Page 233 of Of Empires and Dust
Chapter 51
Deeds of Gods
18thDay of the Blood Moon
Ilnaen – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
The moon’slight signalled the end of the ventilation tunnel ahead, cold air rushing down and tumbling over Calen’s face. He pulled Valerys’s mind into his and fed from the dragon’s fury before sending a sphere of Air crashing into the grate that separated him from the city outside. Iron creaked, and stone rumbled, and the grate ripped free from its hinges.
Calen hauled himself from the tunnel mouth and dropped onto what appeared to be the roof of a ruined building. The dark of night still held the city in its grasp, the light of the Blood Moon glittering in the sand that swirled in the air.
More sand covered the stone beneath Calen’s feet, and behind him the two shafts of the ventilation tunnels jutted from the roof at an angle. Thousands of rooftops spread in every direction, broken towers jutting from their midsts.
A roar sounded to his left, and he twisted to see Valerys swoop low and bathe a street of Uraks in dragonfire. The dragon whirled upwards at the touch of Calen’s mind, wisps of fire swirling from the street and coiling about his wings as he rose.
Calen checked the satchels one last time, a hand lingering on the buttercream scales of the first egg he’d found.
Valerys swooped low and dropped to alight on the roof when arcs of purple lightning crashed into the side of the building. Shards of shattered stone dinged Calen’s armour and sliced into his cheeks and brow, a cloud of dust pluming into the air. Valerys wheeled upwards, screeching, smoke drifting from his hind leg where the lightning had caught him.
Calen turned at the sound of stone crunching, only for something to collide with his chest and send him careening across the rooftop. By instinct alone, he pulled the Spark into himself and shielded the eggs with threads of Air as he hit the stone with acrack, the back plate of his armour grinding on the sand as he slid. The low parapet that framed the rooftop stopped him from tumbling over the edge.
His head rang like a bell and his vision was blurred, and still only half his mind was focused on himself. Valerys’s pain seared in him as the dragon wheeled away.
Calen stared through the dust and sand thrown into the air, searching for Valerys through haze-filled eyes. Just as he caught sight of the white dragon in the night sky, a cold, armour-clad hand wrapped around his throat and lifted him into the air with the ease of a man lifting a newborn.
He found himself looking into two glowing red eyes set into slits in a silver helm. The warrior held Calen with his arm at full stretch, Calen’s feet dangling over the rooftop. His captor must have been ten feet tall.
Lungs burning, Calen slammed his fists down onto the outstretched arm as the fingers tightened. His vision blurred,limbs growing heavy, the pressure clamping down on his throat. Desperate, Calen reached for the Spark, but the man gave him a choking laugh and tossed him from the roof.
Any breath that had been left in Calen’s lungs fled as he dropped like a rock into a mountain of sand. He gasped for air, dragging himself to his feet, reflexively feeling for the eggs in the satchels. Relief flooded him when he felt them intact, their armoured shells withstanding the drop.
Above, the warrior that had held him stood on the roof’s parapet. The man was clad in a full plate of silver steel that reminded Calen of the strange armour the knights wore, smooth and flowing as though poured into place. Though this armour was covered in glowing red runes. This was one of the warriors Haem had spoken of: one of Efialtír’s Chosen.
A heartbeat passed, and the Chosen launched himself from the roof.
Calen threw himself forwards as the Chosen crashed down in a cloud of sand where Calen had been lying.
Calen drew his sword, his breaths ragged. Looking at the Chosen’s armour, he had no idea where he would strike. There were no weak points, no vulnerabilities. That thing wasn’t a man, it was a mountain of steel.
Before he could think, the warrior strode forwards, a níthral wrought of bright red light forming in its fist. It grabbed the hilt with two hands and swung in a vicious downward arc.
Calen sidestepped, then swung his blade into the man’s hip, a vibration jarring his arms as his blow skittered away harmlessly. The weight of the eggs in the satchels threw him off balance, and he stumbled to the right.
The warrior twisted and swung down with his níthral. Calen lurched backwards.
A roar sounded, and Valerys soared overhead. Too large to land, the dragon snatched at the Chosen with his talons. TheChosen swung wildly with his níthral, missing Valerys’s left leg by a hair. But he didn’t see the dragon’s spear-tip tail until it slammed into his chest and sent him careening down the sand and further into the street below. When he rose, a thin crack spread across the front of his breastplate.
“So,” Calen whispered, his eyes tracing the crack in the armour, “there is a way in.”
Calen pulled threads of Air, Spirit, and Earth into his body and charged down the sand, only stopping when Valerys roared, the dragon demanding he run. They needed to get the eggs to safety. That was what mattered.
He stared down at the Chosen, whose crimson níthral had now reformed. A piece of him wanted to charge, wanted to drive his blade through the cracks in that monstrosity’s armour just to prove it could be killed. But the knights were fighting, risking their lives, to give him a chance to escape. Calen drew a sharp breath, then turned and sprinted up the hill of sand towards a nearby roof. He slipped and scrambled upright, dragging himself forwards. All he needed to do was mount Valerys and take to the skies.
Calen dug his hands into the sand and hauled himself forwards, his feet sinking as he climbed. Something wrapped around his waist and slung him backwards. The world spun, and his stomach turned, the eggs swinging about him in their satchels. He hit the ground with athump. He gasped, trying to drag the breath back into his lungs.
A hand reached down and hauled him into the air, metal fingers wrapping around his throat once more. This time, he didn’t stare through the slits of a helm. The face of an Urak, crimson runes carved into its leathery grey skin, stared back at him. Its eyes were black as a Fade’s, like bottomless wells.
A crimson light began to form in the creature’s free hand. Overhead Valerys roared, dropped from the sky, and lifted his head back, a pressure building within him.
