Of Empires and Dust (The Bound and The Broken #4)

1. Picking up the Pieces

Chapter 1

Picking up the Pieces

5th Day of the Blood Moon

Five miles from Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

Calen dropped to his knees, the blood-soaked mud squelching beneath his weight. He rested his helmet beside his gauntlets, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes, the burble of the stream settling in the back of his mind.

He drew a long breath, the smell of spilt blood and burning wood filling his nostrils. A sigh of sweet relief escaped his throat as he dipped his hands into the water and splashed his face, pressing his fingers into his skin and dragging them through the sweat and grime that marred his cheeks and forehead.

“We’re ready to march.” Vaeril’s words were softly spoken, almost tender. The elf didn’t approach, for which Calen was thankful; he needed a moment. In truth, he needed a lifetime, but he’d settle for a moment.

The first thing Calen saw when he opened his eyes was the Blood Moon’s crimson light sparkling in the stream’s shifting waters, battling against the purple glow that shone from the runes in his armour. The moon had hung in the dark sky since the night it had bled into the world. The sun rose and set each day, but its light was dim, as though tempered by Efialtír himself, the world painted with an unyielding crimson hue.

The second thing Calen saw was the bloodied water dripping from his face onto his hands, then the bodies. Uraks, elves, Angan, and humans alike floated in the stream, lifeless and broken.

He allowed his gaze to linger on the aftermath of the ambush before pulling his gauntlets from the mud and sliding them into place over his hands, watching as the runes on his armour glistened and the metal melded together. The armour had saved him ten times over already.

Calen grabbed his helmet, then rose.

Vaeril stood a few feet away, his helmet in the crook of his arm, his golden hair reflecting the moon’s light and the emblem of the white dragon emblazoned across the breastplate of his armour.

“Casualties?” Calen hated how plainly he asked the question, hated that death had become such a common part of each passing day. It was never a matter of if, but how many. And with the Blood Moon in the sky, the Uraks were stronger than Calen had ever seen them.

“Two hundred and eighty-three.”

Calen nodded sombrely. He approached Vaeril and gestured towards the trees and where the rest of the army waited.

Vaeril inclined his head and turned to walk with Calen. “Dann is arranging the recovery of the bodies. They’ll be brought back to the city, where they can be mourned with the others at the Eleswea un'il Valana.”

The Ceremony of the Lost . Calen had only heard fragments of the ceremony in Therin’s teachings, but Vaeril had explained it more thoroughly in the days since the battle. It was only ever performed during times of unspeakable death. A waypoint in history, a marker in time. It was one of few pieces of culture shared by the Jotnar and the elves.

“Good.” Calen wanted to say more, wanted to feel more, but he was just so tired and numb. Five days had passed since they had routed the Lorian armies attacking the city of Aravell, five days since he and Valerys had burned thousands alive. He’d heard them scream, watched them thrash as the flames consumed their flesh and turned them to blackened husks. He’d lost a piece of himself as he’d watched… and more pieces in the days since.

They’d had no choice—No, that wasn’t true. They’d had a choice, and they’d made the only decision worth making. A decision they’d make again to protect the ones they loved. But that didn’t mean Calen didn’t hate himself for it. It didn’t mean he hadn’t taken thousands of fathers, mothers, daughters, and sons from their families.

His throat tightened, images of fire and smoke filling his mind. Blood-curdling screams resounded in his head. Shrieks, cries. Men made inhuman sounds when burned alive. Sounds that had etched themselves into Calen and Valerys’s shared soul.

Vaeril stopped just as the voices and footfalls of the others drifted through the trees. “May I ask?”

“Vaeril, you don’t have to ask permission every time. We’re past that.”

The elf stared back at Calen, holding his gaze, his expression unchanging.

Calen sighed. “Yes.” Exhaustion seeped into his voice. Elven customs were infuriating at times. “Ask.”

Vaeril inclined his head. “Are you well?” He shook his head before Calen could answer. “My apologies. I know you are not well. None of us are, but I just?—”

“Just tired.” Calen rested his hand on Vaeril’s pauldron, mustering what must have looked like the most insincere of smiles, all while the screams still rang in his head. “Let’s gather the others and get back to Aravell. It’s been a long few days, and I’d have a night’s rest under my belt before the ceremony.”

The truth was, Calen wanted nothing less than to return to Aravell and deal with the unceasing, unrelenting politics and questions that had erupted in the wake of the attack and King Silmiryn’s death in the fighting. But there were problems that needed to be solved, and he’d been away from Ella and Valerys for too long. At the thought, the dragon rumbled at the edges of his mind, the pain from his wounds flaring.

A moment passed in which Vaeril stared into Calen’s eyes as though waiting for him to say something more, but then the elf nodded, and they started off through the trees.

They emerged into a clearing newly forged out of the dense, all-consuming canopy of the Aravell woodland. Thanks to the Dragonguard, the ground was now laden with char and ash, the earth open to the skies above. Bones protruded from blackened animal carcasses, and the trees and brush lingered as brittle husks. Around the edges, fires still burned, dark smoke pluming into the air as the Blood Moon loomed in the star-dusted sky.

Urak and Lorian bodies lay scattered amidst the ashes, the gemstones set into the Uraks’ blackened weapons pulsating with crimson light. The beasts had taken Calen and the others by surprise while they’d been scouring the area for the Lorian remnants, falling upon them in the dark.

Just short of a thousand warriors stood in the clearing. Some were arranged in columns, ready to march, while others moved about, checking the injured and loading bodies onto hastily lashed-together sleds, drawn by the giant, white-furred stags that were the Dvalin Angan. Many of the warriors – those whose armour Valdrin and the smiths had finished – were garbed in silver plate and chainmail, the symbol of the white dragon peering through blood and dirt.

Calen didn’t think he would ever look upon that marking and not feel strange. These warriors looked to him; they fought in his name, bearing Valerys’s likeness on their breastplates. They had charged at his back on the night the Lorians attacked Aravell, and they had never faltered. In the days since, they had done so again and again as they routed the Lorians from the woodland and the areas around and pushed back the Uraks that ventured into the Aravell from Lodhar.

It was a strange feeling – to owe a debt of loyalty to so many. But they were willing to die for him, and he was willing to do the same in return. If his father had taught him anything, it was to protect your own; and he would. The people of The Glade never stood alone, and nor did they allow others to do so.

As Calen looked out at the clearing, six figures pulled away from the others and approached: Dann, Tarmon, Lyrei, Ingvat, Narthil, and Harken Holdark.

The elf, Narthil, was the first to speak. Calen had not spent much time with him before the attack on the city – Haem had selected the captains – but in the past few days, Narthil had proven himself more than capable, if a little rigid.

“Draleid,” he said, bowing slightly towards Calen before inclining his head to Vaeril. “Narvír.”

Commander.

“Two hundred and eighty-three casualties. One hundred and seventy-two elves, one hundred and nine humans, two Angan,” Narthil said matter-of-factly.

“Just the count, Narthil.” Calen’s tone was sharp, sharper than he’d intended, but he gave no apologies. He knew the elf meant nothing by it, but after everything that had happened, they could not afford to see the differences between them. They needed to stay united. It was humans who had burned this woodland. Humans who had attacked Aravell. It would be all too easy for those facts to take root in elven minds.

Narthil gave a slight nod before continuing. “Two hundred and eighty-three casualties. By our count, at least six Bloodmarked are dead and over one hundred Uraks along with all Lorian soldiers. Despite the Urak ambush, the pursuit was successful.”

“Tell that to our dead.” Dann’s eyes were fixed on the ground, his arms folded, jaw clenched. “I’m sure they’d disagree.”

Calen allowed his gaze to linger on Dann. “Where are Atara and Aelmar?”

“They took fifty soldiers to scout the area for stragglers.” Harken stepped forwards. The Rakina towered over the others, his face and hands still smeared in blood, his long hair tied in a braid that fell over his shoulder and down to his hip. The man had thrown himself into the thick of the fighting, and the soldiers had rallied around him. “They will follow us to Aravell. The Uraks grow bolder, Calen. And if the past is any indication of the future, they will continue to do so as the Blood Moon waxes. We should pull our forces back, closer to the city, where the remaining Nithrandír stand guard. We were lucky. Had their numbers been greater, we would not be standing here drawing breath.”

Calen nodded. “We’ll discuss it with the others. For now, we need to move.”

The thrum of the Spark in the air reached Calen before the southern gates of Aravell came into view, like lightning crackling over his skin. The Craftsmages had begun the city’s repairs a few days prior, though with the chaos that had followed the attack, progress had been slow.

Calen’s heart ached as he once again set eyes upon the devastation that had been wrought on the ethereal city. Shattered veins of glowing erinian stone glittered like fragments of broken stars strewn across the crater-filled courtyard that fronted the gates. Uprooted trees as tall as towers lay amidst chunks of wall and cliff that had been broken free by the Lorian mages. At the very least, the bodies had been cleared, the elves prepared for the ceremony, the Lorians fed to the forest.

The repairs to the courtyard may have been neglected in favour of higher priorities within the city, but the enormous white gates that had been blown apart during the attack were now resurrected, and several watchtowers of white stone now stood about the courtyard’s perimeter.

As Calen and the others led the column of warriors across the rubble, the Highguard who patrolled the yard in their silver plate all stood to attention. Each bowed their heads, whispering ‘Draleid’ and tapping the butts off their glaives against the stone as Calen passed.

At any other time, Calen would have expected Dann to make a smart remark about it, but Dann had been different since the attack, quieter, more withdrawn. Alea and Baldon’s deaths had hit Dann hard. He had grown close to them both. Calen wished he knew what to say, but it had always been Dann who’d comforted him . Rist would have known what to say; Rist always knew what to say. He might have taken a bit longer to say it, more time thinking and weighing each word, but in the end, Calen could scarcely think of a time when Rist hadn’t been proven right… eventually.

The simple thought of Rist set a pang of guilt in Calen that manifested as a tangible ache in his chest. With each day that passed, the hope that Rist was alive withered; not that it had been a large hope to begin with. Calen grabbed hold of the guilt, shoved it down into the dark abyss of his mind where he kept all the things that clawed at him, and kept walking.

In truth, he feared the moment he stopped and dwelled on the things he couldn’t change would be the moment they swallowed him whole.

Once they passed through the gates, Harken, Narthil, and Ingvat led the warriors to the makeshift barracks that Queen Uthrían had gifted them in the eastern section of the city. Meanwhile, Calen and the others carried on to Alura.

A dark mood hung over the city of Aravell like a dense fog. Thousands had been lost during the attack, ripped apart by the Spark and steel, crushed beneath falling rubble, butchered by the dark spirits of the Aldithmar, burned alive in dragonfire. The loss of life was at a scale Calen still struggled to comprehend. In The Glade a death was a significant event. The mourning of the loss and the celebration of the life could carry on for weeks. The entire village ached. One single death. This was thousands upon thousands.

He and the others walked through the city in silence. Aravell’s residents flowed around them carrying lanterns and wreaths in their arms as they prepared for the ceremony the following night. Many of them stopped in their tracks and bowed their heads at Calen’s approach. The elves of Aravell had treated Calen with respect from the first moment he’d stepped foot within the walls, but since he and Valerys had fought in the skies over the city, that regard had only grown. They had all lost so much, and yet still they stopped, still they bowed their heads and whispered ‘Draleid’.

Calen tried to be grateful, but the truth was he felt only guilt. Simply by his presence he was forcing these elves, bound by their honour, to halt their grieving and acknowledge him. The thought made him sick. All he wanted was to let the shadows swallow him whole. Instead, he stopped and bowed his head in return to each and every soul that passed.

As they moved through the city, Dann, Lyrei, Tarmon, and Vaeril each mirrored Calen, not one grumbling at the slow pace they set.

“You do them a great honour,” Vaeril whispered in Calen’s ear. “It will not be forgotten.”

“I know what it is to lose the ones you love,” Calen answered as he inclined his head to an elven woman holding the hand of a small child. “It’s they who honour me. I brought the death here. They suffered its wrath… because of me.”

Vaeril grabbed hold of Calen’s arm, locking their gazes. “This was always coming. The empire was never going to leave us here, and neither were we going to stay put. This is known. It has been accepted for a long time. You were not the cause, but on the night the Dragonguard flew over this city, you rose to meet them.”

Calen sighed through his nostrils, giving Vaeril the faintest of nods before pulling his arm free and carrying on. He understood Vaeril’s words, but they brought him no comfort.

Eventually, the crowds thinned and Calen and the others made their way through the city and across the bridge that separated Aravell from Alura.

Calen stopped at the archway that led into Alura while the others carried on, not noticing he’d lagged behind.

In his moment of solitude, Calen looked up at the words carved into the rock. He swallowed, his hand resting on the coin pommel of the sword at his hip.

“Draleid n’aldryr, Rakina nai dauva. Ikin vir v?nta. Ikin vir alura. Marai viel alanín til ata ilynír abur er kerta.” Calen whispered the words, as he had done the first time he’d read them. Now, though, with all he had seen, they held new meaning.

Dragonbound by fire, Broken by death. Here we wait. Here we rest. Until we are called to make whole what is half.

The first time he’d read those words, he’d seen them as a resignation: ‘This is where we rest until we can finally die.’

But when Ithrax and the other dragons had sacrificed themselves to save Calen and Valerys, they had shown him how wrong he’d been. It wasn’t a resignation. It was a proclamation: ‘We will fight until our dying breath. We will not be bowed. We will not yield.’

They were guardians until their last.

A deep sorrow flooded into Calen’s mind from Valerys’s, so powerful it brought tears to his eyes. There were so few dragons left in the world. And, somehow, finding that Valerys wasn’t alone, only to lose so many more, cut far deeper than if they had never known at all.

“Calen?” Dann walked back through the archway, concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Dann followed Calen’s gaze to the words etched into the stone, his expression softening. “Therin told me what that means.”

Calen pulled his stare from the words and looked at Dann. Tear drops still rolled over his chin as his lips curled into a brittle smile.

“I’ve got some of those jugs of whatever the elves think passes for mead stashed away in my room,” Dann said, the smile on his lips brittle. “How about tonight we sit in the Eyrie with Valerys and get piss drunk? I’ll have a bit too much, and you’ll have to stop me from wandering off the edge.”

“That sounds… perfect.” Once again, there Dann was when Calen needed him. Despite his own loss, despite his own grief, Dann was always there. “Dann, I…”

Calen searched for the words, but Dann shook his head.

“No.” Dann swallowed hard, his lips contorting, the half-smile fading. The pain in his eyes twisted Calen’s heart. “Not now. Later. I’m not drunk enough for the sappy shit.”

A strange sense of relief swept over Calen as he stepped from the archway and onto the platform that overlooked Alura, taking in the structures of white stone blending into the rock face that swept outwards in a circle and sloped towards the enormous courtyard at the bottom.

Bodies moved to and fro across the many bridges and along the grass paths that wound their way around the spark-carved basin within which Alura was built. Even from that distance, in the courtyard a hundred or so feet below, Calen recognised Thacia’s blood-red hair and bluish skin. The Jotnar sat with her legs crossed by the trees on the central platform, a clutch of others around her, the hulking frame of Asius at her side.

Across the way, eight spark-wrought homes of pure white were set into a massive alcove at the back of the enormous plateau the elven Craftsmages had created when Calen and the others had first reached Aravell. Each home rose several storeys and flowed naturally into the rock face as though part of the mountain itself. In one of those homes, Ella lay still, Faenir watching over her, as he had done since the day she’d collapsed.

The elves of Aravell had bowed to Calen and paid him respect as though he and he alone had saved them from death. But it was Ella who had sacrificed herself to save them. Ella who had paid the price. It was she who deserved their thanks, not him.

Calen had never really given her the credit, but when Haem had not returned from ?lm Forest, his sister had watched over him like a mother hen. She had been the anchor that had stopped him floating adrift, the guiding hand that had kept him on course. She had done so with the combination of mockery and love only a sister could give, but still, she had been there.

As Calen and the others made their way along one of the paths towards the plateau, they passed the Healer, Kiko Sander, leaning against the white wall of one of the homes, her palms pressed against her knees. The mage lifted her gaze, her eyes tired as she smiled at Calen and the others, sweat slicking her needle-straight hair to her head. Before she could say anything, another of the northern rebels, Loura, burst from the doorway in a fluster.

Calen didn’t catch any of the words that passed between them, but the smile vanished from Kiko’s lips and the pair darted back inside without a word.

“I should go help.” Vaeril looked from Calen to the doorway. “We’re losing more injured every day. The infirmaries are full. My people’s Healers can’t keep up. Kiko hasn’t slept.”

“Go,” Calen said, nodding towards the house. “And Vaeril.”

The elf raised a curious eyebrow.

“Don’t overextend yourself.” Calen hesitated. “You can’t save everyone.”

The words were as much for himself as they were for Vaeril.

Vaeril’s mouth stretched into a grim line, but he gave Calen a nod before setting off into the house.

“Aeson and the others are back then,” Tarmon said as they reached the plateau. He gestured towards where Surin sat on a low bench before the leftmost home. The Craftsmage had been one of the captains sent with Aeson and Erik to clear the northern wood of Lorian remnants while Calen and the others took forces to clear the south.

As soon as Surin saw Calen and the others, she rose, patting her robes down and collecting herself before approaching and regaling Calen with a full account of what had happened with Aeson and the forces sent to the northern wood. Calen cared little for what came after the words ‘no casualties’, but he let Surin continue.

“Thank you, Surin. It’s good to hear nobody was lost.”

Appearing to sense Calen’s desire to press onwards, Surin bowed deeply. “On your leave, Warden.”

The woman turned, picked up a journal and pen she’d left on the bench, and stepped inside the house.

“The Warden of Varyn,” Tarmon said, giving a downturn of his lip. “It’s a powerful title.”

“Hmm.” Calen shook his head. Surin, Ingvat, and the other rebels from Berona had taken to the name over the past months, but in the wake of the battle, it seemed to be spreading.

“Whether you like it or not, let them have it. Legends are powerful. Not just for those who fight at our side, but for those who would stand against us. Fear wins more battles than steel. And fighting against the Warden of Varyn, who rides into battle on dragonback, could strike fear into the hearts of many.”

The thought didn’t comfort Calen.

“I feel a new poem coming on,” Dann said, stroking his chin. “The Warden of Varyn, his name is not Karin. He—Argh!”

A swift slap to the back of his head from Tarmon cut Dann short.

“What was that for?”

Tarmon raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. “Hmm.”

“You’re just jealous of how quickly I found a word to rhyme with Varyn.”

“Marin.”

“Well, you’ve had some time to?—”

“Barren, heron, faren, zarin.”

“That last one’s not even a word.”

“It means ‘gold’ in Ardanian.”

“Since when do you speak Ardanian? You can barely speak the Common Tongue.”

“I’m going to check on Ella,” Calen said, cutting across Dann and Tarmon.

The mood changed at the mention of Ella’s name, and the emerging smiles on Dann and Tarmon’s faces melted away. Even Lyrei shifted uncomfortably, meeting Calen’s gaze for a fleeting moment.

Tarmon gave a sombre nod. “I’ll check on Valerys, make sure he’s fed and looked after, and get a briefing from Erik. I’ll find you in the Eyrie later. I heard Dann say something about mead.” He grasped Calen’s forearm, staring into his eyes for a long moment. “Suffering alone serves no one. Remember that.”

As Tarmon left, Dann leaned in closer. “Do you want me to come?”

Calen shook his head.

“Well, that’s awkward because the mead is in my room… which is in that house… because that’s where we sleep.”

Calen shook his head and pulled Dann into an embrace, their armour clinking as he squeezed him tight. Calen’s breath caught in his chest, a sudden wave of sadness washing over him. “I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”

“My clothes are in there too. I can’t walk around in this armour all day.” A smile spread across Dann’s face, and he grasped Calen’s shoulders. “Go. Lyrei and I will see if we can find us some more mead, keep the supply in my room for a rainy day.” He looked down at the white dragon on his breastplate. “I’m pretty sure I’ll get a better price with this on anyway.”

As Dann made to leave, he turned once more and met Calen’s stare. “She’ll be all right, Calen. Ella’s just like you. All of you Bryers. You’re harder to get rid of than weeds.”

Calen nodded in return, barely managing to muster a brittle smile as Dann and Lyrei made their way back up towards the archway that led to the main city.

Finally alone, Calen turned towards the tall white building that he supposed was now his ‘home’, though he didn’t think he could ever truly see it that way. His home was The Glade, as it always had been. He felt the touch of Valerys’s mind from where the dragon rested in the Eyrie and opened himself to it.

Warmth spread through him, filling his bones and soothing the aches in his muscles. But more significant than anything was the way Valerys’s soul filled the gaps in Calen’s; it made him whole and complete and left him wondering how he had ever existed before the bond.

I’ll come to you as soon as I’ve checked on Ella.

Calen could feel Valerys shifting in place at the thought of Ella. Concern and worry seeped from the dragon’s mind. Valerys’s injuries from the battle had left him unable to leave the Eyrie without assistance, and with his size, the Healers could only do so much at once. Even still, Valerys’s only thoughts had been of Ella – of his family.

Calen had barely opened the door when the warm aroma of braised lamb flooded his nostrils. Somehow, that familiar scent, that smell of home, pulled the fear and anxiety from his bones and at the same time set a deep sense of loss and longing in his heart. He closed his eyes for just a moment, picking out the rosemary, the thyme, the roasted tomatoes. It was as though, all of a sudden, he was back in The Glade, his mam standing over a cast iron pot, cooking a meal to warm their bellies.

That moment of comfort – of warmth – was followed by tears welling in his eyes.

“My sweet boy.”

Calen snapped open his eyes, hearing the sound of his mother’s voice. But it wasn’t his mam he found himself staring at, it was Elia Havel.

Rist’s mam rested her fingers against the side of Calen’s cheek and brushed away the budding tears with her thumb as delicately as though he were made of paper. Grey still streaked her hair, exhaustion still carved dark wells under her eyes, and she still looked as though she weighed little more than a child, but the joyful, bright woman that Calen had always known was slowly returning.

“Come,” Elia said, pulling her hand away and gesturing for Calen to follow. Unlit candles sat in small alcoves all about the walls, crimson-touched moonlight drifting in through the windows while the fireplace set into the wall on the other side of the room roared. A long wooden table abutted the wall to Calen’s right, stretching halfway into the room, sturdy chairs lining its length on both sides. Elia rounded the table and stood by an enormous cast iron cookpot suspended over the fire. She grabbed a thick cloth and lifted the pot’s lid, drawing in a long breath through her nose.

“I’ve tried for years to braise lamb like your mother. Never quite succeeded. I—” Elia’s head twitched to the left, and a shiver spread through her shoulders and back; a remnant of her time beneath Berona. Tarmon said he’d seen it in many a warrior, their bodies reliving trauma long past. Some learned to suppress it, others never did. Elia drew a slow breath and shook her head. “I thought it might put a bit of warmth in you.”

“It smells just like how she made it.” Calen moved beside Elia, letting the scents of the lamb fill his nostrils. “Thank you.”

Calen stared down into the massive pot, watching the bubbles form and burst, the oils swirling in the juice. He reached for the ladle and received a firm slap on his wrist.

Elia raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, daring Calen to try a second time.

Calen laughed, but that laughter faded as he thought of Ella. “How is she?”

Elia sighed and rested her frail fingers on Calen’s pauldron. “No change. Tanner is with her now. He’s been by her side since you left – him and Yana. Why don’t you go up and tell him to have some food and a rest. I’ll bring some lamb up when it’s done. It’s still missing something.”

Calen nodded, finding his words caught in his throat. He made for the stairs, but Elia called him once more.

“Oh, and Calen.”

Calen raised an eyebrow, turning back.

“Take your armour off and bathe before you go to your sister. You’re covered in blood.”