73. What We Must
Chapter 73
What We Must
21 st Day of the Blood Moon
Salme – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Dahlen’s teeth chattered, and his breath plumed upwards. A frost coated the ground, crunching beneath his boots. This winter had not been as harsh as the others he’d known, but the past few days had changed that.
Smoke billowed from chimneys all about Salme, braziers burning in the streets. The chill had swept in overnight.
“We need to get you a coat,” Nimara said, walking at his side, Conal on her left. “Should have done so a long time ago. You humans are fragile things. Always too warm or too cold.”
“Mmm.” Dahlen puffed out his lower lip. “And dwarves are as thick as rocks. We all have our shortcomings… some of us are just short.”
“Watch your tongue,” Nimara said with a wry smile.
Conal remained silent as they walked. The young lad was a quiet one, but he was always listening, always learning, much like Dahlen when he was younger. Erik had always said enough for the both of them. “You all right, Conal?”
The boy nodded, fingers gripped tightly around the Valtaran ordo shield Dahlen had given him, procured from Captain Kiron’s last shipment.
“Getting heavy, is it?”
Conal shook his head, and Dahlen smiled.
“You’re going to have to put it down eventually or you’ll not have the strength to carry it when you need to.” Dahlen inclined his head towards Ulrich, one of the Belduaran Kingsguard, who stood on the ramparts of the palisade wall.
“What’s the report?” Dahlen asked when he’d crested the top of the stairs, looking out at the battered landscape beyond, stumps of felled trees providing a clear line of sight for hundreds of feet.
“Very little, Lord Captain. There was no attack last night.”
“None? Not at all? I assumed I slept through the horns.”
Ulrich shook his head. “First time in weeks.” The man twisted his neck and narrowed his gaze at Dahlen. “What is it, Lord Captain? Is this not good news?”
Dahlen let out a long sigh.
“The Urak attacks have been light of late,” Nimara said to Ulrich as Dahlen stared off at the horizon. “If they did not attack at all last night, that would suggest they have had other priorities.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Camylin, Ulrich. It likely means they have focused their strength on Camylin.”
“And that is a bad thing?”
“It is.”
“Forgive me, Lord Captain, but I’m not understanding.”
“Well,” Dahlen said, folding his arms. “Firstly, there are tens of thousands of souls within Camylin. Souls that are facing their last days, and there is nothing we can do for them. Secondly, if Camylin falls, then the Uraks – along with their forces who took the city – will find a new priority. Us. And with their numbers at Camylin joining their ranks, they will flood over us. Our only chance will be if my brother arrives in time with this army he brings.”
“Dahlen?” Conal stood with his hand resting on the tips of the palisade. “What’s that?”
Dahlen followed Conal’s gaze to a pair of horses that galloped over the low hill in the distance, breaths misting in deep snorts, hooves turning the soil. As the riders drew closer, Dahlen yelled, “Open the gates!”
He sprinted down the stairs to the yard, seeing the large wooden gates still shut.
“Open the fucking gates!” he called out again.
A short man with grey hair and a thick beard stood beside the drawbar, staring at Dahlen.
“Do you speak the Common Tongue?” Dahlen roared, rounding on him. “Open the damn gates.”
“But what if it’s a trap, my lord? What if?—”
Dahlen pushed the man aside and removed the drawbar, Nimara, Conal, and three of the Belduarans helping him push the gate open just in time for the two horses to come galloping through.
“Please!” a young man shouted as he slid from the first horse. “My sister needs a healer.” He gestured to the second horse, where a man held a young woman close to his chest, blood flowing freely from a wound in her side.
“Take her to the bloodhouse,” Dahlen said to two of the guards. “And make sure she is brought to Anya. She doesn’t have time.” He turned back to the two men. One had not seen his twentieth summer, the other perhaps forty. “Speak.”
“We’re from a village east of Pirn, below the Cupped Mountains,” the older man said. “We’ve been travelling for weeks. Uraks and brigands are everywhere. We’d heard from a ship captain of a safe place along the western coast, heard that Salme had become a fortress. Someone attacked us in the woods just east of here. They wrecked our wagons, left five of us dead. We rode here to get help.”
“How far? And how many still live?”
“A few miles, no more. There are six families. Almost thirty of us… at least, there were. We’re fur traders and farmers, not warriors. Please, there are many injured.”
Others entered the yard: Erdhardt, Tharn Pimm, Lanan Halfhand, Yarik Tumber, and more.
“Tell me more,” Dahlen said. “How were you attacked?”
“Archers at first, then they came in with spears. Broke the wagons, stole our furs, killed anyone who tried to stop them.” The man held Dahlen’s gaze as he spoke, ignoring the others. “My brother and his wife are there. That’s their daughter you just took in. Please. What if the Uraks cross them?”
“So whoever attacked you brought your horses down, thinned your numbers, and then just left you there.” Erdhardt’s words were not a question.
Dahlen turned to Nimara. “Fetch Yoring and Almer.” He looked at Ulrich. “Go. Find Thannon and Camwyn, along with five others. We leave now.”
“This is clearly a trap,” Erdhardt said. “I’ll eat my shoe if there aren’t fifty brigands waiting for us in the woods.”
“So you’re not coming then?”
“Oh, I’m coming,” Erdhardt said with a smile. “I just thought I’d make sure we were all clear on what we were walking into.”
“You can’t go,” Yarik Tumber said, stepping up beside Erdhardt.
“Can’t?” Dahlen asked. “Are you going to stop me?”
Yarik flicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in frustration. “Salme is our priority. You and your Belduarans are our best fighters. It would be idiocy to lose you by walking into a trap we already know is set.”
“It’s a good thing, Yarik, that it is not your courage that keeps these walls from falling.” Dahlen looked to Conal, who still held his shield. “What do we do when people need us, Conal?”
“We do what we must, Lord Captain.”
“And why do we do it?”
“We do it because we have to,” Conal answered. “We do it because of what would happen if we didn’t.”
“Good lad. Good lad.” Dahlen smiled at Yarik. “If I lived by your logic, Elder Tumber, I would not be in Salme. I would be with my brother and my father, and an Urak blade would likely have separated your head from your neck.” Dahlen turned to the others. “Spread the word. I need fifty able bodies willing to ride. We leave at once.”
Light filtered through the canopy above as Dahlen, Nimara, Thannon, Ulrich, and ten men and women of Salme rode along the dirt path that had been beaten into the ground through the forest.
The man who had asked for their aid, Owen Tah, rode on Dahlen’s left.
“There,” Owen whispered, pointing to a group in the distance huddled around wagons, pitchforks and scythes in their fists. At least six were propped against wagons, wounded, and more bodies lay about them.
Dahlen raised a hand, and the group stopped.
“Sixteen,” Thannon whispered. “Four horses dead by the looks of it. Not Urak arrows, too small. We’d see those monstrous shafts even from here.”
The group were all huddled about the central wagon, makeshift weapons pointed outwards.
Dahlen moved his horse closer to Owen’s. “I didn’t want to say this earlier and give that prick Yarik any sense of being right, but Owen, this is most certainly a trap. And if it is you who has laid it, you have made a grave error. I will kill you, make no mistake about it. In the defence of my people, I will not hesitate.”
The man swallowed hard. “It’s not of my making. I swear it by the gods.”
Dahlen looked into his eyes. It had always been Aeson’s belief that a man’s soul lived in his eyes. Dahlen was inclined to agree. “Brigands?”
Owen nodded.
“What did they say to you?”
Owen looked at the ground, then back up. “They said to ride east. Said not to stop till we reached the city. Said we needed to bring you here or they’d kill my family.”
Dahlen nodded slowly. He had suspected as much. The brigands in the region had grown increasingly restless. Food was scarce, safety and shelter even more so. Captured soldiers of Salme could be traded for quite a bit of meat and bread.
“I appreciate your honesty. But if you lie to me again, I will end your life. Do you understand?” When the man nodded, Dahlen carried on. “They will spring this trap as soon as they believe we are at our most vulnerable. When I shout your name, I want you to get as many of your people inside the wagons as you can, understand?”
“Yes. But… I can fight.”
“Have you killed many men, Owen?” Dahlen ran his finger though his horse’s mane as he spoke, savouring the soft touch.
“No… none.”
“I have.” And their blood stained his dreams. “You’re a farmer, yes?”
“Fur trader, my lord.”
“A good profession,” Dahlen said with a half-smile. “This is mine. You get your people inside the wagons. I will keep them alive. And you can use those furs to help keep the people of Salme warm, agreed?”
Owen nodded.
Dahlen kept one hand held in the air as he patted his horse on the neck and whispered loud enough for the others to hear. “We are walking into an ambush. These people are the bait. Stay tight. Use the wagons and the trees for cover, and do not get isolated. I do not intend to rescue these people, only to lose more of our own.”
“What are we waiting for?” one of the men from Salme whispered.
Dahlen didn’t answer, not until he heard a sharp ‘hoot hoot’ pierce the natural sounds of the forest.
“That,” he whispered, gesturing for the others to follow him.
“Who goes there?” one of the men around the wagons called out, pointing a ragged-looking pitchfork at Dahlen.
“Dahlen Virandr of Salme. We were told you were in need of some assistance.” As Dahlen spoke, he scanned the forest around them, seeing shadows shift behind bushes and trees. “Thirty or so,” he whispered to Nimara, who pulled her horse beside his. “No more.”
“Aye,” she replied, her gaze never meeting his. “Swords, axes, and bows. I saw two wearing steel, the rest in leathers. Definitely brigands. Ill organised. Tired.”
“What do you think they want?” Thannon whispered.
“Our gear and our coin, and trade us back to Salme for food and supplies, most likely. Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.” He inclined his head to Owen.
The man pushed his horse forwards. “Jackan, it’s me. We made it!”
“Owen?” The man – Jackan – lowered his pitchfork, eyes widening. “Lana? Hakon?”
“Lana is with a healer. Hakon is all right.”
As the two spoke, Dahlen slid from his horse, Nimara, Thannon, Camwyn, and Ulrich doing the same, the warriors of Salme not far behind. Dahlen had instructed them to do so. When springing a trap, it was important to make the bait as tempting as possible.
Owen looked to Dahlen, but Dahlen gave a gentle shake of his head, whispering the word ‘wait’.
The man leaned into Jackan, whispering something in his ear.
This was the part Dahlen hated: the waiting. Fortunately, the brigands proved impatient. A branch snapped, followed by rustling leaves, over-eager feet and hands betraying their owners.
“Owen, now!” As Dahlen shouted, an arrow whistled past his head and buried itself in the side of a wagon, screams and shouts rising from the woods around them. Men and women in rough-worn leathers burst from hiding places, swords and axes in hand.
Owen and his group hid inside and under the wagons, some of them holding their ground, pitchforks and scythes in hand. The warriors of Salme gathered around Dahlen, Nimara, and the Belduarans.
Souls with steel in their hands were always dangerous, but these men were brigands, not soldiers, and they moved as such. Dahlen leapt forwards, sliding his blades from their scabbards and twirling them. His father had always hated when he’d done that. It was unnecessary and pointless, but it was habit.
The first brigand stabbed at him with their sword, but he twisted at the waist, turned the blade downwards with the sword in his right hand, then plunged his second into the man’s chest. He ripped it free, then opened the man’s throat with his other blade, blood splattering across a second brigand’s face.
Before Dahlen could take another step, Erdhardt and Tharn Pimm charged from the trees behind the brigands, two score warriors with them. Erdhardt smashed a woman’s face to pieces with the jagged face of his hammer, then swung the spike into another’s chest.
Shouts rang out behind Dahlen as Jorvill Ehrnin, Kara Thain, and a handful of others attacked from the opposite flank. The best way to beat a trap was often by setting another.
Panic flared through the brigands. They were now outnumbered, outmanoeuvred, and utterly outmatched.
A scream rose to Dahlen’s left, and he twisted to see four men in dark leathers, faces smeared with dirt and sweat, dragging two children and a man away from the wagons, knives and axes held to their throats.
“Make another fucking move and we’ll slit their throats!” one of the men shouted, his hair shaved back with a blade, eyes wild.
Even as the man roared the threat, Erdhardt kicked another man in the chest and brought his hammer down on an exposed throat. Crunch. The body went limp. He lifted his hammer and pointed at the four men with the hostages. “You touch a hair on their heads, and I’ll break every bone in your body. I’ll start with your toes and work my way up.”
Dahlen glanced sideways at Erdhardt. The man was a different beast in the heat of battle, as though a spirit took hold of him.
“You're outnumbered,” Dahlen said, taking a step forwards, holding his blades out wide. Several of the brigands knelt around him, sharp steel at their necks. “You harm them, and we will run you down, and you will die. Let them go now, leave, and we’ll settle your fate a different day.”
The four brigands stared back at them, each unsure what to do.
The man who had spoken spat in the dirt, pulling the blade of his axe tight enough to draw blood from the throat of the young boy he held in his grip. “I don’t fucking trust you as far as I could throw you. Lay your weapons down and get on your knees, or this boy will bleed.”
“You think this is a negotiation?” Dahlen took another step, his gaze never leaving the man’s. “You kill them, you have nothing. I’ve seen a lot of dead men in my life. You look like them.”
He continued to move closer, the brigands shifting backwards.
“Your hand is shaking,” Dahlen said, tilting his head to the side.
“Shut the fuck up!” the brigand roared, pulling his blade again and eliciting a scream from the child. The other brigands did the same, but instead of drawing tighter together, as trained soldiers might, they pushed further apart.
“I can tell the difference between true warriors and scum quite quickly in situations like these.” Dahlen took another step, seeing the brush shift behind the brigands, everyone else standing and watching, Nimara drawing up only a few paces behind him, Erdhardt circling. “Would you like to know what it is?”
“Shut your fucking mouth, and drop your weapons!” one of the other brigands snarled, digging his fingers into the face of the man he held. “I swear to the gods!”
“True warriors shift inwards and stand tall. They look to those around them. Cowards, like you, assess their own chance of survival, of running, of leaving their companions to die.” He pointed his blade at their feet. “It looks to me like you’re each ready to run, but not one of you is thinking of the others. Not the kind of companion I’d want at my back.”
As the brigands all looked at each other, Yoring and Almer leapt from the bushes behind them, axes hacking into flesh. Two of the men fell, captives jerking free with yelps.
Dahlen surged forwards and slammed his shoulder into the captive man, knocking the brigand off balance. He threw his weight into his left arm and slid his blade through the gap between the captive’s arm and torso, finding flesh on the other side.
He pulled the blade free and turned to face the last man, only to watch in shock as the brigand drew the blade across the child’s throat, blood spurting.
The child fell forwards, grasping at his neck. Dahlen froze for just a moment, his heart sinking. He saw the blood, knew the boy had no chance.
When the child hit the ground, he pushed everything down and leapt forwards, sliding his swords back in place and sprinting after the brigand. Dahlen caught the man in a matter of moments, slamming into his back. Both of them crashed to the ground, but Dahlen was quicker to react. He grabbed the brigand by the collar of his shirt and slammed a fist into his face. Again and again, bone crunched against bone and Dahlen felt his skin split. The boy’s eyes flashed in his mind, blood pouring.
Something within him took over, something primal. He couldn’t stop. By the time Dahlen found himself straddling the brigand’s chest, hand throbbing, chest heaving, the man was a corpse with a face that looked as though it had been smashed by a horse’s kick.
He dragged himself to his feet, turning to see Erdhardt standing behind him, the wails of a grieving father piercing the woodland.
“You all right?” Erdhardt asked, looking down at the battered corpse.
Dahlen shook his head. “Are you?”
Erdhardt did the same.
“But we carry on. We do what we must.”
Erdhardt nodded, letting out a long sigh. “We do what we must.”
“Eight captives,” Thannon said, approaching Dahlen and Erdhardt. “The rest are dead. What do you want to do with them?”
Dahlen looked down at the kneeling brigands. They were savage-looking men, laced with cuts and rubbed with dirt and blood and grime. He drew a short breath, then called out to Camwyn while gesturing at Owen and his people. “Get these people back to Salme. See that they are fed and bathed, and find a roof for them.”
“At once, Lord Captain.”
Dahlen saw Conal mounting a horse and readying to leave, his eyes fixed on the bodies. Dahlen had commanded him to stay back during the fighting, but it was good for the young lad to see things like this. Aeson had done the same with Dahlen and Erik. The world was a place full of darkness and death. It would do no good to shy away from it. “Not you, Conal. You stay.”
When the others had left, only Dahlen, Thannon, Erdhardt, Nimara, Conal, Yoring, Almer, and Kara Thain remained.
“We have no place for them in Salme,” Kara said, looking down at the brigands, who were lined up on their knees. “We cannot have demons both inside the walls and out.”
“Agreed.” Dahlen clenched his jaw. A few moments’ silence passed between them all, and Dahlen could point to the precise moment that Conal understood what would happen next, eyes widening.
“I will do it,” Thannon said, placing his hand on the pommel of his sword.
Dahlen shook his head and stepped forwards. He looked down at the eight men. “Uraks savage these lands and Epheria is on fire. And yet you choose to prey on the weak. You choose to take the little others have instead of building something of your own. There are some men who would take your weapons and send you off into the wilds, who would stay their blades. I am not one of those men, and I cannot set you free only to see you torment and murder the souls who pass through these lands.”
“Please,” one of the brigands begged. “Please don’t…”
Dahlen’s throat tightened, and for a moment he heard the screams and saw the raging flames of Belduar and of the battles every night at Salme. He pushed it all down. “I take no pleasure in this, but I do what I must.”
Hours later, Dahlen stood on the walls of Salme. As the sun set, it painted the Antigan Ocean in an array of sparkling yellows and oranges. The wind held a bitter chill, icy air tickling his skin.
His hand shook a little as he lifted the flask to his mouth and drank deeply, clenching his jaw as the spirit burned on the way down.
It seemed strange to him to have something as beautiful as that sparkling ocean in a world filled with so much horror. As the waves swashed against the docks, Dahlen heard the screams of the brigands in his mind, heard the chop of his blade biting into flesh and bone.
He’d made the right choice. Salme didn’t have the capability to hold such men, and he could not set them free knowing they would only continue to kill and rob and slaughter anyone who passed through the woods. In another time, he would have let them walk away. But not this time. This was a time of war, a time when every choice mattered. The people of Salme were his charges, and he needed to do whatever was in their best interests. That didn’t make it easier though.
After a while, Nimara joined him on the walls, arms folded as she watched the undulating waves coruscate like shattered glass.
“How many lives have you taken?” Dahlen asked, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Many,” she answered.
“I can’t even remember when I lost count. There are too many faces to remember. I’d killed fifty men by the time I had seen eighteen summers.”
Nimara brushed her finger against several of the gold rings knotted into her hair. “You’re a good man, Dahlen.”
“I don’t even know what that is anymore.” Dahlen took another swig of the burning spirit Shola Holten had concocted at The Rusty Shell and offered it to Nimara.
The dwarf took it without hesitation. “Can you sleep at night? Soft and easy?”
Dahlen shook his head.
“Then you are a good man. I would have made the same choice earlier. There was no path on which letting them live would have ended well.”
“Mmm.”
“Oh, also, I almost forgot. That fur trader – Owen – he asked me to give you this.” Dahlen turned his head to see Nimara sliding a hefty canvas pack from her shoulders. She produced a thick grey and black wolfpineskin cloak. The thing was massive.
She handed the folded cloak to him and he let it unfurl, admiring the craftsmanship and the weight.
“He says there are thirty more where it came from, a gift to whoever you think deserves it. A thank you for saving his family.”
Dahlen pulled the cloak around his shoulders, the warmth wrapping around his bones. He filled his lungs with frosted air.
“It suits you,” Nimara said.
Dahlen gave her a half-smile. “Do you think we’ll ever forget?”
“Forget what?”
“Everything we’ve done. Do you think when this is all over, we will be able to just… sit and… Sorry, I just…”
Nimara clasped his hand, fingers sliding between his. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the faces or the screams… but I hope that one day I can forgive myself enough to die happy. War makes monsters of us all… but it also shows us who we are and the things worth fighting for.”
“I’ve been at war all my life,” he said, squeezing Nimara’s hand.
“And yet, you are still kind, and hopeful, and true. Come, it’s cold and I’m in need of warmth.” Nimara tugged at Dahlen’s hand, but he stayed firm.
“I just need a little longer.”
She didn’t argue or try to convince him otherwise. She simply stayed where she was, her fingers clasped in his.
“Do you know what scares me the most?” he asked, looking out at the waves. “I’m not sure who I am without this war. What am I without a sword in my hand? What if I need this? What if all I ever have to offer this world is death?”