Page 200 of Of Empires and Dust

The second battle with the Lorians had been the most evenly matched. It had been a full Lorian army, some five thousand. Atara and her scouts had found them camped at the foot of a valley, headed south towards Valtara. But between the cover of night, the sheer number of elven mages, and Dann somehow managing to steal away with just over four hundred of the Lorian horses with nothing but a bow and a skin of Raven’s Ichor, the battle had been quicker work than it had any right to be. Dann had taken a minor wound to his leg in the midst of it all, though he acted as though he’d need an amputation.

Still, over the course of those days, they had lost about three hundred souls. Some human, some elves; mostly human. With an army this young, these battles were key to forging them into a single cohesive force that could withstand far greater tests, but it was a delicate balance. Many had travelled far and wide when Aeson had sent out the call, but they were not warriors. They were farmers, fishermen, blacksmiths, pedlars. The vast majority had not even held steel before arriving at the outskirts of the Darkwood. They had suffered, and they knew grief and pain, but death was not as familiar an acquaintance to them as it was to Tarmon. And watching someone die was not the same as killing them. Caught up in stories of the first free Draleid in four hundred years, of rebellion, of heroism and great deeds, they were only now learning the truth of war.

Tarmon paused for a moment, watching as a group of Dracurïn shared stories around a fire, elves and humans both. It was good to see smiles on faces. He allowed himself a moment to linger before setting off towards Dann’s tent.

“Shit, fucking, donkeydick motherfucker.”Dann stuck a leather strap into his mouth and bit down hard. He closed his eyes tight and pursed his lips, exhaling.

After a moment, he opened his left eye to see Lyrei staring at him in pure shock, a needle and catgut in one hand, her other hand pinching the flesh of his upper thigh.

“What?” he asked, still grimacing, both hands bunched into fists.

“Elven children complain less than you.” She shook her head, then passed the needle back through his skin without warning, eliciting a grunt. “It was you who insisted on having your wounds sewn by hand. One of the Healers could have seen to you if you were not such an infant.”

Dann ran his tongue across the front of his top teeth, biting back his words. “There are worse injured. I’m fine.”

“You’re fine?” As though making a point, Lyrei squeezed at the wound in Dann’s leg.

“Sweet fucking Elyara’s toes.” He slapped at Lyrei’s hand. “Really?”

“Small pleasures are hard to come by.” Lyrei gave Dann a mocking smile and carried on.

Dann leaned back on the bed with both his hands, looking up at the tent’s roof. “You enjoy my pain.”

“On the contrary…”

Dann tilted his head back down, and for a moment he found himself lost in the shifting gold of Lyrei’s eyes. Then the tent flap opened, and Nala shuffled in.

“Commander Sureheart… sir… my lord.” Her cheeks were flushed red, and she looked from Dann and Lyrei back to the tent’s opening. “I…”

Dann realised he sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but his smallclothes, raw, stitched wounds on his legs, neck, and arms. “What is it, Nala?”

Before the young porter could answer, Tarmon strode in, his armour replaced with a linen tunic, thick trousers, and a long coat. No matter what the man wore, he just looked like a tree with mountains for shoulders. Or a mountain with trees for shoulders. Dann couldn’t quite decide.

Tarmon looked to Nala and bowed at the waist. “Thank you, Nala.”

The young attendant stiffened and returned the bow, nodding repeatedly as though something had broken in her head.

“How is he?” Tarmon moved to stand by Lyrei’s side, staring down at the half-stitched gash that ran from close to Dann’s groin down to just above his knee. The armour Valdrin had crafted was a fine thing, and if he’d not been wearing it, his chest would have resembled a fishing net from all the holes.

“Heis right here,” Dann snapped, narrowing his eyes.

“As irritating as usual,” Lyrei said, driving the needle back through Dann’s skin so he couldn’t respond.

“To be expected.” Tarmon folded his arms, looking down at Dann like a disgruntled uncle might a nephew. “He’ll live?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Keep it up,” Dann said. “I swear to the gods.” He hissed as Lyrei ran the catgut through again. “If you ever want to see that shoe of yours again, I’d start being a lot nicer to me.”

“Keep it,” Tarmon said with a shrug. “Unlike you, I brought spares.”

“I know.” Dann tried his best to give Tarmon as menacing a look as possible. “Mikal told me.”

He’d made good friends with Tarmon’s attendant – or squire, as Tarmon had called him. And Mikal looked after all of Tarmon’s gear, including his boots and shoes.

For a second, Tarmon looked as though he were going to snap, but he collected himself and gave a downturn of his bottom lip. “The bird is back.”

“Fucking bird.” Dann pushed himself upright, face contorting as Lyrei drove the needle in again. “What did it take?”

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