Page 43 of Of Empires and Dust
The faint beginnings of a smile touched his friend’s lips, the corners of his eyes creasing. “I will find who took the Heart, and I will tear their head from their shoulders.”
“A fine plan.” Garramon lifted his mug mockingly as though saluting Fane’s genius. “Maybe lacking in the nuance I’ve come to expect, but fine nonetheless.”
“I have my suspicions, old friend.” The smile vanished from Fane’s face, and he took on an altogether more serious tone. “I’m moving the pieces, setting the lures. We just have to see who bites. And in the meantime, I have what I need to move forward.”
Fane held Garramon’s stare for an altogether too long moment.
Garramon inclined his head. He knew there was no point in pursuing the conversation further. For every word that left Fane’s lips, there was always one left unspoken. The man wove plans like a spider wove webs. Garramon would know what he needed to know when he needed to know it. That wasn’t the way with all things, but at times like this, he knew what to expect.
Fane let out a puff of air, running his hand through his dark hair. He looked back towards the table where the map was pinned, the markers and icons scattered about the ground. “I received a hawk this morning,” he said, changing the subject. “From the South. Argona is nothing but ash and dust. It was necessary. The signs of a full rebellion in the South have been multiplying over the last year. With the elves advancing across the western cities and the Uraks flooding from the mountains, we don’t have time for a gentle hand. One slip, one mistake and everything burns. Argona sends a firm message – any and all rebellion will be crushed. Valtara must be dealt with similarly, as must the brewing insurgency here in Loria. I’ll have it arranged. I wish these kinds of messages didn’t need to be sent. If we can bring Efialtír back to this world, if we can aid in his crossing, we can end all this. Death is a part of life, but I’d prefer if we weren’t so well acquainted with it.”
Fane pushed himself to his feet, snatching up the book as he did.
The sensation of the Spark tickled the back of Garramon’s neck as Fane wove threads of Air through the tent, lifting the hundreds of icons and markers from the floor and placing them back atop the map. Marble counters, hewn lion heads, and small dragon carvings spun about the air like debris in a hurricane before settling in their places. Fane sauntered through the storm, laying the book on the table’s edge. It was bound in black leather and looked as though it had been dragged along behind a cart.
Kiralla Holflower’s research papers.The last Garramon had seen of those, Brother Pirnil had been scribbling away on them after the crossing at Ilnaen.
Fane reached down and picked up the counters from beside the lion heads set in the Darkwood. “The armies sent into the Darkwood were routed, but the remnants are regrouping atKingspass and Argona’s Ruins. They’ll march for Valtara.” He tossed almost half the counters into a wooden box on the floor, then proceeded to lift two of the dragon carvings from the table with threads of Air, shattering them into a thousand shards. “Ilkya and Jormun are dead, as are their dragons.”
“Surely that can’t be true.” Garramon snapped his neck around so fast he heard aclick. He walked to Fane, wide-eyed. It had been a damn long time since a dragon had been killed in combat, and the outcome of the attack on Aravell had felt like a foregone conclusion. This explained Fane’s anger. “We sent eighty thousand men into the Darkwood. And Ilkya, and Voranur, and Jormun…” Garramon stared at the map, his face scrunched in thought. “What am I missing? This new Draleid could not possibly be powerful enough to overcome any one of the Dragonguard, never mind three at a time.”
Fane drew in a long breath, folding his arms. “You’re right. The report states that no fewer than four dragons flew alongside the Draleid.” Fane looked into Garramon’s eyes, a laugh catching in his throat. The man smiled as though a child had just beaten him in a game of Tarkat. “It seems that Aeson Virandr and his rebels have been better at hiding their secrets than we gave them credit for. That or the gods play with us, old friend. They sense we are close. They see their reckoning on the horizon.” The man’s eyes seemed to gleam as he lifted his head to stare at Garramon. “Did you ever think, when you were a child, that one day you would draw the attention of the gods themselves?”
Garramon stared down at the dust on the floor that had once been marble dragon carvings. “Did the dragons have Draleid?”
Fane shrugged. “From the report, Voranur barely escaped with his life and has likely flown further north to Eltoar and Lyina. We won’t know more until I speak with Eltoar. I’ve sent a herald.”
Garramon pressed his tongue against the back of his top teeth, staring at the map. Over just a few months, everything had shifted. A new Draleid had arisen, six Dragonguard had been reduced to four, and the empire was now under siege on all sides.
“You look worried, old friend.” Fane stood with his arms still folded, a smile spread across his lips.
“And you look distinctly the opposite.”
Fane let out a laugh. “Our course was never going to be an easy one. Our will would always be tested, as it has been many times over.” Fane moved around the table and clasped Garramon’s shoulder, looking into his eyes. “Whatever stands in our way, we will face it and we will roll over it like a storm. We have come too far, sacrificed too much, to allow it to be any other way. Besides, the path remains the same.”
A shiver spread through Garramon as Fane’s eyes glowed with a red light. The sight caused Garramon to straighten. There was no surer sign that Efialtír himself watched over them.
“Let the elves bring their dragons. Let the Uraks come. Let Achyron’s knights crash against us. We will rip the dragons from the sky, we will grind the Uraks into the earth, and we will shear the knights’ souls from this world.” The light in Fane’s eyes dissipated, and he stared back at Garramon, a hint of sadness in his voice. “Hundreds of thousands of our people have died, but we will avenge them. I give you my word. This will be the last war, my friend. The last time we must kill for peace. And when we are done, the gods themselves will know the meaning of fear. On that note, brother, I have something I wish to discuss with you in regard to your young apprentice.”
Before Garramon could answer, the rustle of the wind flowed into the tent from behind him, followed by heavy footsteps.
The voice that spoke was harsh and rough. It was as though two voices spoke over each other, perfectly in sync and in utter discordance. “Harbinger. It is time.”
Garramon turned to see two of the Chosen standing before them. The first was a woman almost a head taller than he, only her head visible, ridged silver plate flowing over her body. Red runes marked her breastplate and arms. The other was a man who still hadn’t seen his twentieth summer, his face bearing all the signs of youth. So many of the candidates for the ritual had been little more than children.
Garramon inclined his head, pulling a closed fist to his chest. “The Saviour’s light upon you, Chosen Ones.”
The woman fixed her gaze on Garramon, her eyes as black and cavernous as a herald’s. Something about her stare set a cold knot in Garramon’s stomach, his pulse quickening.
She dipped her head, returning Garramon’s gesture. “Our god has spoken to me of you, Brother Garramon. Your service has not gone unnoticed. Please, call me by the name Enaril.”
“I live to serve,” Garramon said, bowing. He looked to the young man. “And yours?”
Garramon narrowed his gaze at the sight of the swirling blue tattoos snaking up from the collar of the Chosen’s armour and winding around his neck. The skin about the markings was red and raw, blood spotting at the edges.No, it couldn’t possibly be.
The young man followed Garramon’s gaze, tucking his chin in to look at his own spiral tattoos. “There is a story behind them.” The voice was young and bright, yet also dark and grating. Two voices speaking in tandem, one over the other. “I must tell you some day. This armour doesn’t make for markings, but the skin is surprisingly pliable.”
“How is this possible? Herald Azrim?”
