Page 105 of Of Empires and Dust

“Well.” Lyrin’s voice cracked through Arden’s thoughts, and the man appeared at his side with a cask of wine over his shoulder. “How do you think Achyron feels about our Sentinel armour being used to move wine? You reckon the big guy has a sense of humour?”

“Shut up, Lyrin.” Arden wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I’ve barely seen you in days, and this is how you talk to me?” Arden didn’t answer, but Lyrin carried on. “The way I see it, if pain is the path to strength, then a morning after drinking your bodyweight in wine should make us strong as an ox.”

“I should have appreciated the silence more.” Arden held a straight face as long as he could before allowing a laugh to break through.

“You’re an arsehole, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

Lyrin frowned. “He’ll be fine, Arden. He’ll be resting nice and snug within the city walls. We can’t lie around and watch over him like a babe. Not now. There are not enough of us.”

Arden didn’t have to ask to know Lyrin was talking about Calen. Was he that easy to read?

Shouts rang out across the courtyard, followed by deep, thumping wingbeats. The enormous figure of Valerys rose over the canopy of the trees that encircled the yard. The dragon soared upwards, blotting out the Blood Moon, then swerved back around, casting a shadow large enough to cover twenty wagons.

“Speaking of your brother.” Lyrin gave a downturn of his lip, looking up and following Valerys’s flight.

The dragon’s white scales glinted pink as he twisted in the air and caught the moonlight. In a way, it was beautiful, but at the same time, the sight reminded him that the world outside these walls was on fire.

Images flashed in his mind of the battle at Ilnaen, of Efialtír’s Chosen cutting through his brothers and sisters, Fane’s black-fire níthral plunging into Illarin’s chest.

The thought caused his jaw to clench, his breath catching.

Again, memories flooded his mind, this time of the battle at Elmnest. Screams and wails filled his ears. Bodies lay everywhere, limbs scattered like snapped twigs after a storm. He remembered carrying Sylven through the fighting, Ruon, Lyrin, Varlin, and Ildris holding back the Bloodspawn while the city burned.

He heard the screams on the nights he tried to sleep. That battle had been different to all the others. Those screams had been different. They weren’t screams born from the thick of the fighting. They were screams that echoed through the valley as the Bloodspawn fell back to the city and slaughtered thousands. They were the screams of the people Arden couldn’t save. The people he had failed.

“Arden?” Lyrin stepped in front of Arden, staring into his eyes. “You all right? Let’s go get your brother a drink before he gets trampled.”

Arden nodded. Sweat dampened his palms, his breath came short, and the slightest of trembles had set into his hands. He looked up to see Valerys had alighted near the centre of the courtyard and those gathered had quickly swarmed in around him.

Calen took a long draughtof wine from his cup, then breathed in the cold night air. Men, women, and elves alike – thousands of them – huddled around fires all across the courtyard, the discordance of songs, shouts, and chatter carrying through the open air.

Not far from him, over to the left, two elves sang and played lutes for some three hundred onlookers who clapped and cheered, wine sloshing in cups.

In the distance, by the supply wagons, a number of Dvalin Angan had gathered close to a group of rebels Calen had recently learned had travelled all the way from Varsund. One of the men was a bard. Calen could see his arms flailing dramatically as he wove some tale of time past. In the absence of horses in Aravell – with the exception of Drunir – the Dvalin had offered themselves to pull the wagons to Salme.

Calen had hoped to hear from the dwarves of Lodhar, but no news had left the mountains in weeks. From what he knew, the civil war that had ended in the deaths of both Pulroan and Hoffnar would take quite a while to resolve. If for no other reason than their prowess in battle, Calen hoped they would come to a resolution sooner rather than later.

“It’s a special thing,” Tarmon said, following Calen’s gaze across the yard.

“What is?”

“Being here.” Tarmon took a sip of wine. “The only elf I’d ever met before you came to Belduar was Therin. Now here we are about to march to war, standing shoulder to shoulder with them. You know what’s even stranger?”

Calen raised a curious eyebrow.

“Marching to war alongside Lorians.” Tarmon gestured towards where Ingvat, Surin, Kiko, and Loura sat with the rebels who had crossed the Burnt Lands. “They’re good people.”

“They are,” Calen agreed. “We’re lucky they’re here.”

“I wonder what Falmin would say?” Erik appeared to Calen’s right, a cup of wine in each hand.

The mention of the navigator’s name pulled at Calen’s heart. Loss was a cruel kind of pain. He’d not thought of Falmin since the battle for Aravell. But all of a sudden there was an ache in his chest.

“Fuckers,” Tarmon said, putting on his best impression of Falmin. “Wouldn’t trust ’em as far as I’d throw ’em. What? They’ve got whiskey? Maybe they ain’t that bad.”

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