“YOU WANT me to do what?” Farrell asked. Had he been given many guesses as to what Thrinton had wanted, he’d never have come up with this. “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 the looks from the dwarves convinced him otherwise. “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. “And 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.’”
“And you need to participate in the first dance.” Aswick’s addition drew a stern look from Thrinton.
“What was that last part?” Miceral turned to Farrell and then sent a questioning look to each of the dwarf kings. “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 felt confident 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 felt comfortable enough to join 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 suddenly 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. Finally 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….” She paused, and Farrell felt a lump in his 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 Drendar 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 started to gather 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 started shoving 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.
“Take a deep breath, Little One.” Nerti’s admonishment stopped him before he spoke. When he looked up, Miceral appeared to have paused just before speaking. Farrell glanced at Klissmor and got the barest of nods in response.
Farrell recovered first. “What’s wrong, Miceral?”
“That’s what I want to know. Why the sudden urge to leave?”
“It’s not sudden.” Farrell poured himself a drink and motioned with the pitcher to Miceral and Peter. They both nodded, so he filled two more cups. “We came here for a purpose. That’s been achieved, so it’s time to go home.”
“How has our mission been accomplished? We’ve not found Kel, and we don’t have all seven Gifts.”
“Sorry, I misspoke.” He handed the others their drinks. “We’ve done what we came to Agloth to do. We don’t need to be away from Haven to collect the last two Gifts. And as for Kel, that’s why we’re going to Dumbarten. He’s there.”
Miceral pulled back a bit. “Kel’s in Dumbarten? Since when?”
“Since always.” Farrell took a drink. “I have a very good idea where to find him.”
“Where?” Peter and Miceral asked in unison.
“I’ll tell you if I find him.” He waved off their protests before they voiced them. “I want to be sure I’m right first.”
“That hardly seems fair,” Peter said.
“I’ll know soon enough.”
THEY INFORMED everyone of their intentions to leave, which sped up the withdrawal of the dwarf troops. But even with his oversized permanent Door to Colograd, they needed the rest of the day and night to get home. Rather than sit around doing nothing, Farrell left the city to help clear the battlefield.
When they arrived, a steady stream of Ze’arderian warriors were going in and out of the city. Those going out pushed empty two-wheeled carts that came back loaded with armor and weapons.
“What are they doing?” Peter asked.
“Taking the weapons and armor from the dead,” Miceral said. “The better stuff can be used by other soldiers, but the majority will be melted down and forged into something else.”
Peter wrinkled his nose. “That seems uncivilized to strip the dead of their last few possessions. And who wants to wear anything a Chamdon wore?”
Miceral shrugged. “If you don’t take the metal off, it will be left behind after you burn the bodies. This makes it easier.”
Farrell’s first stop was “the spot.” It surprised him, but at the same time it didn’t that the affected area had disappeared. It had clearly served its purpose. Something about it nagged at him, but he didn’t know what questions to ask, let alone the answers. He pushed the thoughts aside and turned his attention to what brought him beyond the walls.
The enemy dead were separated into three groups. The Chamdon pile was by far the largest. It surprised him that the wizards outnumbered the human soldiers, but as he thought about the dynamics of moving a Chamdon army, it made sense.
The Ze’arderian wizards stripped the dead enemy wizards of any usable power. Even though it was standard after a battle to collect any unused energy, Farrell didn’t tell Peter. He didn’t want to explain why it was necessary, so he let it go unsaid.
Penelope flew down before Farrell did anything, and he was grateful for her help. They dismissed everyone and walked in opposite directions while the workers moved back toward the walls.
Farrell grabbed his staff in the middle and held it in front of him. When Penelope mirrored his act, he pushed a wide stream of power out across the length of wood. She copied him, and when their energy met, it spread out.
At first nothing happened, but as the blue energy reached the farthest ends of the battlefield, the dead slowly rose. Silently the procession of lifeless bodies moved toward the three piles. Just before the dead reached their final destination, objects dropped from them onto the ground.
By the time the last body floated to a pile, the mound of items collected had risen above the tallest Ze’arderian warrior’s head. Farrell walked toward Penelope, and their energy flared where the two streams met. Several tendrils grew out of the bright area and snaked toward the dead. The fiery energy swirled around the base of each pile and moved in ascending circles. Fire remained where the lines passed until each heap was entirely encased. The fires pulsed brightly and collapsed toward the ground.
When the flames died, only a small pile of ashes remained. Farrell withdrew his power, and the streams disappeared. He swept his right hand across his body to create a strong breeze. The wind scattered the ashes across the parched prairie.
He stared intently as the fine grains of dust settled onto the ground. When he turned around, Penelope had already removed the metal and other objects. Though there were no visible signs of the battle, the scars he carried remained. He added them to the growing inventory the war forced him to carry and walked back to his rooms.