Page 141 of Of Empires and Dust

Thousands of purple cloaks stood stark against polished steel, the banners rippling above their heads. The colours reminded him of Belduar, and he couldn’t help but think that, in some way, his home lived on. It was a strange comfort.

It wasn’t long before Calen reached the plateau, Vaeril marching at his side.

Calen held his helmet in the crook of his arm and grasped Tarmon’s forearm. He stopped and looked back over the courtyard. “They look…”

“Like an army.” Tarmon folded his arms. “Soon we’ll see if they fight like one.”

Calen’s expression shifted to one of visible discomfort at Tarmon’s words.

“Long before you were born, this day was coming.”

“I know.” He looked to Dann, his expression softening a little. “Are you ready, Commander Pimm?”

Dann puffed out his bottom lip, giving a slight shrug. “Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Calen laughed, the hardness in his eyes cracking. “With any luck, I’ll catch up with you long before you reach Salme. If I don’t…”

“Then we’ll push through,” Erik said.

Calen drew a long breath through his nostrils, nodding slowly. As he made to speak, footsteps sounded to the right.

Queen Tessara of Vaelen approached with a column of Highguard flanking her, long glaives in their fists.

The queen wore a full suit of smooth, black elven steel, the star of Vaelen worked delicately into the breastplate, a curved sword strapped to her hip.

“Queen Tessara.” Calen pressed a hand to his heart, inclining his head towards the queen, the others following suit. “Din närvarvin gryr haydria til myia elwyn.”

Tarmon spoke as little of the Old Tongue as he did Narvonan – none – and so he stayed quiet, keeping his head slightly bowed. The elves were a strange folk, and he’d already had a few brushes with their ‘honour’ system. It was best to let Calen and Vaeril do the talking.

“Ar diar, myialí, Draleid.” The new queen of Vaelen allowed a smile to grace her lips. She was the image of beauty, her voice soft, her eyes bright. But Tarmon was under no illusions that this elf’s blade was as sharp as her tongue.

“Your command of the Old Tongue is impressive, Calen Bryer. I can hear the Vaelen in your pronunciation.” She gestured towards Vaeril, who stood by Calen’s side. Vaeril seemed even more rigid than usual, his back stiff, his chin raised. “You are a pride to your people, Vaeril Ilyin.”

“Myia’nari…” Vaeril’s eyes widened, his jaw slackening. It was as though he had been given the praise of a god. “Du haryn myia vrai, myia’nari. Laël haydrir.”

“And my thanks are yours.” She flicked her wrist, and a Highguard brought forward an ornate wooden box, stained black with silver decorating its edges.

The Highguard clicked two silver latches open and lifted the lid. A gently curved sword sat within. It gleamed in the light, delicate engravings swirling from the guard up through the blade. The grip was black leather, the pommel the likeness of a silver star. In its design the weapon was similar to Calen’s, if more intricate in its embellishments.

“Myia’nari?” For the first time since meeting the elf, Tarmon heard an uncertainty in Vaeril’s tone. Whatever this weapon was, it was more than a simple gift.

“This blade is Ünviril – Dawnbringer. It is a sword of the First Age. The Age of War. It comes from a time when our people were at their most divided. It once belonged to Elyin Shadvír, the first champion to the High House of Vaelen. It was Elyin who first fought beside humans and not against them. He was a warrior who found legend in the wielding of this blade but found eternity in the sheathing of it.

“I offer this weapon to show you that your accomplishments have not gone unnoticed by your people. You have brought great honour upon the kingdom of Vaelen. Not only have you protected the Draleid, protected our hope, but you have shown him the ways of our people and named him a friend of the Evalien. You fought at the Battle of Aravell, led our people forwards, and never turned back. In a time where elven heroes are few and far between, your star guides us.”

Tessara lifted the blade from the box, resting the flat steel against her palm and holding the hilt with her other hand. She proffered the weapon to Vaeril.

“Vaeril Ilyin, I offer you Ünviril. Will you accept my offering and in turn take on the mantle of Champion of Vaelen? Will you lead our forces, and those of the Draleid, in this, the Last War?”

Vaeril stared openly at the blade, his mouth ajar. The elf had always been a quiet one, but he had never been as short of words as he was now.

“I…” Vaeril stuttered. “It would be my endless honour. An honour I do not deserve.”

“You are blind, child of Vaelen, for there are none more deserving beneath our banner. You are the first elf of Vaelen in hundreds of years to fight beside a Draleid, the first to slay a Bloodmarked. You crossed the Burnt Lands. The only true shame is that King Silmiryn did not bestow this honour upon you sooner.”

Tentatively, Vaeril reached forwards and wrapped a hand around the hilt of the sword, gauging its weight and balance. As he did, another Highguard stepped forwards with a black leather scabbard.

Calen put out a hand to stop the Highguard. He rested a hand on Vaeril’s shoulder, then unbuckled the elf’s scabbard and sword, leaving the new scabbard in their place.

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