Page 313 of Of Empires and Dust

“I would have his head,” a man called.

“Aye, stick it in the ashes of Argona!” another shouted.

Tukul Unger stepped forwards and spat on the ground. “A traitor pays the traitor’s price.”

“Agreed,” Aryana Torval said.

“You cannot do this – you cannot!”

Calen gestured for Fenryr to lower his claw, then stepped closer. Gaeleron and those of the personal guard matched his step, swords still drawn.

The purple glow from Calen’s eyes shone on the man’s bronzed skin as they stood eye to eye. “And what would I do with a man I cannot trust? A man who betrayed my father and tried to put a god in chains? A man who would smile to my face and take my head from my shoulders when I turned?”

“You can trust me. I swear it.”

“That army you have, High Lord Kai. Where was it you said?”

“In the marshes. Near sixteen thousand.”

“That is strange,” Calen said, turning down his bottom lip. “You see, I flew over the marshes. Twice. It is a large place, but from dragonback, an army of that size would have been quite a sight. So either you are lying about the numbers that follow you, or they have already abandoned you.”

Castor took a step back as Calen reached forwards and pressed a gauntleted finger against one of the six black stars on his breastplate. “You wear the sigil of Illyanara, and yet, even now, as the empire crumbles, you still call yourself ‘High Lord’. Your loyalty does not lie with the people of Illyanara but with whoever is most likely to grant you power.”

Calen took a few steps away, then called back to the men and women of Castor’s retinue. “If you wish to be judged by your High Lord’s honour, stay where you are. If you would ratherfight for your home, for Illyanara, and for Epheria, if you would rather join the songs our descendants will sing, step forwards.”

To the last, each and every man and woman left Castor Kai’s side and knelt in the patchy grass.

“You cowards!” Castor Kai roared. “The lot of you, rotten bastards!”

Calen turned back to Castor Kai, staring into the man’s panicked eyes. “Our lives can be boiled down to a series of key choices, Castor. Choices that shape us, choices that mould our paths, choices that dictate how we will be remembered.” Calen’s mind flashed back to the night he’d followed Erik from The Two Barges, the night he’d taken his first life. He thought back to his decision to return to The Glade, a decision that had caused his parents’ deaths. His decision to leave Rist in Camylin and then to cross the Burnt Lands in search of him. More memories washed through his mind until he finally settled on that moment when he’d looked down from dragonback at the army attacking Aravell. He could still hear the screams of the men and women he and Valerys had burned alive. “I’ve made many of my choices already, and I’ve had to live with them. I suggest you make your next choice carefully.”

“You’re just as arrogant as he was,” Castor growled, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his sword. “I will not die like some pig.”

The man drew his sword and lunged at Calen.

This time it was not Gaeleron who drew steel quickest. Calen swept his blade across the lower part of Castor’s abdomen, where the breastplate stopped and only leather protected. The leather yielded to the steel, and the steel bit into flesh.

“It’s an elven blade,”Vars’s voice rang in his head.“Better than anything I could make myself. The curve in the blade allows for smoother, cleaner strikes. Not as good at punching through armour, but if you’re quick enough, that won’t matter.”

One step had taken Calen past Castor Kai, and as the man stumbled, pressing a hand to his wound, Calen pivoted and, with a second swing, relieved the High Lord of his head.

He looked down at the corpse, blood pouring into the grass. That was not how he’d intended this to go, but neither would he mourn the man.

Gaeleron handed Calen a cloth.

“Take these warriors to the barracks.” He gestured to Castor’s former retinue and the faction leaders as he wiped the blood from his blade. “Give them as much food as they can eat and as much mead as they can drink.”

“It will be done, Draleid.”

As Gaeleron turned to leave, Calen grabbed his arm and met his gaze. “La uvahâr du val myia viël, Mahatirín Athis.”

I trust you with my life, Warmarshal Athis.

Gaeleron straightened at the words, or more so at the new title Calen had just bestowed upon him. The title of Mahatirín was an ancient one amongst the elves, particularly those of Lunithír. It was given to one of unshaking faith and loyalty, to one whose honour was without question, to one who held no fear in the face of death.

Gaeleron stared into Calen’s eyes and clenched his fingers into so tight a fist against his breastplate the blood drained, skin going pale. “Ar du val myialí… Calen.”

And you with mine… Calen.

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