Ella stood at the edge of the cliff, dust and small stones shifting beneath her bare feet, the cold wind sweeping over her skin and tussling her hair. Above her, the night sky sparkled like an ocean of diamonds, and thousands of feet below, the landscape sprawled off into the distance, almost entirely obscured by the dark of night. The only sound that touched her ears was the gentle whistle of the wind against the mountain.
Faenir lay curled up behind her, his head resting on his paws, his heart aching, the occasional low whine leaving his throat. She could feel his pain. It was as real and tangible as her own.
She took a long, slow breath in through her nose, letting the air swell in her chest before exhaling. She wasn't sure how long they had been there. Hours. The sun had already set by the time they had made their way from the infirmary, through Tarhelm, and onto the cliff. She had never thought any level of pain could come close to losing Rhett. She was wrong. But this was an entirely different pain.
Losing Rhett had been like fire in her veins. It had been pure pain, as though a piece of her had been ripped away, carved from her heart. This was more like a dull, unyielding ache. It smothered her, drowned her, filled her lungs with despair.
Ella's parents had always seemed as eternal to her as the sun and the moon. No matter where she went or how far she roamed, they would always be there, an anchor to home. She had not been afraid to leave The Glade because she knew her parents would always be there if she needed them, just as they always had been. To think she would never see her father's face again or hear the sweetness of her mother's voice…
Her eyes felt as though they were only moments away from shedding an ocean of tears, but not a drop fell. It wasn't that she didn't want to cry; it was more like she couldn't. There weren't enough tears in all the world to come close to the anguish that filled her bones.
Worse, she hadn't been there for them. Maybe she could have done something? Maybe she could have saved them? She hadn't even stayed to ask Tanner how it had happened. In truth, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. She didn't think she had the strength to hear it. And what would it have changed?
The sound of footsteps and shifting stones caused Faenir to lift his head, his ears pricking up, a low rumble in his throat. Ella didn't turn, instead she closed her eyes, letting the cool touch of the night's breeze wrap around her. As she stood there, she could feel Faenir's mind brushing off hers. She opened herself. Images flashed across her eyes. The mouth of the tunnel. Coren.
The footsteps drew closer, stopping beside Ella.
"I lost my parents a long time ago. We sailed from Narvona. Our ship was torn to pieces along the Lightning Coast. I was the only survivor. I was four."
Ella opened her eyes, fixing her gaze off into the night sky, shaking her head slightly as she fought back the tears that her eyes had suddenly seemed to find. "Does it ever get easier?"
"Yes," Coren answered. "And no. I can't even remember their names. My Master found me, half-dead and soaked to the bone. She said it was three weeks before I spoke a word. It's been over four hundred years, and I still feel the hole in my heart. But it is easier today than it was then."
Pulling her gaze from the sky, Ella turned to Coren. The woman was staring out into the distance. A steady stream of tears rolled down her cheek, glistening in the light of the moon. It was strange to see her so vulnerable. From the moment Ella had met her in the infirmary, Coren had seemed almost untouchable. She was a Draleid, a warrior of legend, and she held herself as such. To see her now felt almost… wrong.
Coren turned her head, her gaze meeting Ella's. "If you wish, I can arrange for you to return home. I have contacts who smuggle weapons upriver from Catagan. From there, they take a sea ship around the coast to Vaerleon. The full journey will take months as the ships stay clear of the coast to avoid Lorian patrols. But you'll get there."
"No." Ella surprised herself with the firmness of her voice, but her mind was made up. "There's nothing for me back there. I need to find Calen. Whether or not he is the Draleid, he is alone, and he needs me. He's my little brother."
"I had hoped that would be your answer."
"Will you help me find him?"
Coren gave a slight nod, smiling, her eyes still wet with tears. "If Calen is indeed the Draleid we have all heard so much about, then it is likely he is travelling with an old friend of mine – Aeson Virandr. Aeson can be difficult to track down, but we share a contact in Argona. I will reach out."
"Thank you. I can't leave him out there alone."
"Don't thank me yet. It may be months before we hear anything."
Ella nodded, turning her gaze back towards the dark-obscured landscape before her, letting the whistling of the wind fill her ears.
"I will leave you to your peace," Coren said after a few moments of silence. "Every day at sunrise, I climb to the nearest peak. When you feel ready. Join me by the eastern gate."
Again, Ella nodded.
Coren turned and made to leave but paused, resting her hand on Ella's shoulder. "More importantly, when your heart is rested, I think it would be good if you spoke with Tanner. It would mean a lot to him."
With that, Coren left, reaching down and scratching the top of Faenir's head before disappearing into the tunnel that led back towards Tarhelm.
Ella waited until the woman's footsteps had faded to a low echo before dissipating entirely, then she lowered herself to the ground, letting her feet hang over the cliff's edge. Faenir shifted, lifting himself so he could move beside her, then dropping his head into her lap. He pushed at her hand with the cold, wet tip of his snout, manoeuvring himself so Ella's arm rested over his head. Looking into Faenir's eyes, a feeling of warmth and comfort touched Ella's mind. The longer Ella stared, the more the world dulled and the more she became aware of Faenir's consciousness brushing against her own. Images drifted through the wolfpine's mind, sharp and clear but drained of colour. Memories of Vars and Freis, of her, of Calen, followed by an emotion so deep and visceral it twisted a knot in Ella's chest. It felt like a blend of love, pride, and belonging. More images of Calen followed, and Ella began to piece together what Faenir was trying to communicate: the pack. Family.
"We'll find him," Ella said, leaning down and wrapping her arms around Faenir, resting her cheek against his head. "I promise."
Farda drew in a breath of cold morning air as he walked along the top of the hill towards where the Fourth Army had gathered. His mages had marched separately from the main force, as per his command. Centuries of war had taught him many things, one of which was that those who could not touch the Spark would always envy and fear those who could, no matter what they claimed. Armies always functioned better when the two were kept separate where possible. Otherwise, soldiers ended up dead.
As he walked, he ran his thumb along the gold coin resting in his palm, feeling every nick and groove against his skin. As much as he tried to push thoughts of Ella from his mind, it was a task easier said than done. In the centuries since he had lost Shinyara, Farda had watched thousands die. He had walked through fields of corpses, burned cities to the ground, and taken the lives of those who had many summers yet to see. In all that time, he had felt nothing. Nothing but numbness. He would have taken his own life, like many of The Broken before him, were it not for his innate stubbornness, his unwillingness to say he was not strong enough to carry on. But with Ella, something was different. She had made him feel. What that meant, he wasn't sure. But for the first time in a long time, his mind had tasted something other than unabating apathy. He cared for her. Felt a need to protect her like a wolf protects a cub. And yet, with all of that, he had simply handed her over to Karsen Craine. His jaw clenched at the thought of it. Farda hadn't needed another reason to despise himself, but he had conjured one anyway. He just hoped they would not break her spirit. It was her spirit he admired.
She was a weakness. Weaknesses must be burned out. Farda shook his head, snorting a laugh. Even his own thoughts weren't convincing.
Stopping for a moment, Farda squinted his left eye to lessen the glare from the earlywinter sun overhead, and cast his gaze down the sloping hill before him and onwards to Fort Harken, where an ocean of leathery skin and blackened steel besieged the enormous walls.
From atop the hill, Farda guessed the creatures numbered no more than ten thousand. Less than they had expected. Even from that distance, Farda could see the monstrous forms of Bloodmarked, standing a head above the rest of the Uraks, the runes on their skin glowing with a red light, smoke drifting into the air around them. The sight made Farda smile. There was no amount of Urak blood that could be spilt that would ever pay the debt those creatures owed for the dragon eggs they massacred at Ilnaen. And any day Farda could spill that blood was a good day.
Pulling his eyes from the horde, Farda continued to where the commander of the Fourth Army sat astride her grey-dappled horse, surveying the land with her generals.
"Justicar Kyrana, I see you have decided to join us?" Commander Talvare shifted in her saddle, her gelding snorting beneath her. She raised one eyebrow as Farda approached, her head barely turning. The woman had seen at least fifty summers, streaks of grey accenting her otherwise coal-black hair. She had reasonably broad shoulders and the lean physique of a soldier who had spent many years relying on actions over words. Farda had spoken with her multiple times over the course of the two-week-long march from Berona to Fort Harken. She was well versed in military strategy, her mind was sharp as a needle, and she had little time for talking shit. Farda respected her.
"I have, Commander Talvare. I thought it would only be polite."
The woman gave him a flat stare before turning to the general who sat on the horse beside her. General Guthrin Vandimire was a short man with oily black hair, a stubby nose, and a thick moustache. Farda had met him before. He was a coward and a sycophant.
"Fifteen, maybe sixteen thousand, commander." General Vandimire announced. His eyes narrowed as his gaze met Farda's. "The scouts report the attack began no more than an hour past. The beasts descended from the Kolmir Mountains and immediately laid siege."
"The fort's garrison numbers at approximately two thousand, twenty Battlemages amongst them, correct?"
"Correct, Commander. Though those are the official numbers, and I dare say they have likely diminished since the last count."
Commander Talvare gave no recognition that she had heard the man's answer. Instead, she continued to stare at the Urak forces, her eyes slits. "It seems the rumours of those 'monsters' were not exaggerated. You have encountered them before, Justicar Kyrana?"
"I have," Farda said, still running his thumb over the coin in his palm, feeling the raised shape of the lion against his skin. There had to be at least a hundred or so Bloodmarked. Farda had not seen one in almost four hundred years. There had been one or two after The Fall, but once the Uraks were in full retreat, the creatures had almost entirely disappeared. "They are Bloodmarked. They hold no fear, their claws can rend armour, and they are utterly ruthless. Each of them is worth a hundred of your soldiers, possibly two hundred."
"The good news keeps on coming."
"We need to send for reinforcements," one of the generals – a man who had seen maybe thirty summers, with wavy blonde hair, and a handsome face – said, his eyes widening as he looked down at the Uraks. Farda could smell the fear on him. He was the kind who would slow down during the charge to allow the others to hit the line first.
"There is no one else coming, General Tirn. The rest of the armies are spread across the continent. We're all there is, and we've already wasted too much time." Without so much as waiting for a response, the commander turned her horse to face Farda and the generals. "We march without delay. Once we are within range, we open volleys, grab the beasts' attention, draw them to us. Let's see if we can't thin their numbers a bit. General Runi, I want you and your flight leaders to take the cavalry and skirt the base of the hill. Once our infantry has engaged, I will sound the horn, and you will flank from the east, understood? The sun will be in their eyes, and we'll need every advantage we can get. Hit them hard, pull back, hit them again. In and out. Don't allow yourself to become entangled."
"Understood, commander," said a red-nosed woman with a permanently furrowed brow. She pulled on her horse's reins and rode off towards the company of cavalry that waited to the east of the main army.
"The rest of you, ready your blocks. We march at the horn."
The other generals scattered at Talvare's words, riding off towards their respective companies, readying their soldiers for what was to come.
"Justicar Kyrana. Will you be frank with me?"
Farda inclined his head. "Brutally."
Talvare smiled at that. "I have never fought an Urak force of this size. And never against these Bloodmarked. What are our chances?"
"Slim. On the field, they outnumber us two to one."
"Two to one?" Talvare raised a curious eyebrow. "Guthrin said they numbered fifteen or sixteen thousand."
"Guthrin is blind. They are ten at most. Though we had expected more. They are bigger, they are stronger, and those Bloodmarked will tear through your heavy infantry as though they are nothing."
"That doesn't change anything." Talvare turned her gaze back towards the besieged city, nodding absently. Dismounting, Talvare called over a young squire, handing the boy her horse's reins before waving him away. "We cannot sit here and let the people within those walls die."
Farda stared at the woman for a few moments. It had been a long time since he had marched into battle next to someone he respected. "When the archers have fired their first volley and we get within striking distance, hold back your soldiers. Let me and my mages go in first. We will even the odds."
The commander raised an eyebrow. "That was not the plan. The Battlemages were to provide support, striking from a distance. We are under instructions from High Command to limit mage casualties."
"Plans change. We can do more damage if we aren't wary of killing our own. Once we give you the signal, charge with everything you have."
"What's the signal?"
"You'll know when you see it."
The thunderous banging of war drums filled the air, each beat thrumming through Farda's body. He drew in a deep breath, letting it swell his lungs. Lightning surged through his veins. Behind him, one hundred Battlemages strode in ten columns of ten, black cloaks flapping behind them, steel breastplates shimmering in the morning sun. And behind the mages marched the full might of the Fourth Army: just over five thousand strong. The ground shook with the force of so much steel moving in unison. Glancing back, Farda could see enormous red standards painted with the black lion of Loria rippling in the wind.
Eight hundred archers, four hundred cavalry, and over four thousand infantry. Among the infantry, half carried heavy spears, and half wielded swords with long rectangular shields. The army was built for mobility. It was built to face humans. Farda would have preferred more spears. It was best not to let Uraks get too close.
"No words of encouragement, Justicar Kyrana?" Igraine was Farda's second in command. Were it not for Karsen Craine assigning Farda to the Fourth Army, Igraine would have been next in line after the previous commander was struck ill. He was four or five inches shorter than Farda, with a muscular build and a sharp jaw. His hair was jet-black, cut short. It was difficult to tell a mage's age past a certain point, but Farda had never met the man before two weeks ago, and the eager gleam in his eye was that which only the young possessed. He must have seen no more than twenty-five or twenty-six summers.
As a Justicar, Farda often worked alone. He was only ever asked to lead a company of mages on special request – as Karsen Craine had done on this occasion. It was always strange, leading men and women he had never met into war, knowing that many of them would not live to see another sunrise.
"No."
The man continued to stare at Farda as though he believed Farda's answer was a joke.
Farda sighed, turning his gaze from Igraine, staring out at the Urak force, who were now no more than eight hundred feet away. Many of them had already turned, assessing the new threat to their rear flank. "Do everything I say, trust in the Spark, and try not to die."
Igraine nodded, as though pondering words of great wisdom. Farda almost felt sorry for the man. Almost. Igraine looked as though he was going to say something, but booming horns rose above everything else, and the Fourth Army stopped its march, the progressive halting of steel boots sounding like rolling thunder.
As Farda stared ahead at the ever-shifting swarm of leathery skin and blackened steel, his heart pounded against his ribs, blood shivering through his veins. It was simply the body's natural response. He felt no fear. If he died, he died. He would be with Shinyara once more.
"Nock."
The command rang out, bellowed by multiple captains who stretched along the line of archers that stood behind Farda and his mages. Farda kept his gaze focused ahead. Segments of the Urak force had broken away and were now charging towards the Fourth Army. That was good. Splitting their forces would weaken them.
"Draw."
"You have trained for this," Farda shouted, not turning his head to look at the mages who stood behind him. They had all seen battle before. They had fought rebels, had skirmishes with raiders and pirates. Some had fought Uraks. But the Fourth Army comprised mostly younger mages. Few of them had seen war on this scale. And there was no doubting it now. This was war. Ten thousand Uraks gathered in one place. And from the reports Farda had seen, there were far more than that spread throughout the continent. Fort Harken would only be the beginning. "Follow my words without question. Do not hesitate. Do not show mercy. The Uraks will not."
"Loose!"
The whoosh of four hundred arrows swept overhead, casting a momentary shadow on the ground beneath them. Hundreds of Uraks fell as the arrows dropped, blood spraying, bodies crashing lifeless to the ground. The charging horde engulfed their dead, sweeping over them like an endless wave.
"Loose at will!"
Arrows tore through the sky, archers loosing at varying rates of speed, creating an ever-shifting shadow on the ground below. More Uraks dropped as they charged, but for each that fell, another took its place, howling and snarling, drawing ever closer.
Four hundred feet.
"Reach out to the Spark now. Feel it, grasp it, know it."
In a heartbeat, the air thrummed with the sheer force of the Spark. Farda had almost forgotten what that had felt like. So many mages in one place, each drawing from the Spark, pulling on the Elemental Strands. It lit a bloodlust in him. He pulled heavily on threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit. The threads surrounded him and filled him, coursing through his veins, crackling over his skin.
"Forward!" Farda roared, taking a step towards the charging Uraks, then another, his stride lengthening until he was sprinting. The Uraks were only two hundred feet away now, moving like a swarm of rippling grey muscle, war cries and howls rising into the air, blackened steel glinting.
Behind them, horns rang out, battle formations taking shape. The flight of arrows had stopped.
The line of Uraks spread across hundreds of feet either side. Farda would not have blamed any of his mages who held fear in their hearts at that moment, so long as they rose above it. As they drew closer, Farda pulled heavily on the threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit.
"On my command!" he called out, his pulse surging through his veins like lightning, all sounds capitulating to the rushing blood in his head. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his mages spreading out around him, maximising their area of effect. The Uraks would be upon them in moments. The snarling and hissing tugged at the edges of his mind, the sea of rippling grey and black charging towards them.
Farda drew in the Spark as heavily as his body would allow, a brief moment of clarity hitting him before he yelled, "Lightning Storm!"
Eldingstír. The Old Tongue echoed in his mind. Memories of a life once lived.
The air shifted, all one hundred mages drawing as heavily as they could from the Spark. Farda could see the threads of Air, Fire, and Spirit winding around them. Then, in a manoeuvre practised a thousand times, the mages executed the Movement. Threads of Air whipped around their formation, slamming into Uraks with such force that bones snapped and armour bent. The creatures howled, swiping at the wind as it tore through them like a living hurricane. The Urak lines collapsed around the Battlemages. Everywhere Farda looked, he saw great beasts hurtling through the air, screaming and howling. To his left a whip of air slammed into a Bloodmarked's knee, shattering the bone in one fell swoop.
"Second Phase!"
With the Urak lines already in disarray, the Battlemages pulled on their threads of Fire and Spirit, blending them with the threads of Air. Half a second, then a blinding flash. Arcs of chain lightning erupted from the battle formation, streaking from the outstretched hands of Farda's mages. Chunks of earth and clay were ripped from the ground and the smell of burning flesh and charred earth filled the air. The storm of death raged around Farda and his mages, lightning tearing through the air, punching through blackened steel and searing holes in leathery flesh.
The air pulsated with energy from the Spark. Farda could feel it in his bones, in his very core. A battlerush unlike any other.
By the time the Eldingstír had stopped, a clearing of over forty feet had opened between Farda's mages and the Uraks. Hundreds of the creatures lay lifeless, charred, twisted, and broken, and many more screamed and howled as they died.
There was a moment, just a single moment, where everything went silent. The Uraks howled and roared, charging over their dead, readying themselves to cut through Farda's mages like scythes through grass. Then the horns broke through the barrier of silence in Farda's head, and the Fourth Army swarmed around them, slamming into the Urak lines. The crunch of bodies was a visceral thing. Farda watched as spears ripped through leathery hides and rushing soldiers were sliced to ribbons by blackened steel. Pure chaos, as all battles were.
Farda pulled his sword from its scabbard, the mages around him following suit. The muscles in his forearm tensed, anticipating what was to come. "Stay tight. Conserve your energy. Move in pairs. Forward!"
Vibrations shook through Farda's legs as his feet slammed against the ground. The other mages fanned out around him, moving in pairs as their training dictated, threads of Air, Earth, Fire, and Spirit raging around them. Farda took a moment to appreciate the raw power that shimmered in the air, and then they collided with the Urak lines.
Two Uraks rushed towards Farda, howling as they swung their blackened blades. He caught the first strike with his sword, deflecting it sideways as he slammed threads of Air into the other beast, crushing its ribs and sending it careening into the thick of battle. Before the first Urak could recover, Farda swung his sword into reverse grip and drove it down through the creature's back. Pulling the blade free in a spray of blood, Farda swung, slicing through an Urak's jaw. Blood fountained from the beast's mangled face as the Urak collapsed to its knees, its eyes rolling to the back of its head.
Farda placed his foot on the beast's shoulder, roaring as he kicked it to the ground. The rush of battle consumed him, a fervent bloodlust gripping his mind. He would soak the soil in Urak blood.
Farda and his mages cut through the battlefield, carving their path in blood and bone. The Urak forces may have outnumbered the Fourth Army, but a hundred Battlemages was a force to be reckoned with by any measure. Everywhere they moved, bodies fell. Crushed by threads of Air and Earth, eviscerated by arcs of lightning, consumed by pillars of fire.
With a practised efficiency born of repetition, Farda's mages wielded the Spark like a weapon of the gods. Farda had never before fought with the Fourth Army, but he couldn't lie to himself – he was impressed. These mages moved together, held their line, and fought like monsters. He would be commending them in his report to the High Command once the fighting was over – if they survived.
A flash ignited somewhere to Farda's left, and an arc of purple lightning ripped through the air, tearing chunks of clay from the ground before slamming into the two mages closest to Farda – one of them being the young man who was his second, Igraine. Farda watched as the lightning tore through the mages' bodies, the force of the strike sending them crashing backwards into their companions.
Another arc of lightning erupted from the mass of Uraks ahead, claiming the lives of four more mages, their bodies crumpled in smouldering heaps.
A gap began to form before Farda, Uraks scrambling to get out of the way of whatever was coming. A man stepped forward, obsidian robes draped over his shoulders, icy-white skin pulled tight across his face. As the man moved the light of the world dimmed around him.
"It's a herald!" some soldiers called out, relief in their voices. Fools.
Farda tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword as the creature continued forward, the light fleeing from its touch. For whatever reason, the spirits of Efialtír's minions never inhabited Urak bodies. Elves, men, and Jotnar had been the only hosts Farda had ever known. The likelihood was that the 'Ascension', as Fane had so eloquently named it, required a link to the Spark, which left dwarves and Uraks incapable. But whatever body the spirit inhabited, it was no herald. It was a monster.
"Hold fast!" Farda roared. "Move as one!"
Almost as soon as the words had left Farda's mouth, a clutch of Bloodmarked stormed around the Fade, crashing into Farda's mages, claws rending steel and bone in single swipes, shockwaves of fire igniting the air.
"Defensive formation!" Farda reached out to the Spark, drawing his blade across his chest as he shouted, feeling the elemental strands pulsating in the darkness of his mind. He made his choice and pulled on threads of Earth, tasting the tang of iron and loam on his tongue. He pushed the threads into the ground, pulling columns of clay upward and drawing the moisture from them with threads of Fire. Within seconds, the columns of clay had formed into long, hardened spikes. He sent the spikes hurtling towards the Bloodmarked.
One of the beasts took a spike through the shoulder, then another through the neck, and one more through the eye before collapsing in a heap on the ground, its runes pulsating with a red light, pluming smoke. Two more of the beasts fell, their bodies shredded, but the rest proceeded to charge, shrugging off the attack and crashing headfirst into Farda's Battlemages, blood spraying in the wind.
Catching a Bloodmarked's swipe with threads of Air, Farda drove his sword upward, blood sluicing from the creature's neck, its runes raging with red light. He dragged his blade free, letting the Bloodmarked collapse to the ground, and turned his attention back toward the Fade just in time to see an arc of purple lightning hurtling towards him. Pulling as deeply as he could from the Spark, Farda weaved a shield of Air in front of him. The shield kept the lightning from bursting through his armour, but the blow still lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing into the back of a Bloodmarked. Hitting the beast was like slamming into a stone wall. He collided with the Bloodmarked's dense frame, then crashed to the ground, gasping for air. Not having the capacity to feel pain was one thing, but that didn't mean his muscles didn't cramp and that he couldn't feel the immense pressure that weighed down on his lungs.
Coughing up blood, he dragged himself to his feet. All around, the battle raged. His ears drummed with the clang of steel on steel, the bloodthirsty howls of the Uraks, the wails of the dying. The air smelled of dirt, blood, and fire. His Battlemages had recovered from the initial charge of the Bloodmarked and now fought tooth and nail against the immense creatures, their blades moving in whirs of steel, whips of Fire and Air tearing through the space around them. Horns bellowed in the distance – Commander Talvare's signal for the cavalry to charge.
Farda pulled his attention towards the Fade. The creature was tearing through soldiers and mages alike as though they were little more than brittle twigs, whips of Fire and Air swirling around it, arcs of purple lightning crashing to the ground, ripping through men and women, melting armour.
Drawing in a deep breath, Farda charged. He reached out to the Spark, pulling on threads of Air, wrapping them around a shield that lay abandoned on the blood-soaked ground. Pushing as much force into the threads as he could muster, he launched the shield towards the Fade, watching as it, instead, caught a Bloodmarked in the chest, tearing through the creature's stone-like hide and bursting out the other side in a plume of blood mist.
As the Bloodmarked fell, crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust, the Fade turned, its cavernous light-drinking eyes returning Farda's stare. The air rippled around the Fade as a black-fire nithrál formed in its left hand.
Every hair on Farda's body stood on end. A shiver started in his chest and rippled out through his limbs. Steel could kill him. The remnants of a soul that still clung to his body would find Shinyara once more. But if he were to die by the touch of a nithrál, what remained of his soul would be sheared from the world, left to wander alone. He would never feel the touch of Shinyara's mind again. His throat tightened.
As he reached out to the Spark, bracing himself for the first strike of the Fade's blade, Farda made a decision: if it looked as though the beast had the upper hand, he would take his own life. There was nothing in this world that would stop him from feeling Shinyara's touch again. Nothing.
Steeling himself and committing his mind, Farda let out a roar, swinging his blade upwards to meet the downward swipe of the Fade's nithrál. Flickers of black flame erupted from the nithrál, the antithesis of true fire, drinking light instead of providing.
Pure white-hot rage burned through Farda as he traded blows with the Fade. The battle raged around them, Bloodmarked and Battlemages tearing each other to shreds, steel and claws colliding. Farda's muscles ached, and vibrations rang through his arms from the strength of the strikes. I will not yield.
Drawing more deeply from the Spark, Farda pulled on threads of Earth, pushing them into the ground. He lunged forward, forced the Fade back with a torrent of steel, then dragged columns of clay from the ground, forming them into spikes, hardening them with threads of Fire. He drove the spikes through the creature's legs, then back into the ground behind it, locking it in place.
The Fade howled, its harsh screech tearing at Farda's ears as it sliced through the spikes of clay with its nithrál. But with every spike the Fade severed, two more took its place, plunging through the creature's chest and arms. Farda looked around to see that some of his Battlemages had pulled themselves from the fighting and now stood beside him, a web of threads weaving into the ground.
His chest heaving, Farda marched towards the Fade, reaching behind his breastplate, his fingers wrapping around the small red gemstone that hung on a strip of leather around his neck. He had long since told himself that he would only tap into the gemstone when he truly needed it. He needed it now.
For a moment, ice flowed through his veins. Then, as though struck by lightning, pure power surged through him, a cold fire burning his blood. The Fade's cavernous eyes widened even further. The foul creature could sense the blood Essence surging through Farda.
"Your god is calling you," Farda said as he placed his hand on the Fade's chest and looked into its light-drinking eyes.
To Farda's surprise, the Fade didn't respond. It simply stared at him, its thin, brittle lips curling into an eerie smile.
Farda pulled more Essence from the stone, letting it flow through him, flooding his veins. He channelled the Essence into the Fade, consuming the creature in an eruption of black fire that burst forth from his palm. Without a nithrál, Farda could not sever the Fade's soul from the world, but the least he could do was take pleasure in its screams as its body turned to ash.
The Fade's otherworldly shrieks echoed, reverberating in the air even after the flames dissipated and its crumpled husk of a body dropped to the ground, charred and broken.
Reluctantly, Farda released his hold on the Essence, shivering as the intoxicating power was dragged from his bones. Gritting his teeth, he tucked the gemstone back in behind his breastplate, feeling its cool touch even through his undershirt. He cast a glance around. Almost three quarters of his mages still lived, locked in combat with the Bloodmarked. The rest of the army seemed to be holding their ground, but it was almost impossible for Farda to tell. All he could do was focus on what was around him and hope that General Talvare would do her part. The sonorous bellows of command horns let him know she was certainly still trying.
Clenching his jaw, Farda charged towards the nearest Bloodmarked. He pulled in threads of Air, welling them into a knot, then hammered them into the side of the Urak's knee. The creature collapsed, bones snapping and blood spraying. The Battlemage with whom it was locked in combat took the creature's head from its body and moved to Farda's side.
"Stay close," Farda shouted to the mage, who responded with a sharp nod, wiping blood splatter from her eyes. But just as he readied himself to charge once more, four sharp horn bursts sounded, one after another, barely a second apart, piercing the din of battle. Knots twisted in Farda's stomach. Now he understood why the Fade had smiled. Enemies from the rear.
"The other five thousand," Farda muttered. The Uraks had lured them in. Waited for them to be caught in the claws of battle and were now marching five thousand strong right up their backsides. "Fuck." Farda cracked his neck from side to side, drawing in a deep breath. "Nothing changes," he said, grasping the other Battlemage's arm, looking her in the eyes. "If we die here, we take them with us."
"I'm with you, Justicar."
Farda nodded, then filled his lungs with air and roared. "To me!"
Farda charged into the fray where the Bloodmarked and Uraks were thickest. He swung his blade in an arc, slicing through the ribcage of an Urak, carrying the blade through and blocking the downward swipe of a blackened sword. Pushing against the momentum of the swing, Farda brought his blade back across the Urak in front of him, splitting it open across the navel. As the creature clasped a clawed hand to its gut, Farda drove his steel through its open mouth, wrenching it free, blood pouring.
"To me!" Farda roared again, this time amplifying his voice with threads of Spirit and Air. "For the empire!"
He needed to be the force the others would rally around. He needed to be a beacon. And the quickest way to light a beacon was to start a fire.
"Dragon's Maw!"
Farda opened himself to the Spark, feeling the power of the elemental strands flood through him. He pulled on threads of Fire and Air, the warmth filling his veins and the cool touch sweeping over his skin. Around him, he could sense others doing the same. With a roar, he unleashed the threads in the direction of Fort Harken, where the bulk of the Urak forces were oriented. A column of fire a few feet in diameter erupted from his hands, waves of heat rippling in all directions. Almost immediately, he felt more threads intertwining with his own, amplifying the fire, feeding it. More Battlemages fell in line beside him, lending their strength, feeding the flames. The Battlemages were followed by soldiers gripping spears and sharp steel.
"For the empire!" a voice bellowed beside Farda.
"For Loria!"
As the column of fire widened, stretching nearly twenty feet across, Farda stepped forwards, the threads of Fire igniting his veins. "Push them back! Push them towards the walls!"
The truth was that it didn't matter in which direction they pushed. With thousands of Uraks still in front of them, and another five thousand attacking from the rear, death would find them this day, and he would welcome it. He would charge willingly into death's embrace if it meant he could feel the touch of Shinyara's mind once more. The only slight flicker of hesitation in his mind was of Ella. He pushed that thought aside. She was not his concern anymore. When she had needed his protection, he had abandoned her. Cold fury surging through him, Farda drew even more deeply from the Spark, taking in as much as his body could handle, pushing it forward, feeding the fire of the Dragon's Maw. The air burned white-hot.
Farda could feel the drain sapping at him, clawing at his bones, pulling at his soul. With the amount of power he was drawing, the Spark would burn him through in a matter of minutes. He dropped to one knee, grunting as the vibration jarred his leg. But even still, he held onto the Spark. I will not yield. Dragging in a deep breath, Farda heaved himself upright. If this was to be his last day, he would die on his feet.
A shiver rippled through Farda, as a series of earth-shattering roars rolled through the sky like thunder. For only a moment, he allowed himself to lift his gaze. In the glaring light of the mid-day sun, four enormous shadows swept over the Kolmir Mountains, wings spread wide, and Farda's heart tightened at what, to him, was the most beautiful sight in the known world – dragons.
Farda released his hold on the Spark. Today was not his day. Looking at the weariness on the faces around him, he would not have been the first to succumb to the burn of the Spark either way. "Defensive formation!"
Reaching down, his bones aching, Farda snatched up a discarded shield and set his feet. But even as those around him formed together, Farda could see the Urak lines begin to break. But they were too late, far too late. A monstrous roar shook the air as a blue-scaled dragon dropped from the skies and unleashed a torrent of dragonfire that made a raging river look like little more than a stream The force of the blast shook the earth, tearing chunks of clay from the ground, hurling Uraks in all directions. It was a force of nature, an act of a god. The dragon soared low over the battlefield, fire carving a path of death and destruction through the Urak ranks.
Just as the blue-scaled dragon cracked its wings and rose, sending men and Uraks alike tumbling to the ground, three more of the magnificent creatures dropped from the sky, their immense frames casting shadows as large as ships. All four dragons poured raging fire down over the battlefield, weaving back and forth. Guttural howls and cries rang out as the air filled with dirt and ash.
Farda dropped to his knees, releasing his hold on the shield, a smile touching his lips.
Crumpled husks of blackened char littered the ground, broken and twisted. The taste of burnt flesh clung to the air, thick and palpable. Farda attempted to hunch down, but his right knee gave way, and he dropped to the dirt, sending wisps of ash and dust streaming into the breeze. Sweat trickled down his neck and face, carving paths through the dirt and blood that had bedded into his skin.
He pushed the charred body of an Urak onto its back, prying the sword from its grasp. The creature's blackened fingers crumbled as Farda wrapped his hand around the hilt. He cast his gaze along the blood-coated blade. Urak weapons were crude but suited the creatures well. They were dense and heavy, capable of cleaving bone and armour in single swipes. Farda gave an involuntary snarl as he looked over the blade, then turned it, lifted his hands, and buried the tip of the blackened steel into the dirt. Glowing with vibrant red light, set into the sword where the blade met the hilt, was a small, oval gemstone. An Essence vessel.
Farda was too weak to draw from the Spark, so he tapped into the gemstone that still hung around his neck. He drew only the smallest trickle of Essence into him, then pulled the weapon apart, watching as the blade and hilt dropped to the ground with a dull clang while the gemstone floated, wrapped in Essence. Farda snatched it from the air and watched as it cast a red glow over the creases of his palm. Blood Essence. The foundation of life and creation. Held within that stone was the Essence that once gave life to the men and women that Urak had slain. It was a beautiful thing, but it was also horrid and twisted. From death, Essence could create, but it could also destroy and corrupt.
Letting out a strained sigh, Farda grimaced and pushed himself back to his feet, stuffing the gemstone into his trouser pocket. He loathed using Essence. With every drop he took in, he could feel Efialtír scratching at his mind. Others within The Circle might have seen Efialtír as The Saviour, but Farda trusted the god no more than he trusted an Urak. Any god that wished to worm their way into his mind was not a benevolent one. Whatever his beliefs, Essence was powerful, and it was better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.
Around him, Farda saw other Battlemages doing the same, stumbling through the dead, collecting the stones. No doubt, once the injured had been attended to, the Urak blades would be collected on wagons from Fort Harken so the stones could be harvested.
Farda's breath caught in his chest as he turned. He touched his hand against his ribs and pulled it away to see fresh blood dripping from his fingers. Not being able to feel pain had many advantages in battle. He could push through wounds that would cripple others, charge and move without impediment. But it also meant that he might not notice wounds until long after they had been inflicted. Which meant he risked succumbing to grievous injuries before he had even realised he had sustained them. And were it not for the imperial Healers and the Spark, that likely would have happened many times over across the centuries. Now that he had learned to deal with his 'affliction', the benefits outweighed the risks, but even if they hadn't, Farda had no say in the matter. Shinyara had taken his pain with her, perhaps as a parting gift.
A gust of wind swept overhead, and two shadows darkened the landscape while two more broke off, flying west after the routed Uraks. Farda drew in a deep breath as he set off towards where the dragons were setting down. He knew them by their colouring. The blue-scaled dragon was Seleraine, the soulkin of Voranur. The other, his body coated in an ocean of deep red scales, almost black along his belly, was Karakes, the soulkin of Lyina. Of the dragons still living, only Helios was larger.
If Voranur and Seleraine were here, that meant the others were likely Jormun astride Hrothmundar and Ilkya astride Eríthan. It was clear it was not Eltoar and Pellenor, as Helios would have blotted out the sun.
"Farda!"
The beginnings of a smile touched Farda's lips at the sight of Lyina striding towards him. Her bronzed skin and dark blonde hair were striking against the white plate of the Dragonguard. She crashed into him with the enthusiasm of a long-lost love, her arms pulling him in tight. "It's good to see you."
It was strange to have someone greet him so warmly. Years had come and gone since Farda had last laid eyes on Lyina or any of his kin. Even as a Rakina, his connection to other Draleid was still a tangible thing. They were not bonded by blood and bone, but by the immaterial tethers of the soul, or in his case, half a soul. Farda leaned into Lyina's embrace, savouring it. "As it is you."
"What has you down here fighting for scraps?" Lyina pulled away, clasping her hands on Farda's shoulders, eyeing him up and down. "You look like shit."
"I feel worse."
"I thought Shinyara took your pain?"
"My bones still ache and my muscles still spasm, old friend. And some wounds are not of the flesh."
Lyina's gaze softened. "Draleid n'aldryr, Rakina."
"Rakina nai dauva, Draleid."
"You will always be our brother." Lyina grabbed Farda's head and pulled it against hers with enough force that had Farda been able to feel it, he was sure his head would have throbbed.
"Till the day I return to her."
"And even then." A silent moment passed between them. "All right, enough of the sappy shit."
Farda let out a laugh, nodding. He looked past Lyina, to where Voranur approached. The elf's gait was so languid it was graceful. He glided through the field of dead, his gaze eventually lifting to meet Farda's.
"Rakina." Voranur bowed his head as he spoke, genuine respect in his voice.
"Voranur," Farda replied. "It is good to see you."
The elf bowed his head again, a half-smile gracing his youthful face for a fleeting moment. "You are lucky we came." He cast his gaze over the field of dead. He planted his foot on the side of a dead soldier, pushing the body onto its back. "The battle was lost."
"You were late."
"We were on our way from Dracaldryr," Lyina said, letting out a sigh through her nostrils.
"Tivar?"
Lyina nodded.
"How is she?"
"The same." Lyina looked to Voranur, who simply shook his head. "Fane has asked Eltoar to summon the Dragonguard so we may put an end to the wars. Eltoar agreed. But Tivar refused to come with us."
"I see. Where are Eltoar and Pellenor now?"
"Pellenor is in Berona. There are a few things there that must be seen to. Eltoar has taken Helios to Dracaldryr."
"If Tivar will listen to anyone, it will be him."
"Agreed. Once we are prepared, Jormun, Voranur, and Ilkya will fly south to deal with the uprisings. The rest of us will remain in the North to push the Uraks back. What of you?"
"I am to remain here for the time being. The Fourth Army has been tasked with protecting Fort Harken until we are relieved."
"There's not many of you left." Voranur ran his tongue over his teeth, folding his arms. It was a statement, nothing more.
"No."
"We can stay for a few days while we wait on Eltoar," Lyina said, throwing Farda a wink. "I could use a good drinking partner. Voranur only drinks Wyrm's Blood, Ilkya can't hold her liquor, and Jormun is an angry drunk."
Farda smiled, giving a slight tilt of his head. "That would be much appreciated. But before we start, I must see if Commander Talvare still walks amongst the living."