“And Sir Solomon?” Elyon paused, not liking their reticence to answer him. “Barnibus? Have you heard from them?”
Rikkard seemed like he was about to speak. Then his eyes shifted to the door as another figure stepped inside, brushing past the flaps. He wore silver armour, polished and unspoiled, bordered in green around the breastplate, with darker green markings at the knuckles of his gauntlets. A fine cloak of emerald-dyed lambswool hung from his back, clasped at the neck by a golden brooch in the sigil of Tukor. Hair, a rusty brown, thick with tight waves. Green-brown eyes, the colours of his kingdom, keen and confident. Raynald Lukar looked every bit the prince he was. On his head was a small crown, modest enough, silver and set with emerald jewels.
“My lords, my lady,” he said, to each in turn. Then he stepped forward and took Elyon’s forearm, shaking hard. “A fellow prince, I’m told,” he said, a broad smile on his lips.
Elyon smiled back. “How are you, Prince Raynald?”
“Well. Tired, but well. It was a long march from Ilithor.”
“We’re all happy you’re here.” Elyon had always liked Raynald and his brother Robbert, neither of whom seemed to have suffered from the corrupting effects of their grandfather. No, they are their father’s sons, that is certain. “The last time I saw Rikkard, he told me there was a rumour you were marching to our aid. I was not sure if I should dare believe it. But here you are.”
“Here I am.” Raynald said that very proudly. “And with thirty thousand Tukoran swords and spears for company, eager for a fight.”
It was a strong force, there was no doubt. Elyon looked over at Rikkard. “Are we waiting for anyone else?”
“Sir Karter is on his way,” Rikkard told him. “He shouldn’t be long.”
It took a minute or two for the knight to arrive, Karter Pentar breathing heavily as he stepped into the pavilion. The man wore godsteel plate, mixed in with some mail, enamelled with panels of deep Pentar red. His cloak was silver, slashed with crimson cuts, clasped at the shoulders with arrow-shaped pins. He was slim of jaw, hair thinning about the crown, a smallish man of two and forty who was deceptively skilled with the blade. “Apologies if I’m late, my lords, my lady,” he said.” I was doing my rounds upon the walls.”
“No apologies are necessary,” Elyon told him. “Are your brother and father joining us?”
“No, my lord. They are both in the city.” Karter’s younger brother Sir Kitt had command of the city defences, Elyon recalled, while Karter commanded the fort. Both answered to their father, Lord Lester, who was the younger brother to the late Lord Porus, now succeeded by his worm of a son, Alrus. There were a lot of Pentars about these parts.
“Very well then.” Elyon stepped to the command table, drawing the attention of those present. “Thank you all for coming at such short notice,” he said, in official tones. “I have grim tidings from the west that I must share with you.”
He looked at them in turn, took a short pause, made certain he had absolute silence, and then went straight into it. Drulgar, Eldur, King’s Point, Varinar. The trail to the sea. The losses they had suffered. When he was done, a silence lingered. Rammas’s expression was all anger, Killian’s deep in thought, Lady Marian’s face betrayed nothing at all. Raynald was staring at him with youthful wonder, even envy, or so he felt. “You…fought him, Elyon?” the prince said. “The titan? The…the Dread?”
“And Eldur,” Elyon added. He tapped his breastplate. “The Bondstone left this mark upon me. Lesser plate may have succumbed, but by luck I had visited the Forgemasters at the Steelforge only days before. They strengthened my armour. I advise you to do the same, if you can.”
“We have a Forgeborn armourer here,” Sir Karter said, swallowing. He wiped his brow of a bead of sweat. “He has a workshop over on the city side, across the river. Nothing like the Steelforge, and he has not the skill of the masters there, but at a pinch he could make improvements. I’ll speak to him. See…see what he can do.”
“I brought some armourers as well,” Raynald added, chin rising. “The best I could muster. All Forgeborn too, Ilith’s blood. Feel free to make use of them, Sir Karter.”
“My thanks,” the fort commander said, smiling wanly. He looked overwhelmed by what he’d heard.
Elyon could see the council members had a hundred burning questions for him, but those would have to wait. He did not want to dwell on the dragon and the demigod right now. “You’ve heard my tidings,” he said. “Now let me hear yours. What of Ven? Is his army near?”
Sir Karter approached the table, pulling a rolled sheepskin map from an inner cloak pocket. He laid it out. Others closed in, crowding around. “Here,” Sir Karter said, pointing a finger at an open expanse a little to the southeast of Rustbridge. The map showed woods, rivers, hilly plains in that area. “It’s about a one-day march from the city, my lord. The enemy army is in camp there.”
Or a thirty minute flight for me, Elyon thought. “How long?” he asked.
“Two days, our scouts report. He is planning his assault, we think.”
Rammas gave a snort. “Planning when to tuck his tail and run, more like. We should make sure he doesn’t have a chance.”
Elyon looked at the Lord of the Marshes. “You think we should attack him head-on, Lord Rammas?”
He got the expected answer. “I do. Amadar says otherwise, of course, but he’s gone soft as sodden paper. You know my preferences, my prince.”
Blood and battle. Never a backward step. “I’m familiar with them, yes.”
Rikkard clearly didn’t like being called soft. He gave Rammas a hard glare. “Your ‘preferences’ got five thousand good men killed on the Mudway. You fell for the bait and men died for it. I don’t think you’re in the best position to lead our course, Rammas.”
“Bait?” Rammas bit back. “Mudport was burning. The greatest city in the Marshlands. My Marshlands. What else was I to do?”
“Think. Listen to sense. Both Lady Marian and I cautioned against exposing ourselves on the road, and so it turned out. If Elyon hadn’t found us when he did, we’d have only kept on marching toward a ruin. Right into Ven’s jaws. Our entire army might have been destroyed.”
“Water under the bridge,” Elyon said, before Rammas could respond. He didn’t want this to descend into needless bickering. “Lord Rammas was only marching to defend his people. We all understand that instinct, and it was one Vargo Ven took advantage of. But we’re here, now, and largely intact.” He looked at Killian. “Your thoughts, Kill. Would you march out and strike?”
The heir of Oloran considered it. Calm, composed, cold, many called him. He was much alike to Marian in that way. If they ever had children, she’d birth a block of ice. “I would need to take account of our forces first. And the enemy’s. I would need to study the lay of the land, consider strategy. We were soundly beaten at the Bane, we must not forget. And with the greatest fort in Vandar at our back. In the open…”
“We fought in the open at the Bane,” Rammas blustered. “We met their army head-on, when we might have cowered behind our walls. That’s the Marshland way. The Vandarian way. The northern way.” He looked at Elyon, as fervent as the prince had ever seen him, eyes glittering. “We had forty thousand men then, my prince. Forty thousand, against four times that. Now we’ve got almost a hundred, and have taken a good chunk out of Ven’s stinking horde. We’d be close to evens now, good odds for any northman. The dragon is gone, fled south, you say. Now is the time to strike. Now.”
Rikkard was shaking his head. “We must consolidate. We march out of these walls, and we expose ourselves…”
“You’re exposing yourself as a coward, Amadar. Where’s your thirst for vengeance?” Before Rikkard could respond, Rammas slammed a fist down on the table, wood cracking. “We lost good men at the Bane. Ten thousand of them. Sir Rodney, Sir Grant, Sir Charles, Sir Otto and Sir Oliver, Sir Karson. All Varin Knights. Lancel.” His eyes went to Elyon, knowing what Lancel had meant to him. “And Lord Kanabar, let’s not forget him.” Rammas squeezed a fist so tight that Elyon felt like his gauntlet might just burst asunder. “He was my lord, my commander, the Warden of the East. I’ll not see him die for nothing.”
“He didn’t die for nothing,” Rikkard came back, exhaling. “None of them did. We killed four men for every one we lost that night. And still lost…because of their dragons. We march out, and we make ourselves vulnerable. You said it yourself, Rammas. Prince Raynald’s host were lucky they were not attacked on the river road. We leave these walls and thousands will die before we even get a sniff of Ven’s horde.”
Rammas’s jaw was hard as iron. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“And if that’s what Ven wants? If this is just another trap?”
“It isn’t. It’s not the same as Mudport. Ven thought the Dread would assault us here. But he didn’t. And now he’s stopped, unsure. Afraid. You mark my words, he’ll go crawling back to the Bane in a day or two. Unless we get to him first.”
Killian stroked his chin, pensive. Even Marian seemed half convinced, her head tilting up and down in a slow, thoughtful nod. Raynald was more open with his intentions. “Lord Rammas is right,” the young prince declared. “We should march out and smash them while we can. Drive back the swarthy heathens. We win a great victory here and it’ll inspire all the north.” He raised a fist. “My men are with you.”
Rammas nodded at that.
