33. Sureheart
Chapter 33
Sureheart
12 th Day of the Blood Moon
Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
The forest air smelled of ash and burnt leather. Charred twigs and brittle blackened grass snapped beneath the weight of Dann’s boots, the sound drowned out by the ceaseless rhythm of thousands ahead and behind.
The army marched down the wide channel the Dragonguard had torched through the Darkwood. Most of the bodies had been cleared or ‘taken’ by the forest, as Lyrei had put it. Images of the Aldithmar flashed across his mind: the long, bark-covered limbs, the black smoke that drifted from their broken bodies, the pulsing white eyes.
He stared into the dark-obscured forest on his left, the blended rays of the sun and moon pushing only a few feet inwards before being swallowed by the shadows. Shapes moved in the dark, subtle shifts of light and space. More than once, Dann caught a glimpse of misting white eyes staring back. He wasn’t sure if he preferred it this way or not. Having an illuminated path through the woodland was definitely better than trekking through the darkness by baldírlight. But at least the last time he’d come through the Darkwood he’d only had a feeling he was being watched. Now he knew, and he knew what watched him.
His heart stopped for a fleeting second as a pair of glowing white eyes appeared at the edge of the trees, staring at him. More eyes flickered into existence. They didn’t move, just watched. They wanted him to know they were there. After a moment, the eyes vanished, dissipating into nothingness.
He gave an involuntary shiver, and beside him Drunir snorted, shaking his head.
“What are you snorting at?” Dann glared at the horse, patting his muzzle. “You barely even saw them the last time. You galloped off like a chicken shit and left me behind.”
The horse snorted again.
If Dann didn’t know any better, he’d think Drunir was laughing at him.
A particularly sharp snap sounded beneath his feet, and he looked down to see his armoured boot had cracked straight through the blackened shin bone of a charred corpse. His gaze instantly shifted to the corpse’s head. Torn flesh dangled from a half-blackened skull where animals and birds had feasted on the burnt remains. He yanked his foot free and staggered backwards, his heart beating like a hammer.
“This place is a graveyard.” Tarmon appeared at Dann’s side, staring down at the charred corpse.
Dann looked around the clearing. Human and elven remains were scattered amidst pools of melted steel and the husks of burnt-out trees. Memories of that night raced through his mind. The battle had been fierce and bloody, but when the dragonfire had poured through the canopy, the world had turned to nothing but chaos. The screams rang in his ears: the howls and shrieks of the souls being burned alive. He watched in his mind’s eye as the Fade’s black fire washed over Alea, as its sword punched into Baldon’s chest.
Dann drew his breaths in slow, trying to stop the panic from slithering from his mind into his veins. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Nice and slow.
“That dragonfire killed as much of their own as it did ours.” Tarmon pressed his boot into an empty breastplate, brushing off the soot to reveal the sigil of a roaring black lion.
Dann nodded sombrely, patting Drunir on the side as they continued. “How long will it take us to reach Salme?”
“Depends how hard we march. A few weeks, maybe a bit less if we march every hour the gods give.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. It took us a lot longer to get from The Glade, but we didn’t exactly take the quick route.”
Dann looked over his shoulder. Hundreds of banners rippled in the wind, many bearing Calen’s white dragon sigil, others in the varying colours of the elven kingdoms. Valdrin had been hard at work since the battle for the city, commanding an army of smiths and craftsmen to churn out new armour, and banners, and tabards, and all manner of things that could bear Calen’s sigil. The strange elf had taken it upon himself to ensure that any soul who set eyes on the army saw that white dragon.
As he watched the banners flap in the wind, Dann still couldn’t quite understand how he of all people had ended up in this position. Two years ago, he’d been drinking himself silly and throwing axes in The Two Barges, and now… well, now he didn’t really know what he was doing at all. He wore the suit of polished armour and mail that Valdrin had crafted for him. He had a glistening white cloak knotted at his shoulders – which was a nightmare to keep clean – and a white wood bow strapped to his back. That morning, was even been assigned his own attendant – Nala – who looked after his gear and followed him around like a puppy. He should have felt like a hero of legend, but instead he was more like a fish dragged from water and told to fly.
He was not a leader. He never had been and never would be. In fact, he’d go as far as to say that anyone with half a brain would do well to do the exact opposite of everything Dann said.
Drunir dipped his head and pushed his muzzle into Dann’s temple.
“Oi! Stop that.”
The horse snorted again, this time flapping his lips and spraying spittle over Dann’s face.
“I’ll turn you into a nice coat if you keep that up.”
Drunir let out a puff of air, peeling back his lips to show long teeth and thick gums.
“I was joking, lighten up.” Dann turned his head to see Tarmon staring at him with a bemused look on his face. “What?”
“You’re talking to a horse.”
“And?”
“I suppose you’ve done stranger things.”
“This doesn’t even come close. Did I ever tell you about the time I saw a horse with a horn growing from its head? And not like a little lump, but a proper horn, right from the crown. Calen and Rist never believed me, but I swear to Varyn that thing was real.”
“How drunk were you?”
“I’d had enough meads to feel warm but not so much I couldn’t piss standing up. I—ah, shit!” Dann leapt to the side at the sensation of something jabbing into his leg. He looked down to see a stout bird the size of a pup. It had a rotund torso, with a stumpy neck that bobbed like a chicken’s when it walked. Its beak was long and sharp, its feathers dark brown and black.
The bird scuttled away as Dann tried to kick it, rounding a fallen tree then bounding atop the trunk with surprising grace for something so short and fat. It stood there and stared at him, its chest puffed out, watching.
“What in the fuck is that thing?”
“It’s a weka,” Vaeril said, calling out from the other side of Drunir. The elf joined Dann and Tarmon, Lyrei beside him. “They’re native to the Aravell woodland, though they tend to stay closer to the outskirts. Be careful.”
Dann eyed the bird with suspicion. “Why? How dangerous is it?”
“It’s harmless.”
“Then why be careful?”
“Because it’s smarter than you are and will steal anything you don’t chain up.”
“Smarter than us?”
“No,” Vaeril corrected, a grin spreading across his face. “Just you.”
Dann was about to argue until Lyrei burst out laughing. Instead, he just shoved Vaeril to the side, letting the elf have his victory. Lyrei deserved to laugh more. He shook his head at Vaeril. “I liked you more when you had no sense of humour.”
The elf wrapped an arm around Dann’s shoulder, the shit-eating grin stuck to his face.
As they marched, the weka kept pace with them, disappearing into the forest, then reappearing a few feet later, always lurking. Dann had never seen a creature in his life that looked more naturally born for mischief.
After a while, the elves that marched ahead came to a stop, their black banners flapping in the wind. Queen Tessara and the Vaelen army had taken the lead in the march through the wood, with the forces from Ardur?n and Lunithír holding the rear.
Tarmon nodded to Dann, Erik, Vaeril, and Lyrei, and they pushed their way through the stopped elves, leaving Ingvat in command.
An enormous, hulking mass of steel and shattered branches lay on the ground, blocking the path: one of the Nithrandír. Dann hadn’t even considered it possible that those enormous monstrosities could be killed. He’d never seen anything like them in his life. Then again, if he had a silver mark for every time that thought had come up recently, he’d be a rich man. He’d lived in The Glade his whole life – he’d never really seen anything.
“Heraya tael du ia’sine ael, ydilír ayar,” both Lyrei and Vaeril whispered as they approached, bowing their heads.
Queen Tessara stood beside the fallen Nithrandír, her palm pressed against the inch-thick pauldron that could have been mounted onto the side of a house.
Dann had never been good at knowing when to be quiet, but he’d been learning. This seemed like one of those moments.
The queen stared down at the remnants of the Nithrandír. To Dann’s surprise it was not sadness he saw in her eyes but relief, a soft smile resting on her lips.
Several of the robed elves that walked with the queen stepped forwards, and the ground beneath Dann’s feet shook with enough power to cause him to stagger.
The Nithrandír’s armour moved and jostled as roots and vines that had once formed the creature’s body shifted and slithered over each other, plunging into the charred earth. More, smaller roots broke through the soil and snaked up over the armour, joining together until a sapling sprouted at the top of a newly formed mound.
“Du vyin alura anis, mavaeri maviríl. Du haryn tiunil din vandasír.”
The queen looked back to Dann and the others, giving the slightest of bows before calling out and setting off along the path once more.
“She seemed… happy,” Dann said as he approached the root-covered remnants of the Nithrandír.
“It is a thing to find joy in.” Vaeril ran his finger along one of the roots, then whispered something in the Old Tongue.
“What was that?”
“Du vyin alura anis. Du haryn tiunil din vandasír. It means ‘You can rest now. You have fulfilled your oath.’” Vaeril stared at the mound of roots and steel, his fingers tracing along a piece of protruding armour. “When my people first came to Aravell, broken, shattered… lost… a number of our eldest warriors and those who had been injured past the point of healing made the greatest of sacrifices. Through the aid of Jotnar runecraft, they bound their souls to these bodies of earth and steel, forgoing their entry into Achyron’s halls so that they might continue to protect the ones they loved in this life, beyond what a mere mortal body could.” He gestured towards the fallen Nithrandír. “This is a joyous thing because this soul’s watch has finally come to an end. They protected their people, they fought until the end and then even still. And now, finally, they may rest. They may enter Achyron’s halls knowing that their oath has been fulfilled and their honour is without question.”
Baldon had told Dann of how the Nithrandír were the souls of old elves who had given themselves to protect their people, but now that explanation felt lacking. It was more than just simple sacrifice. These elves had given everything. They had waited in those shells of steel and root for centuries. “That entire time… were they conscious? Could they see and hear?”
“Every second of every day,” Vaeril answered, a twinge of sadness in his voice. “Always watching, always protecting. It was their oath.”
The thought set the hairs on Dann’s neck on end. To stand there for hundreds of years, not being able to move, to speak… being trapped inside a shell. He couldn’t think of a worse fate.
Dann stepped closer and rested his palm on a winding root. “Du vyin…” He looked to Vaeril. “How do you say it?”
“Du vyin alura anis. Du haryn tiunil din vandasír.” Lyrei placed her hand next to Dann’s as she spoke, a blend of sorrow and joy in her voice.
“Du vyin alura anis, Alea.” Dann repeated, brushing his finger against the side of Lyrei’s hand. “Du vyin alura anis, Baldon.”
You can rest now.
Tarmon rolled his shoulder, stretching out the muscle before swinging his mallet and driving the stake into the soft earth, cold sweat rolling down his brow.
A strike of wood-on-wood sounded to his right.
“That’s the last of ’em, High Commander.” The young squire drew heavy breaths, his hair soaked from the earlier rain. Over four hundred souls that had not yet seen sixteen summers marched with the army, hauling armour and weapons, helping to pitch tents, tending to horses. Many were humans from Loria and the southern provinces, but quite a few young elves had joined as well. There was no better way to learn than by doing. And an army needed squires.
Tarmon gave the young lad a smile. “Good work, Mikal. Unload my armour and cot into the tent, then go see if Surin, Ingvat, or the captains have need of more hands. The sooner we’re camped, the sooner we eat.”
Leaving the boy to go about his work, Tarmon patrolled the camp. The breeze bit at his exposed skin, his loose linen shirt flapping. Moving through the Darkwood was a far quicker endeavour with the path carved by the Lorian forces before the attack, which allowed them to reach just outside the bounds of the Darkwood before stopping to set up camp for the night. Tarmon had been hoping that would be the case. Even with the Dvalin Angan with them, he had dreaded the idea of sleeping within the woodland’s reach. During the battle for the city, he had seen more than a handful of men and elves stray too far and be ripped to pieces by those twisted spirits – the Aldithmar. He shivered at the thought.
He walked past a group of men and women – Carvahonan by their accents – struggling to pitch their tents. They stopped roaring at each other as he passed, bowing their heads sharply before scrambling to stop the tent from collapsing behind them.
Tarmon shook his head and moved on. The sight was a common one that night. Over the months in Aravell, and under the direction of himself and the Knights of Achyron, the mishmash of elven volunteers and the rebels from across the continent had slowly begun to resemble something that looked vaguely like an army. Their drilling had become tighter, their movements more fluid, and their discipline was growing. On the battlefield, they would do well. Of that, he was sure. They weren’t fighting in the name of some king they’d never met or for a cause they didn’t believe in. They were fighting for their homes, their loved ones, their future.
But there was more to being an army than battle. It seemed a strange thing to say, but anyone who had been part of a larger whole understood. Battle was the last step in each movement. It was the culmination of all other acts. And even the greatest could lose the battle if each step leading to that moment wasn’t taken with care.
Learning how to march, how to make and break camp as efficiently and quickly as possible, how to ration, how to hunt and live off the land, how to work together as a cohesive unit at all times – each one of those things came before battle. A well drilled force could march and set up camp with their eyes closed. They kept their armour clean and oiled. They marched in file and held their discipline in the deepest moments of fear.
The Belduaran Kingsguard had been one such force, and even they were gone now after Daymon’s death. Though from the letters Dahlen Virandr had sent, many still remained as Oleg Marylin’s guard while some of them manned the garrison at Salme.
At first it was strange to think of Oleg as Belduar’s leader, and yet there was no one better suited. Oleg was a kind man with a keen sense of purpose. He cared for the people. He was also sharp as a blade and quick as a whip, though he often pretended that wasn’t the case.
“High Commander Hoard.” The two Rakina who had accompanied the army – Atara Anthalin and Harken Holdark – strode towards Tarmon. It was the elf, Atara, who had called to him. She pressed a closed fist to her leather jerkin, a coat of mail clinking beneath. “Harken and I will scout the area while the first watch gets in place. We would take fifty bodies with us, if it pleases.”
“Of course, Rakina. Take as many as you need. Talk to Ingvat. She’s on the western edge of the camp. She’ll assign you scouts.”
“I would take some of the Dvalin also. They move quicker.”
Tarmon nodded. The Dvalin Angan were not his to command, but Matriarch Varthon had said they would do what was needed.
Atara gave her thanks and she and Harken set off towards the camp’s western edge.
Harken looked as though he had been bred from a bear. Even Tarmon had to lift his chin a little to meet the man’s gaze. During the Battle of Aravell, Tarmon had watched him snap a soldier’s leg in half with a single kick and lift a man clean off his feet with the throw of a spear. And yet, it was Atara who Tarmon was most thankful to have marching with them, a living legend long before the fall of The Order. The Blade of Anadín, Therin had called her. And after seeing her fight with his own eyes, Tarmon could understand why. She was singular with a blade in her hand. He would go as far as to say the things he’d seen her do should not have been possible. Even in sparring she had taken down Tarmon, Erik, Calen, and Vaeril at the same time without a single blow landing against her. She moved like a bird and struck like a hammer.
When Tarmon had been appointed Lord Captain of the Belduaran Kingsguard, it had been the proudest day of his life. He’d only wished that same appointment hadn’t required Baria Hawe’s death in the First Battle for Belduar. Now, he stood at the head of an army with figures quite literally pulled from the annals deferring to him. He let out a long breath, the fading winter air turning it to steam. He whispered to himself, “I need a drink.”
Tarmon found Vaeril, Lyrei, Erik, and Dann sitting by a copse of fir trees near the centre of camp. Drunir was tethered to a post with his muzzle buried in a bucket of water, Dann’s squire, Nala, brushing the horse’s coat. Like Tarmon, that horse had come all the way from Belduar. Even if he hadn’t already known, the grey-dappled black coat would have given it away. It was an Albireenan, a rare breed that could trace its lineage back to Terroncia, though the few hundred that remained were reared only in Belduar. That Therin had arranged for one to be given to Dann said a lot about what the elf thought of the young man. A strange thought crossed Tarmon’s mind that Drunir may in fact be the last Albireenan in the known world.
“Ah, there he is.” Erik, seated cross-legged on a rock, inclined his head at Tarmon. “We thought you’d gotten stuck helping pitch the tents. I hope they’re faster at taking down than they were at setting up.”
“Just doing a last round.” Tarmon nudged Erik in the back with his knee as he passed, sending Erik sliding to the dirt. “As you should have been doing.”
“Bastard.” Erik brushed the soil from his knees, returning to his rocky perch. “I was busy making sure that damn bird didn’t kill Dann.”
“Don’t talk about that fucking bird.” Dann knelt by a pile of dried logs, twigs, and leaves, sparking quenched steel with flint.
Tarmon leaned into Erik, then sat beside him. “Did you bring that bottle of Raven’s Ichor Kiko gave you?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Erik grabbed Tarmon’s shoulder for leverage, heaved himself upright, and vanished into the tent behind him.
“What did the bird do?” Tarmon asked.
Both Vaeril and Lyrei broke out in the kind of fierce, rumbling laughter that felt strange to hear from elves.
Dann shook his head as the two continued chuckling.
“Anyone going to tell me?” Tarmon asked, genuinely curious now.
A hand rested on his shoulder, and Erik shoved a clear glass bottle of black liquid into his hand.
“Well,” Erik said while setting himself down beside Tarmon, “it appears that weka took quite a liking to Dann, followed him the whole way here.”
Tarmon pulled the stopper from the bottle and breathed in the sweet and spicy anise scent. He took a swig, grimacing as the burn spread from his throat and through his body, wrapping him in a warm blanket.
He handed the bottle back to Erik. “Do I want to ask what happened?”
“The little shit stole one of my shirts while I was pitching the tent.” Sparks flew from the quenched steel, and the branches and twigs caught fire. Dann dropped back onto his arse, setting down the flint and steel and exhaling into the night. “I liked that shirt.”
Behind Dann, Drunir snorted, stomping a foot.
Dann threw his hands in the air. “Even the damn horse is laughing at me.”
Everyone around the fire erupted in laughter. Even Dann cracked a smile.
“What news of the path to Salme?” Vaeril asked once the laughter subsided.
“Reports have Uraks swarming the Illyanara plains. The smaller groups will likely stay clear of us for the most part, but we’re bound to find trouble sooner or later. Atara and Harken have gone to scout for tonight, but I may need you to take some bodies and move ahead of the column tomorrow.”
“Done.” The elf looked as though he were about to speak again before his eyes narrowed and he looked at something near Dann.
Tarmon followed Vaeril’s gaze. The weka had returned and was now stalking around Dann’s tent, its head bobbing back and forth.
“Dann.” Tarmon pursed his lips.
“What?” Dann raised a curious eyebrow.
“You might want to…” Tarmon nodded over Dann’s shoulder towards the weka that was now nudging aside the flap to Dann’s tent with its long beak, peering inside.
Dann turned, leapt to his feet, and charged the bird. “Little shit! Get away!”
The weka cocked its head to the side and scuttled away, rounding Dann with surprising speed and darting back towards Tarmon and the others. The bird stopped just short of the fire and stared at the flint and quenched steel Dann had left in the grass.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” Dann leapt, but the bird was too quick. The weka snatched the piece of flint into its beak and bolted off into the night like a man who’d just been caught with someone else’s wife.
Dann stopped for a moment, his gaze flickering from the group to the escaping weka. He dashed into his tent, then emerged a few seconds later with a quiver strapped to his hip and his white wood bow in his hands.
“We’re breaking the fast with weka tomorrow,” he called as he charged off after the bird.
Erik stared after Dann, then handed the bottle of Raven’s Ichor back to Tarmon. “One copper says the bird steals something else from him before he makes it back.”
Dann wiped the cold sweat from his brow as he trudged back into the camp. That damn bird was faster than it looked, and it was almost impossible to see in the night.
“I’ll get the bastard,” he whispered to himself, his bow hanging loose in his left hand. He grimaced as he stepped into a particularly waterlogged patch of grass, mud squelching, the water seeping into his sock.
“Catch it?” Erik asked when Dann made it back to the campfire. Three of the captains – Surin, Narthil, and Sylehna – had joined the others, but Lyrei was missing. “Did it… wait, Dann, where’s your shoe?”
“Don’t ask.” Dann dropped himself in front of the fire, pulling off his remaining shoe and both socks and letting the flames warm his feet. He set his bow down beside him, shifting the quiver at his hip as he stared into the flames and laid out his next plan in his mind.
He would catch that bird, no matter the cost. Well, perhaps that was a little dramatic. He would catch that bird as long as the costs were minimal.
Tarmon sat upright with an amused grin on his lips, his eyebrows raised curiously. “Dann, did the bird steal your shoe?”
“No.”
“Then where’s your shoe?”
“I didn’t need it anymore,” Dann said with a shrug.
“The bird stole your shoe.”
Dann clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “It didn’t steal the shoe. It borrowed the shoe… without asking… and with no intention to return it.”
“That’s stealing, Dann.”
“You know what, Tarmon?” Dann stood, snatching up his bow, socks, and remaining shoe. “You better watch out, because I’m going to steal your fucking shoe.”
The group erupted in laughter, and Vaeril called as Dann made to leave. “Dann?”
“What?” Dann called back, allowing the exasperation to seep into his voice.
“Did you bring spare shoes?”
Once again, they all burst out in fits of laughter. Erik laughed so hard he started coughing and fell on his side.
“If you keep chasing that bird,” he said through watering eyes, “you’re going to be naked by the time we reach Salme.”
“Ah, fuck off!” More laughter rang out as Dann stormed off to his tent, glancing at Nala, who was still brushing Drunir’s mane.
He pushed through the flap in the tent and tossed his shoe and socks to the ground, letting out a string of curses as they squelched against each other. He laid his bow down on his cot, then snatched the skin beside his bed and popped the stopper. He let out a sigh of relief after taking a deep draught of the cold mead within – the taste of home.
“Commander Sureheart?” a squeaky voice called from the tent’s entrance.
“What?” Dann felt a twinge of guilt at the irritation in his voice when he turned to see young Nala standing there, her hands clasped before her.
The girl had barely seen fifteen summers, and she had the soft accent of Carvahon. For a moment, it looked as though she would bolt from the tent in tears, but she stood firm.
“I’m sorry, Nala. It’s been a long day.” Dann stoppered the skin and tossed it onto his cot, giving Nala his full attention. “What is it?”
Nala swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “Drunir has been fed and watered. I also heated some water over the fire for you.” She gestured towards two wooden buckets, steam wafting from within, that sat in the corner of the tent. “There are towels by your pillow.”
Dann let out a sigh, feeling like an idiot. “Thank you, Nala. Do I smell that bad?”
“No, my lord, I didn’t mean?—”
“It was a joke,” Dann said, smiling. “Thank you. Please, blanket Drunir, make sure he’s comfortable, and then get some sleep. We march early.”
“Yes, Commander Sureheart.”
“Nala,” Dann called as the girl made to leave. “Where did you hear that name?”
“Commander Ilyin, my lord.”
Vaeril . Dann nodded. “Good night, Nala.”
“Night, my lord.”
Dann let out a long sigh and dropped himself to his haunches beside the nearest bucket of steaming water. He removed his shirt and splashed his face and body, running his hands through his hair. He was used to being called ‘strange’, ‘arsehole’, ‘idiot’, and whatever other name a person could conjure, but ‘my lord’ was a new one.
He scrubbed the dirt from his face and hands, then dropped to his knees and cleaned his feet, sighing in relief as the hot water chased the cold from his bones.
The girl – Nala – was sweet and far too young to be marching with the army. Though as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he realised that he had only seen about five summers more than she. So much had happened in the last couple of years. He was barely the same person he had been.
As he knelt there, Dann ran the pads of his fingers over the knotted scar that covered his left shoulder and collarbone. He had acquired myriad other scars in all shapes and sizes since then, marking his arms, chest, back, and legs with pale, smooth skin. But the mark the Fade had left on him in the great hall of Belduar would be the one that stayed with him forever.
His mind drifted to the Fade in the Aravell. The monster that had killed Alea and Baldon. The words it had spoken when it held him by the throat. “Ahh… I thought it might be you. I never forget a face – or a mark.”
Dann had pondered those words constantly since that night. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he was absolutely certain it was the same Fade that had almost killed him in Belduar. It wore a different face, spoke with a different voice, but it had been the same one.
He shook his head and splashed more warm water on his face.
Footsteps sounded behind him, accompanied by a draught sweeping in through the open tent flap.
“What is it, Nala?” Dann rose, drying his face with the towel. When the girl didn’t answer, he turned. “Lyrei? What… Is that my shoe? And my shirt?”
Lyrei stood in the tent’s entrance, a shirt draped over her shoulder and Dann’s missing shoe in her hand. She wore a white tunic trimmed with purple and a pair of tan trousers. Her blonde hair, now far longer than it had been when he’d first met her, was loose over her shoulders.
She set the shoe and shirt on the edge of Dann’s cot. “I didn’t want you getting yourself killed trying to find the shirt… I wasn’t expecting to find a shoe.”
“Damn bird. It’s smarter than it looks.” Dann laughed, drying his hair with the towel. “You didn’t find my flint?”
Lyrei rummaged through her pocket and produced the piece of flint and placed it down beside the shirt. “They always store the things they take. If you follow them, you can find their nests. Though they don’t usually stray this far from the Aravell. I think it likes you.”
“It has a strange way of showing it.” Dann picked up the skin full of mead and offered it to Lyrei.
She took it without question, popped the stopper, and drained a mouthful, wiping her lips with the sleeve of her tunic.
“It’s Lasch’s mead,” Dann said, watching her drink. “He said it will only keep for a few days, so I guess we’d be fools not to finish it.”
To Dann’s surprise, Lyrei stepped towards him and reached out with her free hand, gently brushing her fingers over the twisted scar across his shoulder.
Dann made to speak, but no words came forth.
Lyrei’s touch was warm against his skin. “This was from Belduar?”
“Mmh.” Dann relaxed his shoulders, looking down at the pale flesh that marked him. “The Fade’s lightning.”
“The one that killed Elissar…” Lyrei looked up, her golden eyes staring into his. She turned and sat on the ground, pulling her knees to her chest, her back pressing against the side of the cot.
Dann joined her as she took another mouthful of mead.
“When I said we’d be fools not to finish it,” he said, snatching the skin from Lyrei, “I did mean we , not just you.”
They sat there, drinking and saying very little until the skin was empty and Lyrei had fallen asleep, her head resting on Dann’s shoulder. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest with each breath, her cheek nuzzling into him. He was so worried about waking her that he didn’t move for what must have been the better part of an hour. If there had been a competition for best impersonation of a statue, he would have won. But then, eventually, as his back started to ache and the muscles in his side cramped, he shifted gently and scooped her up in his arms. She was heavier than she looked.
As Dann stood, one arm under Lyrei’s back, the other under her knees, he cradled her head to his chest. His heartbeat quickened. For some reason, holding Lyrei in his arms was more nerve-inducing than charging down a Fade.
He drew slow breaths, being careful not to wake her as he lay her down on the cot and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders.
For a moment, just a fraction of a second, as he looked down at Lyrei, the mead dulling his senses, he saw Alea. A lump caught in his throat. Dann had spent so long with the two sisters, he’d almost forgotten they were twins. To him they had never been difficult to tell apart, not even in the slightest.
Dann brushed a strand of hair from Lyrei’s face.
“I would have taken her place if I could have,” he whispered. And he would have. In a heartbeat. “I’m so sorry.”
Dann scanned the tent, spotting a pile of blankets stacked in the corner behind a candle. He’d have to let Nala ride Drunir for a while the next day.
He spread one of the blankets out on the ground and rolled a second up as a pillow, then lay down and pulled the third up over himself. He didn’t mind sleeping on the ground; he’d done it a hundred times, and the mead would dull the discomfort anyway.
Drawing a long breath into his lungs, Dann glanced at Lyrei. The elf let out a soft groan, shifting in place and pulling the blanket tighter over herself. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.
He rolled fully onto his back, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared up at the tent’s canopy for a moment before closing his eyes. He knew what he’d dream of that night: catching that damn bird.