A Clash of Fates: The Echoes Saga: Book Nine

by Quaintrell, Philip C.

  “It’s Galanör,” she said.

  “Finally,” Doran replied with relief. “Take me to ’im.”

  They crossed most of the camp, heading further into Ilythyra. It was here that Doran discovered some of the debris and destruction caused by Malliath and Alijah when they killed Lady Ellöria. More than one of the gargantuan trees lay across the forest floor, barring the way, while others remained standing with charred bark, their trunks shattered in parts.

  Their journey came to an end at the base of one of the intact trees, where the trunk had been partially hollowed out and its interior carved into the shape of a large chamber. Yellow-tinted orbs floated around, illuminating Galanör and Aenwyn, the only two elves inside. Galanör was leaning against the wooden table in the middle of the chamber, one hand running through his thick mane of chestnut hair. His distress was just as apparent as his fatigue.

  “There was nothing you could have done,” Aenwyn was protesting.

  “I could have killed him!” Galanör fired back. “Then she would…” He hesitated, his breath ragged. “Then Adilandra would still be alive.”

  “The blame does not lie with you,” Faylen stated, stepping into the light. “Adilandra died as her sister did - defending us all.”

  “I should have beaten him,” Galanör continued in vain. “I had him, right there! I had no intention of letting him live. I was prepared to kill him.”

  “He has the power of Malliath running through him,” Faylen countered. “There is no greater foe, even for one of your skill.”

  Aenwyn half raised her hand to halt any further conversation. “Galanör, you need to rest. You haven’t so much as stirred in two days. Eat, drink, sit a while.”

  “Listen to her, lad,” Doran pleaded. “Whatever happened inside that tower, it were damned unnatural, an’ I’d bet Andaljor ye were right in the middle o’ it.”

  Galanör let his head hang low so that his hair shielded his face. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

  Aenwyn moved to his side and guided him to the chair at the head of the table.

  Faylen glanced at Doran before stepping closer to the elven ranger. “What happened in there, Galanör? Did Alijah succeed in whatever he was planning?”

  Aenwyn met the High Guardian’s eyes across the table. “Faylen,” she said softly with an edge of caution. “He needs to rest.”

  “We’re in the fight for our lives,” Faylen retorted. “Resting is a luxury our enemy will not afford us. We need to know what happened inside that tower. What was the purpose of his spell? Is Alijah recovering too? If he’s vulnerable, now is the time to attack.”

  From the outside looking in, Doran could see Aenwyn struggling with the hierarchy that existed between them while the one she loved was caught in the crossfire. Doing what he could, the son of Dorain caught Faylen’s eye and gestured for her to take a moment.

  “We’re all reelin’ from the cost o’ victory,” he began. “An’ aye, there’s a fight comin’, but if we don’ rest now we’ve already lost.”

  Faylen slammed her fist into the table, her expression one of stone. There was a well of grief behind her eyes, desperate to be unleashed upon the world in the form of vengeance and wrath. She slowly brought her hand back to her side, leaving an impression of cracked wood behind.

  “Victory you say,” she whispered. “This doesn’t feel like victory.”

  Doran dwelt on the countless skirmishes, battles, and wars he had fought in Grimwhal’s name. “It rarely does,” he lamented. “But I’ve jus’ come from a camp o’ dwarves, more than a thousand strong, who wouldn’ know freedom if it weren’ for our actions on that wretched island. Ye knew Adilandra better than all o’ us. Wouldn’ she ’ave given her life for even one o’ ’em?”

  With glassy eyes, Faylen stared hard at the damage she had caused to the table. “Yes,” she breathed. The High Guardian shut her eyes, breaking the barrier for a single tear to streak down her face.

  “She will be honoured among me kin for all time,” Doran promised. “Ever will the name Adilandra be sung in Grarfath’s Hall as well as me own. She will be the first elven hero o’ the dwarves.”

  Faylen nodded her appreciation, though the elf was clearly in need of something more substantial to see her through the grief. Unfortunately, Doran had nothing to offer her, their quarry miles away.

  “I know that feeling,” Galanör said, watching Faylen. “You need to strike out at something, anything.”

  Aenwyn placed her hands on his arm, motioning for him to focus on naught but the food and water on the table.

  The elven ranger reassured her with a squeeze of the hand. “Adilandra’s sacrifice will be honoured,” he continued, “and her death will be answered for. And you’re both right. We need information if we’re to renew the fight. But we also need to rest and regroup if we are to even glimpse victory. So tell me everything that happened on Qamnaran.”

  Doran pulled out a chair not far from the ranger and did his best to unfold the events that took place outside the tower. He made sure to mention Aenwyn’s efforts slaying the dragon Morgorth as well as Russell’s contribution in their defeat of Lord Kraiden. It was far harder to detail the loss of the Dragon Rider’s poisoned blade, though he left the obvious consequences unsaid. Faylen assumed command of the tale from there, informing Galanör of Alijah’s expulsion from the tower as well as the increasing lightning storm that bombarded the silvyr tower. When, at last, she spoke of that final bolt, their stories came together.

  “That was the last thing I saw,” Galanör told them. “It must have struck us both,” he concluded.

  “Did he explain the reason for any of it?” Faylen pursued.

  “No, but I would say he succeeded, otherwise that bolt would have killed us. And there were the glyphs etched into the walls. They were definitely responding to whatever spells he gleaned from that book.”

  “Book?” Aenwyn questioned.

  “It was on the floor - ancient by the look of it.”

  Faylen sighed in frustration. “The truth of it all eludes us.”

  “What abou’ ye, lad?” Doran asked. “Ye were hit by the same spell as Alijah. Do ye feel any… different?”

  Galanör clenched his fist and examined his knuckles. “No,” he answered. “I feel stretched out but no different.”

  Doran shrugged his heavy pauldrons. “Maybe he failed then,” the dwarf posed.

  Galanör didn’t look convinced. “As Faylen said, I fear the truth of the matter continues to elude us.” The elven ranger perked up, as if remembering something. “What of the others? Has there been word from The Black Wood or The Arid Lands?”

  Faylen subconsciously touched the diviner on her belt. “I have spoken with our allies in The Black Wood, though even they were in need of answers. It seems Nathaniel and Kassian returned with both Asher and Vighon shortly before Inara and Athis returned—”

  “With Gideon?” Galanör blurted, a dash of hope in his eyes.

  “It appears not,” Faylen reported on a sombre note. “Unfortunately, they all left again soon after arriving.”

  Doran was already shaking his head, aware of the reasons for their swift departure.

  “Where did they go?” Galanör pressed.

  Faylen acknowledged Doran’s response but made no comment on it. “Vighon accompanied Nathaniel and Kassian and journeyed to Namdhor. Apparently they went in search of the sword of the north. Inara and Asher left with the Drake, Adan’Karth. They were seen flying west, but I’m afraid no one knew where they were going.”

  Now Galanör was shaking his head. “They went to the most dangerous city in the realm to find Vighon’s sword?” His tone suggested he was in agreement with Doran.

  “The exact reasons for their separate errands remain a mystery to us,” Faylen went on. “That said, I have had them dispatch a rider to Namdhor disguised as a merchant. They will seek them out and hopefully deliver the diviner so that we might coordinate our efforts.”


  “We could ’ave used every one o’ ’em on Qamnaran,” Doran complained. “They better ’ave damn good answers for dallyin’ abou’.”

  Galanör rested his back against the chair, his sight lost to seemingly nothing at all. “Whatever their task, I trust they had The Rebellion’s cause at heart. Each of them has the capacity to deliver a terrible blow to our enemy.” The elf stopped himself and rubbed his eyes, his fatigue shining through. “What of Sir Ruban and our allies in the south?” he asked, pushing on.

  “Sir Ruban has had better luck than all of us,” Faylen began with a lighter tone. “He has amassed quite the force in The Arid Lands, both natives and those of Vighon’s army who fled south. As of two days ago, he was posted just outside Calmardra having combined his forces with the remains of our fleet.”

  “They made it?” Galanör looked to have found a new reserve of energy.

  “Yes,” Faylen beamed. “My husband, Nemir, is among them.”

  “Now that is great news,” Galanör replied.

  “Besides the Reavers under Alijah’s command,” the High Guardian continued, “I would say Sir Ruban Dardaris is in charge of the largest force in Illian right now.”

  “Their orders?” Galanör asked.

  “Sit on their arse!” Doran growled.

  Faylen’s eyes shifted to the dwarf and back. “They are to remain where they are until we can speak to Vighon or Inara,” she specified. “We know Alijah and Malliath survived the events of Qamnaran, but we have no idea where they are. There’s also Vilyra and Gondrith to account for. Both have dragons and neither have been seen for days. I don’t want our largest force to be moving aimlessly across the country with undead Dragon Riders somewhere in the sky.”

  “I told ye in The Narrows an’ I’ll tell ye again, we need to attack the dig site in The Moonlit Plains! It’s not even that far north o’ ’ere!”

  The High Guardian straightened her shoulders. “We have discussed this, Doran—”

  “There are even more dwarves in chains there than there were on Qamnaran!” he cut in. “Listen,” he continued, raising his hands into the air. “I’m glad Vighon’s back in the fight, but we were makin’ battle plans after he disappeared. This is no different! Ye command the elves, Faylen. If they march for the plains, Sir Ruban an’ his men will accompany ’em.”

  Faylen turned her whole body to face the War Mason. “Doran,” she began. “I want to free all those dwarves just as you do and, for what it’s worth, I think attacking the dig site is the right course of action. But the realm is a big place and right now we have no idea what’s going on out there. Vighon is king of these lands and Inara is its proclaimed guardian. It would be folly to make our move without speaking to either of them.”

  Doran wanted to fume but he could see the truth in her words. Faylen was eager to free his kin and undo whatever evil Alijah was scheming in the plains. He could also see the wisdom in her strategy.

  “Faylen is right,” Galanör added. “We don’t know what’s going on out there. And what we do know troubles me. Alijah’s first act as king was to have your kin begin digging that hole - he values it. If we are to attack it, we should do so with a coordinated effort.”

  Doran dropped his head and rubbed his brow. “I’m not good at waitin’,” he confessed. “But damned if I don’ agree with ye both.” He looked up and met each of their eyes in turn. “We wait.”

  “We rest,” Aenwyn corrected, directing their attention to Galanör.

  Faylen stood up first and paused to squeeze Galanör’s hand. “It is good to have you back with us,” she said sincerely. Whatever she said next was in their elvish tongue and entirely lost on Doran, though Galanör seemed to appreciate her words.

  “Aye, lad, I never thought I would miss the sight o’ an elf.” Doran knew there was more to his sentiment than that, but the dwarf in him couldn’t find the words after having spent so much emotion already that night. “Get some rest,” he commanded. “The next time I pick a fight with a Reaver, I expect ye an’ yer blades to be at me side.”

  “You can count on it,” Galanör replied.

  With that, the son of Dorain returned to the towering trees of Ilythyra and left the elf to his rest. He didn’ get very far, however, before Faylen called out his name.

  “I’m sorry,” he said before she could speak. “I shouldn’ ’ave picked a fight with ye. I know yer reasonin’ to be right. I jus’…”

  Faylen placed a hand on his shoulder, directing his eye to her face. “I cannot imagine the weight pressing upon you,” she said gently. “You hold up all of dwarf-kind now. I know that isn’t the life you wanted. But we both know what awaits you in The Black Wood, and it breaks my heart to know what you will have to go through after so much strife. I just want you to know that I, and so many others, believe that you have the strength to carry that burden.”

  Doran knew the word burden translated to crown. “Dak’s not gone yet. There’s still hope,” he added while shaking his head.

  “It is hard to hold a hope without rest to lend you the strength,” Faylen observed. “When was the last time you slept?”

  Doran couldn’t say with any certainty. “Before the battle,” he guessed.

  The High Guardian reached out and guided the dwarf with both hands. “Then come,” she bade. “I know the recipe for a soothing tea - you will be asleep in no time.”

  Doran looked up at her with a frown creasing his already harsh features. “Tea?” he exclaimed. “Do I look like I drink tea?”

  Faylen smiled with great amusement. “You will,” she promised.

  5

  What Defines Us

  Under a new dawn, as the world slipped by beneath Athis’s red wings, Asher tried to make sense of the profound change taking place within him. The incessant whispers that had plagued his mind in Drakanan were now quietening to that of a single voice. So soft was it, though, that the ranger was yet to understand a word of it. For now, he was settling for naught but impressions as they impacted his own emotions.

  The hatchling felt safe.

  That made sense to Asher, given their height above the world. How the hatchling knew they were among the heavens escaped him, but it deeply comforted the ranger to know there was contentment.

  There was another part of his mind, a part that had kept him alive for decades in a realm that had worked hard to kill him, that found the whole experience absurd. He had never cared for a baby or a child before, and he certainly hadn’t harboured paternal feelings for one. Surely he wasn’t fit to protect something as precious as a dragon egg.

  Yet here he was, ready to die for it. There was a nudge in his mind, almost as if someone had tapped him on the side of his head. For just a moment, he was sure the hatchling was trying to tell him something. Perhaps, he considered, referring to the creature as an it was a mistake. He probed that feeling further still, wondering if he might glean the dragon’s sex.

  Nothing. Just a gentle whisper in the back of his mind.

  Without warning to the ranger, Athis tilted his body and banked northward as he began to descend. That gentle whisper quickened and increased an octave, speaking of concern. As a result, Asher’s muscles tensed and the warrior in him prepared for action, despite the lack of any real threat.

  “Why are we going down?” he grumbled behind Inara’s ear.

  The half-elf turned to look over her shoulder. “We’re halfway to Namdhor,” she explained. “Ilargo and Athis need to rest before we face Alijah and Malliath.”

  The ranger couldn’t argue their reasoning, but he didn’t like the look of the terrain below. Peering out from either side of Athis, the forest beneath them had no end, its tall snow-capped pines stretching so far to the north that they faded from view. There was something about it, however, that didn’t sit right with Asher, and his gut was never wrong. Even the golden dawn that washed the forest in a welcoming glow couldn’t take away from its menacing feel.

  The dragons glided down, settling on a wide
strip of snow that separated the forest from a long line of mountains in the east. Back on solid ground, Asher walked around Athis and scrutinised his new surroundings. There had always been a side to the ranger that loved coming across new places and discovering more to the world but, now, with such a precious thing on his person, he found it too disorientating, too dangerous.

  “Where are we?” he asked, casting suspicious eyes on the dark forest to the west.

  Inara shared a look with her dragon before answering. “We’re on the border of Dhenaheim and Erador.” The Guardian pointed to the east. “Those are The Whispering Mountains - dwarven territory.”

  Gideon walked over, blowing warm air into his hands. “Once we get over these mountains, it should be a straight shot east from here.”

  “All the way to Namdhor,” Inara agreed.

  Asher absorbed the information, but his attention was quickly turned back to the ominous forest. “And what’s that?”

  Both Riders turned to look upon the forbidding wall of trees. “That,” Gideon told them, his tone already suggesting Asher’s suspicions were correct, “is The Dread Wood.”

  “I have a feeling it’s aptly named,” Inara opined.

  “I have read a great deal about Erador and its history,” Gideon continued. “There is nothing good said about that forest. Think of every monster you have ever encountered in this world. None of them would survive in there.”

  Asher tightened his grip on the base of the satchel strap. “Then why are we here?” he demanded with a hint of frustration.

  Gideon considered his response but Inara beat him to it. “Everything on the other side of those mountains is now the domain of Alijah. We have no idea what might be waiting for us. It could be nothing. Or it could be Dragon Riders.”

  Gideon was nodding in agreement. “Inara’s right. We will rest here for the day. Ilargo and Athis have no trouble flying at night. We will reach Namdhor by late morning.”