Page 126 of Of Empires and Dust
“It is good you find humour at the end, Oathbreaker.” Olmaír flourished his blade, the steel catching the pale pink light of the moon. All elves of Lunithír knew the name of that blade: Galbarak.Vengeance.It was a weapon of the Second Age – the Age of Honour – passed down through the blood of Moridain for over a thousand years. That sword had crowned kings, ended bloodlines, and finished wars. It was a legend unto itself. “I will not make this quick.”
In truth, Eltoar had laughed because for the first time in a long time, he was nervous. Had this moment come fifty years earlier, that might not have been the case. But now… There was a new hatchling and too many things left unfinished, too many questions left unanswered. He was needed in this world, or, if he was being honest, he needed to be in this world.
That was not the only reason for his apprehension. To say Eltoar and Olmaír had not always seen eye-to-eye would be a grave understatement. And yet, to slay one of his people’s greatest legends was not something Eltoar desired. If he lost, he would be dead and Helios would be alone. If he won, he would be despised by every elf beneath the Lunithíran banner until the breaking of time – more so than he already was. Neither was a particularly desirable outcome, but he knew which one he preferred.
Eltoar focused on his breathing, feeling his lungs swell. He glanced towards the city, where the lanterns lit the walls like stars in the sky. Above, he felt Helios soaring lower, stayingas close as he could. Lastly, Eltoar looked towards the elves arranged around him and those who stood in the rows before the fog. Once, they had cheered his name, and now they would cheer his death. The thought was a sobering one.
Every soul has a thousand lives unlived.
Olmaír took the first step, holding his blade low, the tip hovering just above the dirt. He moved around Eltoar, tilting his head, watching.
Eltoar did the same, and the pair circled each other slowly. After a few moments, Olmaír stopped and shifted his stance into Howling Wolf. The elf was a master of many forms, but it was upon svidarya that his legend was built.
“Dauva alaith.” Eltoar pressed the guard of his sword against his breastplate, bowing slightly.
Die well.
He set his feet, gripped his blade, and sank into Swooping Hawk.
Olmaír stared back at him. “Dauva irilka.”
Die slow.
The elf surged forwards, twisting right, then left, adjusting his blade with every movement.
Eltoar fell into Tenp i’il Uê.Stone in the Water. A movement of his own making.
Olmaír’s first strike came in hard and fast to Eltoar’s right hip. Eltoar dropped and took the blow on the edge of his blade, the steel ringing out. He twisted at the hip, then swept Olmaír’s sword upwards, swinging his left hand onto the pommel and stabbing at Olmaír’s head as though he held a spear.
The elf snapped his neck back, avoiding the steel by a finger’s width. He came at Eltoar with four quick strikes, one to the right hip, then to the left, a third to the right shin, and then a fourth that scraped upwards along his breastplate through the black flame emblazoned on the white steel.
Eltoar staggered back, his heart punching his ribs.
Olmaír came at him again. Every step the elf took was purposeful, each twist of his wrist and bend of his knee existing with perfect reason. For every blow he blocked or parried or turned aside, he struck two more. Were it not for Eltoar’s plate, he would have been opened four times already.
A flicker of worry bled into him from Helios, but he pushed it away.I need your rage, not your fear.
A roar thundered overhead, and for an instant Eltoar saw with both Helios’s eyes and his own as the dragon plummeted towards the ground. Two of the elven dragons followed, unleashing sharp screeches, but Helios ignored them as an eagle would a fly and alighted over the trench, the ground shaking beneath his weight.
All those in the circle, elves and humans alike, staggered as the enormous dragon loomed over them, the smell of burning embers wafting from his jaws.
The two elven dragons were not far behind. They landed on the other side of the ring, deep growls in their throats. Their frills were standing on end, Draleid seated at the napes of their necks.
“Enough games,” Olmaír said, looking from Helios back to Eltoar. The elf charged once more with a flurry of strikes, each quick as lightning, each strong as a hammer.
Eltoar took the last strike at his head, redirected it with a swift snap of his wrists, then slammed his pommel into the cheek of Olmaír’s helmet. Blood sprayed, and the elf staggered backwards. Eltoar pressed, swinging for Olmaír’s neck, but even stunned the elf turned away three successive blows. The fourth strike, a stab through Olmaír’s guard, sliced open the golden mail that protected the outside of his knee, biting into flesh. Olmaír dropped, letting out a grunt, but lunged forwards as soon as his knee touched the dirt.
He crashed into Eltoar, sending them both toppling to the ground. Eltoar scrambled for purchase, then hauled himself upright, watching as Olmaír did the same.
His instinct was to reach for the Spark, to pull on threads of Air and drag the breath from Olmaír’s lungs. But there would be no honour in that, and the elves would not obey the agreement that had been made. The Spark could never be used in Alvadrû.
Olmaír reached up and touched the dent on the right cheek of his helmet, then undid the strap and tossed the helmet to the ground. He drew slow, steady breaths as he stared at Eltoar, beads of sweat rolling down his skin.
With his free hand, Eltoar did the same, dropping his helmet at his feet. He rolled his neck around and was rewarded by a series ofcracks.
Olmaír spat a mixture of saliva and blood into the dirt, shifted into Striking Dragon, then lunged.
The first swing came in high to Eltoar’s left. Steel crashed against steel, and Eltoar was spinning past, blocking a second strike to his hip.
