Page 349 of Of Empires and Dust

Tivar lunged from the front, thrusting her níthral at the creature’s gut. It twisted to avoid the blade.

Calen released his níthral and pushed threads of Fire and Spirit into his hand, lightning crackling over his gauntlet. Herammed his fist into the creature’s side, sending cracks through the armour. It cried out in a twisted howl.

Again, Calen felt Tarast moving through him, the memories of a life once lived flashing across his mind.

The Chosen swung its blade where Calen’s head had been only a heartbeat before, but Calen had dropped low and stepped right, Valerys roaring, their shared soul burning with a bright fury. His níthral burst to life in his fist, and he thrust it deep into the Chosen’s chest as Tivar carved through its arm.

“Svidír i’il aldryrín un’il rastikar, Vitharnmír!” Calen roared as the níthral carved through steel and flesh, the runes in the Chosen’s armour blazing with a blinding light. He had not intended to speak the words. They had simply flowed through him as though spoken by another.Burn in the fires of the void, Vitharnmír!

The rebels and Lorians crashed in around them, the clash of steel on steel echoing.

Calen pulled his níthral free, the Chosen’s armour slithering back into the runes on its flesh as the body dropped to the floor.

“For Epheria,” he roared, a fervour in his heart. “For freedom!”

Valerys’s fury burned within him as he cut through the Lorians, his níthral shimmering, lightning crackling over his fist. He blocked a swing of Lorian steel overhead, ran his níthral up the blade, twisted his wrist at the top, then pushed the blade down before pivoting and carving open the Lorian’s chest before him.

As the body dropped, Calen extended his hand and unleashed a maelstrom of death, lightning tearing holes through Lorian bodies and crashing into the rock beneath. The drain sapped at him, but as it did, Valerys roared from the sky outside and pushed his strength through the bond.

A pulse of the Spark surged outwards from within the Lorian numbers, and whips of Fire and Air streaked towards him.

The flames flickered and died before touching Calen’s flesh as Tivar sliced through them with threads of Spirit.

“Mage,” Tivar shouted, pointing her níthral towards a man rushing at them, black cloak billowing behind him, flames wreathing both hands.

A burst of crimson light ignited to the left, and a hulking man bounded forwards, a dense black beard covering his face, a shimmering níthral in his hand, his other arm cleaved just below the shoulder. A second mage joined him, the Spark pulsing.

“Uthikar,” Calen shouted, moving to stand next to Tivar.

Together.

Rist broughthis sword up across his body, blocking the swing of the rebel blade. He sent a sphere of air into the man’s chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the brown stone wall at his back. He twisted at the waist, avoiding the stab of a spear while an arrow skittered off his helmet, then brought his blade back up the shaft, opening his attacker’s face from the cheek through to the back of the skull. Essence pulsed all around him, and the gemstone hanging from his neck urged him to tap into its power, to give himself strength, to protect those he cared for, those he loved.

Neera and Garramon fought beside him, threads of Air, Fire, and Spirit whipping about them. The rebels had outnumbered them easily, but they were no match for the more heavily armoured soldiers. And the superior might of the Battlemages and Chosen had forced the rebels back, their numbers dwindling. He did not need the Essence.

Two parts of himself warred: the part that grew bold at watching those who had attacked Berona crumble and break, and the part that was horrified by the blood that poured onto the rock. But as the blood spilled, a sense of resolution set into him, and the former burned brighter than the latter. These rebels had murdered so many in Berona. Memories of the attack flashed across Rist’s mind. Memories of the flames and the charred corpses, of that woman’s blistered and burnt face, of her screams. These monsters had waited for the Healers to come, drawn them in, then set them all on fire again.

They had set their fate that day. This war needed to end, and it would end here in this mountain.

Rist pushed forwards, flowing through the movements he had spent countless hours memorising, his blade an extension of himself. He whipped threads of Air around his body, deflecting strikes as they came.

Shouts rang out, echoing in the enormous cavern. “It’s the Warden of Varyn!”

Every hair on Rist’s body pricked up. The Draleid was here, in this cavern. The one who all the soldiers talked of, the one who had set the entire city of Kingspass ablaze.

Ripples of the Spark surged in the air, and a sudden realisation came to Rist. “Where’s Magnus?”

“What?” Garramon had been looking in the direction of the shouts.

“Magnus…” Rist scanned the street. The last of the rebels were falling, bodies littering the rock. He spotted Lakrin nearby. The mage was limping but alive. “Kalder and Magnus. They’re not here.”

More shouts echoed, sharper.

Both Rist and Garramon broke into a run, Neera following. Rist’s heart had never beat so quickly, its thumps drowning outall other sounds in his ears. He rounded the corner of the nearest structure to see the fighting was far from over.

Soldiers and rebels tore pieces from each other, screams and clattering steel drumming in the back of Rist’s mind.

His heart stopped in his chest when his gaze fell to the centre of it all. A purple níthral jutted from a man’s back, the black cloak of a Battlemage knotted at their shoulders. The glowing light vanished as the blade was pulled back through, and the body dropped. Both relief and shame touched Rist’s soul when he saw Kalder’s face staring back at him with dead eyes. It wasn’t Magnus.

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