The tunnel ahead seemed to stretch on to the end of time. It forked and split, like the roots of a tree weaving their way through the mountain. With each step, he doubted himself. Was it really the wind he was hearing? How could he be sure? He could ask Falmin or Vaeril. But something told him he was right. It wasn't like they had much choice either way, so he just put one foot in front of the other. Again and again. Every muscle in his body cried out for something soft to lie down on and a warm bath to relax in. He yearned to see the sun setting and rising. The indeterminate passing of time only served to intensify every emotion and dim all hopes of escape. At least in Durakdur, there had been clocks in every room. It was not the same as seeing the light of the sun, but it was something.
Calen scratched at an itch on his head as he walked. Dirt was matted into his hair and bedded under his fingernails, as though he had been digging graves with his bare hands. It was a good thing he couldn't see his own face, because if he looked anything like the others, then he probably wouldn't have recognised himself. At least he couldn't smell anything. He had no doubt they all smelled like shit, but the only thing that filled his nostrils was the earthy scent of dirt.
"So, what is it we are following?" Erik asked, drawing up level with Calen's hurried pace, dark circles still ringing his eyes.
"It's hard to explain," Calen said in between breaths. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms as they walked, trying to stave off the cold that had begun to set into the air the closer they got to the source of the whistling. "It's the Spark. With the right amount of Spirit and Air… I can just… hear the wind? I can follow it and hear it changing as the tunnels open out and change shape. The closer we get to the way out, the more it changes. It's not far now."
"Not bad, Draleid," Falmin said, his lower lip curling over his top lip in a pout. "In the guild, we call it the drift. The flowing currents of air that pass through the tunnels. Though, I've never had to use it to find my way before. Impressive."
Calen couldn't help but feel a slight swell of pride at the navigator's words. It didn't seem that he gave out praise very often, so Calen didn't intend on wasting it.
The cold wasn't the only change as they progressed through the tunnel. The patches of Heraya's Ward that had been so reliable in their supply of light, grew scarce as they pressed on. Their eyes managed for a while, adjusting to the increasingly dim tunnels, but eventually they needed to create light. Calen had a feeling there were more than a few things they didn't want to cross in the darkness of these tunnels.
The baldír that floated at the head of the group was weak, giving off just enough light to show them where they were going and no more. Calen couldn't afford to give it any more of his strength. Even as it was, barely more than a flickering candle, keeping it alight burned a lethargy through him. Valerys's episode had leeched the energy from them both; Calen still felt the drain sapping at him.
Vaeril had offered to light the way instead, but his body was still too weak. Calen could see it in the elf's eyes. Fresh streams of blood appeared every few hours where the scab on his leg stretched and broke. He acted as though the wound didn't bother him much, but Calen knew better, and he wasn't about to let the elf risk himself any more than he already had.
The only other person capable of touching the Spark was Falmin. The navigator's command of Air was almost effortless, but he didn't seem to understand much outside the manipulation of that single elemental strand, which seemed strange to Calen. He had never truly seen the elemental strands as separate entities. Each one was clear and unique, but they always seemed intertwined. Either way, Falmin could not help, and Calen would have to do it himself. Taking a deep breath of cool air, he gritted his teeth and pushed more energy into the baldír, illuminating the path ahead. He would have done almost anything to just lie down and sleep. To let his weary body rest. But he couldn't. He needed to get the others out of the tunnels. He would not let them die. Almost there.Every few paces Calen turned his attention back towards Valerys. He felt the dragon's weariness and anxiety. It was subdued now, but still there, lingering at the edge of his consciousness. Valerys lifted his head so his eyes were looking into Calen's. Calen felt the shame, like a blanket of misery, that wrapped itself around the dragon. Shame at allowing himself to lose control, and for putting Calen and the others in danger. It was so very heavy. "Don't worry, we're nearly out of here," Calen whispered, forcing a weak smile.
The lack of warmth, rest, and food was wearing on them all. As much as Calen could feel it in his own muscles and lungs, he saw it in the others. Valerys was the worst off. They had scarcely found enough food to feed themselves, but feeding Valerys was a whole other story. Mushrooms and rats were not enough for a dragon, even one who was still young. His steps were laboured, his mind foggy. Calen could feel the pain and cramps spreading throughout his body; if they didn't get him some real food soon… it was best not to think about it. Calen could sense the point that he thought was the tunnel mouth. Soon.
"The end is near." Tarmon panted, resting his hand on the wall of the tunnel.
Falmin dangled his gangly arm over Tarmon's shoulder as the soldier stopped to give his lungs a rest. "Don't be so negative. I reckon you've got a few more years left in ya," Falmin said with a grin.
Tarmon just stood there, shaking his head in disbelief, a weary smile daring to touch the corner of his lips as the gangly navigator strode ahead of him. Again, the navigator was the only one who seemed capable of mustering anything more than a grumble. The rest of them just trudged through the now frost-covered tunnel, their heads down and their teeth chattering. They kept moving forward.
Calen crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits, clamped his jaw shut to stop the chattering, and pushed one foot after the next.
After a while, Calen's breath plumed out in front of him, and the floor of the tunnel gained a firmer crunch under a soft blanket of frost.
Erik's voice broke Calen out of his trance-like state. Left foot, right foot, left foot. "Light! Up ahead! There's an opening!"
Calen pulled his gaze from the frosted tunnel floor as a feeble cheer echoed through the group. Erik was right. A small speck of white light sat at the end of the tunnel, and now that Calen was focusing, he could sense the change in the air. It was the tunnel mouth they had been searching for. He sighed as he let go of the thin threads of Air he had been holding, relief flooding through him as he did. He had only drawn in the thinnest threads he possibly could – just enough to follow the air – but still they had ebbed away at him, slowly eroding the last vestiges of his energy.
The group's pace quickened to somewhere between a swift stagger and a laboured strut. Any faster and they would die of exhaustion before they got there; any slower and they would die of hunger.
As they got closer, the speck of light grew and grew, until it stood as a clear doorway, nearly twelve feet high and fifteen feet wide. At least, it used to be a doorway. Heaps of rubble were strewn about the tunnel floor, and the remnants of a gigantic stone doorframe still clung to the tunnel mouth on either side. It looked as though it had been broken through from the outside by an immense blast. Past the ruined doorway was a canvas of black and white, flecked with deep green. A blanket of snow dotted with needle leafed trees yielded only to the blackest of night skies, only illuminated by the pale light of the full moon that had drifted into the tunnel. Even without his hearing augmented by threads of Air, Calen heard the hoots of an owl echo into the tunnel mouth. A smile crept onto his face.
The bitter wind snapped at Calen's face as he stepped out through the ruined doorway, the snow coming just short of his knees. He didn't care. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs. The air was cold, crisp, and it burned a little in the back of his throat. "Damn, that's good."
He felt Valerys's agreement as the dragon collapsed in the snow, a wave of relief washing over Calen's mind like a flood. He could feel the cool touch of the snow on Valerys's scales as if they were his own, the sensation of the fresh air filling his lungs, and the sense of freedom that came with spreading his wings.
Erik dropped to his knees beside Calen, the snow coming up past his hips. He ran his dirt covered fingers through his hair, a wide, relief filled smile spreading across his face. "I didn't think we were going to get out." He looked up at Calen, the sombreness in his eyes in stark contrast to the mirth in his smile. "I really didn't, Calen."
A warmth filled Calen from top to bottom as he looked down at Erik and across at the others – they had done it. They were free. The relief that set into him was so great it sent a tingling shiver through his body. He reached out his hand and grasped Erik by the forearm, pulling him to his feet. "We're out, Erik." He pulled Erik into a tight embrace, squeezing so hard he feared that one of the two of them might break. "We're out."
"Thank you," Erik whispered, pulling away from Calen but looking him in the eyes.
Calen nodded, a broad smile spreading across his face. They had not stopped running since Belduar. How much time had passed? How many weeks? It was impossible to tell. But they had made it.
"Pity we're all gonna freeze t'death now," Falmin said with a shrug, his hands tucked firmly under his armpits.
"Do you ever shut up?" Tarmon walked out past Calen and Erik, his hands set on his hips as he looked out into the night.
"Where do you think we are?" Vaeril asked, the elf's gaze following Tarmon's.
"Korik, Lopir, do either of you have any idea?" Calen turned to the two dwarves. To his surprise, he found that they still stood in the collapsed doorway that had once marked the entrance to the tunnels. It was difficult to be sure beneath their knotted beards of golden, silver, and bronze rings, but they seemed hesitant to step out from the tunnel. Scared, even. The hairs on the back of Calen's neck stood on end and his body tensed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword. "What's wrong?"
It took a moment for Korik to meet Calen's gaze. "Belduar was the first time we had ever stepped outside of the Freehold. We were born and raised beneath the stone of Lodhar."
Calen let the tension drain from his body, sighing with relief. He pulled his hand away from his sword and pushed his way through the snow, ignoring the biting wind. He stopped just short of where Korik and Lopir stood in the doorway and reached out his hand. "You do not take your steps alone. Wherever we are now, we are all strangers here. But at least we are together."
Korik and Lopir exchanged a glance. With Lopir giving a short nod, they both stepped from the doorway. Korik reached out his hand, wrapping his fingers around Calen's forearm. "We are with you, Draleid."
"And we are with you."
So many had died, but they had made it.
"There is a village," Tarmon shouted, his voice carrying through the night.
"How far?" Calen called back, pushing his way through the snow to step up beside Tarmon. He followed the man's line of sight, his eyes falling on a small splattering of orange lights far below, off in the distance. It wasn't until that moment that Calen realised how far up the mountain they were.
"It's about four hours' walk by my guess. Though that is just a guess. And it won't be enjoyable. In this kind of darkness, this mountainside is extremely dangerous terrain, and we can't risk using one of your light orbs because we don't know who – or what – might be out here with us. But we don't have a better option."
Calen didn't notice Vaeril stepping up beside them, looking down at the small village at the base of the mountain. "The Draleid and I can lead the way. Has Therin taught you how
to use moonsight?"
Calen shook his head. Moonsight was not something that had ever come up in his lessons with Therin – lessons that had ended far sooner than they should have. He found his mind lingering on Therin, the elf he had once thought to be nothing but a storyteller. An elf, he now knew, was so much more than that.
"Moonsight," Vaeril continued, "is using threads of Fire and Spirit to augment your vision. It doesn't quite give you the same sense of sight as you would have during the day, but it is far better than wandering through the darkness. Watch me and follow."
Calen nodded, biting the corner of his lip as he watched Vaeril reach for the Spark. The elf drew on thin threads of Fire and Spirit, just like he had said. Calen matched him, following his every movement as he weaved the threads through his eyes and mind. The warmth of the Fire felt soothing in Calen's bones as he pulled it through him; Fire always had the strongest hold over him, calling for him to draw on more. He ignored that urge as he followed Vaeril, who worked slowly to allow Calen to follow. In the back of his mind Calen felt Valerys watching them with great interest; he didn't have to look to know that a pearlescent set of pale lavender eyes were fixed on him from where Valerys lay, his white scales blending seamlessly into the snow.
As Calen followed Vaeril's threads, mimicking the elf's motions, a shiver ran down his spine. His vision changed gradually. The world became brighter, and he no longer saw blotches of darkness-obscured shapes, but clear outlines and features. Vaeril's face seemed as clear as day, and Tarmon's armour shimmered in the dim glow of the moonlight. But there was more to it than that; as everything around him grew clearer, the lights and objects in the distance seemed to blur into a muddled haze. It was more than a little disorienting.
"How does it feel?" Vaeril asked, tilting his head as he did. The moonlight gleamed in the elf's eyes as it would in the eyes of a kat.
"It feels… strange."
"It does," Vaeril agreed, "but you will get used to it. You need to be careful when you use moonsight. You will be sensitive to flashes of bright light, and you won't be able to see anything more than a hundred feet away. It's a trade-off."
Calen nodded absently, pushing his fingers into the creases of his eyes as he did when trying to clear his vision in the morning after a long sleep. Nothing changed. The world around him was as bright as day, though it did not have the same vibrancy. The colours seemed duller, washed out. "Why didn't you show me this in the tunnels?"
"A baldír was better suited to the tunnels. Moonsight only benefits the wielder. There is a time and place for everything."
"We should get moving," Tarmon said, "before we all freeze to death."
With the threads of Fire flowing through him, Calen had all but forgotten about the snow and the freezing wind that surrounded them. The Fire had driven the cold from his bones. But he was all too aware that those around him did not benefit from the same luxury. When the cold was added to the hunger and the sleep deprivation, the mountainside was a dangerous place to be. They needed to get to shelter as fast as they could.
"Calen and I will lead the way," Vaeril said, turning to Calen for confirmation.
Calen didn't think he would ever come to terms with Vaeril and Tarmon looking to him for these things – or anyone, for that matter. It was not long ago his mother was telling him to clean up after himself in the mornings after he ate bread, or his father was sighing at him for overworking a horseshoe. Wordlessly, Calen gave a nod, eager for something to distract him from thoughts of his family.
The journey down the side of the mountain was slow. The thick blanket of snow made every step a precarious one. Even with moonsight, it was nearly impossible for Calen to tell if he would find solid footing with his next step. Tarmon and Erik had more than a few close calls where they caught their feet on loose stones or fallen branches. Thankfully, they had managed to right themselves before any damage was done, but the danger was very real.
The threads of Fire might have kept the cold from Calen's skin, but they held no such sway over the damp that seeped through his boots and trousers, soaking him as he trudged down the mountain.
Calen had seen snow before, of course. It snowed most winters in the villages. Not all, but most. When it did snow, it was nothing like this. Calen had never seen snow rise more than a few inches off the ground. And in the centre of The Glade, where footfall was higher, the snow tended to melt away by mid-morning.
The muscles in his hips and legs burned as he dragged them through the dense blanket of icy white, the snow seeming to pull at him, as though trying to suck him in, making his steps feel laboured and heavy, sapping the energy from his bones. They might have been free of the tunnels, but nothing had changed. It was still the same motion – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. The others must have felt much the same, for barely a word was spoken as they slogged through the now waist-high snow.
While Calen held onto moonsight, everything around him was illuminated in a dull glow – a faded version of daylight. But the lights of the village in the distance were nothing but a blur. It was the strangest sensation. He just had to keep moving. Left foot, right foot. "Erik?"
"Not long now," Erik said through chattering teeth. "I can make out the houses and smoke rising from the chimneys. Oh, the things I would do for a warm fire and a tankard of ale."
As Calen looked ahead at the blurred horizon and picked out the blotch of orangey-red light that he figured was the village, he began to salivate. Not so much at the idea of a fire and a tankard of ale, like Erik. But at the thought of warm food and a bed. His back and neck stiffened at the thought of sleeping on something that was not hard rock.
More than anything else, he was looking forward to not having to walk until his blisters had blisters and those blisters had scabbed over into callouses. He could not remember the last day that did not involve walking. And every day that involved walking, held pain.
A snap of branches came from a cluster of trees about fifteen feet to the left of the group. Valerys leapt into the air, his ever-growing wings lifting him high into the night, spraying a fine mist of snow behind him. Calen felt Valerys's hunger in the back of his mind, aching, twisting. The sound had come from a deer. Valerys could smell it, which meant Calen could too. The scent of its damp fur clung to the air, drifting along the wind.
Go, but be careful. A half-hearted rumble of acknowledgement came back. Unlike Vaeril or Tarmon, Valerys had not intended to wait for permission. However hungry Calen was, Valerys was three times that again. It would do him well to eat some meat. Mushrooms and strips of rat were not enough for a dragon.
"Where's he going?" Erik called as he picked up his pace and drew level with Calen, the slightest touch of worry in his voice.
"He's going to eat. There's deer out there."
"I could use some deer. Would he be willing to get some for the group?"
While holding onto moonsight, Calen could easily make out the grin that sat on Erik's face. Erik knew as well as he did that once Valerys got a hold of food, sharing was not taken under consideration.
"Move no further," a voice called.
Without thinking, Calen dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword and reached for the Spark. A tingling sensation ran through the back of his neck as Vaeril and Falmin did the same. He didn't have to look to know the others had drawn their weapons.
"Who goes there?" Tarmon answered, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his greatsword. For a moment, no response came, just the empty whistling of the wind as it swept over the mountainside, sprinkling the air with snow dust. But then Calen saw them with the help of his moonsight – soldiers, emerging from the trees, surrounding them. Calen counted ten in total, four ahead and three on either side. Vaeril saw them too. Calen felt him reaching for threads of Air.
The soldiers wore heavy furs draped over coats of black, riveted chain mail with thick hoods obscuring their faces. Each of them carried a circular shield of layered wood painted a deep blue, with a domed iron boss at the centre. Some form of angular short sword hung at their hips, but most of them carried a long spear or wicked-looking axe, while three carried bows. It was difficult to determine the finer details with his moonsight-augmented eyes, but one thing Calen could tell: they were armed for war, not for hunting.
"Tarmon, there are ten of them," Calen whispered, just loud enough for the man to hear over the whistling wind. "Four ahead, three on either side. They're armed."
Tarmon nodded in reply, not turning his head towards Calen. The group of men drew in closer from each side until Calen was sure they were visible to the rest of the group. The three with bows held their ground.
"We can take them quickly," Erik said, drawing up beside Calen, his two swords drawn. There was not a hint of hesitation in his voice or warmth in his eyes. "Can you deal with the archers?"
Calen looked around at his companions. The snow was only just short of Korik and Lopir's chests; exhaustion had set into the dwarves' eyes, and the cold had turned their faces a pale blue. Falmin, Tarmon, and Erik shivered ceaselessly, and their teeth chattered with every breath they took. They didn't have the time to be standing around. Calen could feel the uneasy tension in the air. They had spent so long wandering through those tunnels, hungry, exhausted, close to the void. All it would take was the wrong word and his companions would happily tear through anyone who stood between them and a warm meal.
One of the men from the other group broke away and stepped out through the snow holding a hefty twin-bladed axe with an edge that glinted in the light of the moon. "It is not you who will be asking the questions. What are you doing in these lands?"
"We are just passing through," Tarmon answered, lowering his sword. "We don't want any trouble. Just a bed and a warm meal."
"Just passing through?" the man scoffed. "Nobody just passes through Mount Helmund. Who are you?"
"Mount Helmund?" Falmin muttered. "We're in Drifaien…"
Calen couldn't make sense of what he had just heard. Drifaien was in the far south, over a thousand miles from Belduar. That's not possible.
Tarmon pressed on as though the revelation had not affected him. "We are travellers. We mean no harm, and we are happy to talk beside a warm fire, but if we stay out here arguing much longer, we will freeze to death."
"That is not our problem, traveller. We came dressed for the weather, as you should have. I—" A thunderous roar cut through the man's words as Valerys swooped down in a cloud of snow, greeted by gasps and shouts of shock from the men around them.
The dragon's scales shimmered in the moonlight, blending in and out of sight with the snow. Valerys dropped the broken body of a stag into the snow, blood dripping from his jaws, steam rising from wherever the droplets fell to the ground. The frills on his back stood on end, like the hackles of a threatened wolfpine.
A deep, rumbling growl resonated from the dragon's armoured chest as he craned his neck from side to side, weighing up the enemies before of him. Fury rose in Valerys, along with a ball of pressure threatening to build. No. Not yet. We need to wait.
Valerys's head snapped around to glare at Calen, his teeth bared as a disagreement seeped from one mind to another. Valerys did not believe the risk in waiting was worth taking. But the pressure dissipated, even if the threatening growl remained.
Calen stepped up beside Valerys, sheathing his sword as he did. He reached for the Spark, pulling on threads of Air and Spirit. Just as he had seen the mage do at Daymon's coronation, he weaved the threads into his voice as he spoke, sweeping his words through the gelid air so that all the men could hear him. "I am Calen Bryer, first of the free Draleid. This is Valerys, and these are my companions. We have come here, not by choice, but by necessity. We are hungry, tired, and sick of death. Please, a warm fire, some food, and a bed. That is all we ask."
The man at the front of the group moved forward a few steps and pulled back his hood. Calen couldn't make out his face; his beard was thick, and his hair dragged down past his shoulders.
The man started to laugh, a deep, bellyaching laugh that echoed across the mountainside. It was not the response Calen had expected. It set a strange, uneasy feeling in his stomach, and he tightened his grip on his sword.
Letting his laugh die down, the man hefted his axe up and slid it into place on his back. "By the gods, you have a fucking dragon. The last time we met, all you had was a purse full of coins and a deft hand with an axe."
"Calen?" Erik's voice held the same question that Calen's mind did.
"I'm not sure…" Calen narrowed his eyes as he stared at the man. Even with moonsight, he couldn't make out the face past the thick beard. But something about him was familiar. "It couldn't be… Alleron, is that you?"
It couldn't be, could it? Calen had only met the man once, in The Two Barges, right before everything happened. But he had been from Drifaien.
"As I live and breathe… Get over here." Alleron stepped forward and grasped Calen's forearm, though he gave Valerys a sidelong glance as he did. A deep growl still resonated from the dragon's chest as his eyes narrowed, watching Alleron's every move. He is a friend.
Valerys's eyes narrowed even further in response. Calen ignored the dragon. A smile crept across his face as he looked into Alleron's eyes. He released the Spark, allowing the moonsight to drift away. The world grew darker around him, but his eyes felt like they were his own again. He wrapped his fingers around Alleron's forearm, returning the gesture with enthusiasm.
"You…" Calen stifled a disbelieving laugh; after so long wandering that labyrinth of tunnels, part of him had lost hope. He did not know the man well, or at all, really, but Calen couldn't help but feel a sense of relief at the sight of him. When they had met in Milltown – that seemed so long ago – there had been something about him that spoke to Calen, something genuine. "You are a sight for sore eyes. I—"
"No," Alleron said, raising his hand. "By the look of you—" Alleron paused for a moment, again turning his gaze towards Valerys, who had calmed somewhat. "And by the look of him, you have many stories to tell, but that can wait. You'll not last long out here in this cold. You are lucky we were patrolling out here. Come, the village of Katta is not far, we can shelter there for the night."
"Thank you," Calen said, closing his eyes for a moment, savouring the first drop of good news he had heard in weeks. All at once, his body sagged as though an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he could finally rest. He relished the thought of a good night's sleep and some real food. "Please, lead the way."
The journey to the village was filled with an uneasy tension. Calen, Erik, and Alleron were the only ones who talked as they slogged through the blanket of nearly waist-high snow. The others eyed the soldiers askance the entire way; the time in the tunnels had put them on edge. He couldn't blame them; the lack of sleep and food combined with the constant fear of the kerathlin had put him on edge as well.
Korik and Lopir stayed huddled together as they trekked, only exchanging a few brief words, low enough so nobody else could hear. Falmin and Tarmon were similarly quiet, which was a first for Falmin, at least. He was almost as bad as Dann when it came to keeping his mouth shut. Though, judging by the way he shivered and the repetitive clicking sound that came from his chattering teeth, the cold was having an effect on his usually wagging tongue. After all, there was hardly a pound of fat on the man's gangly body; nothing to keep the harsh wind at bay. That same wind bit at the exposed skin on Calen's face the second he released the Spark. The thin threads of Fire and Spirit required to use moonsight did not cause much of a drain on him, but combined with hunger and exhaustion, even they were difficult to maintain.
Of them all, though, it was Vaeril who seemed the most uneasy. He did not allow himself to stray more than five feet from Calen at any point, and the entire time Calen felt the elf holding on to the Spark. Calen glanced back at him more than once to try and reassure him with a look, to tell him they were safe, they were with friends. But the snow had begun to fall again, and it was difficult to tell if Vaeril could even see the expressions on his face.
The Drifaienin soldiers, for their part, kept their distance from the group. They walked in two columns on either side, cutting their way through the snow with practised efficiency. They did not shiver and shake like Calen and his companions did. Cloaks of thick fur draped down over their chainmail, and the insides of their hoods were lined with a soft padding. The reason they kept their distance was no puzzle. They hardly walked five or ten feet without throwing sidelong glances at Valerys. The dragon marched through the snow at Calen's side, a low grumble perpetually resonating from his throat. He was no bigger than a horse, but horses did not have wings, they weren't covered in armour, they did not have teeth and claws that could rend steel, and they certainly could not breathe fire.
A smile touched Calen's lips as he looked at Valerys. They were bound by a magic older than the ground beneath their feet or the moon in the sky. In everything they did, they could feel each other. If they were separated by mountain and sea, Calen was sure he could point his hand in Valerys's direction. They were two halves of a whole. Though, as Valerys grew, so too did his influence in Calen's mind. If Calen had not been able to hold Valerys's panic at bay in the tunnels, the dragon's mind would have overwhelmed him. It was something he would have to be careful about.
After they spent some time trudging through the snow, the flickering torches of Katta came into view. The village itself was about as large as the Glade. The houses comprised thick wooden logs, with blankets of snow set heavy across their rooves. The only paths through the snow were those trodden by frequent footfall. Tall, oil-burning torches fixed into wooden stands stood at regular intervals along the trodden paths, chasing the shadows back into the night. A palpable sense of relief flooded through Calen's mind at the sight of the village up close.
Alleron stopped about twenty feet short of the village, just in front of a large two-storey building with a sign out front that read The Brazen Boar. A slightly bitter aroma of ale drifted from the inn. "Food, a warm bath, and a bed. I will see to it you have all three here. The barn is on the other side. It will be as good a place as any for the dragon to sleep. I'll take you there now. Alwen can bring the others to the inn." Alleron waved over one of his men, a tall, brooding man with a stony look in his eyes and a head of long blonde hair that fell in curls. He explained to the man what was to be done and set him about his task.
Turning back to Calen, Alleron took another look at Valerys, who returned his curious stare. A long moment passed where Alleron and the dragon held each other's gaze, but then the man shook his head with a laugh. "Gods be damned… a dragon. Come on, it's best we get him inside, don't know how the people will react to a dragon skulking about at night."
Calen nodded. "Just give me a minute."
Falmin, Korik, and Lopir had followed Alleron's man, Alwen, without a second's hesitation. Food and heat were the only things on their minds. But Vaeril, Erik, and Tarmon still stood by Calen's side, and they made no motions to move. Each of them looked as though they stood with one foot on death's door. Their faces were tinted with a hue of pale blue, and it was clear that all of them were trying their best to suppress their bodies' desire to shiver.
"Go," Calen said, "it's been a while since any of us have had some decent food and a soft bed. I'm going to stay in the barn tonight with Valerys. I'll have some food brought out."
"Draleid, I don't—"
"Vaeril, go."
In truth, Calen didn't want company. He didn't want a drink, or a conversation, or someone looking over his shoulder. He wanted nothing more than to collapse on the ground beside Valerys and sleep for days on end. He wanted five minutes on his own, without the gaze of others on his back. Watching him or expecting things of him.
The elf frowned in disapproval but did not argue. "As you wish, Draleid."
The elf gave a short bow of the shoulders and stormed off as much as his graceful stride would allow. As much as Calen had grown to like Vaeril, he was beginning to think he would never truly understand the way of elves. Their sense of humour was interesting at best, and he never seemed to say the right thing as far as they were concerned.
"Don't mind him," Erik said. "He's just a bit on edge. We all are. You sure you don't want one of us to stay with you?"
Calen shook his head. "I'll be fine. I can't leave Valerys out here on his own, and I could use the time myself."
"Suit yourself," Erik said with a shrug. "I'll have an ale for you. In fact, I might have three. Come on, Tarmon, let's see how well the Lord Captain of the Kingsguard holds his drink."
Tarmon threw a sideways frown towards Erik and rolled his eyes to the sky. "We won't be far, Calen. I will come and check on you in the morning. Sleep well."
When they had all made their way inside the inn, Alleron gestured for Calen to follow him around to the other side of the building where he pushed open the barn doors and ushered Calen and Valerys inside. "There should be more than enough room for the two of you. Normally, when the cold is this harsh, we keep the cows in the barn. But since the last Urak attack, there aren't any more cows. So, she's all yours. I'll have Mirrin bring you some blankets, hot water for washing, and some of whatever the cook has in the pot. Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay in the inn?"
"Thank you, Alleron. I will be fine in here."
Alleron hadn't exaggerated. The barn was large enough to fit a hundred people, never mind just himself and Valerys. It was nearly forty feet across and longer again in length, with piles of hay strewn about and a spacious loft overhead. The only light was the silvery wash of the moon that drifted in through the small rectangular windows on the second level. With a whoosh of air, Valerys half jumped and half swooped past Calen and Alleron, dropping himself down onto a large pile of hay in the corner of the barn. Calen didn't even try to hide his weak smile as Valerys rumbled contentedly, nestling himself into a comfortable position, a feeling of relief sweeping through the back of his mind.
"Calen." There was a serious tone in Alleron's voice – all the earlier warmth was not gone, but there was a definite change in his stance. "I need to know the truth. About you. About… him." Alleron nodded towards the half-asleep figure of Valerys in the corner of the barn. "About how you got here. We've heard the rumours. That a man in Illyanara has claimed himself to be Draleid and joined Belduar in declaring war on the Lorian Empire. From what we've heard, Battle Mages and Inquisitors have been dispatched to every High Lord in the South with demands to have this Draleid captured and detained. My father is expecting one any day now in Arisfall."
"Your father?"
Alleron sighed, bringing his hand up to scratch at the back of his head, and dropped himself down onto a stack of hay. "My name is Alleron Helmund. My father is Lothal Helmund, High Lord of Drifaien."
A High Lord? Calen didn't know what to say. It's not as if he ever asked the question. But could any of the High Lords be trusted? From Therin's stories, and all other stories besides, the High Lords would sell their own grandmothers if they thought it might benefit them in any way. Even Castor Kai, High Lord of Illyanara. There were more than a handful of stories about how the Varsund War had started, and at least half of them laid the blame at his feet. Suddenly, Calen felt as though he were walking on a thin layer of ice, and any misstep could cause him to plummet through the surface. But even at that, there was something about Alleron that set him at ease. His conflicting feelings battled each other as Calen looked wordlessly at the man.
Alleron returned Calen's gaze without flinching. "I am not here to hand you over to the empire, though I doubt my father would hesitate to do so. Look, there seems to be a lot that both of us don't know. How about I get Mirrin to bring us some food, and we can talk? Nothing you say will leave this room unless you want it to. I swear by The Mother and The Father. However, I need to know who I have welcomed into my lands and what you plan on doing next."
Calen brought his hand to his face and scratched at the short, stubbly beard that had begun to form while he was in the tunnels. All he wanted was to eat and to sleep; even washing could wait until the morning. But it wasn't like he had much choice. He never seemed to have a choice; that was the way of things now. Becoming a Draleid had given him a strength he had never thought possible, but it had also tied chains around him, binding him to his path. He sighed, running his hands through his hair and twisting his neck to relieve some of the stiffness that had set in, two loud cracks signalling that he had done just that. "Okay… let's talk."
Large stone hearths roared on both sides of The Brazen Boar, bathing the crammed common room in a warm, orange light. Not even one of the long, heavy wooden tables was empty, and the air was tinged with the scent of fresh stew, sweat, and beer. Though, what decent inn didn't have a lingering smell of sweat and beer, Falmin wasn't sure. In unison with Erik, Lopir, and Korik, he slammed his short wooden cup down on the table with a definite crack. He puffed out his cheeks, grimacing as the golden-brown liquor burned its way down his throat. Whiskey – that's what the Drifaienin, Alwen, had called it when he set the bottle down at the table. It had a hell of a kick to it, but it warmed him up fierce quick. It was amazing what a strong drink could do to a man. Not more than a few hours before, everyone at the table had looked to be on the edge of the void. Some warm stew, a lively inn, and, most importantly, a few shots of whiskey later, and even the two dwarves looked like they were ready to submerge themselves in the snow again.
In truth, Falmin knew his body was done. His body didn't know it, thanks to the whiskey, but he did. He did not plan to leave whatever bed he stumbled into tonight until the sun had risen and set again over the horizon the next day. He also did not plan on ruining that delightful sleep by trying to outdrink two dwarves, a Drifaienin man who looked as though he had come out of the womb clutching that bottle of whiskey, and a young man who knocked the fiery liquid back with the enthusiasm of a babe at the tit of a wet-nurse. No. He was prone to doing foolish things, but he was not a fool. There would be plenty of time left in the world to burn the bad memories out of his brain with drink.
Falmin scrunched his mouth at the sight of Alwen tipping more whiskey into the wooden cups that lay about the table. Six cups. Five for those at the table, and one for the soldier who, Falmin was certain, had no intention of returning to drink it. The elf and the Draleid had never come in at all. Falmin had not expected them to, either. Whatever happened between the Draleid and the dragon in the tunnels – it was something to do with the Spark, that was all Falmin could tell – it was clear the Draleid had been moving his legs through sheer strength of will ever since. Falmin would be surprised if the Draleid woke the next day before he did. And the elf was never more than five feet from the Draleid.
"In Drifaien, it is considered seven years bad sex if you close your eyes while drinking whiskey," Alwen said with a matter-of-fact look on his face as he pushed two of the wooden cups into the dwarves' hands. "Ten years if you choke on it." He said to Erik with a wink as he passed him his cup. Falmin shook his head as Alwen offered him a cup.
"No, no," Falmin said, lifting himself to his feet and slipping his fingers over the rims of the cup offered to him and the sixth unclaimed cup, snatching them up into his hand. "I'll take these t'go. My bed calls, and I've no desire t'watch you choke on it."
Alwen laughed at first as Falmin moved away from the table. But out of the corner of his eye, Falmin watched the man's expression change. That's it. Bit slow on the uptake. But you got there.
Pushing his way through the throngs of drunken Drifaienin without spilling any of the whiskey from his two cups was almost as difficult as making it through those tunnels. A shiver ran through him as he stepped out onto the porch of the inn, where he was greeted by the brisk touch of snow-chilled air.
Tarmon Hoard was exactly where Falmin expected him to be. Not that he had expected him to be sitting on a wooden chair, barely sheltered from the blustering snow with a blanket drawn over his shoulders and his massive sword laid on the decking in front of him. But the chair he sat in faced out towards the barn where the Draleid slept.
The soldier was an interesting one. All men had something that motivated them. For most, it was coin… or women. Usually both. Sometimes other men, but that was simply personal preference. It was clear the first did not apply to the soldier; he was not the type. The second… possibly, but if that were true, he would either be eager to get back inside the inn, or eager to get back to Belduar – whatever was left of it. It didn't seem to be drink or a full belly either. No, he was one of them honourable types. Lord Captain of the Kingsguard. You don't get a title like that unless you've risked your life to save men who aren't worth saving. That's why they give you a title, to make sure you do it again. Falmin didn't understand it, but he supposed he respected it.
"To warm for ya inside?" Falmin said as he pushed one of the cups of whiskey into Tarmon's unsuspecting hands.
Tarmon gave him a sidelong glance before wrapping his fingers around the wooden cup, his gaze never quite shifting from the barn. He brought the cup to his lips and took a mouthful of the burning liquor without so much as a grimace. "Tonight doesn't feel like a celebration to me."
Falmin sighed, resting his shoulder against one of the wooden posts that held up the porch roof. "No? I think survivin' those tunnels is a thing worth celebratin'," he said with a shrug. "Ya have to take the little victories, Lord Captain."Tarmon's expression didn't change, and he didn't turn to look at Falmin, either. He stared off through the blanket of falling snow towards the barn. He took another sip of his whiskey. "How many people do you think died in Belduar?" His voice was flat.
Falmin knew that tone well. It was the one a man used when he did not require an answer. Thousands had died. Crushed by falling rocks, disembowelled by Lorian steel, mangled, and burned alive by dragonfire. The thought of it sent a shiver up his spine, but he tried to ignore it.
Tarmon must have recognised the silence. "How are the others?"
"Celebratin'." Falmin shrugged. He stared out at the snow that came down heavy over the village. He sighed. "They're all right. The young Virandr and the two dwarves are runnin' on empty. They'll drink 'emselves unconscious soon. I assume you know the elf isn't in there."
Tarmon nodded, suppressing a slight laugh. "He's been sitting on the porch of the barn since we got here. Won't go more than ten feet from the Draleid. Funny creatures, elves. Never thought I'd get to meet one. Then again, I never thought I would get to meet a Draleid, either."
Sure enough, through the drifting blanket of snowfall, Falmin made out the figure of the elf sitting cross-legged, his eyes closed, off to the side of the barn door. The extended lip of the porch roof was the only thing keeping him from being buried in snow. Falmin switched his gaze between the elf and Tarmon, suppressing a chuckle. The man didn't seem to notice the irony in his words. Yeah, funny creatures.
"What do you think of him, navigator?" Tarmon tilted his head just enough so Falmin could see the white of his eyes.
Falmin winced as a sip of whiskey seared its way down his throat. "Who? The elf?"
"The Draleid. What do you think of him?" Tarmon turned further until their eyes were locked. There was an intensity in his stare that Falmin couldn't quite place.
"Me? What does it matter what I think of 'im?"
"It matters, navigator. What has been set in motion cannot be undone. People are going to come for him and those with him."
The only things Falmin knew about the bond between dragons and Draleid, he knew from stories. Less than half of which were reliable and less than half again he believed true. What he did know was that this Draleid – Calen – was a tough young man, the kind who would die for a cause. Falmin could see it in his eyes; it was always the eyes that told you these things. "What do you think of him?"
Tarmon turned back into his chair, taking another sip of whiskey. "He's a good man."
"That's it? I thought I was about to get some inspirational speech." Falmin chuckled, taking another mouthful of the burning brown liquid. The liquor definitely added a second layer of warmth.
Tipping his head back, Tarmon downed the remainder of his cup and leaned back in his chair. "There aren't many good men left."