97. Lives Never Lived
Chapter 97
Lives Never Lived
26 th Day of the Blood Moon
Salme – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Calen stood in the fields beyond Salme’s walls, scratching at the scales that ran along the side of Valerys’s jaw, watching as the piles of Urak bodies still burned in the morning sun, black smoke billowing relentlessly.
Tivar and Avandeer stood beside him, along with Varthear. The elven Healers had spent the better part of the morning since the sun had risen tending to Varthear’s wounds. They had offered to do the same for Valerys and Avandeer, but Calen and Tivar had declined. The injured within the city were beyond count, and any wounds the two dragons had taken would heal with time.
In the distance, halfway between the city gates and where Calen stood, two riders moved towards them.
Valerys gave a low rumble and nudged Calen with his snout.
“Stay close,” Calen said, looking away from the burning piles and up into Valerys’s eyes. He patted the dragon’s snout, and Valerys purred. Valerys lifted his head and nudged Avandeer’s jaw before turning and lifting into the air. Both Avandeer and Varthear followed, shouts rising all about as the three dragons swept through the air towards the ocean.
“What are you thinking?” Tivar asked as they watched the three dragons.
“That if we’d not gone north, there would be a lot fewer graves here.” Calen looked over past Salme’s western walls, where the elves of Lunithír were burying bodies in their hundreds.
Closer, near a copse of trees, men and women lifted scores of bodies onto pyres. Even from a distance Calen knew those dead warriors were Belduarans, given to the flames as all Belduarans were.
From Tarmon’s early report, of the fourteen thousand who had marched to Salme’s aid, almost a third had perished in the battle. A more thorough count would come soon enough. Wars are not won. They are ended. Calen ran his hand through his hair, letting out a long sigh.
“And if we had not, every soul within Tarhelm would have perished. Coren and Aldryn would be dead. Choices cannot be viewed in hindsight. That path leads only to dark places.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “That is the burden of being a Draleid. It is seldom that any choice we make will not come at a price.”
Calen nodded but didn’t speak. He knew what Tivar said was true, but that didn’t help. The truth of things was seldom a comfort. These warriors had marched to war with his banner flying above them, and he had not been there. He stood by the decision he had made and knew it was a decision he would have to make again. But that didn’t mean the guilt would ever leave his heart.
At that moment though, it was Dann and Rist that swirled in his mind. He knew he had to tell Dann what he had seen, but how and when? Their closest friend was alive. That was a thing he would cherish telling Dann. But the rest… that Rist had not only joined the Circle of Magii but actively killed in their name. Or that the man who was their brother by everything but blood had joined the army that murdered Calen’s parents and tortured Rist’s own. Or that it was Calen and Dann who had abandoned him to that fate… At that moment, the conversation would have been a selfish one, its only use to keep Calen from suffering with the knowledge alone. Dann needed to know and Calen would tell him, but these few days were for Ylinda. He could give Dann a few days.
“What you did in Aravell,” Tivar said, stepping closer and looking out of the burning fields. “Thank you. We’ve not had a moment to speak on it, but I wanted to say that.”
“I didn’t do it for you.” Calen looked from the Belduaran pyres to meet Tivar’s gaze. “I am thankful for everything you’ve done. You saved our lives when you came to our aid that night. And I truly believe you when you say you want to make things right, but I did it for them,” he said, pointing down at the city of Salme. “And for all the others who draw breath in these lands. I could never have faced the Dragonguard alone. Whatever rumours and stories spread, I am but one man and Valerys is but a single dragon. I still wish to rip Farda’s heart from his chest, but I will swallow that hate. If it means having you and Avandeer fighting at our side, I will bury my darkest desires, because that is what is required of me.”
Tivar’s breath misted into the morning air. “I am thankful nonetheless. And I will show that thanks in blood and loyalty. Where do we go from here?”
“While the army recovers, we will fly south to Valtara, and I will send word to Alleron Helmund in Drifaien. First we clear the South. Then we look north. But for now, we will go and light the Belduaran pyres, and we will say prayers over the graves of the dead, and we will mourn with the others. And tonight, we will join the celebration.”
“Celebration?”
“In the villages, we do not just mourn the loss of those who leave us, we celebrate their lives. Sometimes that is easier done than others. But tonight we not only celebrate those lives but the fact that the city still stands.”
Before Tivar could say another word, the two riders drew closer and crested the slope upon which he and Tivar stood.
“Haem?”
Haem had slipped from his saddle before the horse had even come to a stop, while Erdhardt sat on his steed with a wide grin.
Calen wrapped his arms around his brother, squeezing tight.
“I thought you might be here.” Haem pulled away and looked into Calen’s eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long, little brother. We have searched for the Heart night and day.”
“Your Watchers found nothing amongst Alvira’s possessions then?”
Haem shook his head. “Not yet. They don’t sleep. They barely eat.”
Calen nodded slowly.
Haem fixed his gaze on Calen once more. “I wanted to come to you… I tried… I just?—”
“I understand,” Calen said. “More than you know. It’s not like it used to be, is it? When our choices were our own.” Calen pushed the thoughts of Farda from his mind, realising he had something far more important to tell Haem. “Ella is awake.”
Haem’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping. “Is she all right? Is she?—”
“She’s all right… better than all right.” A broad smile swept across Calen’s face, and before he could say another word, Haem pulled him in tighter.
Calen closed his eyes for a moment and just savoured knowing his brother was so close.
“Come,” Calen said, eventually pulling away from Haem. “First, we must pay our respects to the dead. But then we will talk, and tonight we can drink and eat with the others.” He grabbed Haem’s shoulder. “It’s good to have you back… I needed you back.”
“No, Calen. I came here to tell you that you must take Valerys now and fly with me. Grandmaster Kallinvar has asked that you come to the Temple of Achyron so that we may ready ourselves for the last day of the Blood Moon. It’s not far, a day’s flight at most.”
Calen just stared back at his brother, dumbfounded. “Leave? Now?” He gestured towards Salme and the piles of burning Uraks and the pyres and the graves. “Do you not see this? Are you blind, or have I gone mad?”
“Calen, if Efialtír crosses into this world, there will be more dead than you can imagine. We need to go. None of this matters if The Traitor crosses.”
“You sound like your Grandmaster now.” Calen stared into Haem’s eyes. “These are our people, Haem.” He pointed at Erdhardt in the saddle. “ Our people! The Glade is gone, but this is our home. Jorvill is dead – Dann’s mam is dead.”
“Ylinda…” The hardness that had set into Haem’s eyes vanished in an instant.
“Burned alive by cowards who fled on the boats.”
“Calen, I didn’t know. I’m?—”
“I can’t leave tonight. What am I if I do that?” Calen drew a slow breath in, trying to calm himself. It wasn’t Haem he was mad at. “If I cannot honour the dead, what right have I to ask the living to keep fighting?”
In the back of Calen’s mind Valerys’s thoughts wrapped around his, the dragon’s fire warming him, stilling the pain in his heart. Calen drew a breath to settle himself. “I asked fourteen thousand souls to march hundreds of miles to fight and die in a place far from their homes and the people they love. A third of them died here because I flew north when I could have flown south. I have accepted my choice. It was the choice I needed to make. But I will not fly away as though their deaths did not matter. Do you understand me? I will not be that man. They need me here, Dann needs me here, and this is where I will be.”
Calen wrapped his fingers around Haem’s forearm. “And if you are my brother, this is where you will be. I don’t care what they told you at that temple. This is your home, your people. Erdhardt thought you were dead until I told him last night.” Calen gestured up at Erdhardt. “Do as I ask today. Then tomorrow come with me to The Glade. Erdhardt buried Mam and Dad there. I want to plant saplings. Will you do that with me? Then I will fly. You have my word.”
“Calen, we can’t wait. We need to?—”
“One fucking day!” Calen roared, trying desperately to quell the anger that burned within him. “Give me one day. Our parents’ bones lie alone beneath the ashes of our home, and you will not come with me? Haem, or Arden… because that’s who you are now, isn’t it? You’re not Haem anymore. You’ve not been Haem in a long time.” Calen knew those words were harsh, but his fury burned too bright to take them back. “I’m going to watch as Valerys lights the Belduaran pyres. I’m going to say the Blessings of the Gods over the graves. And I’m going to drink and eat with those who were lucky enough to survive. Tomorrow I will go to The Glade, and I will bring saplings to plant where Mam and Dad rest. If you are still here, then Tivar and I will answer your master’s call.”
Calen didn’t wait for an answer. He gestured to Tivar, whose face showed a recognition of his pain, and set off down the slope towards the city, nodding to Erdhardt as he went.
When night fell, Calen stood outside The Rusty Shell with a tankard of ale in his hand that he’d not touched and a weight in his heart that scratched at him. The streets were full, illuminated by wood-filled braziers and lanterns suspended between the buildings by lengths of chain. Even in the small space outside the inn, at least five different songs were being played by five different bards, and not one of them was as bad as the bard from The Two Barges in Milltown, who had sounded like a drunk man strumming a cat.
“The people of Belduar were honoured to see Valerys light the pyres,” Tarmon said, his arms folded, a cup held firmly in his right hand. Much like Calen, the man hadn’t touched his drink. “It was appreciated beyond measure.”
“It was our honour.” Calen stared across the wide street to where Dann stood with Tharn, Lyrei, Therin, Erik, and a young girl who’d seen fifteen or sixteen summers. All Calen wanted to do was take his friend and go drink by the water. They didn’t have to talk. Sitting and staring out at the ocean would have been enough. But he needed to give Dann his space. He would be there whenever Dann needed him, as Dann had always been for him.
“Warden.” Two men and three women approached and gave a slight bow before passing on and entering The Rusty Shell.
“It is strange,” Vaeril said, sipping at his drink.
“What is?” Tarmon asked.
“To see so many souls from so many worlds all in one place.”
Calen couldn’t help but agree. Elves of Lunithír, Vaelen, and Ardur?n laughed and drank and danced next to men and women of the villages and warriors of the Dracur?n who had come from all about the continent. Even a handful of dwarves walked among them.
“Stranger still to see Lorian soldiers.” Calen narrowed his gaze at the men and women who all stood together on the far side of the street. Most wore loose shirts and trousers, but some were still clad in the black and red leather of Loria.
“I’ve heard tell there are two Battlemages amongst their number,” Tarmon said.
“You have heard true.” A dark-haired man of middling years stepped through the crowd and inclined his head to Calen and the others, a silver-trimmed black cloak about his shoulders. “I am Exarch Dorman of the Imperial Battlemages of the Forty-Third Army.”
Every impulse in Calen’s body told him to snap the man’s neck, and in the distance Valerys roared, causing gasps to spread through the street as men and women lifted their heads to the sky.
As Calen stared at Dorman, who hadn’t lifted his gaze, memories of Artim Valdock in that cell flickered in his mind. Nails being ripped from his fingers, ribs broken, blood dripping. A second roar from Valerys brought his mind back, and he steadied his breathing. “How did the Forty-Third Army find itself in Salme?”
“We were detached to aid in the relief of Camylin, but we were caught in an ambush and fell back through the villages.” The man took a step closer, but the moment he did both Tarmon and Vaeril stepped between Dorman and Calen. Tarmon placed a hand on the mage’s chest, and Vaeril’s sword was half-free of its scabbard.
Dorman looked down at Tarmon’s hand and gave a subdued laugh. “We have bled as much as anyone here.”
He attempted to push Tarmon’s hand down, but it stayed planted like a rock.
“And will you be staying here, Exarch Dorman? Or will you be leaving to rejoin the imperial armies?”
The question made Dorman visibly uncomfortable.
Calen gestured for Tarmon and Vaeril to stand down, moving close enough that he could smell the stew on Dorman’s breath. He searched the man’s eyes. “Don’t worry. You fought here and you defended my home, and so while you are within these walls, you are not my enemy.” As Calen spoke, heavy wingbeats thumped in the air, and every head in the street turned to the sky. “If you choose to remain here and defend these people, live off this land, you will remain not my enemy. But as soon as your soldiers march from here, bearing that black lion on your chest, you are a threat to everything I hold dear and I will treat you accordingly.”
Movement behind the Exarch drew Calen’s attention, and he saw a face he never thought he would see again.
“Exarch, I do not have fond memories of Lorian mages. But I will say thank you for protecting my home and the people I love. If you’ll excuse me.”
Calen stepped past Exarch Dorman, Tarmon and Vaeril following close behind as he weaved through the crowd. He stopped when he found himself standing before Anya Gritten.
“You still smell like cherry blossoms.” As soon as the words left his lips, Calen realised how much of an idiot he was. “I didn’t mean… That was creepy, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, I…”
He let his words fade as Anya threw her arms around him and squeezed him so tight he thought she might pop one of his ribs. For a moment, he stood there still as a tree, until a gentle push from Valerys in his mind told him to return the embrace.
When Anya finally released him, tears wet her cheeks. She brushed them aside, laughing. “Sorry… I just never thought…” She stopped herself and shook her head. “It’s really good to see you, Calen.” She gave him a broad smile. “You look taller.”
“It’s the boots.”
Anya laughed, and Calen’s heart suddenly felt lighter. Gods, he had missed her laugh. “This is Tarmon Hoard and Vaeril Ilyin, two of my closest friends.”
Anya scrunched her brow and leaned a little to the left, pulling in her top lip as she laughed. “Are they now?”
“What?” Calen turned to see Vaeril and Tarmon had abandoned him and were looking back with shit-eating grins as they pushed through the crowd.
“Would you like to walk with me?”
“I’d love to.”
Tarmon folded his arms and just watched and listened with joy in his heart as Thannon, Origal, Nayce, Torka, and Leon told jokes and stories, ale flowing.
He and Vaeril had left Calen with the woman who clearly needed his time more than they did, and Tarmon brought Vaeril to meet the eight Belduaran Kingsguard who still drew breath within the city. Though it stung to know their number had been much larger only months before, it warmed his heart to see them again.
“You should have seen it, Lord Captain,” Thannon said, puffing out his cheeks, ale sloshing in his cup. “Fellhammer just stood in the centre of them all, and the Uraks faced him one by one as though it were some kind of game. And one by one he crushed their skulls with that beast of a weapon. I’ve heard rumour he suckled on a bear’s teat as a babe.”
Tarmon had simply watched as Erdhardt Hammersmith had quietly walked up behind Thannon and stood there the entire time while Thannon wove his tale to the crowd around them – the Silver Wolves, he’d heard they were called, named after the cloaks they wore.
“You leave my mother out of this,” Erdhardt said, slamming his hands down onto Thannon’s shoulders and lowering his voice to a whisper. “And I’ll leave this out of your mother.”
Thannon’s eyes bulged, and he leapt forwards. “You fucking son of a donkey-fucker.”
Erdhardt and the others burst out laughing, and the mountain of a man clapped Thannon on the shoulders. Seeing this ‘Fellhammer’, Tarmon understood something of where Calen and Dann’s strength of character came from.
“Have any of you seen Dahlen?” Erdhardt asked.
“He’s at the bloodhouse,” Nayce answered, his tone growing sombre. “An Urak snapped young Conal’s arms. The elven Healers have done what they can but… there’s no certainty he’ll see the next sunrise.”
Erdhardt nodded, then raised his cup. The others did the same and drank deeply.
As the drinks flowed, the jokes continued and the stories grew louder and more ridiculous. And as Thannon told tales of the great battle for the city, he said something Tarmon wished he hadn’t.
“And now this Draleid prances around like he owns the place, after we’ve bled for months to keep the Uraks from slaughtering us all.”
The other voices grew quiet, and Erdhardt flashed Tarmon a look.
“What?” Thannon asked, downing the remnants of his cup, looking at the faces around him. “He flies in on his big fucking dragon and expects us all to bow and nod and act as though he’s actually done something. He wasn’t here. He didn’t stand by me, or you,” he said, pointing his cup at Nayce. “I’m just sick of all these kings, and elders, and Draleid, and the fucking Lorians… They just do whatever they please, tell us to go die in some battle or leave us to starve like that little fuckwit Daymon.”
Tarmon clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. “Thannon, that’s enough.”
“Arthur was a man I could follow. But that Daymon was a self-righteous prick. And what made him more than we were? Blood? A trinket on his head? This Draleid is no different. How is he anything better than the ones who burned this world in the first place? He doesn’t give a shit about us.”
Tarmon stepped forwards, but before he could do anything, Dann came striding from nowhere and slammed his fist into Thannon’s face.
Thannon stumbled and fell, but Dann was on him in a heartbeat.
“Say that again,” Dann roared, grabbing Thannon’s collar. He punched the man in the face a second time, Thannon’s cheek bursting. “Say another fucking word like that about Calen again and I will fucking gut you like a fish.” Dann grabbed Thannon’s shirt with both fists, dragging the man’s face closer to his. “You’re not fit to lick the shit from his boots. You know nothing.”
Dann let Thannon drop back to the dirt, then stormed off into the crowd, swatting away Erdhardt’s hand.
Thannon scrambled back to his feet, raging, fury in his eyes.
“Stand down,” Tarmon said, grabbing Thannon by the shoulders.
“Stand down? Lord Captain, I’m going to fucking?—”
“I am not your Lord Captain any longer. Stand down, Thannon, or I will put you down.”
Thannon glared at Tarmon, then shoved him and started after Dann. Tarmon grabbed the man’s shirt, spun him, and drove a fist into his face.
The former Kingsguard hit the ground like a sack of stones.
“Did you have to hit him so hard?” Erdhardt asked, standing next to Tarmon.
“I don’t hit soft.” Tarmon crouched down over Thannon, gently slapping the man’s cheek until Thannon looked at him. “You’ve had too much ale. You said things a Kingsguard should be ashamed to say. Get up, go to bed, and tomorrow we’ll forget it all.”
“I’m not a Kingsguard anymore,” Thannon said, spitting blood into the dirt, his words slurred.
“No, but you’re better than this. Are we agreed?”
Thannon looked at the ground, then back to Tarmon, nodding.
Tarmon lifted his friend to his feet and passed him off to two of the others to take to bed.
“Forgive him, Lord Captain,” Origal said. “King Daymon did a lot of harm.”
“I am not your Lord Captain, and I know what Daymon did. He was only a boy. He should never have had to wear that crown alone.”
Origal nodded, and Tarmon clapped him on the shoulder.
“I’m not your Lord Captain, Origal, but I am always your brother.”
“Always,” Origal agreed.
“I thought he was your friend,” Erdhardt said, gesturing after Thannon.
“He is.”
“If you do that to your friends, what do you do to your enemies?”
“My enemy wouldn’t have gotten back up.”
Erdhardt rested a hand on Tarmon’s shoulder. “Come, I’ve always wanted to see if I could outdrink an elf and a Belduaran Kingsguard.”
“You have?”
“No,” Erdhardt answered. “But now I’m curious.”
As Calen and Anya walked through the streets of Salme, for the first time in a very, very long time, his mind fell quiet. He could still see Valerys as the dragon lay in the fields beyond with his head resting on Avandeer’s side and his tail curled around Varthear’s leg, but all he was focused on was Anya’s voice.
She had become a healer, like his mother. Someone who saved lives instead of taking them. That might have been him had he never left The Glade. They walked and talked until they reached the docks, the sounds of music and dancing echoing from the city behind them.
They removed their shoes and sat with their feet dangling over the edge, staring out at the ocean.
Anya took his arm and looked down at the silver tattooed runes that ringed his forearms. “What are they?”
Calen looked into Anya’s green eyes, then down at the markings. “Dreskyr mit huartan. Dreskyr mit hnokle. Bante er vi, measter og osvarthe.”
Anya stared in wonder as the runes glowed with a purple light. Calen drew a sharp breath, feeling his armour pulse in his mind.
“They are Jotnar runes. They bind my armour to me. Protect my heart. Protect my bones. Bound are we, master and oath. ”
Anya shook her head, smiling, then stared out at the water again.
“What?” Calen asked.
“I always imagined we’d fall in love, get married, and decide to have six children until we realised three was probably enough.”
“You did?” Calen asked, laughing.
“Mm-hmm.” Anya nodded, putting her hands on her knees. “We’d build a home on the edge of The Glade, with a big garden for all the flowers. You’d hunt with Faenir, because let’s face it, you never really loved the forge. I’d start making soap with my mam, but eventually I’d learn to be a healer – Freis would teach me.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “It was going to be a good life,” she said. “Simple, but good.”
“Simple sounds great.”
“Is it all right to miss a life you never had?”
“I do every day.” Calen rested a hand on Anya’s knee, and she leaned over and laid her head on his shoulder. “Every day.”
“Can we just sit here a while?”
Calen nodded. “I’d like that.”
He drew a long breath tinged with the scent of cherry blossoms and closed his eyes. There would be no simple life, not anymore, but he could pretend for a few more hours.