11. Blood of the Lion
Chapter 11
Blood of the Lion
6 th Day of the Blood Moon
The Dead Tower, north of the Burnt Lands – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Rist sat in the dirt, his knees pulled to his chest, his gaze lost in the firepit’s flames. A cup of wine rested beside him, untouched, a dead fly floating on the surface. Extra casks had been sent around once they’d made camp near the edges of the Burnt Lands. Garramon had said it was a token of celebration, but Rist wasn’t quite sure what they could be celebrating. The Chosen had crossed, true enough. From what Rist had seen, from the power they wielded, these beings could only have been sent by a god. But how many had died to bring them into this world? How many lives was a single Chosen worth? And the most pertinent question of all: could the gods be trusted? Could Efialtír be trusted?
Rist had always liked numbers. They were certain and true, with no muddled grey, only black and white. Numbers were simple and honest, and there was a beauty in that. But something about these numbers made him feel nauseous. He’d not heard a count of the dead yet, but they’d entered Ilnaen with eighty thousand souls and left with far fewer. No more than sixty Battlemages remained in the First Army. Three-fifths of their initial number. If the rest of the armies had suffered such casualties, that would mean over thirty thousand had died. Just by a glance, Rist could see that wasn’t the case, but he would not have been surprised if the number sat around fifteen or twenty thousand. That number of dead was near inconceivable. Just the thought of it caused his chest to tighten and his stomach to twist.
He sucked in his cheeks, then grabbed the cup of wine and downed it in a single draught. He only remembered the fly when something a little too solid caught in his throat.
He let out a long sigh, placing the cup back in the dirt. The night was still and silent, nothing but the sound of crunching footsteps, the breeze, and the occasional shout in the distance to fill the emptiness. They’d been there for two days and two nights, waiting on Fane’s orders to march for Berona. Most of the other armies had already been sent onwards to reinforce Elkenrim, Merchant’s Reach, Greenhills, and Catagan against the elves and Uraks, but the Fourth, First, Eighteenth, and Seventh armies had remained with Fane and the Chosen.
Only a handful of mages from the First Army sat about the fire, scattered and listless. Rist knew their faces and probably should have known their names, but many of them were new recruits after the Battle of the Three Sisters – now the Two Sisters, as Magnus kept reminding him. He found it difficult to try to learn the names of people who would likely not live to see the turn of the new year.
Rist grimaced at that morbid thought and cast it from his mind, making himself a promise to learn the names of every mage in the First Army. Like numbers, names had power. A name let someone know you cared. At least, that’s how Rist felt anytime someone said his name. It meant they had taken the time to learn it and to associate small pieces of information with him: his name, his eyes, his hair, his sense of humour, his choice in books. There was no greater act of decency than giving someone your time. Time was precious and the only resource in the world that was truly finite. He cherished it.
His breath misted before him as he looked out at the night, the crimson light of the Blood Moon illuminating the clouds in a pink glow.
Rist reached into his shirt and produced the pendant that hung from his neck, the gold chain clinking. The wire-wrapped gemstone pulsed with a soft red light. He remembered what Garramon had said the first time he’d shown Rist the vessel. “ Through the gift of Essence, Efialtír allows something to come from death. He allows the act of creation to be born from destruction. With the wielding of Essence, no death is in vain.”
The morality of it all was something Rist still struggled with. A part of him demanded he cast the pendant into the flames and never touch it again. That was what his father would have told him to do, and Calen and Dann, no doubt. But Fane and Garramon had been right in that it was his own preconceptions of Efialtír and Blood Magic that drove that part of him. Preconceptions built on stories and hearsay rather than facts or evidence.
Blood Magic or no Blood Magic, thousands would have died at Ilnaen either way. At least with the vessels, every death, every drop of blood spilled, had not been wasted entirely. At least something could come from death. In fact, much of the Essence collected that night had already been drawn upon by the Healers to keep the injured from Achyron’s halls – or ‘Efialtír’s embrace’, as they said in the North, though that was something else he was still trying to get used to.
He ran his fingers over the glowing stone, feeling the power calling to him. With any luck, the Essence within the gemstone could one day save a life.
With a last long sigh, Rist stood and made his way from the fire to the tent where the mages slept. Neera had gone to rest hours earlier around the same time Garramon had left to see Fane. Rist would have followed her had he not wanted to hold the dreams at bay for a little longer. He had always been afraid of many things, but one thing he never even contemplated fearing was sleep. It was a fear he didn’t much care for. He liked sleep, at least he used to, but sleep brought him little solace of late, for his dreams seemed intent on reliving the carnage of Ilnaen the instant his eyes shut.
That was an appropriate word: carnage. The violent killing of a large number. The great and bloody slaughter of many.
As he thought on it, he could see the Uraks ripping men and women to pieces, see the steam wafting from spilt intestines, smell the stench of shit and burning skin. The Bloodmarked tearing through flesh and bone, the knights in green plate carving soldiers in half with single swipes of their glowing green blades. Níthrals, Rist was sure they were called. He’d never seen one before, but they matched the descriptions in A Study of Control, by Andelar Touran. He made a mental note to ask Garramon more about them. If Garramon’s answers didn’t suffice, he would ask Gault for a reading list. The old man was the single most well-read individual Rist had ever known, possibly even more so than Fane.
Rist allowed himself a sorrow-touched laugh as he felt his brain picking through the pages of A Study of Control , trying desperately to avoid seeing the images of the níthral carving through Anila, of the look of shock on her face, her innards spilling into the sand, the wails of Magnus’s grief. He’d not heard that sound before: pure, unfettered grief. He hoped he never heard it again.
In The Glade, some of the elders had talked about the Varsund War and how seeing so much death was something that stayed with a person, something that altered souls. He had never quite understood what they’d meant. Of course, any event in life can alter how a person perceives things, but how could something change who a person was? How could something rearrange the core of a soul?
He understood now.
There were things in life that once seen could not be unseen. Things that allowed a person to understand the darkness in the world that they had once thought impossible.
Seeing that darkness, seeing the depths to which living beings would go, seeing the carnage and death and abject horror that was war… Seeing all that had changed the way Rist looked at the world, which in turn had changed the things he was willing to do to save it. Even the thought of that darkness touching The Glade cut cold fear through him. He would never let that happen. He would die before he did.
As Rist walked through the camp, he lifted his gaze to the sky, admiring the pink hue that tinged the blackness, scattered stars shimmering.
“You’re still awake, lad?”
Magnus was perched at the top of a boulder to Rist’s right that rose higher than the tents around it. The man was shirtless, revealing the scars that covered his chest and shoulders – likely from his ‘education’ in the Circle. The stump of his left arm, however, held no scarring, only clean, rounded flesh where the Healers had knitted the skin back together. He held a bulging waterskin in his right hand that Rist was absolutely sure did not contain water.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Rist walked towards the foot of the boulder.
Magnus nodded towards a flat space beside him. “Get your skinny arse up here.”
Rist’s muscles groaned as he climbed up the rock and settled himself to Magnus’s left.
Magnus handed him the waterskin. Rist’s suspicions were confirmed when he pulled the stopper from the top and burned his nostrils from the fumes.
Magnus only laughed, the sharp smell of spirits wafting from his breath. “Whiskey from Drifaien. Wine is for celebrating. Whiskey… whiskey is for everything else. Let it sit on your tongue before swallowing.”
Rist took a swig, forcing himself not to swallow the harsh spirit. To his surprise, the taste mellowed, becoming almost sweet.
“Couldn’t sleep or didn’t want to?” Magnus asked as he took the skin back and poured the whiskey, as though it were water, into his open mouth.
Rist stared off into the distance. “Didn’t want to.”
“It’ll get easier.”
“Will it?”
“No.” Magnus handed the skin back to Rist. “Whiskey helps though.”
“Are you not cold?”
Magnus gave Rist a toothless smile that held no joy. “The whiskey is my blanket tonight, lad. Sometimes the cold reminds me I’m not dead. Though, that might have been an easier path.” Magnus snorted, letting out a gruff laugh. “Typical Anila, always taking the easy road.”
Rist looked back at him for a moment, then turned his gaze towards the ground below.
“How are you holding up, besides the nightmares?”
Rist nodded, sipping from the skin. “Fine. I just… can’t wrap my head around everything that happened.”
“I’d be more worried if you could. I’ve seen a lot in my years, but I’ve never seen anything like that. We watched Efialtír’s Chosen cross through the veil between worlds. We watched a god reach his hand into our world and save us. It was a thing of beauty, but beautiful things are often the most terrifying.”
That wasn’t quite how Rist remembered it, but he said nothing.
“I would have preferred if he’d arrived in time to save my arm, though.” Magnus looked down at the stump of his left arm, which extended only about six inches from his shoulder. “I can still feel it, you know. Still feel my elbow bending, my fingers moving. It’s the strangest thing. At least it was my left.”
“I couldn’t even imagine having to learn to use a sword with my other hand.” Rist stretched his off hand in front of himself, trying to imagine the weight of a blade, the pull of the leather. “It took long enough to learn with my good hand.”
“Hah.” Magnus choked on a laugh after swigging from the waterskin. “Sure, sword. That’s what I meant.”
They sat there in silence for a while, passing the skin back and forth, Rist trying to work out what Magnus had meant.
“I’ve lived over five centuries, lad, and only recently did I learn a very important lesson.” Magnus stared up at the Blood Moon as it emerged from behind a dark cloud, his eyes glassy. “Even though you didn’t ask, which is strange because usually I can’t shut you the fuck up for all the questions, I’m gonna tell you anyway because whiskey is the world’s best lubricant.”
The man shifted where he sat so that he stared into Rist’s eyes. Beads of whiskey dripped from his thick black beard.
“When you care for someone, tell them. There are things in this world we always assume don’t need to be said because they are understood.” Magnus shook his head, leaning one arm on his knee. “But we’re always wrong. I loved Anila. Not in the sappy, mushy, spread my heart on her face kind of way, but I loved her. She was good.” Magnus nodded to himself, frowning. “Better than most anyone I know. She was kind, too. I know she came off as a bit of a bitch from time to time. But that was just her way. That woman’s heart was golden. She was like a hedgehog – prickly on the outside, soft on the inside.”
Magnus spluttered laughing, spraying whiskey into the air. “If she knew I’d compared her to a hedgehog…”
“She’d give you one of those stares.”
“Too right. Or she’d stab me.”
“Stab you?”
“Oh, she’s done it before. Now, we were both drunk and she swore her hand slipped, but I’m not so sure.”
Both Magnus and Rist laughed, and the man passed Rist the skin.
“That was about three hundred years ago in a little tavern just north of Fearsall. Shithole of a place… She took a shine to you, lad. Might not seem like it, but she liked you. I can see why.”
The smile that touched Rist’s lips was one born of nothing but sadness, and the laughter in his throat was cut from the same cloth.
“It’s not that funny.” Magnus looked at Rist as though he’d grown a second head. “I tell a lot of fucking fantastic jokes and you barely ever laugh. And now you laugh at our dead friend?”
“No,” Rist said, still laughing. “I’m thinking of what she said to me the day I got my robes.”
“She threw a stick at me that day,” Magnus mumbled. “Fucking hurt. What’d she say?”
“Not much.”
“She never said much. But what?”
Rist put on his best Anila impression. “‘The robes suit you, Brother Havel.’” He hesitated for a moment, feeling the tears suddenly welling in his eyes. He took another swig of the whiskey, hearing it slosh in the skin. “The way she said ‘Brother’…” He gave a fake smile, clenching his jaw. He had no idea why he was telling this to Magnus of all people, but something about the man felt like home. “The way…”
“It’s all right, lad. Take your time. She’s dead now. She’s got all the time in the world.”
Rist choked, caught off guard by Magnus’s candour. He took a moment to gather himself. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make a joke out of everything?”
Magnus reached across and snatched the whiskey from Rist, draining the dregs of the skin in one go. “Sometimes, Rist, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. And I fucking hate crying. Always gives me a damn headache. Anila…” The man looked up at the stars. “I would have burned the world for her. She was family, and I’m going to feel her absence every moment I live. It’s a strange thing. You can go without laying eyes on someone for years and think little on it, but when you know you’ll never see them again, everything is different…” He ran his tongue across his lips. “I heard her, that day. I heard what she said – what I should have said. I tend to talk too much until it’s time to say something important, and then I go mute as a dead fish. Anila, on the other hand, had a way of saying a lot with very few words. She had a way of making people feel good about themselves. That’s a rare quality. Even rarer now.”
Magnus tossed the waterskin to the ground at the foot of the boulder, then reached into his pocket and produced a small flask, taking a swig.
He offered the flask to Rist, and Rist stared at him in disbelief. “You didn’t remember a shirt, but you remembered more whiskey?”
Magnus shrugged, pulling his lips into a dopey smile that seemed strange on the enormous man. “Whiskey is more important than shirts, Rist. If I teach you nothing, I’ll teach you that.” He leaned back, resting his hands on the boulder and looking at the campfires and tents spread around them. “Garramon made a good choice with you. You’re a little strange, but all the good ones are. Gods know I’m at least five points short of a star.” He drew in a long breath, patted Rist on the shoulder, and stared into his eyes, nodding. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to puke.”
Before Rist could even begin to process what the man had said, Magnus slid from the boulder with surprising grace for a man with more whiskey in his veins than blood.
Once on the ground, Magnus spread his shoulders, drew in an enormous lungful of air, and emptied the contents of his stomach into the dirt.
Garramon folded his arms, the scent of peppermint wafting from the mug of tea in his right hand as he looked down over the map pinned to the table before him. He stood in Fane’s tent, which, although large, was sparse to the point of being austere. His old friend had never been one for luxuries.
Fane sat cross-legged on the ground, leaning back against the edge of his cot, a book in his hand. He’d been there for hours, barely a word passing between him and Garramon. That had often been the way of their friendship, a quiet comfort that seldom needed more than company.
He took a sip of his tea, just hot enough to provide him with the faint satisfaction of almost burning his lips but not quite. He let out a sigh, looking around him at the scattered marble markers and icons strewn on the cotton floor. They had been like that since before he’d arrived in the tent, with the table flipped on its side. He’d lifted the table back into place but refused to do the same with the markers. He wasn’t Fane’s mother. That lovely woman had died many centuries ago.
With one last look at the map, his gaze moving from Ilnaen to Steeple, Garramon dropped himself into the foldout chair across from Fane, crossing his right leg over his left. He cupped the mug with both hands, allowing the tea’s warmth to spread through him. The sooner spring came, the better. He hated winter.
Fane lifted his gaze from the book before letting out a sigh. He slid a thin red steel bookmark from his trouser pocket, marked his place, then set the book down on the ground. He sat there wordlessly for another moment, drawing his knees to his chest.
Fane pursed his lips, leaning his head back against the cot. He seemed more frustrated than upset.
“We allowed the Chosen to cross.” Garramon shifted in his seat, resting the base of the mug on his leg. “That was our goal. Champions of Efialtír himself walk this very camp. They stand guard at your door, sentinels of The Saviour. Without them we would not have survived Achyron’s knights. We lost many, but this can only be seen as a victory. We are one step closer to ending all of this.”
Even as he spoke, Garramon doubted his own words. It wasn’t that he’d lost faith. He still believed in The Saviour. But he had started to weigh the cost, placing the bodies of the dead on the scales in his mind.
Fane lifted his head, nodding slowly. “You speak true, old friend, as you so often do. But no, Ilnaen proceeded precisely as I’d expected it would. Plans must be laid within plans to counterbalance the inevitable failure of all plans. Achyron’s knights would never have allowed us to draw Efialtír through the void that night, but now, if we take each step carefully, we will be in a position where there is nothing they can do to stop us. First, however, we must find this damn Heart of Blood.”
Garramon switched his legs so his left leg sat atop his right, relieving the pain that had set into the side of his knee. He glanced over at the icons and markers that dotted the floor. Something had ignited Fane’s fury. If it had not been Ilnaen, then what? He pushed the thought to the back of his mind. “What is our path forward then?”
The faint beginnings of a smile touched his friend’s lips, the corners of his eyes creasing. “I will find who took the Heart, and I will tear their head from their shoulders.”
“A fine plan.” Garramon lifted his mug mockingly as though saluting Fane’s genius. “Maybe lacking in the nuance I’ve come to expect, but fine nonetheless.”
“I have my suspicions, old friend.” The smile vanished from Fane’s face, and he took on an altogether more serious tone. “I’m moving the pieces, setting the lures. We just have to see who bites. And in the meantime, I have what I need to move forward.”
Fane held Garramon’s stare for an altogether too long moment.
Garramon inclined his head. He knew there was no point in pursuing the conversation further. For every word that left Fane’s lips, there was always one left unspoken. The man wove plans like a spider wove webs. Garramon would know what he needed to know when he needed to know it. That wasn’t the way with all things, but at times like this, he knew what to expect.
Fane let out a puff of air, running his hand through his dark hair. He looked back towards the table where the map was pinned, the markers and icons scattered about the ground. “I received a hawk this morning,” he said, changing the subject. “From the South. Argona is nothing but ash and dust. It was necessary. The signs of a full rebellion in the South have been multiplying over the last year. With the elves advancing across the western cities and the Uraks flooding from the mountains, we don’t have time for a gentle hand. One slip, one mistake and everything burns. Argona sends a firm message – any and all rebellion will be crushed. Valtara must be dealt with similarly, as must the brewing insurgency here in Loria. I’ll have it arranged. I wish these kinds of messages didn’t need to be sent. If we can bring Efialtír back to this world, if we can aid in his crossing, we can end all this. Death is a part of life, but I’d prefer if we weren’t so well acquainted with it.”
Fane pushed himself to his feet, snatching up the book as he did.
The sensation of the Spark tickled the back of Garramon’s neck as Fane wove threads of Air through the tent, lifting the hundreds of icons and markers from the floor and placing them back atop the map. Marble counters, hewn lion heads, and small dragon carvings spun about the air like debris in a hurricane before settling in their places. Fane sauntered through the storm, laying the book on the table’s edge. It was bound in black leather and looked as though it had been dragged along behind a cart.
Kiralla Holflower’s research papers. The last Garramon had seen of those, Brother Pirnil had been scribbling away on them after the crossing at Ilnaen.
Fane reached down and picked up the counters from beside the lion heads set in the Darkwood. “The armies sent into the Darkwood were routed, but the remnants are regrouping at Kingspass and Argona’s Ruins. They’ll march for Valtara.” He tossed almost half the counters into a wooden box on the floor, then proceeded to lift two of the dragon carvings from the table with threads of Air, shattering them into a thousand shards. “Ilkya and Jormun are dead, as are their dragons.”
“Surely that can’t be true.” Garramon snapped his neck around so fast he heard a click . He walked to Fane, wide-eyed. It had been a damn long time since a dragon had been killed in combat, and the outcome of the attack on Aravell had felt like a foregone conclusion. This explained Fane’s anger. “We sent eighty thousand men into the Darkwood. And Ilkya, and Voranur, and Jormun…” Garramon stared at the map, his face scrunched in thought. “What am I missing? This new Draleid could not possibly be powerful enough to overcome any one of the Dragonguard, never mind three at a time.”
Fane drew in a long breath, folding his arms. “You’re right. The report states that no fewer than four dragons flew alongside the Draleid.” Fane looked into Garramon’s eyes, a laugh catching in his throat. The man smiled as though a child had just beaten him in a game of Tarkat. “It seems that Aeson Virandr and his rebels have been better at hiding their secrets than we gave them credit for. That or the gods play with us, old friend. They sense we are close. They see their reckoning on the horizon.” The man’s eyes seemed to gleam as he lifted his head to stare at Garramon. “Did you ever think, when you were a child, that one day you would draw the attention of the gods themselves?”
Garramon stared down at the dust on the floor that had once been marble dragon carvings. “Did the dragons have Draleid?”
Fane shrugged. “From the report, Voranur barely escaped with his life and has likely flown further north to Eltoar and Lyina. We won’t know more until I speak with Eltoar. I’ve sent a herald.”
Garramon pressed his tongue against the back of his top teeth, staring at the map. Over just a few months, everything had shifted. A new Draleid had arisen, six Dragonguard had been reduced to four, and the empire was now under siege on all sides.
“You look worried, old friend.” Fane stood with his arms still folded, a smile spread across his lips.
“And you look distinctly the opposite.”
Fane let out a laugh. “Our course was never going to be an easy one. Our will would always be tested, as it has been many times over.” Fane moved around the table and clasped Garramon’s shoulder, looking into his eyes. “Whatever stands in our way, we will face it and we will roll over it like a storm. We have come too far, sacrificed too much, to allow it to be any other way. Besides, the path remains the same.”
A shiver spread through Garramon as Fane’s eyes glowed with a red light. The sight caused Garramon to straighten. There was no surer sign that Efialtír himself watched over them.
“Let the elves bring their dragons. Let the Uraks come. Let Achyron’s knights crash against us. We will rip the dragons from the sky, we will grind the Uraks into the earth, and we will shear the knights’ souls from this world.” The light in Fane’s eyes dissipated, and he stared back at Garramon, a hint of sadness in his voice. “Hundreds of thousands of our people have died, but we will avenge them. I give you my word. This will be the last war, my friend. The last time we must kill for peace. And when we are done, the gods themselves will know the meaning of fear. On that note, brother, I have something I wish to discuss with you in regard to your young apprentice.”
Before Garramon could answer, the rustle of the wind flowed into the tent from behind him, followed by heavy footsteps.
The voice that spoke was harsh and rough. It was as though two voices spoke over each other, perfectly in sync and in utter discordance. “Harbinger. It is time.”
Garramon turned to see two of the Chosen standing before them. The first was a woman almost a head taller than he, only her head visible, ridged silver plate flowing over her body. Red runes marked her breastplate and arms. The other was a man who still hadn’t seen his twentieth summer, his face bearing all the signs of youth. So many of the candidates for the ritual had been little more than children.
Garramon inclined his head, pulling a closed fist to his chest. “The Saviour’s light upon you, Chosen Ones.”
The woman fixed her gaze on Garramon, her eyes as black and cavernous as a herald’s. Something about her stare set a cold knot in Garramon’s stomach, his pulse quickening.
She dipped her head, returning Garramon’s gesture. “Our god has spoken to me of you, Brother Garramon. Your service has not gone unnoticed. Please, call me by the name Enaril.”
“I live to serve,” Garramon said, bowing. He looked to the young man. “And yours?”
Garramon narrowed his gaze at the sight of the swirling blue tattoos snaking up from the collar of the Chosen’s armour and winding around his neck. The skin about the markings was red and raw, blood spotting at the edges. No, it couldn’t possibly be.
The young man followed Garramon’s gaze, tucking his chin in to look at his own spiral tattoos. “There is a story behind them.” The voice was young and bright, yet also dark and grating. Two voices speaking in tandem, one over the other. “I must tell you some day. This armour doesn’t make for markings, but the skin is surprisingly pliable.”
“How is this possible? Herald Azrim?”
The young man inclined his head, giving a mocking bow as he did.
“But you are a herald… How could you be one of our god’s Chosen?” Garramon thought back to the last time he had seen Azrim. The herald had taken Artim Valdock as a host and had been part of the force marching to the Darkwood.
“You humans always define things so rigidly. It is one of many weaknesses. I am a Vitharnmír – your Chosen . But unlike many of my kin, I find this realm more… amusing. And so I elected to exist here in a diminished form. At least now,” he said, spreading his arms and looking down over the suit of silver plate, “I am not so weak. I have, as you humans say, ‘a score to settle’.”