Page 347 of Of Empires and Dust

“Nothing good,” Garramon said. “But we need to keep moving.”

As they went, the Chosen cut down any rebels that dared cross their path. The creatures had no hesitation within them, nor any mercy. Not that Rist expected mercy at a time like this, but their brutality unsettled him.

A few moments after they’d stepped into another chamber, cries rang out and arrows sliced through the air. One burst through Lakrin’s hand, and Rist skidded to a stop, turning just in time to see another arrow punch into a soldier’s neck, blood spraying in a plume.

“Rist!” Neera’s voice was like a clap of distant thunder, echoing in Rist’s mind as one of the Chosen threw itself in front of him, a pillar of fire spraying over its back. Those crimson eyes stared down at Rist, the flames causing the silver armour to burn with an incandescent glow.

The moment the flames faltered, the creature spun on its heels, the runes in its armour glowing, a pulse of Essence thrumming from it.

A man soared through the air, eyes wild, threads of Spirit and Fire whirling about him. The Chosen snatched him from the air, steel-clad fingers wrapping around his throat, and in that same instant snapped his neck with one flick of its wrist.

Rist stared at the body as it dropped, snapped bone protruding from the man’s neck, his eyes vacant.

Dirt crunched to his left, followed by a shout. Rist’s instincts took hold. He turned to meet a charging man clad in a tunic and breeches, sword raised above his head. Rist lunged forwards and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the man’s sword wrist, smashing his right elbow into the man’s jaw. He slid his hand down and grabbed the hilt of the sword as the rebel’s fingers slackened.

In a practiced motion from form five, movement nine, Rist ripped the sword free, shifted it into reverse grip, then drove it backwards past his left hip. He felt the blade bite on the leather, then felt the release as it slid through and into the flesh.

He pulled the sword free and let go of the hilt, the steel clanging. In less than a breath, hefeltthe man die, the gemstone beneath his breastplate pulsing. As it had before, a voice whispered in Rist’s mind, not begging, but demanding he harness the Essence before it evaporated and was lost.

The voice was a tangible thing.“You need it to keep them safe,”it whispered.“Take it.”

His throat tightened, his lungs seeming starved for air as he resisted the urge. It was like a hunger within him, and that terrified every part of Rist.

“No,” he whispered back, setting his will in iron. The Essence faded, and the sounds of the world around him flooded his ears once more. He’d not even realised they’d gone. When Rist turned back to the others, the remaining rebels were dead, nothing but corpses in the dirt.

To him it had seemed the world had stopped, but nobody else looked to have even noticed. Nobody except Neera. She looked at him in only the way that she could, her eyes asking questions without words.

He nodded and looked back down at the dead man before turning to follow Garramon and the others into the next tunnel. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him.

One of the Chosen stood over Rist – the one who had saved him, he thought.

“Thank you,” Rist said, looking up at the armoured giant.

“Does your faith falter?” There would never be a time when the eerie layered voices of the Chosen didn’t set Rist’s hair on end.

Rist didn’t answer. The truth was pointless here. This was a creature of Efialtír, and he didn’t think there would be much room for nuance.

The Chosen let out a long breath beneath its steel helmet, stared at him for a moment longer, then turned and walked towards the tunnel mouth.

Shouts erupted from the tunnel. “Forward!”

Rist looked to Neera, and the pair broke into a sprint, the straggling soldiers doing the same. They charged through the tunnel and emerged onto a platform that dropped down into an enormous cavern that stretched for hundreds of feet in all directions, buildings of brown stone rising all about. Rebels and Lorian soldiers alike were hacking each other to pieces in the narrow streets and atop the rooves, threads of each elemental strand whirling in the air.

Garramon and Magnus fought at the bottom of the stairs that led from the platform, rebels swarming around them, archers atop rooves loosing volley after volley. As the soldiers rushed past, Rist stopped for a moment, catching sight of something on a ledge above.

A man stood with his hands behind his back, watching over the fighting with the calm of a statue. Two women stood with him. The man tilted his head and stared directly at Rist, and Rist could have sworn a smile crept across his face.

The sound of clashing steel pulled Rist’s attention back to the fighting. He opened himself to the Spark, pulled his sword from its scabbard, and charged down the stairs.

The purple lightof the runes in Calen’s armour shone against the smooth rock of the tunnels as Yandira guided him and Tivar through the maze within the mountain. There must have been hundreds of tunnels twisting in every direction, some climbing, others sloping down, shafts of light carved into their walls.

“How can you possibly find your way in here?” Calen said as they passed through a small chamber that branched off in six directions.

“I’ve been here for eleven years.” Yandira didn’t even break stride as she turned left and entered the third tunnel. She’d not looked much older than he. Had she truly been living in this place at only thirteen or fourteen summers? “Farwen and Coren built it this way on purpose. It meant that even if the imperials did get inside, we would still have an advantage.”

The mountain shook, and Yandira stumbled, catching herself against the smooth wall. Tivar looked to him. He could feel the Spark pulsing through the rock. There was no doubt that Lorian mages were now within the mountain in large numbers.

Even with Kaygan and Fenryr at their side, there was little chance they could actually win this battle now. Gods they might be, but Calen had seen nothing of what they could do in battle. Either way, Aeson had taught him that sometimes winning meant surviving. He needed to find Ella and the others, needed to get as many people to safety as he could. That was victory.

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