93. What We Built
Chapter 93
What We Built
25 th Day of the Blood Moon
Achyron’s Keep – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
The morning before a battle always had a distinct feeling to it, a stillness. Experience had taught Aeson this. Every soul, whether they were polishing steel, honing blades, checking straps, or readying horses, every one of them knew they might never see another sunrise. Achyron prepared his halls and set his tables, while Heraya reached into hearts and readied them.
As Aeson, Verma, and Akraf walked through the camp that morning, that familiar feeling clung to everything he saw. About him, the soldiers of Arkalen sat in clusters and prayed to Neron to guide them through the coming storm, while those of Narvona whispered blessings to Akopa, asking that he find them worthy of a place in the Eversea should they sail the River Trian that night.
“Do you not pray, Aeson Virandr?” Akraf asked when he saw Aeson staring at a large group of Narvonan warriors kneeling before a priest in gold and blue robes. The last time Aeson had seen the man had been in the port at Milltown after their return from Valacia – after Farda and the imperials had burned their ships. Akraf was a prince consort now, and he had swapped his leathers and trousers for a full suit of burnished black steel ornamented with gold.
Verma gave a knowing laugh.
“I prefer to keep my fate in my own hands.”
“Blood of the water, this is the way.” Akraf puffed out his bottom lip and nodded. “I am proud to hunt alongside you again, Aeson. It has been too long in the coming.”
“And I you. May it be short and fruitful,” Aeson said, giving the typical Narvonan response.
Akraf took a turn past two banners thrust into the ground bearing the roaring head of a tharnas marked in gold. They walked past a score of guards in black plate until they finally came upon Princess Kayala Latrak.
The woman awaited them with a wooden mug of steaming tea in her hands, a soft smile on her lips.
On either side of the princess, four Isildans clad in Atalus shell plate sat astride armoured darvakin, thick-shafted glaives in their fists. Where the tharnas - the great, powerful beasts that acted as the Latrakian Kingdom’s emblem – were monstrous and indomitable, the darvakin were quick and ferocious. They stood on two powerful legs, the talons on their feet capable of rending steel with ease. The creatures’ scaled bodies were lean and muscular, and Aeson had seen them reach speeds far past that of a horse. Each of them was barded in segmented plates of black steel. Darvakin were also known to be notoriously intelligent.
As he looked, one of the darvakin turned its head towards him, a sharp clicking in its throat. The creature pulled back its scaled lip to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth.
Aeson snapped his gaze away. He had learned in the past that you didn’t look a darvakin in the eye. He pressed his two fists together in the greeting of Narvona. As he had done for the entire duration of their journey along the southern coast, he fought his ingrained compulsion to kneel. Narvonans did not kneel. “Your Majesty. You asked for me?”
“Aeson Virandr,” Kayala replied in her thick Narvonan accent. She inclined her head, pressing her two fists together. “I only wanted to wish you good fortune in the battle to come and to gift you this.”
Kayala gestured to someone in a tent behind her, and a man came out holding a cuirass of black steel. It was plain and simple, but at its centre was the emblem of a roaring dragon worked into the plate in Atalus shell.
“Your Majesty, this is too much. I cannot accept it.” The Narvonans guarded Atalus shell with even more ferocity than Godfire. It was bestowed upon only the greatest champions, the most valuable souls, harvested only once every generation from the holy animal. A shell with the power to absorb the Spark. Even a little was priceless. Aeson had once watched almost fifty Narvonans perish just to retrieve an Atalus-wrought pendant from a dead man’s neck.
“You can accept it, Aeson. And you will.” Kayala took the cuirass and offered it to Aeson. “This is not a gift from me. This is a gift from my mother, for Aeson Virandr, Blade of the Moon, the man that time cannot kill. She told me not to give it to you until we reached Epherian shores. She says to wear it and protect her daughter, as her mother protected you all those years ago.”
Aeson reached out and took the cuirass, staring down at the Atalus dragon. “This is a gift like no other, Kayala.”
“Blood of the water, this is the way.” Kayala lifted her gaze at the sound of screeches overhead, shifting the topic in a heartbeat. She watched as some twenty wyverns soared across the sky, moving in tight formation. “This Wyvern Queen , she is fierce.”
“She is.”
“This will be a good hunt. We will find much glory here. I will let you go, Aeson Virandr. And when the night falls, may the shell of the Atalus keep you safe.”
Aeson inclined his head, then turned and left, Verma at his side.
“Well, fuck me,” she said, looking at the black steel cuirass in Aeson’s arms.
“Not interested,” Aeson replied, staring down at the gleaming dragon. As guarded as Atalus was, the craft of its working was even more so. Across the years, some pieces had been recovered during Narvonan invasions, and those that hadn’t been lost to time were often shattered or destroyed by smiths arrogant enough to think themselves capable.
“Aeson Virandr, did you just tell a joke? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you tell a joke.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” Aeson held as straight as he could for a moment, then cracked a laugh. “Have you spoken to Ildur?”
“Mmm. His warriors are ready, as are the Stormguard. Calen Bryer made quite the impression on Animar. He made quite the impression on me. Five hundred Stormguard while Animar is fighting a war against Syrene Linas is nothing to sniff at.”
“He grows with each day,” Aeson said, once again looking down at the Atalus dragon on the cuirass and realising that white shell was a likeness for Valerys. He laughed. Coincidences had abandoned him long ago. “Come, it’s a few miles to the lookout.”
Aeson had been within the walls of Achyron’s Keep four times in his life. The fortress city’s name had been hard earned. It was the choke point between Valtara and the rest of the continent, connected via the Hot Gates. Many an army had smashed itself against the walls trying to bring the fortress to its knees. Almost all had failed.
From where he stood upon the cliff ledge with the forest at his back, Aeson looked over a vast open plain of brown grass and cracked earth, the sun gleaming overhead. Plenty of space for arrows and spears to thin the numbers of any besieging army – plenty of space for Battlemages to wreak absolute destruction.
The city sat on the other side of the plain, embedded into the rock face of the rolling mountains, hundreds of wyvern Rests built about it. It was ringed by two sets of thick, grey stone walls, fortified by monstrous cylindrical towers, the keep rising above all else. The walls themselves were in turn ringed by a series of three trenches.
Screeches rang out in the sky above as formations of wyverns swept back and forth across the woodland, their wings smeared with white and orange paint. Alina’s Wyndarii outnumbered those who stood by Loren Koraklon at least three to one. Even at that, and with the Stormguard and Kayala’s army, the battle would be a bloody one.
“Have you heard word from Salme?” Verma had stood beside Aeson in silence, looking down over the city.
Aeson shook his head. He had hoped Dahlen would have sent word through the Angan, but Crokus – the Angan sent to Alina – had not been seen in days. The creatures were not pets to be kept on chains, but he did wish they were a little more reliable.
“They will be all right, Aeson. You and Naia raised two fine young men, fine warriors.”
Aeson just nodded as he stared out at Achyron’s Keep. Verma had been there through centuries, right from The Fall. She knew Aeson better than almost any soul that drew breath. Not just Aeson the Draleid, or Aeson the Rakina, but Aeson the man. She knew his truths and his lies, knew his fears.
She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You cannot keep them strapped to your side forever, my friend.”
“A little longer would have been nice.”
Verma gave him a soft smile. “She is proud of you. I know she is. They both are.”
He met Verma’s gaze. “Should I have gone with Erik?”
“Perhaps,” Verma said with a shrug. “We’ll never know the outcomes of the decisions we do not make. Which I suppose is a good thing, because otherwise we’d all be driven mad. You have raised them to be each other’s shields, to put one another above all else. You either trust them to do that, or you don’t. You are one man, Aeson. You must do what you can and accept what you can’t.” She squeezed his shoulder. “I must check in with Fearn and Ildur to ensure we are ready for tonight.”
Verma turned and walked back into the woods, and Aeson’s thoughts fell to Naia and Lyara – his heart and his soul, shattered and broken, pieced together by his sons.
“To survive is not to live,” he whispered, repeating Naia’s words from the night before Heraya took his beloved into her arms. “I miss you more each day, my heart.”
In his mind, he stared into her eyes, felt the touch of her skin, the warmth of her love.
And the question that had plagued Aeson in the years since Naia’s death lurked behind those eyes. What if he had let go of his pain? What if he had burned the loss from his heart and instead focused on the things he had before him?
What then? If he had abandoned the rebellion and set free his burning need to see Eltoar and the others suffer for what they had done, perhaps Naia would still be alive. Perhaps the gods would not have chosen to take her from him. For the gods controlled all.
Aeson had stopped praying the day Naia died. At least with thought. By reflex he prayed to Varyn to watch over his children or to Neron for a safe journey, but they were empty prayers. He never expected the gods to answer. There were only three reasons men and women truly turned to the gods: hope, purpose, or absolution.
Hope that the ones they loved would not be taken from them and that if they were, there would be a place to find them in another life. Purpose so that a life might have meaning, something worth living for. And absolution for the dark deeds already committed and those yet to pass.
Aeson’s hope had cracked with Lyara and died with Naia. And he would not leave the lives of his sons in the hands of absent gods. He would not leave something so important to the whims of creatures who clearly cared so little for what they claim to have created.
Aeson had no need for divine purpose. His purpose lay in Dahlen’s and Erik’s beating hearts and in the fires of vengeance.
And absolution? Not only did Aeson not seek it, but he did not deserve it either. He was happy to pay for the blood he’d spilled. All actions had consequences.
Aeson hoped that in the next life, or in some world beyond, or whatever awaited him, his soul would find Lyara and Naia once more, but he did not pray for it.
The only person Aeson prayed to was his wife. She would watch over them, as she always had.
Leaves and twigs crunched beneath boots at Aeson’s back. He turned to find Alina Ateres, another woman, Dinekes Ilyon, Savrin Vander, and five of the queen’s personal guard emerging from the trees.
It was strange to see Savrin after so long. Last Aeson had heard, the man was presumed dead. Apparently not. If nothing else, he would be happy to fight alongside Savrin in the battle for the Keep. He had never met a man or woman more gifted with a blade. Perhaps Atara.
Savrin inclined his head to Aeson.
“I was told I could find you here,” Alina said, gesturing for Savrin and the guards to stay by the trees. “I realised you were not formally introduced last night. This is Mera. Mera Ateres.”
“Mera…” Aeson whispered. The woman’s eyes were blue as sapphires, her hair shaved at the side after the Valtaran fashion, and three pale scars ran from her forehead, across her left eye, and down to her jaw. She looked as fierce as Dayne. “It’s good to finally put a face to the name. Wait, Ateres?”
Mera inclined her head. “Right before he decided to throw himself into Loren’s arms so we could come and save him. Typical Dayne. Always living for the dramatic moments.”
Aeson laughed at that.
A shriek sounded above, followed by screeching. Aeson looked to the sky to see four of Alina’s wyverns chasing a fifth through the sky. He watched as a wyvern large enough to be a small dragon – Alina’s wyvern, Rynvar – crashed into the fleeing creature and vanished from view. A heartbeat passed before something crashed down somewhere in the trees to the right.
Sounds of crunching leaves and snapping twigs erupted in the forest as soldiers moved like wolves through the brush.
“Loren knows we’re here,” Mera said, squinting through the trees. “But he need not know our number, nor that of the Arkalens and the Narvonans you have brought to our cause. The Andurii prowl the forest. The Wyndarii keep the skies empty.”
“Why is it again you wish to wait until nightfall?” Aeson asked.
“Because they are scared of the dark,” Alina answered, looking down at the keep. “Dayne made sure of it. Now all we need to do is wait for Belina Louna to give us the signal that the gates have been opened.”
“She’s going to set something on fire, isn’t she?”
“Something big,” Alina answered.
“That sounds like her,” Aeson said, folding his arms.
“Now we just have to see if she’s full of shit or not.” Mera crouched low and ran her fingers in the dirt, her eyes fixed on the Keep. “I will not leave him in there another night.”
“You will not have to. If those gates don’t open, then Belina is dead. There is nothing in this world she wouldn’t do for him. Either way, we will fight with you.”
Aeson turned to Alina, who was already staring at him. She looked so much like her mother. Same eyes, same hair, same fury about her. That woman had been a force of nature. And by the looks of it, her daughter was no different. “Come the sunrise, Valtara will be free.”
“I pray to Achyron you are right,” Alina said.
“He is too busy to answer prayers,” Aeson said, turning back to the fortress. “But we won’t need him.”