Page 1 of Of Empires and Dust
Chapter 1
Picking up the Pieces
5th Day of the Blood Moon
Five miles from Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Calen dropped to his knees,the blood-soaked mud squelching beneath his weight. He rested his helmet beside his gauntlets, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes, the burble of the stream settling in the back of his mind.
He drew a long breath, the smell of spilt blood and burning wood filling his nostrils. A sigh of sweet relief escaped his throat as he dipped his hands into the water and splashed his face, pressing his fingers into his skin and dragging them through the sweat and grime that marred his cheeks and forehead.
“We’re ready to march.” Vaeril’s words were softly spoken, almost tender. The elf didn’t approach, for which Calen was thankful; he needed a moment. In truth, he needed a lifetime, but he’d settle for a moment.
The first thing Calen saw when he opened his eyes was the Blood Moon’s crimson light sparkling in the stream’s shifting waters, battling against the purple glow that shone from the runes in his armour. The moon had hung in the dark sky since the night it had bled into the world. The sun rose and set each day, but its light was dim, as though tempered by Efialtír himself, the world painted with an unyielding crimson hue.
The second thing Calen saw was the bloodied water dripping from his face onto his hands, then the bodies. Uraks, elves, Angan, and humans alike floated in the stream, lifeless and broken.
He allowed his gaze to linger on the aftermath of the ambush before pulling his gauntlets from the mud and sliding them into place over his hands, watching as the runes on his armour glistened and the metal melded together. The armour had saved him ten times over already.
Calen grabbed his helmet, then rose.
Vaeril stood a few feet away, his helmet in the crook of his arm, his golden hair reflecting the moon’s light and the emblem of the white dragon emblazoned across the breastplate of his armour.
“Casualties?” Calen hated how plainly he asked the question, hated that death had become such a common part of each passing day. It was never a matter of if, but how many. And with the Blood Moon in the sky, the Uraks were stronger than Calen had ever seen them.
“Two hundred and eighty-three.”
Calen nodded sombrely. He approached Vaeril and gestured towards the trees and where the rest of the army waited.
Vaeril inclined his head and turned to walk with Calen. “Dann is arranging the recovery of the bodies. They’ll be brought back to the city, where they can be mourned with the others at the Eleswea un'il Valana.”
The Ceremony of the Lost. Calen had only heard fragments of the ceremony in Therin’s teachings, but Vaeril had explained it more thoroughly in the days since the battle. It was only ever performed during times of unspeakable death. A waypoint in history, a marker in time. It was one of few pieces of culture shared by the Jotnar and the elves.
“Good.” Calen wanted to say more, wanted tofeelmore, but he was just so tired and numb. Five days had passed since they had routed the Lorian armies attacking the city of Aravell, five days since he and Valerys had burned thousands alive. He’d heard them scream, watched them thrash as the flames consumed their flesh and turned them to blackened husks. He’d lost a piece of himself as he’d watched… and more pieces in the days since.
They’d had no choice—No, that wasn’t true. They’d had a choice, and they’d made the only decision worth making. A decision they’d make again to protect the ones they loved. But that didn’t mean Calen didn’t hate himself for it. It didn’t mean he hadn’t taken thousands of fathers, mothers, daughters, and sons from their families.
His throat tightened, images of fire and smoke filling his mind. Blood-curdling screams resounded in his head. Shrieks, cries. Men made inhuman sounds when burned alive. Sounds that had etched themselves into Calen and Valerys’s shared soul.
Vaeril stopped just as the voices and footfalls of the others drifted through the trees. “May I ask?”
“Vaeril, you don’t have to ask permission every time. We’re past that.”
The elf stared back at Calen, holding his gaze, his expression unchanging.
Calen sighed. “Yes.” Exhaustion seeped into his voice. Elven customs were infuriating at times. “Ask.”
Vaeril inclined his head. “Are you well?” He shook his head before Calen could answer. “My apologies. I know you are not well. None of us are, but I just?—”
“Just tired.” Calen rested his hand on Vaeril’s pauldron, mustering what must have looked like the most insincere of smiles, all while the screams still rang in his head. “Let’s gather the others and get back to Aravell. It’s been a long few days, and I’d have a night’s rest under my belt before the ceremony.”
The truth was, Calen wanted nothing less than to return to Aravell and deal with the unceasing, unrelenting politics and questions that had erupted in the wake of the attack and King Silmiryn’s death in the fighting. But there were problems that needed to be solved, and he’d been away from Ella and Valerys for too long. At the thought, the dragon rumbled at the edges of his mind, the pain from his wounds flaring.
A moment passed in which Vaeril stared into Calen’s eyes as though waiting for him to say something more, but then the elf nodded, and they started off through the trees.
They emerged into a clearing newly forged out of the dense, all-consuming canopy of the Aravell woodland. Thanks to the Dragonguard, the ground was now laden with char and ash, the earth open to the skies above. Bones protruded from blackened animal carcasses, and the trees and brush lingered as brittle husks. Around the edges, fires still burned, dark smoke pluming into the air as the Blood Moon loomed in the star-dusted sky.
Urak and Lorian bodies lay scattered amidst the ashes, the gemstones set into the Uraks’ blackened weapons pulsating with crimson light. The beasts had taken Calen and the others by surprise while they’d been scouring the area for the Lorian remnants, falling upon them in the dark.
