A few other men chuckled. Clearly Denton was a bit of a dolt.

“Yes, I am aware of what happens at night, soldier. So you saw nothing?”

“Well, I saw shapes. Shadows, like. One came down from the sky. Dragon, that must have been.”

“As opposed to the grulok,” Tucker put in, grinning. “Would that they could fly as well.”

Lythian smiled. Flying gruloks would be quite a sight, he agreed.

“Anyhow,” Denton went on, oblivious to the mockery. “Dragon came down, and I heard it sniffin’ about, toward the bait we set. Was thinkin’ of waking Sir Storos, but thought that might frighten it off. So I stayed watchin’ instead.”

“And?”

“And then the giant reached out. Not the whole body. Just the hand. Grabbed the dragon by the leg, then it stood up, and tore it to pieces. I barely saw anything really. Just movement. Was dark, like I said, and I’m no Bladeborn. The noise, though…”

“We all heard the noise,” said Sir Storos. “I woke as soon as the fighting began, Lythian. We all did. Never knew a dragon could scream like that.”

The others nodded.

“So there was no struggle?” Lythian asked Denton. “Hruum didn’t even try to restrain it?”

“No, milord. Not that I could see. Just went for him, all savage-like. Tore him limb from limb.”

Lythian looked at the evidence of that once again. It had been a brutal killing. If Hruum, the grulok captain, and the one who conversed with them most, could not be trusted to restrain his impulses, then there would be no further sense in deploying the gruloks to this task. That was fine. It was an experiment only and Vilmar was not wrong. Another dead dragon could only be a good thing, if not the outcome he had wanted.

Storos was looking at the carcass too. “What do you want us to do with it, my lord? I don’t suppose a dragon will come near if they see a dead brother down here.”

“Sister,” Lythian said. The dragon was female by its size and colouring, the sparkling scales of its underside. “Butcher it for parts, Storos, and store the meat in barrels, to be salted and stewed.” The flesh of a dragon was tough and gamey, though nutritious. It was best boiled for hours in a pot to soften. Such a large animal was not to be wasted, times as they were. “Bury whatever’s left. Deep enough so another dragon cannot smell it.”

“As you say, my lord.”

Sir Hahkesh did not seem pleased. “Dragon is sacred. Flesh…no eat.” He frowned a hard frown at him.

“I’m afraid we have no choice, Sir Hahkesh. In the north we eat horse meat when times are tough. This is nothing different.”

“To you.” Sir Hahkesh hit his chest, then gestured to Bah’run. “We no eat dragon. No Agarathi eat dragon. Is sin. Great sin.”

Lythian understood. “I will take that into account when your rations are served.” Some spots of rain were falling. To the south, the seas were rough, the horizon dark. The weather was coming from there, and did not look like it was going to improve any time soon. That settled something in Lythian’s mind. He had been pondering it for days, ever since Amron left, and with the rain refusing to relent, and more on the way…

It’s time, he thought, nodding to himself. The men will just have to accept it. “Get that dragon butchered, Storos. These rains are only going to get worse.”

He nodded at the knight and made to step away. A word from Storos Pentar called him back. “And after, my lord?”

Lythian turned. “After?”

“When we’re done with the dragon.” He left a long pause. “Shall we fetch another net-ballista out here? All this…” He gestured to the pits, the shelters, the traps. “Do you want us to continue?”

Lythian looked at each man in turn, judging their reactions. With Amron gone, he had been left in charge of the city and coastal defences and had much to occupy his time. This venture had only ever been speculative. If these men wanted to wipe their hands of it, and spend their energies on other endeavours, he wasn’t going to argue. “What do you say?” he asked. “All of you. Are you willing to keep trying?”

The men exchanged looks.

“No harm in it,” said Tucker, first to speak. “Not like we’re lacking for recruits, my lord. Always fresh faces out here.”

The senior men came out here on rotation, Lythian knew. Sometimes Storos was in charge, sometimes Sir Oswin, and sometimes Nathaniel Oloran took command by night. Tucker and Marsh always came together, spending three out of every four nights in the shelters. The rest of the recruits came and went. Only the two Agarathi, Sir Hahkesh and Bah’run, had been here every single night, without fail. Both of them wanted their chance to try to tame a dragon, even if it meant their lives, and so far neither had been given that opportunity.

To little surprise, they both wanted to stay.

“We not stop,” Sir Hahkesh said, firmly. “Me. Bah’run. We not stop.”

Lythian smiled at the man. “I had a feeling you would say that, Sir Hahkesh.”

Sir Storos Pentar pondered some more, then gave a shrug. “It’s early days, my lord. And most of the men are sitting idle. Let’s give it a little more time before we give up.”

Lythian was happy for the show of faith, though did not let it show. “Very well, then. I’ll be in the city if you need me.”

He crossed the broken plains, a mile of sludge and filth and churned brown earth, walking alone beneath the drizzle. Lythian did not have his own version of a Rogen Strand to shadow him, as Amron did, though supposed he would be wise to assign someone that duty.

He pondered who that might be. Sir Taegon was gone, Sir Quinn as well, and Amron had taken Sir Torus with him too. Sir Gerald was off in search of his father - though he’d proven himself a rather poor protector in the past - and Sir Nathaniel, though still here, had the same chequered history. Lythian did not doubt that this new iteration of Nathaniel would do a fine and dutiful job, but something about it smelled off. Sir Ralf had stayed to give Lythian counsel, but the old knight was too long in the tooth to play protector now, and Sir Storos was busy with his schemes. Who did that leave? Sir Oswin, maybe? Might Sir Adam join his side, handing the keys to the Pointed Watch to another?

If Rodmond was still a Varin Knight, he would be ideal, the First Blade reflected. But the young man had become a greatlord now and the duty was far beneath him.

He put the matter aside as he veered toward the prisoner encampment, a great festering bog in the shadow of the eastern walls. Every day it grew worse, the puddles deepening, the awnings they’d set up to shelter the prisoners collapsing under the weight of the rain and torn apart by the swirling winds. Those were new, those winds. The rain had been coming down for long weeks now, unnaturally heavy and growing colder by the day, but the winds had only just started. Fierce they were, and wild, with great sudden squalls that would shred a shelter in moments if it had a mind to. That was all well and good for the men who camped in the city, protected by walls of ancient, mortared stone, but not the southerners exposed to the elements.

It’s high time that was changed, Lythian thought.

He strode to the shelter erected up against the city walls, a simple but sturdy dwelling where the camp commander was based. That duty was being seen to by a knight named Sir Guy Blenhard, a biddable and affable man who no one would ever say a word against. Sir Good Guy, men liked to call him, or just Good Guy without the ‘sir’, which was always received with a great big smile from the man. Lythian had selected him for the duty on account of those qualities, but also his probity. If any of the prisoners were being mistreated by one of the men, he expected Sir Guy to come to him at once, and he had. Thus far his reports had included few occasions of violence, though of slurs and insults, there had been many. The offending men were usually rotated to another duty, but that was just papering over cracks, and oft as not, the new guards were just as bad.

There’s too much hate here, Lythian knew. These men are hungry, and angry, and they fear for their loved ones. Standing out all night in the pouring rain and howling wind, their cheeks bitten at by hail, their bodies soaked to the bone, was not helping their mood.

“Sir Guy,” Lythian said. The man was at his desk, heaped in a fur coat, scribbling with a quill pen, a fat tallow candle burned low beside him. There were some books on the desk as well, and a stack of papers weighed down by a stone, their edges fluttering in the breeze. The shelter had an open front, looking out over the camp, where an oil lantern swung upon the framework, creaking in the wind. Around the enclosure, the guards were standing at their posts, looking bored and miserable, glancing south at the darkening skies.

Sir Guy Blenhard looked up. “Ah. My lord. I was just compiling my latest report for you.” He put his pen in a pot. “Would you like to see?”

“Tell me,” Lythian said.

Good Guy read out what he’d written. His reports were always very thorough. Today, it was the usual. The typical mutters of displeasure and beginnings of dissent that were always sparking, but never quite catching alight. Mostly Lythian forgave it all. The men had the right to vent, and he would not punish the occasional grumble, but if ever something more organised arose, something approaching mutiny, he would have to act, and act quickly. Men like Good Guy were essential in that fight.

“There’s been a bit more squabbling among the prisoners as well,” the camp commander went on. “Tensions have been running high of late, my lord. The stronger men are all fighting to get the best spots in the shelters. The weak are being left to fend for themselves in the rain, and even their rations are being stolen.”

Problems without and problems within, Lythian thought. This is becoming more trouble than it’s worth. “Has there been any bloodshed?”

“Scant little. Mostly broken noses and split lips, nothing too bad. Without weapons they are unable to cause much harm and my men always get in there quickly enough to break them up, but stopping it entirely isn’t possible. A prison camp always takes on a life of its own, my lord. There’s only so much that can be done to police what goes on inside.”

Lythian took the man at his word. He had some experience in this field.

“There have been a few new arrivals as well,” Sir Guy finished, referring to his report. “It’s all written in here, my lord. Four more men came from the woods - three Lumaran soldiers who walked together, and one Agarathi. He came alone.”

“Fireborn?” Lythian asked. He was always on the lookout for more men to join with Sir Hahkesh and Bah’run.