The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 61
Sir Harold scratched at his dimpled chin. “I would think at least two thousand drowned, Lord Grave, perhaps more. And there were some skiffs that foundered as well.” He pointed out a few such wrecks, washed up among the tangled masts and hulls and sails. “They came from the bigger galleons that dropped anchor in deeper waters. The rest of them died trying to win the gate, or else when battling through the city.”
Amron was performing the calculations. “So up to six thousand died in total? From a force of how many?”
“Some twenty thousand I would think, my lord, perhaps as many as twenty-five.”
“Then up to twenty thousand may still be alive,” Amron said, musing.
“Yes, my lord. Once they won the gate, we couldn’t do much to stop them moving through the city and into the woods to the north. Sir Tefler tried to harry them as best he could, but their numbers were too many.”
“Where is Sir Tefler now?” Amron wanted to know. He was a senior knight of high battle acclaim. Lord Borrington had mentioned in his most recent letters - though those were months old now - that he’d put Sir Tefler in charge of the forces here.
“Dead,” Sir Harold Conwyn said, with a sigh. “He was at the Green Gate…tried to hold it, but with that many dragonkin coming up the Mossway.” He shook his head. “Lord Westwood perished too. Dragon got him as he crossed the ward of the castle. And his son, Sir Wilas. He was grief-struck, my lords, and wanted vengeance. He gathered a host and went out through a postern door to meet the Agarathi blade to blade at the docks. I told him it was folly, but…well, he wouldn’t listen. They overwhelmed him within minutes. Wasteful death, it was.”
“A valiant death,” the Ironfoot put in. “Same as Tefler’s.” He gave Sir Harold Conwyn a judging look. “And all of that left you in charge, did it?”
“Yes, my lord. I was Sir Tefler’s second-in-command.”
“Did you harry them?” Grave demanded. “When the Agarathi broke into the woods? Did you give chase?”
“I…no, my lord. I was trying to consolidate, and…” He looked at Amron. “I hope I made the right choice, Your Grace. We had lost thousands of our own, and I didn’t think…sending men to give chase…well, I thought it would be too wasteful. Against so many…”
“You made the right choice,” Amron told him, if only to calm his stuttering. He needed to get this done as quickly as possible. “What are your current numbers, Sir Harold?”
The knight’s eyes twisted in thought. “Not sure on the exact figure, my lord, but I’d guess at some four thousand, give or take.”
“And wounded?” Amron asked.
“Five hundred or so,” said Conwyn. “Perhaps a quarter of those are at death’s door, though we’ve hope for the rest. None have the strength to fight, mind. We’ve got others nursing minor wounds, but they’ll be ready to go back into battle if they must.”
“They must,” Amron said at once. “I plan to march at once for the Twinfort and need every sword and spear I can muster. How long ago did the Agarathi break through?”
Sir Harold thought a moment. “Coming up on three days now.”
“And they did not try to occupy the city?”
“No. Just rushed through like a black-red river, and straight out into the Greenwood.”
As I expected, Amron thought. “Green Harbour is the back door to the Twinfort,” he said. “They aim to go west through the forest and attack it from the rear. There is another army marching across the Brindle Steppe. Perhaps you’ve heard? They hope to take the fort from both sides.” He spoke with a rush to his voice. He had only just arrived in the city, and had no intention of staying any longer than he needed. “Harold, how quickly can you muster your men?”
The knight was not used to this level of command. He fumbled for an answer for a while, then said, “How quickly do you need them?”
“As quickly as possible. I want to leave within the hour.”
The man balked. “One hour, my lord? I’ve got men scattered all over. Half are horror-struck from the fighting, and the rest are broken from lack of sleep. Been days since most got any good rest. And the food…the men are hungry, my lord. The city storehouses were all targeted by the dragons, and…”
Amron did not need to hear of all of these ails and issues. They were the same as those occurring across half the kingdom. He raised a hand to stop him. “See it done, Harold. I will hand over some men to help you. You may leave a small garrison here to defend the city. Five hundred should serve. The rest will come with us, and must be ready to move at speed. I want them gathered beyond the western walls in an hour, ready to march.”
“An…an hour. Yes, my lord. I’ll…see it done.”
“Good.” Amron wheeled Wolfsbane around and trotted back the way they had come, with the Ironfoot at his side. He had brought with him a small guard of twenty knights and men-at-arms, though the rest of his army had been left outside the walls. Sir Quinn Sharp had command of the guard. “Sir Quinn. I want you to help Sir Harold muster his soldiers to leave. Have your men move through the city and get them armoured and on their feet. You have an hour.”
The broad-faced Varin Knight gave a single affirming nod. “As you command, my king.”
Amron spurred his heels and moved back through the harbour gate, Grave and Rogen Strand following. Green Harbour was not a large city, but it had once been a pretty one, full of timbered taverns and inns and shops along a waterfront bustling with trade. There was a famous fish market here, a famous summer market too, and each year the main city square played host to a festival of theatre and art. Now all of that was burned to cinders, and the foul smell of death was heavy in the air.
Ash was stirred at their passing, kicked up by the hooves of their horses. Amron coughed and covered his mouth as they rode northward along the Mossway - the main thoroughfare that cut up through the city from gate to gate, linking the harbour with the Green Gate that gave access to the woods. The portcullis was still raised when he arrived, and the drawbridge that spanned the short moat was down. Amron nodded to the soldiers and rode right by. Grave slowed a moment to say, “If you’ve got loved ones here, say your goodbyes. We’re riding west in an hour,” before trotting past.
The woods grew close outside the walls, and in places their branches reached up over the ramparts as though trying to clamber inside. The men were spread out among the boles, taking this rare chance to rest. Some were lying up against the trunks, sleeping; others had started little cookfires with dry kindling they kept in their packs, shielded from the rains. They had pots of broth on the boil and were handing them around to anyone who wanted some. Steam rose up through the canopy, curling into the thick green leaves. Above, the sky was more clear than it had been in long days. Most of the march had been under the rain and that had only made it all the harder, though Lord Gavron’s men were a hardy sort in the image of their lord and the complaints had been kept to a minimum.
Sir Taegon Cargill was waiting for them when they returned, alongside Sir Torus Stoutman. The former overtopped the latter by over two feet. Both wore godsteel from head to heel, and Sir Taegon wore his rich Varin cloak, fastened at the neck with a brooch in the shape of a warhammer that looked just like the one he kept strapped to his back.
“Sir Taegon,” Amron said. “You look thirsty for a fight.”
The Giant of Hammerhall smashed his chest with a clang of steel. “Always. What’re your orders, my king?”
Amron looked at Torus. “I want the both of you to ride ahead and catch a whiff of the enemy’s scent. Take fifty of our best men. I want you to harry their rear and slow them down.”
Sir Torus was smoking his rosewood pipe, which Amron took as a good sign. He had given up on all such joys during their weeks in King’s Point, as the man mourned the death of his sons. The grief was still there, but less acute, and the long days on the road had helped him get a grip of his demons. Battle and blood will help more, Amron knew. “How many Agarathi are we talking?” Stoutman asked.
“Fifteen to twenty thousand.”
Torus spat smoke. “Fifteen to twen…you’re out of your godsdamn mind!” He grinned like he used to, big and broad, through the bushy tangles of his beard. “Fifty against fifteen thousand. Aye, I like those odds.” He tapped at Sir Taegon with the back of his knuckles. “How about it, Hammer? Shall we go win this battle alone?”
“I’ll do the winning. You can watch, Halfman.”
“Nothing reckless,” Amron was quick to say. “They have a three-day lead, though their army is afoot. Chase them down and raid their rear and flanks. Do it by night if you can. The woods can be confusing west of here, and even men who walk them their entire lives can get turned around sometimes. Focus on chaos and disruption. I’ll have riders coming and going, so watch your tail as well. I want to know how you’re faring.”
“Aye,” said Stoutman. “When should we leave?”
“You know the answer to that, Torus.”
“I’ll pack my bags, then.” The dwarfish knight had a deep swallow of smoke, blew out and strode away. The Giant of Hammerhall bent his back in a bow, then turned, stamping after him.
Lord Gavron watched them go. “Maybe we should put all our mounted strength into this, Amron?” the gruff old lord suggested. “Conwyn will have horses. We add them to our own, and we might have a good enough host to cause the Agarathi some trouble.”
Amron thought on that for a moment. Only one in five of their own men was ahorse. If Sir Harold had a similar number to hand it would prove a worthy weapon should they find the enemy unawares. A night charge by warhorses was a fearsome prospect, more so when you were already lost and tired and struggling to find your way through a fearsome wood. And the Greenwood was just that, on the western side especially. It was wilder that way, with crags and cliffs and rugged hills with hidden caves and eerie valleys between them. There was no road along the coast from here, not west, and what tracks there were could be hard to find lest a man know the way. Few enemy armies had ever managed to assault the rear of the Twinfort for this very reason - getting there was by no means easy. It would be plenty to put many an Agarathi horde on edge.
And then the thunder of hooves in the night, he thought. The ring of steel and scream of a brother, dying right beside you. And the trailing mist of godsteel as a knight charges past. Armies had broken and scattered under those conditions in the past. We would do well to do the same.
“It’s a good notion,” Amron said eventually. “We’ll remain together for now, but if we hear that we are closing in on them, it may be worth sending a charge. The coming days will tell.”
“Then we need to be in striking distance. That means setting a good pace.” Grave was already looking over his men. “Mine will keep on going hard, I’ll make sure of it. Not so certain of these Green Harbour men. Not after what Conwyn said.”
“They’re not all Green Harbour men,” Amron pointed out. The west was being defended by the Borringtons and Crawfields and Rothwells and their banners, and all paid fealty to House Daecar. “These are my people, Ironfoot. Many are men of the North Downs. I’ll see that they don’t hold us up.”
The host took two hours to assemble outside the walls. It was longer than Amron had wanted, but in all truth his hopes of getting it all done within the hour were unrealistic to the point of being unattainable. He had anticipated that, and two hours was a reasonable effort. “How many?” he asked Sir Harold Conwyn, as the men trailed out through the Green Gate in a solemn, weary stream, to join the rest of the host.
“Three thousand four hundred and twenty-six, my lord.”
“Very exact. Mounted?”
“We have three hundred and eighty men ahorse. Most are light cavalry, my lord, but we have some heavy horse as well. A hundred and twenty, I believe. There are fourteen Bladeborn knights in the company, some of whom you will know, and several times that number in sellswords and freeriders with a drop or two of Varin’s blood. None of the knights are fully armoured, except for Sir Trystan. The rest all have the essentials of godsteel plate, however, with good castle-forged steel to fill in the gaps.”
Amron nodded. “I’d like to see them,” he said. “Line them up for inspection, Sir Harold.”
The Bladeborn knights were brought forward, each of them wearing their house colours and arms. Amron recognised some of them and knew a few by name. Five were Green Harbour men, household knights to Lord Westwood and the other noble houses here. Of them Amron knew only Sir Lambert Joyce, who had commanded Lord Westwood’s guard. He had a brother, Amron recalled, who had gone missing a long while ago. Another claimed to know Amron by way of House Colborn. “I served Lady Colborn for a time, my lord,” the tall knight said. “She told me her boy Jovyn was squire to your son Elyon.”
Amron had half forgotten that Jovyn’s family hailed from Green Harbour. “That is true, Sir…”
“Sir Dederick, my lord, of House Dudden. We are a small knightly house, founded by my grandfather. I serve beneath the banners of Westwood now.”
Sir Lambert nodded. “And he does so well, my king. Sir Dederick has proven himself most reliable.”
“I should hope so,” Amron said. Reliability was the minimum standard for any good knight or serving man. “Tell me, is Lady Colborn well?” He directed the question to any of the Green Harbour men who might know, Sir Harold included.
It was Sir Lambert who gave answer. “I understand that she left, some weeks ago, my lord. To seek safer pastures.”
“Most of the city evacuated before the fighting,” Sir Harold Conwyn put in. “We knew we would be targeted eventually, so Lord Westwood put the call out to empty the city as best we could. Most made for Crosswater, to take ship up the river to Varinar. But now…well, I’m not sure what has become of them.”
It was an all too familiar tale.
The rest of the knights performed their courtesies, as Amron spoke to them one by one. Sir Trystan was a proud, golden-haired youth of seventeen, the last living son of Lord Tymon Spencer. House Spencer had become wealthy from mining operations in the North Downs, where they had struck upon a rich vein of gold. The lord had spent a small fortune garbing his son in full plate, and a fine suit it was, gilded and gleaming, lobstered and sleek. As his last living heir, Trystan must be protected, Lord Spencer had been known to say.
The other knights were all older. There were hedge knights here, and households knights, and a former Varin Knight as well. Amron smiled at seeing that last. “Sir Bryce. I had not expected to see you here.” Byrce Coddington had retired from the order a decade ago, after long years of noted service. He had settled into a stout little keep of his own, east of the Greenwood, with servants and staff to attend him. “How are you, old friend?”
“Pissed off,” the old man grumbled. “Was enjoying the quiet life before all this war broke out. Got a library full of books that need reading, and a cellar full of wine that needs drinking. Well, now all of that’s burned and ruined, and my staff are scattered and dead. So I’m here again, with godsteel to grasp, and my mood is red as blood.”
Amron could tell. Bryce had always been intense and the years had not softened him. “Well, I’m glad to have you. Ride with me at the front, Bryce. You can catch me up on the battle.”
“Oh, there was a battle here, was there?” he snorted. “More like a grown man shoving a toddler aside. Might have been different with you here, Amron, but this lot…” Clearly, he did not think much of the other knights. “They’re wet, most of them. Green as summer grass and just as easily felled. Sir Tefler did what he could to lead them, but after he died…”
“We did our best,” said Sir Harold, overhearing. He looked insulted. “Every man here fought as well as he could.”
Bryce Coddington gave a throaty laugh. “All relative, I suppose. Can see why you never made the order, Conwyn, if that’s your best.”
Sir Harold looked at a loss for words. He turned to Amron. “My king, I assure you I am a capable fighter. You know that yourself. You have seen me in the melee and the lists, and…”
“Playfighting,” broke in Sir Bryce. “That’s all those tourneys really are, a bit of pretty swordplay. How did your first taste of the real world go down, Conwyn? Not quite the same, is it?”
The man had no response. Sir Bryce turned away from him. “So we’re on a hunt are we, my lord?” he said to Amron. “Heard you’ve sent the Giant of Hammerhall ahead with Torus Stoutman? You don’t mind if I ride to catch up, do you? One of these other lads can fill you in on the battle if you want. But as I say, not much to tell.”
Amron could see that there were some fractured relationships here. And he knew Sir Bryce as a fierce combatant. That was a decade ago, but still…those were skills a man never lost. “Do you have a mount?”
“No. Was planning to run after them.” He smiled gruffly. The flesh about his face was haggard and folded, heavily seamed about the eyes and forehead, with patches of stiff grey whiskers on cheeks and chin. “Course I’ve got a horse.”
“Very well. Then go. Did you bring any men with you when you came here?”
“No. Just me. Had a squire but he died on the journey. Wasn’t much use anyway, if I’m honest. Good lad, but good isn’t enough to survive these days, is it?”
“No, I suppose not.” Amron thought a moment. “If you must have your taste of blood, fine, but I would prefer you not to ride alone. Pick out a few of these knights and take them with you. Sir Harold, see him supported by some men-at-arms as well.”
“Yes, my lord. How many?”
“A dozen will serve.”
That was all done within a short ten minutes, and away Sir Bryce Coddington went, riding hard into the murky woods on the back of his barded horse, with young Sir Trystan Spencer, tall Sir Dederick Dudden, and an old, one-eyed hedge knight called Sir Cod Murray for company. After that Amron gave his speech, calling forth to the gathered men to inspire them and speed them on the march. He spoke of the families whom they must avenge, the living loved ones they must protect, how a man defending his own country counted for ten invaders on the field of battle. They were words he had spoken a hundred times before, dressed up in a hundred different ways, but the essence was always the same.
