The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 60
“So, why is it that you’re here?” Ilith asked. “Do you have something particular you wish to discuss with me?”
Why are we here? Curiosity, Elyon thought. That was a part of it, at the least. When you hear that there’s a magic portal door and a demigod beyond it, it does rather tickle your interest. “We wanted to see the refuge, my lord,” he thought better to say. “There are many frightened people in your city, and your kingdom, and across the north as well. We came to check whether you’re ready to receive them. And how many you might host.”
“Ah, now there is the crux of it. How many? Well, as you can see we do not lack for space. Did Fhanrir give you the tour?” He laughed and waved that away. “Of course he didn’t. Fhanrir brought you straight here, I know. He is something of a curmudgeon and is not one to suffer…”
“Fools,” Fhanrir came in. “I’m not one to suffer fools, Ilith.”
Ilith chuckled pleasantly. “Everyone is a fool to you, Fhanrir. I remember you as a boy. You were sour-tempered even then.”
A boy, Elyon thought. It was hard to imagine. That would be thousands of years ago. Gods, what must that be like, to live so long? And here?
Ilith turned to the knights. “You ought not take offence to his discourtesy; truly, it is nothing personal. That is just his way. But the years have only made him harder, I fear, and he has seen more of those than any of us. But what was I saying? The refuge. Yes. You have not been given a tour, but even so, you have a sense of its scale. We could host half the world here if we wished, but space is not the problem. It is food. Mages though we might be, we cannot conjure beef and barley from thin air. We have been working to stockpile what resources we can, but we could use some more help on that account. We are few here, Elyon Daecar. How are the tunnels coming along? I understand they are being reinforced.”
“They are passable, my lord, though the journey is not easy. Lord Morwood is securing the route, and gathering up food and supplies. He has many men working for him.”
“And why has this lord not come himself?”
Fear, Elyon thought. No one had come yet since Amilia and Jonik had left. “He wanted me to have that honour first,” he lied. “I will report to him on my return. He will visit you soon.”
“Wonderful,” muttered Fhanrir. “More of you fools to deal with.”
Elyon ignored him. That seemed to be the best way with Fhanrir. “Instructions will be given to anyone coming here to bring as much food with them as they can carry,” the prince said. “We have had word of travellers on the road. Refugees from the south, coming up from Vandar in great numbers. My own kinsmen are sending carts and wagons laden with onions, turnips, carrots, potatoes, sacks of wheat and barley and other grains. Casks of cured meat and pickled fish and…”
“And we don’t need an inventory,” Fhanrir snapped. “They’re bringing food. We get it.”
“Security is another issue,” Elyon went right on. “You say you have men here, my lord? How many?”
“Not enough,” Fhanrir answered. “Agnar, Dagnyr, Vottur. Those are mages. We have some men as well, bringing supplies up the mountain.” He thought a moment. “A dozen, maybe.”
Elyon was shocked; the mage had answered without spite for once. He knew those names as well, of the mages, having heard them from Amilia. Vottur was Fhanrir’s great-grandson, if he remembered correctly. “Lord Morwood commands hundreds,” he said. “He is Commander of the City Watch and there are thousands of soldiers in the city as well. I’m sure some of them can be spared.”
“And what about you, Sir Mallister?” Ilith asked, looking at the young Emerald Guard. “You wish to serve, you say. Perhaps you can help us usher the people here?”
Mallister swallowed. “Um…yes, my lord. What…whatever you need of me.” He bowed his head low.
Ilith saw right through him. “You would prefer to serve with the blade,” he said. “Please, Mallister, do speak plainly.”
The Emerald Guard looked terribly awkward. “Well I…I am no steward, my lord. I am born and bred to fight, and I would sooner…I would prefer to…”
“Serve by killing,” Fhanrir came in roughly. “That’s how you’d like to serve your lord and master? By taking life?”
“I…” Mallister seemed unable to respond. Everything the creature said was so hot with scorn. “What…whatever you need, Lord Ilith. If you require something else of me, then…”
“A man must serve in whatever function best suits him, Mallister Monsort. As a man born and bred to fight, then fighting it must be, but fighting takes many forms. You want to seek battle in the south, but there is a battle to be had here as well. We need more swords and shields. Security, yes, as Elyon says, to keep the peace, but it’s more than that. There are dark forces in these mountains, and they are trying to find their way in.”
“Then your shield I will be,” Mallister said, in a stirring voice. He fell to a knee once more. In lieu of his godsteel broadsword, he withdrew his dagger, and placed it on the floor. It shone in the light of the forge, misting. “My…sword is yours, Lord Ilith,” he proclaimed. “I swear to you my oath and service until my dying day.”
“And I gladly accept it, Mallister Monsort. We will all feel safer here with you to help protect us.”
But from what? Elyon wondered what sort of dark forces he meant. Beasts? Monsters? Something worse? The brood of Brexatron, perhaps? Was one of them lurking here? He was about to inquire of that when Ilith said, “It is a shame, Elyon, that you did not bring the Windblade with you. I should have liked to have seen it again, after all these years. Did you forget it, pray tell?”
Forget. That was the lie he gave to Fhanrir. Did Ilith know of that? Can he read my thoughts? “No, my lord,” he said. Lie though he could to the mean little mage, he would not do so with the Forgeborn King. “I left it behind on purpose,” he admitted.
“Oh? And why is that, Elyon? Do you believe I would have taken it from you?”
Yes, he thought. “No,” he said.
“No?” Fhanrir rasped, snorting at him. “He made it, boy. Ilith, with his magic. Dark magic too, that was, like nothing you’d ever believe. How else do you shatter the heart of a god? He’ll take it back if he pleases, and you’ll have no say in the matter.”
Elyon disagreed. “I still have things I must do with it. I am its guardian, and will bring it here when…”
“Guardian?” Fhanrir scoffed. “Thief, more like.”
Elyon would not hear of it. “I never stole the blade. I took it back from one who did, and will bring it here when I must.”
“Must? No, boy. You’ll bring it here when you’re told. Ilith tells you to fetch it, and you will.”
Elyon shook his head.
“No? You’re to say no? You?” Fhanrir’s nostrils flared open. “Entitled,” he rattled. “You stink of entitled, and thief. The same as that miserable brother of yours. He tried to steal his too. Did you know that? Was one step away…just one step…”
“I’m not going to steal it,” Elyon said hotly. “I’m not my brother.”
“You are. You two are just the same.” Fhanrir gave out that odious laugh of his. “You see this, Ilith. The boys are as weak-willed as each other. You,” he said, in a deeper, guttural voice, looking at Sir Mallister Monsort. The knight’s eyes snapped over to him at once, as though drawn on a string. “You go back to the palace, right now, and fetch it. You bring the Windblade here.”
“NO!” Elyon said, too loudly. The word rang out through the forge, rolling into the corridors beyond, out through the vastness of the refuge. The sound seemed to go on forever; no…no…no… “I…I have so much…there’s a lot I still need to do.” The word was still echoing; no…no…no… Elyon could hear it screaming inside his head as well. The others had gone deathly silent. They know. They see. They’re going to take it from me.
Fhanrir broke the quiet. “Thief,” he hissed, lifting and pointing a withered finger. “You’re going to steal it. You’re going to run.”
“No, I…” Elyon shook his head in denial. He looked at Ilith. The demigod was observing him cautiously. “I won’t, my lord. I am no thief, I swear it.”
“I know that, Elyon Daecar,” the Worldbuilder said. “But I can feel the fear in you too. You are afraid to be parted from it.”
I shouldn’t have come, he thought. I should never have come here. “At least let me explain,” he blurted. “Let me tell you the things I must do. There are matters, with the Eye of Rasalan, and the cousins of the king. That is a quest I must see through, my lord.”
Ilith nodded pensively. “Perhaps that is so. But you also must weigh the risk, Elyon. You may not be a thief, but sooner or later, you will be overwhelmed. The force you carry at your hip is pernicious, sentient, and more powerful than you can know. There is no man living who can truly dominate a Blade of Vandar. Eventually, all bearers will fall.”
Elyon shook his head. “My father…”
“Will fall, in time. He may take longer to do so, but eventually, even he will succumb. The blades must be brought to me before that happens. We do not have very much time, Elyon. The shadow is stirring, and my strength…it is waning.”
“It’s time to let it go, boy,” Fhanrir said. “You’ve killed a dragon or two…good for you. But nothing you’re doing’s making a blind bit of difference. So you bring it here.”
“But…”
“But you won’t. Because you’re frightened. Just a frightened little boy afraid to lose his favourite toy. You like flying, don’t you, boy? You like being up there in the skies, looking down on everyone else.” Fhanrir sneered at him in disgust. “Monsort, go back to the refuge and get it. If he tries to stop you, run him through.”
Sir Mallister balked. “My lord?”
“You deaf as well as stupid? You heard me.”
“I…” Mallister looked at Elyon, alarmed, and then Ilith, desperate. “My lord…?”
“Don’t look at him. You look at me, Monsort.” And he did, unable to resist the power of the mage’s voice. “Aye, you’re serving us now. You’re here to protect us from dark forces at the door, and this man…” He pointed at Elyon. “Oh, there’s a darkness in him. So you know what to do, don’t you? There’s a monster in our midst and he needs slaying…”
“Enough,” Ilith said. “Fhanrir, enough. You have made your point.”
Fhanrir sniffed. “I’ve more to say.”
“You’ve said plenty. Wait outside, both of you. I would speak with Elyon alone.”
“Fine.” The mage clipped his fingers at Mallister as though he was a dog. “Come, boy. Seems we’re not wanted here.” They left through the door, moving out into the corridor.
Silence filled the air at their parting. It lasted a while.
“Elyon,” Ilith said softly. “Look at me, child.”
Elyon’s eyes were down, lowered in shame at Fhanrir’s rebuke. He did not feel the prince anymore, nor the champion, no Master of Winds and Lord of the Skies and serial slayer of Agarath’s spawn. Just a boy, as the mage kept calling him, a silly boy with a head full of dreams. Slowly, he raised his eyes.
“We all stumble occasionally, Elyon,” Ilith whispered. “We may trip and even lose our footing, but that does not mean we must fall. Fhanrir prods and probes in order to unveil your weakness, but in doing so, I can see your strength.” He stepped closer to him. Elyon could feel the warmth of his radiance, his divinity. Callused hands came up to rest on his shoulders. Ilith was not tall, not in the body of Tyrith. But he seemed a giant to Elyon all the same. “You hold no avarice in you, child. You have no great want of honours and spoils and to you the triumphs of battle have grown stale. You act selflessly, and for others. You love, and you care, and you are not given to self-conceit or pride. These qualities will stand you in good stead. They are a shield of light against the darkness…and I believe in you, Elyon Daecar.”
The words were like sudden sunlight piercing the storm, bathing Elyon in their glow. “You…you believe in me, my lord?”
“I do. I believe in you, and I will trust you. But that is not enough. You must believe and trust in yourself.” He paused, searching his silver-blue eyes. “Do you?”
Fhanrir had stricken him with doubt, but Ilith had blown it away like autumn leaves in a fierce gust of wind. He believes in me. The king who built the world. Ilith had spoken of wonders earlier. The greatest wonder in all history was him. “I…I do, my lord,” Elyon croaked. Ilith’s faith was like a new suit of armour, stronger than anything he wore. “Now…now I do.”
Ilith gave a tender smile. “Good. That is all I wanted to hear. So you go, and do what you must. Fulfil your quest, and be a hero to those who need you. I will trust you to bring me the Windblade when the time is right.”
Elyon drew a breath. “I will not let you down, Lord Ilith.” He spoke with great gravity. “I promise it. I won’t.”
“I know, Elyon. You won’t. Because you know what will happen if you do.”
He did. He knew.
“You have much to do, Elyon Daecar. This I know as well; I can see it in your heart. A great list, a great burden, such a weight to carry. But…if I may…permit me to lay one last task upon your table?”
Elyon went down to a knee. “Of course, my lord. Anything.”
“Smile,” the Worldbuilder said. He reached down and put a hand to Elyon’s bearded cheek. “A world without smiles is not one I care to live in, Elyon . So go from here with a smile on your lips, and remember why you’re fighting. You will feel better for it, I promise.”
Elyon stood, and as he did so, a true smile touched his lips.
“Well,” Ilith whispered, smiling fondly as well. “Now isn’t that better? Is not a smile a touch of light, ushered from the soul?”
Elyon could not agree with the demigod more. Light from the soul, he thought. It was one request he was happy to fulfil.
30
The air was still thick with the stink of smoke, and ash coated the cobbles like new fallen snow.
Amron Daecar sat in the saddle atop Wolfsbane, his mighty black destrier, staring out across the docks of Green Harbour. Scores of ships lay twisted and broken in the water, masts poking up from the depths in a horror of grasping, blackened fingers. Through the swirling smog, it was hard to make out their colours, though here and there a tattered length of sail flapped and fluttered, in black and red and gold.
“How many were there?” Amron asked. He was trying to get a count of the Agarathi ships, but that was proving impossible in this smog. It was more than just the fume of smoke that had risen from the burning corpse of the city, and those ships. This was a coastal mist, thick and unnatural like the rains. And cold, Amron thought. They were a hundred leagues northwest of King’s Point here and he could feel the bitter chill in the air. “We heard an armada of eighty vessels was bearing down on you, Sir Harold. Was that number correct?”
Sir Harold Conwyn confirmed with a stiff nod. He was a short man of three and thirty with a broad nose, large red cheeks, and short, stubbly beard. One of Randall Borrington’s knights, Amron knew. He had met Conwyn several times in the past and found him a genial sort. “Eighty would be about right, my lord.”
“Most are burned,” the Ironfoot observed, glaring out at the ships. “Was it you or them that did that?”
Sir Harold seemed confused by the question. “My lord?”
Amron explained. “What Lord Grave means to ask is…did you burn the ships with your defensive weapons, or were the dragons to blame?”
That did not much allay the knight’s confusion. “The dragons? No, my lords, the dragons wouldn’t burn their own ships.” He seemed bemused by the suggestion.
Grave grunted, and his horse snorted, as though in agreement with his rider. That horse was called Ironhoof and was shod in godsteel shoes. They misted as he trotted. “You weren’t there at King’s Point, Harold. The dragons didn’t seem to care who they slew. Rained fire down on us all, Vandarian and Agarathi alike.”
“Well, um…not here, my lords, no.” Sir Harold gestured with a gauntleted hand to the harbour walls and gate behind them. Atop the battlements were catapults and ballistas, twisted and shattered, though a few of them were still operational. “We threw burning barrels of pitch from the catapults and flaming bolts from the ballistas. Managed to burn ten or so ships before they came ashore. The rest rammed right into the jetties and wharves, harder and faster than you would believe. Then they came spilling out in their thousands. Like termites, they were, swarming from their nests, all black and red and angry. There was a wildness to them, Lord Daecar. The screams they gave out…the sound they made…” He shuddered. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”
He is too young to have seen the last war, Amron knew. The king was well acquainted with the Agarathi warcry, a noise made to unman their enemies on the field. He still remembered the first time he’d heard it. A thrilling sound, he had found it to be, heralding the joys of battle. But that wasn’t the case for everyone. “How did they get through the gates?” he asked.
“From the inside, my lord. They had ladders to scale the walls, dozens of them. We fought them off for a time, and went blade to blade on the battlements, but eventually they overwhelmed us and managed to get the gate open. After that they came flooding through.”
Amron turned his eyes about. The docks were piled high with corpses, scattered about like burial mounds, and further back beyond the harbour gates, many fires were still smouldering, sending up plumes of thin black smoke. “How many did you kill, Sir Harold? I want numbers.”
The man took a moment, then said, “Three, four thousand I would guess. We haven’t had a chance as yet to perform a precise count, my lord.”
“And in the waters?” asked the Ironfoot. Well, demanded. Lord Gavron was prone to demand, not ask. “You said you sank ten ships before they landed. How many drowned?”
