Tired and emotionally drained, Farrell stumbled out of the hospital.
Several Ze’arderians dressed in the royal guard colors snapped to attention. “Amelt Randgar requests your presence, Chosen.”
Farrell stifled a curse and used the butt of his palms to massage his eyes. Why couldn’t they do whatever they needed without him? “Very well. Please take me to him.”
At the far end of the corridor, he saw Miceral sleeping with his back to the wall. Jagwin cleared his throat, and Miceral woke with a start. He looked around until he saw Farrell. Smiling, he stood and stretched. “Finished?”
“No, but I’ve done all my strength will allow.” He motioned toward the guards. “Randgar requested I come see him.”
“I received that request as well, but I told them I’d wait until you were finished.” Miceral picked up a flask of water and handed it to Farrell. He nearly drank it all before he remembered to offer some to Miceral. His partner declined, and Farrell finished the water.
Randgar’s guards led them out of the temple and into the city. They stopped in front of a building Farrell didn’t recognize. Standing outside were guards in the livery of both dwarf kings. Jagwin and his detail stayed with the other dwarves while Farrell and Miceral accompanied two Ze’arderian guards inside.
Globes of wizard’s light sat atop unlit torches. Paintings of the Children of Zeron in battle or hunting lined the walls, and carved onyx statues of fierce soldiers stood guard. Rounding a corner, Farrell heard numerous voices, many he recognized. Their guides led them to a large set of wooden doors adorned with the royal seal of Ze’arder.
Randgar stood with Drendar and Thrinton in the middle of the room, surrounded by military officers from both races. To the left, seated on high-backed wooden chairs, Jolella and Peter listened as Aswick spoke to Penelope.
Of more interest to Farrell were the platters of chicken, pork, cheese, bread, fruits, and nuts nestled between jugs of wine, ale, and water on a wide table set against the far wall. At the sight of the food, his stomach rumbled to remind him he hadn’t eaten since before the battle began.
Everyone stopped speaking when the newcomers arrived.
“Were you speaking about us behind our backs?” Miceral’s quip drew nervous laughter.
“Nay, Your Majesty, we were not,” Thrinton said. “We waited for you to arrive so we could talk about you to your face.” He flashed them a broad grin as Drendar smacked his fist onto the table and laughed.
Farrell tried to join in the joyous mood, but he was too tired and hungry. When he got Randgar’s attention, he asked, “You requested our presence?”
“Yes, Chosen.” Jolella stood up and motioned for him and Miceral to get some food. “We were hoping you weren’t too tired to tell us what happened today.”
“Can it wait until morning?” Farrell piled his plate with food. The bread looked especially enticing, but he only took a small piece so he’d have more room for meat and cheese. “I’m leeching energy from my armor to keep going, I’m so tired.”
“Tomorrow?” Penelope’s disappointment was mirrored in the faces of the others in the room.
Jolella silenced everyone with a glare. “We appreciate all your efforts to aid the injured. Perhaps if you eat and drink, you’ll feel stronger. If not, we’ll wait.”
“A reasonable request,” Thrinton said. “We can tell you what happened with our part of the fight. Who would you like to hear from first?”
Farrell took a bite of the salted pork just as Thrinton asked the question. Chewing quickly, he shrugged before he swallowed. “I’ve no preference.”
Although he tried to pay attention to everything, the explanation of the battle strategy nearly put him to sleep. If not for the bit about the spell on the wall that allowed the army to rush out and surprise the enemy, he might have insulted everyone by nodding off. He perked up when Penelope talked about the wizards’ duel.
“Brezlaw is a tricky bastard.” Penelope pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head. “I’d wager a lot that he planned that attack on Nordric before the fight began.”
“Why?” Farrell covered his mouth after he spit out a bit of cheese while talking. “Why do you say that? He couldn’t have known for sure a unicorn would be present.”
“Perhaps not, but it was clearly his escape strategy. I tried for much of the battle to engage him, but he always threw lesser wizards at me. After the first few times it happened, I did the same, countering his underlings with another wizard under my command. Finally, he had to fight me. That’s when he sent every available Chamdon at Miceral’s position. Looking back, I can see Brezlaw used only token attacks.
“After what happened to Nordric, he used the distraction to flee. I suspect he used the Door they opened after your attack on their camp because I didn’t feel him open a new one in the aftermath.”
“I won’t dispute he used the ploy to get away, but I’m not convinced he planned to kill a unicorn from the start.” He finished his water and shrugged. “Not that it matters. Add him to the list of people I have a debt to repay.”
The room went silent, and Farrell finished his food and set the plate aside. “I suppose it is my turn to tell what happened.”
Reliving his battle with Vedric reminded Farrell he’d played a role in Nordric’s death. He explained why he hadn’t gone for the kill immediately and how ultimately he’d learned nothing of use from the fight.
“That’s not true. We’ve learned quite a few things from your encounter,” Jolella said. “You know Meglar sired at least one child before he joined with your mother, he does not trust his children to train them fully, and we learned why Seritia created that circle. All of those are valuable bits of information.”
“All of which combined don’t come close to what it ultimately cost us.”
“Did you glean nothing from Vedric’s thoughts?” Drendar asked.
“Nothing I can speak to at this time.”
“That hardly seems right,” Father Aswick said, drawing nods all around the room.
Farrell yawned again and shook his head. “This is not about withholding information, Father. I’m just not sure what I saw. Before I speak of the chaotic thoughts I managed to pull from his mind, I’d like to reflect on them when I’m less tired. After that I’ll be able to give you a better answer.”
“I think it is time we adjourned.” Jolella stood and scanned the room. “We’ve kept Farrell from his much-needed sleep too long. We can talk again in the morning.”
Although none seemed happy with the holy mother’s decision, no one voiced their opposition. Using the excuse Jolella gave him, Farrell got up to leave.
“A moment more, Your Majesty,” Thrinton said. “You have one more duty to perform.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“You want me to do what?” Farrell asked. “Now?”
Aswick came to Thrinton’s defense. “Dwarfish custom is to celebrate our victory and the lives of our fallen comrades before retiring. You need only begin the celebration. You’re not required to stay until the end.”
Farrell wanted to decline. He should have said no given how tired he was, but he understood how that would be perceived. “Very well, but I really can’t stay long. I don’t think seeing me pass out is good for my image.”
“None will ever doubt the strength of one who stood outside the walls of the city while an entire army advanced on his position.” Drendar patted the top of his hammer. “Should they be so foolish, they will learn the error of their thinking.”
“Thank you.” Farrell bowed slightly. He wondered how much of Drendar’s defense was overcompensating for his original disrespect. Then he decided he didn’t care why, he was just glad for the support.
Thrinton and Drendar led the way, and soon their small procession drew an increasing number of followers in their wake. Thousands of dwarves and humans waited in the open space to the west of the temple. A loud cheer went up when the dwarf kings and their company turned the
corner.
“What do we need to do?” Farrell directed his comment to no one in particular.
“You need to make a short speech honoring the fallen and praising the survivors,” Drendar replied. “Your last words must be, ‘Let the celebration begin.’”
“You also need to participate in the first dance.” Aswick’s addition drew a stern look from Thrinton.
“What was that last part?” Miceral asked. “We have to dance?”
“Aye.” Thrinton nodded but didn’t appear all that eager. “It’s customary for the king and his generals to be part of the celebration to honor all who fought.”
“Can you make the speech, Ral?” Farrell asked. “You fought with them. It will be better coming from you.”
“I don’t think that’s true. As Drendar said, the dwarves have a lot of respect for you.”
“Fine, they respect me, but will you still do it?” Honoring the dead only reminded him of his failure. “I doubt my speech will be uplifting.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Farrell stood beside Miceral but couldn’t recall what his partner said. When the crowd roared, he knew it was time to “celebrate.” Musicians appeared from the crowd with horns, stringed instruments, and drums. They gathered in clusters at the edge of the field, and when they began to play, thousands moved to the center of the open space.
Ze’arderians mixed with dwarves with no hesitation. Though they had different styles of dance, the two races matched each other in energy.
Jolella and the three dwarf high priests led the group toward the line separating the musicians from the dancers. When they reached the edge of the field, Farrell stopped.
“My strength is failing.” He pointed toward the musicians. “I will join them as my contribution to the celebration.”
The dwarves looked to the priests for guidance, and Father Aswick shrugged. “Nothing in our customs says he must dance, only that he be a part of it.”
Lamenar and Wasquar nodded their approval, and the matter was settled. As the others walked into the crowd, Farrell asked the musicians for a stringed instrument. A dozen dwarves offered an assortment of lutes, mandolins, and an odd round box with a long neck and five strings. The last intrigued him, but he declined and accepted a mandolin-type instrument he thought he could play.
Listening closely, Farrell strummed the unfamiliar instrument gently. It took a few minutes to familiarize himself with the tune and the sounds his strings made. After a couple of false starts, he joined the others.
Once he started to play in earnest, other musicians drifted over and joined Farrell’s group. Tired as he was, the energy of the moment refreshed him. He abandoned his intention of playing just one song and played along as the tune changed. After the third song, he accepted an offer to try the long-necked instrument he’d been offered earlier.
Unlike the other stringed instruments that used a thin, smooth, flat piece of polished bone to strum, this one used a set of thin metal sleeves that went over his thumb, index, and middle fingers. The dwarf who loaned him his instrument adjusted the fit and demonstrated how to use them.
Farrell played the odd instrument for several minutes before he got the mechanics down. He needed more time to figure out what movement made what sound. In the end he realized it was too complicated and handed it back to its owner.
The dwarf quickly began a new tune and motioned for Farrell to retrieve the mandolin he’d used. Farrell found the right notes to match his companion, and the dwarf changed to a new melody. He gave Farrell an expectant look, daring him to play along.
Several “new” melodies later, the dwarf returned to the original tune, and Farrell realized a true master had walked him through a complicated song. The recognition on his face evoked a big smile from the dwarf and a cheer from the other musicians around them. Once the two were in sync, the rest of the group played along with the two “dueling” musicians. Soon the new melody moved around the celebration.
When they had completed the second full round of the song, Farrell put down his pick and bade them good night. The dwarf who played with him offered his instrument as a gift to the king.
“Keep it.” Farrell held out his hand to reject the gift. “When this war is over, seek me out with a companion to this one, and I will make time for you to teach me to play it properly.”
They bowed to each other, and Jagwin and a few other guards appeared behind him. Well and truly exhausted, Farrell didn’t recall how they made it back to his room.
Farrell woke around midday and found the room empty. That Miceral had left didn’t surprise him, given the hour. He found a clean tunic, but before he put it on, he washed his face and upper body. The cool water on his skin felt so good he nearly opened a Door to the icy waters south of Dumbarten to avoid the already hot Agloth weather. But his stomach reminded him he needed to eat, so he got dressed.
The main rooms were empty as well, but two messages stood propped against a bowl of fruit. Miceral’s told Farrell he and Peter had gone out for the morning. The other was a short note from Randgar asking to speak to him when he got up.
“I wonder what Randgar wants?” he said to himself as he peeled a banana.
“Perhaps if you ask him you will find out.” The smirk in Nerti’s voice made him smile.
“As always, my queen, you are the pinnacle of wisdom.”
“You are wise to remember that.”
He finished his fruit and picked up a hunk of bread. After he broke it open, he added thick slices of a white cheese riddled with holes. He stared at the food, trying to will the courage to broach the subject of Nordric. He put the bread down and sat on a bench.
“I doubt you can ever forgive me, but please know I’m truly sorry that my actions caused Nordric’s death.” He was grateful she wasn’t in the room, as he couldn’t face her. “Had I taken a more aggressive approach to the fight with Vedric, I could have killed him right away and ended the battle long before Nordric was targeted. I . . . I don’t know what else to say other than I’m so sorry.”
“I appreciate your apology, Little One, but there is nothing for me to forgive. You were correct to try to learn as much as you could from Vedric. That you learned little doesn’t change that it was the right decision.”
“But . . . I could’ve . . . I don’t know. I should have done more to end the fight sooner.”
The silence confirmed his fears. Despite her words, she agreed his actions had caused Nordric’s death. She might forgive him, but Nerti couldn’t deny his hand was all over what happened to her son.
“I don’t know what else I can say to convince you this was not your fault.” Her tone was stern, almost angry. “There is no room for your self-doubt. War is a terrible affair because those we love don’t always survive. Had your actions been a cause of Nordric’s death, I’d be the first to tell you and to blame you, have no doubt about that. When you told me what you were doing, I agreed with your decision. I knew it would likely cause more casualties during the fight but had hoped the information would save many times that in the long run. It was a calculated risk.
“I grieve for my son.”
A lump rose in Farrell’s throat. Loss like she’d just experienced was something he knew well.
“I grieve for Nordric, but he died bravely. All who fight this war know the risks. I will not speak of your guilt again.”
Farrell didn’t agree with her assessment and never would, but he would respect her wish. “I shall not raise it again, Nerti.”
His appetite was gone, but he forced himself to eat. There was still much to do and being weak or tired wouldn’t help. Each bite tasted like sand, but he finished his bread and cheese and ate another banana before he sent word to the amelt that he was awake.
“Ral?” Farrell moved back into the room he shared with Miceral.
“Finally awake?”
“Yes. Thanks for letting me sleep. I needed it.”
“I know you did. Peter and I are with Dren
dar and Thrinton on the walls. Randgar wants the enemy dead disposed of quickly.”
“A wise decision, but why haven’t the wizards done it already?” Farrell gathered his things and set them on the bed.
“I’m told most aren’t well enough to help.” Miceral paused, but before Farrell could say anything else, he “returned.” “Penelope said she sent her wizards home and that the Ze’arderians are conserving their strength to incinerate the dead. Jolella forbade burning corpses in a bonfire to avoid a lingering stench.”
Distracted, Farrell barely heard the explanation. “Ah. Makes sense.” “What are you doing?” Miceral sounded annoyed.
“Sorry, I was packing.” He stopped to concentrate on their conversation.
“Are we going somewhere?”
“Yes. Home.”
Miceral didn’t respond right away. Farrell had expected some pushback, and the silence threw him off-track. Then again, telling Miceral they were going home without more must have been a lot for him to digest.
“Have you informed anyone else?” Miceral finally asked.
“Just you so far.”
“Good,” Miceral said. “Don’t tell anyone until I get back and we discuss this decision.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Bull-rushing to get his way never worked, but Farrell’s stubborn streak kicked in, and he tried anyway. “There’s no reason to stay away any longer. After a brief stop in Dumbarten, we can go home.”
“Let’s discuss this in person.”
He expected Miceral’s frustration. “Fine.”
Annoyed, Farrell shoved things into their saddlebags. When he realized he had no good reason to be irritated, that frustrated him more. He flicked his wrist, and his things whizzed from all corners of the room into the endless pocket. A boot and a shirt hit him on their way, adding to his surly disposition.
But the time Miceral and Peter arrived with Nerti and Klissmor, Farrell hadn’t calmed down. Miceral appeared upset, which annoyed Farrell even more.
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