The whistling of sand-laden wind was all that could be heard in the central plaza of the ruined city. The air sparkled in a mix of reds, pinks, and silver as the crimson light of the Blood Moon reflected off the sand.
Rist drew a slow breath in through his nose, releasing it from pursed lips and watching as it misted in front of him. His left hand rested on the lion-head pommel of the sword at his hip which Garramon had given him after he'd lost his first sword at the Battle of The Three Sisters. His right hand was beneath his robes, grasping the pendant that hung from his neck. He clenched his jaws to stop his teeth from chattering as he looked out at the rune-marked men and women who stood around the pit of glowing gemstones wearing nothing but the skin they were born in. The runes covered their chests, arms, and backs, glowing with a dull red light. A number of mages stood around the plaza garbed in the grey robes of the Scholars, most with pens and notebooks in hand. Further out, towards the edges of the plaza, Fades lurked, the light bending around them.
The Battlemages of the other armies stood at the eight entrances of the plaza, two hundred at each, lined and ready.
"Fuck me," Magnus whispered to Garramon, though loud enough for Rist to hear. "If they'd told us how cold it was in this forsaken place, I would have brought another set of robes."
Both Garramon and Anila threw sideways glances at Magnus.
"You know, Uraksplitter," Magnus whispered, turning to Anila, his breath misting, "body heat keeps you warm just as well as a fire."
"Magnus, as I've said many times, I'd sooner set myself on fire," Anila whispered back, keeping her eyes forward as the Scholars walked about the central plaza.
A murmur swept through the mages, and Rist looked forwards to see a man stepping from a doorway of one of the ruined buildings. If Rist hadn't already known the man was Emperor Fane Mortem by the red trim of his black robes, the shift in the other mages around him would have given it away.
More men and women followed in Fane's wake, crimson robes draped over their shoulders with white circles marked on each breast. Rist hadn't spent much time around priests of Efialtír, but he'd heard enough about them. Their leader, Radavan Harten – the Divine – along with most of their order resided in the city of Highpass, which was now under elven control, or from what Rist had heard, burned to the ground. He'd read in A Study of Divinity by Halban Fandil that each of them were selected at the age of ten. As a sign of devotion to Efialtír, the men were castrated, and the women drank a special tea, known as Devotion's Knot, that would render them unable to bear children. Rist understood the reasoning – the one thing that often superseded all others was a burning loyalty to family, and removing that loyalty made room for devotion to Efialtír – but the concept still turned his stomach. He was sure of one thing: he would never become a priest.
Something brushed against Rist's hand as it sat atop the pommel of his sword, and he turned his gaze from the plaza to see Neera staring past him, her hand on his. He lifted his fingers and wrapped them around hers, turning his gaze back towards the plaza.
The priests spread in a circle behind the rune-marked men and women. The tingle of the Spark ran down Rist's neck as threads of Air and Spirit wove around Emperor Mortem, weaving through his throat and whipping outwards in patterns Rist didn't recognise.
"Tonight is the night we change the world." Fane's voice boomed, amplified by the threads. The echoes of his words lingered far longer than should have been possible. Fane reached into his pocket and produced a smooth, spherical gemstone five times as large as any Rist had laid eyes on. The glowing vessel barely fit in Fane's hand. The emperor held the gemstone in the air. "Efialtír sacrificed his place amongst the gods to ensure that death was not simply wasted life. For his devotion to us, the other gods cast Efialtír from their halls and created the veil so he could not rejoin those who loved him."
Fane released the sphere from his grasp, threads of Air wrapping around it, holding it in place above the ground. A second passed, and then the stone pulsed, the air swirling around it. As though in response, the gemstone around Rist's neck vibrated, and he looked down to see its glow intensifying. Beside him, he could see Neera's gemstone reacting the same way, along with those of the other mages.
"Our god wishes to walk among us once more." Gasps rang out in response, murmurs rising. "Calm yourselves. There is still much to be done before that day, my brothers and sisters. But tonight we widen the tears in the veil. We call forth Efialtír's Chosen. His emissaries, his champions." Fane opened his arms and gestured towards the rune-marked men and women who stood around the pit. "Before you stand those whose devotion knows no equal. After this night, they will no longer be mere mortals. They will be the Chosen, body, mind, and soul. Their loyalty is marked in their flesh, their belief unquestionable."
The gemstone that floated in the air in front of Fane moved towards the pit, threads winding around it. As the gemstone hovered above the thousands that filled the pit, cries rang out in the distance, steel clashing against steel, roars and howls ripping through the night.
"The Uraks have come," Fane called. "They seek to be the ones who strengthen Efialtír's hand in this world. They seek to be the recipients of his power. But that is something we cannot allow. So hear me now, brothers and sisters, when I begin, you are to push the Essence in your vessels towards me, you are to wrap me in threads of Spirit. Give me your strength, and together we will drive both the elves and the Uraks from these lands. We will bring forth the Chosen. We will keep our people safe. This is our time. All we have to do is seize it."
As the screams of men and Uraks rang out in the distance, Fane turned towards the pit. The emperor began to speak aloud in a tongue Rist had never heard. Another pulse rippled outwards from Fane, and the spherical gemstone that hovered above the pit ignited in a brilliant red light. After a moment, the rings of runes that had been marked around the pit in chalk began to glow, red light bursting forth as though it were spraying through cracks in the ground.
The stone thrummed, and the air seemed to shift and shimmer.
"Open yourselves to the Spark," Magnus bellowed, the commander of the Nineteenth Army doing the same. "Push your threads of Spirit towards the emperor. Be his strength as he has been yours. Stand together, for together we can never be broken."
Rist let out a gasp as the power of the Spark pulsed through the air. Threads of Spirit surged from the mages who stood at each entrance to the plaza, all connecting to Fane. As they did, a vivid red light erupted from the thousands of gemstones that filled the pit at the plaza's centre.
Rist squeezed Neera's hand, and she squeezed back.
"Don't be scared," she whispered. "Together."
"Together."
Rist opened himself to the Spark and pulled on threads of Spirit, feeling their cool touch against his mind. He felt Neera do the same, and they both added their threads to the others. Wisps of sand flicked back and forth around the emperor, the wind swirling at his feet.
"Tap into your vessels," Magnus called out. "Give back the gift you were granted. From death comes life anew."
"From death comes life anew." Hundreds of voices chorused the reply as the power of each mage's vessel rippled through the air like a shockwave.
The combined force of Essence and the Spark thrummed through Rist. Neera's grip grew so tight it hurt. Rist listened to the beating of his heart, trying desperately to drown out the deafening roar of the Essence and the Spark. He took in a short breath and tapped into the gemstone around his neck. The blood in his veins froze, blackness consuming his vision and drowning out all sound. For just a moment he was nothing and nowhere. Then the world crashed into him. The red lights of the gemstones and rune markings around the pit glittered, reflected by the sand that swept through the air. The screams and shrieks of battle from the outer edges of the city pounded in his ears like drums. Each breath he drew swelled in his lungs.
The two halves of his mind argued, one telling him to stop, to run and never look back, the other telling him to keep going, keep pushing. He looked to Neera beside him, her hand still squeezing his. Then he looked to Garramon, and Magnus, and Anila. Each of them had believed in him, each of them accepting him for who he was and teaching him to accept himself. They were a family of a sort. A flawed family, but a family, nonetheless.
And finally he thought of his true family: his mother and father, Calen and Dann, and all those in The Glade. Rist had never been the fighter. The idea of protecting others had never been part of who he was; he was the one who needed protecting. But now as he stood there in the middle of the Burnt Lands, gripped by a blend of fear and awe, he finally understood. He had seen what the elves and their dragons could do, seen the fire and death. He'd heard of how the Uraks had slaughtered entire towns, villages, and even cities without a shred of mercy. Rist could not allow the same thing to happen to The Glade. If Efialtír could grant the power to stop the elves and the Uraks, then Rist needed to try. He took in one last long breath and pushed the Essence outwards towards Fane.
The earth shook as a black tear ripped through the air above the pit, like a fissure spreading through rock. And with the tear, the rune-marked men and women lifted into the air, the runes in their skin glistening with a red light.
Kallinvar leaned against the war table, sweat tacking his hair to his head and dripping from his nose and chin.
Gildrick handed him a waterskin. Kallinvar took a long mouthful, then handed the skin back to the Watcher.
"They were good souls," Gildrick said softly, resting his hand on Kallinvar's shoulder before moving away. The knights had carved through the Lorians on the other side of the Rift after Kallinvar had sensed the first pulse of the Taint. It had been too easy. Once they had returned to the temple, more pulses had signalled across Epheria– some in the Burnt Lands, others where small tears had already been made across the continent. It hadn't taken Kallinvar long to realise that Fane was scattering them on purpose. The man had sent armies and mages across the length and breadth of Epheria, from the island of Driftstone to the heart of the Aonan wood. In each location, the mages numbered no more than a hundred. But that was enough to widen the tears in the veil if left unchecked.
Combined with the Lorian armies, Urak Shamans in Mar Dorul, Kolmir, and the Marin Mountains had all attempted to widen the tears. Mirken fell in Mar Dorul to the claw of a Bloodmarked. Daynin lost his life on Driftstone to the black fire Soulblade of a Fade, his soul destined to drift in the void. They had lost others – eight in total.
Kallinvar was given no choice but to split the chapters. As he looked over the stone map carved into the table, he could see the pulses of green light spread about the continent. Olyria and The Third were fifty miles south of Vaerleon. Armites and The Sixth fought Uraks at the foothills of Mar Dorul, near Arginwatch. The Eighth fought on the eastern edge of the Burnt Lands, though Kallinvar had felt Brother-Captain Rivick fall, his loss burning through the Sigil. All in all, only four chapters remained at the Temple – The First, The Second, The Seventh, and The Ninth. Among them, only thirty-six of forty still drew breath.
He had underestimated Fane. The knights had four centuries to prepare, and they were still failing. If Verathin had been standing at their head, Kallinvar had no doubt the man would have learned better from the past than Kallinvar had. Verathin never made the same mistakes twice. Kallinvar's mind drifted back to The Fall, to the brothers and sisters he lost, to the people he failed. He raised his armoured hand, clenched his fingers, and slammed his fist down on the stone table, cracks spreading.
A hand rested on his shoulder, and he turned to see Ruon looking back at him, green eyes flickering in the chamber's candlelight. "Pain is the path to strength."
Kallinvar drew in a breath and nodded, turning his gaze back to the table.
"We will not fail, Kallinvar. We cannot."
As Ruon spoke, a new red glow pulsed near the centre of the Burnt Lands. Kallinvar turned towards the war table, staring at the light.
"What is it?" Ruon leaned over the table. He'd explained to her how he had layered the convergences of the Taint over the map in his mind, how he had used the technique to help him visualise everything.
The spot pulsed again, but this time it pierced straight through the blackness that coated the Burnt Lands. The oily sensation of the Taint grew stronger and stronger, pulses turning to ripples, the red light spreading.
Kallinvar stepped back, the realisation setting in. "Ilnaen."
Ruon looked at him with narrowed eyes.
"He's gone back to Ilnaen." The words drifted through Kallinvar's mind. The Taint had always covered the Burnt Lands so completely it had been impossible to determine the point where the tear in the veil was the widest. But now that he saw it, he felt a fool for not realising. "He's gone back to where it started."
"The time is now, my child." Achyron's voice rang in Kallinvar's mind for the first time since the Blood Moon had risen. "I will give you my strength. You must close the tear before too many cross."
Kallinvar stepped away from the table. Fire burned in his veins, ice swept over his skin. The green light of the Rift burst into existence a few feet from the table's edge, spreading and growing.
"Knights of Achyron," he roared. The knights moved towards Kallinvar, some dragging themselves to their feet, weariness and loss evident in each step they took. "The time is now. I know where Fane hides. Once more we go to Ilnaen."
Ilnaen's name drew whispers.
"This is our purpose, brothers and sisters. This is the reason for our existence. We are the Knights of Achyron, and we will hold back the Shadow." Kallinvar turned towards the rippling pool of black that hung in the air. "Once more into the Rift."