Chronicles of Pelenor Trilogy Collection

by Meg Cowley

  “Do you ever look up at the stars and wonder where you belong, Harper?” He looked up, solemnly gazing at the heavens and the cold, otherworldly, impartial lights dancing there.

  “Yes...,” she said slowly. “I suppose. I've never had a place, a home, somewhere to belong.”

  He knew only a little of her past–a waif on the cruel streets, finally shown a scrap of kindness by an old lady who had been a steadfast guardian for her since, as best she could in their poverty.

  “Now you know why.” Dimitri turned his head to glance at her with a half-smile.

  “I suppose. What about you?”

  He returned his gaze to the stars. “I've never fit in, either,” he said quietly. “I never knew my mother. To this day, I do not know her identity. It’s a closely kept secret on my father’s part. He’s always enjoyed that cruel joke at my expense. I was always the bastard, the black sheep. Destined and doomed to fail. Stunted. Held back.”

  Anger crackled at that, at the parts of himself he always kept hidden, the pain he had never managed to truly discard. He paused, breathing deeply, forcing it back down.

  “You don't have to hold back.”

  He did not answer.

  “You don’t have to wear a mask with me, Dimitri,” she added quietly.

  He chuckled “A mask?”

  “Yes. The cocky one, the arrogant one, the dark one, the cruel one... All the different faces you seem to wear. Is that why you are who you are to everyone else? Why you seem to be even worse now Saradon is here? Is it just another mask to keep everyone at bay? Why the only one anyone hates or fears more is Saradon himself?”

  “Yes. My masks keep me safe.” And those I care about. She had pushed her way into that small circle of beings, whether he liked it or not.

  “But you don't want to be like that?”

  He clenched his jaw. “What do you think?”

  “You could just...stop.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “No, I can't.” Surely she is not so naïve as to think it could ever be so simple.

  “I suppose, but what if everyone knew the real you? The things–good things–you've done.”

  “It doesn't matter. I've done enough terrible things, mistakes or otherwise, to never be forgiven. Or accepted.” He slipped her arm from his and turned away.

  “I accept you,” she said in a low voice.

  His proud shoulders crumpled at her words as he turned back to her. “Do you? Truly? You don’t know some of the terrible things I’ve done. Still do.”

  “I know you’re trying to be a good person in a time when doing the wrong thing is easy.” She stared at him, her grey eyes pale in the moonlight, refusing to bow to him.

  “Don’t be a fool. There’s no happy ending to this, Harper,” he said, with a bite of frustration in his voice, advancing on her. It bubbled over. Not at her, but at everything. His entire life of mistakes, poor circumstances, and cursed fortunes. “There’s no way this will ever work out favourably for me, for us, for anyone. The very best we can do is hope to stop him, but the cost will be great.”

  Hurt flashed through her eyes, but she did not draw away. “So you’re giving up then?”

  “No,” he said, even though he longed to be done with it all. He still had to try, even though he was sure to fail.

  “Then do what you can to make the most of what you have got,” she urged him. “We’re still alive. We can change this.”

  “Will you ever give up?”

  “No, because the alternative is worse than I can imagine!”

  Her fire buoyed him, tempered the hopeless despair within him. She truly believed it, somehow, amidst no hope.

  “Gods, help me.” We’re doomed and damned, but to hells with it all.

  Dimitri strode forward and pulled her to him, crushing her to his chest.

  Harper froze against him, but then her fingers wound into the fur trim of his cloak. For a moment, they stood in silence, his chin atop her head, the beauty of the land forgotten. All he could sense was her.

  “Dimitri?” she said, her voice wavering.

  His stomach swooped as she said his name. I love her.

  It bloomed in his heart, unable to be quelled. Right from the beginning, from the first time her insolent grey eyes had met his, the thin wraith of a girl approaching womanhood defying him, despite her frailty, despite his power.

  He had not seen it then, had not realised that inside his piqued curiosity, he had been attracted to the strength of her character. Never understanding that their spark of friction had held one of attraction, too.

  Coming into her own, her fire refused to be quenched. An equal the likes of whom he had never seen. Never afraid to challenge him, or accept him. No matter that she had no special gift to see them through the dark times, her hope continuously burned, her grit shining through.

  “I don’t deserve you, and it will never be, but gods, I cannot help myself,” he murmured into her hair, before he tipped her head up and kissed her, hoping she would not hate him for it.

  She stiffened in surprise before she melted into him. Relief fanned the flames of his desire as her lips parted and her arms snaked around his waist to pull him close.

  Thirty

  Death raced toward them from all directions, leaping from the darkness, snarling with bloodied teeth and blades upon the dwarves. Ragnar, Halvar, and their ranks turned to meet every foe, but in the darkness, Ragnar knew they were being picked off one by one as fighting intensified before and behind them.

  Light bloomed anew, casting their paltry, flickering brands into nothingness as the riders of the Winged Kingsguard arrived, their elven magics undimmed. Ragnar sent a silent prayer of thanks into the earth that they had come, wishing only that their dragons could have fit into the city, too, for their fire would have ended it all.

  Their blades, bright, fresh, and clean, hummed with battle as, with renewed hope and strength, the dwarves pushed forward, forcing the goblin scourge into a retreat. Now they had axe, sword, and magic to fight with. Ragnar surged forward with Halvar, leading their dwarves with renewed hope.

  They spilled into a cavern, the once great centre of the city, boots grating on stone. The market stalls lay smashed and burned amidst the bodies, the paving cracked and spoiled underfoot. Yet, with space to spread out, the dwarves formed orderly ranks. Ragnar’s breath was ragged in his chest, his arms burned, but he lifted his axe nonetheless, emboldened by the diminishing knot of goblins before them. Still a force to be reckoned with, but it finally felt as though they had stemmed the tide. That there might be a chance of victory.

  In their midst stood the pascha, bigger and more grotesque than any other, unmistakeable with the finery of his botched, stolen armour and weaponry. Ragnar saw Korrin’s wave of forces ahead of them, his cousin in the lead, making straight for the goblin leader. Ragnar’s heart leapt at the prospect, and he bellowed for their ranks to follow suit at once, lest the könig be placed in danger.

  The faelights grew brighter until the top of the hall was illuminated as though by the sun. Before such pure light, the goblins quailed, but at the snarling orders of the pascha, sprang forward to battle, as fierce as ever, as the dwarves and Winged Kingsguard surrounded them entirely.

  Ragnar pushed forward with the rest of his men, fighting back the shrinking knot of goblins, always keeping the pascha in his sights...until he stumbled. When he looked up, the pascha was gone.

  SARADON PROWLED THE dark hall, each step ringing anger into the stone, as he glared down at the mirror in fury. Upon it, he saw the knot of goblins, ever dwindling, amidst the attacking dwarves, and even the scarlet cloaks of Pelenor’s former Winged Kingsguard.

  He had left a vast horde of goblins, given them the keys to their success, yet they were failing? Had failed, his mind corrected, for there was no way the goblins would prevail now. Instead, the dwarves would champion, recover their city and the security of their kingdom more fully than they had been able to for centuries. Yes, they would
be weakened, but his goblins were gone. There would be no enemy with which to defeat them, to hold sway over their realm.

  Furious, he struck the mirror. The surface shattered beneath his fist, fracturing the moving images before him into a thousand pieces. He had seen enough. His anger bubbled through him, filling every vein, until he shook with it.

  A few moments later, pulled by his power, the pascha appeared, sprawling unceremoniously upon the floor of the windowless chamber. He leapt to his feet, snarling in his feral tongue and flailing his weapon, still in the midst of battle for a few seconds before his sluggish mind realised that he was no longer beneath Afnirheim.

  Saradon did not give him a chance to speak, to explain.

  The goblins had failed. Their verdict was written. They would all die by one hand or another, the dregs of their species to retreat deep into the darkness of the mountains, far from any living lands.

  At the clenching of Saradon’s fist, the goblin screamed in pain and slumped to the floor, convulsing, gnashing his pointed teeth, writhing so his metal armour skittered and scraped across the floor, his keening reaching higher and higher–until he suddenly ceased all and became nothing more than a silent, mangled corpse upon the floor.

  A flick of Saradon’s finger, and the pascha burned. An acrid, sour smell filled the chamber, and Saradon clenched his teeth, intensifying it as much as he could. White-hot, it tore through the remains until all that remained was ash and charred, twisted pieces of metal and bone.

  Saradon stared at it for a moment, scowling, for it had not abated as much fury as he had sought. He strode from the chamber without another word as, in the fractured mirror, the last of the pascha’s kin died where he had left them.

  THE GOBLINS’ ORDER seemed to break at once, before Ragnar could wonder where their commander had gone. He could not have possibly been taken from the midst of their ranks by those present, for none bore long-range weapons.

  Like a wave smashed upon the rocks, the goblins turned to chaos as dwarves and the Winged Kingsguard rushed in.

  It was over quickly, the last squealing, snarling figure quieted by a quick blow.

  Then there was deafening silence, but for the ringing in Ragnar’s ears.

  When it cleared, the cheering began, but Korrin soon silenced it, ordering them to scour the entire city for any remaining foes. The blood-spattered könig turned to Ragnar and Halvar.

  “Come, brothers. We will find the source of the scourge and make certain they never darken these halls again.”

  The elves of the Winged Kingsguard accompanied their ranks deep into Afnirheim, searching through the dark cellars and tunnels to each dead end. Ragnar thought he could plod on whilst falling asleep, for the fear and anxiety of battle had faded into aching exhaustion. An ever-present prickle of unease nipping at the nape of his neck, as though some subconscious part of his mind expected foes to leap from the shadows, kept him alert.

  There was the occasional knot of goblins, shrieking and screaming from the darkness, that was swiftly silenced by his brethren or the blades of the much fresher Winged Kingsguard, who had mixed into their ranks. Korrin finally halted below the deepest reaches of Afnirheim, in tunnels where no dwarf passed.

  The stone was tainted and fractured. No dwarven hands had wrought the tunnel of sharp, jagged shards of stone that twisted haphazardly into the darkness. Korrin swore under his breath. Ragnar and Halvar hurried forward.

  “This is it,” Korrin said, his voice sure. “I know not how they came to engineer it, by their own dark mission or Saradon’s, but we must block the way. The city may evermore remain a tomb to our kin perhaps, but no goblin will ever set claw here again.”

  “We can help,” the deep, smooth voice of a Winged Kingsguard elf said from behind them. They turned to him, a stern-faced male of younger middle age. “We can use our magic to bring the tunnel down. It will never be cleared.”

  Korrin nodded. “Make it so.”

  At his command, all dwarven ranks retreated, and soon after, the stone fractured like whip cracks and rumbled, collapsing in upon itself. Dust and debris billowed down the passage toward them. When the dust, and their coughing, subsided, the Winged Kingsguard returned to their side, their leader nodding to Korrin, though their fresh faces now held an edge of tiredness and their chests heaved, as though what they had done had cost them a great deal.

  “It is done.”

  The halls rang with the force of the cheering as Korrin and his dwarves hailed each other and the gods.

  Ragnar sank against the cold stone with relief. It was over. The goblins were no more. Valtivar was safe. Afnirheim would never again fall to the scourge whilst any dwarf there drew breath.

  And I survived, Ragnar thought, his eyes slipping shut in relief.

  Thirty One

  Not slowing, Landry slipped the small, paper-wrapped package to the cloaked old lady as their paths crossed and continued walking down the street as if nothing had happened. His heart soared, though it hammered at the sight of the black cloaks slouching by the corner, watching those around them with disdain and arrogance.

  At the end of the street he turned, away from the Order guards, and strolled to the market to spend the paltry ration tokens he and the twins had been allocated–slightly more than their neighbours for his service to the new king in his smithy.

  He spent the tokens, for they could not be gifted without attracting unwelcome attention, but on his way out slipped the extra loaf of bread, block of cheese, and cured meat sausage to the first family he saw–a drawn mother and haggard father with five thin, wraithlike children clinging to their legs. Before they could turn to thank him, the children fell upon the extra food as if it were a feast, and Landry was gone.

  The twins would not begrudge a few extra mouthfuls, he knew. It was all of their price to pay. He was only glad Aislin and Shayla did not suffer the same misery as the city folk. He hoped they were safe. He missed them just as fiercely as if they really had died in the fire that night. Every time the neighbours offered him a soft, sympathetic smile or a hand rebuilding–for with winter, they had been reduced to living in the kitchen, the only intact room, and had patched the ceiling the best they could for shelter–Landry felt guilty at the deception, but he knew their survival hinged upon their ruse being believed.

  Another waited, hovering near the forges in a tattered cloak that had once been brown, but now was as faded as the man who wore it, with his greying skin, pale hair, and stooped shoulders.

  “Are you the smith?” the man asked in a faint voice.

  “Aye. Who asks?” Landry paused, his hand on the door handle.

  “I was told to come to you to dispose of...of some waste.”

  Landry’s heart fluttered–with both hope and fear–at those words, the code he had spread. “I can help you do that. My forges run hot enough to burn plenty. Come inside.”

  The man hurried after him in a pained shuffle, his head bowed. With a glance around the empty street, Landry shut the door behind them.

  “You have a token for me?” Landry knew spies were everywhere. Only those he trusted would send folks to him, and only those who held the correct “tokens” would be helped.

  The man held out a fishhook. Old and crooked, it was worthless to most, but not Landry. It was the self-same hook he had fished with as a boy, a token kept of his long-passed father. Landry took it without a word, feeling the cold metal on his skin as his hand closed around it.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Three,” the man blurted. “My missus and two young ‘uns, both boys. The Order’s already been a-knocking for them.” He wrung his hands together, his brow furrowed with worry.

  “I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

  He had already helped a dozen others. Too few it felt, but it was all he could do to see what few he could safely help out of the city and away from the harsh new regime governing the streets.

  “Oh, thank you,” said the man fervently, his shoulders sagging
.

  “You must tell no one. Take your wife and children to the Street of Souls. Someone will meet you at the corner of the graveyard. Do not bring more than you can carry. No light. It will be quick, so prepare to move.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Who do we meet?”

  “It’s safer if you do not know.”

  The wine merchant was partial to a little smuggling on the side. Landry had always been disapproving, but now? Lives were at stake. If the man could smuggle spices, he could smuggle people. For once, he was glad for those who lived on the shadier side of the law, for here were three more lives that could be saved by their unsavoury skills. For now, he would suspend judgment.

  Not for the first time that hour, he wondered again where Aislin and Shayla were–and Tristan, trapped with his new Order masters. Horror and worry bloomed fresh in his heart. Now there was even more reason for him to stay. The twins could not leave without their absences being noted, and none of them had any clue where Tristan was.

  He sent a silent, desperate prayer skyward. I will find you, son.

  Thirty Two

  “You are certain that is what you saw?” Raedon leaned closer. The young rider cowered before him, squirming in discomfort, his hands wrapping the fabric of his cloak between clenched fingers.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Raedon stepped back and swore under his breath. “Thank you. Dismissed.”

  The rider fled, his cloak flapping.

  Arms folded, Liv watched him go. “You didn’t have to terrify the poor boy.”

  Raedon glared at her. She only raised her eyebrow in defiance, until he huffed. “The Order of Valxiron, Liv. Do you have any idea wh–”

  “You know I do,” Liv said quietly, narrowing her eyes. “They are the last people I want to see. Don’t take my silence for forgetfulness.”

  Raedon closed his eyes for a moment, his mixed frustration and worry uncoiling. “My apologies. I shou–”