Page 87 of The Sundered Blade

When the pain eventually eased and there were no more tears to cry, Danric helped him to his feet.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly. “Lythienne is an experienced healer, so if you have taken any injury, she may be able to help.”

Vaniell shook his head. There was a pounding ache in his temples and his limbs seemed made of lead, but despite everything, he was unharmed. Everyone else had done the bleeding and the dying.

“The blood isn’t mine,” he said shortly, before the haze in his mind cleared enough to present a question. “Danric, how are you even here? I thought you would still be preparing the armies to defend Arandar. And how did you travel so far this quickly?”

Danric gestured over his shoulder at the small group of riders who had arrived with him, all mounted on the horse-sized dreadwolves favored by the elves of Sion Dairach

“One of Lythienne’s people has flashes of seer magic. Pretty much the minute after you left, she told us we needed to go after you. That all would be decided soon and we should make haste. Lord Dechlan’s dreadwolves travel faster than horses and see well in the dark, so a small group of us set out and rode into the night. Arrived just in time to see the dragons fighting it out.”

The dragons…

“Danric, the dragons… what happened to them?”

“I don’t know yet,” his brother replied soberly. “But Kyrion and Leisa were there. I did not see them fall, so they should return soon with news.”

Vaniell turned his gaze in the other direction, toward the smoke rising from the city of Hanselm. There was less than he’d feared, and the sounds of battle had ceased. Perhaps it was time to see what was left of his city. Whether many of his people had survived, and how much would have to be rebuilt.

“Survivors are sheltering inside the palace,” he told Danric, “and I sent Commander Ibbley and the cavalry in to confront the imperial troops. There were not a large number, so I’m hopeful our defenders will at least be able to keep the invaders pinned down until we can surround them.”

He lurched into motion, headed towards the broken city gates. “Lord Kellan was leading the resistance in the streets, and before the dragons arrived, Leisa and Kyrion were dealing with the imperial battle mages. Whoever is left will…”

He stopped, turned back, and saw the ornate golden sword lying on the ground where it had fallen. He did not want to touch it—not when it was covered in Karreya’s blood—but she had insisted it was important. That it was proof of her victory, and the key to their enemies’ surrender.

So he retraced his steps, grasped the hilt, and held it out to his brother.

“Here,” he said woodenly. “This belonged to the imperial general, Urquadi. Karreya defeated him in single combat, and she told me that possession of this blade grants command of the imperial troops. I don’t know how, but it seems important, and you’re in charge of the army, so…”

Danric paused for a moment, his gaze compassionate, as if he understood what those few sentences cost. “It’s more rightfully yours,” he said quietly. “If you want it.”

“I don’t,” Vaniell said flatly. “I don’t even want to touch it. My city is in ashes and I will do whatever is necessary to help my people rebuild, but this?” He shook his head. “I want nothing to do with it, brother.”

With a single nod, Danric accepted the sword, carrying it effortlessly at his side as they returned to the city.

They were followed by Danric’s companions, who included Princess Caro of Eddris, two night elves, and the enigmatic Lord Dechlan of Sion Dairach, along with his human wife, Kasia. Lythienne had disappeared with Karreya, and Vaniell tried not to think about it. Tried to reassure himself that he could do nothing for her at the moment. He had to trust Lythienne’s healing abilities, Karreya’s stubbornness, and her unyielding will to live. And in the meantime, it was Vaniell’s task to ensure that her sacrifice would not be in vain. That the blood on his hands would serve some purpose beyond senseless violence in the name of conquest.

He was already stumbling with weariness as they climbed the rubble at the entrance, and once within the walls, his exhaustion only grew deeper and more profound. It was not difficult to follow the path of destruction, and Vaniell quailed as he considered the task of rebuilding. So much of what had once been a beautiful and prosperous city now lay in ruins—shops destroyed, goods piled in the street and set ablaze, and every ornamental tree and fountain smashed to bits.

They encountered numerous injured Garimoran soldiers, loose horses, and the bodies of those who had tried to run and failed. Vaniell could only pray that the gates of the palace held firm. That those who’d sought refuge within its walls remained safe. And that somewhere within this labyrinth of rubble and smoke, he would find reason to hope.

On occasion, their path was impeded by a makeshift barricade. Some had been torn apart, but several were yet intact, forcing them to retrace their steps.

He was near to cursing with the hopelessness of their search when the sound of wings overhead drew his attention.

It was Kyrion and Leisa, and she was pointing to the north. “This way,” she called down. “There is still fighting in the streets, but most of the imperials are cornered in the square near the stockyards.”

Vaniell broke into a jog and Danric followed, holding the sword in a white-knuckled grip as they began to hear shouts and the sounds of clashing weapons.

They rounded a corner suddenly and slid to a halt, faced with a vicious clash between a motley array of Lord Kellan’s rebels, Commander Ibbley’s troops, and the remains of the imperial battalion, fighting back to back now, but showing no signs of surrender.

Two robed mages huddled behind their number, but they seemed spent, their magic exhausted.

And suddenly, it was as if Vaniell’s fear and anguish and exhaustion were choked off by a surge of rage. This had gone on long enough. Too many lives lost. Too much blood painted the streets of his city.

He did not wait for his companions, or even stop to determine whether it would be safe. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out one of the last of his steel marbles and set it to his lips. Closing his eyes, he focused every bit of his rage, his will and his intent to end this war once and for all. And then he hurled it forward, between the lines of battle, where it hit the stones of the street and exploded with a thunderous roar.

Between the imperial troops and the Garimorans, a trench opened in the ground, wide and deep enough to swallow a horse. The enchantment continued on its way, carving a yawning gap across the entire square until it reached the blacksmith shop on the far side. And stopped.

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