Page 147 of Of Empires and Dust

Tarmon shook his head and moved on. The sight was a common one that night. Over the months in Aravell, and under the direction of himself and the Knights of Achyron, the mishmash of elven volunteers and the rebels from across the continent had slowly begun to resemble something that looked vaguely like an army. Their drilling had become tighter, their movements more fluid, and their discipline was growing. On the battlefield, they would do well. Of that, he was sure. They weren’t fighting in the name of some king they’d never met or for a cause they didn’t believe in. They were fighting for their homes, their loved ones, their future.

But there was more to being an army than battle. It seemed a strange thing to say, but anyone who had been part of a larger whole understood. Battle was the last step in each movement. It was the culmination of all other acts. And even the greatest could lose the battle if each step leading to that moment wasn’t taken with care.

Learning how to march, how to make and break camp as efficiently and quickly as possible, how to ration, how to hunt and live off the land, how to work together as a cohesive unit at all times – each one of those things came before battle. A well drilled force could march and set up camp with their eyes closed. They kept their armour clean and oiled. They marched in file and held their discipline in the deepest moments of fear.

The Belduaran Kingsguard had been one such force, and even they were gone now after Daymon’s death. Though from the letters Dahlen Virandr had sent, many still remained as Oleg Marylin’s guard while some of them manned the garrison at Salme.

At first it was strange to think of Oleg as Belduar’s leader, and yet there was no one better suited. Oleg was a kind man with a keen sense of purpose. He cared for the people. He was also sharp as a blade and quick as a whip, though he often pretended that wasn’t the case.

“High Commander Hoard.” The two Rakina who had accompanied the army – Atara Anthalin and Harken Holdark – strode towards Tarmon. It was the elf, Atara, who had called to him. She pressed a closed fist to her leather jerkin, a coat of mail clinking beneath. “Harken and I will scout the area while the first watch gets in place. We would take fifty bodies with us, if it pleases.”

“Of course, Rakina. Take as many as you need. Talk to Ingvat. She’s on the western edge of the camp. She’ll assign you scouts.”

“I would take some of the Dvalin also. They move quicker.”

Tarmon nodded. The Dvalin Angan were not his to command, but Matriarch Varthon had said they would do what was needed.

Atara gave her thanks and she and Harken set off towards the camp’s western edge.

Harken looked as though he had been bred from a bear. Even Tarmon had to lift his chin a little to meet the man’s gaze. During the Battle of Aravell, Tarmon had watched him snap a soldier’s leg in half with a single kick and lift a man clean off his feet with the throw of a spear. And yet, it was Atara who Tarmon was most thankful to have marching with them, a living legend long before the fall of The Order. The Blade of Anadín, Therin had called her. And after seeing her fight with his own eyes, Tarmon could understand why. She was singular with a blade in her hand. He would go as far as to say the things he’d seen her do should not have been possible. Even in sparring she had taken down Tarmon, Erik, Calen, and Vaeril at the same time without a single blow landing against her. She moved like a bird and struck like a hammer.

When Tarmon had been appointed Lord Captain of the Belduaran Kingsguard, it had been the proudest day of his life. He’d only wished that same appointment hadn’t required Baria Hawe’s death in the First Battle for Belduar. Now, he stood at the head of an army with figures quite literally pulled from the annals deferring to him. He let out a long breath, the fading winter air turning it to steam. He whispered to himself, “I need a drink.”

Tarmon found Vaeril, Lyrei, Erik, and Dann sitting by a copse of fir trees near the centre of camp. Drunir was tethered to a post with his muzzle buried in a bucket of water, Dann’s squire, Nala, brushing the horse’s coat. Like Tarmon, that horse had come all the way from Belduar. Even if he hadn’t already known, the grey-dappled black coat would have given it away. It was an Albireenan, a rare breed that could trace its lineage back to Terroncia, though the few hundred that remained were reared only in Belduar. That Therin had arranged for one to be given to Dann said a lot about what the elf thought of the young man. Astrange thought crossed Tarmon’s mind that Drunir may in fact be the last Albireenan in the known world.

“Ah, there he is.” Erik, seated cross-legged on a rock, inclined his head at Tarmon. “We thought you’d gotten stuck helping pitch the tents. I hope they’re faster at taking down than they were at setting up.”

“Just doing a last round.” Tarmon nudged Erik in the back with his knee as he passed, sending Erik sliding to the dirt. “As you should have been doing.”

“Bastard.” Erik brushed the soil from his knees, returning to his rocky perch. “I was busy making sure that damn bird didn’t kill Dann.”

“Don’t talk about that fucking bird.” Dann knelt by a pile of dried logs, twigs, and leaves, sparking quenched steel with flint.

Tarmon leaned into Erik, then sat beside him. “Did you bring that bottle of Raven’s Ichor Kiko gave you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Erik grabbed Tarmon’s shoulder for leverage, heaved himself upright, and vanished into the tent behind him.

“What did the bird do?” Tarmon asked.

Both Vaeril and Lyrei broke out in the kind of fierce, rumbling laughter that felt strange to hear from elves.

Dann shook his head as the two continued chuckling.

“Anyone going to tell me?” Tarmon asked, genuinely curious now.

A hand rested on his shoulder, and Erik shoved a clear glass bottle of black liquid into his hand.

“Well,” Erik said while setting himself down beside Tarmon, “it appears that weka took quite a liking to Dann, followed him the whole way here.”

Tarmon pulled the stopper from the bottle and breathed in the sweet and spicy anise scent. He took a swig, grimacing asthe burn spread from his throat and through his body, wrapping him in a warm blanket.

He handed the bottle back to Erik. “Do I want to ask what happened?”

“The little shit stole one of my shirts while I was pitching the tent.” Sparks flew from the quenched steel, and the branches and twigs caught fire. Dann dropped back onto his arse, setting down the flint and steel and exhaling into the night. “I liked that shirt.”

Behind Dann, Drunir snorted, stomping a foot.

Dann threw his hands in the air. “Even the damn horse is laughing at me.”

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