“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.
He was musing on all of that when he heard Walter say something behind them, breaking his train of thought.
He turned, saw the little scribe pointing away to the north, to the bridge that spanned the Steelrun River a little inland. On the eastern banks, the Wandering Wood spread out, the vast forest of many smaller woods and groves into which thousands of men had fled at the coming of the Dread.
The woods that Amron had entered, early that morning. With the hunter and the ranger for company.
“They’re back,” Walter said. “My eyes are nothing like either of yours, but I’m sure I see three men out there.”
Lythian took a grip of his godsteel dagger, enhancing his sight, the darkness receding. The Knight of Mists had excellent night vision with godsteel to grasp. He peered forward, and true enough, Amron, Whitebeard, and Vilmar the Black were returning. They made a fearsome trio, and all of them looked well and unharmed.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
Elyon did as well. “Well, his timing could not be better. Come, Lyth, let’s seek his counsel. I’d be eager to hear what he…” And he stopped, voice trailing off.
Lythian did not need to ask why. He, too, was staring. And even Walter Selleck, far away as they were, could see that the king and his companions were not alone.
“Gods,” the lucky little man whispered.
No, Lythian thought. Giants.
