The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 88
He joined Lord Gullimer on the forecastle deck, the apple lord standing at the very front of the ship next to Hammer’s powerful ram forged in the likeness of her namesake. “A sad sight,” the lord intoned, looking across the paltry armada. His cloak flapped listlessly, as though to match his mood. “To think we set out from Tukor with almost twenty times the number.” He sighed. “Such is war, alas. One campaign can begin with great promise, and end in sour defeat. Oft as not luck and leadership are the deciding factors, and I fear we’ve been miserly provisioned in both.”
Robbert hoped he was referring to his uncle’s leadership, and not his own. “We still have strength enough to make a difference, Wilson. It only takes one blade, my father used to say. History has taught us that.”
It was said in the north that the War of the Continents ended by the edge of Amron Daecar’s sword. One man. One duel. One good strike to slay the dragon Vallath and cripple the prince Dulian, and then the mercy to spare his life. It was not as simple as that, of course. There were a hundred events that needed to occur for that war to end, as with any war, but history did have the habit of distilling things down into important moments, and that one at the Burning Rock was the pivot that people pointed to when they spoke of the end of the war, for right or wrong.
And this one? Robbert wondered. How will this one end? Not by the edge of his own blade, he knew that much. All his life he’d fancied himself a great warrior in the making, a dragonslayer-to-be like his father and grandfather before him, but those dreams had been dashed the day Sir Wenfry Gershan stabbed out his eye. I’ll never be a great hero, he thought, dourly. He would be capable, yes, but capable was not enough anymore. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to know he would never rise to such heights.
The ship was fast approaching the wharf, where men stood waiting to catch the ropes and tie them to the iron posts hammered into the stone. Others were preparing to slide across the gangplanks so that they could disembark from Hammer’s decks. Beyond, the stony beach bustled with shelters and tents, and a small field hospital had been set up as well. Most of the sick had come from Wild Raven after their long days becalmed at sea. Lord Gullimer’s host would add some more, Robbert knew, though he was not intending to wait upon their convalescence.
That appeared to be on Gullimer’s mind as well. “How long do you expect to stay?”
“A day, two at most.” The war was calling him, and he must join it as soon as he could. “If we can sail on the morning tide, we will.”
There was a lot of shouting going on around them, as soldiers left the beach and the decks of their moored ships to gather about at the prince’s return. Men were pouring up from the bowels of Hammer as well, more than Robbert would have let himself believe once upon a time. Before this campaign, he’d had scant experience of ships, and it was always a wonder to him how many men could fit belowdecks. Any time he went down to visit them, he would see how tightly packed they were, down in their cramped quarters with their bunks piled one atop another. And when they poured up the steps, they were like ants crawling from their hill, boiling out in a great long stream of stinking, ragged men.
My army, he thought.
The ship was bumping up against the jetty, and the gangplanks were being slid into place. Robbert remained at the forecastle deck for a moment, scanning for his captains below. He could not see Bernie down there, but he did sight Sir Colyn Rowley, who had charge of Wild Raven, and Sir Gregory Jarvis as well, the knight in command of Blackthorn. Both were pushing forward through the men on the docks, as Sir Lothar strode down to greet them. Robbert still did not move. They would come to him, he knew.
They bustled forth almost at once, Lank waving men aside to let them pass. Across the decks, Lord Gullimer’s men were streaming off, eager to feel firm ground beneath their feet. The sellswords had all gathered around Saska and the Whaleheart, who was giving an address, while Captain Burton remained at the wheel, bellowing out this order and that. Through all that noise and ruckus, the three knights arrived. Sir Colyn and Sir Gregory both inclined themselves into bows. “Your Highness, we praise Tukor for your safe return,” Rowley said.
“Praise Bloodhound,” Robbert replied. He wasn’t sure what Tukor had to do with it. “What news, Sir Colyn? Is Wild Raven ready to sail?”
“She will be, my prince. Give her one more night and she’ll be ready to spread her wings.”
Black wings, Robb thought. Wild Raven was made from the timber of the Darkwood like all the Swallow ships.
Sir Gregory looked over Gullimer’s men. “Lots of apples, but no Orchard,” he noted.
“We had to leave her behind.” The damage had been too severe, and it would have taken long days to set her right. It had been a great sadness to Lord Gullimer to abandon his ship, but their need for haste had not given them a choice. “And Harvest,” Robbert added. “She foundered near the shore.” He had a pressing question on his lips. His eyes moved to the top of the cliffs and he asked it. “We saw a dragon. Has there been word of it?”
“Sir Bernard is up there now, with some others,” Gregory said. “I came down to report to you when we saw the ship approach.”
“And? Is this beast not hostile?”
“No. It is a smaller dragon, my lord. And bearing three souls. Two women and a man. They landed some distance from us, and appear to be waiting. Westermont is keeping watch.”
Robbert was confused. “Waiting? For who? Me?” He looked over. Saska appeared to be learning the same news, and a smile was rising on her lips. She knows who they are, he realised. If that were so, she’d made no mention of having a dragonrider in her party. Gods. This girl and all her secrets. “Pray excuse me.” He stepped across the decks to join her. “My lady, a word.” He took her arm and ushered her away from the others, Lank’s words ringing in his head. “Saska, no more secrets. It’s time you told me the truth. The full truth, and…”
And she kissed him. The connection lasted but a short moment, but it was electric. Robbert felt a giddy wave of excitement spread through his body as his lips met hers, soft and warm. Then Saska drew back, just as quick. “Sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t my doing.”
Robbert frowned. His mind was all ablur. “Not your doing? I don’t…”
“Leshie. I lost the game, after you left. So…”
Oh. The truth came down on him like a sack of rotten spuds. “That was a…” He glimpsed Leshie watching from across the decks, a broad grin on her freckly little face. “That was your forfeit?”
“But a good one,” Saska said, quickly. “Much better than quacking like a duck.”
“Yes.” Robbert Lukar felt like the biggest fool in the world all of a sudden. His elation had shrivelled to bitter disappointment, and a shade of red was climbing his neck. Saska saw and her eyes turned pitying and that only made it all the worse.
“Robbert, I…”
“It’s fine.” He raised a hand. Others were looking, he just knew it. He needed to push right past this and forget it ever happened. I’m a king, Lank’s right. A king does not blush. “This dragon…I’m told it’s bearing three passengers.” He spoke in a voice as rigid as an old tree stump. “Do you know them, or…”
“It was nice, you know,” Saska said.
Robbert met her eyes. He had been looking away all the while.
“It was, Robbert. “Forfeit or no, I…”
He didn’t want to talk about it. “The dragon,” he prompted. “Do you know the riders?”
A moment passed as she looked at him. Then she nodded and said, “The two women. The man…I’m not sure, but…” She reached out and took his hand, squeezing, brushing all that awkwardness aside. “Come, Robb. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
47
In the cold grey morning light, he watched them come. Streams of people, snaking up through the snowy city, from White Shadow to Many Markets to the Sentinels and the Marble Steps, through the squares and up the stairs and past the gates and across the bridges, ushered along by an army of soldiers many hundreds strong.
It was a sight to warm Elyon Daecar’s heart despite the deep chill in the air. “How many have gone through the tunnels so far?” he asked Lord Trillion Morwood, as they stood on the high palace balcony overlooking the city of Ilithor.
“Some thousands,” Morwood told him. “We started only three days ago, but we have not lacked for volunteers, as you can see. We have worked hard to make the passages safe, Prince Elyon. I’ve had men going back and forward for a fortnight, carrying provisions. Every man, woman, and child is being told to take as much food as they can.”
Elyon nodded. “Are you prioritising the Tukorans?”
“No. Tukoran and Vandarian alike are being allowed through. Princess Amilia decreed it so.”
Elyon raised a brow. “She’s helping?”
Morwood had a fatherly smile on his lips, a proud smile. “She is, I am glad to report. She goes among the people and helps to give them strength and succour. There is a certain power that women like Amilia possess. Their beauty and radiance can be inspiring. Many of the people have chosen to journey into the mountain on account of her word alone, and much of that has to do with you, I think.”
“Me?” Elyon asked.
“I do believe so, yes. She has been drinking less and doing more ever since you flew together to Thalan. I daresay your actions have helped inspire her, good prince. There is no one in the realm who is doing more than you.”
Elyon appreciated that. “My thanks, Trillion. That is kind of you to say.”
“Not at all. I do not see truth as kindness, Prince Elyon. Only truth.” He smiled. “Did you rest well?”
“Well enough,” Elyon lied. He and Walter Selleck had arrived long past midnight when the city was sleeping, and had been ushered straight to private bedchambers by the palace steward and his guards. He had slept perhaps four hours before rising at dawn, stiff, tired, and dreading the day to come. Taxing as yesterday’s flight had been, today would be longer, harder, and most importantly, colder. He looked out over the city again. “How long has the snow been falling, Trillion?” It was not so the last time he was here.
Morwood looked out in consternation. “Ah. The snow. Yes. It reached us several days ago. People are saying it heralds some great doom, this snowfall in summer. It has all the city frightened.”
“Good. Use it. The more people who flee in fear to the refuge the better.”
The Watch Commander nodded. “As you say. We have criers out there, calling out of the Dread’s return, but too many refuse to believe it. They trust their eyes, Elyon, and their eyes see the snow. That at least we can use.”
Thousands, Elyon mused. Thousands in three days was a good start, but how many were there here? How many Ilithorans and smallfolk from across Tukor? How many Vandarian refugees camped outside the city walls? He could see the vastness of their numbers grouping down there in the valley. If the Dread should come again, it would be a slaughter, and there was no knowing when that might be.
“What of Sir Mallister? How has he taken to his new role?”
“Very well, I am reliably told. He has some three dozen under his command now. They’re keeping a tight watch on the peaks and passes.”
It sounded much like a new order, Elyon thought. He wondered what his Shadowknight brother would make of that. “Have there been any attacks?”
“On the refuge? No. But Mallister and his men have gone out on hunts, I know. Mountain wolves, mostly, great white ones I’m told. There is a large pack of them up there that howl through the night. But there are worse things too. I understand there are fears of a greatbat lair, but as to that, ah…” Lord Morwood broke off as Walter Selleck came stepping through the hall to join them, accompanied by a pair of palace guards. “You must be Walter,” Trillion Morwood said. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, my lord.” Walter bustled forward.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Oh yes, very well thank you. The featherbed made quite the change from King’s Point, I must say.” He chuckled. “What do you stuff in your pillows around here? Goose down, is it?”
“The Aramatian Wanderer,” Morwood said, smiling. “Finest down in all the world.” He looked him up and down, most amused. “Are you sure you have enough layers on, Walter?”
The two soldiers behind were grinning, and rightly, because Walter Selleck cut a frankly ridiculous figure. He wore so many layers of wool and fur he looked positively round. “If you’re offering to give me that fine cloak of yours, I’m not going to say no.”
Morwood gave a laugh. “Very droll, Walter. Yes, I’d heard that about you.”
“I’m glad to hear my reputation precedes me.” Walter turned to Elyon. “Are you ready for round two, good prince?”
“No. But we’d best get going anyway. Come, let’s get you strapped up.”
The soldiers were dismissed, snickering, leaving only Morwood there to observe as Elyon fixed Walter Selleck into place. It required a slight loosening of the straps given Walter’s absurd garb, but Elyon supposed the man knew what he was doing, having ventured into the Icewilds not once, but twice before.
“Oh. I should say. We had word from Rustbridge. It seems that Borrus Kanabar has returned, if you’ll believe it.”
Elyon stopped in his work and looked at Morwood. “Borrus? He’s back?”
“So we hear. And Lord of the Riverlands and Warden of the East now as well.”
Elyon took a moment to digest that. “How long has he been there? In Rustbridge?”
“On that I could not say. Word came from a rider sent up from the Undercloak, so I would imagine it’s been a while now.”
Elyon didn’t like the sound of that. Borrus would have taken charge, no doubt, and he was not a man to sit idle for long. He’ll want vengeance for his father. And Ven will try to goad him out. “But no word yet of battle?” he asked Morwood.
“Not that we’ve heard.”
That didn’t mean much. Not in this crow-less kingdom. Elyon felt a new urgency pulsing through his veins. I’ve been gone too long, he fretted. For all he knew, there was battle to both the east and west and here he was, flying about with a scruffy old scribe dealing in hope and hunches.
“We’d best go, Trillion. Express my apologies to the princess for not seeing her on this visit. I will return as soon as I can. And please, hasten as many people into the tunnels as possible. Tell them that people are freezing to death in Thalan, and it won’t be long before that happens here.”
“I will do as you say, Prince Elyon. Be safe up there, and Tukor be with you.” He gave a bow.
Elyon nodded back, then waddled with Walter to the edge of the balcony to give themselves room to take off. On his back he bore his satchel bag, the Eye of Rasalan wrapped up safely within, alongside Walter’s things. He drew the Windblade from its sheath and pointed it skyward. “Ready?” he asked, lamenting that it was Walter, and not Amilia, for the hundredth time. Her hair smelled nice, he thought. Walter’s scraggly dome gave off a sour odour that was much less pleasant, and he did not much like the musty smell that came off his clothes either. The winds would help with that, and the cold as well. My nostrils will be frozen shut soon enough, and I won’t have to endure it. Would that Walter’s lips might freeze as well. The man did like to chat.
“I’m ready, yes. What pace will you set today?”
“A quick one. This cold could kill us, Walter. We may have to stop and find shelter if it gets too bad.”
“I know what a killing cold is, my prince. I’m not wearing all this fur to be fashionable.”
The notion of Walter Selleck doing anything to be fashionable was preposterous. Aside from city strays and alleyway bums, Elyon had never known anyone to dress so poorly. He smiled, letting out a bit more light from his soul, as Ilith had commanded. Walter at the least was an amusing fellow. Smiling came easily in his company.
“Hold tight,” Elyon said. “I’m going to start quickly and gain some speed. And think positive thoughts, Walter. Channel your luck into our safe passing.”
“And the finding of this tower,” the man added. “I know.”
Elyon nodded. The winds stirred, thickened, strengthened, and into the skies they shot, fired like a bolt from a ballista, straight and true. A hundred metres, two, three, and the city was beneath them. The White City, he thought, as they soared toward the mountain peaks that enclosed it, making for the northeast. It was named that for the colour of the stone. Today it might have been for the snow.
He wondered how far south they’d go. Already half the north was covered in a white shroud, and the rest of it was still battling the rains, drowning beneath the deluge that seemed never to cease. In King’s Point the whole coast had turned into a soggy mire, and the broken river was fat and swollen, rushing wildly into the Red Sea. The city had become a grim place. A dark place. And more so than before. Ever since my father left, he thought. Since Lythian took charge and the vultures began to circle.
He had not stayed long in the city. But it took him only moments to see that Lythian was not himself. He had grown as grim as that ruin, and paranoid, with eyes that saw a shadow around every corner, and ears that heard the sound of knives sharpening in the dark. Lythian had not been the same since he went to Agarath, in truth, but now he’d grown truly dour. It was the blade, Elyon knew. It was the rain and the ruin and the ragged army that his father had left him, starved and bored and resentful. Lythian was a dragonlover, they said, and a traitor. Word of what he’d done in the south had spread and men were deserting by the day, abandoning his command. Sir Ralf had confided that many of the men still stood in support of the First Blade, but Lythian seemed unable to see it. Day by day, a dark shroud enveloped that ruin, as though the Dread had cursed it with his coming, and Lythian was stuck at the heart of it.
