The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 75
Three other Bladeborn had joined during the coup, a trio of mercenaries called Baxter, Ballard, and Brandon, who tended to stay together. Baxter was tall and thin, Ballard short and fat, and Brandon somewhere in between, a handsome man with flowing auburn hair and a cocksure smile. Carly called them the Three Bees and made a buzzing sound when they passed.
They had all joined her on the island, but the rest had been added in Varinar; common fighting men from Daecar lands under the banners of Houses Crawfield and Rothwell, Blunt and Brightwood and Gully who had asked to join her on their journey west, so they might aid in the return of the little Lady of House Daecar. Whether that was their true motivation or not Amara couldn’t say. All of them hailed from the lands to which they were headed and no doubt wished to learn what had become of their kinsmen out there, but they were all good stout men, mixed in age, and loyal to the Daecars without question. So she happily invited them aboard.
But alas not everyone had joined her. Captain, regrettably, had gone east instead of west, taking off some of the other sailor-soldiers and oarsmen he had recruited from the island. Amara did not begrudge him that. She had shared in Captain’s tale, after all, and knew he wanted to return to Rasalan, to his daughter, and beg forgiveness for abandoning her long years before. When they had parted in Varinar, Amara had wished him all the luck in the world and said, “Now perhaps you’ll finally tell me your name, Captain?”
To which the old Searborn had said, “Next time, my lady,” with a grin touched with sadness. “Let’s leave something to look forward to, should we ever see each other again.”
Amara had smiled and agreed and embraced him, thanking him for leading them safely across the lake. Then she wished him luck in finding his daughter. She knew she would never see him again.
But her host was a strong one, well armed and well armoured. The Great One’s armoury had helped with that - the gluttonous oaf had plenty of good godsteel stashed away in there, it turned out - as had the plate they had scavenged from the ruin of Keep Daecar. They had an armoury of their own there, down in the storerooms below the keep, and Amara had permitted the men to take what they wished. She did not think Amron would mind. Most of it was not his, or Aleron’s, or Elyon’s, or Vesryn’s - no, the Knights of Varin tended to keep their spare armour in the Steelforge - but old plate worn by the household knights that was only sitting there gathering dust.
And ash, Amara thought, with a pang of grief. Walking through the ruin of the keep had been distressing, reflecting on the many memories they had shared there as a family, seeing ghosts in every blackened, burnt-out room. She had wandered through with Artibus, and the pair had spoken softly of happier times. And she had spent an hour alone in her bedchamber as well, weeping over the loss of her husband, emptying her eyes of tears. She had laid upon the half-burned bed, curling up in the ashes, and it was as though she could hear his voice calling to her from the Eternal Halls. Take care of her, Vesryn’s ghost had said, as he had in the dream, the one she’d had before awaking on the longboat, before she saw Varinar burn. Promise me you will.
“I will,” she had whispered back, sniffing and wiping her eyes. It was Lillia her late husband was whispering of, she knew; it could only have been Lillia. “I’ll find her, and I’ll protect her. I won’t stop until I do.”
And that had brought them here, far now west of the city. Amara and her company of Knights Assorted, hailing from this land and that, all vowing to serve.
Before long the host was mounted and ready to leave, and the snow was falling a little thicker. Jovyn led Amara’s mare over to her and helped her up into the saddle, where she settled uncomfortably, her thighs sore from the previous days’ riding, rump all battered and bruised. They had gone hard up the High Way since leaving Varinar, staying most nights in holdfasts, eating with this lesser lord or that landed knight in his little keep or castle. Most had been generous enough to let them share their table, though oft as not the food was meagre and bland. Were these old knights and lords serving up their worst and saving their best for their own? Amara did not doubt it. Thus far, the war had not touched this part of Vandar, and the gentry were seeking to batten down the hatches if they could.
That vexed Sir Connor Crawfield, of course. “They should be joining the fight,” the dour knight had complained. “I understand an old lord hiding behind his walls, but to keep men there with him, men of fighting age?” That had been the case wherever they had stopped. Each small lord had kept his retainers about him for protection, and to preserve the little food they had from roving bands of brigands.
When Amara explained that, Sir Connor only shook his head and said, “Hiding is not a strategy, my lady. An old man may care to live for another half year, but what of his sons and nephews and liegemen? They have their lives ahead of them, and he’s holding them back to die slow. Every single one of them ought to be adding his blade to the war.”
And of course, he had made that request each night, once the company had taken themselves off to sleep. “I would talk with your men before we go,” Sir Connor would say, to whatever liver-spotted lord or knight was hosting them. “If any man should wish to join us, that is his choice. You do not have the authority to keep him against his will.”
He got the usual rebuttals. Lord Mandrake, who was so ancient Amara assumed he had perished at least a decade ago, but was still clinging to life like a limpet, told the younger man that no greatlord had called the muster of these lands, and he was under no such obligation. Lord Gaston, who was much younger than Mandrake, though still at least sixty and almost as fat as the Great One had been, said much the same, and added that his sons and knights were not Bladeborn, and would likely perish before they even reached any functioning army, far away as they all were. One-armed Sir Barloff Terring was more irritable and truculent still, and told them that they’d had their walls assaulted by at least three parties of Taynar men trying to win the keep, and he had no intention of giving up his men to leave him vulnerable. “Had to fight them off with bolt and arrow,” the miserable old knight said. “Why should those men be free to wander, pillaging and stealing, while my own men are sent off to die?”
“Because the king demands it,” Sir Connor had said, bristling.
Sir Barloff looked around his draughty old hall. “What king? I don’t see him. Now he comes and stands before me, mayhaps I’ll yield, but until then…” He’d shaken his small bald head and sent them on their way.
There was nothing to be done about it, Amara knew. To her mind, a few men here and there weren’t going to make a blind bit of difference, but Connor Crawfield saw it differently. “Every little helps, my lady,” he had said. “These old fools are only burying their heads in the sand. That sort of thinking weakens us all.”
The Captain of the Guard rode up to her now, his stallion snorting mist, hooves kicking up clods of mud and snow. “My lady. The men are all prepared to leave and the innkeep has been paid,” he said. “He and his family will be leaving shortly.” He gestured to the wagon, packed high with possessions. A pair of dray horses had been hitched to it, but the going would be slow in this weather. So far as Amara saw it, they should be travelling lighter, but that was no longer her concern.
“Let us go,” she said.
They set off north by west along the High Way, riding into the teeth of the wind that came sweeping in from the hills. Thus far the sight of keep and castle had been plentiful, and there were many settlements and towns here in the hinterlands within a week’s ride of Varinar, but beyond this point the world grew wilder and less populous as they entered the great vastness of northwest Vandar. From here they could expect long rides between safe harbours, and there was no guarantee that they would be able to make it from one to another within a day.
That was clearly on the mind of Sir Ryger Joyce, as he came riding up to join her. “My lady,” he said, in that low growl of a voice. “What is the destination today?”
Sir Connor answered for her. “We hope to make it to Lord Gully’s keep,” he told the Green Harbour knight. “It is a full day’s ride from here, a half dozen miles north of the road. A stout castle on a windswept plain.”
“Or snow-swept,” Joyce said. “Will we make it in this weather?”
Sir Connor’s delay was telling. “We will arrive late, if we make it at all,” he admitted. “If the snow slows us too much, there is a small hilltop fort called Raymun’s Watch that may be able to host us instead. But our preference would be Gully’s keep.”
“His son was a knight of our household,” Amara added in. “Sir Gilmore. He perished when Varinar was attacked, and I would like to be the one to tell Lord Gully myself. If he is there.”
There was no guarantee of that. Any keep or castle could conceivably have been attacked and burned by dragons, though that seemed less likely out here than in the south or east of the kingdom, where the fighting had been fierce.
“And your niece,” Sir Ryger said. He was an attractive enough man, stern and unsmiling, and wore a green cloak over silver armour. Carly liked to call him Ryger the Tiger, or just Tiger Ryger, for his growly voice and striped hair, which was a reddish brown with streaks of grey at the temples. “You think she might have gone there?”
“It is possible, yes. Lillia was fond of Sir Gilmore, as the rest of us were. Sir Daryl may have taken her there.”
“Or a dozen other places, so I’ve heard,” said Sir Ryger. “Meaning no offence, my lady, but how long are we going to search for her? It could take months to scour every keep and castle in the northeast.”
He was not wrong. And it could all come to nothing in the end. “I would hope to learn more of her whereabouts soon,” she only said. She doubted that Sir Daryl would have settled permanently in Gully’s keep, small and poorly provisioned as it was, but if he had passed this way with Lillia he might well have stayed the night. If so, Gully would know where they had gone. And the lands of Daryl’s lord grandfather were only a half week away besides, and he surely would have stopped in there. If old Lord Blunt had not heard from his grandson, then Amara would begin to fear the worst. Until such a time as she spoke with him in his hall, she would hold to hope, however.
Eventually, she said, “I will not keep you to your oaths that long, Sir Ryger.” Those oaths had been to serve her, though she knew these men wanted more. The knights she had taken from the lake in particular were all keen to restore their honour. Spending months in search of a teenage girl would not grant them that. “I know it is battle you want, and you’ll have your chance to seek it, I’m sure. That is not something I would ever deny a knight.”
The Green Harbour man bowed from the saddle of his horse. “My thanks, Lady Daecar. That is all I ask.”
Her words were proven to be strangely prescient. Several hours later, as they stopped at an icy stream to water the horses, Sir Talmer called out that Sir Montague and Brazen Ben were returning. They were easy enough to differentiate even at a distance. Ben with those big ears, flapping in the wind like sails; handsome Sir Montague in his golden cloak, a relic of his time among the Suncoats half a lifetime ago. Their horses even matched them. Montague’s was an athletic courser, racing along proudly; Ben’s a rather more ungainly young stallion, with a slightly clumsy-looking stride.
But in the flush of their faces, both looked alike, and the fervent light in their eyes as they came reining up before her. It was Sir Montague Shaw of Rasalan who spoke. “Lady Amara, we sighted a great host ahead,” he said, panting. “They are marching west along the High Way in great columns, bearing banners of gold and brown.”
“Strands,” added in Ben Barrett, with that bucktoothed grin. His cheeks were as red as Carly’s hair…redder than they’d gone when she followed through with her promise to kiss him after the coup, in full view of all the men during their feast down on the beach. “Those banners, m’lady. They bore his standard. The bare-chested knight wrestling the giant.”
There was no standard in the north quite so macho as that of House Strand. Amara had to smile. “Lord Styron,” she said. “How large is his host?”
“Hard to say for sure, my lady,” said Sir Montague. “The snows fall even thicker further west, and they served to obscure his numbers. Ten thousand at least. Perhaps double that.”
“That would be his entire strength,” said Sir Connor, thinking. He looked at Amara. “He must be marching toward the Twinfort, my lady.”
They had heard rumours that Styron the Strong was coming down from the Ironmoors, where he ruled over a great tract of land beneath the banners of House Taynar. It was assumed he was heading to King’s Point to help protect the coast, but if an enemy assault was expected upon the western gate then perhaps his course had been diverted.
Others had gathered around to listen. Jovyn was one of them. “That would take them past Blackfrost,” the squire said. “My lady, ought we not ride to join them? We could accompany them there.”
They had intended to make for Blackfrost eventually, though via a more circuitous route, pending what they heard of Lillia. Sir Connor, as always, knew what his lady was thinking. “We can send riders out,” he said to her. “To Lords Gully and Blunt and others, to hear tidings of Lady Lillia. But it would be wise to join Lord Strand, my lady. A strong host we may be, but against certain perils we remain vulnerable.” He let her think it over a moment, turning to the scouts. “How far away are they?”
“A good long gallop,” Sir Montague said. “We only sighted them distantly, and from a rise. But they’re moving more slowly than we are. At a hard push we might reach them by nightfall.”
“Or tomorrow at an easier pace,” Connor said. He seemed to notice that Amara did not want to subject herself to a ‘good long gallop’. He addressed her once more. “My lady. I suggest we make for Raymun’s Watch for the night. We should reach it shortly after dusk at this pace. I will send men to speak to Lord Gully. Tomorrow, we can ride for Lord Styron’s host.”
They all seemed to be of the same mind, the men nodding and murmuring, and who was she to deny them? She smiled at Sir Connor, nodding assent, and then turned to look at Sir Ryger Joyce. “Well, Sir Ryger, it looks like you may yet get your wish,” she said.
39
Wolfsbane hurdled a root, his godsteel barding rattling.
The caparison he wore across his back fluttered heroically against the dim hue of dawn, trailing with small ribbons in the colours of his kingdom. Across the wooded valley, warhorns rang out, blowing loudly to mark the break of day…and battle. Amron hoped they would provide distraction.
Draw the enemy eye, he thought.
He burst out into the open where the Agarathi had stopped for the night, spread out across the vale. The trees were sparse, the canopy thin; Amron’s sight pierced far and wide. He could see the tents at the heart of the night camp, see the men emerging from within, rushing to snatch up sword and spear. Hundreds were still lying here and there on the ground, waking to the sudden commotion, throwing off their blankets and scrambling to their feet. There was shouting, barks of command as the horde stirred to life, men mustering to meet the challenge of the warhorns, coming from the hill.
We caught them unawares. It was just as he’d hoped.
Right ahead, the guards at the camp border were turning to meet them, swishing about in their crimson cloaks, lowering their long black spears. Shouts of alarm spread like wildfire. Amron rushed forth. Two spearmen thrust up at Wolfsbane as he reached them, but the steel just pinged right off the barding, and the men were bashed aside. “For Vandar!” the king bellowed, barreling straight through the men beyond. “For Vandar!” echoed a hundred other riders, smashing through the lines.
Amron bore the Frostblade in his grasp, misting ice. He swung it left and right, twisting at the torso, hacking men apart as Wolfsbane galloped fiercely onwards. In the span of ten heartbeats ten men were dead, crushed and cleaved, Wolfsbane trampling grown men like they were nought but crops in a field. A trail of iridescent dust marked their passing, glittering off the edge of the blade with each swift swish and slash, ice particles sparking and melting in shades of red and blue and green and gold and a hundred other hues. “For Vandar!” Amron roared again. “For Vandar! FOR VANDAR!”
The horns were still blowing from the north, ringing out from the wooded slopes at the edge of the vale. Their cadence had quickened now; a series of shorter, sharper peals to call the men to charge. Sir Torus Stoutman would be blowing on one of them, Sir Bryce Coddington another, Sir Lambert Joyce a third, the three knights leading the charge of the men afoot, six thousand Vandarians with naked steel in their grasp.
For Vandar! they called as one. For Vandar! For Vandar!
The sound was stirring. Amron led his host onward, mowing the Agarathi down. In front came the barded beasts, many of them monstrous warhorses strong as broadbacks. Sir Taegon rode the biggest of them, The Hammerhorse he called him, a broad-shouldered, muscular brute who stood a full hand and a half taller than even Wolfsbane. The giant bore his greatsword in one hand, his warhammer in another, bellowing “Hammerhall!” at the top of his lungs. Others called out for their houses, their homes, their kingdom and their king. “To the Grave!” roared Lord Gavron and his men; the words of their house. Tall Sir Dederick Dudden shouted, “Green Harbour!” The boy Sir Tyrstan Spencer rode in the van as well, his gilded armour gleaming in the dawn, his fine slim horse barded all in gold. Further down the lines Amron sighted Sir Quinn Sharp leading fifty riders into the teeth of the camp, and behind them all came the bulk of the charge led by Sir Harold Conwyn.
