The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 102
That would be for Lords Taynar and Barrow to contend with. Barrow nodded and coughed into a dirty square of cloth. The gouts of blood did not look healthy. “As you say, my lord. I’ll have my men looking for…for troublemakers…among them…”
“My thanks.” Lythian had found Barrow to be more accommodating these last weeks, despite their early differences. Unlike Kindrick, he’d played no part in the slaughter of the prisoners, and had cursed his fellow lord for a traitor when he heard he had taken off. Barrow had even suggested they send out men to hunt Kindrick down, but Lythian had decided against it.
No, I’ll want that pleasure myself one day, he’d thought. He’d even dreamed of it by night, and more often than he’d care to admit. Lythian Lindar, noble Knight of the Vale…turned dark harbinger of justice and vengeance. In his dreams he would stalk the north in search of deserters and act judge, jury and executioner upon them. Some he might forgive if he felt the pull of mercy, but never a lord in command of thousands, never an anointed knight. Oh, those men would suffer the full brutality of his retribution, and nothing so simple as hacked-off heads either. No, he would take his time with them, and that’s just what he did in the dreams. They were dark dreams, bloody dreams, dreams from which he woke feeling hateful, and angry, and dangerous. And all the while, the Sword of Varinar would be calling from its chest, whispering, hissing, fuelling his rage with its want for blood and battle.
He was looking at it now, he realised. Staring straight at the chest. He dragged his eyes away and saw that the men were averting their eyes from him, uncomfortable. “My lord,” prompted Sir Ralf. “You were talking about the Rosetree men.”
Lythian nodded. How long had he been staring at the chest? “I’ve said what I need to say. You heard what Fitz said, before he died. We can’t have his four hundred men causing problems.”
“Three hundred,” said Sir Storos. He had a gulp of wine and went to fill his cup. Another ally drifts, Lythian thought. Even Storos had grown listless of late, drinking at any chance he got to wile away the long dull days here in this city of ghosts. “At least a hundred have deserted by now.”
Barrow coughed into his cloth again. “I’ll see to it…as I said. Some will try to run. The rest...I’ll keep a watch on the rest…but Fitz…he was never much liked among them. Most saw him as…as an upjumped fool.”
Lythian nodded. It was an apt description of the knight. He looked up as Sir Adam Thorley entered, ducking through the flaps. “Are they ready, Adam?”
“They are, my lord.”
Lythian stood. “We’ll reconvene at a later time,” he said to the others. “See to your duties.” He went to collect the Sword of Varinar from its chest, lifting the great golden blade from inside. When he turned he found Barrow watching him. “A problem?”
“No, I…I was not aware you kept the blade in a trunk, is all.”
“Occasionally. For safekeeping.” Lythian did not need to explain his mental struggles to this man. Only his close allies were privy to that, and Barrow was not a part of that circle. No doubt he had guessed, though. All that staring, Lythian thought. He had no idea he was even doing it, and that was a troubling thought.
He stepped out of the tent with Sir Adam Thorley, fixing his swordbelt as he went. The rain soaked through his hair at once, trickling down his spine. “Have many gathered to pay their respects?”
“A few dozen, my lord.”
A few dozen, Lythian thought. It was hardly a strong show of support for Sir Fitz, and many of those would have come for the other five men. Not much liked, he reflected. Barrow was not wrong. Lythian wondered idly how many would gather if it was Amron, or Elyon, lying in some grave. What if it was me? Once before many might have come, but now…
He heard the sound of splashing footsteps behind him, and Lord Rodmond came up to join them. “I ought to be there too,” the young lord said. “To pay my respects.”
Lythian nodded. “As you say.”
They walked out of the gate together, a few of Rodmond’s guards trailing behind in the dull blue cloaks of his house. A little south of the gate, near the outer curtain wall, some firm ground had been found and into it six graves were dug, dirt heaped at their sides. At another time the bodies might be returned home to their loved ones, but not now. The likes of Sir Vesryn Daecar and Lord Dalton Taynar had been placed in the crypts, to be brought to the Steelforge to rest with the other First Blades at a later time, but these common men and deserters would be granted no such honour.
They should feel lucky they get their own graves, Lythian thought. Some of the men had even cut headstones to mark them, and Lythian had allowed that as well. I permit much, he reflected. But why? Why do I even bother? They all just hate me anyway.
He was not wanted here, he knew, but duty compelled him to come. Men glared at him through baleful eyes as he took his place nearby, standing a little aside so as not to interfere. Once all had gathered, men stepped forward to tell stories, speak verses, sing their sombre songs. Some trinkets were thrown into the graves of each man. A necklace of stones here. A favoured blade and scabbard there. A letter from a loved one. The toy of a favourite child. Lythian watched alone. Some might think his presence perverse, but no, it was honour that brought him here. I still have my honour, he told himself. I am cursed, tainted by the touch of Eldur…but it is honour that still defines me.
The rain was falling in a thick black deluge by the time the burials were done. Lythian took his leave before the men dispersed, returning to the River Gate where Sir Adam stood waiting. “I’m going to visit with Vilmar. Keep watch for my return; I may not return for some hours.”
“Do you want an escort, my lord?”
“I want to be alone.”
He stepped away across the broken coastlands, walking through the deepening puddles and bogs beneath a tar-black sky. The mud was so deep in places it went right up to his knees, and sometimes he had to veer around great tracts lest he get caught in the mire. He thought of Pagaloth as he went, and Sa’har Nakaan and Sir Hadros. They’d still had no word from them, and the men that Lord Kindrick had sent out to bring word had not come back either.
Small wonder. He could not imagine how it must be in those woods now. The rain would make navigation hard and there would be new rivers where there were none before, washing through the valleys, new lakes forming between the hills. Here at least the men had shelter, but out there? They’re not coming back, he thought. His hopes for unity were as dead and done as his failed attempts to catch dragons. It was always folly, all of it. Everything I touch is cursed.
The river had become a wild thing. The drawbridge that spanned it was kept down, and the water rushed over it in places now, rising higher and higher each day. To each side debris had become caught and was starting to clog on the banks, piling high with wood and bits of broken stone, bloated corpses trapped and crushed amid the tangles, of man and horse and deer. South of the bridge, the watercourse spread and opened out into a great estuary where the Dread’s coming had warped its shape, breaking the banks and causing it to wash over the lands, carving new furrows of its own. Now a half dozen smaller rivers rushed into the Red Sea with islands rising up between them.
Lythian crossed the bridge, the water surging past his ankles and washing the mud from his boots. On the other side the land was a little firmer. He walked toward the edge of the woods where it gazed south toward the sea. A small fire was flickering in the trees, burning beneath a raised canvas roof tied between the branches. There was a hammock there too, swaying in the breeze. Vilmar the Black sat hunched before the flames, turning a rabbit on a spit. He wore black from heel to head, a huge bush of beard pouring out from under his hood. His dark eyes did not lift at Lythian’s arrival. “Knew you were coming,” he growled. “They always stir when you do.”
Lythian scanned the trees, saw the shapes scattered among the trunks. Most of the gruloks were sleeping, indiscernible from boulders. A few had awoken at his arrival, as they were prone to do when he came with the Sword of Varinar. They stood gigantic, over twenty feet tall, staring from the dark with those ice-chip eyes. Several others were staring out to sea. “What are they looking at?” Lythian asked.
“Agarath. They’re always staring out that way.”
Lythian looked a little closer. By his judgement they were looking more south-east than due south. Eldurath was due south, he knew. Further east meant they were staring at the Nest, or perhaps even the Ashmount. “Do they sense something out there, do you think?”
“Dragons,” Vilmar grunted. “That big one. He’s waking up again, Lythian. That’s what Hruum thinks.”
Lythian scanned the giants, searching for their captain. “Is he awake now? I’d like to speak with him.”
“Sleeping. But you’ll get nothing much more than that.”
Lythian stepped closer to the fire. “If he knows something…”
“Then what? There’s nothing we can do about that big one anyway. He’ll wake when he wakes and we’ll all do what we can to outlive him. There’s no preparing for that.” He turned the spit. “Want some rabbit? It’s almost done.”
Lythian removed his cloak and threw it over a low branch. “That’d be nice.” He envied the huntsman sometimes, living out here alone. He turned over a fallen tree stump and sat down, the wood crunching beneath his weight. “Any trouble of late, Vilmar?”
“Not like you’ve got,” the man said. “A few wolves came sniffing around last night, but I scared them off easily enough. That’s bread and butter for me.” He prodded the fire. “How many did you kill today, then?”
“Six. Sir Fitz was one of them.”
Vilmar shrugged. “You expect me to know who that is? I can’t keep up with all you lordlings.”
“He had command of the Rosetree men after his uncle’s death in the battle.”
“Battle? Wasn’t much of a battle, far as I’ve heard.” He inspected the meat, then pulled the rabbit from the flames, laying it on a cut stone. “Help yourself.” He tore a length of flesh from the bones and chomped hungrily. Lythian ate with a little more dignity.
For a long time neither man spoke. Lythian was happy for it. To be away from the city and all its ghosts. He could breathe out here, and think a little more clearly. He felt less angry, more focused, and perhaps it was the presence of the gruloks that did it. He didn’t know for sure. “Have any more of them come?” he asked eventually.
Vilmar crunched a bone between his jaws. “Not since the last time. Still twenty-two in total.”
When Amron left there had only been sixteen. Can I take that as a small success when he returns? Lythian wondered. Will that balance out my other failures? He scoffed in self derision. “Are there any more out there?”
“What? Twenty-two not enough for you?”
“I’m only wondering.”
The huntsman could turn truculent just like that. “Aye. Well don’t worry about all that wondering. If more come, they come. Same as the dragon. Nothing you can do about it. Now are we talking or eating?”
“Some men can do both at once.”
That only won him a scowl, and if he said anything more, he’d likely lose a share of his dinner, so he kept his mouth shut from there on out. Only once the rabbit was picked clean of its bones - the ones Vilmar didn’t eat, anyway - did Lythian say, “I want you to ask them to clear the clog at the bridge. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s lots of debris there, and…”
“And the bridge might break if it keeps accumulating. Well, we can’t be having that, can we? How would you come and pay us your little visits?” The huntsman picked out a splinter of bone from his teeth and tossed it into the trees. “I’ll ask them when the time is right.”
“And when is that?”
“When it’s right. I got a sense of these things.”
Lythian had a sense too. He sensed it was time to leave him. He stood from his stump. “A pleasure as always.” The man only growled an unintelligible response and the First Blade started back for the city.
He felt heavier every step of the way, knowing what awaited him. By now the dark had turned so thick he could scarcely see more than a dozen paces ahead. The river ran wilder than ever when he reached it, roaring and rushing past and over the bridge. Lythian stomped across in his heavy plate armour, labouring through the mud on the other side. He wondered if what Vilmar said was true, about the Dread. Was he about to come again? Could they beat him back a second time if he did? He did not know how. He’ll destroy us all, he thought. We’re broken and divided and weaker than we were the last time. We’ve had no time to prepare. He’ll lay waste to every one of us.
He plodded along, his mood sinking the same as his boots as they pressed down into the mud. Ahead, the faint light of the city could be seen, blurred by the rain and fog. He pushed on through a quagmire, the filth rising up past his knees. Gradually the walls took shape before him, smashed and broken, and the River Gate, still standing strong. He saw the shadows of men on the ramparts, walking on patrol or leaning at the crenels. The guards above the gate saw him coming and the call was raised for the doors to open. Lythian stepped through, trailing mud. Sir Adam was there to greet him. “My lord. You were gone a long time.”
Lythian had no response.
“Will you retire to your tent, my lord?”
He nodded. It was late and he was bone-weary.
“I shall have two of my best sent to stand guard,” Sir Adam told him. He looked around. “It’s a dark night, my lord. I’m told a storm is coming.”
Another storm. They came often now, booming and bellowing. Lythian had already heard the crackle of thunder approaching from the east, and it was coming nearer with each rumbling peal.
“There are concerns of a large breakout tonight, my lord,” the young Watch Commander went on. “Lord Barrow came to me while you were gone. Whispers from some of the Rosetree men, I understand. He has set more bowmen in place on the northern walls to deter an escape, and Sir Storos and Sir Oswin are with him, and Oloran as well. I fear Storos is eager for a fight. He will raise his blade to any deserter. There may be blood tonight.”
Lythian had no complaint with that. “These deserters know the risks. Have some more of your own men deployed to patrol the streets, Sir Adam.”
“As you say, my lord. Ought I wake you if there’s trouble?”
“Only if it’s serious.” He did not need to explain what that meant. Lythian trusted Sir Adam Thorley to come to his own judgment on that.
He continued through the yard, boots splashing in the puddles. The pavilions were scattered around him, dark and ghostly in the rain and mist, occupied by this lesser lord and that unheralded knight, their roofs and walls sagging and drooping. The tent of Lord Kindrick had collapsed from the weight of the rain with no one to tend and restore it, and Sir Fitz’s abode would likely do the same now. Some others had suffered similarly; Fitz Colloway was not the first knight to have abandoned him and nor would he be the last. As he crossed the yard, a loud rumble of thunder bellowed across the skies, closer than ever. Even the lightning that preceded it struggled to pierce the gloom.
The brazier was still lit inside his tent, though the flames had burned down low. Lythian removed his sodden cloak and hung it on a hook, then unfastened his swordbelt and placed the Sword of Varinar back in its chest. He went to the brazier, picked up the iron poker and stirred the coals. Sir Ralf was the one to keep the fire lit, but the old knight would have taken to his bed by now, retiring to his own small tent a little way through the ward. He knows I want to be alone, Lythian thought. And no doubt he’s grown tired of my dour company. He could hardly blame him if that were true.
He removed his armour and poured himself a cup of wine from the sideboard to help him sleep. He sat and drank it down, brooding, listening to the falling rain, the raucous thunder. Faintly, he heard voices and movement outside and knew that Sir Adam’s men had taken their posts. That gave him some comfort. He finished his cup and poured another, drinking until he tasted the dregs. It was bitter stuff, the last of the wine they’d scoured from the city cellars, the sort of cheap swill that sailors and dockworkers drank down with great enthusiasm, never knowing any better.
But it helped him sleep, so he drank a third cup, and a fourth after that, sitting at his desk all the while. Idly, he fingered through some old maps and letters, but for what? He wasn’t here to devise strategy. He had no battle plans to make. His task was just to sit and wait. And rot, he thought. He pushed the papers aside and poured himself a fifth cup.
Eventually, the pull of sleep took hold of him. He stood, heavy-headed and heavy-legged and moved wearily to his bed, easing down onto the hard mattress and pulling the covers over. The brazier was burning softly, and outside more thunder rumbled through the skies, rolling from the east. Maybe it’s not thunder, Lythian thought drowsily. Maybe it’s the roar of the Dread, coming to finish the job. A part of him would relish it. Come, he thought. Just come and get it done. He turned onto his side, staring at the trunk across the room, cloaked in darkness, listening to the whispers hissing from inside. If the dragon should stir, at least I’ll get to use you, he thought. Just the once. I deserve that, don’t I? To go to battle with you just the once?
Sleep took him slowly. He dreamed of a spectre, stalking the lands, the harbinger of justice, slaying deserters. He moved from town to town in a heavy wool cloak, unsmiling, unblinking, killing as he went. I am death, he thought, as he took one life and then another. I am justice. He bore the Sword of Varinar, blood swishing from the edge of the blade, red on gold, gouts and godly mist mingling as he swung and cut and swished and hacked.
He knew some of the faces of the men he slew. Kindrick. Colloway. Sir Ramsey Stone. The big blacksmith he’d hanged and the merchant’s son too. But most others were nameless, faceless, shapes and shadows cut through by his blade and with every kill the Sword of Varinar called for more. More! it shouted. More! it screamed. More! More! More! More! More!
