Page 129 of Of Empires and Dust

The hope had been that the threat of an attack on Elkenrim would draw forces from the other cities, and the presence of the dragons there – alongside Dravír on the eastern coast – would keep the Dragonguard occupied. In this, everything had proceeded flawlessly. But the cost had been great, and it had been Olmaír and his party who had paid it. They had always known there would be a slim chance of returning from Elkenrim. They had volunteered.

Salara took a deep breath, then pulled her sword from its scabbard. She unclipped her belt and handed it to Captain Undrír, who took it with a bow.

She gestured for Taran and Indivar.

“Go to your soulkin,” she said in a half-whisper. “This will not take long, and I have as much faith in these humans’ honour as I do in that of a snake. This night will not know the sound of peace.”

“And yet you offer them Alvadrû?” Indivar was a few inches shorter than Salara, with a leaner build and dark hair tied into knots so intricate it hardly seemed worth the time.

“When the outcome is certain, is it truly an offer?”

“Hmmm. And yet, it is more than they deserve.”

“This has nothing to do with them,” Salara replied, looking into Indivar’s eyes. “History will speak of this war. It will speak of us. I will not allow it to say that we did not always strive for the path of least destruction. We will not be what they were. We will not be demons in the shadows, quiet blades on the throats of the sleeping. We will be warriors, and whether we live or die, history will remember us as such.”

“History is written by the victors,” Indivar replied. “It will say whatever we tell it. The humans wrote their own history after they butchered our kin.”

“And as I said, we are not them.”

Indivar made to speak again, but Taran laid a three-fingered hand on her shoulder and shook his head. He looked to Salara. “It will be done, Narvír. We will await your call.”

Indivar stiffened but acquiesced, inclining her head before she and Taran set off towards their soulkin, who waited behind a rise in the land some distance away.

Both Taran and Indivar had been young at the time of the Cuendyar.The Sundering. The night their own brothers and sisters turned against them, the night the humans waged a holy war in Efialtír’s name. That youth still shone through.

“Salara.” Salara turned to see Queen Vandrien gesturing towards the rows of elves that stood apart from the bulk of the force, just over Vandrien’s right shoulder. Each wore newly forged golden armour with blue bands of cloth tied around their arms and waist.

Volunteers from those saved at the mines in the north. Those who felt strong enough, those who wanted to fight. Il’Onarakina – The Unbroken. It was a name given to them by Warmarshal Luilin, and it was a name Salara was inclined to agree with. Had she suffered what they’d suffered, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind she would have been shattered into a thousand pieces.

None of them truly held the strength in their bodies to wage war, nor did they have the skill with the blade. But their lives were their own and if they wished to fight, Salara would be honoured to stand by their side. Along with Luilin, she had handpicked two hundred of Numillíon’s finest to stand within their ranks with the sole purpose of keeping them alive long enough to feel the sweetness of vengeance.

Vandrien grabbed Salara’s pauldron. “Show them what it means to be Evalien. Show them how we stand with our heads high and our shoulders back, how we will never kneel again.” She lowered her voice. “Show them what we do to those whohurt our blood. And Salara, show them the power of a dragon’s fury.”

Salara inclined her head. “Myia’nari.”

“With this victory, we cut the Lorians in half. We threaten the heart of their empire. And if Visenn and Falisín are successful, we will come ever closer to bringing Fane to his knees.”

Salara’s mind shifted to Visenn and Falisín, who at that moment were flying with their soulkin somewhere along Epheria’s southern coast towards Aonar. The fourth prong in the plan.

“Cut off the blood, and the limb will die. Cut off enough limbs, and the body will die.”Queen Vandrien’s words rang in Salara’s head. At that moment, a realisation hit her and she forced herself to look into the queen’s eyes. “Olmaír has gone to Achyron’s halls.”

The twist of pain was only visible on the queen’s face for a fraction of a second, but Salara saw it. She saw Vandrien’s jaw slacken, saw her breath catch and her heart skip a beat. Then the queen was iron once more. “Then we must ensure his sacrifice holds purpose. Go.”

“Are you certain you wish this honour to be mine?”

The queen pulled away and drew a short breath, smiling back at Salara. “I’ldryr viel asatar, Salara.”

In fire we are forged, Salara.

“I sanvîr viel baralun,” Salara answered.

In blood we are tempered.

Salara inclined her head to the queen one last time, then turned to face the human who awaited her. He stood alone now, the smaller man having returned to his horse some ten feet back where the other riders waited.

A thick breastplate guarded the man’s torso, a coat of mail beneath, while more slabs of plate were strapped to his shins, forearms, and thighs, augmented by thick leather. In hisarrogance, he wore no helmet, not even a mail cap. The sight brought a laugh to Salara’s throat.

He gripped a wicked looking morningstar in his right fist, almost eight feet long with a thick steel-banded shaft and a spherical head studded with brutal spikes. A singular spike sat at the top of the head, as long as Salara’s middle finger and thick as the weapon’s shaft.

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