45. The Rusty
Chapter 45
The Rusty Shell
18 th Day of the Blood Moon
Salme – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
By the time night fell, Erdhardt was already awake again. He’d never needed much sleep. Always retired long after Aela and woke when she did. Her voice had been his morning bells, her warmth his sliver of the rising sun. Now he woke quiet and cold.
He grunted as he slipped on a shirt and trousers, the sutures along a cut on his back splitting, the blood seeping into the fabric. Anya had been sleeping when he’d gone to see her. The man from ?lm had done what he could, but his hand was half as deft as Anya’s and there were more injured than he knew what to do with. There were others who helped at the bloodhouse, but most were more used to tending pigs or sheep, not people. There were few things he wouldn’t have given to have Freis Bryer living and breathing. That woman had no equal when it came to the art of healing.
He ran his finger down the thick catgut stitching along his right arm before slipping on a long coat and boots. He slid his arms through the straps of his weapons belt and dropped his hammer into the loop on his back.
Erdhardt left his cabin and strode through the city, lanterns hanging on the ramparts, guards moving back and forth. With input from Erdhardt and the others, Dahlen had established watch and combat rotations to allow the city’s defenders to get some rest. Though Dahlen himself often ignored his nights of rest. Erdhardt couldn’t tell the man off as he was much the same. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so little.
Two sharp horn bursts would let the defenders know the Uraks were charging the walls. Three called for the resting rotation to be woken. In theory it was a sound plan, but few men or women could return to sleep knowing that Uraks attacked the walls and a battle was raging. So as soon as two horns blew, the city was awake.
Before long, Erdhardt found his way to The Rusty Shell. The place was older than The Gilded Dragon had been, built some two hundred years ago. And those added years in the world were clear in the rotting wood that plagued some of the floorboards and the grime built up on the stone – though Erdhardt doubted Lasch would ever have allowed The Gilded Dragon to suffer the same way. The roof had been leaking profusely when they’d first arrived, but a few weeks back, a thatcher who had travelled from Camylin had patched it up for a few tankards of ale.
Erdhardt found Tharn Pimm and Jorvill Ehrnin at the bar, nattering like old hens, Jorvill’s wife on the other side of the counter serving out ale and stew. The tavern’s proprietor, Shola Holten, had found herself bitterly outmanned when the refugees from across the western villages had flooded through the doors in search of something to ease their pain. And with the loss of The Glade – and her son – Paloma Ehrnin had been keen to find a task for her hands and mind.
Jorvill and Tharn slapped Erdhardt on the back in greeting, immediately dragging him into some conversation about the best wood to use for arrow shafts. A conversation for which he could not have had less interest.
“Ale?” Paloma Ehrnin gave him a sympathetic smile, drying her hands on a rag that she tossed over her shoulder.
“I’d love to say mead.”
She nodded in agreement, a sad soft nod. “If only.”
Both Lasch and Elia Havel had vanished from The Glade around the same time the Lorian soldiers had left. At first he’d thought they’d gone after Rist, but Lasch would never have gone without a word. The soldiers had taken them, that was a certainty in Erdhardt’s mind. But by the time he’d realised, it had been far too late. The one question that plagued him, though, was why . They’d not taken Tharn or Ylinda Pimm. It was a question he didn’t expect to ever be answered. And one that would plague him until Heraya finally let him rest.
Paloma dropped a full tankard of ale on the counter and waved away the coppers he offered, as she did every night he stepped through the door. “Keep those Uraks away from my tavern,” Shola Holten had said, “and you’ll not ever worry about a coin purse in here.”
It took all of ten seconds of Tharn Pimm talking about the merits of turkey feathers versus goose feathers when it came to fletching for Erdhardt to slowly extract himself from the conversation and pull away from the bar.
A hand stuck up amidst the swell of bodies.
Dahlen Virandr sat near the middle of the tavern, Nimara, Yoring, Thannon, and a number of others sitting at his side at a long rectangular table. The others who usually marched around with Dahlen must have been on watch.
“Feeling better now, old man?”
“Vibrant as a spring chicken.” Erdhardt bit down against a sharp pain in his knee as he took a seat on the bench across from Dahlen, Yoring shifting over to create space.
“Fellhammer.” Yoring tapped his tankard against Erdhardt’s, ale sloshing from one to the other. Erdhardt had fought side by side with Yoring and Almer on many nights, hard as iron the pair of them. Never in his days had he expected to meet a dwarf. They had retreated into the mountains since long before he was born, and now there he was drinking and fighting beside them. “May your fires never be extinguished and your blade never dull.”
“Nor yours, Master Dwarf.”
“Nobody’s ever called me master except for you, Fellhammer.”
“It’s a sign of respect in the villages.”
“Well, Master Fellhammer it is. Knees still aching?” He nodded to where Erdhardt was subconsciously rubbing the side of his knee.
Erdhardt nodded, squeezing. “Only when I stop moving. As long as I’m warm, it’s fine.”
“I know the feeling.” Yoring pulled the trouser of his left leg up past the knee to reveal a twisted patch of hairless flesh as big as a coin. “Arrow during the Burning of Belduar. Right through and out the back. Hurt like a kerathlin-fucker.” He lifted his tankard and pointed it at Dahlen. “Were it not for this son-of-a-goat I’d be nothing but another body on the city’s second wall.”
Erdhardt watched Dahlen as Yoring told the tale of how Almer and the young man had dragged him through the city and onto the Wind Runner while the Lorian forces flooded over the second wall. It was a strange thing, amidst a sea of strange things, to sit around a table with a group of warriors who had fought at the fall of Belduar, at the burning of the great city of legend. Even Erdhardt had been told stories of Belduar as a child, of the last bastion of mankind that remained entirely free of Lorian control.
Dahlen Virandr had an uncomfortable smile on his face the entire time, both hands cupping his tankard, which he never seemed to drink from.
“No taste for the ale?” Erdhardt whispered, leaning across the table while Yoring went on with his story. He nodded down at Dahlen’s ale. “You’ve barely had a thimbleful.”
Dahlen raised an eyebrow, then looked down at the dark liquid in the tankard, gave a half-smile, and took a short draught.
“Do you ever stop?”
“Stop what?” Dahlen watched Yoring, who had stood up from the bench and was now making axe swinging motions with his hands.
“Waiting. For the next attack, for the next moment you have to spill blood. There’s more to this life than sleeping and killing.”
“No. There’s not. Not now, not while the Uraks could come flooding over those walls any night. If my father were here, he’d probably sleep on the wall itself, cradling his swords. He’d likely never sleep.”
“But he’s not, and you’re not him. Nobody can be anything but what they are.” Erdhardt let out a long sigh, stroking his beard. “You’re a young man, Dahlen. How many summers have you seen? Twenty? Twenty-two?”
“This will be my twenty-fourth.” He took a reluctant sip of his ale.
“Even the strongest steel breaks beneath enough weight. Let yourself breathe. Let yourself rest. You deserve one night.”
Dahlen nodded slowly, then straightened his back and looked around the inn. “So many of these men and women have never even held a sword,” he said, leaning closer to Erdhardt once more. “And now they face Uraks? Now they must stand on a wall, or in the dirt and mud, and watch their friends be run through, maimed, disembowelled, beheaded. I’m not good at many things, Erdhardt. I can’t sing, can’t cook anything that won’t end up burnt or tasting like shit, I can’t dance, can’t brew, or forge, or any number of things. I can survive. Hunt and forage, sew a wound or clothes, track, fish. But there is one thing above all else – I can fight. I can wield a blade better than anyone in this city, and I know that for a fact because my father taught me how and my father is the greatest swordsman I’ve ever seen in my life, the greatest warrior. My brother, Erik, is coming with an army, and all I have to do is keep Salme alive until he gets here. And if me standing on that wall, night after night, day after day, gives these people the courage to do the same, then that’s what I’ll do. Because I can do very little else.”
“Well, you won’t do it alone.” Erdhardt tapped his tankard against Dahlen’s and gave him a short nod. The young man spoke with the heart of someone who had seen twice his summers and the head of someone who had seen twice Erdhardt’s.
Erdhardt had always taken pride in the young men and women of The Glade, in how they were raised. He’d always thought that the people they became reflected not only on the village but on himself. As an Elder it had been his task to guide them, to teach them the things that mattered in life. And as such, he very much looked forward to the day he met Aeson Virandr. Because any man who raised a son with that kind of integrity was a man Erdhardt wanted to meet.
An hour or so passed. Erdhardt drank three more tankards, Dahlen drank one, and they watched the inn fill to bursting.
A short man with a balding head and grey-black beard shouldered through the crowd, his stare fixed on Dahlen.
Erdhardt tensed, watching the man push past a group of Lorian soldiers in their black and red leathers drinking around a circular table. He shifted in his seat, lifting one leg from across the bench so he could stand if needed.
“Dahlen Virandr.” The man opened his arms as he stepped by a serving girl wearing a long brown dress and apron.
Dahlen looked up from the conversation he was having with Nimara and Thannon about constructing a tower by the gates. It took a moment, but then his jaw slackened and he tilted his head as he rose to his feet. “Darda? Darda Vastion?”
It was only then Erdhardt recognised the man. He’d run a shipping operation from Milltown, sending goods north. He’d carried a bit more weight the last time Erdhardt had seen him.
Darda stuck out his hand. “I’ve not been called anything else. It’s good to see you, my boy.”
Dahlen grasped the man’s forearm and pulled him close, clapping him on the back. “And you. How long have you been in the city?”
“A while now. But I twisted my foot fleeing Milltown from the beasts, not been right since. Your father, brother?”
“Well – alive.” Dahlen turned to Erdhardt, gesturing at Darda. “Erdhardt Hammersmith, Darda Vastion. Darda ‘exported’ weapons and supplies for our… ‘friends’ in the North. My father’s known him since before I was born. Erdhardt is?—”
“Ah, I know Erdhardt Hammersmith.” Darda nodded at Erdhardt. “Known him for many a year. It’s a pleasure to see you well. Aela?”
Erdhardt shook his head.
Darda nodded and let out a sigh. He reached out and grasped Erdhardt’s forearm. “She was a good woman.”
“She was a great woman,” Erdhardt corrected. He gestured for Darda to join them at the table, eager to move on. “You used to smuggle for the rebels?”
“That I did. Sent them up north to a spot nestled between the island of Antiquar and the Lodhar Mountains. Weapons from Vars Bryer, along with whatever else was needed.”
“Vars Bryer?” Dahlen narrowed his eyes, looking from Darda to Erdhardt. “Calen Bryer’s father?”
“You know Calen? He’s a good lad.” Darda broke into a smile. “He brought me the last shipment of weapons I ever sent. You remember, Erdhardt. It was right after The Proving. Calen and the others – what were their names again? Stan Pinn? And Havel… Lasch’s boy?”
“Dann and Rist.”
“They’re the ones. Victors of the Hunt. Brought back an Urak head! Never seen the likes of it.”
Dahlen started laughing. He downed his tankard, draining it to the last drop, then ran his hands through his hair, the rumbles of the laugh still clinging to his throat.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “It’s just a very small world. Calen’s father…”
“Vars was a damn good friend.” Erdhardt clenched his jaw, memories of Vars swelling in his heart. They’d been close ever since they’d been children, and he missed his friend dearly. He missed a lot of people dearly.
“Aye.” Darda clacked his tankard off the table in agreement. “And a damn good man to boot. Finer than me, and finer than any of you, that’s for sure!” He laughed at that, sipping at his ale. “That was until those Lorian bastards killed him in cold blood.” Darda hocked and spat on the floor, true anger in his eyes. The Darda Vastion Erdhardt knew was cool and calm, very reserved. This was almost an entirely different man. “When I heard what happened… Fuck them. Fuck them all to the void. Lorian fucking scum.”
“You got something to say?” A man in red and black leathers stood behind Darda, his chest puffed out, the look of drink in his eyes.
“Fuck,” Dahlen whispered.
“Lorian scum,” Darda said again.
“Stand up like a man and say that to my face.”
Within a split-second, Darda was on his feet, nose to nose with the Lorian. And in the same span of time, six more men and women in red and black had emerged from the throng of people like hungry dogs.
“Shit for brains. Ugly as fuck. Would look better on fire. Lorian. Scum.” Darda made sure to emphasise every syllable. “You killed my friend. Killed him in the streets of his home, killed his wife, his daughter.”
“And they probably fucking deserved it.”
Dahlen leapt to his feet, placing a hand on both men, pushing them apart. “Not the time for it. You go back to your drinks, we’ll go back to ours. Ale is our friend and enemy both.”
“Like fuck we will.” Darda slapped at Dahlen’s hand, but the young man held him firm and pushed him back, glaring into his eyes. Thannon rose beside Dahlen, jaw clenched.
Erdhardt got to his feet, fighting the urge to sling his hammer from his back.
“We come down here to these southlands and bleed for you fuckers. And this is what you do? We don’t wanna be here. We’re stuck here with you ungrateful shitsacks.” The man shoved Dahlen in the chest, the other Lorians moving closer.
“Don’t do that again.”
“Or what? You’re that one they all call ‘Lord Captain’, aren’t you?” The Lorian scoffed, grinning and shaking his head. “I’ve got boots older than you. Why the fuck does Exarch Dorman listen to a word you say?”
The man pushed Dahlen in the chest again, but this time Dahlen remained rooted to the ground, his stare fixed.
“You’re drunk. And we lose enough warriors to the Uraks. Turn around and walk away, and we’ll all laugh about this in the morning.”
“You talk like a real man, you know that? I heard you. Heard you all. Smuggling weapons to the rebels in the North. I should go to Exarch Dorman and have you strung up for treason.”
Something in Dahlen shifted, something in the way his gaze hardened. Nimara and Almer lifted themselves from the bench, hands resting on the axes that hung from their hips. The other dwarves and Belduarans at the table did the same. Dahlen leaned forwards. “You don’t seem to understand your place here, Lorian. Say one more word.”
Erdhardt made to rest his hand on Dahlen’s shoulder, but then the Lorian shoved the young man one last time and the whole void broke loose.
Dahlen grabbed the man’s fingers and snapped them back, bone breaking through flesh. The Lorian had a fraction of a second to scream before Dahlen reached his right hand forward, grabbed the back of the man’s head, and slammed his face into the table with enough force that a pair of tankards tipped over. He slumped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
A second Lorian piled in after the first, but again Dahlen dropped the man in a heartbeat. A swift punch to the throat followed by an elbow to the face that made Erdhardt wince.
Nimara tackled the third before he got anywhere near Dahlen, while Thannon, Yoring, and Darda Vastion smashed into a group of the others.
Erdhardt contemplated joining in but found it much more entertaining to just watch. The only man Erdhardt had ever seen who could match Dahlen with a sword was Vars Bryer, but the young man was just as efficient with his fists.
The crowd spread wide, forming a circle as more Lorians charged in, drunk and howling.
One man threw a punch at Dahlen’s head, only for Dahlen to turn so the man was at his back and the arm slid over his shoulder. Dahlen wrapped both hands around the Lorian’s wrist and pulled downward. A horrible snap accompanied the inhuman way the man’s arm shattered.
The problem, Erdhardt realised, was the Lorians were having a drunken brawl. But Dahlen wasn’t trained to brawl. There was no wasted energy. Every movement was as clean and efficient as it was brutal and devastating. The man was trained to kill.
Another fist soared towards the side of Dahlen’s head, and he twisted, leaned back, and clasped his hands at the side of the woman’s face as she stumbled off balance. He pushed forwards and rammed her face into an approaching fist. Erdhardt couldn’t tell if the resulting spray of blood had come from knuckles breaking teeth or teeth tearing into the man’s hand.
Everything stopped when a horn blared. Once, then a second time. The entire tavern silenced in an instant. Chests heaved and sweat rolled until finally a third horn bellowed.
Dahlen spun and roared orders. He grabbed the Lorian who had begun the fight and hauled him to his feet.
The man’s fingers looked like a tree branch with shoots going in all directions, and blood streamed down his wrist.
“Get your soldiers to the wall.” The man’s head lolled, but Dahlen lifted it. “If I hear word of a single man or woman among your number not fighting, I will personally put their head on a block come the rising sun. And I will be the one who swings the blade. Do you understand?”
The man nodded, his good hand holding the wrist of his shattered one.
Dahlen gripped Erdhardt’s shoulder. “You ready to give this place one more day?”