Page 197 of Of Empires and Dust
The creature was pulling its claws from an elven belly when Calen fell upon it. First, he took its leg at the knee with a swing of steel. Then he raked the blade across the creature’s back, flesh parting and runes blazing.
The creature fell forwards, thrashing and howling, its claws tearing through the calf of a nearby Highguard.
Calen planted a boot on its shoulder and kicked it onto its back before angling his blade and driving it into the Bloodmarked’s gut, pushing up into its chest until the hilt pressed against the bottom of its ribcage.
The Bloodmarked made to grab him with its clawed hand, but he twisted the sword in its gut and it howled.
Calen placed his hand on the creature’s rune-marked chest. He drew as deeply from the Spark as he could, then pulled on thick threads of Fire, Spirit, and Earth.
He looked down into the creature’s red eyes. The Bloodmarked stared back at him, its breath dragging through bloodied lips, black pupils dilating.
“May the pain follow you through the void.” Calen pushed the threads of Earth into the creature’s bones, crumbling them from the inside out. He wove the threads of Spirit and Fire together, driving them through the Bloodmarked’s failing bones, setting them alight. He stared into the creature’s eyes as its bones ignited, its blood boiled, and the flames consumed it from the inside.
The creature shook and thrashed, the howl that left its throat unnatural in its pain. The runes carved into its flesh burned with a crimson light so bright Calen winced. But he didn’t stop. He pushed harder, funnelling the threads through the Bloodmarked’s bones and into its blood. If this creature’s death was the last drop of joy in his life, that would be enough.
The red of the Bloodspawn’s eyes grew brighter, turning a shade of orange, then yellow, until they eventually erupted in a plume of white flames. It thrashed for a moment longer, then went limp, its arms slumping by its side, its eyes nothing more than blistered sockets.
Calen dragged his blade from the corpse, then let Antala’s rage flow freely through him. He hacked and slashed at everything that moved, the Spark flooding him.
A black spear glanced off his breastplate, just below the ribs, and he took both of its holder’s arms in a single flowing downswing. He pushed forwards and drove his steel through the Urak’s chest, driving it deep until his face was close enough to smell its breath.
He pushed off, leaving the blade embedded in the creature’s chest as it staggered backwards. Turning, Calen pulled on threads of each elemental strand, weaving them together into his fist. The power of the Spark surged through him, lightning in his veins, and bright yellow light burst from his right fist. The light twisted in strands, coiling around each other like warring snakes until they finally took the shape of a glowing yellow longsword. His níthral. His Soulblade.
About him, few of his kin remained, though they stood like bastions in the dark night, the Highguard and Praetorians rallying around them. A flare of panic signalled in his mind as Antala watched through his eyes.
We must protect the eggs. No matter the cost. Their fire has not yet been lit. Help will come. We just need to hold them off as long as we can.
Calen thought the words, but both he and Antala knew the hollowness of them. There was little chance either of them would survive this night. All that mattered was that their death held meaning. And so he felt Antala roar, heard it with his own ears from within the tower’s walls. He felt the pressure building in the back of his mind as she laid waste to a clutch of Uraks battling in the yard, her flames stealing their life.
Calen fell back beside his kin and the other survivors, regrouping in a tight formation, forcing the Uraks back closer to the destroyed door. Something crunched beneath his feet, andhe dared not look down for fear of being relieved of his head. Friend or foe, the corpse no longer drew breath, and it had no need for its bones.
The line held for a few minutes, a brief flare of hope igniting in his chest. Then three Bloodmarked came charging through the thick of Urak bodies, their shoulders clear above the heads of the lesser beasts. The creatures slammed into the surviving defenders with the force of a hurricane, a storm of claws slashing, a tempest of fire burning everything it touched. And then the chaos resumed.
Calen hurled himself into the middle of the melee, his Soulblade cutting through Uraks like a scythe through grass. Where the yellow light shone, blood spilled. He moved through the forms of svidarya, from Howling Wolf to Crouching Dragon, his Soulblade guiding him as much as he did it. In the skies above the tower, he felt Antala’s every movement as she weaved between tooth and talon, protecting a contingent of Highguard from the rear. She had been forced to take the lives of six of her kin and the blood weighed on her heart. This was not how it was supposed to be. They were her brothers and sisters, her family. That did not mean she would not do her duty though. She would guard the eggs until her dying breath.
Calen lost himself in the killing, his mind fading to a blur. A sword sliced along the side of his neck, and a spear split the links of his chain below his breastplate. The pain was nothing but an old friend, emboldening him. He had fought and killed these beasts for three hundred years. He would not stop now.
A heavy blow took his helm from his head, ringing his ears and sending stars across his vision. He pushed on, hacking, slashing, carving his way through the seemingly endless sea of Uraks. Movement flashed in his periphery, and he shifted his feet, twisting at the hips as he swung.
A flash of light erupted, and he found his níthral levelled against another – a spear wrought of white light.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he looked up at the mighty frame of Kollna, daughter of Luan. The Jotnar had clearly been sleeping when the attack had come. She wore no armour, and her clothes were in tatters, her body laced with bloody wounds. The left side of her face and neck were covered in burns that trailed down over her shoulder, the fabric scorched away.
As Calen stared into her dark eyes, he also looked through Antala’s to see Kollna’s mighty soulkin Tinua swoop around the northern face of the tower and rip a traitor’s wing free with his monstrous jaws.
“Kollna…” Calen’s mouth was dry, his every breath ragged. He pulled his Soulblade away. “It’s good to see you still draw breath. Coren, is she safe?”
“None of us are safe, Tarast. But she was alive when I left her. With Farwen and Dylain.”
“The Archon? Eltoar? The council?”
She shook her head. “The city will fall, old friend. The Archon has set me a task. I need three of your warriors.”
Calen looked about him. The Dracårdare had come charging down the stairwells with sharp steel in hand, reinforcing the lines, and yet their numbers were still far too thin. “You will have them,” he said, steeling himself. He grabbed three of the Highguard closest to him and ordered them to go with Kollna. He straightened, reading the sombre lines of Kollna’s face. “Aldryr ar orimyn, vésani. Det harys von atil haydria.”
Fire and fury, sister. It has been an honour.
Kollna gave him a knowing look. “This is not the end, Tarast. Only our end.”
