A Clash of Fates: The Echoes Saga: Book Nine

by Quaintrell, Philip C.

  “That he did,” Vighon replied softly. He held them both, offering what comfort he could. The moment brought a recent memory to the surface, reminding the king of Inara’s last words to him before she left for Erador.

  “Those men and women you called upon,” she had said, “the ones who fought and died beside you - they weren’t there for you. They weren’t even there for the realm. They were fighting for their families. They still are. They died fighting for their loved ones, so that they might live in a world under your reign. Their lives have always been their own, and each and every one of them wanted to fight for what they held in their heart.”

  Braden had died fighting for what he held in his heart; the very two people currently in Vighon’s arms. Instead of crushing guilt, the northman felt pride. He was proud of Braden and all who had fallen defending their families and homes. Though his death would leave a sting for some time, he was sure his wife would come to share his pride.

  “He may not have wished to be a hero,” Vighon said, “but he will be honoured as one all the same.” The king turned to his servants. “See that they are taken care of - winter will not bother them.”

  One of the servants nodded his head. “Your Grace,” he affirmed.

  Vighon finally stood up and left mother and son in each other’s arms. “See to it that every family who has lost a husband or a father is honoured with coin and supplies to see them through the frost.”

  The same servant hesitated, his eyes darting from the mother to the king. “Your Grace… That is a lot of supplies.”

  The king locked eyes on the man. “See it done,” he commanded. “And give them all a pyre each.”

  The servant bowed his head despite the reluctance that spread across his face. “It will be done, your Grace.” Vighon almost groaned when only one of the servants left his side.

  “Your Grace…” The older Keeper, Quaid, was looking up the main slope, towards The Dragon Keep. “Looks to be something going on.”

  Vighon moved to see for himself. A small crowd was beginning to gather not far from the keep’s main gates. The sight wouldn’t have concerned the king too much, but the gathering appeared to be focused around the enormous dragon corpse.

  “Now what?” Vighon muttered.

  With the Keepers and his remaining servant, the northman trekked up the slope to investigate. The people parted for him just as they had prior to Alijah’s invasion. Something in Vighon still didn’t feel like he had earned his return as king.

  The smell of Karsak’s rotten body hit Vighon like a club to the face. He winced and turned his head to the side, though it made no difference. Flies had taken to the beast like crows on a bloodied battlefield, while rats scurried in and out of ragged holes that had been poked through its ancient hide.

  “What’s going on?” he asked before noticing Nathaniel and Reyna.

  The Galfreys approached from the head of the dragon, both similarly distressed by the powerful odour. Despite the gruesome scene, the pair were a vision of strength and resilience. In their late seventies, the couple appeared no older than thirty years - in fact, younger than Vighon looked in his early forties.

  Reyna came to stand beside the king, her bow in hand. “Something stirs inside the beast,” she informed.

  Vighon looked at her in disbelief, noting then that Nathaniel was holding his sword. The two Keepers who had accompanied the king removed their wands and began to usher the people back from the dragon.

  Something snapped inside the bowel of the monster.

  “What new evil is this?” the northman questioned, drawing the sword of the north. The flames blew wild in the wind, forcing him to lower the blade to the ground.

  Nathaniel nodded at the headless corpse beside Karsak. “Well we know it isn’t Rengyr.”

  More bones were broken inside Karsak and the hide itself moved to some unseen pressure. Distressed murmurs broke out amongst the people and they no longer required the Keepers to usher them back.

  Grotesque innards were suddenly pushed out of various wounds in the dragon’s side. The rats displayed the most wisdom when they turned tail and fled.

  If Vighon had blinked, he would have missed Reyna nocking an arrow. “Whatever it is, kill it quickly,” he urged.

  Reyna pulled taut the string of her bow. “As you say, your Grace.”

  Vighon was almost distracted by her words when Karsak’s hide was torn apart from the inside. A hulking form emerged from the dragon, its wide-set frame coated in gore and death.

  “Wait!” the northman blurted, halting Reyna from releasing her arrow.

  Standing taller than everyone else, Sir Borin the Dread awaited his master’s command.

  Nathaniel lowered his sword. “I hate to think how he got in there.”

  Vighon had no problem imagining Karsak swallowing the Golem in their bid to escape the cascading slopes that wiped away the eastern Watcher. In fact, he could easily imagine Sir Borin clawing his way out of the mud and stone to challenge the dragon and its Rider.

  Realising that the surrounding crowd had become deathly silent, the king glanced around to see the horror on their faces. Sir Borin was the stuff of nightmares, and that was before he had lost his armour and helmet. Now, his demonic features were there for all to see and made all the worse by Karsak’s remains plastered to his pale flesh.

  They needed to get him out of sight.

  “You.” Vighon turned to the servant, though the man’s eyes were caught by the horror of the Golem. The northman clicked his fingers in front of the servant’s face, snatching his attention. “He won’t hurt you,” he said plainly. “Take him inside the keep and clean him up. Then find something to cover… everything.”

  The servant only swallowed in response.

  Vighon turned back to the Golem. “Sir Borin, go with this man and do exactly as he says. I will remain close by.”

  The servant required an extra nudge to get moving, though the company of Keepers offered some reassurance. Vighon would have enjoyed the moment, free of an entourage, if he wasn’t so caught up in the fact that Queen Skalaf’s monster had returned to haunt him.

  The king watched the wall of muscle that Sir Borin called a back disappear into the keep. “Will I ever be free of that thing?” he asked aloud.

  “Doubtful,” Nathaniel replied, sheathing his sword. “If he can survive a mountain dropping on his head and a dragon swallowing him whole, what can stop him?”

  Vighon sighed and sheathed the sword of the north, extinguishing the flames. “I suppose we need all the help we can get if we’re going to hold the city.”

  A shadow overcame Nathaniel’s face as he too considered the hardship ahead of them. “Ravens have been sent to The Black Wood. A rider should be here in a few days with a diviner we can use to reach Ruban Dardaris. His forces in the south are sizeable.”

  Vighon wasn’t convinced. “A few days could spell the end of our occupation. And regardless of Ruban’s numbers, they still need to travel the length of the country if they’re to defend Namdhor.”

  Nathaniel tried to offer a balm to the king’s concerns. “I have no doubt the rider from The Black Wood will be in the company of a dwarven force. Doran didn’t take every warrior to Qamnaran. And we have allies in Lirian. In fact, the last I heard they were using The Pick-Axe as a base.”

  Reyna stepped closer to the northman, her features set. “We will hold this city, your Grace.”

  Though his title sounded familiar, it still grated in his ear. “We’ve taken back a city by the skin of our teeth,” Vighon began. “The realm is still firmly in the hands of Alijah.”

  Reyna gave the northman a warm smile and placed a loving hand on his arm. “This city is home to us all. We will not give it up.” She squeezed his arm affectionately. “And you will always be a king to these people, whether you win a battle or the war itself.”

  Vighon nodded his appreciation and hoped that they saw his love for them in his eyes. “Has there been any word from Q
amnaran?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  “No,” Nathaniel said definitively. “But we shouldn’t expect one. They have no idea we’ve taken Namdhor back. The last they heard, we were still looking for Asher in the hope of tracking you down.”

  “Hopefully,” Reyna added with a lighter tone, “either Doran or my mother has sent word back to The Black Wood and we will receive news with the rider.”

  “I dare not keep a hope,” Vighon uttered, always one to trust the strength in his arm over all else.

  Nathaniel planted a heavy hand on the king’s shoulder. “Keep the hope alive,” he beseeched.

  Vighon narrowed his eyes at the knight. “Those sound like Inara’s words.”

  Nathaniel beamed with pride. “That’s because they are.”

  The quip on the end of Vighon’s tongue was held back under the barrage of thundering hooves. A single rider brought his mount to a halt at the tip of Karsak’s tail. The man could have held any number of professions by his garb, but his build suggested he had once served in Namdhor’s army.

  “Your Grace!” he called from atop his horse.

  Vighon frowned. “What now?” he mumbled as he made his way towards the rider. “Why the haste?” he asked.

  “It’s them, your Grace. They’re… They’re doing something.”

  The king opened his mouth to reply but, instead, turned to Nathaniel and hissed, “Horses!” Reyna though was already running back to the keep to retrieve them from the stables. Within minutes, Vighon had mounted beside the Galfreys, and the trio set off down the slope at a gallop.

  From top to bottom there were signs of battle. The Keepers had called on every destructive spell in their repertoire to fight the Reavers stationed in Namdhor. Numerous buildings had lost their windows and brickwork while others had lost portions of their roofs. Thankfully, there were no more scattered remains of their foe, having been collected and burned outside the city.

  Here and there, outside their homes or shops, Namdhorians stopped upon seeing the king. They raised their fists into the air or bowed their heads in respect. Vighon would have slowed to offer his own respect, but it was their safety he now feared for… again.

  Reaching flat ground, they navigated the lower town that sprawled around the capital’s base and made for the snow-covered plains of The White Vale. There, Vighon’s eyes quickly found Kassian Kantaris. The ragged mage knight was resting on a barrel with a pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His torn coat draped over the sides, the man looked right at home among his Keepers. Surrounding them was a larger group of Namdhorian soldiers who had raided the barracks and reclaimed their armour, cloaks, and weapons.

  Vighon felt his spirits lift at the sight of the flaming sword emblazoned on their shields. It gave him hope. It was, however, tested by the sound that came from beyond them.

  Jumping down from their horses, the trio were given a clear path to the vale and Kassian’s perch. Vighon didn’t pause to greet the Keeper, his attention entirely stolen by the clamour before him.

  “What are they doing?” the king asked aloud to anyone who might have the answer.

  Kassian shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine… your Grace.”

  Vighon scrutinised the three hundred Reavers who had withdrawn from the city. They still couldn’t say why the fiends had retreated to the snows in the first place, for Reavers weren’t known for giving up. Since then, they had stood as sentinels, unmoved by winter’s sweeping hand.

  Now, however, they were beating their gauntlets into their armoured chests. It reminded Vighon of orcish war drums.

  “When did this start?” he pressed.

  “Oh they’ve been like this all day,” Kassian quipped, exhaling a breath of smoke.

  Vighon resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

  Nathaniel cleared his throat and shot the Keeper a look before saying, “They’ve been standing here since they withdrew and not made a sound. Why would they do this now?”

  Slowly, but surely, the answer came to Vighon, and with it the icy hand of Fate gripped his insides. He turned to see Reyna, whose expression suggested she had arrived at the same conclusion.

  “He’s coming,” the king declared, turning more than a few heads in his direction.

  Kassian looked at Vighon and let his pipe hang loose in his mouth. “Finally,” he said with determination.

  Nathaniel’s response to the Keeper sounded harsh, but Vighon failed to take in a single word of it. Alijah was coming. His minions were beating their chests in anticipation. Such a command could only have been received from Alijah himself. Of course, if The Crow’s protégé was indeed coming to Namdhor, he would be coming on the wings of Death itself.

  Vighon could hear the screams of dying men across dozens of battlefields, their bodies being ravaged by dragon fire. Behind it all was Alijah’s booming voice.

  “ANYONE WHO SIDES WITH YOU WILL BURN! AND, VIGHON, YOU WILL BEAR WITNESS TO IT ALL! YOU WILL WATCH THEM ALL DIE CLINGING TO YOUR BANNER!”

  Backing his way out of the group, Vighon turned around to see all of Namdhor rising before him. The entire city had rebelled against Alijah’s reign and sided with him. Now they would all burn for it.

  Vighon’s throat felt as if it was constricting and the only cure was a strong drink. His eyes scanned the lower town and discovered more than one tavern, but all were closed. Then his sight landed on his horse and a new desire rose to the surface. Perhaps if he fled, Alijah would spare them all and hunt him instead.

  A voice, sweet to the ears, called out to Vighon. Ensnared by fear as he was, the king mistook Reyna’s voice for Inara’s. Without meaning to, he clenched his fist as if he was grasping on to that which he truly fought for - what was in his heart. That was all he could ever do, what any of them could ever do.

  Defiance quickly dominated his fear, reminding the king that, above all else, he was a stubborn northman. Fighting was in his bones.

  Turning on his heel, Vighon faced Reyna’s expectant face before taking in the others. “I want anyone too old or too young to hold a sword inside The Dragon Keep!” he yelled over the Reavers’ cacophony. “Everyone else needs to prepare for battle! I want those catapults loaded and manned at all times,” he added, pointing to one of the mighty weapons situated inside Namdhor’s first tier. He paused, catching the eyes of a few Keepers and soldiers. “Make no mistake, our enemy is coming! They are coming for our homes, our way of life, our blood! But I say let them try! I am a northman! I will fight till the snow turns to sand, till the heavens rain fire, and I will fight till the very end of Verda! Are you with me?”

  A chorus of cheers met the king’s speech, lending grit to his bones. If there was to be one final stand, he would be honoured to have such company.

  Kassian was the first to break free of the warriors and approach the king. “We’re going to need more than encouragement and old catapults if we’re going to survive this. We should put a proper strategy together. I know where my people are best placed.”

  “Agreed,” Vighon replied. “Though I would not listen to that a moment longer.”

  Kassian glanced back at the Reavers before nodding his head up the main rise, to The Dragon Keep. “I believe the big house is yours.”

  With the Galfreys and Kassian in tow, the king rode back to the keep with his head held high. By appearance alone, he informed the people of the north that he would stand up to anything that threatened them. Now and for evermore.

  Only a few steps into the keep, Vighon felt a strange pressure against his right hip. He dismounted and placed a palm over the pouch on his belt, feeling the subtle vibrations of the diviner Inara had given him.

  Reyna was the first among the others to notice. “Inara,” she said with some intensity. “You must speak with her!” Those five words came out as one.

  “Your chamber,” Nathaniel suggested. “We will make sure you aren’t disturbed.”

  “Perhaps we should all speak with her,” Reyna countered, cle
arly eager to commune with her daughter after so much time.

  Nathaniel squeezed her wrist affectionately. “She gave Gideon’s diviner to Vighon - they must speak.” Reyna replied with the slightest bow of her head and made an effort to relax her muscles.

  Vighon offered her a warm smile reserved for very few in his life. “I will relay every word,” he promised.

  Rushing into his chamber, which was still cluttered with Alijah’s sundries, the king seated himself at his desk and placed the diviner on the wooden surface. He wasn’t accustomed to using the ancient form of communication, but this wasn’t his first time either. Cupping the black orb in both hands, he did his best to relax and allow the sphere to pull his mind inside.

  It was there, on that ethereal bridge, that he saw the one who held his heart.

  3

  Instincts

  As she waited in the quiet void between realities, Inara Galfrey felt her mind drifting, her focus untethered. This was, perhaps, the first moment of real silence she had experienced in some time and her uncaged thoughts were taking advantage.

  Only minutes ago, she had stepped foot in another realm. That thought alone was nearly enough to numb the rest and hold her in awe. The mountainous tree. A starry sky of stalactites. Soil rich with crystals. It was like nothing she had ever seen nor could ever have imagined.

  Naturally, that thought soured when she considered her brother’s intentions toward it. If Gideon was right, Alijah was going to bring down the world of magic and all the dragons with it. It was enough to send her thoughts spiralling.

  Inara considered the multitude of paths that potentially lay before her and saw naught but violence, bloodshed, and death. One death in particular opened a new realm of nightmares for the Guardian. In her mind, she witnessed Athis dying over and over again, his soul burned with the tree.

  Trapped in that dark place, Inara drew on that part of herself that was undoubtedly dragon in nature. She had often called on it in battle, though now she called on it to bring some form of cohesion to her wild thoughts. With the wisdom of a dragon and the calm of a predator that knew it was always at the top of the food chain, she banished the chaotic web of fears that had attempted to rule her.