5. Purpose
Chapter 5
Purpose
6 th Day of the Blood Moon
Salme, western villages of Illyanara – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
“Hold the breach!” Dahlen roared, rain sheeting down, thunder clapping overhead. He charged towards the shattered section of the palisade wall that ringed Salme. Bodies lay in the mud, men and women who had been thrown from the ramparts as the wall had erupted inwards and the three Bloodmarked had crashed through in a frenzy.
Smoke billowed from the glowing runes carved into the beasts’ skin, their obsidian claws tearing through flesh and steel without distinction. His father had told him of the beasts, but before Salme, he’d never witnessed them with his own eyes. Monstrosities forged to kill mortal men, demons born of fire and death.
Dahlen’s boots sucked and squelched with each step. The rain had fallen for days without end, turning the ground to slop. Every muscle in his body ached, and every breath he drew stung. The twenty surviving former Kingsguard who had travelled with him from Belduar fell in at his side, their usually pristine plate tarnished with dirt and blood. The Urak attacks had been as unrelenting as the rain, their numbers swelling with each passing night, but this was the first time they had breached the walls.
“Form up! We need to stem the flow!” Dahlen’s throat burned as he barked orders, doing all he could to raise his voice above the din of the fighting and the raging storm above. “Neck, heart, head! Killing blows!”
More Uraks flooded through the opening, swarming around the three Bloodmarked and tearing through the warriors who had been first to the breach. Though, the term ‘warrior’ was a stretch. Many of Salme’s defenders were little more than town guards or people who’d fled from the surrounding towns and villages, picking up spears to defend the last bastion of the west. The people of the villages were hardy, but most were nothing more than farmers or fishermen or craftsmen.
Three heartbeats passed, and then Dahlen crashed into the mass of bodies that surrounded the breach, the Kingsguard at his side.
He caught the swing of a blackened sword with his left blade, the vibrations jarring his arm, then drove his right blade up through the Urak’s neck. His momentum carrying him forward, Dahlen slammed into the Urak’s chest with his left shoulder.
With his blade still lodged in the Urak’s neck, Dahlen’s boot lost purchase in the mud, and he fell with the beast. The ground rose to meet him with a slap , mud pulling around the Urak’s body. Moving swiftly, he hauled himself upright, ripping his blade free in a spray of blood.
“To me!” Dahlen called out to the townsfolk, trying his best to pull them into some semblance of shape. He sidestepped the thrust of an Urak spear, swinging his right blade up the shaft and slicing through fingers. As the creature stumbled forwards, howling, two of the Kingsguard fell upon it.
A bolt of lightning illuminated the carnage, mutilated bodies sprawled in the blood-soaked mud, severed limbs, and snapped bones.
Two more Uraks charged at Dahlen, two more fell. The sword forms took hold, flowing through him like water, his father’s teachings burned into his blood. But for every Urak he killed, the beasts took four townsfolk with them. Beneath the light of the Blood Moon, the creatures were more savage than they had ever been.
Dahlen sheathed the sword in his left hand and grabbed the collar of a young woman covered head to toe in blood and dirt. She held a spear in her fist, her fingers white from squeezing, the rain streaking her face and soaking her hair. Her eyes held nothing but terror. He had seen her before the attacks. She worked the fishing boats by the coast. “Run to the western wall. Tell Nimara and the mages they’re needed here. Tell the riders to wait for the horn.”
The woman nodded frantically, her hands shaking on the spear shaft. Her voice trembled, teeth chattering. “Who… Who is Nimara?”
“The dwarves,” Dahlen said, trying to level his voice to calm her. “Get the dwarves and the Lorian mages.”
She nodded, eyes wide, hands still shaking.
“Go!”
The woman turned and ran, using the butt of her spear to stop herself from tumbling in the mud.
“To me!” Dahlen roared again, the Kingsguard pulling in around him, others following. He left his second sword sheathed and snatched up a circular wooden shield from the ground, sliding his arm through the strap and gripping the handle. Through the chaos he could see clusters of the town guards in their various colours fighting side by side, while the villagers fought like cornered kats, stabbing wildly with their spears.
“Move together,” Dahlen called to the Kingsguard at his side. They pushed forwards through the thick of the fighting, gathering stragglers as they did. They would not be able to hold the breach – the Urak push was too strong – but they could gather as many as they could and fall back, pull the beasts into the open where their flanks were vulnerable.
Ahead, Dahlen watched as an enormous, grey-skinned Urak drove its spear through a young man’s belly, twisting the shaft as the man thrashed and screamed. The beast grabbed the back of the man’s head and dragged him along the spear shaft, then clamped its jaws around his neck and ripped out his throat in one motion. The gemstone set into the Urak’s spear pulsed with a crimson light that glistened in the pools of blood and rain.
The creature spat a chunk of flesh into the mud, ripped the man’s body free of its spear, and threw its arms in the air, unleashing a visceral howl that echoed in the night.
Even Dahlen felt the pull of fear in his gut at the sight. These creatures were monsters. They cared for nothing but death. Around him the defenders were close to breaking. He could see it in their sunken eyes, hear it in their wavering shouts. Cries of ‘run’ broke out, screams following as Uraks tore through flesh and bone.
“No…” Dahlen whispered. If they routed, if they gave these monsters their backs, they were all dead. The Uraks would not show mercy. They would slaughter them to the last. “Hold your ground!”
Those who had gathered with Dahlen stood firm, if only just, but many of the others began to break, slipping on the sodden ground as they tried to escape the melee, trampling each other as they went. But there was no escape. Only the endless waters of the Antigan Ocean lay at their backs. If the Uraks pushed through to the centre of Salme, thousands would die: the children, the elderly, the infirm. There was nowhere to run. But fear had a way of killing rational thought, and so the men and women who had not long before tended fields, held nets from boats, and felled trees ran for their lives.
“Fall back slow and steady,” Dahlen instructed the Kingsguard about him. “Give them a wall to rally behind. We need to bait the Uraks further in, but we can’t allow them to push through in force.”
Grunts were the only responses Dahlen received, but the Kingsguard stayed tight, their shields linking, the mud squelching beneath the weight of their armoured boots. The men and women in burnished steel and purple cloaks were one of the few legends he had seen with his own eyes that had lived up to the stories. They were hard, disciplined, and unyielding. The Kingsguard of Belduar were pulled straight from the stories of old.
At the sight of Dahlen and the Kingsguard holding firm, some of the town guards joined their line, hefting shields and pulling tight.
The Uraks crashed into them, blackened weapons hacking and slicing. Dahlen caught a sword with the top of his wooden shield, turning the blow upwards. As he did, he dropped low and stabbed into the creature’s exposed belly. Intestines slopped into the mud as he ripped his blade free. No sooner had the Urak fallen than another took its place.
One of the beasts charged into the man beside Dahlen, its shoulder slamming into his shield. The shield’s rim smashed into the Kingsguard’s face, shattering his jaw and snapping his teeth. The man collapsed into the mud, his howls muffled and choked. The guards that had rallied behind Dahlen hacked at the Urak, and the Kingsguard closed the line, but the beasts kept charging. The creatures were simply too strong. Again and again they crashed through the line of shields with little thought for self-preservation. With every charge, more men and women fell, but the Uraks didn’t stop.
“Where the fuck are Nimara and the mages?” Dahlen’s shield rim splintered, an Urak claw tearing through the wood as though it were paper, missing the meat of his arm by a hair’s breadth. He staggered back a step, then swung his arm forwards, slamming the remainder of the shield’s rim into the creature’s jaw, then driving his sword through its open mouth.
“My lord!”
Before Dahlen could retrieve his blade, the Kingsguard to his right – Altmin – leapt across him. Dahlen turned his head just in time to watch an enormous obsidian claw smash into Altmin’s face. Smoke plumed from the Bloodmarked’s runes as Altmin stumbled and fell into the mud, his jaw ripped away, his face a mangled mess of torn flesh.
Dahlen pulled his sword free, ducking in the same motion to avoid a swipe of the Bloodmarked’s claw. He pulled in close to the beast and drove his blade into its chest, the hilt clicking against the monstrosity’s stone-like skin.
The creature roared and swiped its clawed hand at Dahlen, who only just raised the remnants of his shield in time to dampen the blow.
Dahlen hit the ground with a wet slap, sliding through the mud until his skull cracked against something hard. Stars flitted across his eyes, his vision blurring. His head throbbed, and the left side of his body felt as though he’d been kicked by a horse, his shield shattered and reduced to nothing.
“To Lord Virandr!” a voice called out.
Dahlen slipped in the mud as he pulled himself to his knees. His head spun, blood trickling into his eyes. Red light spilled through the haze of his vision, the outline of the Bloodmarked charging towards him. The clang of steel and the roars of men and beasts pounded in his ears.
The Bloodmarked clapped its hands together, unleashing a shockwave of fire that tore through the defenders.
Dahlen planted one foot in the mud, sliding his second sword from its sheath. He stumbled backwards, narrowly avoiding a swipe of the Bloodmarked’s claw. The creature towered over him, the runes carved into its dense muscle glowing, its eyes blood red.
Once more, the Bloodmarked swung its obsidian claw, and Dahlen brought his blade up to meet it. Steel clattered against claw, the force of the blow knocking the sword free from Dahlen’s grasp and sending it splattering to the mud. Dahlen again staggered backwards, just managing to keep his footing.
A roar sounded to his right, and a mountain of a man charged through the fray, swinging a mighty warhammer. The weapon crashed into the back of the Bloodmarked’s knee, exploding forwards in a spray of blood and bone.
The runes on the creature’s body ignited in a blinding light, black smoke billowing. It fell forwards, its shattered knee collapsing. And as it did, the man swung his hammer back in an arc, smashing the creature’s jaw to pieces.
The man followed through with a downward hammer swing, cracking the Bloodmarked’s skull against the ground like an egg. The runes burst to life one last time before fading entirely, the creature going still.
Before Dahlen had even a second to think, more shouts and roars erupted to his right and he turned to see a cavalry charge smash into the Urak flank, curved swords carving through grey hide.
As the cavalry carved a path through the Uraks, the reinforcements from the western wall filled the gaps left behind. Dahlen spotted Nimara, Almer, and Yoring charging in the vanguard, the other dwarves at their side.
Dahlen reached down and dragged free the blade that was still lodged in the Bloodmarked’s chest, nodding to the man who had saved his life. He rolled back his shoulders and roared. “Forwards!”
The rain had slowed to a trickle when Dahlen walked among the dead. His boots sucked into the blood-soaked mud, his gaze passing over the twisted faces and broken bodies. About him, men and women hauled the corpses into carts, salvaging weapons and armour as they went. He wasn’t sure how many they’d lost. A hundred or so, likely more. There wouldn’t be time for a count before the next attack. There would just be faces never seen again.
“I believe this is yours.” Nimara appeared at Dahlen’s side, holding out a mud-covered sword with a triangular pommel.
“Thank you.” Dahlen inclined his head as he took the sword and slid it into its sheath across his back. “I wasn’t looking forward to having to search for that.”
“You need to learn to hold onto it better,” Nimara said with a half-smile. Even with her blonde hair streaked with blood and dirt, the gold, silver, and bronze rings tied through her braid gleamed in the crimson moonlight. She held his gaze, a soft smile curling her lips. “You fought well.”
“I’d have died well if not for you and the Lorian cavalry.” Dahlen glanced over to where the Lorian riders were tending to the horses. They had arrived a week or so before, along with four mages and some two hundred infantry. Their auxiliary force had been caught in an Urak ambush when trying to relieve Camylin, and the survivors had fought their way back to Salme.
Beside him, one of the Belduaran captains, Camwyn, spat into the mud. “We should have left them to the Uraks.”
“Aye,” another, by the name of Thannon, said. He glared at the Lorian soldiers, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “There’s still time.”
A grumble of agreement spread through the Belduarans – fifteen of whom had survived the battle.
“Without them, this battle would have been lost.” Dahlen too had wanted the Lorians turned away and left to the Uraks at first, but the council had granted them access to Salme so long as they defended its people. He didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them, but at least they fought well. And if his enemies would die to keep him alive, he would let them.
“Respectfully, my lord—” Camwyn clenched her jaw, twisting her neck to look at the Lorian cavalry “—those pieces of shit burned my home to the ground. They murdered thousands. Men, women, children. They didn’t draw lines, they just slaughtered. I watched my brothers and sisters of the Kingsguard give their lives as we fled down the Wind Tunnels. I will neither forgive nor forget.”
“I’m not asking you to. All I’m asking is that you let them give their lives instead of yours, that you let them fight and die defending this place rather than bolstering another Lorian army.”
“That I can do. But if I get the chance, I’m telling you now, I will burn them all alive, just like their dragons did to us.”
Dahlen only grunted at that. What could he say? If it had been his city, his home that had been torched in the Lorian dragonfire, his friends and kin burned alive, he would have felt the same way. Truth was, he already did.
“Captain Nimara.” Almer’s voice broke the rising tension as he strode through the mud, Yoring and three of the other dwarves at his side.
Nimara inclined her head.
“The Uraks have fallen back, and the perimeter is secure. I’ve set dwarves on watch while the breach is rebuilt, but there are not enough of us and the human captains seem content arguing amongst themselves – something about a market from last winter.”
“I’ll speak with them,” Dahlen said with a sigh. It had been the same ever since he had arrived at Salme. With so many souls gathering from across the western villages and beyond, the chain of command was nigh on non-existent. The village councils had banded together and elected representatives, but on the field of battle they were scattered. There was no plan, no strategy, no system. Each night they fought with only one thing in mind: survival.
“See that you do.” Nimara’s green eyes held on Dahlen’s, her tone sharp. “We cannot carry on like this. If we’re not organised before the next attack, we may as well roll over and die.”
“I’ll speak with them.” Dahlen ran his fingers through his saturated hair, letting out a long puff of air. “Still no word from Kira or Oleg?”
Nimara shook her head. “Not since the news of King Lakar’s election in Azmar.”
Dahlen nodded slowly, pressing his fingers into his cheeks. It hadn’t been long since Oleg’s last letter, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was that same feeling he’d had since before leaving the Freehold. There was more going on there than any of them realised. He was sure of it.
“My queen can handle herself. As can Queen Elenya. They will look after the Belduarans.” Nimara brushed her hand against Dahlen’s, only for a moment, but long enough to make his heart flutter. “I’m going to walk the wall, make sure there are no gaps in the guard.” She stepped closer, holding his gaze, her voice a whisper. “I could use a warm bed tonight.”
Dahlen inclined his head, and the dwarf smiled as she pulled away. Before Nimara turned, she nodded towards something over Dahlen’s shoulder.
Dahlen turned to see the same mountain of a man that had saved him in the fighting. The man stood a head taller than Dahlen, a chest like two oak barrels, shoulders as wide as a draught horse’s. He still held the warhammer in his right hand, the dual-sided head floating just over the mud.
“Thank you.”
The man raised a curious eyebrow.
“For saving my life.”
He grunted. “You lead well. The Belduarans follow you, as do the others. My life is easier with you alive, and my people are safer.”
“My name is Dahlen Virandr.” Dahlen reached out his arm, which the enormous man grasped.
“I know who you are, Lord Virandr. There’s barely a soul here who doesn’t. You arrived with the Belduarans and the dwarves. Had you not, we would all have been dead the night the Blood Moon rose, or even before.” The man stared at Dahlen for a moment. “Erdhardt Hammersmith.”
“Ahh…” Realisation set in. “Fellhammer. I should have known it was you.”
Erdhardt grunted. The man’s eyes were sunken and dark, and scars littered the sun-bronzed skin of his neck and forearms. Short, white-grey hair did nothing to alleviate the severe sharpness in his face.
Dahlen had heard tales of Erdhardt Fellhammer since the first time he’d set foot in Salme, though he’d not fought beside him in the attacks. The people spoke of him as though he was tall as a Jotnar, with the strength of five men, and that his presence alone struck fear into Urak hearts. One woman had even claimed he swung his hammer with the power of Achyron himself. Having seen the man fight, Dahlen now saw the tales weren’t as exaggerated as he’d thought.
“Erdhardt!” a voice called.
Two men and a young woman approached, each staring about the scattered dead as they did. One of the men had a sword strapped to his hip, but he walked as though he wasn’t yet accustomed to its weight. The other had a bow slung across his shoulders and a quiver at his hip. The woman wore leathers but no weapon and kept her fire-red hair tied back with string. Mud caked her shins and knees, and blood smeared her chest, stomach, and hands.
The man with the bow grasped Erdhardt’s forearm. “The council have called the night’s meeting at the great hall. Ylinda is already there, but she’s got the sense this one will be important – seeing as we all came within a rat’s tail of losing our heads. She’s asked us all to attend. She’s asked that you attend. You’re no use drowning yourself in your cabin.”
“So be it.” Erdhardt gestured towards the other man with the sword. “Dahlen Virandr, this is Jorvill Ehrnin, village elder of The Glade.”
The Glade . The name floated in Dahlen’s mind. He knew the place, but it took him a moment to remember why: Calen.
Erdhardt moved on, inclining his head towards the young woman. “This is Anya Gritten. She has taken on the role of healer for our people. And this ,” he said, returning to the man with the bow, “is Tharn Pimm.”
Pimm . Dahlen narrowed his eyes. “You’re not by any chance Dann Pimm’s father?”
The atmosphere shifted, even Erdhardt’s stony expression cracking. Tharn Pimm went white as a ghost. “You know my boy? Is he… is…”
“He’s alive. Last I heard, he was with my father and brother just north of Argona.” Dahlen wasn’t sure how much he should say of the elves for now. He’d not heard a word from either Aravell or Durakdur since the Blood Moon had risen. “Calen is with them. Calen Bryer.”
Anya’s jaw dropped open. “Calen?”
“My boy…” Tharn Pimm muttered.
“They’re both alive?” Erdhardt turned his body to face Dahlen, the darkness lifting from his eyes. “What of Rist, Rist Havel? He was with the others when they left.”
“There’s a lot you all don’t know. After the council, we’ll talk.”
The great hall stood on a rise that overlooked Salme’s port. It was five times as long as it was wide, comprising thick wooden beams and a roof of grey stone slabs. Just inside the enormous double doors, four tables ran parallel to each other along the hall’s centre, stretching for what had to have been almost thirty feet, a series of fire pits set between them with lanterns hanging from the rafters above.
A large circular table sat at the end of the hall, eight chairs around its perimeter. All but two of the chairs were filled: Nimara’s and the council representative for Salme itself. As an envoy from the Lodhar Freehold, the other members had granted Nimara a seat at the table, but rarely did they seem to care much for her opinion. This was their home, not hers.
“They’re scared,” Camwyn whispered. Along with Thannon, the woman had taken up position as one of Dahlen’s captains on the journey from Durakdur. Both were former Kingsguard and fine warriors. It felt strange to think of them that way: ‘former’ Kingsguard. But it was the truth. Belduar no longer had a king. The ancient bastion had fallen, the city gone, the crown broken. Belduar was no more.
“They ought to be,” Thannon whispered back, scanning the room. “The Uraks are testing us. Whittling us down.” He leaned towards Dahlen as they made their way along the table at the hall’s left side. “Any word from your father? We could use reinforcements here.”
Dahlen shook his head, not moving his gaze from the circular table at the far end of the room, taking note of those who stood about it. “Still silence since the Blood Moon.”
Dahlen tried not to think on what that might mean. He had intended on making his way to Aravell almost a month ago, but when he’d seen the state of Salme and the increasing frequency of Urak raids from Wolfpine Ridge, he’d decided to stay longer. This was where he was needed. He could make a difference here.
As he and the others approached the circular table, he spotted Erdhardt, Jorvill, Tharn, and Anya standing behind Ylinda Pimm. Dahlen had seen Ylinda speaking at each of the council meetings, but it was only then he realised that she must also be related to Dann, likely his mother, judging by the years marked into her face. She was a sharp woman with little time for pleasantries, but she rarely spoke anything that wasn’t sense.
Erdhardt inclined his head at Dahlen, a gesture Dahlen reciprocated.
“He’s almost as big as the Uraks,” Camwyn said, inclining her head towards Erdhardt.
“The man’s a demon on the battlefield.” Thannon folded his arms. “I’ve heard stories that the beasts killed his wife a few moons ago, and now he only emerges from his home to spill their blood.”
“Stories are just that,” Dahlen whispered. “Stories.”
“One thing I know for sure, he only goes where the fighting is thickest. I saw him on the night the Blood Moon rose. He leapt from the walls, swinging his hammer like a madman. He has a death wish, one the gods won’t grant – thankfully for us.”
As Thannon spoke, Nimara walked past, Yoring and Almer at her back. Each of the dwarves nodded in greeting as Nimara took her seat. Over a hundred people were crammed around the table by the time the elders of Salme arrived, late, as tended to be their way.
The gathered crowd parted for the three elders: a broad-chested man without a hair on his head; a short, lithe woman with dark hair; and a woman with bronzed skin, a shaved head, muscular arms, and two missing fingers. Each of them had a number of brass rings looped through their nose and ears.
The woman with the two missing fingers pulled back her chair languidly and set herself down, barely raising her eyes to acknowledge the others.
Lanan Halfhand. She was a strange one indeed. On appearances alone Dahlen would have thought her aloof and disinterested, but his experience had been quite the opposite. It was, after all, by her allowance that the refugees from Belduar and the other towns and villages around ?lm Forest had been allowed safe haven in Salme.
After a few moments, Lanan raised her hand in the air, and the chatter stopped. She lifted her gaze and cast it about those gathered.
“Another night passes, and still we draw breath.” As though emphasising her point, Lanan pulled a long breath in through her nostrils, held it, then released slowly. “Long have the people of the western villages supported one another. Our children come of age together in The Proving. Our people survive together in the harsh winters. Our history is alive in the stories we share. But now, we welcome more into the fold – the people from Belduar, the dwarves of Lodhar…” She sucked in her cheeks, then clicked her tongue off the roof of her mouth as her stare settled on the Lorian mages and the cavalry commander who stood to the right of the table. “… and the warriors of Loria.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd, along with a number of spitting noises. Dahlen didn’t envy the woman. In taking in the Lorians, she had undoubtedly made enemies. But that decision had saved every soul within Salme’s walls twice over.
“We don’t need a history lesson, Lanan,” said a man, tall and thin, sitting four seats to Lanan’s left. He was the representative of Pirn, if Dahlen remembered correctly, and he seemed to have a problem with just about everything. “We need?—”
“Hold your tongue, Benem,” snapped Kara Thain, Erith’s representative. In the short time Dahlen had known the woman, he’d found nothing but respect for her. Each of the elders participated in Salme’s defence, though some less enthusiastically than others. But he’d seen Kara on the walls more than once, fighting from the front. “We don’t have time for your groans tonight. Let Lanan speak.”
Benem looked as though he was ready to leap from his seat, his cheeks flushing, fingers grasping the edge of the table. But his gaze flashed across the table and he pulled himself back in his chair. Dahlen followed the man’s stare to see Erdhardt glaring at Benem, his hand resting on the pommel of his hammer that stood with its head on the ground.
“We have always been close,” Lanan continued, her gaze lingering on Benem. “But the times are changing, and we must become more – we must become one. We cannot weather this storm divided.”
“What are you saying?” The man who spoke was Yarik Tumber of ?lm.
“She’s saying that now that we’re at her mercy and living within her walls, with the Uraks breathing down our necks, she wants to seize power.” Benem pushed his chair back and stood, leaning forward and resting his palms on the table, his eyes fixed on Lanan. “You think it will be that easy?”
The woman returned Benem’s stare, one eyebrow raised, a look on her face as though she were staring at a child who had tested a mother’s patience. After an awkward silence, within which the entire hall stared at both Benem and Lanan, the woman bit her lip, then spoke. “I have no desire to seize power. I wish only to unite us so that we may defend this place as one. Salme is your home now, too. I’m sure you’ve seen it from where you stand in the thick of the fighting, but as it stands, we are a hair’s breadth from losing everything.”
Slowly and purposefully, Lanan pushed her chair back and rose. She met Benem’s gaze, then looked about at all those gathered. She turned to Ylinda and then Erdhardt. “When the people of Talin and The Glade came to our gates, their homes burned, their loved ones in Heraya’s embrace, what did we do?”
“Welcomed us with open arms.” A half-smile cracked Ylinda’s face, and she inclined her head towards Lanan. “You fed us, watered us, and helped us build homes.”
“And we’re all the stronger for it, are we not?”
“We are.”
“Had Erdhardt Fellhammer not stood on our ramparts these past months, Salme would be nothing more than rubble and bones. I have lost count of the men and women whose broken bones have been set and wounds stitched by young Anya Gritten. No healer I’ve ever seen roams the battlefield while it rages and drags the wounded from the fray. Once more I say, we are stronger together. What of Erith, Kara?”
“Aye. We will forever be grateful for the shelter you gave.”
“And in return, what did we ask?”
Kara shrugged, sitting back in her chair. “That we fight for this place as we would Erith. That we bleed for it – and we have.”
Lanan nodded her thanks. “And Milltown, ?lm, Pirn?”
“You’ve made your point,” Benem snapped. The man pulled his hands from the table and stepped back, walking around the perimeter towards Lanan. “You’ve always been good with words, Lanan. You twist them and shape them, but they still mean the same thing.” The man pointed his finger at the Salme elder. “You see an opportunity, and you’re taking it.” He jabbed her in the shoulder with his finger. “I for one won’t be letting you spin your webs like the spider you are. Who will lead this new city, this new people? You don’t have me fooled…”
Benem trailed off, his finger still prodding into Lanan’s shoulder, his stare fixed on Erdhardt, who had left his hammer standing on its head and now walked towards the man. “What? You can’t intimidate me, Erdhardt.”
“Sit down, and let Lanan speak. Some of us need to rest so we can fight again tomorrow. We can’t all stand in the back, using the mud to prop up our spear.”
Benem moved towards Erdhardt. “I’ve known her for over forty years. I don’t need to hear what she has to say because venom is best left in the fangs.”
“Take a step closer and I’ll put you down. I’m in no mood.”
Benem rolled his eyes, still moving towards Erdhardt. “We’ve all lost people, Erdhardt. Your wallowing is not unique. Aela was?—”
Erdhardt lashed out with an open hand, striking Benem in the throat. The man staggered backwards, grasping his neck as a number of the representatives jumped to their feet, gasps of shock spreading through those gathered.
“Don’t say her name.” Erdhardt’s voice was cold and level. He was only an inch or so taller than Benem, but his shoulders were twice as broad. “Sit back down, and let the adults speak. If you’d been at the breach tonight, you wouldn’t have the energy to talk all this shit.”
“You…” Benem coughed and choked, his eyes watering as he held his throat. “Stupid fucking oaf.” The man stood tall, rolling his shoulders back and puffing out his chest before launching himself at Erdhardt.
The resulting fight lasted all of three heartbeats.
Benem swung his fist. Erdhardt leaned his neck backwards, avoiding the blow. He grabbed Benem’s head and slammed it down against the wooden table with a crack , causing the representatives from ?lm and Talin to jump backwards.
Benem slumped to the ground, mumbling, blood streaming from his nose and forehead.
The entire hall went silent.
“Please, continue.” Erdhardt gestured towards Lanan as though nothing had happened.
For a moment, the other elders from Pirn looked as though they were about to cause a riot, but one look at Erdhardt made them think better of it. Instead, they hauled Benem into his chair, checking his wounds and slapping his cheek to keep him awake while he groaned.
Erdhardt looked from Benem to the other elders, shaking his head. “I don’t even know how many of us died tonight. We’re too tired to count the bodies. We’ve lost hundreds in days. The likelihood is each of you in this room has friends you spoke to today but will never speak to again. None of us, not one soul here, has seen darker times than these. And still, this fool wants to squabble and argue over who has ‘ power’ . None of us have power. We are not fighting for control, we are fighting for survival. We are fighting so that our bloodlines are not ended here, so that fear is not the last thing our children know. My boy died of the blood lung when he was no more than five. My wife, the only piece of me that was worth anything, died the night I lost my home. I fight for all of you, in the hope that you never know my pain. If any of you have a problem with that, speak now.”
After a tense moment, Lanan straightened. “Let us no longer fight as men and women of Salme, or The Glade, or Talin, or Pirn, but as kin. The western villages have long shared blood and honour and promises. But now, let us share oaths. I do not wish to become your lady or your ruler – that is not our way. I wish to recognise this point as the moment we chose to stand together. I propose we formally recognise the members of this council not as representatives of separate peoples but of one people. That we lead together with a clear purpose – to survive. I know it seems an insignificant thing at a time like this. Pointless, even. But it’s not. We must see each face around this table, each face within these walls, as kin, as one of our own. All those in favour?”
Kara Thain was the first to raise her hand. “It is long past time.”
The other elders of Erith followed suit, with Ylinda Pimm and Yarik Tumber close behind. Eventually, all those gathered, with the exception of Benem, had done so. After a few moments, and some harsh muttering from the other Pirn elders, Benem raised his hand.
Dahlen, Camwyn, and Thannon remained silent with their hands at their sides, as did the Lorians.
Nimara was the only one still seated at the table. “What of the Belduaran refugees?”
“They have come here seeking a new home, just as the others have.” Lanan rested one hand on the table. “They have fought and bled with us. They have earned their place, as have your dwarves. We stand together or we break. If they want their new home, they will have to save it.”
Nimara nodded.
Lanan drew a long breath, then looked to the Lorians. She pinched her top lip with her bottom teeth. “And what of you, Exarch Dorman? What of the Lorian soldiers under your command?”
The man glanced to his companions, then around those gathered. “We have sent hawks to the Twenty-Third Army stationed near Argona and north to Antiquar. We will stay until relief arrives.”
“With the Uraks holding everywhere between here and Camylin, you don’t exactly have a choice, do you?” Thannon leaned forwards, giving the Battlemage a flat stare, the elders turning their heads at his interjection.
Dahlen tensed as the mage’s eyes sharpened, and he took a step forward. Dahlen had faced enough mages to know if it was Dorman’s will, Thannon’s heart would cease beating in a matter of moments.
“Speak plainly, Belduaran.” The mage stopped only a foot or so from Erdhardt, unblinking.
“What he meant to say, I’m sure,” Lanan interrupted, stepping between the two, “was that we thank the Lorian Empire for its aid, and we will gladly accept your steel for as long as you can spare it.”
“Hmm.” The mage drew a slow breath through his nose, then inclined his head to Lanan. “To protect is our duty. Thank you for taking us in.”
“Now,” Lanan said, turning back to the table as the mage took his place by his companions. “If we are to be one people, we must swear it under the eyes of the gods.”
“And what would be the name of this new union? If we build a city here, what do we call it?” one of the Erith elders asked.
“A name means little if we’re all dead,” Erdhardt said with a shrug.
“True words.” Lanan gave Erdhardt a smile of agreement. “For now, we will swear to abide by the decisions of this council, to treat each other as kin, and to defend our home as one. A name, we can choose later.”
When each of those present had sworn the oaths, Erdhardt raised his hand, letting out a short cough.
“What is it, Erdhardt?”
“There is none more eager to put these talks to rest than I, but there is one last thing that must also be discussed.”
“Which is?” Yarik Tumber asked, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.
“Just as we must be one as a council and a people, we must also be one in the defence of our new home. Swearing oaths to each other in this hall does nothing for us on the field of battle – as sweet a sentiment as it is.”
“Go on.” Lanan gestured for Erdhardt to continue.
“As their first act, I would ask the new council to choose a commander for Salme’s – or whatever we’re calling this place – combined forces. We are too scattered. There are a hundred voices on the battlefield, each yelling a different command, each trying to save a different thing. The men and women of Pirn fight in one place while those of Talin fight in another. The leaders from Salme insist on one plan without thinking of its impact on another. Tonight, we came moments from defeat because we were too slow to react to the breach in the wall. We need a single strategy, a single focus, a single voice.”
“And do you have any suggestions for this ‘commander’?” The representative from Milltown had barely spoken through the entire meeting, but now he stood with his arms folded, one hand scratching at his thick beard. “Let me guess, Erdhardt, yourself? Fellhammer, the defender of Salme.”
A smile spread across Erdhardt’s lips as he shook his head. “I can swing a hammer, but I know nothing about true warfare. No, I suggest Dahlen Virandr.”
Dahlen straightened, his eyes wide as he realised the entire hall was now staring at him. Nimara turned in her chair, her smile so wide it almost touched her ears.
“Have you lost your mind, Erdhardt?” Yarik Tumber moved his stare from Dahlen to Erdhardt. “You would suggest we trust the defence of our home, of our families, to a foreigner? An outsider? To someone who shares no blood with these lands?”
“I would suggest, Yarik, that we trust the defence of our home to a man who understands battle. Dahlen and those with him from Belduar are warriors. Warfare is a craft they have dedicated their lives to. What are the men and women of ?lm? Farmers, fishers, woodsmen? Putting weapons in our hands does not make us warriors in the same way that putting a chicken on a horse does not make it a rider. Despite not ‘sharing blood with these lands’, Dahlen Virandr and the Belduarans have fought at our gates every night the Uraks have attacked. They have shown their loyalty, painted it in the blood they have shed.”
Yarik stared open-mouthed at Erdhardt. The look on the man’s face mirrored how Dahlen felt. This had been the last thing he’d expected.
“Does anyone have an alternative candidate?” Lanan asked, looking about the room.
Dahlen looked to Nimara, but the dwarf shook her head, mouthing the word ‘you’.
He turned his attention to Thannon and Camwyn, but they both pulled closed fists to their chests and inclined their heads.
“You pulled us through Durakdur, my lord,” Thannon said. “You’ll pull us through this.”
A few heads turned towards the Lorians, but none dared say anything. To suggest a Lorian soldier take command of Salme’s defences would have started another argument, one that Dahlen was certain would have ended in more corpses.
In the end, it was Kara Thain who spoke. “I second Dahlen Virandr. It was he and his warriors who held the breach tonight when others broke. His shouts that rallied us.” The woman looked to Dahlen and inclined her head. “I will follow you.”
“As will I,” came another voice from amidst the crowd.
A few more mumbles of agreement sounded, and Lanan raised her hand.
“Are there any who object?” She looked at Benem, who sat slumped in his chair, hand clasped to the side of his bloodied head. The man simply glowered and gave a grunt of acquiescence.
“Well then, Dahlen Virandr, do you accept the mantle of Salme’s protector?”
Dahlen had no idea what to say. He was a warrior, true, but he was not a leader of men. He’d never been a leader of anything in his entire life. All he’d ever done was follow and and carry out his father’s commands. The only things he knew about leading he’d learned from Aeson. And the core of it was to not ask anyone to do something you wouldn’t do yourself and to never ask anyone to bleed for you if you are not willing to bleed for them.
Camwyn elbowed Dahlen sharply in the back, then whispered, “If you’re going to answer them, Lord Virandr, I suggest saying yes, otherwise we’ll be fighting under the command of a sheep shearer.”
Dahlen drew a long breath, then nodded slowly. “I accept.”
“Well then,” Erdhardt said, wrapping his fingers around the pommel of his hammer. “Can I go to bed?”