Page 125 of Of Empires and Dust
Well met, Elderblade.
“Stand straight, traitor. And take the sound of Enkaran from your lips. Speak the tongue of your chosen people, for you have lost the right to ours.”
Eltoar straightened, clutching his pommel so tightly he could feel the steel pressing into the bones of his hand.
“Bloodshed cannot be avoided this night, nor any night until the empire is ash. I offer you the right of Alvadrû. Should you accept, I will see that a shard of your broken honour will be reclaimed as you die. The people of this city will be spared, but they will be chained and collared as ours were in the northern mines.”
“And if it is your blood that feeds the earth when our blades part?”
“Then my army will lay down its steel and you can stand by and watch as more of your kind are placed in chains. I’m sure that would delight you.”
“You should reject the offer, my lord.” Denmar Roy, commander of the Twenty-Third Army, leaned into Eltoar. His breath smelled of garlic and onions. “Let them beat themselves against our walls. There is no need to risk your life when the advantage is ours.”
Voranur stepped forwards before Eltoar could speak. “I will accept the right of Alvadrû.”
A smirk crept onto Olmaír Moridain’s lips. “It was not offered to you.”
“That is not our way,” Voranur said.
Olmaír’s smirk widened, and he tilted his head as he stepped closer. “Ourway? You are not one of us, Voranur. You are a stain on the Evalien. You are without honour. By rights I need not offer Alvadrû at all. And if you speak again, I will cut you from groin to navel and your dragon will weep over your corpse.”
“How dare you.” Voranur made to close to the distance between them, but Eltoar rested a hand on his shoulder.
Eltoar shook his head, then looked to Olmaír. “Tell me, where is your queen? Does she not have the honour to face me herself?”
“Honour? Queen Vandrien takes shits with more honour than you. She need not waste her time on your blood. Enough talk. Eltoar Daethana, I offer you the right of Alvadrû. Do you accept?”
Eltoar pulled his and Helios’s minds together. Fear and fury pushed to the fore. Memories flowed from the dragon’s mind to Eltoar’s. Memories of watching Olmaír spar, of watching him carve through Uraks, elves, humans, Jotnar, and dwarves alike. Olmaír the Bloody. Olmaír the Undying. The Dread Reaper of Caelduin.
I must show them that monsters bleed.
In the sky above, Helios roared in defiance.
Have you no faith in me?Eltoar thought the words with a smile on his face. And Helios sent him memories of the day the obsidian black egg had hatched and the tiny dragon had crawled free. He had been so small he’d fit in Eltoar’s palm. One of the smallest hatchlings Eltoar had ever seen. Along with the memory came feelings of trust, honour, love. But all the while, the fear permeated everything, accompanied by a sense of helplessness.
I do not sense this is the day I die. But if itis, we have lived a long life, my friend.
Eltoar stepped forwards. “I accept.”
Olmaír inclined his head, then replaced his helmet. “There is some honour left in those bones then.”
Voranur grasped Eltoar’s forearm. “Makri alaith, akar. Draleid n’aldryr.”
Fight well, brother. Dragonbound by fire.
“Rakina nai dauva,” Eltoar whispered back. He looked to Argil Ford. “Commander, return to the city. If I die here, the armies are to yield. There will be no bloodshed. You’ve heard what happened to the eastern cities, and I would rather Elkenrim not be added to that list. But if the vows of the Alvadrû are broken, there will be no mercy. And if I should emerge victorious, we will need a place to hold our captives.”
The man’s tongue twisted in his mouth, and he turned his bottom lip inward. “How do we know they will hold to their end of the bargain?”
“Do as you are instructed, Commander.”
Eltoar held Argil’s gaze until the man finally gave a short nod and turned, ordering his ten guardsmen with him.
The elves spread in a large semi-circle, Olmaír Moridain taking position at its centre.
Voranur instructed the commanders to do the same, and Eltoar stepped out to meet Olmaír. He slid his sword from its scabbard, the rasp ringing out.
He loosened and tightened his grip on the hilt, subconsciously feeling the weapon’s weight. Of course he’d owned the blade for centuries. He knew its weight intimately, knew its balance and curve. Eltoar let out a short laugh.
