"I-ah, uh… yes," Rod managed, sitting back down on the rocks as Syregorn rose and shoved, forcing him down. "Now about Ironthorn-why is Hammerhold grieving? What-"
The warcaptain spat out a string of oaths so swift and harsh that Rod couldn't make out the words. There was open laughter around the hollow.
"Syre," one of the younger knights said, through it, "we can't take him skulking up to Lyraunt Castle like this. If he's going to hurl out questions like a youngling until it… wears off, we may as well answer him-or he'll just go and get answers from Lyrose folk, in the castle, and they'll fill his head with all their lies. I'd say the Forestmother-or some great calamity-has made a simpleton of this wizard, and he'll be as dangerous a pranksome lad until he knows what is what under the sun and moon. So…"
"Perthus," Syregorn replied, still holding Rod firmly down, "you see things swift and clear. Not that I like the truths you're telling me overmuch."
He let go of Rod, sat back, sighed, and said, "Lord Archwizard, all Hammerhand grieves the loss of Lord Burrim's only son and heir, Dravvan Hammerhand. He was slain in a fray in the forest. I was there. He was struck down with the aid of fell Lyrose magic-doubtless from the Doom Malraun, who backs House Lyrose, and uses them as his witless tools."
"Only son? So if Lord Hammerhand falls, who-?"
"His daughter, Amteira. Who swings a sword and rides into battle as well as any of us. Lyrose lost heirs in that bloodshed, too: Eldred and Horondeir. Only the youngest brother, Pelmard, survived-by fleeing like a weeping child. So I suppose those of Lyrose are grieving, too. If any of them know how. There have been days when Ironthorn has been stronger."
"Assuredly," Rod agreed hurriedly. "Please believe me when I say I have not come here to rule, nor to force my will upon any Ironthar! I don't want to work any magic or tell anyone what to do! I only want to-"
"Yes, yes, yes." Syregorn's snarl was louder than any of Rod's babbling had been. "Archwizard, we know this."
"— Taeauna-"
"Yes." The snarl became a roar.
"Yet Ironthorn," Rod babbled, "tell me of Ironthorn. Why should wider Falconfar turn its eyes to Ironthorn? What does Malraun want here?"
"Huh." The warcaptain let out his breath in a dismissive snort. "As to that, Lord Archwizard, you'll have to ask him yourself. I'm a mere swordswinger, who serves a foe at that; he doesn't talk to me."
He shrugged. "Myself, I think those of Lyrose are toys to him, idle amusements. The rest of us Ironthar are but ants for House Lyrose to grind underfoot-good for us that they're such arrogant fools as to be bad grinders-and he watches, when he bothers, just to see us die."
Chapter Eleven
But Ironthorn must have interested Malraun for some reason in the first place!"
The urge to talk, the restlessness that made him want to get up and move was still strong, but Rod found that he could govern his tongue now. Not that he saw any need to make that obvious, if the warcaptain still felt like talking. "Is it your farms, in the midst of all this forest?"
Syregorn snorted. "Hardly. There are farms beyond counting across Falconfar. It's the gemadars."
Rod didn't quite dare to seem ignorant of what gemadars were, but the warcaptain was already doggedly embarking on educating this simpleton of a Lord Archwizard. Doing a terse but accurate job of it, too.
Gemadars were busy Ironthar smiths, the sons and prentices of those who'd first learned how to bond sharpened gemstones to the edges of swords to make them astonishingly sharp and strong. The sort of swords that had recently become the rage among the wealthy of the Stormar, the black-bearded, dusky-skinned folk who dwelt in their hot, crowded cities along the coasts of the Sea of Storms.
Syregorn seemed personally insulted by this interest taken in his home hold by outlanders from afar. Rod decided to try to steer him back to Ironthorn itself.
"I–I confess I know not enough of how things stand in Ironthorn just now," he interrupted, waving his hand in a way that had the more spell-fearing knights rising to hurl their daggers. Thankfully, in the suddenly tense silence, none of them did.
Into it, Rod spoke earnestly, playing the innocent dolt for all he was worth, rueful that the act wasn't much of a stretch. "Lord Burrim I had heard of, and liked what I heard. Yet tell me of his rivals; who are these Lyroses, really? There are others, too; I can hardly aid you if I know not who I'm fighting."
"That's true," Syregorn admitted, as knights started to relax and sit down again. "I…" he sighed, obviously at a loss over where to begin.
"Syre," Thalden spoke up gently, "let me."
The warcaptain gave the older knight a hard stare for a few moments, then nodded.
Thalden turned his head to meet Rod's eyes directly. "Lord Archwizard, as we sit here Ironthorn is ruled uneasily by three rival lords. We serve the best of them, Lord Burrim Hammerhand. His badge is the iron gauntlet, on a field of battle-blood. Of living kin, he has only Amteira left, now; his wife, the Lady Venyarla, was raped and butchered years ago by Melvarl Lyrose-"
There were growls and the hisses of indrawn breath from all around Rod, as knightly faces went hard and cold.
"— father of the current Lord Magrandar Lyrose. Lord Hammerhand avenged her, slaying Melvarl blade to blade."
More growls, of grim satisfaction this time.
"From Hammerhold, our lord rules most of Ironthorn: its northernmost three valleys, with all their farms, and Irontarl, the vale's market town and ford over the Thorn River. Lord Hammerhand is and has long been the foremost lord of Ironthorn-because of us, his loyal warriors. Yet he dislikes and shuns magic, and so has suffered in recent seasons as his rivals Lyrose and Tesmer have used magic against him; wherefore his recent embrace of the faith of the Forestmother."
There were some muted mutterings; these knights were not overjoyed by the Lord Leaf, it seemed.
Thalden's voice rose a trifle. "It is needful," he said firmly, "that you know why House Hammerhand are the rightful rulers of Ironthorn, and other claims are empty."
He leaned forward, staring hard into Rod's eyes to make sure the Lord Archwizard was listening. "Long ago the wizard Orthaunt, who then ruled Ironthorn by cruel force of magic, proclaimed the Hammerhands rulers in his stead when he went off to war against another wizard. That other was Lorontar, who mockingly sent the talking skull of Orthaunt back to Ironthorn to tell of Lorontar's victory and Orthaunt's doom. The skull was, in time, stolen. So of course the Lyroses and Tesmers now say it was but a hoax, enacted by some hidden wizard hired by the Hammerhands to advance their claim to rule."
"Lorontar," Rod could not help but whispering, a moment of chill rising inside him amidst all the warmth. The first Lord Archwizard-the real Lord Archwizard-had been a busy man, to be sure.
"Across the Thorn River," Thalden went on, "is our most bitter foe, whom we go up against this night. Lord Magrandar Lyrose sneers at us from Lyraunt Castle, that stands just south of the Thorn River. His badge is the Three Thorns-a pinwheel of three steel-gray thorns, joined at their bases, on a yellow field. Looks like a caltrop. His wife, Maerelle, still lives, but he has now-thanks to our blades, Syregorn's here among them-"
Grim murmurs and mirthless chuckles of approval arose around the hollow.
"— but one son, Pelmard the dashing coward. A daughter, too, Mrythra by name, who is as cold a schemer as any wizard I've ever met. Uh, begging your indulgence, Lord Archwizard."
Rod nodded and managed a weak smile. These knights might call him "wizard," but he was hardly striking fear-or respect, for that matter-into any of them.