Page 99 of Of Empires and Dust

Erdhardt grunted, then grabbed the shaft of his hammer, swung it up onto his shoulder, and marched off towards Tharn Pimm and another man Dahlen didn’t recognise.

“And you?” he said, turning to Dorman.

The Battlemage clenched his jaw, but Dahlen could see the fury ebbing from his gaze. He moved closer to Dahlen. “I appreciate what you’re saying, ‘Lord Captain’. So I will do as you ask, for now. But I need you to understand I will not stand around and watch the men and women under my command be left to slaughter. If he pulls another stunt like that, I will personally snap his neck.”

“Hmm.”

“You should’ve left Fellhammer to it,” Thannon whispered as Dorman left and the crowd dispersed. “One less Lorian in the world is never a bad thing. Six less is even better.”

“Have some respect for the dead.” Dahlen looked around at the bodies still left to be collected. In his mind’s eye, the world shifted back and forth between the calm of now and the chaos of the hours before. The soft whistle of the wind and the screams and roars as steel carved through flesh and shattered bone.

Thannon tensed. “Yes, Lord Captain.”

Thannon had as much right to hate the Lorians as anyone – more so than most. They had destroyed his home, slaughtered his people. Dahlen understood that, he understood the hatred. But they couldn’t afford to hate anything or anyone but the Uraks.

“Thannon, fetch Camwyn and the others, and watch over Oaken while he makes the repairs to the wall. I’ll ask Kara Thain and her spears to watch the other section.”

“As you say, Lord Captain.” Thannon dipped his head and turned to leave.

Dahlen grabbed Thannon’s shoulder. “We do what we must to keep those we love alive. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“We do what we must,” Thannon repeated, his expression softening.

“You handled that well,” Nimara said, moving to Dahlen’s side.

“We’re just one wrong word away from doing the Uraks’ work for them. One mistake, one fuck up, and we’ll all be food for the crows. And every Lorian left defending the walls is a Lorian who can take a spear to the heart in place of one of my warriors.”

Nimara nodded sombrely. She drew a short breath. “One day at a time. That’s all we can do. That and pray to Hafaesir that your father gets here in time.”

“He will.” Dahlen folded his arms, staring out into nothingness. He and his father had their problems – many of them – but there was one thing Dahlen believed without question: Aeson would give his life for Erik and Dahlen in a heartbeat. His father would not leave him to die.

Beside him, Nimara nodded to herself, the rings in her hair glinting in the crimson moonlight overhead. Even through the blood and dirt caked into her hair and dried onto her cheeks and neck, Dahlen couldn’t help but take in the dwarf’s beauty. Not just her beauty, but her strength. She was ferocious on the field of battle, uncompromising. And in the aftermath, she was a rock, anchoring him in the present.

“Enjoying yourself?” Nimara didn’t turn her head to look at him, but the corner of her lip turned up in a smile.

Since arriving in Salme, Dahlen and Nimara had shared a bed more than once. He couldn’t understand how a woman who had seen him in nothing but his bare skin could cause his cheeks to redden with just a few words. But she could.

“I’ve got a few more hours on watch,” Nimara said, turning to face him. The dwarf looked up into Dahlen’s eyes, holding his gaze for a few short moments. “This place and all the people in it would be dead if not for you. Don’t dwell on what we’ve lost, dwell on what we haven’t.”

She gave his hand a brief squeeze and set off towards the eastern wall.

Dahlen watched Nimara walk away, his gaze lingering until she vanished behind the wall of a stout log home.

He turned his attention to the breach in the wall that Oaken was repairing with his magic, shattered lengths of wood liftinginto the air, fibres mending and twisting. What Dahlen would have given to have such control over the world.

The Spark terrified him to his core. No matter who wielded it, friend or foe, the simple notion that someone could snap his neck from ten feet away and there was nothing he could do about it… That chilled his bones.

He could practice the sword for hours a day, every day for the rest of his life, and even the weakest of mages could snuff him out like a spent wick if he wasn’t careful.

Dahlen watched Oaken work for a few moments more, then turned and made his way towards the small hut that was his home in this place. He would welcome sleep with open arms.

Sodden earth squelchedbeneath the weight of Dahlen’s boots as he walked through the streets of Salme towards his hut, the occasional howls of wolfpines echoing in the distance.

The town had grown into the beginnings of a city since he’d arrived. Refugees from the other villages had swelled the population, erecting makeshift homes left and right. The sheer speed at which the town had grown, along with the heavy rain, had turned the streets to nothing but churned mud.

He marvelled at how the people of Salme had taken in the refugees from the other villages. There had never been a question about it, never a hesitation. Sure, the elders squabbled and spat, but the people of these villages looked after each other. Even the Belduarans had been welcomed with open arms. It was a type of kindness, a type of community, Dahlen had never known, and one he thought he could get used to.

He nodded as two men passed him in patched leather jerkins, gloved hands wrapped around spear shafts.

---