Page 389 of Of Empires and Dust

“Erdhardt,” Anya whispered as her eyes fell on the face of Erdhardt Hammersmith, who walked amongst the riders and warriors who spilled into the square. A sense of relief washed over her. The same way it did after every attack when she sawhis face, saw him still walking amongst the living. They were a strange pair, the two of them, but they kept each other afloat.

Dahlen Virandr appeared beside Erdhardt. Less than half of the man’s Silver Wolves walked with him, along with Nimara and her dwarves.

For every face that Anya recognised, two more were absent.

“Anya,” Dann called down from his horse. “I’m going to need you to focus. I need you to get them to the port. Can you do that?”

She nodded sharply, finally regaining herself. “Dann?”

“Yes?”

“Calen?”

He shook his head. “He’s always late, isn’t he? Always.” Dann must have seen the look on Anya’s face, because he carried on, saying, “He’s alive, and he’s well, Anya. Now go so I can say the same about you.”

With that, Dann rode to join the warriors forming together and cutting down any Uraks that launched themselves into the yard.

Anya watched for a moment, then grabbed three of the guards and did exactly what Dann Pimm had told her to do, and that wasn’t a sentence she’d ever thought she’d say.

Dahlen weavedthrough the thick of Urak bodies, his blades leaving arcs of blood in their wake. With Erik at his back, everything felt different – simpler. It was as though a piece of him had been missing since the Burning of Belduar, his balance shaken.

The square was chaos incarnate. There was no holding battle lines against an army of Uraks and Bloodmarked. Neitherwas there surrender. Whoever was left alive would be the victor. Everywhere he turned, axes, swords, and spears hacked, slashed, and stabbed. Everything was the colour of blood, and the rain continued to hammer down without respite, the ground sodden and squelching under foot.

All he cared about was keeping the Uraks away from the buildings along the port, where those who couldn’t fight had been taken for safe keeping – those who hadn’t been in the great hall. Despite the rain, the massive structure still blazed relentlessly. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his head as he turned an Urak spear to his left, then carved open the beast’s leathery throat with a backswing.

He could do nothing for the dead, but hecouldsave the living from joining them.

Dahlen spun his left blade into reverse grip and drove it into an Urak’s chest while Erik swept past him, slid onto one knee, and raked his steel across thick, grey hamstrings.

To his right, Erdhardt fought alongside some of Dahlen’s Wolves, that black hammer crushing Urak skulls and shattering limbs. The man was more a beast than any of the Uraks and dispensed even less mercy.

Nimara and the other dwarves stayed tight as well, never straying too far from Dahlen, while the elven mages wrought havoc with the Spark.

A realisation swept through him as another severed Urak head rolled to land at his feet: they would win this night. The horns that bellowed over the city told him as much. The remainder of Erik’s army had crushed the Uraks at the walls and were now moving through the streets to catch the last of the beasts in the rear.

The moment should have brought joy beyond measure, but it was cold and empty. For it was a victory in name alone.

He stood still for a moment, the rain splattering his face, and watched a black spear punch through Jorvill Ehrnin’s chest and another catch the Alamant – Oaken Polik – in the neck. With every second that passed, Heraya embraced another soul. ‘Victory’ might only be a short time away, but they would continue to die until that moment arrived, until the rest of the army flooded into the square and the Uraks were routed. The dead would number in their thousands come the morning, and the living would go on, broken and never quite the same.

And so Dahlen fought until his lungs burned and his limbs cried out for respite. He fought until he had spilled so much blood that he could have filled Haftsfjord twice over. And he fought until the sound of horns grew ever closer and a flood of warriors swept into the square, some bearing the white dragon, others a golden stag, or a silver star, or a green tree. They crashed down like a wave, and the Uraks broke beneath their weight.

The old Lord Captain of the Belduaran Kingsguard, Tarmon Hoard, charged astride a mountain of a horse, black and ferocious. The man was possibly the only match for Erdhardt in size and strength. But where Erdhardt was fury and raw power, Tarmon was precision and excellence, his years in the Kingsguard forging him into a warrior even Dahlen would have hesitated to face. He made every warrior around him appear like a hero of legend.

The Uraks fought like caged animals, taking three for every one they lost. Until Vaeril Ilyin charged on that white stag and drove his star-pommelled sword through the Shaman’s heart after Erdhardt had smashed open its jaw.

And when the last of the Uraks fell, the remnants scattering at the sight of their dead Shaman, Dahlen dropped to his knees. He tilted back his head and let the rain wash the blood from his face, the flames of the great hall blazing in the night.

Dann restedhis forehead against Drunir’s muzzle, stroking the blood-matted hair on the horse’s neck. “You did good.”

The horse gave a soft snort, shaking his head. ‘Of course I did,’ Dann imagined the horse said.

He patted Drunir’s neck and handed his reins to Nala, who had entered the city along with the other squires and porters after the Uraks had been thoroughly routed. “See that he’s fed and watered, and scrub the blood from his coat. And Nala, give him as many carrots and apples as he wants. He’s earned it.”

The young girl smiled, scratching under Drunir’s chin and leading him away, whispering in his ear.

Dann made his way through the square, where Urak bodies were being piled into carts to be burned outside the city limits. The place was still crowded, packed to the brim with the injured, who sat about having their wounds tended by the elven Healers. Without Healers capable of using the Spark, Salme’s casualties would have doubled over the next few days. He couldn’t help but think back at how many lives might have been saved in The Glade across the years if they’d had access to Healers. Freis Bryer was an incredible woman, and she’d pulled back more souls from the edge of death than Dann could count. But there was only so much a person could do with herbs, poultices, brimlock sap, and catgut.

The remains of the great hall still burned. The centre was a massive pile of smouldering embers, but flames licked the wooden frame and billowed smoke into the night. Had they not arrived with the army when they did, the entirety of Salme would have resembled the burning ruin that was the great hall. Even still, both Salme and the army had taken great losses.

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