Page 17 of The Truth

Fane bounded to the elf’s side, once more summoning threads of Spirit, Fire, Earth, and Water to do his bidding. He weaved the threads through the elf’s skin, trying desperately to stop the melting

Globs of clear fluid frothed as they melted into the elf’s flesh like magma, devouring whatever they touched, skin, cloth, bone, all sizzling and smoking.

He could feel the elf’s heartbeat slowing, feel her body relinquishing the fight for life. There was nothing he could do. As the light faded from her eyes, Fane whispered, “Må Heraya tael du ia’sine ael.”

May Heraya take you into her arms.

A series of clicks sounded to his left.

Fane drew a short breath, dropped his hand to the sword at his hip, and leapt to his feet. In one fluid motion, he ducked below the swipe of a clawed forelimb and slid his sword from its scabbard. As the claw tore into a vicious backswing, he caught it with threads of Air, twisted, and snapped, his fingers curling into a fist as the creature’s bone shattered in a spray of violet blood.

Violet. He wondered the cause of such a colour.

The Veyak shrieked, reeling backwards, its blood seeming almost luminescent as it dropped from its shattered wing, setting a sizzle in the stone where it landed.

A sensation rippled through Fane’s threads of Air, a vibration coming from the creature’s throat. Fane took a moment to watch its lower jaw split, mandibles opening. Four glands pulsed within the creature’s maw, swelling.

That sensation flexed again, and Fane took the moment to step backwards as a spurt of viscous liquid launched from the creature’s mouth and covered three more of the panicked elves. Screams ensued, followed by melting flesh and smoking bone.

Fane threw himself forward, inside the creature’s reach. He plunged his sword into the beast’s chest, released his grip, then slammed it down with threads of Spirit, opening it from sternum to groin. As its innards slid onto the stone, Fane took those same threads of Air and forged them into a disk as fine as a sword’s edge, and up it went, clean through the creature’s neck. Sharpened air sliced through scales and meat and bone, and the beast’s body dropped in two parts.

Fane knelt beside it, hovering his hand over the smoking violet blood that ate away at the white stone.

“You’re a fascinating thing, aren’t you?” Fane whispered. The blood didn’t seem anywhere near as potent as the venom it spewed, but it would still burn flesh to the bone. If he’d brought phials with him he would have collected some for study.

As he knelt over the body, elves gathered about him, staring down at the decapitated creature.

“Arcarian.” One of the elves stepped forwards, a tremble in his voice. “The Order has sent reinforcements?”

Examining the creature one last time, Fane stood, adjusting his cloak as he did. “This city will be nothing but ash and rubble by the time The Order sends aid.” Fane frowned as he looked down at the creature and realised his sword was still bedded in its chest, the blood eating away at the steel. He had liked that sword. “I’m afraid help is not coming. At least not soon enough to make a difference for you and yours.”

“What?” The elf’s face twisted in confusion, and a murmur spread through the others who had gathered. “They would abandon us? Why?”

“I never said abandon.” Fane ran his tongue over his teeth. “But they certainly won’t rush. That acid can melt dragon scales. They won’t be rushing into that. Too precious.” He looked up at the elf and the others who had stopped around him. They were ragged, children among them, blood and bruises aplenty. “Have you seen Karvosi in the streets?”

The elf nodded, grimacing as he touch a red patch on the left side of his shirt over his ribs. “They broke through the soldiers at the docks. They’re burning everything, killing everyone.”

“Not everyone. Oh they’ll take prisoners, believe me. But the Karvosi always hit hard and fast.” He drew a long breath, letting it out in a single sweep. He looked over the map of Arathín in his mind, tracing the streets. “Take everyone you love and run for the western gates. Take the path north around the bazaar, turn west once you reach Heraya’s fountain. That will be your path of least resistance. Don’t go back to your homes. Don’t hesitate.”

“We… we can’t just abandon our homes…”

“Abandon them, or die in them. At every point in history, wherever the Karvosi made first landfall, the city burned. Arathín was a perfect target. There are only six Draleid that remain stationed here, and The Order’s garrison has been thinned recently – consequence for whatever the queen did to piss off the council.” Fane realised he was mumbling. “Your choices are your own, and I will not take them from you. But my advice would be to leave now, with haste. Homes can be rebuilt, lives cannot.”

Murmurs spread through those around him.

“We’re not warriors,” the elf said, opening his hands. “We won’t make it to the gates.”

Fane took another look at them. Fifty or so, all in their bedclothes or patterned robes. Eight children. The elf was right. They wouldn’t reach the gates, not if the Karvosi found them. Unarmed and unblooded as they were, they’d likely be on ships before the sun rose. He’d heard what happened where those ships went.

“Arcarian?”

“I’m not even meant to be here,” Fane whispered to himself, adjusting the straps of his satchel, feeling the weight of the books on his back. His preference would have been to let them fend for themselves. They would only slow him down and endanger the books. He was only there for the books. “Fuck…” he whispered. “Stay tight to me. If someone falls, leave them. If someone screams, ignore it. The Karvosi will take the weakest and use them to bait the strongest. I will not stop – if you do, then that is a choice you make.”

The elf reached back and pulled a small child close, nodding sheepishly. “Thank you, Arcarian.”

“We move now.” Fane turned towards the northern path, lifting his gaze upwards past the buildings to see plumes of fire streaking across the night. Only six Draleid were stationed at Arathín and perhaps a hundred Battlemages. When the dragons fell, the city would fall with them.

He drew a long breath, then broke into a sprint, bemoaning the cobbles beneath him. At least it wasn’t raining.