“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.”
“I see.” The man took the letter, stashing it away in his cloak. “Of course. I will set out at once.”
“Good. You will find Sir Ralf outside. He will see you provisioned with swift horses and men to ride them. I want you to make all haste, Sir Gerald. Is that understood?”
The man nodded. “All haste, yes. I understand, my lord.”
“Then go.”
Sir Gerald Strand lumbered away, looking more springy in his step than Amron had seen for a while.
Rogen glared after him. “You may have just given him an excuse to desert.”
“It was your idea, sending him away,” Amron told the ranger.
“Doesn’t mean I trust him.”
I do, Amron thought. The last thing Sir Gerald would want would be to look like a craven in front of his lord father. And old Ralf would no doubt select some dependable men to make sure they completed their charge. “If he happens to betray my faith, Rogen, I give you leave to hunt him down and bring him to me by the collar. But I don’t think it will come to that.”
Amron looked through the flaps. He could see that some of the others were appearing outside, arriving from their duties, emerging from their own tents and pavilions as Sir Ralf sent word for them to gather. Some would be only too happy to march to battle, Amron knew, others less so. But how many to take? He was loathe to leave less than ten thousand men here to defend the coast, but would two or three thousand make a difference in the west? If some of our best are among them, yes, he told himself. Every sword and spear makes a difference.
He looked at Rogen Strand, still standing at the flaps. “Send them in,” he said.
21
“To the death,” said Sir Mallister Monsort, glaring at him. “Do you agree?”
“No.”
The Emerald Guard gave a snort. He hasn’t calmed since last night, then. “I call you craven, Elyon Daecar. To the death or be called a craven.”
Elyon looked around the tiered seating set about the duelling yard in the Sentinels, one commonly used by the Emerald Guards, he knew, when they competed in their intra-order tournaments. Only a few had come to watch thus far, given the early hour and impromptu nature of the duel, though more were filing in as the sun rose up in the east, touching the tops of the buildings with its warm, golden light. In the royal box, Princess Amilia was sitting comfortably on her cushioned bench, a cup of watered wine in her hand, giving Elyon a stern shake of the head. He had promised her last night that he would not kill Sir Mallister Monsort; a promise easily made. Because I don’t want to kill him, he thought. I just want him to see sense…
“Call me what you wish,” Elyon said, looking back into Sir Mallister’s hard blue eyes. “Everywhere else they call me the Master of the Winds, the Prince of the Skies, the Lord of Storms, serial killer of Agarath’s spawn. I did not get a chance to speak with you last night, Mallister, after you marched away in a huff. Had you stayed you might have learned that I am now Crown Prince of Vandar as well. And that I have ridden the back of Drulgar the Dread, where I fought Eldur the Eternal between his scales.”
Mallister Monsort did not seem impressed. “Honour yourself all you like, Elyon,” he said. “There are a hundred others who’d have done the same if only they’d had that blade.”
That insult bristled a little. “Like you, Monsort? Do you want it for your own?”
