Page 16 of The Truth

“No. But they are our connection to the people. They are what keep us grounded. We do not obey them, nor do they rule over us. But we must heed their words or at the very least give them the illusion that we are doing so.” Another long swallow of the wine. “There is truth in what they said today, despite the ignorance in it.”

“I know.”

“I am sorry, my friend.”

Eltoar sank back into his chair, swirling his wine before him, images flashing of Maquil’s broken body, blood flowing. He let his mind drift into Helios’, each sharing in the other’s grief. “As am I,” he said, staring into the depths of his glass. “As am I.”

Part Two

20 years before The Fall

Chapter Five

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

The Eleventh Karvosi Incursion

City of Arathín – Winter, Year 2662 After Doom

Rivers of dragonfire seared across the frozen night overhead as Fane weaved through the streets of Arathín, snowfall grinding beneath his boots. Crackling fires and echoing shouts filled the air, thick smoke billowing upwards. The city had not seen the Karvosi coming until it was too late. Neither had he, in all fairness.

He’d heard of the Karvosi mages’ ability to warp a person’s reality, to make them see or unsee a thing. It was something he’d have to learn more of. Though, from what he’d read the power came at the cost of the mage’s own memory, their own mind. And his mind was his sharpest weapon. All power came at a cost, and that cost must be carefully weighed.

His heels clipped the stone as he descended the staircase that led from the university towards Avelon’s Hill, the books in his satchel smacking against his back. He wasn’t meant to be there, wasn’t meant to be in Arathín at all. Which made the timing of the attack quite unfortunate. Though turning unfortunate things in his favour was a pastime of Fane’s. And if the elves of Arathín were busy preventing their city from being burned to the ground, they were less likely to notice six missing books from the university library. Particularly if that library happened to burn down, which, all things considered, was a strong possibility.

Fane reached the bottom of the staircase, turning left as his boot touched the cobbled street. Elves scattered all about him, not one seeming to be running in any particular direction. Panic was a strange thing. An instinct wrought from the need for self-preservation but developed to such a degree as to decrease the likelihood of achieving that same need. He observed an elf trip over a dropped sack and scramble across the ground, screaming as others trampled her. It was panic that prevented the logical action of curling and protecting her head, of rolling from the path. The panic for preservation quickly becomes the cause of annihilation.

He observed only for a few moments before reaching for the Spark and encasing the woman in a sphere of Air. One elf was sprinting with such reckless abandon that he smashed his face into the protective shield, his nose bursting in blood as he proceeded to roll down the steps towards the hill’s base. Panic at its finest.

Fane stepped through the shield of Air and dropped to a knee beside the elf, those in flight flowing around them.

“Are you hurt?” he said, reaching out a hand.

She took one look at him and slapped his hand away, shuffling into the back of the shield. In fairness to her, he wasn’t wearing his Arcarian robes and looked far more like a cutpurse – which wasn’t too far from the truth at that particular moment.

“Take a breath. Surely my face doesn’t scare you that much.” Fane pulled down his hood, looking into her eyes. “I am Fane Mortem, Arcarian of The Order. I mean you no harm.”

For a brief moment, her gaze softened, and she stared back at him with a look of relief in her eyes. But in a heartbeat, that relief turned to terror, and she screamed like a doe caught in a trap, dragonfire reflecting in her eyes.

Fane grabbed her shoulders and opened himself fully to the Spark. He pushed threads of Air, Fire, and Spirit into the shield he’d erected over the elf and surged it outwards. The world seemed to blaze like the heart of a sun, and when Fane looked up, he saw fire crashing over the ward, a waterfall of molten death smashing down over a force unseen.

About him, he saw elves staring up in wonder at the sight, their faces illuminated by the raging flames. Though not all looked up. Many stared at him, pressing their hands to their chests and whispering prayers of thanks.

The flames lasted but a few heartbeats as the dragon swept overhead, a score of smaller creatures snapping at it and spitting.

Fane released the ward, and a screech sounded in the sky. He followed the sound only to see a creature careen through the air, smash into the white stone wall ahead of him, and drop into the cobbled street. A strange stillness grasped hold of the world as every soul stared at the creature that lay in a heap, the fires and sounds of battle still raging in the city beyond.

It was an odd thing, no larger than a horse, with wings like a bat’s and long gangly limbs all wired and muscled. Its skin was a mixture of thin scales and leathered hide, while membranous frills supported by cartilaginous spines lined its body. Its skull was dished and tapered, a twin pair of spikes jutting from its chin.

It lay there, still as a mountain, for all of two heartbeats. But just as the elves settled around it, the creature shifted, its winged forelimbs lifting and slapping back down against the stone. Its eyes flickered open, gaze lingering on the souls gathered around it. And then that strange stillness was shattered as it unleashed a violent, blood-wrenching shriek. The two spikes on its chin parted, splitting its jaw in twain and revealing a second pair of inner jaws. Fane cycled through his readings in his mind, settling on an illustration in Claw, Tooth, and Fang by Vace Entura.

“A Veyak,” Fane whispered to himself, all the while watching as the creature rose onto its hind legs.

The creature’s jaws shivered as it hissed at the elves around it, a series of clicks emanating from its throat. Fane watched in earnest as the thing took stock of the world, of the elves frozen in place from fear.

All it took was one movement, one sharp sound as an elf fell backwards over a shattered pot, and all realms of madness broke loose. The creature swiped with a winged forelimb and ripped open an elf’s face, then brought that same clawed limb back and tore through another elf’s belly, intestines and innards spilling into the street. It snapped its head around, then spat a glob of shimmering clear liquid into a third elf’s face. The scream that left that elf’s throat was such that he could feel the pain shivering across his own skin.

That single scream turned into many as the elf staggered forwards, and the skin on her face melted like candle wax, blood flowing through her fingers as she desperately tried to peel the viscous spit from her face. Smoke rose as skin sizzled, and the elf dropped to her knees, the flesh of her fingers and hands sloughing from her bones.