Of Empires and Dust (The Bound and The Broken, #4)

by Ryan Cahill

The first thing Calen saw when he opened his eyes was the Blood Moon’s crimson light sparkling in the stream’s shifting waters, battling against the purple glow that shone from the runes in his armour. The moon had hung in the dark sky since the night it had bled into the world. The sun rose and set each day, but its light was dim, as though tempered by Efialtír himself, the world painted with an unyielding crimson hue.

Rist would have known what to say; Rist always knew what to say. He might have taken a bit longer to say it, more time thinking and weighing each word, but in the end, Calen could scarcely think of a time when Rist hadn’t been proven right… eventually.

In his moment of solitude, Calen looked up at the words carved into the rock. He swallowed, his hand resting on the coin pommel of the sword at his hip. “Draleid n’aldryr, Rakina nai dauva. Ikin vir vänta. Ikin vir alura. Marai viel alanín til ata ilynír abur er kerta.” Calen whispered the words, as he had done the first time he’d read them. Now, though, with all he had seen, they held new meaning. Dragonbound by fire, Broken by death. Here we wait. Here we rest. Until we are called to make whole what is half.

“Nothing is ever like the stories. If the stories told the truth, people would never pick up swords.”

“Mam… what am I?” The wolf howled in Ella’s blood as she asked the question, scratching at the back of her mind. She looked down to see claws lengthening from her fingernails, forged from white light. “What am I?” she whispered again. “You are a Blooddancer. A guardian of the gods.”

Blooddancer? Guardian of the Gods?

Tamzin reached out her hands, looking keenly into Ella’s eyes. The woman’s nails were strange, thick and tapered to a point, curling slightly, thin scars lining the skin at the centre of her fingertips. “I am a daughter of Kaygan, one of his guardians.” Tamzin’s eyes flickered from deep brown to sapphire blue, her pupils stretching to slits. Her nails extended out, the scars on her fingertips opening, claws curling. “This continent hunted our kind to near extinction. Used us as weapons, as tools. But here we are, alive and free. You are not alone anymore, Ella. And you never will be again.”

Tamzin looked towards the sky, then dropped to the ground, folding her legs beneath her in a single smooth motion. She gestured for Ella to sit across from her. This time, Ella obliged. “What do you know of what you are?” Ella looked at the dirt, shaking her head absently. “Nothing. Not truly. Until recently, all I’d heard of druids were stories. I still don’t know if that’s what I am, but⁠—” “It is.” Tamzin leaned across and rested her hand on Ella’s knee. “You are what our kind call a Blooddancer. A druid of the warrior blood. In millennia past, we were the guardians of the gods – Fenryr, Kaygan, Dvalin, Bjorna, Vethnir… There were more once upon a time, so many more. And as our gods died, so did we.” She squeezed Ella’s knee. “You are a druid. Simply proved by the fact that you are here. But even if that were not so, I can feel it in your soul.”

“Calen needed me…” Ella repeated, staring into the whirling blue of Tamzin’s eyes, black slits staring back. “The dragons… I could feel them. I could feel the hollowness in their hearts. They were missing pieces. They wanted to fight. Every piece of them wanted to, but they couldn’t. It was like they were frozen. Afraid, alone, filled with rage…” “You shifted with a dragon?” The shock in Tamzin’s voice set a panic in Ella. “Five.” “That’s not possible…” Tamzin let go of Ella’s hands and leaned back, staring at Ella as though she were Efialtír himself. “Even just one would have ripped your mind to pieces.” In that moment, Ella realised how truly foolish she had been. She did not understand anything about Níthianelle, about her abilities, about who she was. She had reached into those dragons’ minds without understanding anything. “Not even in the legends passed down have I heard of an Aldruid shifting with a dragon. There are tales of people who tried and of how the dragon’s spirit tore them apart. It’s no wonder you were fragmented…” She leaned forwards, eyes wide, curiosity in her voice. “How… how did it feel?” “Terrifying.” Ella thought back to that moment. “They were broken somehow, damaged. They held so much sadness in their hearts it almost broke me too. But when they let me in, when our souls were joined, it was as though together we were almost whole. Not quite, but almost.”

So when Ella shifted into the rakina dragons, she sensed their sheared souls, but by joining them, it almost completed them, like a draleid.

“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.

Backstory for Gandrid.

“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’.”

“I know who you are, Lord Virandr. There’s barely a soul here who doesn’t. You arrived with the Belduarans and the dwarves. Had you not, we would all have been dead the night the Blood Moon rose, or even before.” The man stared at Dahlen for a moment. “Erdhardt Hammersmith.”

“Draleid n’aldryr, unwë ayar,” the elf whispered, cradling him in his arms. “Din navn væra Varthear.” Dragonbound by fire, little one. Your name will be Varthear. More memories flitted through Calen, emotions crashing into him: anger, joy, fear, hope. His pulse raced, his breath trembled, his heart sank. Of it all, one thing rose above all else: Varthear’s love of her soulkin, Ilmirín. The Draleid had been fierce and strong, yet gentle. Wise and learned, but always willing to listen. It was his heart that had taught Varthear how to love, his soul that had shown her what kindness was. She would have given anything and everything to have kept him safe. She would have given her life a hundred times over, endured any pain the world could conjure… but instead, she had been cursed to watch him die. The world flickered, flashes of fire and lightning igniting the darkness around Calen. He was swerving through thick clouds, a storm raging on all sides. Panic and fear permeated every piece of his shared soul. A bright flash illuminated the sky before him, and he watched as a dragon covered in brilliant yellow scales ripped another from the sky, blood dancing with the rain. He swerved to avoid a column of dragonfire, its light burning through the dark. All around him, Draleid and dragons tore each other to pieces. Brothers and sisters, lovers and friends. Everything he had ever known was crumbling before his eyes. The world blurred and shifted once more, and now he was on his side, s...

Kallinvar made to speak. His lips moved, but no sound came. This was the god of legend. The god that had saved him from the brink of death. The god whose halls all souls wished to enter. This was The Warrior.

“War is no different to peace. It is simply more honest. Do not hesitate, do not contemplate mercy. Remember everything I have taught you.”

As more arrows and spears fell, Belina touched Dayne’s arm. “If we press them now, they’ll surrender. They’re broken.” Dayne laid his bow in the grass, then slid his arm through the strap in his shield and ripped it from the earth. He snatched his valyna from beside the quivers. “Surrender is not an option for them, Belina. They turned their backs on us twice already. We can’t give them a third opportunity. Today they die.”

“This is it. This is where the future of Valtara is decided. I want Loren and every soul under his command to see me in their nightmares. I want them to fear us like they feared the night as children. I am ready to be their demon.”

To Dann’s surprise, a raucous cheer erupted from the gathered elves. They’d never seemed the cheering type. They barely ever seemed the smiling type, if he was being honest, more like frowning happily.

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.

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.”

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.

The short laugh that Voranur choked out held as much joy as a funeral pyre. “Tell me, brother.” He turned his head from the horizon of sheeting rain and locked his gaze with Eltoar’s. “What is the point of tearing something down if what we build in its place is no better?”

Eltoar had felt it… felt Efialtír’s touch stoking his fury, feeding his blood lust. He looked around, seeing the elven dragons surround Helios, their frills raised, muscles tensed. He rested his palm against the cold white steel of his breastplate, feeling the Essence pulse. All power came with a price, and Essence was no different. “Do it.” Salara’s voice cut through the haze of Eltoar’s focus. “Call on your Blood Magic, just as you did back then. Your god’s moon hangs in the sky.” She gestured towards the crimson circle that had found a gap in the dark clouds. “But if you do, neither you nor your soulkin will leave this place. This earth will be your tomb, that much I promise you.”

Slowly, Eltoar pulled his hand from his breastplate and allowed the power of the Essence to fade from his mind. He took a step towards Salara, his gaze never leaving hers. She didn’t move. “You will know the pain soon.” Salara slid her blade into its scabbard, her stare unwavering. “Go, fly back to Lyina. Lick your wounds. And when I kill her and this traitor—” she gestured to Voranur, who was now coaxing Seleraine to her feet “—I will give you the courtesy you never gave me. I will let you mourn, let you weep. And then I will destroy this world you have stitched together from the carcass of the one you ripped apart. I will burn it to the ground, and I will kill everything and everyone your black heart still cares for.”

We cannot wait for our destinies to unfold. We must forge them ourselves.”

“We are, each of us, capable of things we could never imagine.” Vandrien moved beside Salara, following her gaze. “No soul is incorruptible. Good and evil are words created so that our minds might grasp, in its most simplistic form, the concept of what is right and what is wrong. But the words themselves serve no purpose. For boiling down right and wrong into such basic forms is not possible in the living world, only in theory.”

The bonds of Blood Magic that held Kallinvar in place faded, and he dropped to the ground, recalling his Soulblade in the same motion and taking the second Fade’s head from its shoulders as it turned. “You talk too much,” Kallinvar said as he stared down at the creature’s severed head, its mouth agape, empty black eyes staring at nothing.

“Vitharnmír,” Achyron hissed in Kallinvar’s mind. “Rip their souls from this world.”

A brief respite from the barrage came as Ildris slammed into the creature’s back and it staggered forwards. Kallinvar took advantage of the Vitharnmír’s lost footing by dropping low and carving his Soulblade through its knee. The Vitharnmír collapsed on its back, thrashing and hissing, its dual-tone voice sending shivers through Kallinvar, the runes in its armour blazing. “For Rialis.” Kallinvar grasped the hilt of his Soulblade with both hands and drove it down between the Vitharnmír’s eyes.

Kallinvar pulled the blade free, a coil of regret twisting in him. One constant had always remained throughout his many lifetimes: the young always paid the price for mistakes made long before their time – and the price was always blood.

In Kallinvar’s mind, perseverance was the single greatest attribute a human soul could possess. It was the one and only thing that was always within your control. Talent could be wasted, luck could run out, charm faded. But a soul that could persevere despite all odds could overcome anything.

For grief is not a constant thing. It is a monster that does not kill its prey but plays with it, torments it. Grief is not an obstacle to be overcome. It is an injury that must be accommodated. It never leaves, only waits.

“Sometimes you can know a person without knowing their past, Calen. Your father wasn’t a Draleid. He wasn’t a mage or a king or a lord. But he was someone who always tried to do what he knew to be right. He cared deeply about the ones he loved, and he fought fiercely to protect them. In all honesty, after everything I’d seen, he showed me there was still good left in the world.”

Time was immeasurable in this place. How long did she wait for Tamzin? What if the druid never came back? What if this was Ella’s fate? To walk endlessly through the Sea of Spirits, never quite alive, never quite dead.

Nithianelle is in the Sea of Spirits.

If she kept the Marin Mountains on her left, then moved north with the Argonan Marshes on her right, she would eventually reach the Darkwood.

“The Angan can do many things. They are the first children of our gods, carved from pieces of their flesh. Níthianelle is how they communicate so quickly. They travel the Warrens, sending messages from one to another, spanning great distances in short times. More than that, we may have power here, power we can learn to wield and mould and shape, but the Angan are as much part of Níthianelle as they are of the waking world. They move between both like shadows. In this world, there is no greater predator.”

Info on Angans.

The children of Bjorna, those that are left, are zealots left over from a war that died out long before our time because there weren’t enough bodies to fight it. A war in which gods killed gods, a war in which the blood of our people fed the land in rivers. There were once many more gods than there are now and with them many more of our kind. They didn’t all get along.

But you see, Ella, if there was only one piece of shit in the world, people would kill each other to possess it.

“Her name was Laurel Hardin.” Ella’s jaw twitched involuntarily. “She was seventeen when she fragmented. She was terrified.” “We need to go.” “I’ll remember you,” Ella whispered. “I promise.”

“From the collected research of Angmiran Skarsden, Katja Landira, Indinam Muhdeeb, and other admittedly less reliable sources, I have composed a list of over one hundred and twenty-nine druidic gods. Some older texts suggest there may even have been more, but much of the pages are worn and frail, the ink blurred beyond legibility. Some have been transcribed, but I trust their accuracy as much as I do that of a blind goat. It appears that the druidic bloodlines began to dwindle somewhere around the year four hundred After Doom, taking many of their gods with them. By the year one thousand After Doom, the number of recorded gods had plummeted to no more than fifteen, and by the end of the Age of Honour, accounts of druidic histories had all but vanished. The only mention of the druidic gods are of Dvalin, the Stag; Bjorna, the bear; Vethnir, the hawk; Fenryr, the wolf; and Kaygan, the kat.”

We are flawed, all of us, but I suppose it is not the existence of flaws that destroys us but our willingness to bow to them.

His father had told him to honour the man’s life by never forgetting his death. He had told him to feel the guilt and that if he ever stopped feeling it, to put the sword down and never take it back up again.

Aeson Virandr was a living, breathing legend. He was a Draleid of old, one of the greatest warriors to have ever lived. And he was their father. What harm could come to them with a father like that? A father who had trained them to wield a blade with his own hands. Somewhere along the way, that fantasy faded. His father was a warrior of legend, a master of the blade, a hero… but he was mortal. And mortal men could die.

This, Arden decided, was a key difference between a battle and a war. There was an inherent chaos to a battle, a madness within which all reason became lost. Battles were won and lost on the stroke of a sword. War was the exact opposite. It was meticulous and slow and purposeful. Wars were won and lost on empty stomachs, exhaustion, thirst. And somehow that difference set a much sharper fear in his belly.

A great insight.

Vaeril handed the letter to Calen. My dearest Eluna, I apologise for the secrecy, but it is needed. I sense what we have feared may come to pass. Fane grows bolder. He has followers within The Order’s ranks. I do not know how many, but it’s only a matter of time. I have moved everything to the place where we first met. The pendant remains the key. Kollna knows. She cast the runes. Trust nobody else. Eltoar struggles enough already. I would not burden him further. With hope, this will all be for nothing. Alvira

Chapter 28 The Path We Have Chosen

Fantastic lore about Garramon and The Order.

“Fear can often be mistaken for respect.”

“All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”

‘Let not any soul stay their conscience by the delusion that they do no harm if they take no part. The darkness of this world needs nothing more to triumph than good souls looking on and doing nothing.’”

He remembered what Alvira had once told him long ago, after his sister had fallen in the war between Lunithír and Kavathíl, and he had not been there to die by her side. “Every soul has a thousand lives not lived, born of a thousand choices not made and a thousand paths not walked, Eltoar. We must not dwell on those other lives. They are ghosts, and if we let them, they will haunt us. Look forward. There are more choices to make, more paths to walk, more life to live.”