Before the fighting, Amron had ordered Lady Brockenhurst and her courtiers to take refuge in the sanctuary beneath the Spear, along with Lord Warton, her Castellan, and Walter Selleck as well. By some stroke of fortune, all of them had survived, even as the tunnels and chambers collapsed around them, the ceilings crumbling as the Spear itself came down, torn apart by the wrath of the Dread. It was Walter’s doing, Amron knew. “Your luck remains, my friend,” he had said to him, when greeting him after the battle. The self-styled ‘luckiest man in the world’ had been insistent that Vandar’s light had deserted him. Clearly that was not so.

Others were not so fortunate. Many civilians had gone down into their refuges to take cover before the battle, and many soldiers had joined them when they saw the Dread approaching. Most still remained, dead or trapped it was hard to know for sure. Even now, the search crews could hear tapping echoing from below, hear the faint fearful sound of voices crying out for a saviour. Getting to them was another matter, however, with the city so unstable. In truth most would die down there, entombed forever in the sanctuaries that were meant to save them.

I was meant to save them, Amron Daecar thought. Dream or not, his ancient namesake had been right. I have not yet earned the name…

The River Gate was under the guard of Sir Adam Thorley, Commander of the Pointed Watch, the King’s Point city guard. It was a charge as dead as the city itself. As dead as tens of thousands of men. “My lord,” the young knight said, seeing him approach. He had with him a dozen of his men, wearing war-weary faces, all clad in doom. And the messenger, standing with his horse. By the look of that lather about the horse’s mouth, he’d been riding hard for hours.

“Sir Adam. Anything new to report?”

“Yes, sire. More stragglers and deserters have returned. Mostly Vandarian. But some southerners as well. The former are being taken in by their own commanders. Captain Lythian is handling the latter.”

There’s no better man for it. It was not just their own men who’d deserted during the battle. Many thousands of southerners had done the same, fleeing into the woods at the sight of the Dread, and over the past two days, scores had returned, preferring to give themselves over as captives than try to make it on their own in the north, with enemies all about them. Lythian had been given the charge of handling and housing them, such as he could, though it was only a short term solution. One problem among many, Amron thought. Has this messenger brought me another?

He gave Sir Adam a nod, then turned to the man in question. “Your name,” he said.

“Sir Hutchin, my lord. A knight of House Bygate, sworn to the Harrows of Crosswater.” He glanced uneasily about, then withdrew a scroll from within his leather glove. “Lord Harrow had me ride here with his finest horse…with all haste, my lord. We have barely taken rest over the last two days.”

“Take it now. Your duty is done.” Amron turned. “Sir Adam, see that Sir Hutchin is taken somewhere quiet to sleep, and make sure his horse is fed and watered.”

“Yes, sire.”

Amron took the scroll, ripped the seal, and read the words. The colour drained at once from his cheeks. It was just as he had feared.

“My lord,” Sir Adam prompted. “What does it say?”

Our worst nightmare. He rolled up the note, slipped it into a pocket in his cloak, and drew a breath. “Gather my council, Sir Adam. There is something they need to hear.”

It did not take long for them to assemble, each man stepping through the flaps of Amron’s command pavilion in quick succession as soon as they got the call. Some had been sleeping. Others were on duty elsewhere, attending to their orders. They came all the same, bleary-eyed and battle-worn, with scorch marks on their cloaks and armour and haunted looks in their eyes. Some were nursing minor injuries - Sir Quinn Sharp had a broken wrist, Sir Taegon Cargill a deep cleave across his left cheek - while others bore wounds of grief. Rodmond Taynar had lost his uncle, Lord Dalton, the First Blade dying in his arms on the battlefield from a fatal loss of blood. The Ironfoot, Lord Gavron Grave, had lost his nephew Sir Marlon. Others had seen dear friends die, those they counted as brothers. Amron had lost his brother by blood, Elyon his beloved uncle. Yet none compared to the suffering of poor Sir Torus Stoutman, whose sons Darun, Elmid, and Hoddin, had all gone to the Eternal Halls.

The pavilion was empty but for a single oakwood table and blocks of uneven stone to act as seats. There was no carpet, no furnishings, no comforts whatsoever. Two iron braziers had been brought in to provide light and warmth, yet there was a coldness here that could not be driven away by fire. Few sat. Only Lord Warton - who shuffled in, coughing - and the Ironfoot took perch; elsewise the others remained standing. Amron looked across at them all once the full complement had come, standing on the far side of the table. Some scrolls scattered it; scribbled plans, the early workings of strategy, flanked by a pair of fat tallow candles, burning low.

He decided to avoid preamble. Withdrawing the note from his pocket, he said, “Varinar came under attack two days ago, after the Dread flew north…” He looked around, saw nothing resembling shock. Desperation and despair, yes, but those were already present. In truth all had expected this. “The defences were quickly overwhelmed, Lord Harrow writes. We all saw how many dragons Drulgar had with him when he left. That many…with the Dread at the fore…”

“Is it destroyed?” Elyon asked. He stood to one side, near the canvas wall, pale-faced, still recovering from the exertions of the battle. Elyon had been hit by a blast from the Bondstone, the very will of Agarath striking at his chest mid-flight and knocking him to the earth. Though his godsteel armour had protected him from the brunt of it, it had taken its toll all the same, rendering him incapable of flight ever since.

“I don’t know, Elyon,” Amron answered. “But after what happened here…we must assume the damage is considerable.”

“How did Lord Harrow get word?” asked Sir Quinn Sharp, a Varin Knight broad-faced and homely, stout and capable. “Is he not in Crosswater?”

“A crow got out of Varinar during the attack. From your uncle, Sir Quinn. He scribbled a note, telling of the titan, towers falling, walls tumbling. Wings in the skies, blotting out the sun. The very fire of hell itself pouring from the Lowers. The note was taken to the nearest rookery and by chance the crow managed to make it to Crosswater. When Lord Harrow received it, he despatched a rider here at once.”

“He’s dead, then,” Sir Quinn said, digesting that for a moment. “My uncle.”

“We don’t know that.” Sir Bomfrey Sharp had been put in charge of the defence of the capital, along with Sir Hank Rothwell and Sir Winslow Bryant. All three were household knights of middling standing, the best of what was left with so many senior knights and lords away. In all likelihood, all three were dead. Along with tens of thousands of others. Hundreds, even. The thought was a knife in his heart. A cold knife, twisting.

Sir Taegon Cargill gave out a heavy grunt. “So your uncle’s dead, what of it? We’ve all lost people, Sharp.” He swung a mighty arm toward Sir Torus Stoutman, standing beside him, cloaked in sorrow. “Torus lost his three sons. Sons, Sharp. Sons. No one cares about your bloody uncle.”

“This isn’t a competition, Sir Taegon,” Amron said. “We do not battle over grief.”

“I have two sons as well,” Sir Quinn retorted to the giant. “Young boys, up in the Ironmoors. They might be dead as well, so far as I know…”

“Speculation will not serve us,” Lythian came in. “We deal with what we know, Sir Quinn.”

“Easy for you to say. You have no children of your own.”

The Knight of the Vale nodded. “A curse, it has always been said, to have no sons and heirs. Perhaps now it is more a blessing? I do not pretend to understand your fear, Sir Quinn, but…”

“My fear? My fear is enough to drive me home, sir. Return to my wife and sons and…”

“Desert?” boomed the Giant of Hammerhall. “We’ve got enough of those cravens already.” He snorted and spat out a name. “Stone. If I see Sir Ramsey again, I’ll pull his scrawny little head off. Don’t make me do the same to you, Sharp.”

Sir Quinn raised his chin. “I’m no deserter, Taegon.” He looked at Amron. “I’m not, my lord. I hope you know that.”

“I do.” Amron had a good sense of his men. Or at least he thought he did. Once before he could sniff out a coward a mile off, but in these darkening days those margins were starting to thin. He did not begrudge a man the urge to return home to defend his family. Yet if we all do that, what then? Their only hope was to keep on fighting. If they splintered now, all would be lost.

Elyon took a step forward from the side, an urging look in his eye. “I have to go, Father,” he said. “Varinar. I should have gone already.”

“You’ve been bedridden, Elyon. This isn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could have done.”

“I could have tracked him. Drulgar. Maybe even drawn him off.” He clenched his jaw in self-rebuke, but there was only so much Elyon could do. “I’ll go now. Tonight. We have to know the truth.”

“We know the truth,” Lord Gavron Grave rumbled. He heaved to his feet, a heavyset man of sixty-two, stamping down on his godsteel leg. “We all saw what he did to us here, and we all heard Sir Bomfrey’s words. Towers falling, walls tumbling. Wings blotting out the sun. A hellish inferno. That doesn’t paint a good enough picture for you, boy?”

“One man’s words. One man’s eyes. I can look upon Varinar from a different vantage, my lord.”

Sir Storos Pentar agreed. “Varinar is ten times as large as King’s Point. With ten times as many towers and ten times as many ballistas. Perhaps only a part of it was destroyed. The rest…”

“Is rubble,” the Ironfoot broke in. “Same as here. Ten times the size…ten times the prize. The Dread has always wanted to see Varinar burn. There’s no stopping that monster.”

“I disagree.” Amron would not allow this sort of thinking to infect his men. The Ironfoot was as staunch as a man could be, famous for having his own leg cut off after he broke it during a hunting accident, and replacing it with godsteel. If he could be allowed to wilt like this, then others would be sure to follow. I’ll not let this pessimism become a plague, spreading from man to man. “The Dread can be defeated, Lord Grave, never think otherwise,” he said. His tone brooked no rejection. I must hammer this message home. “As soon as we start thinking we are lost, then we are, and there is no coming back from it. My brother drew blood from the dragon. So did my son. And there were gashes on his face and neck when he arrived. He can be cut, wounded, weakened. Perhaps his assault on Varinar has proven his folly. A few well-placed ballista bolts would have even Drulgar reeling. It only takes one, my lord. As a man can die from an arrow to the eye, so the Dread can die from a bolt.”

Lord Gavron gave a grunt, nodded, and sat again, taking the weight off his godsteel leg. “Didn’t mean to sound defeatist, Amron. You’re right. Anything living can be killed. I’m just saying, it won’t be easy.”

“Killing a dragon is never easy. Less so a giant one.”

Elyon gripped the Windblade, as though trying to muster his strength. “We have to know for certain. If I leave now, I can get to Varinar and back within hours.”

“No, Elyon. You’re not strong enough yet.”

“I am. I will be.” He drew the blade out a few inches, and let a gust of wind blow off it, stirring cloaks and canvas both. Some vitality returned to his cheeks. “Varinar. Elinar. Ilivar. If Drulgar attacked the capital, he may have flown elsewhere as well. We need to know.” He took a step closer. “Father, Lillia…”

“I know.” Amron couldn’t let personal concerns drive his course. Lillia had been in Ilivar the last they knew, under the care of her grandfather Lord Brydon. According to Elyon, Amara had left Varinar in a bid to bring her home. It was possible she had done so, that they were back in the city when it was attacked. Or in Ilivar. Or on the road, which carried great perils of its own. In such times, he had to accept the possibility that his daughter was already dead. Accept it, and not dwell on it. Yet all the same…

He looked his son in the eye. “You know the importance of the blade you carry, Elyon. You know they may be our only chance. If you should encounter Drulgar again, or another dragon…if you should fall, and lose the blade…”

“I won’t. I’m rested, Father. I’m ready.”

Several other men gave assenting nods, murmuring agreement. Sir Ralf of Rotting Bridge offered counsel. “Learning the true fate of Varinar is essential. It could be as you say, my lord, and the Dread was driven away. If so there may be a chance to salvage and rebuild, regather our strength behind whatever is left of its walls.”