“Then they will be overwhelmed.”

Amron nodded agreement. He was about to speak, but stopped.

“There is more,” said Eustace Fairside.

Amron looked at him. “More?”

“Yes, my lord.” He sounded concerned. His eyes moved back down to his notes. “Another armada…sailing west, as reported by Swift. She was sent to the Trident, as you know, to see if the enemy had reassembled there. Many had, it would seem. Captain Moore told me that they sighted ships sailing in the direction of the eastern shores of the Brindle Steppe, a hundred of them at least. He could not say for sure, given the weather. There may be even more.”

Amron digested that. The Brindle Steppe was a great expanse of open grassland, so named for the brownish colours of the prairie, that opened out south of the Twinfort. It was home to farmers and herders, with many small ponds and lakes and areas of swampland as well. Along the coast, small forts and watchtowers had taken root over the centuries, supplied and commanded by the Twinfort, but those were not capable of stopping such a force if they had it in mind to land there. “A hundred ships,” he murmured. “We could be looking at thirty thousand men or more.”

“They could be sailing to join in the attack of Green Harbour,” Lythian said.

“Or the Twinfort itself,” offered Sir Ralf. “This could be a two-pronged assault.”

Amron had the same thought. If this second fleet landed on the eastern shores of the Brindle Steppe, they could march west and attack the Twinfort from the south. Meanwhile, the army besieging Green Harbour could pass through the Greenwood, and attack the stronghold from the rear, where it was much less stoutly defended. And if we lose the Twinfort…if they smash through the western gate…

Amron Daecar stood from his chair, legs scraping, and limped over toward the drinks table to pour himself a watered ale. Eustace Fairside rushed over at once. “My lord, please, let me…”

“I am quite able to pour a cup of ale, Eustace.” He poured the commodore a cup as well, unwatered, and then one for Sir Ralf. He knew Lythian would not partake, with training to do, though offered all the same and got the expected response. Then he returned to his chair, sat down, and took a draught. Watered ale was about all he allowed himself these days, and only on the rare occasion too. He felt he needed one right now, as he puzzled everything out.

Eventually, he spoke. “Randall Borrington’s forces number some thirty thousand, all told. They comprise his own men, Rothwell men, Crawfield men, Daecar men, all beneath the banners of my house.” He thought some more on that. “I sent Brontus Oloran there as well, with his five thousand swords, and we’ve had word that Lord Strand has grown restless enough to muster his levies and march south from his castle.” That was a rare piece of good news, only recently relayed to them. While so many men were deserting their posts and running off to protect their families, Lord Styron was calling his banners and marching south, to enter the fighting. So far as Amron knew, he was planning to march here, to King’s Point, with a force of some fifteen thousand men. I’ll send a rider to divert him, he decided. It is west that his strength is needed.

And mine, he thought.

He turned his gaze on Lythian, who was watching him like a hawk, reading him. The man knew him better than anyone else in the world. “You’re going?” he asked.

Amron nodded. “It is my army, Lythian, my kingdom to defend. I cannot sit here as the enemy assaults us.”

“They may not. We have not had confirmation…”

“I trust in these reports. If the Agarathi take Green Harbour, they will be able to cut through the Greenwood and come in behind Lord Randall at the Twinfort. If that happens the western gate will soon be smashed open, and they will have a free march up through our lands, massacring as they go.” He paused to read Lythian’s eyes. “You hate this, I know. You say the Agarathi are under Eldur’s spell, that the Lumarans are being drawn along by fear. That we should be united, working together…”

“We should.”

“But we aren’t. And we may never do so. If an enemy is invading my kingdom, I am compelled as king to defend it. I will muster a host and march to their aid. The rest will remain here, under your command.”

“No.” Lythian stood from his stone chair. “I’ll come with you, Amron.”

The king had already decided otherwise. “You will stay here, and defend the river. I will command the gruloks to remain as well, should you come under attack. Work with Vilmar in my absence, Lythian. You have your training to do. And your other projects. There is no sense in you coming as well.”

“No sense? I can see some sense in the First Blade of Vandar standing with his king in battle. There is plenty of sense in that.”

Amron nodded, thinking of his own father, who had perished beside his king at the Burning Rock. He had been First Blade too, at the time. “One day,” is all he said. “One day we will march upon Agarath, Lythian, and fight together, as we once did. And perhaps we will die together too. But not yet.” He turned to Eustace Fairside, who was standing nearest to the door. “Eustace, if you’d be so good as to invite Rogen Strand inside.”

The commodore did so. Whitebeard stepped in. “My lord,” he growled.

“You spoke of sending your brother away, Rogen. I have a duty for him. Please fetch him from outside and bring him here.”

“As you command.” Rogen stepped away.

Lythian went to the drinks table, and poured himself a goblet of wine. There goes his training for the day. Perhaps he needs an afternoon off. “You’re angry with me,” Amron said to him.

“No. I understand your orders.”

“But they disappoint you?”

“It is my life’s honour to fight beside you.”

“Even now? You speak of staying our hands and sheathing our swords, of unity and cooperation. I would think you would be happy to remain here, rather than march out and bloody your blade.”

“I would always defend Vandar against an invading force. That is my first oath, and my last. Whatever my personal feelings, I will put them aside when you call upon my blade.”

“And I will. But not yet.”

Amron looked down at the papers and notes stacked upon the table. He had spent time strategising over the last weeks on how they might proceed, how they might claim victory over their enemy, and end the War Eternal, but his progress had been limited. I have no control, he thought. Elyon kept coming and going. Varinar was on its knees. There was the threat of a great clash outside Rustbridge in the east. Drulgar the Dread remained a constant menace, the shadow under which they all now lived, never knowing when he might return. And now this. Another invasion, in the west. Any thoughts he’d had, reckless as they might have been, of taking the fight to the enemy must now be put aside. He had wondered often what his namesake would do, whether Amron the Bold would march upon Eldurath itself, but no, that was folly and he knew it. One day, he thought. One day. But not yet.

He looked up at Sir Ralf of Rotting Bridge. “Convene my council, Sir Ralf. We must decide who will join me.”

“My lord.” The old knight strode away to call upon the captains and commanders.

Lythian still looked displeased, though would do his duty, Amron knew. “How many do you plan to take?” the First Blade asked.

Amron was already mulling on that. They had lost roughly half of their forces here during the assault, and thousands more had been wounded, with many deserting thereafter. Their numbers of healthy soldiers amounted to hardly more than ten thousand now, twelve or perhaps thirteen at a push. But we have the gruloks, he thought. They counted for an army alone, and thus far, he suspected the enemy was not aware of them. I would keep it that way for now.

“We will decide that in council,” was Amron’s answer. “Would you be willing to part with Sir Taegon?”

“That is not a question you have to ask me, Amron. He is your man, not mine.”

“He is a Varin Knight, under your command. And has been helping to protect you, as you train. I would not want to deprive you of his presence unless you allow it.”

“I have no authority to allow it or deny it. You are the king. Take who you will.”

Amron nodded, still thinking. A man like Sir Taegon Cargill was a monstrous asset in battle, and could make a deal of difference whether fighting in the defence of a fortress or clashing in the open field. He would take Sir Torus Stoutman too, of that he was already certain. That man needs an outlet for his grief, and I’ll give it to him. Rogen, obviously, would accompany him as well. Then there was Lord Grave, Lord Rodmond Taynar, Lord Kindrick and Lord Barrow, Sir Quinn Sharp and Sir Nathaniel Oloran and Sir Storos Pentar and many other knights and lords and captains, some of whom had command of dozens, hundreds, even thousands of men here.

He supposed that Lord Gavron Grave might be best positioned to join him, with his banners, leaving the new Lord Taynar here to support Lythian in his command. If I leave the Ironfoot, he will only want the command for himself. But Rodmond, no, he is happy to serve. The young man had never wanted to become the lord of his house, he had made plain, and would not cause any trouble, Amron didn’t think. And I’ll leave Storos as well. He had been with Lythian since his return to these shores, and was helping him with his traps and dragons, an endeavour that had not borne fruit thus far, but may yet. Walter would stay too, and Vilmar the Black, and Sir Adam, to remain in command of the Pointed Watch. The rest…well, he would decide on that in due course.

He pulled up a parchment and began drafting a letter, scratching with his quill. As he was doing so, Sir Gerald Strand arrived, quickly fetched by his brother. He looked worried as Rogen ushered him inside, eyes moving to Lythian and Eustace Fairside as though this was some sort of trial.

“You can relax, Sir Gerald,” Amron said, waving him in. “I have a duty for you.”

The doughy man moved up toward the table. “A duty, my lord?”

Amron nodded. “I need you to ride at once to Crosswater, then onwards from there until you find your father’s forces. Take a few good men with you. I’ll have Sir Ralf help you with that.” He finished writing the letter, folded it, and stamped it with his royal seal. “Give this to Lord Styron.”

Sir Gerald wobbled forward, still unsure. He fears a trap at every turn. “Might I ask what it says, my king?”

“In short, it is a direct command for Lord Strand to divert his army southwest. We are expecting an invasion through the western gate, Sir Gerald. Your father must help us hold it.”