The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 23
“I brought some armourers as well,” Raynald added, chin rising. “The best I could muster. All Forgeborn too, Ilith’s blood. Feel free to make use of them, Sir Karter.”
“My thanks,” the fort commander said, smiling wanly. He looked overwhelmed by what he’d heard.
Elyon could see the council members had a hundred burning questions for him, but those would have to wait. He did not want to dwell on the dragon and the demigod right now. “You’ve heard my tidings,” he said. “Now let me hear yours. What of Ven? Is his army near?”
Sir Karter approached the table, pulling a rolled sheepskin map from an inner cloak pocket. He laid it out. Others closed in, crowding around. “Here,” Sir Karter said, pointing a finger at an open expanse a little to the southeast of Rustbridge. The map showed woods, rivers, hilly plains in that area. “It’s about a one-day march from the city, my lord. The enemy army is in camp there.”
Or a thirty minute flight for me, Elyon thought. “How long?” he asked.
“Two days, our scouts report. He is planning his assault, we think.”
Rammas gave a snort. “Planning when to tuck his tail and run, more like. We should make sure he doesn’t have a chance.”
Elyon looked at the Lord of the Marshes. “You think we should attack him head-on, Lord Rammas?”
He got the expected answer. “I do. Amadar says otherwise, of course, but he’s gone soft as sodden paper. You know my preferences, my prince.”
Blood and battle. Never a backward step. “I’m familiar with them, yes.”
Rikkard clearly didn’t like being called soft. He gave Rammas a hard glare. “Your ‘preferences’ got five thousand good men killed on the Mudway. You fell for the bait and men died for it. I don’t think you’re in the best position to lead our course, Rammas.”
“Bait?” Rammas bit back. “Mudport was burning. The greatest city in the Marshlands. My Marshlands. What else was I to do?”
“Think. Listen to sense. Both Lady Marian and I cautioned against exposing ourselves on the road, and so it turned out. If Elyon hadn’t found us when he did, we’d have only kept on marching toward a ruin. Right into Ven’s jaws. Our entire army might have been destroyed.”
“Water under the bridge,” Elyon said, before Rammas could respond. He didn’t want this to descend into needless bickering. “Lord Rammas was only marching to defend his people. We all understand that instinct, and it was one Vargo Ven took advantage of. But we’re here, now, and largely intact.” He looked at Killian. “Your thoughts, Kill. Would you march out and strike?”
The heir of Oloran considered it. Calm, composed, cold, many called him. He was much alike to Marian in that way. If they ever had children, she’d birth a block of ice. “I would need to take account of our forces first. And the enemy’s. I would need to study the lay of the land, consider strategy. We were soundly beaten at the Bane, we must not forget. And with the greatest fort in Vandar at our back. In the open…”
“We fought in the open at the Bane,” Rammas blustered. “We met their army head-on, when we might have cowered behind our walls. That’s the Marshland way. The Vandarian way. The northern way.” He looked at Elyon, as fervent as the prince had ever seen him, eyes glittering. “We had forty thousand men then, my prince. Forty thousand, against four times that. Now we’ve got almost a hundred, and have taken a good chunk out of Ven’s stinking horde. We’d be close to evens now, good odds for any northman. The dragon is gone, fled south, you say. Now is the time to strike. Now.”
Rikkard was shaking his head. “We must consolidate. We march out of these walls, and we expose ourselves…”
“You’re exposing yourself as a coward, Amadar. Where’s your thirst for vengeance?” Before Rikkard could respond, Rammas slammed a fist down on the table, wood cracking. “We lost good men at the Bane. Ten thousand of them. Sir Rodney, Sir Grant, Sir Charles, Sir Otto and Sir Oliver, Sir Karson. All Varin Knights. Lancel.” His eyes went to Elyon, knowing what Lancel had meant to him. “And Lord Kanabar, let’s not forget him.” Rammas squeezed a fist so tight that Elyon felt like his gauntlet might just burst asunder. “He was my lord, my commander, the Warden of the East. I’ll not see him die for nothing.”
“He didn’t die for nothing,” Rikkard came back, exhaling. “None of them did. We killed four men for every one we lost that night. And still lost…because of their dragons. We march out, and we make ourselves vulnerable. You said it yourself, Rammas. Prince Raynald’s host were lucky they were not attacked on the river road. We leave these walls and thousands will die before we even get a sniff of Ven’s horde.”
Rammas’s jaw was hard as iron. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“And if that’s what Ven wants? If this is just another trap?”
“It isn’t. It’s not the same as Mudport. Ven thought the Dread would assault us here. But he didn’t. And now he’s stopped, unsure. Afraid. You mark my words, he’ll go crawling back to the Bane in a day or two. Unless we get to him first.”
Killian stroked his chin, pensive. Even Marian seemed half convinced, her head tilting up and down in a slow, thoughtful nod. Raynald was more open with his intentions. “Lord Rammas is right,” the young prince declared. “We should march out and smash them while we can. Drive back the swarthy heathens. We win a great victory here and it’ll inspire all the north.” He raised a fist. “My men are with you.”
Rammas nodded at that.
Elyon turned to the fort commander. “Sir Karter. Can we count on you and your men, if we decide to march?”
“I would need to consult my father, Sir Elyon. My brother and I have charge of the defence of this city, but if marching our soldiers to war, my lord father must give his consent. And for that to happen he will have to seek the permission of my cousin first. Only Lord Alrus can command a Pentar army to war. It may…take time.”
“We don’t have time, damn it,” Rammas thundered. “Forget your crippled cousin. His courage is as lame as that leg of his. What does your father say?”
“I…I would have to speak with him, my lord. But he is a man of strict protocol, and would not want to circumvent his nephew’s rule.”
“Does a prince’s word circumvent it?” Elyon asked.
Sir Karter looked at him, doubtful. “Sir Elyon. I know that many here in the east call you prince, but…”
“My father was declared king two days ago,” Elyon cut in.
Everyone looked at him.
“My lord?” said Sir Karter.
“It is official, sir,” Elyon said. “Lord Rodmond Taynar is the only man who could offer and counter-claim, and he has willingly bent the knee. From King’s Point to Crosswater, Varinar to Ilivar, the news is spreading. Let it spread here too. Amron Daecar is king.”
“Damn bloody right he is,” grunted Lord Rammas. “Your father’s always been king in the east.”
Rikkard and Killian both nodded; their loyalty to Amron Daecar was without question. Taynar, Amadar, Oloran, Kanabar, all would follow him now.
And the Pentars? Elyon looked at Sir Karter. “Does that change things, sir? Would your father heed me, should I speak with him? As prince.”
“I…well, I…I’m not sure, my lord. Even if this is true. Even if you are the Prince of Vandar, only the king can overrule a greatlord. We would need a sealed warrant from your father to circumvent my cousin’s rule. It might be quicker to simply seek Lord Alrus’s approval. I am sure he would be willing to consider the proposal, if you were to fly to Redhelm and speak to him yourself.”
Elyon had sincere doubts about that. “You will have heard of my previous altercation with your cousin, I’m sure. If I can avoid sharing in his counsel, then I will.” He would need to fly back to King’s Point anyway, report to the king all he’d learned. He would get his leave, then, to march out and destroy Ven’s army. “I will return to King’s Point,” Elyon said. “And come back with a letter of command from my father, signed and sealed.” He looked at Karter Pentar. “Will that serve?”
“It…should, my lord. I cannot say for certain until I speak with my lord father.”
“Then I will join you, and speak to him myself.” Elyon turned to the others before Sir Karter could respond. “I want you to discuss strategy,” he said to them. “Gather your best commanders and captains. Compile scout reports. Determine the truth of Vargo Ven’s strength. Has he been resupplied across the Bloodmarshes? How many dragons does he have? Starriders, Sunriders. Moonbears? I want a working plan by the time I return.”
The others nodded.
“How long will you be?” Rammas asked him. He opened and closed a fist. “If we wait too long…”
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Elyon said. “Expect me back within a day or two.” He looked at Marian Payne. “My lady, a private word, before I go?”
She dipped her chin, and stepped out through the tent flaps. Elyon went first to his uncle before following. “Barnibus,” he said, as the others dispersed. “You were going to speak of him, before Raynald arrived.” He checked his uncle’s eyes. “Is he dead, Rikkard?”
“We don’t know. Not for certain.”
“But you fear he is?”
Rikkard gave a sigh. “Vargo Ven has been taunting us, Elyon. Before we arrived here from the Mudway, we were told that canvas bags of blood and gore had been dropped over the fort by dragons. Some held body parts; limbs, organs, even some heads. One of those heads belonged to one of Sir Solomon’s men. And an arm, with a ring on the middle finger. Another of Solomon’s company.”
Elyon understood. “So you believe the entire company might be dead? Barny included?”
“It’s possible. Or captured. Taken for information.”
“Tortured,” Elyon Daecar growled. He was starting to understand why his uncle feared a trap. “You think Ven is trying to goad us? Draw us out?”
“It’s something to consider. Rammas says these are typical Agarathi terror tactics, in response to our own, but I’m not so sure. We have to consider the risk that he’s trying to provoke us.”
Elyon nodded. “I’ll see what Father has to say of it.” He clutched Rikkard’s arm. “Be well, Uncle. I’ll see you when I get back.”
He stepped past him, out through the tent flaps, into the hectic bustle of the ward. Marian was waiting patiently outside with the few soldiers who had accompanied her to the council. Elyon recognised the man Roark among them, gruff and greying, garbed in leather and plate. The unkillable Roark, he thought, smiling to see him. “Still alive?” he said.
The old soldier grinned, ruts in his forehead and around his eyes deepening. “Just about. Think I’m through about eight of my nine lives by now, though.”
Marian rolled her eyes. “He has taken to thinking himself a cat, Elyon.”
“Or Eldur,” Roark said. “He had nine lives, didn’t he?”
“Eight,” Elyon told him. “Or seven, actually. He never died that eighth time.”
“He will,” said Marian Payne.
Elyon believed it when she said it. Lady Marian just had that way about her. “How is Braddin? Is he recovered by now?”
“Getting there.”
“And Lark? Is he well?” Elyon always liked to make a point of checking in with Saska’s old companions whenever he got the chance. Of the four soldiers who had travelled with her and Marian, only the flat-nosed Quilter had perished, falling at the Bane.
“Keeps on warbling,” Roark confirmed. “Some of his songs are getting famous too. Hear them sung about camp all the time, and not just among our own men neither. You know any of them, Sir Elyon? King Janilah’s Pride is my favourite.”
That one rang a bell. “Something about shoving forks up Janilah’s arse?”
Roark barked laughter. “Just that. Shall we give out a rendition?”
“No,” said Marian. She looked pointedly at Elyon. “What did you want to discuss?”
He turned his eyes through the camp. “Walk with me, my lady. Roark, free to sing that song as we go. Might give us some cover to talk.”
The gruff soldier smiled, holding back with the other guards as they set off through the sprawling ward, past the sea of rippling tents. At once the strains of King Janilah’s Pride began filling the air, starting from Lady Marian’s men and quickly being taken up by other groups.
Down the North Fork we walk and ride,
We walk, we ride, for King Janilah’s pride…
Elyon smiled as he heard the lyrics. “What do the Tukorans make of that, my lady? Do they not find it insulting?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Janilah is hardly loved, even by them.” She walked on another pace. “Well? You have my attention, Elyon. Please don’t keep me in suspense. What is this all about?”
“The Eye of Rasalan,” he said.
She raised her eyes. “I see. Have you learned where Eldur is keeping it?”
“In Eldurath, at the summit of the palace. With King Hadrin.” Elyon diverted her down a side lane between tents, looking around. It was quieter here. Roark and the others remained at the end of the alley, singing loudly, directing anyone away who attempted to take that route. Elyon looked Marian dead in the eye. “Hadrin is dead, my lady,” he said. “Speared through the gut by a dragonknight. I was there. I saw. The Eye…I took it back, Marian.”
She blinked at him. “You…” Her face became a frown, words momentarily escaping her. It was a rare thing indeed, to shock the spymaster Marian Payne. But shock her he had. “You flew there? To Eldurath? You took it from under his nose, Elyon?”
Elyon smiled, basking in her reaction. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so taken aback, my lady.”
“Do not get used to it, Elyon Daecar.” Her eyes hardened on him. “Tell me what happened.”
He did as he was bidden, telling her of his heist, of Hadrin, of how the Eye had yielded to him, when he feared it would not. He spoke too of Talasha, the Agarathi princess, who had said she would follow, but hadn’t. “She wanted to take Hadrin with her, but that spear in his belly put an end to that. I hoped…well I wondered if one of Hadrin’s cousins might be able to use it, my lady? Their blood is almost as rich as his. Many different Bladeborn can bear a Blade of Vandar. Is the same not possible with the Eye?”
She ran a finger along the line of her sharp jaw, the set of her eyes suggesting she did not have a definitive answer. “The Blades of Vandar are one made five, Elyon. Fragments of a god’s heart. The Eye is whole. As with the Hammer of Tukor, it may require a direct blood-link to bond it. Hadrin was Thala’s heir by primogeniture, an unbroken line going back thousands of years. The cousins…” She shook her head. “I’m not sure. It may well be that one or another could peer through the pupil, but what they see beyond may be too blurred and indiscernible to be of use. And that is assuming any of the cousins are still alive. For all we know, they may all be dead.”
Elyon felt a little deflated at that. He had hoped for something more. “You’ve had no word?”
“What few reports we’ve had from Thalan suggest there are survivors, that some semblance of order is being restored to the city, but that’s all. Nothing about the cousins. Or Amilia Lukar. You were interested in her well-being before.”
He nodded. “For my brother’s sake.” Amilia would have been his good-sister, had certain events not transpired. And certain Shadowknights not appeared. Elyon had asked that Marian check in on Amilia through a spy she had installed in the palace, though they’d heard nothing of either the spy or the princess since Thalan’s fall some months ago. “I still intend to fly there, find out what has happened to her,” he went on. “And learn of these cousins. But…”
“But you have more pressing matters to see to.”
“Yes. My father must hear of what I’ve learned, my lady. If I fly to Thalan now, I won’t get back to King’s Point for days. I can’t let him wait that long.”
“I understand. Returning to him is the priority. In the meantime, I will see what else I can learn here. Of the cousins, and the Eye.”
It was all he could ask of her. He turned his eyes down the lane, to where Roark and the other soldiers were standing. Sir Karter had joined them now, and was waiting patiently for Elyon to finish so he might escort him to his lord father’s keep, across the bridge in the city proper. He looked less than comfortable with all the singing. “I should go, my lady. Sir Karter seems like he could do with saving.”
“The world could do with saving, Elyon Daecar.” She smiled at him, then turned to walk away.
He wondered if he was up to the task.
11
“How much further?” Amron Daecar asked, as they stalked through the dim and dreary woods. The trees were wet, the canopy dripping from a heavy rainfall that had racked the forest for a full two hours, before finally beginning to relent. The skies looked clearer above them now, but the rains were still dribbling through the leaves, soaking into their cloaks and hair, tapping against their armour.
“Not far,” growled Vilmar the Black, brushing aside a fern.
You said that an hour ago, Amron thought. “And you’re certain you’re leading us the right way?”
Vilmar stopped in his tracks, looking back at him in a way few others dared, eyes narrowed to the point of slits. “You may be lord of this realm, but I’m the lord of these woods. Every wood, every mountain, every bog where there’s a monster, I’m king. This is my world, not yours. Do not question my skill, Amron.”
Amron sighed. The huntsman had always been ungracious, ill-mannered, churlish, but utterly without equal in his field, so he forgave him these moments of insolence. Still, Rogen Whitebeard didn’t much like it. “Mind your tongue, huntsman,” he rasped. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
Vilmar glowered back at him. “I remember, ranger. I remember a time when he was nought but a squalling babe, pink as a piglet, all wrapped up in swaddling and suckling at his mother’s teat. King of Vandar now, aye. But still just a babe to me.”
