Page 192 of Of Empires and Dust
The third set of limbs that protruded from the sides of their deep chests seemed entirely unnatural, with dark scythe-like talons stretching half the length of his arm. If there had been no other evidence of Efialtír’s effect on this place, these creatures would have been enough.
He wiped the blood from his blade on the creature’s hide, then slid it back into its scabbard as he stood. Fifty of the N’aka lay dead in the sand around him, knights of The First and The Second standing amidst the bodies. They’d been prowling in the dunes since not long after the knights had arrived, far braverthan they had been when the sun had been up the last time Arden had crossed the wasteland. Though they had still waited for the sun to sink behind the mountains before attacking.
Calen had said he would reach the city by sunset on the fifth day. That was some hours past. Arden would have worried if Calen hadn’t been late to just about everything in his life, including his own birth.
“I hate this place,” Lyrin whispered as he approached, staring over Arden’s shoulder. Sweat rolled down the man’s nose and streaked his brow. Even in winter’s grasp, the Burnt Lands were a furnace. “The Taint coats every grain of sand and covers every rock and stone. Just being here makes my skin crawl.”
Arden turned to face the city.
Browned and broken walls rose in patches, sand stretching in paths through gaps the size of houses in the stonework. The highest points were at least two hundred feet, crenellated battlements mounted at the top. Some sections of wall stood like islands, surrounded by sand and half-buried rubble. It was clear that at some point, monstrous towers had intersected the walls at set intervals, but now only a handful remained. Enormous platforms sat at the towers’ tops, large enough for dragons, the remnants of mighty support beams bracing the bottoms. Through the openings in the wall and above the parapet, ruined towers and buildings climbed towards the sky, broken and battered.
Ahead, Kallinvar, Ruon, Ildris, and Sister-Captain Arlena stood about a jagged rock that protruded from the sand, their gazes all fixed on the city. The decision had been made not to enter until Calen arrived. None wanted to spend a second longer within the broken walls than they had to, which Arden understood. He hadn’t been there the night the Blood Moon had risen. He hadn’t watched his brothers and sisters be cut down,their souls torn from the world – but he had felt it. He had felt each and every one of them die.
They had scouted the outskirts around the walls and found signs of Bloodspawn and Lorians alike, but with the sand and the heat, it was difficult to tell how long ago anything or anyone had passed through.
“How does the armour feel?” Varlin approached from the left, her helm receding into her armour, white cloak fluttering at her back. Valtaran tattoos ran down the shaved sides of her head, the hair from the top pulled into a long plait. She looked past Arden to Brother Kevan, who stood behind him.
“Strange.” Brother Kevan looked down at the dark green armour that covered his body. As he did, the metal melted and pulled back over his fingers, exposing hard, calloused hands. The man was midway between his thirtieth and fortieth summer, his long black hair streaked with grey. “It weighs nothing, like a second skin… and yet…” He allowed the metal to flow back over his fingers, flexing them as he did. “I’ve never felt so strong in my life.”
“It takes a while to get used to.” Varlin gave Kevan a half-smile. “It all does. Though I’d argue the Rift takes the longest.”
“Well,” Lyrin interrupted. “Coming back from the claws of death and gaining eternal life in the service of a god was the difficult part for me, but we all have our things.”
Varlin glanced at Lyrin, then back to Kevan, giving an upturn of her lip. “If a squirrel could talk, Brother Kevan, its name would be Lyrin.”
“And if a sword had a sense of humour, it would be funnier than Sister Varlin.”
“Kevan…” the newly anointed knight whispered, shaking his head softly.
“It gets easier,” Arden said to Kevan as Lyrin and Varlin mocked each other back and forth. “All of it does.”
Kevan gave Arden a placating smile that faded faster than it had appeared.
“I was two years in the knighthood before I stepped back through the Rift after taking the Sigil. You’ve had to do it in only a span of weeks. It can be overwhelming.”
Kevan shook his head, staring off at the shattered walls of Ilnaen. “That’s a word all right.” He paused, letting out a short sigh. “The city of Ilnaen,” he whispered, just loud enough for Arden to hear. “Not in a hundred years would I have believed you if you’d told me I’d lay eyes on Ilnaen’s walls. Not in a thousand. You’re a Southerner?”
“Mmm.” The use of the word ‘Southerner’ chafed at Arden.
“Where I was raised, we were taught this place was the root of all evil. This city was the seat of The Order’s power. It was from here that they burned and slaughtered at their whim. From here they orchestrated wars and wove lies. The death of this place was the beginning of peace.” Kevan gave a laugh, catching the look on Arden’s face. “Don’t look so shocked. I was raised smarter than to believe tales woven by the victors of war.”
“And yet you joined the Inquisition.”
“We live in a world of ever-shifting grey,” Kevan said, quoting the words of his vow.
Arden grunted.
“The beauty of living today,Brother Arden, is we can look on the past with knowledge we never had. Just because something isn’t the right decision now doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right decision then. We do what we can with what we have. I made my choices, and if not for you and this knighthood, I would have died for them, and that would have been a fair enough death.”
Before Arden could answer, Lyrin turned his head towards the sky, prompting Arden to do the same.
High above, in the perpetual twilight that was the Burnt Lands, Valerys soared, white scales stark against the night.
Valerys levelled out,spreading his wings wide and riding a current. Calen’s hands rested on the leather straps tied around Valerys’s neck and over his chest to carry the supplies. He pulled his breaths in slow, a contrast to the beating of his heart, which thumped like a galloping horse.
The horizon bled crimson, the red moon bright in the dark sky. The city of Ilnaen lay before him.
Calen had lost count of the number of times he’d seen a place so much larger than The Glade he’d scarcely believed it. The first time he’d seen Camylin, Calen had been but a boy. The sheer size of it had left him silent for almost an hour. The white walls and gargantuan towers of Midhaven had taken his breath away. But even they had paled in comparison to the legendary cities of Belduar and Durakdur, to which even the bards’ tales had failed to do justice. Arisfall, Berona, and Aravell had all held their own wonders, their own awe.
