James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Caeden gaped as a darkened city street appeared through a hole in the air. It was just like the stones Taeris had used - except Garadis had done it unaided, as easily as breathing.

“Go,” said Garadis. “Do what you must. But return within a year and a day with your solution, else you will lose Licanius forever.”

Caeden nodded. “I will.”

Without hesitation, he stepped through the shimmering portal and back onto the streets of Ilin Illan.

Ilin Illan burned.

The night was at its deepest now, and the city below was lit only by naked, furious flames. Davian stared despairingly at the scene from where he’d collapsed in exhaustion, a little way behind the now dangerously thin front line of Andarran soldiers. Every street, every building visible from his vantage point at the palace gates either glowed a hot, angry red, or sat in equally ominous darkness.

He gasped for air and shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to get his bearings. He, Wirr and Taeris had made it back to the Shields from the Tol, but their time there had been painfully short. Most of the city had been lost in that first, disastrous hour after the Blind had found their way inside through Tol Athian; by the time someone had figured out exactly where the breach was, the Lower and Middle Districts were already ablaze.

After the Shields… a desperate retreat, their only option to avoid being trapped in Fedris Idri. Chaos as the Blind hit them from in front and behind, cutting through their lines, the invaders' unnaturally fast blades slashing everywhere. Struggling onward to the palace, the only defensible position left in the city, through a maelstrom of panic and screaming and running and blood.

And then this current, ominous, near-unbearable silence that hung over the city like a shroud as the Blind prepared their next assault. Probably their final one, Davian realised dully. The Andarrans who had made it back to the palace had managed to regroup, to form a defensible line, but the damage had been done.

They were going to lose.

The Blind had been clever, he realised numbly. They’d known from the start that throwing more soldiers against the Shields would have been a futile gesture; the narrow pass had meant that the three hundred men they’d sent had been no less effective than ten times that number. But it had been enough to keep the Andarran defences focused around Fedris Idri, enough to be a threat. And combined with the Echoes, more than enough to not seem like simply a diversion.

Davian shifted, trying not to let his muscles get too stiff as he watched the ragged Andarran line, its members peering nervously along the steadily darkening street. Red-cloaked Gifted stood shoulder to shoulder with Shadows, Administrators and battered-looking soldiers - a surreal sight even now, and one that only reinforced how desperate their situation had become.

"Strange, isn’t it," came a familiar voice from behind him.

Davian twisted to see Wirr, his friend’s gaze also on the odd mixture of defenders.

"Yes," said Davian softly. "It really is."

There was silence for a few moments, then Wirr gingerly lowered himself to the ground beside his friend. "How are you holding up?"

Davian gave a soft laugh. "About as well as you’d expect. Against that El-cursed armour, I’ve been about as much use as the Gifted."

"That’s not nothing, Dav," said Wirr. "You’ve made a real difference, as have Tol Athian’s people. We’d have been overrun long ago if we hadn’t changed the Tenets."

Davian nodded reluctantly, trying not to show his frustration. Though Essence itself was useless against the Blind’s armour, the Gifted had adapted, wielding swords, spears, even stones from a distance to deadly effect. The Blind’s unnatural strength and speed had minimized actual casualties, though. The presence of the Gifted had made the invaders more cautious, made their losses heavier. But it had come too late.

"You’re right… though I’m not going to be able to even use Essence for much longer," he admitted eventually. "I’m running out of sources." He gestured through the gates to the palace gardens behind him; where a few hours ago there had been lush green grass and flowering plants of all kinds, now there was only a wasteland of black, crumbling dust.

Wirr just inclined his head, looking more sad than worried. "Between healing and fighting, my Reserve’s almost dry too. I think nearly everyone is about empty, to be honest." He glanced down the darkened street, towards the far end. "It won’t be long now," he concluded softly.

Davian followed his friend’s gaze. Ordered divisions of black-clad soldiers were lined up no more than five hundred yards away - just out of range of the Andarran archers, and far enough away that neither the Gifted nor the Shadows could attack with any efficacy.

Then, to the side, he spotted another black-clad figure staring towards them. A deep hood concealed its face.

"So the sha’teth finally showed up. Come to finish us off, I imagine," he muttered. They hadn’t seen the creatures in battle so far, but it looked like that was about to change. Davian took a few deep, calming breaths, ignoring the acrid taste of smoke at the back of his throat.

Without warning, a violent red gash of light seemed to rip the air between the opposing forces.

Davian leaned back, shielding his eyes from the blazing illumination. It faded almost as suddenly as it had appeared; when his vision cleared, a lone figure stood in the gloom, halfway between the Andarrans and the Blind.

Davian stared in shock.

“It’s Caeden,” he said in disbelief, pushing himself to his feet.

The street had fallen deathly silent, neither side seeming to know what to make of this turn of events. Caeden glanced around as if getting his bearings, his gaze sweeping across the Andarran ranks. Then he turned calmly towards the Blind.

“What’s he doing?” muttered Davian, trying not to sound panicked. Caeden had touched the box… and now here he was at the end, appearing as they teetered at the edge of defeat. Ilseth’s memory flashed through his thoughts. It will ensure our victory .

"Just wait, Dav," breathed Wirr, his tone suddenly hopeful.

Caeden stared at the Blind in silence, and with every passing moment Davian found himself more unsure of their former companion’s motives.

Finally, Caeden took a deep breath.

“I give you this one chance,” he shouted towards the black-armoured men, his words carrying clearly to the Andarran line too, echoing through the street. “Leave now. Go back beyond the Boundary.”

There was movement along the front line of Blind soldiers, and a helmetless man stepped into view. Davian’s eyes widened; he recognised the figure despite the distance.

“I am Andan Mash’aan, Slayer of Lih’khaag, Second Sword of Danaris,” the man shouted back in a loud, confident voice. His smile was mocking as he examined Caeden. “My people have waited two thousand years for this moment. Who are you, boy, to dare ask them to give it up – and with us on the cusp of a victory more complete than even the Protector had hoped, no less? Understand this, child. We will drink your blood. We will grind your bones to dust. We will carve our names -”

The man’s words cut off, and his eyes widened. Caeden hadn’t moved, but the commander was sinking to his knees, a look of confusion quickly replaced by sheer terror. After a moment, Davian could see exactly what Caeden was doing - though how, while Mash’aan was wearing that armour, he had no idea.

It was precisely what Davian himself had done to Ionis earlier that day.

The Blind commander’s face began to wither, his eyes becoming hollow, his skin creasing and then stripping away. Suddenly Mash’aan’s armour seemed to burst into a thousand pieces, tiny black discs skittering across the cobbled stone street, barely discernible in the murk. The stark white of a skeleton was visible for a few moments before it too disintegrated, crumbling to the ground in a fine white powder.