blood.”

“So long as they’re willing to die in the attempt,” Marsh put in. Both men-at-arms were burly sorts, soldiers born, survivors. They had to be, given the action they had seen. Though both wore good strong steel, it was castle-forged only, oiled against dragonflame but still vulnerable during battle in a way that godsteel was not. They had fought valiantly all the same, never shirking their duty, never showing their fear.

So when the dragonknight Hahkesh said, “We willing. Both. Both willing to die,” and pointed at himself and then Bah’run, both Tucker and Marsh dipped their chins, showing them signs of respect.

“Aye, suppose you are, then,” Marsh said. He had reddish hair, thinning at the crown, a fiery beard on his chin. “Not a nice way to go, though, I wouldn’t think, eaten when trying to tame a dragon. But suppose there’s honour in the attempt.”

Lythian thought of Sir Tomos Pentar, Storos’s younger brother. He remembered the deformed, pygmy drakes, crawling all over him in the Pits of Kharthar, feasting on his flesh, gnawing at his bones. It hadn’t been nice at all.

Sir Hahkesh nodded firmly. “Honour in attempt,” he said, agreeing. “Honour in brave. Like rider of moonbear. These bravest men. Bravest in world.”

“And women,” Walter added to that. “Female Moonriders are not unheard of.”

“Women, yes,” the dragonknight agreed. “Women Fireborned too, very brave. Misha, she our greatest.”

Misha the Magnificent, Lythian thought. The Skylady of Loriath. She had been one of the old prophets who’d spoken of the rise of Eldur, along with Pullio the Wise and Quarl the Blind, many centuries ago. Each of them had foretold the rise of a benevolent Eldur, awakening to bring the world into balance and end the War Eternal. Somehow, all three of them had got it wildly wrong.

“How would you go about it, Sir Hahkesh?” Elyon wanted to know. “Taming a dragon? Without the Bondstone.”

The dragonknight’s dark eyes shrivelled to a squint, as though not fully understanding. “I use this.” He put a fist to his heart again. “Fire here. It call to dragon. Some may listen, others no.”