4. In Gods We Trust
Chapter 4
In Gods We Trust
5 th Day of the Blood Moon
Temple of Achyron – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Brother Ormin screamed as Kallinvar laid him on the long stone table at the northern edge of the Heart Chamber. The stone groaned beneath the weight of Ormin in his Sentinel armour, dust falling from the table’s joints.
Watcher Gildrick, along with his shadow of a ward, Tallia, and two healers swarmed around Ormin, attempting in vain to hold him down amidst his thrashing.
“We need the armour off.” Gildrick checked Ormin’s knee, where the plate of the Sentinel armour had been cracked, blood pumping through the gaps. Several other gashes marked the plate at Ormin’s shoulder and his left arm. A Soulblade had been used to carve through the otherworldly metal.
“Brother.” Kallinvar laid his hand on Ormin’s chest, his gauntlet clinking against the metal. “I need you to recall your armour so Gildrick and the healers can see to the wounds. Pain is the path to strength.”
Ormin’s only answer was a grunt, followed by the man’s Sentinel armour flowing over his skin like molten steel and returning to the Sigil marked into his chest.
Brother Gildrick grimaced at the sight of Ormin’s shattered knee while Tallia turned and vomited.
“Achyron tests you, brother,” Gildrick said, cupping his hand at the side of Ormin’s face, forcing the knight to look into his eyes. “Will you rise to his test?”
Ormin clenched his jaw and gave a sharp nod. “Yes, Watcher,” he said with a grunt, speaking through gritted teeth.
Kallinvar rested his gauntleted hand on Ormin’s bare leg. Snapped bone pierced the skin in several places, pale as snow, torn flesh dangling. With the power of the Sigil flowing through Ormin, and the restorative gifts of Heraya’s Well, he would walk again, but the bones needed to first be set.
The two healers poured Altweid Blood into Brother Ormin’s open mouth and got to work. The liquid was to pain what water was to fire.
“How is he?” Brother-Captain Gandrid, the knight who took Illarin’s place as Captain of The Seventh after he fell at Ilnaen, appeared by Kallinvar’s side, Sentinel armour coating his body from the neck down.
“He’ll live,” Kallinvar said, resting his hand on Gandrid’s pauldron. “Torebon?”
“Safe, for now. Six of Efialtír’s Chosen bound into bodies of Bloodspawn and more Bloodmarked than I could count. The mages held them at bay, but the city will fall eventually. The Bloodspawn are simply too many, and the light of Efialtír’s moon turns those Bloodmarked into demons. And the Chosen… We’ve never faced anything like this, Grandmaster.”
“And yet here we are.” Kallinvar kept his tone level, attempting to radiate the same sense of calm that Verathin had always possessed. “Our duty remains unchanged, does it not, brother?”
“Protect the weak,” Gandrid said, nodding to himself. “Forgive me, Grandmaster.”
“There is nothing to forgive, brother. This path was never meant to be easy. It will test us, push us beyond our limits, and it may even break us. We were given a second chance so that we may protect this world. If our lives are the cost of victory, then so be it. We have already given them.”
Gandrid exhaled sharply, then met Kallinvar’s gaze. “What news from the North?”
“The Bloodspawn have poured from the Burnt Lands and Mar Dorul, razing Arginwatch and Copperstille. Kingspass still stands, but only just. Lyrin’s eyes and ears in the city tell us it will soon fall. The Lorian Empire are on their heels, but this war is far from over. Ilnaen changed everything.” Kallinvar hesitated but pushed onwards. “I will summon the knighthood to the great plateau once the others have returned. There is something that must be discussed.”
“At your command, Grandmaster.”
“You did well, Gandrid. Illarin would be proud.”
The man simply nodded, then turned to his wounded knight. It had been Illarin who had been given the honour of granting Gandrid his Sigil over three hundred and fifty years prior. They had been like blood.
With the Altweid Blood taking effect, Ormin’s screams faded as Kallinvar made his way to the war table at the centre of the chamber. Four more knights lay about on cots and tables, wounded and broken, healers and Watchers tending them before they could be moved to Heraya’s Well.
This had been the way in the days since the Blood Moon had risen. Sixty-three knights still drew breath, almost thirty fewer than before that night.
This war will take everything from us.
“We will avenge them, my child,” Achyron’s voice echoed in Kallinvar’s mind.
“It was you who led them to their slaughter,” Kallinvar answered.
“What was that?” Gildrick appeared at Kallinvar’s side, wiping blood from his hands with an old cloth.
“Nothing.” Kallinvar shook his head, resting his hands on the edge of the war table. Much to Gildrick and the other Watchers’ displeasure, he’d had Sister-Captain Arlena rip the table from the floor of the war room and shift it into the larger Heart Chamber. “What news from Poldor and the Watchers?”
“Your description allowed us to locate several old texts. They talk of the Chosen as Efialtír’s champions in the realm of the gods – the Vitharnmír. They are the warriors who held the armies of the other gods at bay so Efialtír could cross to this world and plant his seed in the crust of the earth. They also mention the other name you spoke of – the Urithnilim, the Fades. They are lesser souls, servants of the Traitor, created from his shadow, if you would believe it. But the Vitharnmír are more than that. They are demons carved from Efialtír’s flesh, empowered by his soul, given life through his blood. Most of it reads more as mythology than history.”
“The two are one and the same more often than not, Gildrick. Have you found anything that would give us an idea of Fane Mortem’s plan? Why would he bring the Vitharnmír through the tear in the veil?”
“Efialtír is to cross, my child. He seeks the Heart of Blood. It is hidden, even from me.”
Kallinvar closed his eyes and shook his head, releasing a calming breath.
“Are you all right?” Gildrick asked.
Kallinvar pried his lids open, finding Gildrick staring at him with a curious expression. He drew a short breath and let it out in a sigh. “Look for references to a ‘Heart of Blood’.”
Gildrick raised an eyebrow.
“Just do it, Gildrick. Search through the texts. Have the cooks bring meals on the hour, Tarkin Stem, ale, tea – whatever keeps the Watchers awake. Sleep comes later. We have no time for it now.” Kallinvar leaned in close, lowering his voice to avoid Tallia’s prying ears. “We need to know how Fane plans to help Efialtír step through the veil between worlds. He will make his move before the Blood Moon has faded. We must stop him.”
“It will be done, Grandmaster.” Gildrick bowed and made to leave.
“Gildrick.”
“Yes?”
“What news of Tarron?”
“Still nothing, old friend. And I do not believe we will find anything in the texts we have. If he still lives, it is not in the mortal plane.” Following Kallinvar’s lead, Gildrick bent his head so Tallia couldn’t hear. “He speaks to you still? Perhaps that is where you may find answers.”
Kallinvar nodded. “Barely anything of use. He speaks, but he does not answer questions. It’s more like the ramblings of a madman.”
“Give it time. Wars are not only fought in this realm, old friend. Achyron fights for us. We must allow faith to be our armour.”
“Hmmm.” Kallinvar returned to the war table as Gildrick took his leave, Tallia close behind. Faith was all well and good, and Kallinvar had faith, but there was only one reason a god would ask a man for blind faith, and that was control.
He shook his head, attempting to loose the thoughts from his mind. Doubt was the true killer of men, and he had no time for it.
Porters, servants, Watchers, and healers flitted about the room, the din of their footfalls and chatter fading to the back of Kallinvar’s mind as he looked over the war table. Over half the knights were on task, holding back the flood of Bloodspawn that poured from their mountain holds across the continent. Regardless of whether the Blood Moon was only the beginning or not, while it dominated the sky, the Bloodspawn flowed across the continent like locusts. Some cities were strong enough to hold back the tide - barely – but others would be swallowed whole if the knights didn’t come to their aid. The next few weeks would change the continent forever.
Ruon, Arden, Ildris, and the others fought near the base of the Marin Mountains where the Bloodspawn had overrun the city of Elmnest. Thousands were dead, the city in ruins. But without the knights, those fleeing would be picked off and harvested. More knights were scattered across Epheria, doing all they could to slow the tide.
The only saving grace was that the Lorian Empire had been silent since that night, and so the knights were fighting on one front and not two. But Kallinvar knew that if Fane Mortem was silent, it was because he was scheming. That man never did anything without a purpose.
He couldn’t shake Achyron’s words from his mind. “The Alignment will happen, my child. It is inevitable. You cannot stop Efialtír’s harbinger from widening the tear in the veil. Too much has been set in motion. But you must meet him when he does. You must limit the crossing and close the tear. Then prepare the world for the war to come.”
Prepare for the war to come.
For four hundred years, Kallinvar had been readying himself for the Blood Moon, readying himself to face the darkness that had ripped the world apart during The Fall. And now the Blood Moon was here, and all his preparation was for nothing. The knighthood was stretched thin as parchment, their numbers almost cut in half. Efialtír’s Chosen had already crossed. Fane Mortem was even stronger than he had been then. For all his efforts, all his sacrifice, all Verathin’s sacrifice, the world was a darker place and closer to the precipice of oblivion than it had ever been.
“I’ve failed…”
“It has not even begun, my child.”
“Well, then give me some damn answers!” Kallinvar slammed his fist onto the stone war table, garnering looks from all those about the chamber. A pulse rippled through his Sigil, and he had no time to worry about the looks the porters, servants, and Watchers gave him.
His Sigil burned, his skin turning to ice as he summoned the Rift, the green light of its rim glowing against the cold stone, its centre black as night.
Ruon was the first through, the black liquid of the Rift rippling in her wake. Varlin followed close behind, her Sentinel armour washed in crimson.
The pool of black bulged outwards, and Arden charged through, cradling Sylven in his arms. The woman was unconscious, her arm severed just below the elbow, blood flowing freely.
“Help!” Arden roared, Ildris stepping through the Rift behind him. “Gildrick!”
“Here, Brother Arden.” Watcher Poldor sprinted across the room, sweeping stacks of scrolls and old books from atop a table. “Lay her down.” He turned to Watcher Timkin. “Brimlock sap, catgut, needles, Altweid Blood, and a stick.”
Timkin hesitated, his mouth open.
“Go!”
The young Watcher scuttled away, panic in his eyes.
Kallinvar understood. To the people of Ardholm, the knights were akin to the gods themselves. In the past four centuries, it was the rarest of things for a knight to return to the temple with so much as a scratch upon their skin.
Brother Arden laid Sylven atop the table as though she were made of glass.
“It’s going to be all right,” Arden whispered, standing over her, one hand at the back of her head. She was completely unconscious.
“It will.” Kallinvar rested one hand on Arden’s shoulder, placing the other on Sylven’s chest. He could feel the pulse of the woman’s Sigil like a heartbeat in his mind. Drawing in a deep breath, Kallinvar reached out through his Sigil. Just as he had read in the journals of Grandmaster Telemanus, he focused on Sylven’s Sigil and commanded it to recall her Sentinel armour. Within seconds, the armour had begun to recede, exposing the gruesome wound of Sylven’s severed arm and allowing Gildrick and the healers to get to work.
Unless necessary, it was not something Kallinvar thought he would do again. It felt like a violation of Sylven’s very soul.
“Report,” Kallinvar said to Ruon, no longer wanting to look upon Sylven.
“We held the Bloodspawn off long enough for most of the survivors to flee towards Varsund. The city’s garrison stood with us and now march with the refugees. The Chosen appeared, and the Bloodspawn consolidated to the city. All the souls left within…”
“You did what you could.” Kallinvar clasped his hands at the side of Ruon’s head and brought their foreheads together. “That’s all Achyron can ever ask of us. The Shadow is rising, and we will be there to meet it.”
Ruon drew a deep breath, then pulled away, nodding.
He passed his gaze over Ildris, Arden, and Varlin. He could sense the pain and exhaustion emanating from their Sigils. “Go and rest yourselves in Heraya’s Well. Lyrin waits for you there. He returned from Catagan only an hour past. We are to meet on the plateau once the rest of our brothers and sisters are with us.”
“Please, Grandmaster. Send me back out.” Arden’s helmet receded and he looked into Kallinvar’s eyes. Sweat streaked Arden’s face, and he was breathing heavily, but his eyes were unwavering. He swallowed, then took a breath. “Every minute we spend here, more people die. I can help them. I can save them…” He shook his head. “You didn’t see it… You didn’t see what those monsters did.” He drew a sharp breath and steadied himself. “Please. Send me back. We are not done there.”
“If you don’t rest, Arden, you, too, will die.”
“I already died. I was given this chance so others wouldn’t have to die the way I did. The duty of the strong is to protect the weak. I ask you again. Please . Send me back.”
“Heal your soul in Heraya’s Well.” Kallinvar stared into Arden’s eyes as he spoke. He understood the young man’s frustration. “There is more at play here than you know. The duty of the strong is to protect the weak, Arden. All of them, not just a few. When you have recovered your strength, I will send you and Lyrin to Aravell. We will need their aid, and the Draleid is still important in what is to come.”
The hardness in Arden’s expression dissipated at the mention of Aravell and of his brother. “Yes, Grandmaster.” He bowed his head, his breaths still heavy. “Grandmaster, may I ask, the western villages of Illyanara?”
“Your people are safe.” Kallinvar drew a long breath. It was often difficult for knights to dwell on their past lives, but for Arden in particular the past was still blended with the present. Kallinvar did not doubt his commitment, but he was wary of the weight he might place on the young man’s shoulders. “From Lyrin’s last report, many of the remaining villages and towns were abandoned in favour of Salme. They have gathered in large numbers and have erected fortifications. They are holding back the Bloodspawn.”
“Thank you, Grandmaster.”
As Arden, Ildris, and Varlin left the chamber, Kallinvar grasped Ruon’s arm. “Walk with me?”
Much like in the Heart Chamber, porters, cooks, servants, and priests filled the corridors of the great temple, their footsteps and shouts echoing. Every face spoke of fear and worry.
“I will address the village once I have spoken to the knights.”
Ruon gave a downturn of her bottom lip, nodding. “It would go a long way. They are terrified. The crimson twilight of the Blood Moon is all they’ve seen in days.”
“I should have done it sooner,” Kallinvar admitted.
Ruon shook her head, then gave a slight bow at the sight of Watcher Hildan. “No,” she said, looking back at Kallinvar. “Time is a luxury we’ve not been able to afford. But the knights could use a rest, even a few hours.”
The pair walked in silence through the temple, eventually arriving at the Soul Vault. Candlelight warmed the stone of the one hundred alcoves carved into the far wall. The last time Kallinvar had been in the room, all but three alcoves had been empty. Now thirty-seven Sigils rested in their places, metallic green surfaces glinting in the candlelight.
A priest garbed in white and green robes bowed deeply to Kallinvar and Ruon before lighting two freshly placed candles and slipping from the room.
Kallinvar’s steps echoed as he walked through the chamber. He stopped before the wall of alcoves, reaching out a hand to touch a Sigil. “This one belonged to Verathin.”
“Kallinvar…” Ruon’s words faded as her steps bounced off the stone.
“This was Mirken’s,” he said, moving to the alcove six spaces over, then to the alcove beside it. “Daynin’s… Illarin’s.”
“Kallinvar, it’s not on you. We all chose this.”
“I can feel them, Ruon.” Kallinvar turned to look into Ruon’s eyes. Those eyes had stared back at him for centuries, kept him sane, kept him grounded. Ruon was his keystone, his anchor. With Verathin gone, she was his reference point in the world, the thing around which time flowed. Ildris, Tarron, and Ruon. The three of them were part of Kallinvar’s soul, shards of who he was as a man. But Ruon was… different. She knew him like no other.
“We will find Tarron,” she said, resting a hand on Kallinvar’s arm. “We must trust Gildrick and the Watchers. They will find a way. Have faith in Achyron.”
Kallinvar sighed, his fingers lingering on Illarin’s Sigil as it rested in its alcove. “I hear him, Ruon.”
“Illarin? What do you mean you can hear him?”
“Not Illarin.” Kallinvar pulled his hand away from Illarin’s Sigil, then took a step closer to Ruon. His mouth suddenly felt dry as sand. “I can hear Achyron’s voice in my head. He speaks to me.”
Ruon didn’t answer. She tilted her head sideways, narrowing her eyes, examining every line on Kallinvar’s face. He could feel his heart pounding slowly against his ribs under her gaze.
“I’ve not lost my mind,” Kallinvar said, moving closer. “I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t know how. How do you tell someone you can hear a god’s voice in your head?”
“What does he say?” Ruon’s gaze never left Kallinvar’s.
“Many things, but not enough. He told me the Blood Moon was only the beginning, that there was a war to come. He said that… I’m sorry, I know how this sounds. I know it seems like I’ve lost my mind?—”
“Kallinvar.” Ruon shook her head, cupping her hands to his cheeks.
“What?”
“I believe you.” She pressed her fingers into Kallinvar’s neck, her thumbs resting under his cheekbones. “I always have, and I always will. You know that. I trust you.”
Kallinvar nodded softly, leaning his cheek into Ruon’s left hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d keep fighting.” Ruon leaned forwards and pressed her forehead against Kallinvar’s. “Just as you did before me, you will do after.”
Kallinvar leaned into Ruon, closing his eyes, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. He did not want an ‘after’. Without Ruon there was no after. Then, as the weight on his shoulders felt that little bit lighter, he jerked backwards, the Sigil in his chest burning once more, reminding him the world was on fire.
“What is it?” Ruon asked, her touch lingering on his arm.
“Emalia is ready to return. It is time to carve the path forward.”