The council members stared at him blankly.
Rammas scratched under his chin. “Rock giants?”
Elyon nodded.
“How many?” asked Rikkard Amadar.
The prince laughed and gave a shake of the head, still struggling to believe it himself. “Many,” he said. “There were sixteen of them when I left. More may yet be drawn to him.”
“To your father?” asked Lady Marian, standing straight-backed and stoic in her seamless smoke-grey armour.
“They’re drawn to the power of Vandar,” Elyon said. He drew the Windblade, causing the walls of the pavilion to billow. A few sheets of paper and scrolls went blowing from the command table. Sir Karter and Rikkard stepped forward at once to set them right. “Sorry,” Elyon said. “I was trying to be dramatic.”
“You mean the Blades of Vandar attract them?” Killian asked.
Elyon nodded. “Vandar made the gruloks to fight in his wars. That’s why they’re awakening, and being drawn to the bearers. They’re being summoned to fight for Vandar.”
Prince Raynald had a look of boyish wonder on his face. “Will some come here, then?” Once more he continued to glance at the Windblade in a manner Elyon considered covetous. Perhaps there is more of his grandfather in him than I thought. He had no great fear that Raynald would act upon that desire, but all the same, it stirred a reaction in him.
Eyes off. It’s mine. Mine, and mine alone. The thoughts came unbidden, that rat, gnawing in his mind. He took a moment to repeat his father’s mantra, briefly closing his eyes, right there before the captains and commanders of the east. I will give it up. I will give it up. I will give it up. I will…
“My lord, are you quite well? Do you need to take a short rest, perhaps, before we…”
“I’m fine, Sir Karter, just fine.” Elyon opened his eyes, not caring to explain himself. He sensed the likes of Rikkard and Killian and Marian were already quite aware of his private struggles. He gave answer to Raynald’s question. “I tend to move around a lot, Prince Raynald. That makes me hard to track for these creatures. And they are shy, I am told. They shun people as much as they can.”
Rammas gave a snort. “Didn’t imagine they could be so sensitive.”
Nor did I. Though sensitive was perhaps not the right word. It seemed that the gruloks required a first meeting, somewhere private, with a bearer, before showing themselves to others. Vilmar had told him it must have been their custom, some means of testing whether the bearer was worthy of their service. It was perhaps why so many had gathered near Amron Daecar. They gravitate toward nobility and power, Elyon thought. And Lythian is there also, with his bright new golden blade.
“How does your father intend to deploy them?” Killian asked, as though they were speaking of a troop of common spearmen.
“Defence, for now. Vilmar is working with him to improve communication, so the king can more readily issue commands. A few of them are able to speak a basic form of the common tongue. A few words, here and there.”
There were some murmurs at that. “Truly?” asked Rikkard. “What do their voices sound like?”
It was hard to explain. “Imagine a rockslide, and you’ll be somewhere close.”
Walter had suggested that they had learned to assimilate the language while they were sleeping, especially those who happened to be near people. When Vandar’s power faded, long millennia ago, the gruloks had simply lain down to rest, presenting themselves as large rocks and boulders to the eyes of man. In some cases, settlements had sprung up where they were sleeping. Those were the ones who had learned to speak, according to the scribe, absorbing bits of the language during their slumber.
Elyon re-sheathed the Windblade, and walked over to the command table, putting this talk of the gruloks to one side. Sir Karter was still setting everything back in its proper place. He seemed extremely fastidious in that regard. Elyon saw the usual laid out across the large pine-wood table; maps, diagrams, battle plans, other information that would help them defeat Vargo Ven and his army.
“You’ve done as I asked,” the prince noted.
“We’ve had plenty of time,” Rammas returned, in his typically blunt way. “You’ve been gone longer than we expected. Thought you were going to come right back.”
“I’ve been busy, my lord.” Elyon pulled up a sheet detailing the enemy’s strength of arms. He ran his eyes down the list of units; swordsmen, spearmen, axmen, archers, mounted units, dragonknights, paladin knights, Sunriders and Starriders, dragons. Against each unit was an estimate of numbers, given in a range. “How accurate are these numbers?” he asked.
“Hard to say,” said Rikkard. “There is only so much we can do with scouting reports. But we expect the different units to be within those ranges.”
The ranges were often quite broad, Elyon saw. At the bottom of the sheet, a high and low end estimate of Ven’s total forces had been listed. “It says here Ven commands up to a hundred and fifty thousand men.” Elyon looked up. “How can that be? He had that number at the Bane, and we’ve killed tens of thousands since then.” Forty thousand at the Bane, he thought. And how many more since? “These numbers can’t be right.”
“They’re not right or wrong,” Rikkard said. “They’re estimates. It’s clear enough that Ven has been reinforced across the Bloodmarshes. That’s the benefit of controlling Death’s Passage…it allows him to rearm and resupply at his need.”
Elyon understood all that. “Then he’s left a garrison at Dragon’s Bane as well? To protect the way.”
“Our latest reports suggest so.”
“How many?”
“Ten, fifteen thousand. Again, that is only an estimate. Some other castles are also under his control. Fort Bleakmire, Castle Crag.”
Rammas’s eyes darkened at the latter. It was his own seat, taken and destroyed. He had left his uncle there in command, along with others who were dear to him. All dead now, like as not. None of that had softened Lord Rammas’s mood, which seemed as foul as Elyon had ever seen it, and that was saying something.
“So in sum Ven might have…how many? Two hundred thousand? Spread across the Marshlands?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
“I wasn’t aware he was occupying castles.” So far as Elyon knew, Vargo Ven had simply been destroying them, burning them out, and leaving them to rot.
“Some,” Rikkard said. “Only those of strategic importance.”
Elyon thought some more. “What about cutting off his supply lines? Starving him out. Would that be possible?”
Rikkard didn’t seem to think so, nor anyone else, by those shakes of the head. “We’d have to win back the Bane to cut him off, and he’s closer. If we try to march upon the fortress, he’ll get there before us. Or else he’ll intercept us and engage.”
“Good,” Rammas said to that, making a fist. “We’re on rations here and the food’s not going to last forever. We destroy Ven’s host, and his supplies will be ours. Food, fodder, all of it. We should march out and meet him while we’ve still got the strength to fight.”
That won some murmuring from the others. The threat of famine was likely to become a major issue soon, here and elsewhere across the north, and gaining access to Ven’s supplies would be a major boon. That’s if he doesn’t simply burn them, Elyon thought. He would not put it past the dragonlord to order all wagons and supply tents put to the torch should he think the battle lost.
