A Clash of Fates: The Echoes Saga: Book Nine

by Quaintrell, Philip C.

  “Did you see him?” Inara rasped. “Did you see Alijah?”

  Galanör looked around. “We must have passed each other,” he lamented. “The roots are tall here; it’s like a maze.”

  Inara found her feet again, but Galanör was needed to steady her. “I failed,” she whispered, her eyes reflecting the flames. “I tried…” She couldn’t bring herself to relive the event, her energy on the verge of abandoning her altogether.

  A light rain of red dust showered the pair, the remnants of the crystal leaves. “Come,” Galanör bade, helping her up. “We need to go.”

  As he guided her away, back towards the doorway, the fire continued to spread and smoke billowed around them. Inara couldn’t even think of a way to save it now.

  The tree was dying.

  All was lost.

  * * *

  Alijah stepped through the doorway and into the gloom of the pit. His bond with Malliath returned instantly and with perfect clarity. The king welcomed his companion’s thoughts and feelings, both of which seemed to clear his head. It had felt unnatural to be so disconnected, leaving some of his own thoughts to fray at the edges.

  He looked up to the circle of light, where snow flurries drifted down into the pit. He saw hundreds of Drakes running along the spiralling walkway, ascending to freedom. Of course, Inara had freed them all, and broken his time spell too. Despite his instinct to stop them escaping, he let his sister have her small victory. After all, the Drakes had served their role in his plan, a plan he had now completed. He would have preferred to have spent longer and torched a lot more of the tree, but the deed was done.

  Now he just had to wait.

  I’m coming to you, he said.

  There were no words from Malliath. The dragon was all action as he battled two of his own kin, both fierce opponents, even for one so ancient and powerful as Malliath. Alijah could feel his companion’s rage building with every claw and tooth that sank into his muscles. So intense was it, that the king believed he could actually feel some of the pain that accompanied those attacks. Alijah was tempted to withdraw slightly from their bond, so as to distance himself from the pain, but he wanted to feel it, to share as much of the battle with his dragon as possible.

  Taking one more step away from the doorway, the king was struck by an arrow fired with greater accuracy and speed than any human could have achieved. The force of it sent him back a step, causing a portion of his cloak to interact with the edges of the doorway and disintegrate. The pain of it brought forth a roar from the half-elf and he instinctively reached for the missile. Looking down, the arrow had found the smallest of spaces between his scale mail, just below his shoulder. His fingers hesitated to touch it.

  Whipping his head up, he saw an elf on the stone platform - she looked somewhere between determined and shocked. Using her own surprise against her, Alijah threw his hand out and caught her in his telekinetic spell. Her yell was cut short when she collided with the adjacent wall of the pit and fell to the ground.

  “You must be… Aenwyn,” he groaned, struggling to stand up straight. Bracing his open hand beneath the shaft of the arrow, the king flicked his fingers and drew it out with a touch of magic. It was agonising, but he had endured much worse.

  A little dazed, Aenwyn rose to her feet, nocking a new arrow as she did.

  “If you’re here,” Alijah reasoned, “so too is Galanör.” He looked around the shaft but found no trace of the ranger. “A pity. I would have liked to have finished what he started on Qamnaran.”

  The muscles in Aenwyn’s face subtly twitched as she took umbrage at his comment. The muscles in her face weren’t the only ones to shift beneath the skin. Her arm pulled back the bow string half an inch and the knuckles in her hand paled. To Alijah, it was a glaring sign informing him of her imminent intentions.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” he advised, his hand braced against the bleeding wound on his chest.

  Aenwyn took no heed of his warning and raised her bow with enviable speed. In the same moment the arrow left the string, Alijah waved his free hand from left to right. The spell caught the arrow, Aenwyn, and most of the dirt beneath her feet, launching all of them into the air and back into the wall.

  The fresh wound sent a spike of pain through his body and the king winced, his hands balling. Somewhere far above, he was sure he heard Malliath’s almighty roar.

  Without giving Aenwyn another look, Alijah made for the stone steps. Approaching the first pulley system he came across, Alijah wrapped his good arm around the rope and kicked out the mechanism holding the counter weight. In seconds, dwarven ingenuity had him rising up through the shaft, past the fleeing Drakes. After reaching the top, he swung across to the wooden boards and simply walked round the top level until he was standing on The Moonlit Plains again, his whole body sagging to one side in submission to the hole in his chest.

  The sun was setting now, and not just on the world. Soon, magic would have its last day, then there would be no more battles for he could end them all, unchallenged. But that was not this day. As night approached, The Rebellion continued its stubborn attack on his Reavers, the battlefield as relentless as ever.

  Time to leave, he said into his bond with Malliath, wary of losing too many more of his forces.

  The black dragon dived down with Athis close on his tail. The two flexed their wings and glided low over the plains, just east of the battle. Athis proved faster, however, and caught up just enough to drive both dragons down in a tumble that tore up the ground for a hundred yards. Malliath was the first to recover, rising to club Athis across the face, but Ilargo was dropping fast with all four of his claws outstretched.

  Alijah felt Vilyra and her dragon, Godrad, before he saw them. The pair intercepted Ilargo only seconds before he could rake at Malliath’s back and head. The undead dragon pinned Ilargo to the ground, using its surprise to its advantage. Ilargo, however, was larger and would inevitably free himself, giving Alijah little time to make his own departure astride Malliath.

  Where are you? Malliath pursued, his mighty chest heaving.

  In the heart of the battle, Alijah might as well have been as far away from Malliath as The Narrows. But it had been The Crow who had taught him to always have an exit strategy. From his belt, he took the leather pouch, filled with water and a single crystal. He knew, having picked one up only seconds after entering the realm of magic, that the crystals lost their power when removed from the water.

  The pouch was dripping in his hand as he prepared to throw it and open a portal. He paused, his attention momentarily stolen by a figure not far from the inner edge of the battle. Gideon Thorn, coated in mud and blood, stood watching him.

  “What have you done?” the old master demanded.

  “I’ve ended it,” Alijah replied definitively, annoyed that the Dragorn had seen him looking so beaten after taking the arrow.

  Without another word, he threw the pouch and commanded the magic therein to explode into the form of a portal. He stepped through and dropped down onto Malliath’s waiting back, beyond the edges of the battlefield. He gritted his teeth against the pain that shot through almost every limb.

  Not far away, Athis was shaking his horned head in a bid to regain his senses. When he did, and he inevitably would, the red dragon had only to unleash his fiery breath upon Malliath and the flames would consume Alijah. Such an attack could only be met with magic, the very thing the king knew he would struggle to conjure after opening a portal.

  We’ve already won, Alijah insisted, watching Athis recover. Their slow death will rob The Rebellion of what little resolve it has left.

  Though Alijah’s consciousness was beginning to slip, succumbing to fatigue, he could still feel his companion’s insatiable fury. Malliath wouldn’t be satisfied until he felt their bones crack between his jaws.

  Go! Alijah urged, unsure whether he would be able to keep his eyes open for much longer.

  Malliath grunted, forcing a plume of smoke from his nostrils as Athi
s finally turned on them. His wings rose high and beat down, clearing them both from The Moonlit Plains and into a twilight sky. Vilyra and Godrad freed themselves from battle with Ilargo and quickly made to follow their master.

  When the battlefield was so distant that it could be seen in its entirety, Alijah slumped in his saddle. His bones demanded rest for the magic he had let loose and he knew, given the time, he would fall into a deep sleep. Right now, however, he didn’t care. Right now, he was content.

  Rest now, Malliath whispered into his mind. The war is over.

  No, Alijah uttered, a tired smile pulling at his mouth. Not just the war, but war itself.

  23

  Cursed

  In the waning vestiges of light, Doran Heavybelly swung Andaljor with all his might, refusing to give up the fight. He had fought for two days without rest, stealing seconds here and there to down a mouthful of water, often taken from the corpses of his kin. The muscles in his arms stung with fatigue, his hands pulsed in pain, and his feet were on the verge of abandoning him altogether.

  What remained of his senses had taken note of the dragons, their fight their own. A part of him acknowledged the fact that Alijah Galfrey must have entered the battlefield if not descended into the pit already, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about the details surrounding that dilemma. There was only the fight.

  Hours ago, he had glimpsed the power of Inara - her magic hard to ignore - and had even caught sight of a man he believed to be Gideon Thorn, though he hadn’t seen the man in the flesh for over a decade and the dwarf had certainly been plagued by sweat in his eyes at the time. Alijah was their fight. As much as Doran would love to bury his axe and hammer into the half-elf’s scrawny body, he knew the would-be king possessed magnitudes of skill above his own.

  He settled, instead, for slaying Reavers. He was good at that. His axe cleaved and his hammer pummelled. Anything that survived that deserved to live in the dwarf’s opinion.

  From what Doran could tell of the battlefield, only two Trolls remained on their feet and one of them was currently being swarmed by Centaurs. If they all survived this, the son of Dorain promised himself he would reward Kelabor, and every tribe of the plains, with anything that the lands of Dhenaheim could offer.

  That still seemed like a very big if to the War Mason.

  For every Reaver they put down, two more seemed to spring up, as if the dead were waiting to replace the dead. Even now, as he drove one of the fiends to the ground, his axe lodged in the centre of its head, three more Reavers emerged from the melee. The dwarf retrieved his axe and backed off as the trio stepped over their dead and made to attack.

  As they advanced, the sun’s final rays of light faded and the grass came to life wherever it could between the bodies and snow. Cast in the green light, the Reavers appeared as menacing wraiths in their lunging attack. He would have spat some witty remark, words to goad, but he didn’t have the energy to conjure words, let alone voice them. Instead, he let Andaljor do all the talking.

  The nearest fiend went down quickly, its right leg hacked through. Tempting as it was to drop the hammer on its head and finish the job, Doran needed both weapons to deflect and block the remaining two Reavers. He shoulder-barged one, giving himself some space, before swinging his axe in a wide arc. The blade found its new home in the hip of the Reaver and declined to come out. Since the creature was knocked to the ground by the force of the blow, Doran had to abandon it and face the last standing Reaver with his hammer alone.

  Seeing the incoming downward strike, the son of Dorain sidestepped and let the mindless knight decapitate the one-legged Reaver. With a grin on his face, he smashed his hammer down onto the back of the mindless knight’s head, adding its corpse to the rest.

  Turning to retrieve his axe and destroy the Reaver harbouring it, Doran was met by a new obstacle. With what energy he could conjure, the dwarf swore under his breath at the sight of Gondrith the Just and Hammer of the North. At least that had been his title many millennia ago, when Erador heralded him as a hero. Now, he was an undead Dragon Rider with a long hammer plastered with gore and dripping with blood.

  Having already come across his dead dragon, Yillir, Doran knew that Gondrith fought without the aid of his companion, but that didn’t mean the Rider wasn’t a force to be reckoned with. With the son of Dorain in his sights, Gondrith shoved any and all aside to reach him. His hammer even knocked down Reavers if they got in his way.

  “Ye’ve come for a piece o’ Heavybelly ’ave ye?” he provoked, hunching his shoulders into a fighting stance. “Many ’ave tried. Yet ’ere I stand!” he bellowed, beating his chestplate.

  Gondrith dashed forwards, his hammer lifted high, while Doran charged forwards in a frenzy of rage. The two collided in a clash of steel and a battle of wills. The War Mason swiped with his axe, just as he had for the last two days, but the Dragon Rider displayed a set of skills the other Reavers didn’t possess. He evaded with swift ease and wielded his hammer as if it were no heavier than an ordinary sword. Doran had to work twice as hard to avoid its blow.

  Concerned as he was with the slab of steel at one end, he forgot to block the end of the haft, which Gondrith slammed into the side of Doran’s head. The dwarf reeled away, trying to move in the direction of the blow, but the force was still enough to knock him off his feet. Hitting the dirt was painful, but the incoming hammer triggered all of Doran’s survival instincts. He ignored the aches and rolled one way then the other, narrowly avoiding the heavy strikes.

  Stubborn as he was, the son of Dorain had no intention of giving up the fight. From the ground, he back-handed his hammer into the side of Gondrith’s leg, bringing the Reaver down to one knee. Doran used the opportunity to get back on his feet and catch his breath. Gondrith required no such reprieve. The Dragon Rider rose to his full height, his hammer still firmly in his grip.

  “Come on then,” Doran muttered. “I’ll knock that ugly head right off yer shoulders.”

  Gondrith twisted on the spot, bringing his hammer round in a sweeping arc. The War Mason wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could block such an attack and so he didn’t even try. Instead, he dropped and rolled under the swing. Popping up at Gondrith’s side, Doran swiped and hammered at his enemy, but the Rider took it all before turning to continue the fight. The son of Dorain, however, wasn’t finished. Using the curved blade of his axe, he hooked it over the haft of Gondrith’s weapon and pulled it down, exposing his head. Without pause, he thrust the top of Andaljor’s hammer into the Reaver’s face and repeated the action three times.

  A final shoulder barge forced the Rider back a few steps and gave Doran a good look at the damage he had inflicted. Gondrith’s helmet was a crumpled mess, the iron digging into sections of his putrid face. So misshapen was it that one of his eyes had been crushed in by the hammer, giving him a blind spot.

  It brought a smile to Doran’s face. “Welcome to the club,” he jeered.

  Gondrith gave no hint of suffering or even offence. Using one hand, he dragged the helmet from his head without a care for the chunks of his face that came with it.

  “Damn,” the dwarf cursed. “An’ I thought ye were ugly with the helmet.”

  There was no witty retort from Gondrith, only action. The Dragon Rider kicked the head of his hammer up and took hold of the weapon in both hands. He then proceeded to roll the hammer over itself left and right as he approached the War Mason. Doran stepped back in an effort to anticipate his foe’s attack. When it finally came, his exhaustion slowed him down enough to have his axe batted aside and his hammer knocked from his grip. Gondrith brought his weapon to bear and shoved the haft of his weapon, horizontally, into the dwarf’s face. The next thing Doran knew, something strong impacted his chest and he was on his back again, only now he was absent Andaljor.

  Gondrith the Just came to tower over the son of Dorain.

  Looking up at his foe, Doran spat a mouthful of blood at him. It was all the defiance he had left in him. He had no
words, in this his final moment. The dwarf let his eye wander up to the emerging stars where, beyond their light, Grarfath’s Hall awaited him. He almost giggled at the thought of Yamnomora’s warm and comforting embrace, for the Mother was always the first to greet the children of the mountain.

  Gondrith’s hammer went high into the air, though Doran was hardly aware of it anymore. In fact, he would welcome the sweet release of it all. Release from the pain. Release from the burden of responsibility.

  Down came the stroke, the killing blow that would take the light of Doran Heavybelly. Only it never got past the meaty fist and vice-like grip of Russell Maybury. The old wolf caught the hammer in one hand and quickly reversed its momentum into Gondrith’s face. He followed it up with a swing from his own battle hammer and sent the Dragon Rider into a group of Reavers, knocking them all down.

  Doran rolled over, supporting himself on his elbows, as he watched his friend do what he did best. “Give ’em hell, lad,” he rasped.

  Russell pursued his foe with determination, though both of his hands were trembling. His stance was no longer that of a man but more a beast, hunched and feral. He beat down the Reavers that recovered faster than Gondrith and none of them got back up again. His every blow was wild and brimming with untameable rage.

  He was also much stronger than any of them, including the Rider. Gondrith discovered this when he got up and took his first swipe at Russell. The old wolf caught the end of the hammer in his hand and stopped it mid-swing. The impact would have shattered the bones in a normal man.

  Baring large fangs, he roared at the Dragon Rider and snatched the hammer from his grasp before tossing it aside.

  “No,” Doran hissed, glimpsing the wolf. He looked up at the night’s sky, searching for the gleam of the moon in the lightly falling snow. “Don’ give in to it, Rus!” he yelled. “Fight it!”

  But Russell was a slave to the moon now; he heard only its call.