Page 373 of Of Empires and Dust
Dann ran his fingers over the scales of the wooden dragon that had once stood atop one of the inn’s balusters. Some slashes marred its surface, it was covered in soot and ash, and the tail was snapped where the baluster had been split, but he was pleasantly surprised at how intact it was – and how heavy it was. “A memory,” he said, running his fingers along the wooden tail.“A dragon surviving the fire… almost poetic. It’s something that will lift the weight in Lasch’s heart a little bit.”
Dann hauled the wooden dragon up and into his arms. He stopped and looked at Drunir. “What do you think? Can you take it?”
The horse stomped defiantly, as though saying ‘What do you think I am, a donkey? Of course I can.’
Dann leaned in and touched the side of his head against Drunir’s. “Good boy. That’s what I thought.”
Dann strapped the wooden dragon to the back of the saddle, propping a blanket at the back to make sure it didn’t dig into Drunir.
They carried on through the village, passing the husk of the Fjorns’ home, the Grittens’, and many others.
A clear patch of earth sat where Calen’s home had once been. The Lorians had set it aflame when they’d killed Vars and Freis. But someone had replanted Freis’s lavender bushes, and they’d spread about the perimeter of the old home. The bushes looked dead, the deep green colouring turned a shade of silver. But that was how they always looked in winter. That silver would fade, and those purple flowers would bloom again.
Calen would find a lot of joy in knowing someone had replanted them, and Calen deserved a little joy.
The last place Dann stopped was the place he had been avoiding – his own home.
It was ash and broken things. The doorframe still stood, empty, a small section of wall allowing it to hold its place. But that was it.
He stared at that charred ruin in silence, the world fading around him. It wasn’t until Lyrei’s hand slipped into his that the gentle sound of the breeze touched his ears again. As she had an easy ability to do, she said a lot without speaking, her gaze fixed on the ashes, her shoulder pressed close to his.
Even Nala stayed quiet.
“I don’t know if they’re alive,” Dann said after a long silence. He’d not said it out loud, not till then. The Angan hadn’t said anything about who from The Glade had survived. And Dann had felt too selfish to ask. So many people had lost their loved ones in this war, and so many more people would continue to do so. Who was he to ask a question like that? He had no more right to solace than anyone else.
Though, as he stood there, the depth of his worry sinking in, he wished he had asked, right or no.
Lyrei squeezed his hand, but it was Nala who spoke.
“My father always used to say that there are things we can control and things we can’t. And that it’s best not to dwell on the things we can’t because they’ll drive us mad. I hope your parents are all right, my lord.”
When Dann looked back at her, the young squire dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken.”
“My dad said something similar.” He let go of Lyrei’s hand and instead squeezed Nala’s shoulder. “We’re family now, Nala. You and your brothers aren’t alone. I know it might feel like it sometimes, but you’re not.”
He let out a soft sigh, then turned and grabbed Drunir’s reins. “Best not to linger. No telling if there are Uraks nearby.”
When they neared the edge of the ruined village, Dann mounted Drunir, Nala doing the same with Maria. Not fifty feet past the last burnt husk of a home, Dann spotted something that turned his blood to ice and twisted his heart.
“What do you see?” Lyrei whispered from Drunir’s right side.
Dann glanced at Nala on Maria to his left. She was staring away at the column of soldiers and banners marching up the dirt road. He gestured toward the rows and rows of graves just past the oak tree. Soil and rocks were scattered about the holes inthe ground, upturned saplings half-buried, the ground turned to pieces.
“The graves have been dug up,” he whispered. “The bodies have been taken.”
The army marchedalong the dirt road, passing more broken farms and burnt holds, heads skewered on spikes and limbs scattered about. Many of the corpses were Lorian, at least the ones whose breastplates were intact enough to make out the black lion.
Strangely, knowing the dead men and women were Lorian brought Dann no joy. Some of the soldiers kicked the corpses, or spat, or cursed, but he saw no point in it. Corpses were corpses, and it was a dark thing to look on any of them. Whatever they had been in life, they were dead now. And doubtless they’d left behind people who loved them. Dann would do what he needed to do, but he refused to take joy in seeing dead men.
When they reached the fork in the road that sprouted one direction towards Salme and the other towards Talin, he couldn’t help but imagine Talin in the same state of ruin as The Glade had been. Dann had friends in Talin. Or more so his father had friends, and those friends had children. He hoped they’d made it to Salme.
Tarmon dropped back and spent some time riding beside Dann, Nala, and Lyrei. The man said little – as always – but the few words he did say were the right ones. As always.
They kept a steady clip as the sun sank into the horizon, yielding to the pale pink light of the moon. They would reach Salme in the next few hours but as of yet had seen little trace of the Urak horde besides the bodies and ruin it had left in its wake – though much of that had been done long before.
Dann was stroking the side of Drunir’s neck when three riders came galloping along the outside of the column, bellowing for Tarmon.
“What news?” Tarmon asked after calling them over. “Uraks?”
