“And those that don’t listen?”

“Will try to kill. Same as Lightborned, with wolf, cat, and bear. Many die this way, when try to bond animal.” He waved a hand between himself and Bah’run. “No different. Without Soul of Agarath, there is more danger. But still possible to bond, when brave.”

“And if it works? What will you do, as a dragonrider, Sir Hahkesh? Will you kill your own men? Will you turn your cloak to the north?”

“Turn…cloak?” The dragonknight did not seem to understand the phrase.

“He means to ask if you will fight on our side,” Lythian said. “That can take many forms, Sir Hahkesh. We will not be expecting you to kill your own countrymen.” He gave Elyon a stern look.

The prince shrugged. “I’m just wondering what the point of this is, if you’re not expecting these dragonriders to actually do any fighting.”

There were a few murmurs and mumbles among the others. “He’s got a point, my lord,” said Tucker. “I mean, Sir Pagaloth’s a mean bloody swordsman, isn’t he? And all he did during the battle was sit in his room twiddling his thumbs. Not much point in having Agarathi on our side if they’re not going to swing a blade. Or breath fire, in this case.”

More murmurs. Lythian was half tempted to just wipe his hands and be done with it, with all this naysaying. “I’m trying to unite us, that’s all. A man can serve in other ways than by killing. For one, simply not killing is a form of service. If the north and south stop trying to cut chunks from one another, Eldur’s armies will rapidly shrink. That alone will make him easier to vanquish. Why does no one seem to understand that?”

“Thousands of years of instinct and warrior breeding, that’s why,” Elyon said. “Look, I get it Lyth, I do, but I’m just saying it won’t be easy. It’s a good thing you’re trying to do here, typically bloody righteous and noble for the most righteous and noble man I know. And I’m right behind you, so you can count on my support. But only when it makes sense.”

Lythian’s brows knitted. “Makes sense? And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that there’s battle brewing in the east, and I’m not about to sheathe my sword on account of your vision of unity. Nor will I suggest it to anyone else, or try to parley with Vargo Ven. I have been there before, and it won’t lead anywhere good. So battle it will be. Battle and blood. Once I get Father’s approval.”

His words left a short silence behind. Lythian could see the light of excitement in the eyes of Sir Storos Pentar. “You mean to say…Rustbridge, my prince? It hasn’t been attacked?”

“Nor Redhelm. You can breathe easy for now, Sir Storos. I spoke with your cousin, Sir Karter, and your uncle, Lord Lester, this morning. Both are well, and willing to muster their army so long as Father signs a warrant, as king, circumventing the command of Lord Alrus.” He looked around. The men were leaning in, eager to hear more. “We have the Tukorans with us too, under the command of Prince Raynald Lukar. Thirty thousand of them, eager for a fight. In sum we might have enough to destroy Vargo Ven and his horde. And free the east of the enemy’s grip.”

“For Vandar!” Sir Storos exclaimed, going so far as to draw out his blade, thrusting it into the drizzly skies. “Gods, how I wish I could be there too, and fight alongside my kin. Might you fly me over there with you, Prince Elyon?”

Elyon gave that a laugh, as Storos lowered his sword. “If only. At the edge of need I could probably do so, but feel I’ll need my strength. And as to that, I feel the pull of my bed. And a nice large cup of wine.” He smiled at them. “Good luck tonight. Lyth, are you coming?”

Lythian nodded. He gave parting words to the others before leaving. “Go well,” he said to them. “If you snare a dragon, come wake me at once. And be ready to kill it, if you must. Don’t throw your lives away needlessly,” he added, for the sake of Sir Hahkesh and Bah’run. “If a dragon doesn’t call to the fire in your blood, let it be. Do not push beyond your limits.”

He left them there to climb down into their shelters, well concealed within the pits they’d dug with roofs of grass and mud. The plan was simple enough. Should a dragon swoop down to feast on a corpse, any tug or pull at the body would trigger the release of a heavy chain net, fired from a special ballista hidden in the back of a nearby wagon. Sometimes those chains would be enough to snare a smaller dragon. If a larger one descended, the men would be ready to reload and go again, as it struggled to free itself. It was a proven and effective means of trapping the beasts during battle. But in such cases, the dragons were always killed as soon as possible, slain by a storm of sword and spear. Keeping them disabled and alive was entirely new territory.

“You’re a forward thinker, I’ll give you that,” Elyon said, as they walked back to the city. “Do you actually think that will work?”

“I would imagine the odds are low,” Lythian admitted. “But it’s worth a try, do you not think?”

Elyon seemed ambivalent about it. “What did Father say?”

“Much the same as you. Though he appreciates the possible benefits. If we can get a few of our own men airborne, that can only be a good thing. For scouting. Delivering messages. Transporting men and arms. Right now we’re relying too much on you. I am only trying to change that.”

“So you’re doing this for me? To lessen the burden on my back.”

“Mock me all you like, Elyon Daecar. Much of what I do, I do for you and your father.”

The light was dimming quickly now, the western skies purpling in a premature dusk. Out there the clouds were not so thick, yet overhead they loomed, dark and brooding, the rains falling in a misty mizzle.

“So tell me of this battle,” Lythian said. “How far is Vargo Ven’s army from the city?”

“A day’s march, I’m told.”

“Their strength?”

“I’m not sure. I only stopped in briefly before leaving. They’re compiling intelligence while I’m gone, putting together a battle plan. It should all be ready by the time I get back.”

“And when will that be.”

“Tomorrow.”

Lythian balked. “So soon?”

“Why wait? If there’s battle to be had, I need to be there.”

“And you’re certain this is the right course?”

“Yes,” he said at once. Then, “No. I…I don’t know, Lyth. You sound like Uncle Rikkard.”

He took that as a compliment. “Rikkard Amadar is a sound strategic mind, a brilliant swordsman, beloved captain, and a very handsome man. I find the comparison quite acceptable.”

Elyon gave a chuckle. “He would say the same about you. I long for the day that you fight alongside one another.” He looked over at him. “So long as you haven’t lost your taste for battle? All this talk of unity…”

“I will still do my duty, when I must, Elyon.”

“But you’d prefer not to? If we could come to a ceasefire…”

“Then that would be the best thing for everyone, yes.” Lythian had and always would be the servant of Amron Daecar. He would die for him, and kill for him, and do what he needed to do in order to protect his realm, his people. Yet despite all that, the thrill of battle he had felt in his youth had long since deserted him. It was a young man’s game, no great joy for an ageing knight like he was, careworn and world-weary. The great glorious battles he’d fought during the War of the Continents, the Twenty-Fourth Renewal, alongside Amron and Borrus and Killian and others felt very different to those they fought now. Terrible as that war had been, it had never been like this. We fought for land, for glory, for our families, for Vandar. Now they were all fighting for their very survival, and the survival of the world as they knew it. It was altogether more calamitous. A world-ending war, a true apocalypse, where the very nature of existence itself was being challenged.

“There are only two entities that need to die, Elyon, for this war to come to an end,” Lythian Lindar said. “All we can do is move the pieces upon the board, until we reach a point where we can make that happen. Perhaps the clash of two hundred thousand men is one such move. Or perhaps such a move can be bypassed, to seek a better end.”

Elyon considered that carefully, nodding slowly as they walked. “So you think I should seek parley with Ven? Try to make him see sense again, as I did before?”

That hadn’t worked out well, Lythian knew. Ven had only tried to kill Elyon as soon as the parley was done. “Do you imagine it would make a difference?”

“Honestly? No. Vargo Ven is driven by fear of Agarath and I don’t think he’ll want to displease him. Retreat would show weakness.”

“Only the strong survive,” Lythian murmured to that. They passed a great ditch, the earth torn open by the talons of Drulgar the Dread. It brought a burning question to mind. “Do you know where Drulgar went, Elyon? After Varinar?”

He pointed. “South, across the Red Sea. I tracked his trail to the coast, east of Nightwell. I assume he has returned to the Nest. To rest and heal.”

It ought to have been good news, yet somehow the idea of it made Lythian’s skin crawl. That this dragon god was still out there, brooding. That he could unfurl his wings at any time and return to cast them all in his shadow.

“The optimist in me hopes he’s done,” Elyon was going on. “He saw Vesryn as Varin, and he took his vengeance. And then Varinar…” He had a pained look in his eye. His uncle’s death had wounded him deeply, Lythian knew. “Perhaps that will be enough.”

It will not be enough until all the world is burning, Lythian thought, gravely. But he said, “The Steel Father and his city were not the Dread’s only rivals, Elyon. There are other challenges he may yet seek out.”

Varin had always been his principal enemy, Varinar his principal target, but there were many forces of the ancient world against which Drulgar the Dread had fought. Legends of great moonbears, fighting him a dozen to one. Of the sand giants of the god Pisek, crawling across his scales. The Eagle of Aramatia driving him away with his blinding light. The old titans from an ancient time, Fronn and Galaphan and Celaph and the rest, who had all fought him in their earth-shattering battles. In these primordial wars it was not always Agarath against Vandar. The gods of north and south would clash among themselves as well, bickering, battling, forging new creatures to fight and die for them, to be raised anew if effective, and discarded if not.

Drulgar would return now to that olden world, Lythian feared. He will seek new foes to fight. Seek opponents worthy of his wrath.