Page 56 of Of Empires and Dust

“Emalia, Arden, Varlin – with me!” Kallinvar surged into the thick of the fighting, his Soulblade carving a path of blood and bone. If the Vitharnmír died, the mages would break.

He swung his Soulblade in an upward arc across his body, slicing through a mage’s forearm and cleaving his face from chin to brow before swinging back across and taking another’s head from her shoulders.

The sickly oil of the Taint surged in pulses as the Lorian mages tried to keep the knights at bay. But in these close quarters, even the power of Efialtír’s moon couldn’t save them.

Tendrils of Essence wrapped around Kallinvar’s feet, holding him in place as the Vitharnmír charged through the swell of the bodies and swung its crimson Soulblade. The weapon came within a handspan of Kallinvar’s neck before Arden crashed into the creature’s side and the pair tumbled to the ground.

Kallinvar staggered forwards, the bonds of Essence that held him in place evaporating as Varlin swept past and took the head of the mage responsible.

Within seconds, both Arden and the Vitharnmír were back on their feet, their Soulblades a blur of light. Kallinvar charged into the fray, Emalia and Varlin at his side.

He swung at the creature’s flank, only for it to turn and send a shockwave of Blood Magic slamming into his chest from its open palm. He careened backwards, the air fleeing his lungs as he hit the ground.

Kallinvar rose, struggling to breathe, staggering, when his Sigil ignited with aching loss. He lifted his gaze to see the Vitharnmír standing over Sister Uriban’s body, the breastplateof her Sentinel armour collapsed inwards under the creature’s weight.

The roar that filled the yard was one born of anguish and loss. Sister-Captain Arlena hurled herself at the creature bound in its twisted Sentinel armour. The Vitharnmír turned to meet the charge, its foot pressing into Sister Uriban’s chest, blood spraying.

The two Soulblades crashed together again, and again, and again, until the Vitharnmír carved a gouge across the breast of Arlena’s armour.

For a moment, Kallinvar’s heart stopped, his breath catching. But Arden, Emalia, and Varlin charged in, and the Vitharnmír stood no chance.

First Arden took its left arm, then Varlin drove her Soulblade through its thigh, tore it along the creature’s leg, and ripped it out at the knee. Emalia plunged her blade into its heart, and Arlena took its head. The Vitharnmír may have been born of godsblood, but even gods could bleed.

As the silver armour slithered over the demon’s skin, the surviving Lorians threw down their arms, steel ringing out through the yard.

In the silence that ensued, a slow heartbeat drummed in the back of Kallinvar’s mind, weak, fading.

Dum dum. Dum dum. Dum dum.

Kallinvar looked to Arlena and gestured towards the surrendering Lorians. “Bind them. Knights of The Second, with me.”

Kallinvar led the way across the yard and into a tall wooden structure that sat at its northern edge, two storeys tall, thick, and broad. He could hear Ildris and Ruon speaking, but their words were muffled, drowned out by the dying heartbeat.

Dum dum. Dum dum.

He pushed open the wooden structure’s doors and stepped into a large open hallway, barren except for an empty table against the right wall and a row of hooks beside it with three dangling coats. The place had been built purely for function.

That same putrid smell of burning flesh from outside clung to the air, thick and heavy. It pressed on the back of Kallinvar’s throat and pushed into his nostrils.

Kallinvar followed the thumping of the heartbeat through the arch on the opposite end of the hall, stepping into a room illuminated purely by candlelight.

Fifty cots stretched the length of the room, split evenly on either side.

“In the name of all that is sacred,” Ruon whispered from behind Kallinvar.

He didn’t look to see what it was that brought such horror to her voice. Instead, he focused on the mages who were scrambling about, grabbing scrolls and notes and stuffing them into sacks.

Kallinvar marched down the central path between the rows of cots as a mage stood in shock, staring. He was a Scholar by the grey of his robes.

“I…” The mage staggered backwards, looking up at Kallinvar with eyes that held nothing but fear. “I didn’t… I…”

“You didn’t what?” Kallinvar grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him to dangle off the ground. Ruon and the knights subdued the other mages in his periphery.

As Kallinvar held the man in the air, he looked about the room, his gaze falling on what had caused Ruon so much disgust. Every cot was occupied, but none of the occupants were moving. Each was stripped naked, raw, angry wounds carved into their flesh in the shape of runes. Limbs were twisted and snapped in preternatural directions, skin blackened and cracked. Othervictims had knotted masses of flesh where their eyes had been. Each looked to have died a death of uniquely excruciating pain.

Kallinvar tightened his armoured fingers around the mage’s throat, feeling a groan from within. Snapping his neck would have been as easy as breaking a twig.

“They… they’re volunteers. At least, they were… I swear it.”

---