Page 406 of Of Empires and Dust

“I prefer to keep my fate in my own hands.”

“Blood of the water, this is the way.” Akraf puffed out his bottom lip and nodded. “I am proud to hunt alongside you again, Aeson. It has been too long in the coming.”

“And I you. May it be short and fruitful,” Aeson said, giving the typical Narvonan response.

Akraf took a turn past two banners thrust into the ground bearing the roaring head of a tharnas marked in gold. They walked past a score of guards in black plate until they finally came upon Princess Kayala Latrak.

The woman awaited them with a wooden mug of steaming tea in her hands, a soft smile on her lips.

On either side of the princess, four Isildans clad in Atalus shell plate sat astride armoured darvakin, thick-shafted glaives in their fists. Where the tharnas - the great, powerful beasts that acted as the Latrakian Kingdom’s emblem – were monstrous and indomitable, the darvakin were quick and ferocious. They stood on two powerful legs, the talons on their feet capable of rending steel with ease. The creatures’ scaled bodies were lean and muscular, and Aeson had seen them reach speeds far past that of a horse. Each of them was barded in segmented plates of black steel. Darvakin were also known to be notoriously intelligent.

As he looked, one of the darvakin turned its head towards him, a sharp clicking in its throat. The creature pulled back its scaled lip to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth.

Aeson snapped his gaze away. He had learned in the past that you didn’t look a darvakin in the eye. He pressed his two fists together in the greeting of Narvona. As he had done for the entire duration of their journey along the southern coast, he fought his ingrained compulsion to kneel. Narvonans did not kneel. “Your Majesty. You asked for me?”

“Aeson Virandr,” Kayala replied in her thick Narvonan accent. She inclined her head, pressing her two fists together. “I only wanted to wish you good fortune in the battle to come and to gift you this.”

Kayala gestured to someone in a tent behind her, and a man came out holding a cuirass of black steel. It was plain and simple, but at its centre was the emblem of a roaring dragon worked into the plate in Atalus shell.

“Your Majesty, this is too much. I cannot accept it.” The Narvonans guarded Atalus shell with even more ferocity than Godfire. It was bestowed upon only the greatest champions, the most valuable souls, harvested only once every generation from the holy animal. A shell with the power to absorb the Spark. Even a little was priceless. Aeson had once watched almost fifty Narvonans perish just to retrieve an Atalus-wrought pendant from a dead man’s neck.

“You can accept it, Aeson. And you will.” Kayala took the cuirass and offered it to Aeson. “This is not a gift from me. This is a gift from my mother, for Aeson Virandr, Blade of the Moon, the man that time cannot kill. She told me not to give it to you until we reached Epherian shores. She says to wear it and protect her daughter, as her mother protected you all those years ago.”

Aeson reached out and took the cuirass, staring down at the Atalus dragon. “This is a gift like no other, Kayala.”

“Blood of the water, this is the way.” Kayala lifted her gaze at the sound of screeches overhead, shifting the topic in a heartbeat. She watched as some twenty wyverns soared across the sky, moving in tight formation. “ThisWyvern Queen, she is fierce.”

“She is.”

“This will be a good hunt. We will find much glory here. I will let you go, Aeson Virandr. And when the night falls, may the shell of the Atalus keep you safe.”

Aeson inclined his head, then turned and left, Verma at his side.

“Well, fuck me,” she said, looking at the black steel cuirass in Aeson’s arms.

“Not interested,” Aeson replied, staring down at the gleaming dragon. As guarded as Atalus was, the craft of its working was even more so. Across the years, some pieces had been recovered during Narvonan invasions, and those that hadn’t been lost to time were often shattered or destroyed by smiths arrogant enough to think themselves capable.

“Aeson Virandr, did you just tell a joke? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you tell a joke.”

“It wasn’t a joke.” Aeson held as straight as he could for a moment, then cracked a laugh. “Have you spoken to Ildur?”

“Mmm. His warriors are ready, as are the Stormguard. Calen Bryer made quite the impression on Animar. He made quite the impression on me. Five hundred Stormguard while Animar is fighting a war against Syrene Linas is nothing to sniff at.”

“He grows with each day,” Aeson said, once again looking down at the Atalus dragon on the cuirass and realising that white shell was a likeness for Valerys. He laughed. Coincidences had abandoned him long ago. “Come, it’s a few miles to the lookout.”

Aeson had beenwithin the walls of Achyron’s Keep four times in his life. The fortress city’s name had been hard earned. It was the choke point between Valtara and the rest of the continent, connected via the Hot Gates. Many an army had smashed itself against the walls trying to bring the fortress to its knees. Almost all had failed.

From where he stood upon the cliff ledge with the forest at his back, Aeson looked over a vast open plain of brown grass and cracked earth, the sun gleaming overhead. Plenty of space for arrows and spears to thin the numbers of any besieging army – plenty of space for Battlemages to wreak absolute destruction.

The city sat on the other side of the plain, embedded into the rock face of the rolling mountains, hundreds of wyvern Rests built about it. It was ringed by two sets of thick, grey stone walls, fortified by monstrous cylindrical towers, the keep rising above all else. The walls themselves were in turn ringed by a series of three trenches.

Screeches rang out in the sky above as formations of wyverns swept back and forth across the woodland, their wings smeared with white and orange paint. Alina’s Wyndarii outnumbered those who stood by Loren Koraklon at least three to one. Even at that, and with the Stormguard and Kayala’s army, the battle would be a bloody one.

“Have you heard word from Salme?” Verma had stood beside Aeson in silence, looking down over the city.

Aeson shook his head. He had hoped Dahlen would have sent word through the Angan, but Crokus – the Angan sent to Alina – had not been seen in days. The creatures were not pets to be kept on chains, but he did wish they were a little more reliable.

“They will be all right, Aeson. You and Naia raised two fine young men, fine warriors.”

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