“It depends,” Vilmar growled in answer. “From what I saw of them, they ranged in size. The biggest was perhaps eighteen or nineteen feet, though they often walked stooped, so it was hard to tell.”
“And there were half a dozen of them, you said?”
“At the last I saw. But first, just one. Others joined later, all moving south. They must have some sense of one another. There could be many more out there, Amron. Searching for one to serve.”
“They found one,” the king said, taking a bite of salted pork, chewing. “Janilah Lukar.”
There was a frown on Vilmar’s face. “How do you know this? Why have you not spoken of it until now?”
“I have only just realised, Vilmar.”
Rogen’s lupine eyes showed understanding. “The wounds…to Drulgar…” he said.
Amron nodded. He had seen those slashes and cuts to the titan’s neck and shoulders himself, and Elyon had described them in greater detail having walked upon the monster’s back. It made a deal of sense to Amron that Janilah, in his new-found guise of dragonslayer, as the rumours said, had been joined by a few gruloks himself, and that the Warrior King and his giant servant-soldiers had battled the Dread and Eldur already, before they flew from the east.
“It would seem likely they were made by gruloks,” Amron said to the ranger.
He swallowed his mouthful of pork, washing it down with a draught from his waterskin. If he was right about all of that, he wasn’t certain it was good news. That the Dread could be wounded by these creatures, yes, that was positive, and that they were indeed helping to defend Vandar’s realm, that too, but more than likely Janilah Lukar had been killed in the confrontation, and if that was the case, the Mistblade may have been taken. Without it, we can have no hope of restoring the Heart, he thought. We will have to win the war with its fragments instead.
He hitched his waterskin back into place on his belt, turning his eyes out through the door of the old cabin. The rains were washing down heavily now, and did not look like they would relent any time soon. “Do we need to be here, Vilmar?” he asked.
The huntsman was still looking at him with that twisted frown on his brow. “Meaning what?”
“The gruloks. If they came to Janilah, as I think they did, then will they not come to me? You said it yourself…they were moving south, toward the city. To me. Why do I need to be here?”
“Because they slowed, Amron. I told you that. They are shy, unfamiliar with this world. The gruloks fell asleep when their master and maker died. They do not know our kind, nor half the other creatures of this world. I thought it best you come to them first. This was their world before it was ours. You must show them the proper respect.”
Amron walked over to the door, hanging loose on its hinges. He looked out through the falling rain, into the trees. His eyes narrowed, peering, searching. “I understand, Vilmar. And you’re right. What if I were to wait here, alone? Away from all others? Would they come to me then?”
“They may. But we’re on their trail, Amron. Even the ranger knows it. We’re close.”
You’ve said that a hundred times. “And how close to the city are we?”
“A few miles, three or four. Hard to know for sure.”
Whitebeard agreed. He too had a remarkable sense of place. “We can be back in an hour at a good march, my lord.”
“Then I’ll wait here for them. If it’s as you say, and they are here to serve, then they will come to me. Both of you should go.”
“Go? My lord, I do not think that wise. There are Agarathi here, as you say. And other perils. It’s my duty to watch over you.”
“And you will. From the trees. I do not mean for you to return to the city, Rogen. Just give me some space.” He turned to look at the two men, the bear and the wolf, standing side by side in that old musky woodchopper’s cabin. Vilmar, the great black shadow. Whitebeard, tall and lean, with that wolfish face and glowing eyes. “Go. Move into the trees outside and watch from there. And try not to bicker too much. You might scare them off.”
There were no arguments this time, and indeed the nod that Vilmar the Black gave him suggested he thought it was a good idea. They trundled out through the door, ducking into the rains, fading quickly into the trees the way they had come. There was an old tree-stump stool at one side of the cabin, strong enough to bear Amron’s weight in the plate armour he was wearing. He picked it up, moving it over to the doorway, setting it down on the threshold where the rain splashed down at his feet. Then he drew out the Frostblade, his aches and ails at once assuaged, to let its great white light spill out through the trees. Setting it across his lap, its kaleidoscopic mists rising, he sat down, and waited, listening to the calming sounds of the falling rain, to the soft and distant peals of thunder, crackling from far away.
The minutes began to tick by, the small clearing outside the cabin illuminated by the Frostblade’s light. Beyond, the trees were spaced apart and shadowed, thick with brambles around their boles, thorns and bushes of holly. He closed his hand around the dagger at his hip, enhancing his senses, listening. The rains grew louder, deluging down, crashing through the leaves and the branches, splashing wildly against the forest floor.
“Did you do the same, Janilah?” Amron whispered, staring out. “Did you sit, as I am, awaiting them? Did you know that they would come?”
Despite the Warrior King’s treacheries, despite ordering his son Aleron’s death, he had to see Janilah as an ally in this fight. Be well, he thought. Be alive. Live through this war, old king, and I shall deal with you when it’s done.
A shift of shadow in the woods caught his eye, movement behind the trunks. He searched through the sound of the rain, heard the crunch of wood, the sucking of mud, a heavy sound of grinding rock, stone rubbing against stone. He sat up at once, wondering how much time had passed. No more than five minutes or so, he guessed, maybe ten. They were close, as Vilmar said.
He released the dagger in his left hand, closing the fingers of his right around the Frostblade. Instinct told him to stand, to remove his cloak, to shift it from his shoulders, show himself in his armour, silver and gold and glowing. Glorious, like a great warrior of old. Worthy of their aid.
He removed the leather boots he had worn over his sabatons, placing them aside, and stepped out from the cabin. Rainwater washed down through his greying black hair, soaking it to the scalp, trailing through the tangles of his beard. His silver-blue eyes peered out, narrow. Through the trees he could see them more clearly now, the giant shapes, swaying, advancing.
He held the Frostblade to his side, drawing upon its power. Ice-armour formed about him, crystallising, hardening, twinkling with colour. It was not for protection that he did it, but purpose. Show them who they want to see. Show them a man to serve.
“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.”
