Page 249 of Of Empires and Dust

Garramon watchedRist and Neera through the open flap in the command tent. He’d never have placed the two together, but she filled the cracks in him and he in her. The same was true of Garramon and Fulya all those years ago, until he drove her away, until he made a choice that defined him. A choice he regretted to that day.

“Brother Garramon.” Two voices in one spoke at the same time, layered atop one another. Azrim approached him, the leg of a rabbit in his right hand, little meat – or bone – left upon it.

“The Saviour’s light upon you, Azrim.”

“And upon you.” Azrim leaned to the left and looked out at Neera and Rist. “Strange, isn’t it, how this world of yours works? It was not long ago I brought him to your door.” The Chosen looked from Rist to Garramon. Azrim had always been different from the other heralds, always more intrigued by the mortal plane, always curious. “You’re attached to him.”

Garramon glanced at the Chosen, staring into his black, bottomless eyes, then back at Rist and Neera. “He will always be my apprentice.”

Azrim smiled – if it could be called a smile, his lips struggling to hold the gesture. “Your sentimentality is a curious thing also. I wish to know more of it.”

“Forgive me if this is too direct a question, but why have you come back?”

“I adore questions in all their forms, Brother Garramon. Answers do not exist without questions, and I so crave answers. And that is what leads me here. Yes, Efialtír commands it of me, but my curiosity about this world remains unsated. And now, I can explore it in a body more fit for its purpose, a body moulded for my soul.”

Azrim held out his arms, admiring the scarred rune markings and swirling blue tattoos that adorned his skin. The Chosen had not bothered to change his clothes for dry ones.

“Do not worry,” Azrim said, stripping the rabbit leg of the last of its flesh and tossing the remnants of the bone on the tent’s floor. “I will keep him safe as the harbinger requests.”

Azrim strolled from the tent and out into the rain, spreading his arms wide and tilting his head towards the sky. Rist and Neera were gone, back to their cots most likely.

Garramon watched as Azrim vanished into the night. What had the Chosen meant? Had Fane asked Azrim to watch over Rist? Why? Rist’s preparation for testing had been more than promising, but to have one of Efiatltír’s Chosen watching over him was a strange thing. His old friend had always worked within the confines of his own mind, but Garramon had noted it even more so of late.

Garramon had been surprised when Fane had chosen not to accompany the army himself. With ten thousand infantry, a full contingent of Battlemages, Taya Tambrel’sBlackwatch, Primarch Touran, ten of Efialtír’s Chosen, and the reinforcements from Elkenrim and Merchant’s Reach, it did not matter what awaited them in the rebel stronghold. But he’d seen the fury in his old friend’s eyes, the fervour of long past battles. Fane should have been there with them, but as always, Fane had plans within plans, layered and twisting. And Garramon was absolutely sure that Brother Pirnil played a central role in those plans. Fane had never had any particular liking for the man, but now Pirnil was never far from Fane’s side. When Garramon returned to the city, he would find the truth of it all. He’d spent too long trusting blindly and too long suffering for it.

With Azrim gone, Garramon joined the others by the fire. The conversation centred mostly around the remaining days of the march, provisions, fatigue, and the plan of action when the Firnin Mountains were reached. Garramon contributed little, instead sipping slowly on a cup of wine and watching Brother Tuk.

The man saw him watching, but Garramon didn’t look away. Solman had said something earlier that day, something that had lingered in his mind.“You have a knack for mentoring the young. Do you think this one will fare any better?”

There was something in the way he’d said it that pricked the hairs on Garramon’s neck. Something he couldn’t let go.

Once the conversation petered out and faded to frivolous matters, Garramon said his farewells, leaving Taya, Brother Halmak, and a number of generals about the fire, and stepped out into the rain, pulling up his hood.

The mud sucked at his boots, puddles forming in the hollows where too many footprints had overlapped. It had been quite some time since he’d seen rainfall of this magnitude, and of course it had come just when the army had set out from Berona.

He ambled through the deluge, passing dying campfires and soldiers running about holding sheets and cloaks above theirheads. He knew where he was heading but was in no rush to get there. He had time.

As he walked, the sounds of slapping feet and sharp breaths touched his ears. It was not soldiers clambering about in the rain. The sounds were too controlled, too measured and repetitive. And within a few heartbeats, he knew precisely what it was he was hearing.

He let out a sigh, shaking his head as he walked towards the sounds. And sure enough, turning the corner around a tent that could not possibly have been pitched any worse, he saw Rist standing in the rain, his feet shoulder-width apart, set low in the first stance of form two, movement three.

The rain pummelled down on the young mage, bouncing off his cloak and the steel in his hands as he flowed through the movements, completely unaware of everything around him. Never in Garramon’s life, perhaps with Fane as the only exception, had he seen an individual with such unwavering dedication. When Rist committed himself to something, the young man became iron itself. And much like with Fane, Rist’s dedication was rewarded with a rate of improvement unreachable by the fickle of heart.

Garramon stood with his hands clasped behind his back and watched. Rist moved through all fourteen forms, again and again.

“I thought you went to find sleep.” Garramon stepped out into the open, raising an eyebrow at Rist.

The young man finished his movement, ending with his blade fully extended in a killing strike. The steel didn’t so much as quiver.

“I practice every night before I sleep.”

It was a statement of fact. The rain was not even a consideration.

“I know.” It felt a strange thing to have such pride in a young man that wasn’t of his own blood, and yet, that’s precisely what Garramon had. “I admire your dedication, Rist. But you’ll catch your death out here in the rain. Exhaustion and cold bones don’t mix.”

“So Neera told me.” Rist pulled his sword arm in and straightened. “I’m sorry for earlier. I spoke out of turn and I?—”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” Garramon held up an open palm. “You questioned a command that deserved questioning. Nothing more, nothing less. For what it’s worth, I think the men and women of this army would have found strength in the sight. They just watched rebels attack Berona, kill innocent citizens, kill their brothers and sisters who watched over the city. I think the sight of refugees slaughtered while fleeing to a place they thought to be safe may have only added fuel to their fire. But it is Taya’s command, and I trust her. I will hear no more of it, understood?”

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