87. Salme
Chapter 87
Salme
24 th Day of the Blood Moon
Salme – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Dahlen filled his lungs with the frigid air, his hands clasped at his back. Salme was so silent he could have heard a feather touching the dirt at the base of the wall. It had been that way since the mass of torches had crested the hill a couple of miles north of the city. Thousands of Uraks, their roars and guttural cries carrying down the hill and through the night.
“Where did they all come from?” The young lad, Conal, stood to Dahlen’s left with a spear in his fist, makeshift patches of leather armour on his chest, back, arms, and thighs. Dahlen had no intention of allowing Conal to fight on the walls, but when the Uraks did break through and the defences fell, it was better he had a spear in his hand.
“Camylin.” Erdhardt folded his arms and stared up at the mass of torches. “The city has fallen.”
Murmurs spread along packed walls and on the ground behind them. The horns had been blown, and every soul in Salme was awake, armoured, and ready. The city held just short of seven thousand souls, gathered from all the villages, farms, and holds across western Illyanara, along with many who had fled Camylin before the siege and travellers who had traversed the province in search of shelter – only to find themselves walled in against the coast. But of that number, many were injured, or too young, or too old, or too sick. The people of the villages were hard and strong, but spare few were true warriors.
A small part of him wished he had left for Aravell when he had intended to, and another part called him a fool for not taking passage on a merchant vessel to Valtara as others had. But the rest of him was proud of where he stood. If this place was to be where his bones rested, then so be it. He would die beside people he had grown to respect, people he trusted. He would die in the only place that had felt like home since he’d lost his mother. His only wish was that he could have shared one last night with Erik and his father.
Dahlen looked down at Nimara, who stood at his right. He could tell by her eyes that she knew the same as him: this would be their last night. There was no world in which the city could stand against a force this large.
The dwarf brushed her hand against his. She inclined her head, a resigned smile on her lips.
“Maybe the bards will tell stories of this night after we’re long gone.” Yoring could barely see over the parapet of the palisade, his hand resting on a thick spike.
“I’d rather prefer to be the one telling the story, dwarf,” Tharn Pimm answered. “If that’s all right with you.”
As the others spoke, Erdhardt tapped Dahlen on the shoulder and gestured to the ground below where Lanan Halfhand stood with Kara Thain and the other elders, along with Exarch Dorman and the Lorian captains.
Dahlen, Erdhardt, Nimara, and Thannon descended to meet them, leaving Camwyn, Yoring, and Almer to watch over the walls. The open ground at the base of the walls was crammed with men and women grasping spears, axes, and shields. Most wore leather armour with rings of iron mail, while some were lucky enough to protect themselves with steel plate. It was a far cry from the equipment they’d all had before the Blood Moon had risen.
Captain Kiron, the merchant who sailed the waters between Valtara and Salme, had done right by them. The man had provided hoards of iron and leather, along with spears and axes and Valtaran ordo shields. Kiron had been fair about it too. He could have taken Salme for all it had, but he didn’t.
“Be honest,” Lanan said when Dahlen and the others approached, her arms folded, the brass rings in her nose glinting in the moonlight. “What are our chances?”
“Slim,” Exarch Dorman replied before Dahlen had a chance. The mage looked at Dahlen and inclined his head. “I’d wager the reason the attacks have been light of late is that the Uraks had focused on Camylin. If they’re here now in these numbers, Camylin is no more.”
Dorman didn’t need to continue. He’d said what he’d needed to without putting the rest into words: if Camylin had fallen, Salme stood no chance.
Silence descended, broken by Erdhardt. “Slim or no, we’ve not got much choice.”
“There are ships in the port.” Yarik Tumber looked over his shoulder in the direction of Salme’s port, which was obscured by the houses and buildings. “We could?—”
“We could what?” Dahlen snapped. “Those are boats, not ships, and there are enough to carry no more than a hundred, maybe two. What of the other seven thousand souls in this city?”
“I was only suggesting?—”
“You were only suggesting we sneak away in the night and leave the others to die.”
“And what else would you have us do? Stand and die like pigs when you yourself can clearly see there will be no dawn? Why should every soul here die when some can live?”
“Because that is what the villages do. We stand together.” Erdhardt stepped forwards and loomed over Yarik, who – to his credit – didn’t back down. The two men stood square to each other, moments away from coming to blows. “We do not leave others behind.”
Dahlen moved between them and pushed them apart. He turned to two of the former Belduaran Kingsguard – Origal and Nayce – who had taken to following him on night watch as his personal guards. “Please escort Yarik Tumber to the great hall with the children and the elderly.”
“At once, Lord Captain.”
“What in the gods?” Yarik shuffled backwards at Origal and Nayce’s approach. “You do not have that authority here!”
Dahlen rounded on the man. “You have just shown us that you are craven. I have no use for men who would run while others die, or worse, men who would push another onto a striking blade. You are nothing but a liability on those walls. And I will not have someone die for your cowardice. Do what you like, Elder Yarik, sip wine and eat cheese in the hall. But you will not hold a spear this night. Not while I breathe.”
Yarik looked to Lanan, Ylinda, and the other elders, outraged. “Are you going to let this stand? He is not even of the villages. He does not belong here.”
“I do not originally hail from the villages, Yarik.” Kara Thain shrugged, her hand resting on the pommel of the sword at her hip. She was one of the few in the villages to wield one, outside of the Belduarans and the Lorians. “Would you say I have no voice here?”
“No. I… That’s not what I meant.”
Dahlen gestured to Origal and Nayce, who grabbed Yarik beneath the armpits and began to haul him away.
The man swiped at them and yanked his arms free. “I can walk myself.”
“With all that said and done,” Exarch Dorman said as Nayce and Origal escorted Yarik to the great hall. “What is our plan? I’m assuming you don’t wish to lay down and die?”
“You’re not taking the boats and fleeing then, no?” Dahlen folded his arms and held Dorman’s gaze. There had been even less love lost between the Lorians and the people of the west since the brawl in The Rusty Shell – which had been followed by four more since. Dahlen would have had the ale cut off were it not the only thing providing any joy to most of those within Salme’s walls.
“If we were going to take the ships and flee, Lord Captain, we would have done so. We stand with you.”
Beside Dahlen, Thannon visibly tensed, his jaw twitching.
Dahlen nodded to himself, looking around at those gathered, taking everything in. “Dorman, we’ll need half your infantry at the western wall, half at the east, ready for if the Uraks break through.” Dahlen used the word ‘if’, but they all knew he meant ‘when’. “We’ll need soldiers who can hold a tight formation ready to face the tide. My Wolves will form the core at the main gate.”
The ‘Silver Wolves’ was a nickname the people of Salme had granted Dahlen and the surviving Kingsguard ever since the fur trader, Owen, had gifted them the wolfpineskin cloaks. The burnished steel plate Thannon and the others wore had played no small part either. The name had been extended to include men and women of Salme who had distinguished themselves and joined Dahlen’s guard in battle. They numbered just under a hundred in total, including the old Kingsguard. Each wore polished breastplates procured through Captain Kiron, while a few had scraps of steel covering their shoulders, arms, or legs. Dahlen like the name. It had been well earned.
“We can hold the cavalry in reserve in the plaza. We need them to have mobility,” Dorman said. “A strong charge could be everything.”
“What of your other mage, Jakson?” Dahlen asked.
Dorman shook his head. “The fever took him this morning. Nothing we could do. Just myself, Bahkter, and that Alamant… Polik.” Dorman was loathe to say the name. “And he’s too much of a coward to be of any use.”
“Oaken will be busy trying to keep our walls from burning and collapsing. I’m going to need you and Bahkter to stay in motion, moving with the thickest fighting. Take horses. If those Bloodmarked break through and you’re not there…”
“It’ll be a bloodbath,” Tharn Pimm finished.
They set about arranging the city’s defences and planning out the route of tactical retreats through the streets should the need arise – or rather, ‘when’.
When all was agreed, Dahlen turned to face the gates, looking about at those who manned the walls and the thousand or so crammed into the clearing before the gates.
Many heads had turned to face him, breaths misting into the night air beneath the glittering stars, the light of the Blood Moon painting everything in that strange ethereal hue.
His stomach twisted and turned. He drew one last long breath. “Warriors of Salme! Tonight we fight not just for our homes, for these logs and stones that we call Salme. We fight so that we may see the sun rise again. We fight so that our children will draw breath when that light comes, so that our lines do not end here. And if we do fail, if Salme falls, let the bards sing of our fury. Let them tell stories of what happened here for generations. Let them say that the men and women of the western villages did not go quietly into the night. For every soul they take, let us take ten. If this city is to burn, then let it burn brighter than any flame ever has.” Dahlen pulled a sword from the scabbard across his back. “I was not born here. I was not raised here. I do not know these villages like you do. But I tell you now, I will go to Achyron’s halls with pride in my heart if I am to die here!”
A chorus of roars and shouts ripped through the darkness, spears clattering against shields and feet stomping. Dahlen’s skin goosefleshed at the sound, and his heart thumped. He raised his sword, catching the moonlight in the steel. “We will not run! We will not hide! We will not yield!”
The shouts and chanting redoubled, the crack of steel on steel like rippling thunder.
As Dahlen turned to ascend the steps to his position on the wall, the cheering unrelenting around him, Nimara grabbed his arm.
His jaw trembled as he looked down into her eyes, the blend of fear and fervour roaring in his veins.
“Do you love me, Dahlen Virandr?”
Those words were the last words he’d expected to leave her lips. He and Nimara had grown close over their time in Salme. Closer than he had grown to anyone outside of Erik and his father. She was steel and softness both. Fire and ice. Beauty, of the skin and the heart.
He nodded. “I do.”
“You are brave, Dahlen. Strong. Noble.” Nimara stared into his eyes. “My heart did not expect you. And yet now, on the night that will be our last, the only thing on my mind is not waking to you with the sun. The idea of never seeing your face again strikes a fear in me far worse than facing these beasts.”
Nimara let go of Dahlen’s hand. She pulled a short axe from her belt and cut a golden ring from her hair, letting strands of blonde and a chain of silver and copper rings fall to the ground. “When a dwarf finds the one who was carved from the same rock, it is custom that they offer a gift of their most treasured possession in exchange for a heart. This ring was given to me by my mother to mark my twenty-fifth kill. And it had been given to her by her own mother. This is a thing that holds value to me beyond anything else, and so I offer it to you.”
“Nimara…” Dahlen looked down at the polished ring in the dwarf’s open palm. “I cannot take this.”
She smiled at Dahlen, strands of blonde hair falling across her face. “It is not something given for nothing. I ask for your heart. I ask for your loyalty, your courage, your devotion. I ask you to bind yourself to me, from this day until the day we return to the rock. And if you cannot, then do not take it.”
“You have not known me even a year…”
“Must you know a flame a year to know it is warm?” Her smile softened, and she reached up and cupped Dahlen’s cheek in her empty hand. “Unless Hafaesir smiles on us, we will not see the morning. I have found you, Dahlen, and I would not lose you. When we return to the rock, I would have it that our hearts do so together. My people do not have ceremonies like yours. We require nothing but truth in our hearts, the ground beneath our feet, and Hafaesir’s blessing. If it is not what you want, I understand… but I refuse to die without asking.”
Dahlen touched the gold ring in Nimara’s palm. “And what if we live? What if we don’t die?”
She laughed, brushing her fingers along his cheek. She didn’t say a word, just stared into his eyes.
He did love her. Until that very moment he had not thought on it as love. He had not thought on it as anything. He had simply been content that she was at his side, that her body had warmed his on the cold nights and her voice had filled the silence. But his heart twisted at the idea of waking the next morning and not seeing her next to him, not feeling that warmth, not hearing that voice.
Dahlen cupped his hands around Nimara’s and nodded. “I swear to fight for you with all my heart.”
“And I you. Even though you snore like a drunk virtuk.”
Dahlen brought his hands to Nimara’s cheeks and pulled her close, kissing her deeply. “This was not how I saw this night beginning.”
She shook her head. “I could not die without knowing… I could not let you die without knowing. Now, if we die here, we die together, two parts of a whole. And if we live, we will do that together also.” She pulled back and placed the gold ring into Dahlen’s hand. “Wear it, or don’t. But keep it safe. It is my heart, and it belongs to you.”
Dahlen took the ring and pressed it against his chest. “I don’t have anything to give you in return… I don’t own anything. Nothing except my clothes, my armour, and…”
His heart stopped at the thought of what he was about to do. His swords were everything. They were the last remnants of his mother, all he had to remember her by. No diamond, jewel, or precious metal was worth their price. Not even a wagonful. They were all he had. But then he thought back to his memories of Naia, of how fiercely she had loved both him and Erik and how bright that same love had burned for their father. He let out a long sigh and reached for the hilt of the blade over his right shoulder.
Nimara rested her hand on his elbow and stopped him, shaking her head. “Those blades are not possessions,” she said, giving him a weak smile. “They are extensions of you. And I would rather they remain so. Use them to keep us both alive. There will be time to think on a gift, in this life or in the reforging. Right now, all I want is your heart. To be your equal and you mine.”
“You have it.”
Nimara lifted up onto her toes and pulled Dahlen into a passionate kiss, setting his heart to racing. He ran his fingers through the back of her hair and pulled her close, cheers and claps sounding around them. “I’ve seen your heart, Dahlen Virandr, and I would hold it fiercely for what little time we have.”
The pair ascended to the battlements over the gates, where they found the Belduarans, Almer, Yoring, Erdhardt, and Tharn Pimm awaiting them.
Yoring stepped away from the parapet and looked down at the golden ring Dahlen had slid onto the middle finger of his right hand. “Did I just witness what I think I witnessed?”
Without waiting for a response, he looked to Almer with a broad grin on his face.
“Fuck.” Almer shook his head.
“I knew it. I knew she would.” Yoring shrugged and held out his hand, glaring at Almer when nothing dropped into it.
“Why would I have gold up here?”
“You wouldn’t have paid anyway.” Yoring moved forwards and grasped Dahlen’s forearm. “From the walls of Belduar to the walls of Salme, Virandr. And now you’ve given your heart to a dwarf.” He looked to Nimara. “It’s only because you knew I’d say no, isn’t it?”
“Even if Hafaesir himself blessed you, I wouldn’t touch you with somebody else’s hand, Yoring.”
Almer stepped past the two, grasped Dahlen’s forearm, and pulled him in close, clapping him on the back. “You are a lucky man. She would kill a god to keep you safe.”
“I know I am.”
“But she is lucky too. It’s been an honour to fight at your side all this time, Dahlen Virandr. As it will be an honour to die by it.” He looked out into the night and the mass of torches along the hilltop that had yet to move. “What more could a dwarf wish for than a glorious death? We all die somewhere. At least here they will sing songs of it.”
“Am I the only one who would prefer not to die tonight?” Tharn Pimm was stringing his bow as he spoke, a frown carved into his face.
“I believe many here feel the same way.” Thannon looked down to where a clutch of Lorian soldiers marched towards the western wall, heavy Valtaran shields strapped to their arms. “Though there are some who would not be missed.”
Dahlen shot him a sharp look, and Thannon furrowed his brow in response. They’d had the conversation many times. Dahlen shared the man’s sentiment, though in truth Dorman and many of his soldiers had proven themselves not only invaluable, but honourable. Still, they were Lorian, and he would not weep over the bodies. But sowing discontent would do no good.
“Thannon, Camwyn, ensure the rest of the Wolves are ready.”
Thannon shook his head. “There is no?—”
“At once, Lord Captain.” Camwyn grabbed Thannon by the arm and pushed him along the battlements to where the other twelve surviving Kingsguard stood alongside the rest of the Silver Wolves.
“That was a rousing speech.” Erdhardt Fellhammer stepped up beside Dahlen, his warhammer – Bonebreaker – in an iron grip around the neck. The weapon was a behemoth of a thing, larger and somehow sleeker than his previous, steel dark enough to be almost black, one side like a monstrous meat pounder, the other like a dragon’s tooth. “You put a fire in the belly of every soul in this city. It’s a pity nobody outside these walls will ever know what you said.”
Dahlen followed Erdhardt’s gaze to where the torches had started spilling down the hill like sparks from a flame, war drums thumping in the night.
This was it then. No matter how valiantly they fought, no matter how ferocious or brave, there was no overcoming a horde of Uraks that large. His thoughts shifted to his brother, Erik, who would arrive to find nothing but ash and broken things.
I love you, brother. And I’m sorry it’s been so long. It should never have been this long. I just needed to find my feet.
As the flames of the torches drew closer, a thought came to Dahlen and he pushed through the wall’s defenders until he found Lanan Halfhand standing with a wicked-looking sickle in each hand, the edges honed to a gleaming finish.
She narrowed her gaze at his approach and leaned in. “What?”
Dahlen whispered in her ear. “We should get as many of the children onto the boats as we can. Two at a time, without causing a stir.”
She knew precisely what he meant. There were over a thousand children currently in the city and only space for a couple hundred on the boats. There was no sense in all of them dying. But if people heard the boats were leaving, some might allow their courage to falter and think they deserved a place aboard, just like Yarik.
“I’ll have it done.”
Dahlen grabbed her arm as she went to leave. “You should go with them. And Anya too. Maybe three or four you trust. The children will need people to guide them. The Valtarans will take you at Skyfall, I’m sure of it.”
“This is my home, Dahlen. I will die here if I must, but I will not run.” Lanan gestured towards a surly man with a polished head and thick beard. She whispered something to him, and he glared at her in return before eventually giving a gruff nod, glancing at Dahlen, then vanishing down the stairs. “It will be done.”
He left Lanan to ready herself in peace and returned to Nimara and the others. The dwarf turned to him with that piercing stare of hers. A soft smile caressed her lips. And with the smile came the wish that death would not find him that night, because he truly desired to spend a lifetime learning Nimara’s heart and soul.
“Keep looking at me like that,” she said, grasping his hand. “May your fires never be extinguished.”
“And your blade never dull.”
Dahlen turned to the battlements and looked out at the charging mass of leathery skin and torches. Now, spread out from the top of the hill to the open plain at its feet, their number was uncountable.
“Give no ground!” Dahlen roared. “No mercy! Warriors of Salme, are you ready to die for your home?”
Spears and swords clattered against steel in answer, roars lifting into the night.
“When they tell stories of this night, let them say that we were the demons! That we were the monsters!”
A chorus of shouts answered, and Dahlen Virandr prepared himself to die.