Rist stumbled through the makeshift camp, the taste of blood and dirt coating his tongue. The stitches in his chin and lip pulled, fresh blood trickling. He swallowed, trying to add some moisture to his mouth and throat. The result was a heaving cough that pulled the stitches even tighter.
It was somewhere around midday. The elves had stopped pursuing about the same time the day before, but the armies had kept marching in an attempt to put more distance between them.
"Don't break those stitches," Sister Anila said as she checked over her handiwork. Rist's chin and lip weren't the only parts of his body that had been stitched back together. Anila had sewn the flesh on his arm, chest, leg, and back. The triage tents were overloaded, and the Healers were so overworked that bodies were being tossed in ditches, some of them still groaning. Thankfully, Rist's wounds hadn't been dire enough to require true healing.
Shouts and calls rang out, accompanied by squeaking wheels, horses snorting and whinnying, and the constant drum of footfall. Not a single person passed Rist that didn't look as though they had just crawled from beneath a mound of bodies.
"There're only three more triage tents." Garramon glanced back at Rist and Anila with a disapproving look. "If they're not there, they're dead."
The words cut Rist as though they were sharp steel. When the camp had been set, Garramon had settled the mages of the First Army, counting the dead, feeding and watering the living. None of them had seen Magnus since the battle. For the past few hours, Garramon, Anila, and Rist had been searching through the triage tents for any sign of Magnus and also of Neera. Rist had been separated from her during the fighting. He'd called her name and searched for the past two nights since the battle, but everything had been chaos; the armies had spread out over miles, the injured and dying being wheeled on carts like sacks of grain.
At the far end of the camp, the hulking shapes of two dragons loomed. Helios, the black-scaled mount of Eltoar Daethana was so large he could easily have been a hill of onyx. Rist had seen both dragons fly over the past two days, their bodies scored with more marks and wounds than he could count. The Healers had been tending to them day and night. The third dragon, Meranta, had been slain at the battle of the Three Sisters. Rist hadn't considered that dragons could die. It hadn't even been a possibility in his mind. What in the known world could kill a dragon? Well, it turned out the answer was another dragon.
That was something that had shaken the Lorian soldiers to their core. Not only was one of the Dragonguard dead, but the elves had dragons. He'd heard soldiers whispering about it as they marched. Each kept their voices hushed to avoid being overheard, but everywhere Rist turned, they were all whispering the same things. Fear consumed them.
"There." Garramon sidestepped a man wheeling a wooden barrow of severed limbs, blood pouring into the dirt. He nodded towards a white tent twenty feet away.
Rist couldn't pull his gaze from the barrow. His stomach turned, and in no more than a few moments, he was emptying its contents into the dirt, heaving and coughing, his wounds flaring with pain as though he was being sliced open all over again. Vomit clung to the back of his throat, reddish-orange tinged saliva hanging in strings.
A hand grasped Rist's shoulder and pulled him up right.
"Pull it together," Sister Anila said. Rist had expected her expression to be cold and unyielding, but instead he saw sympathy in her eyes, the usual harsh line of her mouth twisting into an almost pitiful smile. "You've seen worse in every triage tent so far." Anila's expression softened even further. "And we don't have enough food for you to keep puking it up. Come on, there's only three more."
The first of the three remaining triage tents was the worst Rist had seen. He saw gut wounds, severed limbs, men and women with holes the size of fists in their chests. The screaming scratched at his ears, clawing to get inside his mind. And the smell caused him to gag – just like it had in all the other tents. As it turned out, most people emptied their bowels when they were close to death, and the smell of shit in the triage tents had mixed with the iron and acid tang of vomit and set about battling the sharp antiseptic scent of brimlock sap and burning flesh from the cauterised wounds. Even with the Spark, the Healers were being pushed far past their capabilities. Rist knew little of healing, but he did know that whatever a Healer gave, they lost twice over in return; the more severe an injury, the more Healers it would take to mend, the more likely it was a Healer would take their own life in the process.
When they hadn't found any sign of Magnus or Neera in the first tent, they moved on to the second, which was situated near a burbling brook that flowed through the northern edge of the camp.
Much like the other tents, when Rist stepped through the pinned-open flaps of the second last triage tent, his senses were assaulted. Wails, groans, and shrieks filled his ears. The stench of death plugged his nostrils. A wave of heat rolled over his skin.
He looked about, his head scattered by the chaos. Men and women were crammed together, lying on the ground or standing against poles, barely enough space for the Healers, garbed in white robes, to move around. The lucky, or unlucky, had cots. But those were mostly for the soldiers who could no longer walk. A man lay unconscious – at least Rist hoped he was unconscious – on a cot to the left of the entrance, bloodied bandages covering two stumps of leg that had been cut from the knee down. Rist turned away, a fist closing around his stomach.
"Garramon, Uraksplitter, Acolyte Havel! About time. I'm just about done."
Rist lifted his head to see Magnus Offa standing shirtless with has arms spread wide. Two Healers moved around him, one wearing the full white of the Healer affinity, the other with a brown stripe trimming the edges – an acolyte.
Magnus's beard was burned to cinders on the right side, the eyebrow on the same side completely missing. His arm from his shoulder down to his elbow was covered in burn scars that looked as though they had been sustained a decade ago but had clearly been inflicted during the battle – the power of Spark healing. A plethora of cuts and bruises covered the man's body, so many he looked as though he'd been shredded by a wolfpine then dragged behind a moving cart. But despite it all, Magnus was smiling.
Anila gave a sigh of relief. "We thought you were dead."
"Oh they tried," he said, with a broad, toothy grin. With the right side of Magnus's beard burnt away, for the first time since Rist had met the man, he could actually see Magnus's mouth – well, half of it. It felt odd, as though he was looking upon a stranger. "Oh you better believe they tried. One elven bitch came close, but I ran her through with a snapped spear shaft. Uraksplitter, you should have seen her face when I held her into the dragonfire like a rabbit on a skewer—Agh!" The man slapped away one of the Healers' hands. "Heal it, but don't stick your finger in."
"Where've you been? It's been two days since the fighting."
"I got pinned beneath a horse. Bastard knocked me senseless. By the time I'd come to and had enough energy to knock the thing off me, the elves were already giving chase. I've spent the last two days catching up, killing as many of the pointy-eared fuckers as I could along the way. One of 'em stuck me like a pig last night, and I just about crawled back here." Magnus pointed down to a mass of knotted flesh just under his rib cage, about an inch in diameter. "Achyron almost had me as a drinking partner. He would have, if it weren't for an over-eager Healer acolyte who burned herself out trying to save me." Magnus's tone grew sombre towards the end of his words, the usual mirth evaporating from his voice. He nodded towards the Healer who stood beside him, working over a deep gash in shoulder. "Heraya embrace her. She was too young to have taken my place."
The Healer, a tall broad-shouldered woman with short dark hair and a hooked nose, held Magnus's gaze, then inclined her head, a brittle smile touching her lips. She went back to work on his wounds.
Magnus grimaced as the woman pulled at him, looking him over. "How are my mages?" Magnus, held his breath for a moment "How many casualties?"
Garramon stared at Magnus. Rist understood why the man was hesitating. If he had to give the news, he wasn't sure he'd be able to find the words no matter how hard he looked.
Magnus's voice turned to a growl. "For the love of the gods, tell me, you bastard."
"Eighty-two dead."
Magnus's face dropped, his jaw slackening, eyes losing their lustre.
"Eighty-two dead," Garramon repeated. "Nine wounded. Three of those won't make the night. They were hit by dragonfire. One of the elven dragons crashed down into our ranks during the retreat. Yoric, Allana, Urka, Theo, Dremaine, Kalder, Luna, Tomas, and Pula – each of them barely have a scratch, but they're shook."
Magnus swallowed. His lips looked as though they had been about to form words twice, but nothing came. Seeing Magnus like this cut into Rist's heart more than anything else he had seen since the battle. Magnus was always full of laughter and levity, he had seemed impervious to the darkness of the world, but now Rist could see his heart bleed. The man nodded to himself, biting at his lip. "I'll go to them."
"Finish here first. You're no good to anyone when you look like a walking corpse."
"Mmm," Magnus grunted. A flicker of life touched his face, and he looked at Rist. "Your woman is here. Though, don't tell her I called her that. She's a fiery one."
"Neera?" Rist did nothing to hold back the urgency in his voice. "She's here? Where? Is she all right?"
"Behind me to the left, by the tent pole with the strip of white cloth hanging from it. Aye, she's alive, lad. She'll live, she'll walk again, and she'll hold a blade. Many aren't as lucky."
Rist looked to Garramon, but the man was already gesturing away. "Go."
Rist pushed his way through the triage tent, grimacing with each step as his new wounds burned in objection, his many stitches pulling tight. "Neera?"
A few soldiers looked at him with curious glances, the Healers glaring as he got in their way.
"Neera?" he called again, ignoring the stares. He stepped over two men on the ground he was reasonably sure were dead, then carefully avoided the legs of a woman who's right arm had been cleaved just above the wrist. There had to have been hundreds of soldiers in this tent alone, and only a handful of Healers between them. The acrid stench of vomit still clung to the back of his throat, his stomach threatening to empty once more. The bards had left this part out of the stories: what happens after thousands of men with sharp steel go to war. They never weaved tales about what happened after, never sang songs about the woman who returned home with no legs or the man whose body was covered in blisters and scars. No, those would not make for fine drinking songs.
Rist shuffled his way around a plump Healer with shoulders as broad as an ox, and then he saw it: a tent pole with a strip of white cloth snagged on a splinter of wood.
"Neera?" He pushed his way forward, more forceful now. Please be all right.
"Rist?" The voice that answered was weak, but Rist would have known it anywhere.
He shoved past a skinny man with greasy black hair and no shirt, blood still streaming from a wound along his back. Then he saw her.
Neera lay in a cot, her head propped on an old leather satchel and a folded blanket. A brown woollen blanket was draped over her legs, two feet sticking out the end, socks but no boots. Above the waist, she was bare, but bloodied bandages covered her from the navel to just below her throat, wrapping over her right shoulder. Her dark hair was tacked to her forehead with sweat, and stitches held a gash that ran diagonally across her left cheek, over her eye, and through her brow, stopping about an inch from her hairline. "Rist?"
Rist dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain that jolted through him from the impact. He rested his hand on Neera's arm, wrapping his fingers around her bicep gently. "What happened? We got separated and… I couldn't find you. I thought…"
"I thought the same." Neera grunted as she shifted herself to a more upright position, resting her hand on Rist's. "Are you hurt?"
"Are you asking me if I'm hurt?" Neera winced, and Rist squeezed her arm a bit tighter. "I'm fine. Nothing some rest and time won't fix."
She lifted her arm and traced her thumb from Rist's lip down over his chin, over the stitches where the elven spear had sliced through the flesh. It stung, but he didn't move. "What was it you said about scars?"
"Each one is a reminder," Rist said, touching his hand to Neera's cheek, rubbing his thumb back and forth.
"Of the pain we endured and the pain we overcame." Neera nodded weakly. "I remember." She squeezed her hand on Rist's, pulling herself even further upright, her dark eyes giving him a mournful look. "Well, I'm going to have a few reminders." Neera looked down towards her bandages.
"It's all right. You'll heal. The Healers here are the best in all the empire."
It was only then as Neera looked at her bandages that Rist realised what she meant. With the bandages tied tight, it was difficult to see, but the curve of her chest was flatter on the right side, and now that he was paying more attention, he noticed the bucket on the ground was full of discarded, blood-soaked bandages. He'd been so focused on her limbs and her breathing, he hadn't thought to look for anything else. "What happened?"
"I took a spear to the chest towards the end of the fighting. It cut deep. The elf was going to finish me. The Justicars were covering the retreat. They took its head from its shoulders. The one with the scar over his eye – Kyrana. I can't remember his first name. He held the bleeding back with the Spark and carried me. When we got to the forward camp, it was almost deserted. They'd already begun falling back to safer ground. The Healers told him there was nothing they could do. But he—" Neera lurched forwards, coughing, blood splattering across her bandages. She waved Rist away when he tried to settle her. "He grabbed one of them by the throat and said if I died he died. The Healer did what he could. There was a lot of blood and he was already drained from helping those who had gotten back sooner. He closed the wounds, kept me alive. I was lucky."
Rist didn't know what to say. He wasn't good with words. All that mattered was that she was still here. He cupped her cheek and planted a kiss on her forehead more tenderly than he ever had before. She didn't swat him away or make a jibe. She reached her hand under his arm and pulled him closer. Only a few seconds passed, then Neera pulled back.
"I'm really happy you're alive," Rist said.
Neera laughed, shaking her head, another cough breaking through. "I'm happy you're alive too."
"How long will you be cot-ridden?"
"They'll have me up by the end of the day," Neera said with a half-hearted shrug. "They need the cot. Have they said where we're moving to?"
Rist shook his head. "Garramon says there's a meeting tonight, now the elves have fallen back and aren't pursuing anymore. Have you seen Tommin or Lena?"
"Lena came through earlier with Brother Halmak. I saw her but I didn't speak to her." Neera gasped as she finished speaking.
"What is it?" Rist scooped his hand behind Neera's back, trying to support her. "I'll get a Healer."
"No, I'm fine." Neera pulled Rist's head back, stroking at his ear with her thumb and forefinger. "I just twisted wrong. I saw Tommin yesterday, but I've not seen him today. Sister Danwar is running around somewhere, so he can't be far."
"I'll get you some water. If you want, Garramon and I can help you back to the tents after you've rested a bit. Or I can come back and help later. Are you well enough?"
Neera nodded. "Someone else needs this cot more than I do, and I'm not bleeding much anymore. The Altwied Blood helps – it eases the pain. Come on, help me up, we'll get water on the way."
"Now?"
"Now." Neera let out a short gasp as she grabbed hold of Rist's shoulder and started to heave herself to her feet.
"You're stubborn as a mule," he groaned, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her upwards.
"At least I don't look like one." Neera's face caught between a grimace and a smile. "What?" she asked when he glared back at her. "All right. You're my hero, Rist Havel. So brave and strong. Now do as heroes do and carry me back to the tents."
Rist stared at Neera, weighing up his chances of success if he tried to carry her. On a normal day, his odds might have been seven in ten. It wasn't that she was heavy, but more that he wasn't particularly strong. But on this day, he was even weaker than usual, and his body ached.
"Rist?" Neera narrowed her eyes, looking at Rist as though he had just said the most idiotic thing in the world – but he hadn't even spoken. "Rist, I was joking." She tilted her head to the side. "Please don't try to carry me. We both know that won't end well."
"Oh. Is it wrong that I'm happy you said that?"
Neera pulled a face that was halfway between a smile and one of those looks she gave him when she thought he'd done something stupid. "Just help me back to the tents. The smell in here will kill me faster than anything else."
Rist pulled Neera up the rest of the way and gathered the bits of armour, her cloak and sword included, that were strewn around the cot. The Healers must have discarded them in a hurry when trying to save her. Neera wrapped her arm around his right shoulder, wincing as she lifted it, and he hefted her belongings under his left armpit, holding them tight. It almost would have been easier to just carry her.
They were making their way back through the triage tent, stumbling like a three legged donkey, when Neera spotted Sister Danwar, orange hair tied in a knot of curls at the back of her head, stark against the white of the Healer's robes.
"Sister Danwar?" Neera called.
The woman stood over a bucket that sat on a low folding table, scrubbing her hands in the water within. She didn't turn or answer.
"Sister Danwar?" Neera repeated as she and Rist crossed the tent towards her.
Rist saw Sister Danwar's head turn a fraction, her ear twitching. She'd heard Neera's call. The woman lifted her hands to her temples. They were stained crimson from the fingertips right down to the back of her palms.
Neera called louder, though they were only a few paces away. "Sister Danwar?"
"What?" Sister Danwar slapped the side of the water bucket, knocking it from the table, spilling its contents into the dirt and soaking a man who lay on a cot. The woman turned, her eyes afire. Her usually pristine white robes were covered in blood. Stains of crimson and pink blended with patches of char. Her face was no different, dried and congealed blood stuck in every wrinkle and crease, skin stained. The woman's hands were bleeding, skin worn away from scrubbing and washing, the tips of her fingers wrinkled like dried fruit. "Oh… It's you."
Rist looked back again at the man Sister Danwar had accidentally soaked in the bloody water. His eyes were closed, and he wasn't breathing.
Dark circles creased Sister Danwar's eyes, dried blood caked at the edges. She looked as though she hadn't slept since the battle. The woman let out a groan and placed the fallen bucket back on the table. Facing away from Rist and Neera, she let out a sigh, then turned back, swallowing. "Are you all right?" The woman touched at the sides of Neera's bandages, giving a sympathetic turn of her mouth. "When were the bandages last changed? There's still bleeding."
"Only hours ago," Neera assured her. "The Healer seeing to me was exhausted, she didn't have the energy to close everything with the Spark. She told me she'd take the stitches out in the next few days and heal it fully."
"Come closer." Sister Danwar reached out, pulling Neera towards her.
"No, honestly, I'm—"
"When I say come closer, Acolyte, you do as you are told. You're not a Battlemage yet."
Rist felt Neera tense, her back straightening. He kept his arm around her as she moved towards Sister Danwar.
The woman rested her hand on Neera's shoulder and weaved a tapestry of threads through her. All five elements. Rist had watched Healers work before. Most of them, like regular healers or surgeons needed a direct line of sight to a wound to see what they were doing. But the most skilled, like Sister Danwar, seemed to be able to feel the injuries with threads of the Spark as though they were seeing them with their own eyes.
"There," Sister Danwar said, the drain clearly sapping her strength as she staggered backwards a step. She had pushed herself to the edge of what her body could handle. "Keep the bandages on for now." Sister Danwar swallowed hard, drawing in a slow breath to steady herself. "The wounds are closed, but the bandages remind you not to over exert. Take them off before you sleep. The stitches are loose between the bandages and the skin. Now go, there's more needs doing here."
"Sister, I know Tommin will likely be needed through the night," Rist said as the woman turned away. "But if he could join us to break the fast tomorrow, it would be appreciated."
Sister Danwar stood still for a moment, and when she turned she looked at Rist in a way that turned his blood cold. "Tommin is dead."
A shiver spread outward from Rist's chest, and Neera gasped beside him.
"Dead? But he wasn't fighting," Neera said. "I only saw him yesterday…"
Some of the Healers travelled with the armies into battle, but those Healers – known as Bloodhounds – were few and far between. Most stayed behind the lines in the forward camps to heal the wounded after the battles. Rist realised he had been staring at Sister Danwar without saying a word. "How?"
Sister Danwar let out a sigh, shaking her head. As cold as the woman could be from time to time, Rist could see much of Calen's mother – Freis – in her. They were both Healers. Freis didn't have the Spark to help her, but she had a heart like few others. Rist could see that same heart in Sister Danwar, but at that moment he could feel it breaking. "Last night," she said. "I left him alone to see to one of those who had survived the dragonfire. The man wouldn't have lived to see the sun rise today, but Tommin needed practice, and the man deserved to die in as little pain as possible. I'm not sure what happened but when I turned, the man was screaming, and the hilt of a knife was jutting from Tommin's neck. I couldn't save him."
"No…" Neera trembled as she spoke. "No, that's… He couldn't have… He wasn't fighting." Tears welled in Neera's eyes as she looked at Rist. "He wasn't fighting, Rist. That's not fair…"
Sister Danwar sighed. "War isn't fair, Neera." That was the first time Rist had heard Sister Danwar call one of the Acolytes by their first name. "It is bloody and it is horrific and it is everything that is wrong with this world. He died quickly. He was lucky."
Farda stood in the command tent with his arms folded. He could feel the dirt and sweat crusted together on his face, and his joints ached; the aches had gotten worse with time.
Nobody had spoken in minutes. All the surviving commanders and generals, along with Eltoar Daethana, Garramon, and Anila, stood about, blood still crusted in their clothes, exhaustion carved into their faces. Most still wore their armour, or at least pieces of it.
Of the commanders, only Marken Kort of the First Army had been slain in battle, along with the mage commander of the Second Army. Judging by how few bodies occupied the tent, the generals had fared far worse. Commander Talvare had lost three generals at the battle at Fort Harken, but the commanders of the First Army and the Second Army had brought full compliments with them to The Three Sisters. That should have made twenty-seven in total, but only fourteen stood in the tent. And, much to Farda's irritation, that oily-haired shitweasel of a man, Guthrin Vandimire was one of the survivors.
Supreme Commander Taya Tambrel leaned over a folding table in the middle of the room, her palms pressed flat against the wood. What remained of her silver hair dangled over her left shoulder, the right side of her head shaved, stitches holding together a long, angry wound that ran from her eye, slicing off the top of her ear, and stretched to the back of her head. The woman had refused the Healers, having a surgeon simply stitch her up and send her on her way. Farda had respected that. Most commanders would have taken the best care for themselves; Taya did not.
Sweat dripped from the end of her hair onto the wood. The table held no map; they didn't need one. Their only decision was forward or back.
"There is no sense in it, Supreme Commander." A gangly general said, breaking the too-long silence. He looked to have seen his sixtieth summer, which, as far as Farda was concerned, was an achievement in itself for most soldiers who couldn't touch the Spark.
Taya lifted her head, looking at the man.
"No sense in it?" Magnus Offa scoffed. "There are sixty thousand souls crammed into Steeple. At least. You know what those pointy-eared bastards did to the cities on the eastern coast. Not going back means we are as good as killing every man and woman of fighting strength within the city. And even then, even with their honour, the helpless are always casualties of war. You should take your sword off and leave. Only someone willing to use a sword should carry one."
"Say that again," the old man growled, moving towards Magnus. He was reasonably tall with squared shoulders and muscled arms, but Magnus would tear him in half without even needing to touch the Spark.
Taya slammed her fist on the table. "They've killed enough of us. We don't need to kill any more for them." She ran her hand through her hair, folding it back over her head. With her breastplate removed, Taya stood in a sweat-soaked woollen tunic that clung to her muscled shoulders and arms, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She gave a heavy sigh. "What do you propose we do, Magnus?" Taya pulled herself into an upright position, opening her arms. "I don't like the idea of ceding ground. And I despise the idea of leaving those in Steeple to fend for themselves. But we haven't begun to count our losses. We've spent the last two days moving away from Steeple and the Three Sisters, trying to keep ahead of the elves, trying to regroup. And now that we can finally tend our wounded, you would have us go back and fight?"
"We took losses, Commander." Olivan Karta, commander of the Second Army, extended a pleading hand. "That is true, but the elves took more. They are hurting like we are. If we push back now, catch them unawares, we can break them. I know we can. Steeple's garrison will add another three thousand to our number."
Farda couldn't help but laugh.
"What are you laughing at, Justicar?" The man emphasised the word as though it were an insult. Farda raised an amused eyebrow, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Eltoar shift from where he leaned against a tent pole, a dangerous look about him. Eltoar hadn't spoken since he'd entered the tent, and Lyina hadn't come with him. Pellenor and Meranta's loss had shaken them both to their core, and a darkness hung over Eltoar's head.
"I'm laughing at you." Farda frowned. "What did you say, 'break them'? Before two days ago, had you ever fought elves, Commander? And I don't mean the ones you shackle and collar and force to toil in Dead Rock's Hold. I'm sure you've beaten enough of those. No, free elves. Had you?"
The man hesitated. Farda could see uncertainty mixing with anger. "No. But—"
"You can't break elves, Commander. Not in battle. Through torture, maybe. Days of endless pain. You can break any mind that way, if you have the required lack of empathy. But in battle, the elves do not rout. They would sooner take their own lives. It seems, Commander Karta, you have forgotten the first rule of war."
"And what is that, Justicar?"
"Know your enemy better than you know yourself," Commander Talvare said, looking to Farda. Her grey-streaked black hair was matted with blood and her left arm was wrapped in bloodied bandages, but she still looked as though she could beat half the men in the room to a bloody pulp. "It also appears, Commander Karta, that you're not very good with numbers. Before the battle, our forces were in the region of fourteen thousand, the elves must have had over thirty. By my count – which admittedly, is rough – we've lost at least half our number. Seven thousand dead. Now you say the elves took heavier losses than us. Even if they took double, that would still leave them with more warriors than we started the battle with. They still outnumber us two to one. They have more mages, and…" Talvare looked to Eltoar and went silent.
Olivan followed her gaze. "What? The dragons? We killed two of their beasts, and we only lost one. We've still got two left. I'd take those odds."
"Would you?" Eltoar pushed himself away from the tent pole, the tent's lanterns casting shadows across his angular face. He still wore his white plate, the black flame of the Dragonguard across its chest, blood and dirt marring its usually pristine surface.
"I would." Olivan seemed to be the only one in the room who hadn't grasped the change in atmosphere.
"How many lives, I wonder?" Eltoar drew within a foot of Olivan, tilting his head to get a better look at the young commander. Though, to Farda, most people were young. This man couldn't have seen more than thirty-five summers. Young for a commander, but then again, war wasn't a profession where many people lived to see their later years – without the Spark of course.
"How many lives what?"
"How many lives you'd be willing to throw away for your pride."
"This has nothing to do with my pride." Olivan took a step closer to Eltoar, straightening his back. The naivety of youth. He didn't seem to understand he was a pup accepting the challenge of a dragon.
Eltoar moved so he stood less than an inch from Olivan. The Dragonguard commander was a head taller, shoulders broader by a distance. "Magnus spoke of the people within the walls of the city. His thoughts were for their lives. But you, you reek of arrogance and pride. You are a child playing war games. How did you rise to this position? Family, no doubt. You didn't earn it. That much is clear." Eltoar shook his head, glancing towards Taya. "We should make for Elkenrim. The elves have taken heavy losses, and they will regroup and solidify their position. They have reached a point where pursuit is no longer a requirement of honour. Despite the size of their force, that was but a fraction of their power. A test, if you will. We need to fall back and send hawks. Fane must know of the developments here."
Eltoar turned to leave, making it only a few steps before Olivan's voice cut through the room.
"Spoken like a coward."
Eltoar stopped.
Well. That was fucking stupid.
Eltoar turned. He looked at Olivan, his eyes cold, then marched back towards the commander, stopping so close they likely could have smelled each other's breath. "Say it again."
"I…" The man gulped, having to tilt his neck to meet Eltoar's gaze. Farda felt a fleeting touch of admiration for Olivan as the man found a semblance of courage deep within his gut. "You are a coward."
A flash of motion and Eltoar's hand stretched out, fingers wrapping around Olivan Karta's throat. The man choked and coughed, slamming his hands down on Eltoar's. But Eltoar's grip was iron. Farda felt him reach for the Spark, threads of Earth weaving through his bones.
With one hand wrapped around Olivan's throat, Eltoar lifted the man off his feet. A few gasps sounded, but none of the tent's other occupants were stupid enough to do anything. Even Taya Tambrel just stared, her mouth open.
"You dare call me a coward?" Eltoar stared up at the man. Olivan's face had gone red, and his legs were kicking. "I have lived to see more men die than you've seen blades of grass. My kin and I gave you this empire. We died for it. The 'beast' that we lost. Do you even know her name?"
It looked as though Olivan were trying to speak, but the man couldn't get any words out. His face was red as a tomato now, eyes straining, veins bulging.
Farda pulled his coin from his pocket, running his thumb over the nicks and grooves.
"Her name was Meranta. She died so that you and the rest of the soldiers could escape. Her soulkin was Pellenor. He was quiet and contemplative." Olivan thrashed and gurgled as Eltoar spoke. But Eltoar carried on as though he were speaking last words over Pellenor's funeral pyre. "He was kind. He rode to war when it was required of him, but he never sought it out. Despite all his power, he never thirsted for battle. He was no coward. I notice, Commander Karta, your hair is clean, as are your hands and your face."
Much to Farda's surprise, Eltoar released his grip on Olivan Karta's throat.
Olivan dropped to his knees, dragging in ragged breaths, his hands clasping his throat. Fear turned to fury, raging in his eyes. He made to speak, but Eltoar reached back and wrapped his fingers in the man's hair, pulling tight.
"Pellenor and Meranta died so that these armies could fall back safely. They didn't die so a wretch like you could send more men and women to their deaths so you could be part of some bard's tale."
"Get your filthy fucking hands off me!" Olivan roared, his voice hoarse and raspy.
Eltoar twisted his fingers more, pulling the man's hair harder, leveraging his head back and forcing him to stretch out his back. "You are nothing but a mark on time. You don't deserve the gift they gave."
In one smooth motion, Eltoar pulled a knife from his belt with his free hand, then drove it into Olivan's exposed neck. The man's eyes bulged, his hands clasping the hilt of the blade, blood pouring down over his chest. But Eltoar twisted the knife, then jerked it. Olivan went limp, blood flowing freely. Eltoar released the man's hair and let him drop to the ground with a thud. He looked at the knife, his nose crinkling, a touch of disgust on his face, then he tossed the weapon onto Olivan's body.
Farda continued to run his thumb over the gold coin in his hand, tracing the shape of the crown. The silence in the tent was so thick it was a palpable thing. Each of the generals and commanders were either staring at Eltoar or Olivan Karta's lifeless body.
His head still angled down at the man, Eltoar's eyes flicked up, looking towards Taya. "We fall back to Elkenrim as soon as the injured can move. Have the messengers send hawks. I'd go myself, but you would be lambs to the slaughter if the elves attacked." He glanced back at Olivan. "That man wasn't fit to wear the lion." He looked around the room. "Few of you know war like what is coming. Pride no longer has a place. We are not prepared for this. But it is coming nonetheless. And when it comes, you do not want men like him at your side." He let his words fade before shaking his head. "Don't send him off with the others, dump him in a ditch. It's what he would have done with your bodies if nobody was looking."
As Eltoar turned and left, he stopped beside Farda. "We would like you with us tonight, Brother. Ilyain and Hala too."
Farda inclined his head. "Laël val du, Akar."
I am with you, Brother.