The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 49
“They’ll ask more questions here,” Gerrin said, as they approached. “We’re entering Vandar, so…”
Jonik understood. “Will Amilia’s seal work?”
“Hopefully we won’t need it. Sir Lenard should suffice.”
A soldier stepped forward to bar their way, several others standing behind, watching. The guard wore a silver breastplate and blue cloak, stitched with the sigil of his kingdom. Banners of the same flapped against the walls. A wind was picking up and the clouds were thickening in the skies.
“Your business entering Vandar?” the man asked.
Manifold, Jonik thought. He let Gerrin do the talking.
“We mean to seek medical aid for our friend.” He gestured to the horse. “Sir Lenard Borrington, son of Lord Randall. He is wounded and needs urgent relief.”
The man looked at Sir Lenard, a single eyebrow rising. He knows something, Jonik sensed at once. “Sir Lenard, you say?”
Gerrin nodded.
The guard stepped forward. “Do you mind?”
“By all means.”
The man drew up to the palfrey, peering closer to get a look at Sir Lenard’s face. There appeared to be some recognition in the eyes of the soldier, a purse of the lips, as he nodded and stepped back. “You may pass,” he said. “My men will escort you to the Undercloak. Lord Ghent will want to speak with you.”
A pair of soldiers came forward. “This way,” one of them said. He led them on, south through the gate, past the great throngs ambling north. That went easier than I thought, Jonik mused. A path led them over to the fortress built behind the Steel God’s statue, in the shadow of his great trailing cloak. The gate here was a portcullis, and behind it they entered a courtyard of grey stone, with barracks, a stable, an armoury, storehouses, a small prayer house, and a kitchen about its border. Ahead, some steps led up to a keep of modest proportions.
“Wait here,” the soldier said. He moved up the steps, as the stableboys came over to take their horses, the other guard staying with them. A few moments later the first soldier returned. “You may enter. Follow me.”
The fort commander was awaiting them in a spacious, draughty hall, standing at a table at the far end looking over some papers. He was a man of stout build, with a hard face made for frowning, fifty if he was a day. He wore a grey jerkin with a blue cloak at his back, fastened by a pin in the shape of a sword. He looked up as they entered. “I’m told you have brought Sir Lenard Borrington with you. Is that so?”
Gerrin spoke. “It is, Lord Ghent. He is badly wounded. We hoped you would be willing to…
The commander cut him off. “It’s being done. I’ve given orders for Sir Lenard to be taken upstairs and given a room to befit his station. The doctor is being summoned as we speak. You needn’t worry about him anymore. We’ll see him right, you have my word.” The fort commander took up a cup of wine from the table, and had a swift swallow. He swirled the wine, looking them over. “So…who are you, then? Knights? Sellwords?”
“Both,” Gerrin said. “I was a knight of the Emerald Guard once before.” He gestured to Harden. “He sells his sword, though is a distant kin to the Strands.”
Lord Ghent smiled as though enjoying a private joke. “An Ironmoorer? Yes, you have the look, there’s no doubt there.” Harden was a grey man, grim and lean and hard-looking, features typical of those lands. “And how about you, young man?” Ghent said to Jonik. “Do you have a name?”
Something told Jonik he already knew. “You know my name,” he said.
The commander gave a bark of laughter. It rang through the hall, up into the rafters. A nesting bird flapped away in fright. “So I do. I know all your names, in fact. He did tell me you were a perceptive young fellow. A bit of a dour lad, true, but not the monster you’re made out to be. ‘Greatly misunderstood’ he said of you.”
“Who did?” Gerrin asked.
The answer was obvious. “Borrus,” Jonik said. “He passed this way not long ago.”
Ghent gave another barking laugh, a short abrupt sound. “Perceptive indeed. Yes, the Barrel Knight rolled on through, and what a bloody shock it was for me to see him! Told me a funny old tale of ships and pits and long-lost knights saved from the clutches of a Piseki warlord. And much more besides. I’d heard some rumours of all that, of course, but hadn’t thought much of them. Borrus Kanabar riding with the Ghost of the Shadowfort? And this Emeric Manfrey too?” He had another swallow of wine. “Nonsense, until I heard it from the horse’s mouth. Before then I was one of those who wished you dead, Jonik. Now? Not so much. You sound more hero than villain to me.”
Jonik could not help but smile. He even felt a bit of blush rising up his neck. “I…thank you, my lord,” is all he managed to say.
“Not at all. Not at all. Now come, come. Have a cup of wine, and let’s talk.”
They approached the table, as Commander Ghent set about filling them each a goblet. He passed them out, looking over them as he did so. His eyes finished on Jonik again, looking at his cloak, the glimpse of armour beneath, the shape of his sword within the folds. “You don’t mind if I take a look, do you? I’ve seen the Sword of Varinar up close a few times, when Lord Daecar has passed through, but never the Nightblade.”
“You’ll have to leave your post if you want to see that blade,” Harden said to him.
Ghent wasn’t understanding. “How’s that?”
“He gave it up,” Gerrin explained. “The Nightblade has been left in the Shadowfort.” They had to assume that Borrus had told Ghent about all of that as well. The journey to the Shadowfort, the destruction of the order, perhaps even the Book of Contracts. But not Ilith. Borrus and the others had never known of him.
“Oh?” Ghent raised his eyes. “Seems odd to leave it up there. Turning over a new leaf, are you Jonik?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you know which way Borrus went, Lord Ghent?” Gerrin asked.
“South, down the Rustriver. There’s battle brewing that way, we’ve heard. Prince Raynald marched an army through here not long before Borrus appeared. Been a busy few weeks.” He drank again, then refilled his cup. “But back to Sir Lenard. Was it the Crabby Onion where you found him?” He gave a sigh when they all nodded. “Then I guess my men never made it. Been expecting their return for days.”
“Men?” Gerrin asked. “You sent men out to fetch him?”
“A half dozen of them,” Ghent confirmed. “With a sturdy carriage so they could bring Sir Lenard back here nice and dry and out of these blasted rains. Borrus didn’t want to be moving the knight in such a bad condition, so asked that I fetch him back. Him and this young lad he left to look after him.” He paused, thinking. “Forget his name.”
“Devin,” Jonik said, feeling a hot stab of anger in his chest. “His name was Devin. And he was murdered while he waited.”
Commander Ghent was not aware of that. “Oh. What happened to him?”
“A group of deserters came upon the inn,” Gerrin explained. “They killed the inkeep and his wife and slew young Devin as well, leaving Sir Lenard to rot in his bed.”
Ghent exhaled. “Gods. How foul. I trust you made these men suffer?”
“Not enough,” Jonik growled. “They died too quickly. Badly, but quickly.”
“Three others escaped,” added Harden. “But we got the leaders.”
“And you saw no sign of my men? No carriage on the road?”
They looked at each other. None of them had seen a sturdy wagon on the road, though for the most part they had kept to narrow tracks and trails down which a carriage would not be able to travel. Most likely the men had been attacked and killed by some creature before they made it to the inn. A dragon seemed the likely culprit. Gerrin put that to the fort commander, and he gave a sour nod.
“You’re probably right. Those dragons swarm like flies these days, and one…” He paused, looking down over the letters and scrolls on the table. “Word’s been coming in about…” He swallowed, almost unable to even say it. “The Dread,” he managed at last. His voice was choked. “It’s being claimed that Drulgar’s arisen, can you believe that? They say he’s as big as those twin titans out there. A thousand feet across at the wings. Picture it. Just try to picture it. A thing like that, haunting the skies.” He gave a visible shudder. “Rumour is he’s taken down Varinar. It’s unthinkable.”
They had heard those rumours as well, while in Ilithor. Ghent had another large gulp of his wine to steady himself. “So, you’re, um...to continue south as well, I take it? The gods know we could use men like you down there.”
Gerrin gave answer with a nod, choosing not to elaborate on their mission. “We are in need of a Bladeborn-bearing horse, if you have one. One of ours broke a leg, not long ago. We had to put her down.”
“Ah. Terrible business, that. Always terrible to have to put down a good horse. I’ll have an ask around for you. We don’t have one going spare here in the fort, but perhaps they do on the Tukoran side. I’ll talk with Commander Hopham, see if he can help us.”
“We have a dog as well,” Jonik said.
“I know. I can hear him scratching at the door.” Commander Ghent smiled and called for the door to be opened. At once the big mastiff loped forward, all floppy skin and drooping chops, running up to Jonik’s side. Jonik smiled, giving him another good scratch under the chin. “He was the innkeeper’s dog. From the Crabby Onion. Will you find a home for him?”
“Seems you’re his home,” Ghent said. “The beast likes you.”
“I know, but…”
“But you can’t take him.” The fort commander understood that. He stepped over, stroking at the dog’s head with a stocky-fingered hand. “We’ll keep him here in the fort. The men will like him.”
That pleased Jonik a good deal. “Thank you, my lord.”
Ghent gave the dog another scratch. “Will you be staying the night? You’re welcome to sleep in here. No rooms unfortunately, but the hall will be quiet by night and we like to keep the fires going to keep it warm.”
The three men convened in a silent council, meeting eyes. Then Gerrin said. “We’d be much obliged, my lord.”
“Well and good, then.” Ghent clapped his hands together. “Feel free to make yourselves at home. I’ll go see about that horse of yours. Then we can dine and talk further. There’s much and more I still want to hear.” He drank down his cup, plonked it on the table, gave them a parting nod, and stamped off toward the door.
Gerrin watched him go. He had a gulp of wine and then set down his cup as well. “I’m going to go out and speak to the smallfolk,” he said. “See if anyone knows anything that can help us.”
Jonik nodded. Information about his grandfather’s whereabouts had been in short order so far, though most of the whispers and rumours agreed that he’d turned dragonslayer, and had made for the south. There were parts of Tukor where he’d taken on some sort of mythical status. The king who gave up his crown to walk the warrior’s way. Jonik had to hold his tongue whenever he heard men speak like that. If only they knew the truth…
“I’ll be back later,” Gerrin said. “You two just sit tight.” He left the hall. Harden picked up his flagon of wine and ambled over to a seat beside the hearth. He had a happy smile on his grizzled old face. Well, contented. Harden never looked happy.
“You gonna join me, lad?” he called over to Jonik as he took his seat. “Come on, you deserve a break. Let’s enjoy a few cups of wine.”
“I’m not certain Commander Ghent will appreciate that. His stocks will be running low.”
“Aye, and he’s only got himself to blame, the way he drinks. You see him just now? Taking a sip between every sentence. And I’m guessing Borrus and the Blackshaws would have depleted his reserves further when they were here. Well, they don’t call him the Barrel Knight for nothing.”
Jonik smiled. He could imagine them all in here, in this very hall, feasting and drinking and arguing at one another. Borrus and Mooton and Torvyn and their men, Emeric, Jack, Turner and Brown Mouth, Soft Sid and Grim Pete, the Silent Suncoat and Sansullio and his Sunshine Swords as well. “They call him other things now, Harden. The Lord of the Riverlands and the Warden of the East.”
“Aye…and the gods bloody help us.” Harden gave a laugh and drank more wine. “Come lad, sit with me. No one likes to drink alone.”
Jonik hesitated. He’d never been much of a drinker. “I shouldn’t. Gerrin’s out there, working. I ought to go and join him.”
Harden didn’t heed him. “You work enough. Have a cup of wine and relax.”
Relax? What was that word? Jonik had never been taught how to relax. He felt restless, an urgency in him to keep on moving. If I stop I’ll never want to start again. There remained so much to do. “I should go outside,” he said again, looking at the door. “Help Gerrin…”
“Gerrin doesn’t need you. He’s better with the smallfolk than you are. Let him do his thing.”
“I have to do something.” Jonik started for the door.
Harden stood, stepping over to cut him off. “You’ve made me do this.” He took him by the wrist and drew him over to the hearthside. “Now sit, damn you. And drink.” He poured a cup, thrust it into Jonik’s hand, glared at him with that haggard old face until he relented. “Good. Now how do you feel?”
“The same.”
“Then drink more.”
Jonik drank more. The wine reached down into his chest, spreading. It had a spicy bite to it, which he wasn’t sure about, though after the first few gulps he started to enjoy the sensation. Wine had never been a part of Jonik’s life in the way it was for other men. His tolerance was poor. Another thing Jack used to tease me over, he reflected.
“You’re worried about them,” Harden said, searching his eyes. “A part of you wants to find them.”
Jonik said nothing.
“Silence is as good as words, you know. And you’ve got no face for lying, Jonik. Maybe that’s why you were such a poor Shadowknight.” He smiled. “You’re too soft.”
It was not an accusation he’d heard often. “They taught us not to feel. But with me…”
“You had Gerrin.”
Jonik nodded. “I am how I am because of him. I had to be this way. That was fate.”
“Fate.” Harden made the word a curse. “That’s all done. Aye, not denying what we’ve seen, and been through. You had to be this way. Had to have some feeling in you. If not, you wouldn’t have saved everyone from Palek’s pits. You wouldn’t have gathered us all to go north, and save the boys.” His eyes dipped beneath a frown. “The boys,” he repeated, and Jonik knew just who he meant. “Even that…I understand that too. The choice you made. It had to happen, for Ilith to rise, to give us a chance. I know that now. But from here…no. Bugger fate, Jonik. You make your own fate now.”
Jonik mused on that. “You’re saying…you think I should just abandon my oath to him? To Ilith. Go and find the others instead?”
“No. You’re thinking that.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. A part of you.”
Of course a part of me is, Jonik wanted to say. They were his friends, the only true friends he’d ever had, men he’d sailed with, fought with, men he’d saved and been saved by. If he had a choice, he would mount his steed right now and ride out to find them. He’d stand side by side with them in battle, and die with them, die for them if he had to. He needed to tell them what had happened to Devin, so they could sit and talk of him, drink to him, say the rites and remember him. Devin had been with Gill Turner for years, ever since he was a boy. He was almost a son to him, Jonik thought. Turner was his sire and Braxton his grumpy uncle and Jack his older brother. They deserve to know, all of them. They deserve to know and they deserve to be safe.
I don’t want them to fight in any battle…
The thought terrified him. Even more so that he couldn’t be there too. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing. I have no choice. I’ve never really had a choice.
“Ilith entrusted me to track down the blades,” he said, finally. “So that’s what I’m going to do.”
Harden gave a deep sigh. “I know. I just want…something more for you. You’ve served all your life. And you’re serving still…”
“So are you.”
“I’ve lived. I’m an old man. I’ve had four wives and fathered kids. Aye, haven’t told you that yet. Three of them. Two by my first, another by my third. All dead. Just don’t ask me how, I don’t want to go there tonight.” Pain rippled across his face, the agony of memory, gone in an instant. Buried, but always there, just beneath that hard grim surface. He gulped his wine. “Point is you haven’t lived. You’re too young for all this. Damnit, you’re too young.”
“I’m old enough,” Jonik said, quietly. “I’ll have my time after, Harden. Once it’s over. I’ll live then.”
“And if you don’t get that chance? If you die before all this is done.”
“Then I’ll be dead,” Jonik grunted, not liking this conversation. “And I won’t much care, will I?”
He turned to look into the fire, watching the flames lick and flicker at the walls. The stone was black with soot where the smoke rose up toward the chimney shaft. Black like the fields they’d passed, and the burned farms and huts and little villages they’d seen. Black like death. Black like the Dread.
I have a chance to help, he thought. And this old man wants me to give it all up.
It annoyed him. He knew Harden meant well. But it annoyed him.
He stood. “I’m going outside.” And don’t I feel nice and relaxed, he thought.
Harden let him go, descending into a dark place of his own. Jonik heard him drink his cup dry, heard him refill it, and drink again, before he reached the door. The dog followed him. “No, stay here.” He pulled the door open, stepped out, but the big mastiff loped past before he could pull the door back shut. He sighed. “You’re staying here when we go. Lord Ghent is going to look after you.”
He missed Shade, he realised all of a sudden. He missed his faithful steed, who was so much more than a horse to him. A friend. My first friend. Was he being taken to battle as well? Was one of the men going to armour him up in barding and ride him into the teeth of the enemy lines? It hurt him to think like that. Shade was not meant to be here. He was a horse of the Highplains, made to run free, not a warhorse. I should have let him go when I had the chance. Now he’s going to die like all the rest of them…
