105. The Darkness Within
Chapter 105
The Darkness Within
27 th Day of the Blood Moon
Temple of Achyron – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Kallinvar stood at the top of the stairs that led from the temple, looking out at Arden and the dragon curled on the great plateau that overlooked the city.
He had not expected this. All men died. Death was a part of life. Even Kallinvar, with his immortality granted by Achyron’s Sigil, would one day dine in The Warrior’s halls. But seeing Calen Bryer fly astride that dragon, seeing him fight at the Battle of Kingspass and his strength in Ilnaen, Kallinvar had not even considered the young man’s death.
The day truly was drawing near when Epheria would know the last dragon. He let out a long breath, then turned and re-entered the temple. He should have gone to sleep, should have given his body even a few hours of reprieve, but sleep eluded him. Only three days were left before the Blood Moon set. He would sleep then.
He passed Watcher Timkin in the halls. “Have you seen Watcher Poldor?”
“Not in some hours, Grandmaster. Last I checked, he was in the library.”
Kallinvar nodded and carried on. Poldor could wait. He moved through the halls and descended several sets of stairs until the natural light vanished and the smaller corridors were lit by candles in sconces.
Two priests sat at the end of the long corridor that fronted the cell block. Thankfully, ever since Kallinvar had joined the knighthood, the cells had remained empty. There had never been a need for them. But back during the rebellion, thousands of years before Kallinvar’s time, they had been a necessity.
The two priests greeted him, one – Toka – leading him through the cell block to where Tallia sat on a low cot in a cell barred by iron.
“Has she spoken?”
Toka shook his head. “Not a word, Grandmaster.”
“Leave us.”
The priest bowed and left.
Kallinvar stood there for a long while, looking down at Tallia, who had her knees pulled to her chest and her head down. “How are you?”
No answer came. Kallinvar had come to her both nights since she’d been placed in the cell, and the young woman had refused to say a word.
“Tallia, I need you to talk to me. I need you to tell me why.”
Still no answer.
“Who turned you away from us? Was it your father?”
“My father is dead.”
“I know.” Kallinvar hadn’t known who Tallia was when Rurik Andle had fallen and broken his neck three years before. His wife’s heart had given out the year before that. “I’m sorry for your loss, Tallia. There is still a way back. I need you to give me answers.”
Something in the air shifted, and a pulse of Essence swept through the temple, strong enough to set Kallinvar back a step. He drew in a sharp breath at the oily sickness of Taint that touched the air.
“Then ask the right questions.” The voice that left Tallia’s throat was harsher than before, deeper. “Gildrick asked the right questions. He came close. He did. Unfortunately for him.”
When Tallia lifted her head, her eyes glowed with a deep red light. The sight of them twisted coils of dread around Kallinvar’s heart.
The woman stepped from the bed, tilting her head to the side as she looked at Kallinvar. “You forced these people to live a life outside the natural world. You placed chains around them and called them safe. You robbed them of choice and of their futures. What did you expect?”
“How is this possible?” Kallinvar summoned his Soulblade, the green light illuminating the chamber. “This place is protected by Achyron himself.”
“It was ,” Tallia said, staring at him with those gleaming red eyes. “But all things come to an end, little knight.”
“What are you?”
“I am her saviour.” Tallia smiled. “When you offered the people of Lur?nel sanctuary here, what did you expect, knight of Achyron? The illusion of choice is Achyron’s finest deception, is it not? That has always been the way. He brandishes me as a traitor for wanting to protect the souls of a world I love. And yet he dangles sanctuary before the eyes of desperate men and women and pretends that it is true choice. You are his slave, not his warrior. He does not care about you. He simply hates me.”
“Efialtír… How…”
“I have always been here. My blood is in the very crust of this world. I have known of this temple for a long time, but patience was needed. And now that the veil is thin enough to reach across…” Tallia stepped closer to the iron bars. “Your Watcher found my body. He understood.”
“A fallen god…” Kallinvar whispered, remembering the old tales his mother used to tell him before she passed. Of how the Sea of Stone had been formed by the body of a dead god. “The Sea of Stone…”
“Well done, knight. But far too late. I tell you now only because you have already failed. I pity you. You are a slave, your choices bound by Achyron’s desires. You are a bird in a cage that believes he can fly. I am not the coming shadow as you believe. I am not here to burn this world. I am here to preserve it, to bask in it. You have been lied to.”
More pulses of Essence rippled through the temple above, and Kallinvar could feel his knights reaching out to him.
“What have you done?”
“I told you, Grandmaster Kallinvar . You are too late.”
A convergence like nothing Kallinvar had ever felt erupted in his mind, bathing over the Sea of Stone, rippling outwards from its centre.
“No…”
“Yes.”
“You found it…”
“Indeed.”
Kallinvar staggered backwards as his Sigil ignited. He felt Brother Valdar of The Third be ripped from the world.
“I do not like to take chances. If you wish to save the people of this place – or at least to try – I would run now. Your brother- knight, Tarron, he told me of your heart. It took a while to pry open his soul… but he acquiesced eventually. Achyron did well in finding you, Kallinvar. I would have had you at my side. There is still time.”
“I would rather burn in the void.”
“Perhaps you will, but I hope not.”
Kallinvar released his Soulblade, drew the sword at his hip, and drove it into Tallia’s stomach. The woman screamed, and those red eyes shimmered with light before dulling.
“Grandmaster?” Tallia whispered, her hands around the blade in her chest, her voice once again what Kallinvar remembered.
“Yes, young one?”
“I’m sorry.” Blood wet the young woman’s tongue. “I didn’t want to die here, in this place. I wanted to see the world, to see Valtara, and Loria, and all the places Watcher Gildrick used to tell me of. When he came to me and told me I had a choice… I…”
“When who came to you, Tallia? Who?” Kallinvar’s heart stopped. “Watcher Gildrick?”
Tallia grunted, blood dripping from the blade in her gut. “Watcher Poldor. He came to me after my father died.”
“Watcher Poldor? No, that can’t be.”
Tallia looked into Kallinvar’s eyes. “I didn’t kill Gildrick. I swear it.” She drew a deep, hacking breath. “Do you think I’ll see them? Will Heraya still take me?”
Kallinvar nodded gently. “The Mother understands mistakes, Tallia.”
“It wasn’t a mistake.” Tallia gave one last breath and fell forwards against the bars.
Kallinvar looked down at her for a moment, pulled his sword free, and sprinted up the steps.
Candlelight flickered across the open chamber, augmented by the crimson glow of Essence vessels and rune markings carved into the stone.
Fane’s heart broke at the sight of Garramon floating at the chamber’s centre, bare as the day he was born, runes carved into his flesh by Fane himself. Fane had wept as he’d done it.
In his mind, Garramon had always been there at the end. The two of them, standing side by side, looking out at the world they had saved. He had planned everything so meticulously. Sacrificed so much, so many lives, and every plan had fallen perfectly into place… except for this one piece.
“I will truly miss you, my friend. It was you who kept me anchored, reminded me who I was, where I came from. You were a better man than I will ever be. Perhaps I thought your soul would save mine.” Fane drew a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled slowly. “But it is not good men this world needs right now. It needs someone who can make the choices others wouldn’t dare dream of. I will do what you never could, but I will only be able to do it because of you.”
He looked down at the five concentric circles of rune markings carved into both the ground below Garramon and the ceiling above. Fane had spent months carving those runes, taking all of Pirnil and Kiralla Holflower’s research into account and blending it with his own learnings. This place was the beating heart of Essence in the world, shielded by the mountain around it. This was where Efialtír planted his seed into the crust of the world, where his mortal body fell, and the Sea of Stone was created.
And this was the night that all of Fane’s plans, hundreds of years of waiting and weaving, would finally take their next step. He had seen the future that would come to pass without his actions, and he would not allow it. No matter the cost, for no cost could be greater.
Azrim entered the chamber from the passage on the far side, looking up at Garramon.
“It is done?” Fane asked.
“The knights will not be a problem,” Azrim answered, his voice layered over that of his host.
“Good. The others?”
“On their way.”
Fane would have rather sent every last one of the Vitharnmír to Achyron’s temple and rid himself of these knights entirely. But he could not risk losing too many. Without their strength, he could not bring Efialtír through the veil, even with the Heart.
But Efialtír had long been twisting his way into that place. The temple may yet fall. For now, all Fane needed was to keep those knights from this place. No doubt many of the Urak clans had felt the pulse of the Essence as he’d awakened the Heart and were already on their way to set the whole mountainscape aflame. Eltoar and Helios would keep them at bay.
He turned back towards where the Heart of Blood sat atop a pedestal of brown stone, red light pulsing across its surface. Fane placed his hands on the smooth, glasslike exterior of the Heart, gasping as the power within swept through him like a bolt of lightning.
The power of every soul that died at Ilnaen. The power of every dragon that fell. The power of the life Essence of every dragon that would never draw breath.
It had softened the blow, in a way, commanding the Uraks to destroy the eggs in Ilnaen while knowing that none would ever hatch anyway. He’d needed the eggs to be destroyed, for he’d needed that blend of rage and guilt burning in the hearts of Eltoar and the Dragonguard, needed the power that Essence would bring. The Essence of Varyn’s greatest creations, the only creatures that could have stood in his way.
“All great things require sacrifice,” Fane whispered to himself, as he had done a thousand times.
Only with the Blood Moon in the sky could the life Essence be captured in such a way, and only with Efialtír’s guidance.
Eltoar had given Fane the Heart of Blood in the hopes that Fane could bring life back to the dragons of Epheria. And so it was ironic that, with that very act, he had assured the exact opposite.
Fane usually appreciated irony. He saw it as the world’s way of laughing at the living. But he found no amusement in this. Once the Essence within the Heart was used to bring Efialtír across the veil, it would be gone, spent, extinguished. And with it, so too the dragons. He held no love for the creatures, the living weapons of indomitable fury. But neither did he hate them. Their extinction was simply a necessity.
Helios and the few others that were left would be the last of their dying race now. There was no doubt their sacrifice would be the greatest of all.
As Fane stared down into the shifting light of the Heart, power surging through him, the remaining Vitharnmír entered the chamber, armoured boots clinking against the stone.
With a short exhale, Fane lifted the Heart from its pedestal and turned back to face his old friend, seeing the Vitharnmír take their places around Garramon. Forty in total, precisely what he needed.
They all stood there in their silver armour, red runes blazing with light. Efialtír’s champions, his most trusted warriors. Fane smiled as he looked at them, taking in their hubris. They believed themselves above all mortal things, untouchable. They would learn better soon enough.
“It is time,” Fane called out, stepping closer to Garramon. He held the Heart before himself, tapping into its core. Every hair on Fane’s body stood on end, his robes lifting as though suspended in water. The power of hundreds of thousands of souls poured through him, the roar of dragons sounding in his mind, the screams of the dying, the crackling of flames.
Fane’s eyes wet with tears at the millions of lives lost to reach this moment, his soul held together by the billions that would be saved.
He channelled the power of the Essence through him and pushed it into Garramon. Fane drew a sharp breath into his lungs as Garramon’s eyes snapped open and the runes carved into his bare skin shone like the sun, red light blazing.
All forty Vitharnmír stood about him, the power of Essence crackling like lightning in the air.
“I call to you, Efialtír, bringer of life. Take this vessel as your own, see this light, and let it guide you through the darkness.”
As Fane spoke, the Vitharnmír added their strength to his, and the runes carved into the stone around them burst to life, crimson light gleaming.
Screams ripped Haem from his thoughts as he sat on the plateau with Calen’s body cradled in his arms, the rain hammering down. At first, it was just one, but one turned to many in a heartbeat.
He lowered Calen to the stone, and before he had taken more than three steps, Valerys had curled around Calen’s body and covered him with a massive white wing. The dragon cared little for anything outside of Calen. Not even the shrieks and howls pulled him from his misery.
Haem summoned his Sentinel armour and Soulblade, the green light-wrought sword taking shape in his fist as the liquid metal flowed over his fingers. He bounded down the steps and through the gate at the eastern wall into the city.
Men and women sprinted in all directions, fleeing for their homes as three warriors clad in shimmering steel plate carved through everything that moved with glowing red Soulblades.
Even as Haem watched in horror, a red orb burst into life behind them, spreading into a disc of rippling black liquid. The Rift.
More of the Chosen charged through. Ten by Haem’s count.
A second Rift opened above them, its edges a shimmering green light, and Grandmaster Kallinvar dropped from the sky, Ruon and the rest of The Second with him.
“Go!” Haem roared at three men who came charging from their homes with spears in their fists.
“We can help!” one of them called back.
“Protect your families,” Haem said, recalling his helm so they might see his face. “Let Achyron protect you.”
Haem replaced his helm and charged into the fray.
Kallinvar rammed his shoulder into a Chosen’s breastplate, stepped back, and sliced his Soulblade through the creature’s knee. The Chosen howled and collapsed backwards, only for Ruon and Varlin to fall atop it and drive their blades into its chest and head, the runes in its armour igniting with a burning fury.
He should have known they had access to the Rift. Or at least some form of it. But they should never have been able to open it in Ardholm or the temple. The entire city was warded against such things, and that ward had not been violated in the thousands of years the temple had stood.
A crimson Soulblade swept past Kallinvar’s face. He leaned back, then brought his own blade up to block a strike from a second Chosen in a burst of green and red light.
He drew his fist back and rammed it into the Chosen’s ribs, feeling the plate crack beneath the weight of the blow.
Kallinvar pushed forwards, Arden sweeping in beside him like a man possessed. The young knight moved with the grace of a bird and struck with the strength of an ox, his Sigil radiating pure fury and loss. Arden swept past the Chosen’s guard, released his Soulblade, and swung around the creature’s waist. He pressed his fist against the Chosen’s hip, and his Soulblade burst to life once more, ripping through the creature’s body from side to side. Arden twisted and hauled the blade free of flesh and steel through the Chosen’s gut, blood spilling onto stone, runes blazing.
With each passing moment, Kallinvar screamed in his mind to Achyron but heard nothing in return. Surely now, of all moments, he had not abandoned them?
A roar sounded behind Kallinvar, and he twisted to see a Chosen slicing through four citizens with a single swipe of his Soulblade, tearing their souls in half. Scores more men, women, and children scattered through the streets, running for their lives as more knights flooded from the temple.
Gandrid and Emalia, along with their chapters, charged down the great steps, crashing into four Chosen that raced towards the temple.
Kallinvar’s Sigil ignited, and he opened the Rift beside himself, letting Olyria and The Third through.
“Airdaine and Arlena are still within the temple. Fades and Chosen both roam the halls.” Olyria stared into Kallinvar’s eyes. “Is it true? I felt it Kallinvar. We all did.”
“They have the Heart.” Kallinvar grasped Olyria’s arm and pulled her close. “The duty of the strong is to protect the weak. That duty does not die, Olyria. Do you understand me? It does not die. No matter what we face, our duty never ends.”
“I am always with you, Kallinvar. Always. My Grandmaster, my friend.”
“And I you. Clear them from the city. Keep the people safe. That is all that matters.”
Olyria nodded, then turned and joined the battle, Soulblade blazing to life in her hands.
“Ruon! Knights of The Second, with me!” Kallinvar opened the Rift and leapt through, the icy embrace washing over him, the darkness shrouding his vision, until he emerged on the other side into the chaos of the Heart Chamber.
His Sigil pulsed as knights fell: Sisters Jurea and Larwain of The First, Brother Yurin of The Ninth, Brother Kandir of The Eight. All in quick succession. The knights of The Second flowed into the chamber at Kallinvar’s back, crashing into the Fades and Chosen.
Kallinvar surged forwards, dipping below the swing of a crimson blade before carving a Fade in half with his Soulblade, a shriek ringing out. He turned and swept aside another strike meant to take his head from his shoulders before a second blade carved a deep furrow across the breast of his plate. As the two Chosen fell upon him, Kevan, Sylven, and Varlin charged in, smashing into the creatures’ flanks.
A pulse of the Taint erupted deeper in the temple, and Kallinvar broke into a run. He smashed through the doors of the Heart Chamber and out into the great halls beyond. Bodies lay scattered about the floor, blood smearing the stone.
He followed the oily tendrils of Taint through the halls until he reached the Tranquil Garden. Before he stepped onto the soft grass, some part of him already knew what he would find within, but his heart still cracked when he saw Brother Tarron standing over a score of headless bodies, Watcher Poldor to his right. The blood from the bodies pooled into the many streams that fed Heraya’s Well, tainting it.
The rest of the Watchers and priests of the temple were all lined around the well, shaking and whimpering with their heads bowed.
Two more Chosen stood between Kallinvar and Tarron, the runes in their silver armour burning stark against the vibrant purple flowers of the Hallow trees.
“Brother!” Kallinvar roared, stepping further into the temple, his Soulblade blazing in his hand.
Tarron turned to face him slowly. He wore his Sentinel armour, though the plate was cracked and worn, crimson light shining through. When he lifted his gaze to Kallinvar, his eyes glowed with a deep red and his skin was pale as stretched parchment.
“No… No, brother, no.” Kallinvar lifted his Soulblade and pointed it at Tarron. “Let him go!”
“Let me go?” Tarron said, raising an eyebrow. “I chose this, Kallinvar. I see clearly now. The wool is lifted from my eyes.”
“The Great Deceiver, Devourer of Souls.” The ground sank against Kallinvar’s weight as he moved. “I will not let you into my heart. I will not swallow your lies.”
“You are too late.” Tarron shrugged. “It is done.”
As the last of Tarron’s words left his lips, a surge of Essence swept through the air, so great that it brought Kallinvar to his knees, and for a moment his vision went black and all sounds drowned in his ears.
“He is here.”
The very air in the chamber crackled with power, the runes on Garramon’s body burning with such a fury that smoke rose from the man’s flesh. Black tears ripped through the fabric of the world, taking tangible form in the air around Garramon, spreading like cracks through a broken bowl.
About him, all the Vitharnmír stood with their armour receded, bare flesh and runes open to the air, eyes glowing with red light.
Tendrils of black and red burst from the tears in the world and clung to the runes in Garramon’s flesh. The black gashes spread, cracking through the air until Garramon vanished entirely, enveloped by a black sphere.
For a brief moment, just a fraction of a second, Fane felt a tinge of hesitation, a touch of uncertainty. This was a god he was summoning. A creature so powerful it had ascended from the mortal plane – and he was calling it back. What if he had been wrong? What if the future he saw would never come to pass? What Efialtír had been pulling the strings all along, twisting Fane’s mind, carving out Fane’s path with the illusion of choice and hope?
Those doubts flickered and died. If that were the case, then the path was already too long trodden. He would face whatever stood before him. Nothing would stand in his way. Not even a god. He would be what this world needed and kill the pieces of himself that it did not.
A pulse of Essence swept outwards from the black sphere that surrounded Garramon. The force of it knocked Fane back a step and shook the entire chamber. The Heart ignited in Fane’s hands, and a beam of crimson light burst from within and crashed into the black sphere, swirling around it like sweeping fire.
The flames consumed the black, revealing Garramon within. As the sphere burned away, Garramon slowly lowered to the ground, his arms outstretched, the Chosen beginning to chant in a tongue foreign to Fane’s ear.
Garramon’s bare feet touched the stone, the runes carved into the ground reacting to his touch, billowing black smoke around glistening red light.
Fane stared in awe at the power that radiated from his old friend, at the way it rippled in the air as heat did across stone on a hot day.
Garramon’s gaze fell on Fane, and Fane dropped to one knee, holding the Heart of Blood out in his hands.
“Rise.” The words were spoken in a deep, powerful voice. The same voice Fane had heard speak in his mind a thousand times.
He did as commanded, slowly lifting to his feet and pulling the Heart to his chest. “My lord, Efialtír. Today is a day that will be spoken of throughout time. You have returned to us.”
“You have done everything I’ve ever asked of you.” Efialtír stood before Fane in his bare skin. “And you shall have everything you were promised.”
“I live to serve, my lord.”
“No, you do not.”
Those words sent a spark of fear through Fane.
“But I do not wish for a servant,” Efialtír said. “I wish for a general. I have crossed the veil between worlds for the first time in millennia. I am weak. My body is still frail and new. The others will not simply lay down now that I have crossed. There is much still to come, my child. And we will see how quickly they abandon their sacred oaths now that I have returned. Their hypocrisy unsheathed.”
Efialtír reached out a hand and grasped Fane’s shoulder. “I have searched an endless sea of souls to find you. You are singular. And together, we will rid this world of those who call themselves gods. Let them come. Let us finish this war they started so long ago.”
Kallinvar let out his breaths slowly, his knees pressing into the soft earth, his hands hanging at his sides.
“It is over, Kallinvar,” Tarron said, walking past the trembling Watchers and priests. “You have lost. Your god has abandoned you.”
Kallinvar stared back at his old friend. He knew the voice that spoke was not Tarron’s. This was the voice of a demon, a Vitharnmír, a Chosen. How? He did not know, but it didn’t matter.
“Pain is the path to strength,” Kallinvar said as he lifted one foot up.
“The duty of the strong is to protect the weak.” Kallinvar placed his hands on his knee and hauled himself upright.
“Pretty words,” Tarron spat, staring at Kallinvar. “But you have still lost. The Saviour has crossed the veil. This world is his domain once more. It is over, slave of Achyron.”
Kallinvar stared past Tarron at the Watchers and priests, who looked back at him with pure terror in their eyes.
“It is never over.” Kallinvar ignited his Soulblade, green light blazing. “And I will never yield. Not while there is air in my lungs and blood in my veins. Heraya embrace you, brother. I will save your soul.”
“Heraya will burn!” Tarron roared.
“You first.” Kallinvar charged forwards. The two Vitharnmír who stood between him and Tarron bounded forwards. He slid between them both, Soulblades crashing together in flashes of green and red light.
One blade sliced across his breastplate, the other scoring his helmet. He twisted, releasing his Soulblade as he had seen Arden do so many times, then reignited it with his hand pressed to one of the Vitharnmír’s chests. The creature howled and shrieked, its runes blazing as it fell to the ground.
Kallinvar ripped his Soulblade free and pushed the second Vitharnmír backwards. Tarron smashed into his side, causing Kallinvar to stagger. When he caught his footing, Tarron and the Vitharnmír stood facing him, each walking in a circle about him, one on the left, one on the right.
The Soulblade in Tarron’s fist flickered from red to green, its light weak and crackling.
A heartbeat passed, and both of them fell upon Kallinvar, blades slicing through the air.
He turned away blow after blow until a crimson blade plunged into his thigh, then ripped free. He staggered backwards, Tarron and the Vitharnmír stalking him like wolves.
Bursts of light erupted as their blades collided, again and again, each time pushing Kallinvar back further, each time getting closer to a killing blow.
I will find you in the void, Verathin. At least if we are to drift, we will drift together, old friend.
Kallinvar turned away a swing of Tarron’s blade, only to have the Vitharnmír’s carve clean through the plate on his chest and into the flesh beneath.
I had always thought that when we were to die, we would do so side by side, as brothers, in the fire of battle. But I will find you in death, as you found me.
He turned away three more blows before a fourth scored his ribs, slicing through his plate.
Kallinvar opened his Sigil to Ruon’s, feeling the fear in her heart, the rage in her soul, as she fought.
I love you. I have always loved you. And I will love you until the breaking of time. You are the beating of my heart. You are my goodness and my light. You are my eternity, my constant. I’m sorry I waited so long.
Two more strikes came down over Kallinvar’s head. He raised his Soulblade and took the full weight of both but collapsed backwards onto his knee from the force.
As Tarron struck down with his Soulblade, a blazing fire ignited in Kallinvar’s Sigil and Achyron’s voice boomed in his mind.
“Rise, Kallinvar, Champion of Achyron. You will never stand alone! Be my herald in this world, my avatar. Be my strength. I will not stand by any longer.”
The chamber illuminated with a brilliant green light that shone from Kallinvar’s left hand, and a glistening green shield burst into existence, catching the killing blow of Tarron’s flickering Soulblade.
All pain fled Kallinvar’s body as he felt Achyron surging through him. He hauled himself to his feet, sword and shield in hand.
“The duty of the strong is to protect the weak,” Achyron’s voice boomed. “You are a paragon of those words.”
Kallinvar caught Tarron’s blade on his Soulshield, then drove his blade through Tarron’s arm.
“Pain is the path to strength,” Achyron bellowed. “And you have suffered for near a millennium.”
Kallinvar ripped his sword free and twisted, slicing through the Vitharnmír’s neck and relieving it of its head.
“The mark of the righteous is to rise when you would rather fall, to stand when your legs beg you to kneel.” Achyron’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I am sorry, my child. Efialtír held me at bay in the Godsrealm.”
“You are here now,” Kallinvar answered, power thrumming from his Sigil.
“You are what I once was, Kallinvar. Give me one last war, my child. Give me Efialtír’s head.”
Footsteps sounded, and Ruon charged into the chamber, the knights of The Second at her back.
“It cannot be…” Ruon whispered, staring at Tarron.
“Stay back,” Kallinvar called. He moved towards Tarron, who staggered backwards, his Soulblade forming in his other hand.
Kallinvar surged forwards, catching Tarron on his back foot. The man turned away two swings before Kallinvar sliced through the flesh of Tarron’s remaining arm.
Tarron roared and howled, but Kallinvar lifted his foot and planted it into Tarron’s chest, sending the man crashing to the ground.
Releasing his Soulblade and shield, Kallinvar dropped onto Tarron’s chest and placed a hand over the cracked Sigil of Achyron marked onto his Sentinel armour.
“You will burn!” Tarron roared. “Your god will die, and this world will be as it should!”
Kallinvar wrapped the fingers of his free hand around Tarron’s throat and stared into the man’s black eyes. “Listen to me, demon. Tell your god I am coming for his soul. He is in my world now. He is not free. He is trapped in this mortal plane with me, and I will have my vengeance for every soul he has torn apart.”
“To kill me, you must kill him.” Tarron’s lips pulled into a wicked smile. His expression shifted, eyes flickering from pure red to the blue irises of Tarron, and the demon’s voice was gone. “Kallinvar? Brother? I’m sorry. Kill me, please. Kill me.”
As quickly as Tarron had returned, he was gone, and his eyes filled with a brimming red light once more. “We are one,” the demon within Tarron said, laughing. A helm of liquid metal poured from Tarron’s collar and formed around his head. “Tear my soul free, and do the same to his.”
“No.” Kallinvar reached out to Tarron’s Sigil, pushing through the layers of oily Taint that wrapped around the man’s soul, and commanded it to recall his Sentinel armour. Something deep within snapped back, but Kallinvar pushed harder and the armour slithered over Tarron’s skin, revealing scores of deep runes carved into the flesh.
Holding the man’s throat, Kallinvar removed his hand from above Tarron’s Sigil, drew his sword from his hip, and drove the blade deep into Tarron’s gut.
Tarron thrashed and screamed, pushing against Kallinvar’s weight, until eventually the red in his eyes faded to blue and white.
“Kallinvar?” Tarron convulsed, struggling to draw breath.
“You can rest now, brother. Dine in Achyron’s halls. You have earned it. I will see you soon.” Kallinvar slipped his hand behind the back of Tarron’s head as his friend’s body stopped moving, his chest growing still, eyes rolling.
A pulse of Taint rippled from Tarron, and Kallinvar could see the black, oily shape that peeled away from his friend’s body. Kallinvar snatched it with his left hand, feeling it writhe and thrash in his grip, green light spreading from his fingers.
“Show them the strength of The Warrior,” Achyron’s voice sounded in his mind.
Kallinvar dropped his sword, and his Soulblade burst to life in his fist. He drove the shimmering green blade into the heart of the writhing black manifestation of the demon, feeling it shriek as it died and its soul was torn from the world.
He relinquished his Soulblade and leaned forwards, pressing his forehead to Tarron’s before laying the man on the stone. “What did they do to you? Oh, brother. I am sorry for your pain. I am sorry I failed you.”
When Kallinvar finally rose, his brothers and sisters stood around him, staring down at their lost companion.
Ildris knelt beside Tarron, pulling the man into his arms, helmet receding.
Kallinvar looked up and found Watcher Poldor standing like a stunned deer, his mouth ajar.
The man tried to run as Kallinvar approached, but Watcher Timkin and one of the priests clambered to their feet and grabbed him.
“I didn’t…” Poldor stammered. “Kallinvar, you need to understand?—”
“No,” Kallinvar said, wrapping his gauntleted hand around Poldor’s throat. “I don’t need to understand. I don’t need to know why. You’re a coward. You should have come to me. You didn’t. You listened to the whispers of the god we have been fighting since the birth of this knighthood. You took the lives of the people who meant the most to me. You stripped me of them. And there are no words that can bring them back. You killed Gildrick.”
“There are others, Kallinvar,” Poldor said, gasping for breath. “I can tell you?—”
“I’m sure there are, and I’m sure you can. I’m also sure you’d say anything to save your own skin. I trusted you, Poldor. He trusted you.” Kallinvar ignited his Soulblade and drove it through Poldor’s stomach. He stared into Poldor’s eyes, then ripped the blade free down through the man’s groin and tossed his ravaged body to the ground.
Kallinvar turned and stared down at Tarron, Ildris and Ruon kneeling beside him. Kallinvar dropped to his knees and let his Sentinel armour flow back into his Sigil. As he did, he closed his eyes and ran his hands through his sweat-soaked hair, clasping his fingers behind the back of his head.
“The Godwar is here, my child. Efialtír has crossed the veil and taken a body of flesh and blood in the mortal world.”
“Good,” Kallinvar whispered. “Now I can kill him.”