3. Whispers of Things to Come
Chapter Three
Whispers of Things to Come
As Alvira pressed herself close to Vyldrar’s neck, the dragon tearing through the skies, the clouds above and around them chose that moment to weep. The light of the sun shone bright and strong, deep rays illuminating the blazing city below while sheets of rain drummed upon shattered stone.
Vyldrar’s gaze was fixed ahead on the dragon with muted yellow scales who wrought death and destruction upon Vastillion. Closer now, Vyldrar recognised the scent of wet stone and blooming jasmine, saw the pale red hue of the dragon’s horns and the rippled markings on her wings.
Panakír and Doaxes… They were not close friends to Alvira, but nor were they enemies. She was an elf of Eselthyr before she’d heard the Calling, a soul Alvira would have trusted.
The burn of betrayal reignited within Vyldrar and spread through Alvira’s veins.
She wanted answers, Eltoar’s words echoing in the chambers of her mind, but Vyldrar wanted blood.
He wanted to feel the traitor’s life fade in his jaws.
For Maquil and Carasín. He surged forwards, cracking his wings, shifting on the currents of air.
Just as he closed on striking distance, the dragon spotted something in the city below.
Soldiers from both sides crashed together in an ocean of steel, threads of the Spark slashing back and forth as mages tore strips through the battle lines.
And in the centre of it all was a single figure clad in white steel who moved as only a Draleid could.
“Achyron smiles on us,” Alvira whispered to Vyldrar, staring down through his eyes. “Take your blood, and I will find my answers. Anat’aier din galbarak, thwe mahavír kanet.”
Give them your vengeance, and do not hesitate.
Alvira placed a kiss on Vyldrar’s scales, then sat upright, lifted her leg over him, and slid from his back.
The feeling of freefall settled in her stomach like an iron ball suddenly weightless.
The earth pulled at her, dragging her down as the wind attempted to rip her apart, and as she fell through the sky, she reached out to the Spark.
The icy touch of Air swept over her skin.
The warmth of Fire filled her bones. Water flowed through her and around her.
Earth permeated every crack in her flesh, dragging over her like iron.
And Spirit wove into her heart and soul, brightening the world around her.
As the rain sheeted and Alvira plummeted, the threads of each elemental strand coalesced in her palm, a searing blue light bursting into existence. The rain shimmered around her, the sapphire glow piercing the droplets as her níthral took shape in her fist, a double-bladed sword solid as steel.
The níthral was a weapon to be respected, a soul manifest, a blade capable of shearing the bonds of this world.
And to the soldiers down there, it was a sign of power, a rallying cry to those who would stand beside her and a warning to those who would stand in her way.
She did not bear the weight of it lightly.
Alvira whipped the threads of Air around her, swirling them into a sphere as threads of Spirit felt for the heartbeats below.
She drew in a breath and released as she crashed into the ground, dust and blood spraying into the air.
The flagstone cracked beneath her, bodies crushed under the weight of the fall.
She could have landed softly, could have allowed her feet to touch the ground light as feathers.
But Antiloch had come to Vastillion to wage war, and so war is what Alvira would give them.
As the dust settled and the sounds of clashing steel and screams rang out into the night, outlines of armoured men and women came into view, faces illuminated by the glow of Alvira’s níthral.
She stood in the crater of her landing, crushed and shattered bodies around her, blood and bone smearing the ground.
Tattered banners and tabards bearing the coiling ravens of Antiloch adorned every corpse.
The men and women who stood staring at her like statues all bore those same ravens.
She had landed just a few feet inside the Antiloch lines.
The eyes that watched her were set into young faces, all filled with awe.
Alvira had seen that same look many times, that momentary hesitation when prey awaited a predator’s movement, those blurred seconds of hesitation.
In those moments, Alvira searched through the fog of battle to find the face of Panakír staring back at her from some fifty feet away, threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit whirling about the elf.
She would have her answers, and Panakír would lie broken before this day was done.
Alvira threw a glance over her shoulder to where the banners emblazoned with the burning moon of Vastillion stood high. She thrust her níthral into the air and roared, “For Vastillion! Give no quarter!”
With the Spark flowing through her veins, Alvira surged forwards.
A spear jabbed at her abdomen, but she twisted and took the man’s head from his shoulders in a single, clean swipe.
Without turning she reached back and drove her níthral into another man’s belly, then cleaved it into a woman’s neck, falling easily into the forms of the fellensír.
“The Draleid have not abandoned us!” a voice called out in the dark of battle. “Forward! Do not leave her to stand alone!”
Cheers and cries rang out, and sounds of clashing steel redoubled.
As the Antiloch soldiers swarmed around her, Alvira moved like water, flowing from form to form, her níthral carving a bloody path.
She was the lonely mountain, the bastion in the storm.
In the sky above, Vyldrar and the traitor Doaxes tore at each other, illuminating the clouds with rivers of fire.
Alvira turned away the strike of a monstrous battle axe to find herself staring into the eyes of a man almost twice her size.
He swung again, but she stepped back then lunged forwards, driving her níthral up through his chest, carving the meat apart and splitting bone.
She pulled the blade free as her movement carried her past and around him, allowing her to drive the rear blade down into a second warrior’s calf.
The woman roared in agony and made to swing her axe backwards.
But before she could get any weight behind the blow, Alvira pushed threads of Earth and Fire into the ground and pulled a spike of stone upwards through the woman’s chest. She went limp.
A wave of bodies flooded around Alvira and the giant man impaled on the stone. Each wore the blazing moon, colours of blue and grey adorning their armour.
A man in bloodied plate lifted the visor of his helm and pressed the hilt of his sword to his breast. “Draleid,” he said, inclining his head. “We had thought… We had thought this our last day, that you had…”
“Never,” Alvira answered. “While I draw breath, the people of Vastillion will never stand alone. I am only sorry we did not come sooner.”
“You came. That is what will be remembered. These others, they are—”
“Traitors. The why of it, I do not know.”
The man grunted. “Where do you want us?”
Alvira gestured to her left. “Their eastern flank is thin. Push around and take them from the side.”
“What of you?”
“I go to kill the last of them.” Alvira pointed her níthral towards where Panakír strode through the Antiloch ranks in her direction. She looked back at the soldier. “The Order is with you, warrior. The Draleid are with you. Fight well, and I will see you when the sun sets on this bloody place.”
“And you, Draleid.” The man touched his visor but stopped short of closing it. “Thank you for not abandoning us.”
“Thank you for holding faith.” Alvira inclined her head before pushing through the Vastillion soldiers towards the fighting.
As though the air itself carried a weight of what was to come, men and women of both factions stepped aside as Alvira approached, her níthral glowing against the flagstone, the light reflecting in the pools of spilt blood.
Ahead of her, so too did the fighting part around Panakír as the soldiers watched, awed trepidation stilling them as the two Draleid came to stand face to face on opposite sides of a battle.
The sight was as rare as a red moon.
Although the fighting raged throughout the city, fires blazing, bodies crushing together, in that one space all was as still as a mountain at first light.
The sounds of battle were but a drowned muffle in Alvira’s ears.
The scents of burning wood and blood-soaked air fell to the back of her mind.
The soldiers from both Antiloch and Vastillion had gathered around them, a momentary lull that balanced on a knife edge.
Alvira could have heard a pin drop against the stone. But in her mind, in her shared soul, she could feel Vyldrar battling Doaxes across the sky, feel the talons raking her side, hear the roar of flames in her ears.
She took a step forwards, her níthral still ignited in her fist. Panakír watched her like a wary animal, her white steel armour smeared in blood, her face obscured by her helmet.
“You have no right to wear that symbol into battle.” Alvira pointed the tip of her níthral at the symbol of The Order on Panakír’s chest.
Where Alvira had expected indignation from Panakír, she found eyes that held only regret and sorrow. The elf didn’t even look down at the symbol on her breast, as though the sight of it alone shamed her.
The muscles in Panakír’s jaw clenched as Alvira moved close, circling, níthral scraping the ground at her feet.
“Have you nothing to say?” Vyldrar’s fury surged through Alvira’s blood, the dragon hearing everything, watching through Alvira’s eyes. “Innocent people burn around us from your flames, souls you were sworn to protect, and you give me nothing but silence?”
Panakír opened her mouth, but not a sound left her lips, nothing but a short breath, her words stolen by the wind.