44. Forged in Fire
Chapter 44
Forged in Fire
18 th Day of the Blood Moon
South of Midhaven – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Tarmon walked with his hands clasped behind his back, his warm breath misting in the winter air. Campfires crackled, and chatter floated on the wind. Three elven guards bearing Calen’s white dragon on their breastplates inclined their heads as they passed.
The mood in the camp was a strange one, but one Tarmon recognised well: bittersweet triumph.
In the week they had spent traversing Illyanara, marching every second they were gifted, they had fought four battles. One against Uraks, two against Lorian forces, and another against some emerging warlord who bit off more than he could chew. Such was their numbers advantage that they were never truly in danger of losing even once out of the four.
The second battle with the Lorians had been the most evenly matched. It had been a full Lorian army, some five thousand. Atara and her scouts had found them camped at the foot of a valley, headed south towards Valtara. But between the cover of night, the sheer number of elven mages, and Dann somehow managing to steal away with just over four hundred of the Lorian horses with nothing but a bow and a skin of Raven’s Ichor, the battle had been quicker work than it had any right to be. Dann had taken a minor wound to his leg in the midst of it all, though he acted as though he’d need an amputation.
Still, over the course of those days, they had lost about three hundred souls. Some human, some elves; mostly human. With an army this young, these battles were key to forging them into a single cohesive force that could withstand far greater tests, but it was a delicate balance. Many had travelled far and wide when Aeson had sent out the call, but they were not warriors. They were farmers, fishermen, blacksmiths, pedlars. The vast majority had not even held steel before arriving at the outskirts of the Darkwood. They had suffered, and they knew grief and pain, but death was not as familiar an acquaintance to them as it was to Tarmon. And watching someone die was not the same as killing them. Caught up in stories of the first free Draleid in four hundred years, of rebellion, of heroism and great deeds, they were only now learning the truth of war.
Tarmon paused for a moment, watching as a group of Dracur?n shared stories around a fire, elves and humans both. It was good to see smiles on faces. He allowed himself a moment to linger before setting off towards Dann’s tent.
“Shit, fucking, donkeydick motherfucker.” Dann stuck a leather strap into his mouth and bit down hard. He closed his eyes tight and pursed his lips, exhaling.
After a moment, he opened his left eye to see Lyrei staring at him in pure shock, a needle and catgut in one hand, her other hand pinching the flesh of his upper thigh.
“What?” he asked, still grimacing, both hands bunched into fists.
“Elven children complain less than you.” She shook her head, then passed the needle back through his skin without warning, eliciting a grunt. “It was you who insisted on having your wounds sewn by hand. One of the Healers could have seen to you if you were not such an infant.”
Dann ran his tongue across the front of his top teeth, biting back his words. “There are worse injured. I’m fine.”
“You’re fine?” As though making a point, Lyrei squeezed at the wound in Dann’s leg.
“Sweet fucking Elyara’s toes.” He slapped at Lyrei’s hand. “Really?”
“Small pleasures are hard to come by.” Lyrei gave Dann a mocking smile and carried on.
Dann leaned back on the bed with both his hands, looking up at the tent’s roof. “You enjoy my pain.”
“On the contrary…”
Dann tilted his head back down, and for a moment he found himself lost in the shifting gold of Lyrei’s eyes. Then the tent flap opened, and Nala shuffled in.
“Commander Sureheart… sir… my lord.” Her cheeks were flushed red, and she looked from Dann and Lyrei back to the tent’s opening. “I…”
Dann realised he sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but his smallclothes, raw, stitched wounds on his legs, neck, and arms. “What is it, Nala?”
Before the young porter could answer, Tarmon strode in, his armour replaced with a linen tunic, thick trousers, and a long coat. No matter what the man wore, he just looked like a tree with mountains for shoulders. Or a mountain with trees for shoulders. Dann couldn’t quite decide.
Tarmon looked to Nala and bowed at the waist. “Thank you, Nala.”
The young attendant stiffened and returned the bow, nodding repeatedly as though something had broken in her head.
“How is he?” Tarmon moved to stand by Lyrei’s side, staring down at the half-stitched gash that ran from close to Dann’s groin down to just above his knee. The armour Valdrin had crafted was a fine thing, and if he’d not been wearing it, his chest would have resembled a fishing net from all the holes.
“ He is right here,” Dann snapped, narrowing his eyes.
“As irritating as usual,” Lyrei said, driving the needle back through Dann’s skin so he couldn’t respond.
“To be expected.” Tarmon folded his arms, looking down at Dann like a disgruntled uncle might a nephew. “He’ll live?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Keep it up,” Dann said. “I swear to the gods.” He hissed as Lyrei ran the catgut through again. “If you ever want to see that shoe of yours again, I’d start being a lot nicer to me.”
“Keep it,” Tarmon said with a shrug. “Unlike you, I brought spares.”
“I know.” Dann tried his best to give Tarmon as menacing a look as possible. “Mikal told me.”
He’d made good friends with Tarmon’s attendant – or squire, as Tarmon had called him. And Mikal looked after all of Tarmon’s gear, including his boots and shoes.
For a second, Tarmon looked as though he were going to snap, but he collected himself and gave a downturn of his bottom lip. “The bird is back.”
“Fucking bird.” Dann pushed himself upright, face contorting as Lyrei drove the needle in again. “What did it take?”
“Well, it was last seen fleeing your tent with a pair of smallclothes in its beak.”
Dann flashed a look at Nala, who still stood by the tent flap. The young attendant lifted her gaze from the ground to meet Dann’s. Her cheeks went bright red, and she snapped her head back to staring at the tent floor.
“What do you want, Tarmon?”
“One of the farmers gave us twenty cows, hung and dried on their way to market in Midhaven, after we drove the Lorians off their land. It’s beef stew tonight. I was coming to see if you’d join us. Your stunt with the horses is making the rounds.”
“Mmh.” Dann grunted. “Once she’s done turning me into a human pin cushion.”
“Lyrei?” Tarmon raised an eyebrow.
Despite the promise of fresh beef, Lyrei took every slow second she could to finish the sewing on Dann’s leg, seeming to savour each pierce of the needle. As soon as she was finished, she wrapped it in a bandage, Dann threw on some clothes, and they made to leave.
Dann stopped at the tent flap, resting a hand on Nala’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, my lord.”
“For what?”
“I wasn’t watching the cart when we were setting up camp. The bird, I should have stopped it.”
Dann let out a laugh. “Go find Ingvat. She won’t be drinking. She’ll likely be at the guard post with Surin or Narthil on the northern edge of the camp. Tell her I’ve asked for her to procure you a bow, quiver, arrows, belts, some good boots, and a warm coat.”
“Yes, my lord… but, why, my lord?”
“Less of the ‘my lord’, Nala.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Dann pressed his hand to his face and squeezed his thumb and forefinger into the creases of his eyes, shaking his head. “We’ll work on that. You want to know why, Nala? Because we’re going to hunt that fucking bird.”
As Tarmon emerged from the tent, three young squires and four soldiers led a column of enormous black horses past a clutch of tents on the right. Those animals would be a welcome addition to the army. The elves had a strange aversion to horses, but Tarmon had no such qualms. A strong cavalry charge could turn the tide of any battle.
“Whoever rescued those beautiful creatures should be worshipped until his dying day,” Dann said as he emerged from the tent with Lyrei and Nala. He gave Tarmon a grin wide enough for a cart to pass through, then folded his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Well?”
“What?” Tarmon narrowed his eyes.
“We both know you didn’t make a trip out to my tent just to make sure I wouldn’t miss the beef. You would have sent Mikal – or just eaten my share yourself. What is it really?”
Tarmon suppressed a laugh and started walking. Dann had a higher capacity for idiocy than most anyone he knew, but the lad was far from stupid. “Queen Tessara asked us to join her for supper tonight. Vaeril asked me to get you, and I figured I’d better do it myself before you set off after that damn bird again.”
For a second, Dann looked as though he was going to argue, but a shrug followed. “Probably a good choice.”
“What else has it stolen from you now?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Dann looked off into the night, muttering to himself. The only words Tarmon caught were “Damn fucking bird.”
“I’m going to need you to be on your best behaviour when we eat with the queen.”
“Me? I’m always on my best behaviour.”
“Dann…”
“What?”
Dann looked left to Lyrei, who walked at his side, her head tilted and eyebrows raised.
“ What ?”
“You loosed an arrow past Ingvat’s head two nights ago while we were eating.”
“Yes, but?—”
“Then jumped through the fire shouting ‘I got the fucker.’”
“The… the bird. I almost got him. He was just…” Dann’s voice trailed off as Tarmon raised his eyebrows. “I see your point.”
“Good.” Tarmon stopped and let out a long sigh, resting his hand on Dann’s shoulder. For a moment, Tarmon thought about reminding Dann of his position. Dann was a commander in the rebellion now. Everything he did, every word that left his lips, reflected not only on himself, but also on Calen. But Dann knew. Behind all the jokes and all the humour, he knew.
Vaeril sat in the dirt with his legs crossed, a bowl of stew in one hand and a cup of wine balanced on his knee. The fire’s warmth drove the cold from his bones. Even at that moment, ünviril sat on the ground before him.
Dawnbringer.
He’d never wanted to be so far from any one single thing, and yet that one thing spent most of his waking hours strapped to his body. It seemed a cruel joke.
Not two feet from him, Queen Tessara Vaelen Alumír sat just as he did: legs crossed, a bowl of stew in one hand. At first glance, her clothes were simple. A long-sleeved tunic, trousers, boots, and a mantle clipped together by a silver broach in the shape of a star. All black with silver embellishments. Cut gems of jet were set into the polished silver circlet atop her head, a silver star at its fore. She wanted to appear as a queen of the people, sitting in the dirt with those not of royal blood, eating food from her lap, drinking wine from a wooden cup. And yet, every single item she wore was carefully chosen to signal who she was and the power she wielded. To make others feel grateful she deigned to honour them with her presence. There were layers in everything.
Vaeril knew little of Queen Tessara. But she was Vaelen, and she played the games well, as was becoming of any ruler of Vaelen.
Her Ephorí, Dumelian, sat at her side. Though, judging by the way he kept shifting uncomfortably and pulling faces at the dirt, he would have been far more comfortable at a table with a silver plate.
Many others sat about the fire at the queen’s invitation also.
King Galdra had sent his Ephorí, Thuriv?r, to act as commander of the elves pledged by Lunithír, while Queen Uthrían had sent Baralas. Both elves sat across the fire, eating quietly, their personal guards arranged around them.
Thuriv?r was a stark contrast to Queen Tessara, all blazing gold where she was shrouded in black. His golden silk shirt – ornamented with rubies – was paired with stiff maroon trousers, and his dark hair was swept back from his temples and tied with gold string. Opulence was a weapon the kingdom of Lunithír had long wielded. Gold and crimson were their colours, the mighty stag their crest.
Baralas was garbed as though he were a ranger of Aravell. A thick brown leather cuirass covered his chest, while a deep green cloak hung about his shoulders, his sword still belted at his hip. His part in this theatre of politicking was that of a warrior who fought alongside the common elf. Though, if Vaeril was being fair, Baralas had not shied away from the battles. He had thrown himself into the thick and bore a new scar along the right side of his chin for it, along with bruises that ran all about his neck. His leathers were neither polished nor pristine. They bore the marks and wear of well-used armour. And they fit him well, which meant they were likely his own. Vaeril respected him, even if he didn’t like him very much.
The young smith, Valdrin, had travelled with them also. Both Calen and Therin had attempted to convince him otherwise, but he had been quite insistent that he see how his armour performed in the field. He sat alone, his wine untouched, his entire focus on the journal in his lap as he sketched new designs for not just armour, but livery, banners, weapons, and all manner of things.
Besides Tessara and the Ephorí, Atara and Harken ate to Vaeril’s right, while Dann, Tarmon, Lyrei, and Erik sat on his left. He was not sure how to express it, but having them there, having his Vandasera by his side, meant a great deal to him. It brought him honour, but also comfort.
The only ones missing were Gaeleron and Calen – and Alea. Calen, the one who bound them all together. Since crossing paths with Calen Bryer, Vaeril had barely been apart from the man. Even chained in Arisfall, they had not been this far from one another.
It was a strange thing. Once, Calen had been his oath. Now, the man was his brother. No longer a responsibility, now a privilege. And now Calen and Valerys were alone, flying from Arkalen to Ilnaen, and there was nothing Vaeril could do to keep them safe. He was honoured to be leading this army alongside the others, to protect Calen’s home as Calen had protected his, but he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t rather be at Calen’s side.
Besides, he hated being a piece in the game of kings and queens. And around this fire, that’s all he was.
Queen Tessara caught Vaeril’s eye, a cup of wine in her hand, her bowl of stew finished and already being carried away by a young attendant. “You fought well today,” she said. “You brought much honour to Vaelen.”
“The honour is mine, Myia’nari.”
“Seeing you wield ünviril against the same souls who destroyed our world… It was a special thing. An elf of our kingdom, wielding the new dawn and bearing the sigil of the first free Draleid in centuries. The bralgír will tell stories of you, Vaeril Ilyin.”
Vaeril cast a furtive glance at the silver star pommel of the sword at his hip. He took a last mouthful of the flavourful stew, then placed the bowl on the ground. “The bralgír will have many stories to tell from this age, Myia’nari. I do not believe there will be time to tell mine.”
Before the queen could respond, an excessively long and wet slurping noise cut through the campfire. Vaeril turned to see Dann holding his bowl of stew to his lips, glistening beads of grease clinging to the stubble that surrounded his mouth.
Dann’s eyes widened, the bowl still pressed to his lips, as he realised everyone was staring at him. He carried on.
“Thank you for having us around your fire tonight.” Tarmon gestured towards Queen Tessara, a flash of irritation on his face at Dann.
Vaeril held back a smile.
“You are most welcome.” It was not Queen Tessara who spoke, but Thuriv?r. The queen didn’t say anything, but her eyes betrayed her. “If we are to fight in the same wars, we should ‘break the same bread’, so to speak. The stew you eat is an old Lunithíran recipe from when my people held sway over everything they could touch from Ilnaen to the foothills of Mar Dorul in northern Lynalion, back when we had the land to raise cattle. It’s been almost three hundred and fifty years since I last tasted beef. Nowadays the stew is typically made with venison or boar, but this—” he gestured down at the drained bowl of stew in his hands “—there is nothing quite like beef in a good Milaríse. I only wish my son and daughter were here to taste it.” For a fraction of a second, Thuriv?r’s unreadable expression cracked. “They were born after The Fall.”
“Where are they now?”
Vaeril clenched his jaw at Tarmon’s question. He knew Tarmon was only trying to find common ground, but he also knew the Ephorí never gave information freely unless it was for a purpose.
“Iyana passed into Heraya’s embrace long ago, taken by the Astyrlína.” Thuriv?r sucked in the sides of his cheeks, staring into the flames before him. “My son, Thronil, fell during the battle for the city. Dragonfire.”
“My apologies, Thuriv?r… I didn’t mean to…”
Tarmon stopped speaking as Thuriv?r held up an open hand and shook his head. “You have lost family, Tarmon Hoard. I can see it in everything you do. And neither you nor I are alone in that. Loss is what binds us. A common grief, a common enemy.”
The candour with which Thuriv?r spoke surprised Vaeril, but Vaeril still didn’t trust the tenor of his voice. There was something searching in it, something pointed.
Tarmon raised his cup of wine, the fire casting a warm orange glow on his face. “To those we’ve lost.”
“To those we’ve lost,” chorused the others, mimicking Tarmon’s gesture and drinking from their cups.
Out of the corner of his eye, Vaeril saw the tips of Queen Tessara’s fingers go white as she gripped her cup. That was it then. That was the game they were playing. Who could ingratiate themselves more with Calen’s highest commander. There was always a game, always an advantage being sought.
Baralas had been quiet up until that point, but he lifted his cup once more. “Nur temen vie’ryn valana. Din dauva v?rakanra i’lanír. Din vi?l v?rakanra glinmatar.” The Ephorí held his cup in the air, allowing the silence to settle. “In the Common Tongue, ‘for those we have lost. Your death will not be in vain. Your life will not be forgotten.’”
Vaeril lifted his cup along with the others and repeated Baralas’s words. Baralas’s voice held none of the practiced theatrics that Thuriv?r’s did. The sorrow was genuine, the words not just another carefully chosen sentiment. A rare vulnerability amongst those in the higher echelons. Though, Baralas was an Ephorí of Ardur?n and so had been instructed in the art of politicking while still in his mother’s womb, so Vaeril could have been mistaken. But he didn’t feel as though he was.
“There is another matter that must be discussed,” Queen Tessara said after a few minutes of silence. “Dumelian informs me that our scouts report word that the human city of Camylin remains under heavy Urak siege. The city is blockaded, and the Uraks have set fortified encampments. The siege has lasted since before the Blood Moon rose, and food will soon be short.”
“With respect, Inari.” Thuriv?r inclined his head, barely, the smooth gold silk of his shirt glowing in the firelight. “We knew Camylin was under siege before we left. This is not new information. Our course remains unchanged. We must skirt the blockade, keeping our distance, and fight our way through to this city of Salme.”
“To hear that a child starves on the other side of the world is a terrible thing, is it not?” Queen Tessara asked, raising an eyebrow.
Thuriv?r returned the queen’s gaze, a hint of caution in his eyes. “Of course.”
Tessara’s expression remained unchanged. “If you heard a child was starving, would it move you to cross two thousand miles to place food in their belly?”
Vaeril saw where the queen was going, but he wasn’t sure Thuriv?r did. He cast a glance at Erik, Tarmon, Dann, and Lyrei. None of the four had said a word, but they all watched. Even Valdrin had stopped his sketching.
“Of course not,” Thuriv?r answered. “The child would be dead before I arrived. What is your point?”
Tarmon shifted in his place, crossing his arms and drawing in a long breath. “Her point is that to hear of something and to witness something are two separate things. You would not cross two thousand miles to feed a starving child you have never met. But if you watch that same child starve before your eyes, you would give them your last morsel. We already knew of the siege, but now we are about to march past the starving child.”
A broad smile stretched Tessara’s lips, and she bowed her head deeply to Tarmon.
“Mmh…” Thuriv?r shrugged, opening his palms out. “It matters little. Pretty metaphors aside, there is nothing we can do. If we throw our forces against the Uraks at Camylin, we will not have the numbers to relieve Salme. And even if we did, Camylin’s garrison is Lorian. Would we give our blood to save soldiers who would put us to the spear?”
“The garrison might be Lorian, but the people are Illyanaran,” Dann said, joining the conversation. As soon as the words had left his lips, Dann looked unsure of himself.
“And what would you have us do, Commander Pimm?” Thuriv?r emphasised Dann’s name and his rank, amusement in his voice.
“I don’t know. But we can’t just leave them to die…”
“So you would have us die in their stead?”
“No… that’s not what I meant. I… no.”
“Come now, surely with your vast experience leading warriors into battle you have a plan? You have seen death like I have, have you not? You understand the weight of sending souls to die? Or I suppose not. One so young.” He smiled and raised his hands with a false smile on his lips. “With a head full of ideals.”
Erik shifted in place, jaw clenching. The man glared at Thuriv?r.
“Nothing to say, Commander Pimm?” Thuriv?r continued. “Usually, you are so full of words.”
“Watch your tongue,” Erik snapped, leaning forwards, his stare fixed on the Ephorí.
“There feels like a threat in those words, Commander Virandr. Are you prepared to?—"
“ Enough .” Vaeril had never seen Tarmon angry, truly angry. Until now. Perhaps to others there was little more than a stiffness in his voice. But Vaeril had grown to know the man. He could see the twitch in Tarmon’s jaw, his pale knuckles as he squeezed his cup, and the way he refused to look at Thuriv?r. Tarmon glanced at Queen Tessara. “We cannot spare the time nor the lives to break Camylin’s siege. We do not know how long Salme’s defences will hold, and Salme is our priority.” He pondered for a moment, his jaw relaxing, the anger seeming to fade. “We are now in possession of some four hundred horses, with no small thanks to Commander Pimm. I will arrange for outriders to harass the Urak lines as we pass. A hundred well organised riders can cause havoc and may just buy Camylin the time it needs. Once Salme is safe and Calen has rejoined us, we can reassess. I do not wish to leave the men and women in that city to die, but war is nothing more than a series of impossible choices, and we do what we must.”
Tarmon drew a long, deep breath, then pulled himself to his feet. He gestured to Vaeril and the others before bowing slightly in Tessara’s direction. “We thank you for the food, and the wine, and the conversation. But it is late and we have many injured, and we rise with the sun. I fear sleep calls us.”
The queen bowed her head in return, then gestured to Dumelian. “We have Healers we can spare. Please show Dumelian to your wounded. He will make the arrangements.”
There seemed to be a hint of satisfaction in her voice. Vaeril was still learning the subtleties of his new queen, but she appeared to favour a direct approach.
“Du haryn myia vrai, Inari.”
You have my thanks, Queen.
Vaeril smiled as the words left Tarmon’s lips. As soon as the army had left Aravell, Tarmon had asked Vaeril to school him in the Old Tongue. It didn’t come as naturally to the man as it did to Calen, but Tarmon had practiced night and day since they’d set out, and his pronunciation had improved tenfold. The man’s determination was admirable.
“Din vrai é atuya sin’vala, Harindavír. Ata’é din ordis.”
Your thanks are welcome here, High Commander. As are your words.
Vaeril’s smile widened further at the queen’s response. Not because her words brought him joy, but because he knew Tarmon didn’t understand most of them judging by the falter in his stare.
The man inclined his head in response, then made to leave, but stopped. He looked back for half a second as though pondering something, then turned, his stare falling on Thuriv?r.
The Ephorí raised an amused eyebrow, his lips still curled in a laugh.
“Our cultures are different, Thuriv?r. I respect that.” He walked slowly past the fire until he reached Thuriv?r, coming to a halt barely a foot away. The seated elf had to crane his neck to look up at Tarmon’s looming bulk. “But I need you to understand something. Where I was born, we do not talk in twisted riddles and half-truths, not to those we would call friend. We talk plainly and simply. If you have a problem, you say it outright. You don’t cover it in sugar and lace it with venom.”
He tilted his head to the side, then dropped to his haunches before the Ephorí. Thuriv?r’s guards shifted, but the elf gestured them back.
Tarmon glanced at each guard in turn, then looked back to Thuriv?r and held his stare for a long moment. At last, he drew in a breath through his nose and exhaled slowly. “So let me speak simple and plain. If you dare mock one of my commanders like that again, disrespect them in any way, I will stick my boot so far up your arse we will see if your shit is as gold as your shirt.”
“So, is sleep truly calling us?” The silence as they’d walked through the camp had driven Dann insane. Thoughts were not things to be left alone with. They were dangerous little bastards that deserved all the caution in the world.
“No.” Tarmon shook his head but didn’t stop. “We’re going to get piss drunk and pass out under the stars.”
“Tarmon Hoard, why do you always say such beautiful things?”
Tarmon only grunted in response.
Erik grabbed Dann by the shoulder. He shook his head in disbelief as though staring at a three-headed goat. “What is wrong with you?”
“How long do you have? My father always said it was easier to say what wasn’t wrong with me. I think I hit my head when I was a baby. That or my mam dropped me.”
“Stop. Stop fucking around. This isn’t the time for it, Dann. We’re at war. We’ve lost hundreds just in the days it’s taken us to get this far. Can you comprehend that? People in this army have lost friends, brothers, sisters. And you prance around acting like the world is nothing but sunshine and flowers.”
“Which is why it’s precisely the time for it.” The others had stopped and were now watching, along with a number of guards wearing Calen’s sigil. Tarmon motioned them on. “What’s wrong, Erik? What did I do to make you this angry?”
“No…” Erik glanced at his hand, realising how tightly he had been gripping Dann’s shoulder. Releasing him, Erik stepped back and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry… I’m not angry at you. I just… How are you not furious? How can you make light of everything , all the time? We all saw what Thuriv?r was doing. Poking you, prodding you, mocking you.”
Dann shrugged. “True. But I think Tarmon dealt with that, did he not? ‘We will see if your shit is as gold as your shirt.’ Gods, I wish it was me who’d said that. That was beautiful. The man is a mountain with a poet’s heart.”
“Dann.” Erik twisted his tongue in his mouth, the frustration visible on his face.
Dann let out a sigh, staring off at a row of tents to his right, torch flames blowing in the wind. “What good would it have done to be furious, Erik? Thuriv?r wanted me to get angry. He wanted me to lose my senses so he could mock me even more. So he could laugh at the ‘emotional human’. At the young man who doesn’t deserve his place. Why? I don’t know, for his own amusement perhaps. Elves think they speak in riddles, but they overestimate themselves.” Dann gestured to Vaeril, who stood only a few feet away. “No offence intended, Vaeril.”
“A little taken.”
Dann continued. “I refused to give him what he wanted. And then Tarmon called him out plain, and now he looks like a fool in front of the others. I don’t know about you, but I’d call that a victory. The elven kings and queens and their Ephorí like to play their little games. They like to twist their words – and yours – and make you squirm, make you feel weak and helpless. But their flaw is that they always think they are the only ones who can do it, the only ones smart enough to play their games. If Thuriv?r thinks I’m an idiot, so be it. I like it that way. Now, can we stop talking about that gold-covered shit stain and go get pissed?”
Tarmon stood with his arms folded, an almost-empty cup of wine in his left hand, watching the men, women, and elves dancing around the fire as a pair of elves sang while playing the lute and violin.
He lifted the cup to his nose and breathed deeply. All his life he’d only ever drunk Belduaran wine. Trade was a crucial part of Belduar’s survival, and imported wine was low on the list of essential goods. That wine had been light and fruity, sweet almost. The wine he held in his hand was an entirely different beast. It was deep, dark, and bold. It left his mouth dry, and the flavours seemed to change and shift as the liquid sat on his tongue. He turned to Vaeril, who stood beside him with his own cup. Vaeril had not offered the bottle to anyone else, and Tarmon had a feeling it was slightly more special than the elf was letting on. “Where did you say this was from?”
“A vineyard in the western section of Aravell. Though the grapes come from a place long dead. It was a gift from Queen Tessara.” Vaeril watched the others dance and sing, his head tilted slightly to the side. Something that wasn’t quite a smile brought warmth to his features as he watched Lyrei, Dann, and Erik twirling about with the others. He looked back at Tarmon. “Thuriv?r will neither forget nor forgive what you said earlier.”
“Good. I meant it. We’re all on the same side of this war. Elves of all three kingdoms are pledged to Calen, wear his sigil, fight in his name. I don’t care who that snot-nosed golden prick is, but I’ve not time for his shit.”
Vaeril gave a half-smile, touching the rim of the wooden cup to his lips and laughing.
“What?”
“I’ve just never heard one of the Ephorí referred to as a ‘snot-nosed golden prick’.”
Tarmon laughed at that himself. “Fuck.”
Vaeril raised an eyebrow.
“I think Dann’s rubbing off on me.”
They both guffawed at that, but Vaeril’s laughter quickly died as a group of five elves approached and bowed deeply. They spoke words in the Old Tongue, bowed again, then moved on to join the drinking and dancing.
Vaeril’s mood soured after that.
“May I ask a question of the heart?” Tarmon wasn’t sure if he’d said the words correctly, particularly given the surprise on Vaeril’s face.
The elf allowed himself a smile once more, one that broke into a soft laugh. “You’re learning quickly.”
Tarmon shook his head. “I’ve had a good teacher.”
Vaeril laughed softly, sipping at his wine. “Ask your question.”
“Ever since Tessara gifted you that sword—” Tarmon gestured at the star-pommelled sword strapped to Vaeril’s hip “—you’ve been different. Darker. Why?”
Vaeril looked down at the sword, his lips thinning. He drained his cup, then refilled it from the glass bottle resting on the satchel at his feet. “As you’ve seen, my people love to play games. To twist and manipulate. To work with strings in the shadows. This sword is nothing more than another string, another piece on their board. On the surface, it is the highest of honours, but in truth, it is a chain around my neck. A chain that ties me to Tessara and her to Calen through me.”
Vaeril set his wine cup down and unbuckled his belt, then handed the sword and scabbard to Tarmon.
The scabbard alone was a work of art. The body was black leather marked with stars and coiling tree branches. Both the locket and the chape were worked from polished silver. The pommel was shaped into a silver star and looked as though it would smash through a skull with little effort.
“This blade, ünviril, is the most legendary weapon in my people’s history. I am as deserving of it as I am of a crown. Not two years past I had barely been raised to full ranger, and now I am the Champion of Vaelen? Do you know what Elyin Shadvír did with this blade to earn that title? He forged Vaelen from a High House into a kingdom. He single-handedly turned the tide of a war. He altered the relationship between our peoples beyond measure. He was not simply a hero, he was a true legend, almost a myth. I was told stories of his deeds when I was but a child. I am not fit to bear ünviril, never mind wield it, and I’m not the only one who knows it. It’s a two-edged blade, honour and shame both. And I’m trapped between the two. Every elf that sees me wear this weapon at my hip knows that it was given to me solely because of my connection to Calen, that I do not deserve it.”
“It’s a funny thing about legends,” Tarmon said as he ran his finger along the silver pommel. “They’re only legends after the fact. At the time, they’re nothing more than people.”
He handed the sword back to Vaeril, who took it hesitantly.
“Wield that blade beside these warriors in battle. Guard their lives with it, carve the path forward with it. You’ll soon find yourself worthy. Legends aren’t passed down, Vaeril. They’re forged. Nobody is worthy until they are.”
Vaeril strapped the scabbard back around his hip, then picked up his cup and tapped it against Tarmon’s.
“We’ve come a long way, you and I.” Tarmon sipped at his wine, thinking back.
“I’d never even left Aravell before meeting Calen.”
“I’d not even have survived Belduar if not for you.” Tarmon subconsciously fingered at the scar on his stomach. “First you pulled the arrow from my stomach, then you dragged me from the wreckage of the Wind Runner. You kept your calm in the tunnels, guided us down the side of Mount Helmund. Were it not for you, the N’aka would be picking our corpses clean in the Burnt Lands. Void, I figure we’d all be dead a dozen times over if you’d not been there. Whatever that sword means, whether you think you deserve it or not, I’m proud to call you brother.”
Vaeril returned Tarmon’s stare, then once again tapped his cup against Tarmon’s. “Vandasera, akar.”
Tarmon knew those words. Oathsworn, brother. He repeated them, then drank deeply.
After a while, Dann came twirling from the song and dance, releasing Lyrei, who spun away and grabbed Erik’s arm and carried on.
Dann doubled over, resting his hands on his knees and panting like a dying dog. He lifted his head, sweat streaming down his face and dripping off his chin. “Wine?”
Vaeril snorted with laughter, then poured a cup from his bottle and handed it to Dann.
Dann grunted and lifted himself into a more upright position before taking a deep mouthful. “Shit, that’s good. I love wine, did I ever tell you that? I’d not tasted it before Belduar… You know, when all this is over, I think I’ll settle down in the villages and plant vines, spend my years sipping wine and watching sunsets.” When neither Tarmon nor Vaeril spoke, Dann let out a long breath, then moved to stand between them. He shook his head as he watched the dancing and singing. “Not going to join?”
“We march with the rising sun. I can either have a sore head or be tired, I can’t do both. I choose the sore head.” Tarmon took a deep drink of his wine to emphasise his point.
“Spoken like an old man.”
“Spoken like a man who’s responsible for the lives of almost five thousand souls. Besides, you’re dancing enough for all of us.”
“We’re alive,” Dann said with a shrug, taking a draught of the wine. “Not everyone who woke this morning can say that. You never know which dance will be your last.”
“Between what you said to Erik earlier and that, one would almost think you’ve become wise, Dann Pimm.”
“Almost? I’m a veritable sage. Honestly, what I said earlier were just things Therin taught me. I figure if I repeat everything he says word for word, someone’s bound to think I’m the one who came up with it. I actually miss having the old walking chastisement around. He’s not as crusty as he lets on. Well, not as crusty as you anyway.”
“Dann?”
“Shut up?”
“Shut up.”
“See, you’re even talking like Therin now.” He looked back at Tarmon, all mirth leaving his voice. “What you said to Thuriv?r. Thank you.”
“You’re a fuckwad, Dann. But you’re our fuckwad.”
“Tarmon, what in the gods is a fuckwad?”
Before Tarmon could conjure an answer, Dann leaned forwards and narrowed his eyes, staring at something to the left of the fire.
Tarmon followed Dann’s gaze to see the stumpy little bird that had been harassing the man weaving and bobbing through a group of dancing soldiers. The thing moved with surprising nimbleness. Then Tarmon realised what it held in its beak: a sock.
“That feather-covered little shitsmear.”
“Dann, it’s just a bird.”
“That’s no bird,” Dann said, draining the remainder of his wine and setting his cup down, never taking his eyes off the bird. “That’s a demon covered in feathers. Its sole purpose is destruction and terror… and it has my sock. This is where I leave you both. We all have our destinies. This is mine.”
As Dann tiptoed off, Lyrei came swinging out of the crowd and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking her head. “No.”
“It’s got my sock. This needs to end, Lyrei. There isn’t room enough for both of us in this world.”
Lyrei cupped her hands on either side of Dann’s face, staring into his eyes. “ No. ”
“But…”
She shook her head again.
Dann looked from Lyrei to the bird, who was slowly slipping away. With a sigh, he acquiesced and followed the elf back into the dancing, continuously casting his gaze back over his shoulder.
“Do you think he’s had enough wine?” Tarmon asked.
“Calen once told me that with each drink Dann becomes a new person. From what I remember, this sounds like nine drink Dann.”
“Well…” Tarmon held out his cup. “If it please, I’d like to become six drink Tarmon.”