Page 103 of Of Empires and Dust

10thDay of the Blood Moon

The Eyrie, Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

Calen twisted at the hips,swinging his blade in a wide arc and dropping into Waiting Dark. He moved upwards into Howling Wolf, sweat slicking his palms.

“Good.” Gaeleron stood before him, his right hand gripping his left wrist behind his back. Over the months since returning to Aravell, the elf had regained some of the strength he’d lost and was slowly starting to look like the warrior he had once been. His cheeks were no longer gaunt and hollow, his eyes no longer sunken. A layer of muscle now sat between the skin and bones he had been left with after his torture. He still carried his walking stick with him, but he rarely had need of it. “Mind your footwork. You’re overextending, and your base is too narrow.”

Gaeleron pushed Calen’s shoulder, and Calen stumbled to the right but stabilised himself quickly. He nodded, then pulled his lead foot back and stood wider.

“Your elbow is out too wide,” Gaeleron continued, pressing his finger against the flat of Calen’s blade and pushing. “You must be stronger. Continue.”

Calen did as instructed, moving from form to form, emptying his mind of all else, which, after the meeting in Mythníril, was something he sorely needed.

To his left Vaeril and Atara matched his every movement, not so much as a bead of sweat on their skin. They flowed through the sword forms as though practicing a dance, fluid and smooth. If there was any soul that did not need instruction in the way of the blade, it was Atara Anthalin, and yet she listened to every word that left Gaeleron’s lips.

“The valathír is a movement that focuses on power and decisiveness. It centres on swift and efficient strikes, overwhelming an opponent. But it will put you in positions of vulnerability. True masters of this movement have learned to limit those vulnerabilities, learned to twist them into temptations for their opponents. Lure your attacker into striking at a weakness, then pivot and take their head from their shoulders.”

“It looks exhausting,” Dann called out from where he sat by the stream, slathering a piece of crusty bread with fresh butter and blueberry jam.

Lyrei threw Dann a glare from where she stood behind him, one hand on Drunir’s flank, her cheek resting against his side as she brushed his coat. She’d not said much since the Eleswea un’il Valana, but somehow she seemed… lighter.

Valdrin sat cross-legged on a rock to Dann’s left. An inkwell balanced on the elf’s knee while he watched Calen practice and scribbled notes in a leatherbound journal. They had passed theyoung smith on their way from Mythníril to Alura, and when he’d learned Calen was about to practice sword forms with Gaeleron, Valdrin had sprinted off mumbling incoherently. Not long after, he’d come scrambling into the Eyrie, dripping sweat and covered in soot and grease, then perched himself on the rock.

Calen couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Valdrin talking to himself as he wrote, blissfully uncaring about anything else around him. The elf reminded him of Rist.

“Focus.” Gaeleron cracked Calen in the side of the knee with his walking stick.

Calen’s leg gave way, his knee dropping into the soft grass. For a moment, his anger bubbled, and he could feel Valerys watching from where he lay on the other side of the Eyrie with Sardakes and Varthear. But then he looked up to see Gaeleron standing over him with an implacable look in his eyes, his expression cold and harsh, and the anger faded.

Calen nodded, rising. “Laël sanyin, Sainör.”

I am sorry, teacher.The word ‘Sainör’ was one Vaeril had taught him. Loosely translated it meant ‘teacher’, but the elf had explained that it was only ever used by a person who held their mentor in such high esteem as to think their honour unquestionable. It was a title Gaeleron fully deserved.

Calen still remembered the first words the elf had said to him after they’d broken him free from Berona.

“I didn’t break…”

Gaeleron stared back a moment at Calen, then inclined his head. “Back to the valathír.”

By the time Tarmon and Erik approached from the archway through to Alura, even Vaeril was sweating – if only a drop.

Erik held a finger to his lips as he stalked around to the right, slipping past Lyrei and Drunir and approaching Dann frombehind. He moved with exaggerated strides, the burbling of the stream drowning out his steps.

“Why thank you,” he said as he swooped down over Dann and snatched a freshly slathered chunk of bread from Dann’s hand.

“I swear to the gods.” Dann leapt to his feet, but as he did Erik shoved the entire chunk of bread into his mouth and extended his leg behind him.

Dann being Dann was too focused on the bread to see Erik’s foot and sent himself tumbling.

Erik swallowed the last of the bread and licked the blueberry jam from around his mouth. “Have a nice trip?”

Dann glared at Erik. “When I’m done with you, Virandr, your own father won’t recognise you from a potato.”

“I’m… I’m not really sure what that means,” Erik said with a shrug. He raised his hands, clenching them into fists in a mock fighting stance. “But come on, Pimm. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Dann charged and threw his shoulder into Erik’s chest, sending them both tumbling.

Tarmon slowed as he approached Calen, both eyebrows raised at the sight of Erik and Dann wrestling in the grass.

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