Not like Sir Nathaniel. He at least was making a great effort to contribute, and had shown himself to be both courageous and capable during the trials they had faced. Sir Gerald was quite the opposite. “I’ll think about it, Rogen. Is it his safety that concerns you?”
The ranger snorted. “No one would be happier to see that man’s neck in a noose. But he is still my blood. And that counts for something.”
Walter gave a chuckle. “Such a softie. I had no idea you cared.”
“I don’t. Perhaps I want to be the one to kill him myself, did you ever think of that?”
“If you do that, I would have to try you for murder,” Amron told him. “The same goes for any man here involved in his death, should it come to that. We must maintain some semblance of law and order, even during times like this.”
They made their way past the prisoner encampment, which had become a quagmire over the past week. The rains had been thick and unrelenting of late, often falling all night and showering them during the daytime as well. Rarely did they see blue skies anymore, or a rain-free day from dawn to dusk. Across the pen, huge brown puddles had formed, and elsewhere all was muck and mud. The pen had been expanded once more, though it hadn’t helped, and now most of the captives spent their time huddling shoulder to shoulder beneath the shelters and awnings they had raised. It was dryer there, and less muddy, but they had little space to move. Lythian had suggested, and not for the first time, that the prisoners be brought inside the walls, if only to stave off disease, though Amron had continued to refuse him. The men would not have looked kindly on that, he knew. They must remain my first priority. And we can ill afford revolt.
It was not raining now, however. Overhead, the morning skies were filled with shredded grey clouds, rippling by like banners. There were banners, too, above the River Gate, and blowing from poles on the broken battlements. A few were orange and black, for House Brockenhurst. The rest were in the radiant silver and blue of Vandar, flapping in great quantity across the ruin of the city, as though in defiance of their humbling defeat.
Amron Daecar wore the same colours. His silver armour had been polished, scrubbed clean, and his cloak flowed resplendent at his back. He did not wear his Varin cloak, nor his cloak of House Daecar, but one of deep blue wool, striped silver down the centre, with the royal sigil of the kingdom stitched in fine golden thread. The king’s cloak, Lythian had called it, when he gave it to him. It was another old relic found down in the vaults by Walter Selleck, a cloak, Lady Anne Brockenhurst had claimed, that was once worn by Amron the Bold.
Amron did not know if that was true or not - it seemed in rather too good a condition for that to be the case - though he wore it all the same. Earn the name, he thought, remembering his dream as he went. The judging eyes of his ancient namesake. You let my city fall...
Sir Adam Thorley was awaiting him at the gate. “Your Majesty. I had word that Commodore Fairside was searching for you. There is news. Another of his scouting boats has returned.”
“Oh?” Only Tern had returned thus far, sailing back from their mission to the Claws to report that the enemy armada had not gone out that way. The other four boats - Sparrow, Thrush, Swift and Kite - had not yet been heard from, and Amron had wondered if they ever would. “Did he say which one?”
“No, my lord. I received word from a runner. He had no further information for me.”
“I see. And do you know where the commodore is now?”
“He was at the harbour I believe, taking the sailors’ accounts. Shall I send out word for him to join you in your pavilion?”
Amron nodded. “That would be best. And send for Lord Lythian as well. He should hear the commodore’s report.” He paused. “Actually, Walter, you can see to that. You’ve work awaiting you down in the vaults.”
“Thrilling work,” Walter said, sighing.
Important work, Amron thought. Or so his son believed. “Tell Lythian to come to my tent at once,” he commanded. He turned away, crossing the yard to his pavilion, stepping past the guards outside and in through the flaps. Rogen remained without, Sir Ralf followed him within. The king took his position behind his desk, browsing through the letters and scrolls and rolls of parchment arrayed before him, delivered by riders from nearby forts and towns. Very occasionally, a crow would still come too, to deliver a message from further afield.
One had come from the west, bearing troubled tidings. It seemed Agarathi sails had been sighted on the water, prowling about the coast, and there had been several dragon attacks there as well. One coastal town had been burned to cinders, and another spared the same fate only by a stout defence from the local garrison, who had driven off a pair of dragons with arrow and bolt. There were fears it all augured a larger attack, and so far no word had come from Lord Randall Borrington about the current fate of the western gate.
I should have sent Elyon over there to meet him, Amron lamented. His son had been tending to other concerns, however, flying southeast across the Red Sea to report on this great ash cloud above the Ashmount - a concerning matter that they had discussed at length - and returning to Varinar as well to check on the state of the capital. In that at least the news was more promising. The fires had long since burned out in the Lowers now, Elyon had reported, and Lord Brydon Amadar’s forces had arrived from Ilivar to try to restore order within the city. They had secured the gates, preventing further desertion from the fleeing Taynar soldiers, and taken control of the lakeside harbour as well so they could not flee by ship. That had not come without bloodshed, however. The captain in command of the Amadar forces, Sir Geofrey Bannard, had taken a hard line on desertion, Elyon told him.
But still nothing of Lillia, Amron thought. And Amara had not been heard from either. Try as he might to put the welfare of his daughter from his mind, he found it impossible, fretting on her fate during times of quiet, seeing her in his dreams as he tossed and turned and rolled beneath his blankets, defenceless against his fears. One dream was recurring, a nightly pain he had to suffer. In the dream he would see Lillia there, standing out on her balcony at Keep Daecar, watching as the Dread approached the city. He could see her little face, see the tears streaming from her wide-open eyes, sizzling off her skin, feel the air beginning to broil and burn as the titan and his minions approached, as the thunder clapped and skies turned to flame. He would hear the scream, ripping from her lungs, as the flames gushed down from a hundred maws, and came rolling across the city toward her, engulfing the streets and hills, the towers and walls and keeps, a great tsunami of raging red fire destroying all before it.
He could hear it, even now, the screaming of his daughter. I wasn’t even there, and perhaps she wasn’t either. But still…I can hear her scream.
His thoughts were interrupted, and blessedly so, by the arrival of the First Blade of Vandar. “You called for me,” Lythian said, stepping inside.
Amron nodded, looking the man over. He sat back in his seat. “You’re not wearing your blade.”
“No.” There were dark patches beneath his eyes, and more creases about them too, but all the same Lythian Lindar looked strong. There was something about becoming a bearer and a champion that gave a man an extra glow, a vitality that shone out of them even when they were physically depleted. “I needed the break from it,” the First Blade went on. “I’ll return to my training when we’re done here.” He looked at the scrolls on the table. “Anything new?”
“Not here.” He and Lythian and Sir Ralf and others had already discussed the contents of these letters. “Commodore Fairside has a report, however. He should be here any moment.”
Lythian nodded, stepped forward, and took a seat on a block of stone. “There’s something else,” he said. “Regarding the blades.” He looked to the side of the table, where Amron had propped the Frostblade up against the wood. Iridescent mist melted and rose from the scabbard. “I don’t know if you feel it as well, but…”
“They don’t like being close to one another,” Amron said. “Yes, I’ve felt that too.”
Lythian Lindar rubbed his chin, thick with three-day stubble. “It’s concerning. I feel the spite running through the Sword of Varinar. No whispers, as yet, and no loss of control, but…there is a certain anger to the blade. They are like brothers, who resent one another.”
Like Rogen and Gerald, Amron thought. “You’ll learn to better master those feelings, in time, Lythian. Though I admit, they are becoming stronger. Perhaps it was wise of you not to bring it here.”
Lythian stood and moved to a side table to pour himself a cup of water. “To think that kings and warriors of old used to bear two of them at once.” He had a sip. “Balion the Brute comes to mind.”
My grandfather’s namesake. Lord Balion Daecar had been named for the Brute, as Amron had been named for the Bold. Balion the Brute had slain the feared dragon Larackar, bearing the Mistblade in one hand and the Windblade in the other, one of the most famous duels in Vandarian history. But that was a different time, as he told Lythian now.
“The blades were not so independent back then,” Amron said. “Over time they have learned to grow apart. And Balion the Brute was well earned of his name. He was monstrously powerful, in both body and mind, and had the will to dominate both blades at once. There have been many others who have done the same, Lythian. But times are different now.”
“Different, yes. Darker and more dangerous. And none of these old warriors ever had to live beneath the shadow of the Dread either.” Lythian took a long drink of water, then set his cup aside. “I start to wonder how we’re ever going to hammer the blades back together, Amron, if they’re so adamant they remain apart.”
“By strength of will, the same as the Brute,” Amron told him. “That is why I made you guardian of the blade in the first place, Lythian. You have that strength, where others do not.”
“So you say,” Lythian muttered. “I have my doubts, as you know.”
“My certainties are stronger than your doubts.” How often must I prop up his battered sense of honour? He could hear the sound of footsteps outside, nearing, A moment later Eustace Fairside appeared, bursting along in that energetic way of his, moustache swaying with each step.
“Your Majesty.” He gave Amron a bow, golden lapels catching the light of the candle on the table, then stood up straight before him. “You summoned me.”
“I was told a scouting boat had returned.”
“Two,” said Fairside.
“Two?” Amron repeated.
