“Two, yes. A mistake in communication, I think. Kite and Swift are back. And by the skin of their teeth, so they say. Both came terribly close to being attacked on several occasions.”
“By dragons or ships?”
“Both. Kite managed to outrun an Agarathi galley not far off the coast. Swift was thrice spotted by dragons, who…” He cut himself off and waved a hand. “Ah. What does it matter? They’re back safe now and have given me their reports.” He dug into a pocket of his navy frock coat, and withdrew a scroll of scribbled notes. “Do you want to read, my lord? Or should I just tell you?”
“Speak,” Amron said. Fairside’s writing was very poor, he knew.
“As you wish.” The commodore straightened out the scroll and cleared his throat. “Green Harbour,” he then said, glancing at the letters on the table. “You had fears that it would come under assault, my lord, after these reports of dragon attacks and sails. Well, Kite has confirmed that fate as being imminent. If it hasn’t already begun. A large fleet was seen to be amassing in the waters off the coast, preparing to lay the city to siege. But that was two days ago. By now…”
Green Harbour could be destroyed. Amron closed a fist. “How many ships?”
“Fourscore, perhaps more. Most are warships, large enough to carry several hundred men. I would estimate a force of twenty thousand at least. Agarathi and men of the empire as well. Wolves. Cats. So on.”
Amron heard Lythian give a sigh. There was little likelihood that Green Harbour could repel such a force, not for long, and not if the dragons arrived in force.
“How many men do we have at Green Harbour?” Lythian asked.
Sir Ralf gave answer to that. “Our last confirmed reports from Lord Borrington suggested he was positioning most of his strength at the Twinfort. I would not imagine there are many more than seven or eight thousand men standing in the defence of Green Harbour.”
“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.”
