Page 208 of Of Empires and Dust

“No taste for the ale?” Erdhardt whispered, leaning across the table while Yoring went on with his story. He nodded down at Dahlen’s ale. “You’ve barely had a thimbleful.”

Dahlen raised an eyebrow, then looked down at the dark liquid in the tankard, gave a half-smile, and took a short draught.

“Do you ever stop?”

“Stop what?” Dahlen watched Yoring, who had stood up from the bench and was now making axe swinging motions with his hands.

“Waiting. For the next attack, for the next moment you have to spill blood. There’s more to this life than sleeping and killing.”

“No. There’s not. Not now, not while the Uraks could come flooding over those walls any night. If my father were here, he’d probably sleep on the wall itself, cradling his swords. He’d likely never sleep.”

“But he’s not, and you’re not him. Nobody can be anything but what they are.” Erdhardt let out a long sigh, stroking his beard. “You’re a young man, Dahlen. How many summers have you seen? Twenty? Twenty-two?”

“This will be my twenty-fourth.” He took a reluctant sip of his ale.

“Even the strongest steel breaks beneath enough weight. Let yourself breathe. Let yourself rest. You deserve one night.”

Dahlen nodded slowly, then straightened his back and looked around the inn. “So many of these men and women havenever even held a sword,” he said, leaning closer to Erdhardt once more. “And now they face Uraks? Now they must stand on a wall, or in the dirt and mud, and watch their friends be run through, maimed, disembowelled, beheaded. I’m not good at many things, Erdhardt. I can’t sing, can’t cook anything that won’t end up burnt or tasting like shit, I can’t dance, can’t brew, or forge, or any number of things. I can survive. Hunt and forage, sew a wound or clothes, track, fish. But there is one thing above all else – I can fight. I can wield a blade better than anyone in this city, and I know that for a fact because my father taught me how and my father is the greatest swordsman I’ve ever seen in my life, the greatest warrior. My brother, Erik, is coming with an army, and all I have to do is keep Salme alive until he gets here. And if me standing on that wall, night after night, day after day, gives these people the courage to do the same, then that’s what I’ll do. Because I can do very little else.”

“Well, you won’t do it alone.” Erdhardt tapped his tankard against Dahlen’s and gave him a short nod. The young man spoke with the heart of someone who had seen twice his summers and the head of someone who had seen twice Erdhardt’s.

Erdhardt had always taken pride in the young men and women of The Glade, in how they were raised. He’d always thought that the people they became reflected not only on the village but on himself. As an Elder it had been his task to guide them, to teach them the things that mattered in life. And as such, he very much looked forward to the day he met Aeson Virandr. Because any man who raised a son with that kind of integrity was a man Erdhardt wanted to meet.

An hour or so passed. Erdhardt drank three more tankards, Dahlen drank one, and they watched the inn fill to bursting.

A short man with a balding head and grey-black beard shouldered through the crowd, his stare fixed on Dahlen.

Erdhardt tensed, watching the man push past a group of Lorian soldiers in their black and red leathers drinking around a circular table. He shifted in his seat, lifting one leg from across the bench so he could stand if needed.

“Dahlen Virandr.” The man opened his arms as he stepped by a serving girl wearing a long brown dress and apron.

Dahlen looked up from the conversation he was having with Nimara and Thannon about constructing a tower by the gates. It took a moment, but then his jaw slackened and he tilted his head as he rose to his feet. “Darda? Darda Vastion?”

It was only then Erdhardt recognised the man. He’d run a shipping operation from Milltown, sending goods north. He’d carried a bit more weight the last time Erdhardt had seen him.

Darda stuck out his hand. “I’ve not been called anything else. It’s good to see you, my boy.”

Dahlen grasped the man’s forearm and pulled him close, clapping him on the back. “And you. How long have you been in the city?”

“A while now. But I twisted my foot fleeing Milltown from the beasts, not been right since. Your father, brother?”

“Well – alive.” Dahlen turned to Erdhardt, gesturing at Darda. “Erdhardt Hammersmith, Darda Vastion. Darda ‘exported’ weapons and supplies for our… ‘friends’ in the North. My father’s known him since before I was born. Erdhardt is?—”

“Ah, I know Erdhardt Hammersmith.” Darda nodded at Erdhardt. “Known him for many a year. It’s a pleasure to see you well. Aela?”

Erdhardt shook his head.

Darda nodded and let out a sigh. He reached out and grasped Erdhardt’s forearm. “She was a good woman.”

“She was a great woman,” Erdhardt corrected. He gestured for Darda to join them at the table, eager to move on. “You used to smuggle for the rebels?”

“That I did. Sent them up north to a spot nestled between the island of Antiquar and the Lodhar Mountains. Weapons from Vars Bryer, along with whatever else was needed.”

“Vars Bryer?” Dahlen narrowed his eyes, looking from Darda to Erdhardt. “Calen Bryer’s father?”

“You know Calen? He’s a good lad.” Darda broke into a smile. “He brought me the last shipment of weapons I ever sent. You remember, Erdhardt. It was right after The Proving. Calen and the others – what were their names again? Stan Pinn? And Havel… Lasch’s boy?”

“Dann and Rist.”

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