Page 146 of Of Empires and Dust

The elf wrapped an arm around Dann’s shoulder, the shit-eating grin stuck to his face.

As they marched, the weka kept pace with them, disappearing into the forest, then reappearing a few feet later, always lurking. Dann had never seen a creature in his life that looked more naturally born for mischief.

After a while, the elves that marched ahead came to a stop, their black banners flapping in the wind. Queen Tessara and the Vaelen army had taken the lead in the march through the wood, with the forces from Ardurän and Lunithír holding the rear.

Tarmon nodded to Dann, Erik, Vaeril, and Lyrei, and they pushed their way through the stopped elves, leaving Ingvat in command.

An enormous, hulking mass of steel and shattered branches lay on the ground, blocking the path: one of the Nithrandír. Dann hadn’t even considered it possible that those enormous monstrosities could be killed. He’d never seen anything like them in his life. Then again, if he had a silver mark for every time that thought had come up recently, he’d be a rich man. He’d lived in The Glade his whole life – he’d never really seen anything.

“Heraya tael du ia’sine ael, ydilír ayar,” both Lyrei and Vaeril whispered as they approached, bowing their heads.

Queen Tessara stood beside the fallen Nithrandír, her palm pressed against the inch-thick pauldron that could have been mounted onto the side of a house.

Dann had never been good at knowing when to be quiet, but he’d been learning. This seemed like one of those moments.

The queen stared down at the remnants of the Nithrandír. To Dann’s surprise it was not sadness he saw in her eyes but relief, a soft smile resting on her lips.

Several of the robed elves that walked with the queen stepped forwards, and the ground beneath Dann’s feet shook with enough power to cause him to stagger.

The Nithrandír’s armour moved and jostled as roots and vines that had once formed the creature’s body shifted and slithered over each other, plunging into the charred earth. More, smaller roots broke through the soil and snaked up over the armour, joining together until a sapling sprouted at the top of a newly formed mound.

“Du vyin alura anis, mavaeri maviríl. Du haryn tiunil din vandasír.”

The queen looked back to Dann and the others, giving the slightest of bows before calling out and setting off along the path once more.

“She seemed… happy,” Dann said as he approached the root-covered remnants of the Nithrandír.

“It is a thing to find joy in.” Vaeril ran his finger along one of the roots, then whispered something in the Old Tongue.

“What was that?”

“Du vyin alura anis. Du haryn tiunil din vandasír. It means ‘You can rest now. You have fulfilled your oath.’” Vaeril stared at the mound of roots and steel, his fingers tracing along a piece of protruding armour. “When my people first came to Aravell, broken, shattered… lost… a number of our eldest warriors and those who had been injured past the point of healing made the greatest of sacrifices. Through the aid of Jotnar runecraft, they bound their souls to these bodies of earth and steel, forgoing their entry into Achyron’s halls so that they might continue to protect the ones they loved in this life, beyond what a mere mortal body could.” He gestured towards the fallen Nithrandír. “This is a joyous thing because this soul’s watch has finally come to an end. They protected their people, they fought until the end and then even still. And now, finally, they may rest. They may enter Achyron’s halls knowing that their oath has been fulfilled and their honour is without question.”

Baldon had told Dann of how the Nithrandír were the souls of old elves who had given themselves to protect their people, but now that explanation felt lacking. It was more than just simple sacrifice. These elves had given everything. They had waited in those shells of steel and root for centuries. “That entire time… were they conscious? Could they see and hear?”

“Every second of every day,” Vaeril answered, a twinge of sadness in his voice. “Always watching, always protecting. It was their oath.”

The thought set the hairs on Dann’s neck on end. To stand there for hundreds of years, not being able to move, to speak… being trapped inside a shell. He couldn’t think of a worse fate.

Dann stepped closer and rested his palm on a winding root. “Du vyin…” He looked to Vaeril. “How do you say it?”

“Du vyin alura anis. Du haryn tiunil din vandasír.” Lyrei placed her hand next to Dann’s as she spoke, a blend of sorrow and joy in her voice.

“Du vyin alura anis, Alea.” Dann repeated, brushing his finger against the side of Lyrei’s hand. “Du vyin alura anis, Baldon.”

You can rest now.

Tarmon rolled his shoulder,stretching out the muscle before swinging his mallet and driving the stake into the soft earth, cold sweat rolling down his brow.

A strike of wood-on-wood sounded to his right.

“That’s the last of ’em, High Commander.” The young squire drew heavy breaths, his hair soaked from the earlier rain. Over four hundred souls that had not yet seen sixteen summers marched with the army, hauling armour and weapons, helping to pitch tents, tending to horses. Many were humans from Loria and the southern provinces, but quite a few young elves had joined as well. There was no better way to learn than by doing. And an army needed squires.

Tarmon gave the young lad a smile. “Good work, Mikal. Unload my armour and cot into the tent, then go see if Surin, Ingvat, or the captains have need of more hands. The sooner we’re camped, the sooner we eat.”

Leaving the boy to go about his work, Tarmon patrolled the camp. The breeze bit at his exposed skin, his loose linen shirt flapping. Moving through the Darkwood was a far quicker endeavour with the path carved by the Lorian forces before the attack, which allowed them to reach just outside the bounds of the Darkwood before stopping to set up camp for the night. Tarmon had been hoping that would be the case. Even with the Dvalin Angan with them, he had dreaded the idea of sleeping within the woodland’s reach. During the battle for the city, he had seen more than a handful of men and elves stray too far and be ripped to pieces by those twisted spirits – the Aldithmar. He shivered at the thought.

He walked past a group of men and women – Carvahonan by their accents – struggling to pitch their tents. They stopped roaring at each other as he passed, bowing their heads sharply before scrambling to stop the tent from collapsing behind them.

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