Page 15 of Of Empires and Dust
“Gildrick.”
“Yes?”
“What news of Tarron?”
“Still nothing, old friend. And I do not believe we will find anything in the texts we have. If he still lives, it is not in the mortal plane.” Following Kallinvar’s lead, Gildrick bent his head so Tallia couldn’t hear. “He speaks to you still? Perhaps that is where you may find answers.”
Kallinvar nodded. “Barely anything of use. He speaks, but he does not answer questions. It’s more like the ramblings of a madman.”
“Give it time. Wars are not only fought in this realm, old friend. Achyron fights for us. We must allow faith to be our armour.”
“Hmmm.” Kallinvar returned to the war table as Gildrick took his leave, Tallia close behind. Faith was all well and good,and Kallinvar had faith, but there was only one reason a god would ask a man forblindfaith, and that was control.
He shook his head, attempting to loose the thoughts from his mind. Doubt was the true killer of men, and he had no time for it.
Porters, servants, Watchers, and healers flitted about the room, the din of their footfalls and chatter fading to the back of Kallinvar’s mind as he looked over the war table. Over half the knights were on task, holding back the flood of Bloodspawn that poured from their mountain holds across the continent. Regardless of whether the Blood Moon was only the beginning or not, while it dominated the sky, the Bloodspawn flowed across the continent like locusts. Some cities were strong enough to hold back the tide - barely – but others would be swallowed whole if the knights didn’t come to their aid. The next few weeks would change the continent forever.
Ruon, Arden, Ildris, and the others fought near the base of the Marin Mountains where the Bloodspawn had overrun the city of Elmnest. Thousands were dead, the city in ruins. But without the knights, those fleeing would be picked off and harvested. More knights were scattered across Epheria, doing all they could to slow the tide.
The only saving grace was that the Lorian Empire had been silent since that night, and so the knights were fighting on one front and not two. But Kallinvar knew that if Fane Mortem was silent, it was because he was scheming. That man never did anything without a purpose.
He couldn’t shake Achyron’s words from his mind.“The Alignment will happen, my child. It is inevitable. You cannot stop Efialtír’s harbinger from widening the tear in the veil. Too much has been set in motion. But you must meet him when he does. You must limit the crossing and close the tear. Then prepare the world for the war to come.”
Prepare for the war to come.
For four hundred years, Kallinvar had been readying himself for the Blood Moon, readying himself to face the darkness that had ripped the world apart during The Fall. And now the Blood Moon was here, and all his preparation was for nothing. The knighthood was stretched thin as parchment, their numbers almost cut in half. Efialtír’s Chosen had already crossed. Fane Mortem was even stronger than he had been then. For all his efforts, all his sacrifice, allVerathin’ssacrifice, the world was a darker place and closer to the precipice of oblivion than it had ever been.
“I’ve failed…”
“It has not even begun, my child.”
“Well, then give me some damn answers!” Kallinvar slammed his fist onto the stone war table, garnering looks from all those about the chamber. A pulse rippled through his Sigil, and he had no time to worry about the looks the porters, servants, and Watchers gave him.
His Sigil burned, his skin turning to ice as he summoned the Rift, the green light of its rim glowing against the cold stone, its centre black as night.
Ruon was the first through, the black liquid of the Rift rippling in her wake. Varlin followed close behind, her Sentinel armour washed in crimson.
The pool of black bulged outwards, and Arden charged through, cradling Sylven in his arms. The woman was unconscious, her arm severed just below the elbow, blood flowing freely.
“Help!” Arden roared, Ildris stepping through the Rift behind him. “Gildrick!”
“Here, Brother Arden.” Watcher Poldor sprinted across the room, sweeping stacks of scrolls and old books from atop a table. “Lay her down.” He turned to Watcher Timkin. “Brimlock sap, catgut, needles, Altweid Blood, and a stick.”
Timkin hesitated, his mouth open.
“Go!”
The young Watcher scuttled away, panic in his eyes.
Kallinvar understood. To the people of Ardholm, the knights were akin to the gods themselves. In the past four centuries, it was the rarest of things for a knight to return to the temple with so much as a scratch upon their skin.
Brother Arden laid Sylven atop the table as though she were made of glass.
“It’s going to be all right,” Arden whispered, standing over her, one hand at the back of her head. She was completely unconscious.
“It will.” Kallinvar rested one hand on Arden’s shoulder, placing the other on Sylven’s chest. He could feel the pulse of the woman’s Sigil like a heartbeat in his mind. Drawing in a deep breath, Kallinvar reached out through his Sigil. Just as he had read in the journals of Grandmaster Telemanus, he focused on Sylven’s Sigil and commanded it to recall her Sentinel armour. Within seconds, the armour had begun to recede, exposing the gruesome wound of Sylven’s severed arm and allowing Gildrick and the healers to get to work.
Unless necessary, it was not something Kallinvar thought he would do again. It felt like a violation of Sylven’s very soul.
