“I know!” he shouted back at her. “I know about that. Vesryn told me. He’s your cousin and he’s my brother, and I don’t care. I cannot make that oath, Amilia. I won’t.”

“Then you’ll learn nothing from me.” She spun on her slippers, striding away, her chest heaving up and down. What was it with these bloody Daecars? She’d done the same with Jonik when he was here, the night before he left. Arguing in the open corridor, turning and marching away. Jonik had not followed her then, and it seemed his half-brother was no different. Before long she found herself alone, speeding her step along a pillared colonnade, the winds blowing in through the open windows, brisk and biting, the skies dark beyond.

Much as she’d mocked Jonik’s holy mission, she did not want to see them clash. They should be helping one another, working together, not tearing at each other’s throats. It would all be for nought in the end, of course, with the world ending anyway, but why deny them the chance to try? But if he wants to be stubborn, so be it. I’ll not open my lips until he says the words.

“Amilia.” The voice was right behind her.

She spun, startled. “How in the hell did you..”

“I can move quietly when I fly.”

“Well don’t do it again.” She put a hand to her chest, felt her heart smashing at her ribs. “Gods, Elyon, are you trying to kill me?”

“No, and I won’t kill Jonik either.” Elyon Daecar gripped the hilt of the Windblade with his right hand and reached out with his left. “My oath, by this shard of Vandar’s Heart, to not kill Jonik, if and when I meet him. If that’s what it’ll bloody take, fine, you win. Now take my hand, and let’s get this done.”

She took his hand, and he spoke his oath - reluctantly, of course, but he said the words all the same. To some they were just words, wind, to be spoken and then ignored thereafter, but not Elyon Daecar. Oh no, he’s far too honourable. He makes a godsteel oath, and he keeps it. Same as all Daecars.

She smiled once he was done, and drew her hand away. “Good. Well done. Beautifully said, Elyon.”

He had a grimace on his face, almost a snarl, though Amilia only found that all the more amusing.

“You’ve beaten me,” he said. “You have what you want - and for the life of me, I can’t think why - but you have it. I’m not going to kill him. So it’s your turn now. Tell me where he went. Tell me what he’s doing. Tell me everything. Everything you know.”

She smiled and turned to walk away from him. “Come,” she said. “We’ll need wine.”

20

The grulok captain looked down at the weapon with his ancient ice-chip eyes, white-blue in his grey rock face. He had a ridge of mottled stone that served as a brow - it rose, suggesting an expression of interest. The sword driven into the ground was a greatsword, perhaps the largest Amron Daecar had ever seen, a full seven feet in length, the sort that only the largest Bladeborn men could bear.

A full foot longer than Vallath’s Ruin, the king thought. No wonder it was down in the vaults gathering dust. There’s no one here who could wield it. No one but Sir Taegon, anyway.

The Giant of Hammerhall had been the one to bring it out to them, the one to plant the greatsword ten inches into the earth. A giant among men though Sir Taegon was, before the grulok captain he was nought but a toddler, less than a third his height. Amron could sense the throb of anticipation among the group as they watched the grulok reach down with his long left arm and wrap his three-fingered hand about the hilt. Without any visible effort at all, he drew the greatsword from the earth, holding it up, looking at it with those small primordial eyes.

Gods, it looks no more than a shortsword in his grasp. A dagger, even.

“Astonishing,” whispered Walter Selleck, shaking his head. It had been Walter who had unearthed that greatsword in the vaults, finding it during his time down there with the Eye of Rasalan. During one of his many breaks, Amron did not doubt. “That blade must weigh several tonnes.”

To a normal man, yes, that would be so. To a powerful Bladeborn it would weigh almost nothing at all after bonding, and it appeared that same was true of these gruloks. Even at his monstrous size, Amron had wondered if the creature might show some toil when lifting the weight, more of a struggle when pulling it from the ground. That he did not suggested that his very nature, as Vandar’s first and most fearsome creation, was partly responsible. “It is impressive, I agree,” he said. “I would not expect him to gain any additional powers or physical advantages from the metal, however.”

“Can you imagine?” chuckled Walter. “A Bladeborn grulok? The enemy would not stand a chance. Much less so against sixteen of them.”

“Eighteen,” Amron told him. “Two more appeared overnight.” He gestured beyond the grulok captain, to where the rest of them rested and waited at the edge of the Wandering Wood, half in and half out of the trees. Some were standing, watching from afar, still as stone and staring. The rest were in their recuperative ‘boulder-state’, which they occupied most of the time unless Amron or Vilmar were attempting to communicate with them. Mostly that was done through the captain, though several others had the ability to speak a little of their language as well. It was rudimentary, but they were making progress. And Vilmar, especially, had continued to build a bond with the creatures.

“That one has blood on his spear-arm,” noted Sir Taegon, peering at them through the hazy morning light. “Do they fight among themselves? Do they even bleed?”

If there had been any fighting among the creatures, Amron hadn’t seen any, and nor had Vilmar - who spent almost all his time with them now - reported such. “I imagine that blood is from some other creature, Sir Taegon,” Amron said. “They are very calm between themselves, and around most men as well, but are much more violent toward other beasts.”

“Foreign beasts especially,” Sir Ralf put in. “Perhaps a sunwolf or starcat prowled through here last night?” He rubbed his chin. “It would make me wonder how they will react to the prisoners, my lord. The Agarathi. The Lumarans. The gruloks were made to be sentinels, watchers and protectors of these lands. Should we not be concerned that one or another might walk to the camp one night, and attack them?”

It was a reasonable concern, there was no doubt, though one Amron had already thought of. “Vilmar and I have spoken with their leaders about this. They know not to attack them, and none have done so thus far. Unless provoked, I would hope they will remain placid.”

They tended to shy away from large groups as well, which was partly why they were out here, away from the ruin of the city, across the river, keeping to the woods. There had been a great deal of murmuring among the men since they had arrived, though most agreed their presence was all for the best.

Ahead, the grulok captain had completed his inspection of the blade, and driven it back down into the earth. Vilmar was communicating with him, in his mix of gestures, growls, grunts, and actual words that Amron could understand. The king told the others to remain where they were, and strode forward to join them, some twenty paces away. The grulok looked down at him with those otherworldly eyes as he approached. Assessing, Amron thought. Always assessing.

“My lord,” he said, observing courtesy. The gruloks seemed to like it when he was respectful to them. “The blade is yours, if you want it. And we have many more as well.” He pointed to where the wagons and carts had been left nearby across the bridge, loaded with godsteel swords and axes. “You and your soldiers are welcome to use them.”

He did not imagine that all of them would take up the offer. Or any, in all truth. The previous evening they had debated whether they should be giving them the godsteel at all. “It might only enrage the beasts,” Lord Gavron Grave had said. “Vandar himself made these creatures with his own two hands. He is their father, as Agarath is the father of the dragons. Now imagine someone comes along and gives you a blade made from the bone of your own sire, Amron. How would you take that, I wonder?”

Not well, Amron had thought, though this was different. “They have come here to serve the bearers of the Blades of Vandar, Ironfoot,” he’d said. “If the shards of the God King’s shattered heart do not offend them, then why should simple godsteel?”

“It’s not the same,” Grave came back. “We’re men. Sons of Varin. We were made to bear the metal. These monsters might turn a blind eye to that, but using it themselves?” He’d shrugged. “Well, I’m not so sure.”

Nor was Amron. And still, even now, he could not say whether the grulok captain or any of his brethren would choose to make use of the blades. Many of them had weapons for arms, after all, great rock-like swords and long stabbing spears, though that was not true of all of them. Some bore primitive weapons in their grasp, and giving them godsteel blades would only make them more lethal. And he does not seem offended, he thought, regarding the captain. More curious. That was a good start, at least.

“Well, it is your choice,” the king went on, when the grulok captain said nothing in reply. “The greatsword before you is the largest we have, so I thought it would suit a soldier of your station. Though you have your spear-arm, of course. So feel free to present it to another of your warriors if you prefer.” He paused. The grulok still gave no response. “We have another greatsword on the wagons, though it is smaller, less than six feet in length. They are rare, greatswords. However, we have some longswords as well, and even a few bastard swords. Those will still be small to you, but…”

Vilmar the Black coughed.

Amron cut himself off.

“Too much, m’lord,” the huntsman growled. “You’re speaking too quickly, and he isn’t understanding. Remember what we talked about? Simple words, slowly said.”

Amron had not forgotten, though that did not mean he didn’t struggle. He had never been particularly good at communicating with those with a poor grasp of the common tongue. “You don’t have the patience,” Lythian had told him once, and he wasn’t far wrong. Communicating with the gruloks had been even more vexing.

But that’s why I have Vilmar. And Lythian as well. The new First Blade of Vandar had visited the gruloks himself, bringing the Sword of Varinar with him one night so that the creatures could judge his character, and swear him their service, as they had Amron. It did not surprise Amron at all that the giants seemed to take a quick liking to the Knight of the Vale. Perhaps that was just Lythian’s more open demeanour. Or perhaps it was the blade itself that the creatures were quickly drawn to. It was said that the Sword of Varinar carried the essence of Vandar’s power more than the other four blades. It would stand to reason that the gruloks would be more compelled by it, as a result.

But it was a marginal effect, if so. So long as they protect and serve us both, that’s all for the better, Amron thought.

“Well then,” the king said. “I will leave it to you, Vilmar, to distribute the blades, as needed. Bring your report to my command pavilion later.”

The huntsman nodded.

Amron looked up at the grulok captain. “My lord.” He gave the rock giant a bow. “I will visit with you again soon.”

The creature inclined his head in response to that, and even rumbled out a few words. “Soon,” he said, in that rockslide of a voice. “We be here. Waiting.” His eyes moved skyward, and out over the Red Sea. They seemed to narrow. “Protecting.”

Amron returned to the ruin of the city, leaving Sir Taegon and Sir Quinn and Sir Gerald to help hand out the blades. “What if none of those…things want them?” asked Sir Gerald Strand, looking over at them from beside a loaded cart. It was his first time getting so close to them, an experience he did not appear to enjoy. He fears everything, this man. How he could be the heir of Lord Styron the Strong remained a mystery to Amron Daecar. Sir Gerald the Jittery would suit him better.

“Then we will return them to the city, Sir Gerald,” he said. “What else would we do with them?”

Amron marched away, as the man fumbled over an answer, Sir Ralf and Walter and Rogen going with him. “You ought to send him away,” Rogen growled, looking back at the doughy figure of his brother. “He is a pernicious presence here, my lord. His negativity seeps into the men.”

“You exaggerate your brother’s influence, Rogen. He is widely despised. No one listens to his grousing.”

“That’s my point. He’s widely despised and no one wants him here. One day we’ll find him with his neck cut open. No one’s forgiven him for King Ellis.”