Can you hear me? Gideon asked via their bond.
Ilargo turned his head and looked down at him. Yes, he replied, his voice uncertain.
Is anything broken? Gideon’s eyes surveyed Ilargo from head to tail. It wasn’t that long ago he wouldn’t have needed to ask.
Only my pride, the dragon said, though Gideon could sense a fair amount of pain on his companion’s part.
Galanör looked from Rider to dragon. “What happened?”
Gideon held Ilargo’s gaze a moment longer. “Magic is dying,” he stated before breathing a sigh.
The currents fluctuate, Ilargo told him. They fade here and there, but this is the first time the loss of magic has taken my senses with it.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Aenwyn surmised, unaware of Ilargo’s response.
“What do we do now?” Galanör questioned, dusting off one of his arms.
Gideon looked back at Ilargo. “Can you fly?” he asked aloud.
Yes. But I will not fly now, the dragon added.
Why not? Gideon pressed, falling naturally back into their bond.
Because I do not trust myself, Ilargo said simply.
Aenwyn is right: it’s only going to get worse. We need to reach Davosai.
I know what we must do! Ilargo snapped, his head rushing down to Gideon. Both Galanör and Aenwyn flinched as they took a step back. I said I will not fly, the dragon repeated. Not today.
Gideon could sense so much more going on under the dragon’s surface. Besides an injured pride and grave concern for those he was responsible for, he was also experiencing some of the same emotional outbursts that had plagued Gideon and Inara from time to time.
Aware that his companion’s emotional state was close to turning from irritated to angry, Gideon left it there. Rest, old friend, he said instead. I have faith in your wings yet.
Ilargo huffed, expelling a jet of warm air from his nostrils, and moved away. He flexed his wings once, revealing new injuries across the thin membranes. His right wing shuddered as he pulled it in to his body. Gideon remembered the specific pain of a wounded wing and felt for his companion.
“Is everything alright?” Galanör enquired tentatively.
Gideon glanced at Ilargo, who was now lying down in the arena. “We won’t be going anywhere for the rest of the day,” he informed them.
“We can rest easy enough here,” Aenwyn replied diplomatically. “We are above ground. Galanör’s magic can start a fire - I imagine it gets cold here at night.”
“Very,” Gideon emphasised.
“I can look at your wounds too,” Galanör offered, looking at a particular nasty cut that Gideon could feel above his left eye.
“I will be fine,” the old master insisted. “Save your magic.”
It wasn’t too long before the sun was setting on Ayda, casting the ruins of Malaysai in an orange tint. Aenwyn and Galanör had set up a small place to rest beside Ilargo and already started a fire. Thanks to their supplies, they had blankets, food, and water to keep them going.
Gideon stood apart from them, atop the highest tier of the arena. He had stood on this very spot nearly fifty years ago and looked out on Malaysai and the jungle beyond. Even now, he felt as if he could see Adriel and Adilandra out of the corner of his eye, standing where they had so long ago. His heart sank to think that both of them were gone.
Can you see her? Ilargo asked, speaking for the first time since he snapped.
Gideon knew who he was talking about. He turned his sight to the north, where an enormous mound of flowers and plant life appeared to have sprung up from the ground and taken over everything around it. Angala the wise, he said with reverence. Thanks to the clarity of Ilargo’s memory, he could still see the mighty dragon being brought down by the Darkakin.
It feels like recalling the life of another, Ilargo began. We were different back then. The future seemed so bright and full of hope. I felt so strong.
You are stronger now than you ever were, Gideon encouraged.
I do not feel it. As magic flees this world, I can feel it taking me with it.
Gideon wasn’t sure how much he believed his own words but he said them anyway. Have faith in our friends. They will save it. And when they do, we will be there to make sure this war comes to an end, one way or another.
Will you make me a promise, Gideon?
I don’t need to make that promise, he replied, well aware of what his companion was going to ask of him.
I need to hear you say it, Ilargo pressed. Promise me you will find a way to go on, to find a new life without me.
You think after fifty years that’s even possible. Could you? he fired back.
Yes.
Gideon rolled his eyes and glanced back at the resting dragon. Liar.
A quiet moment existed between them for a time, each settling in to the thoughts and emotions of the other. I am sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier, Ilargo said softly.
You don’t need to apologise, Gideon replied. Were I in your position I would be angry too. What’s happening to you isn’t fair. It isn’t right.
I believe the true source of my anger lies in our bond, Ilargo admitted.
How so? Gideon asked, unable to sense the truth behind the words.
As much as I hated to see you share my wounds, everything was easier when we bore it together. This new existence, though practical and fair, is somewhat… lonelier.
Gideon couldn’t argue with that. Life did seem less complicated. But we will find a way to make this work. Dragons and Riders lived this way for eons. We’ll find a way, he promised.
Ilargo shifted his front right leg and twitched with the pain that ran through it. Rest, old friend, Gideon bade, hoping the dragon would regain some of his confidence to fly again soon.
“Gideon.” The call came from Galanör, who had wandered a little further ahead of Ilargo.
Since there was no tone of alarm in his voice, Gideon made his way down the arena in his own time and met up with Aenwyn, who had also come to see what had attracted the ranger. Galanör’s back was facing them, his blue cloak perfectly still in the cool evening air. He pulled back his hood as they approached and stepped to one side so that they might see what lay on the arena floor.
Gideon frowned in his attempt to understand what he was looking at. Human as he was, his eyes quickly detected the familiar shape of a person’s skull. It was filthy and severely cracked across the top. He crouched down and moved some of the debris away to discover the rest of the skeleton, though the limbs were notably far away from the main body. Most of the bones were damaged in some way and decades old by their colour.
Standing up, he stepped back to take in the whole scene while his memory caught up with him. Looking around at the arena, Gideon quickly placed Rainael the emerald star and Queen Adilandra, both of whom had once stood where they were now. At the time, the Goddess of the Darkakin had been stuck between them.
“The Goddess,” he announced.
“She liked to think she was,” Galanör replied.
Gideon examined the gaps between the limbs and the main body again. “I remember Adilandra breaking a lot of her bones. I don’t remember her tearing them off.”
Galanör kicked one of the leg bones with the tip of his boot. “That’s because she didn’t. If I had to guess, I would say her subjects found her up here and—”
“Perhaps you don’t need to guess,” Aenwyn interjected. “This is picture enough I feel.”
“You know,” Gideon said, “for all her wickedness, I never gave her another thought after leaving here.”
“Nor would she have been deserving of it,” Galanör stated. “This is what she deserved,” he added, gesturing to her broken remains.
“Then let us not disturb her,” Aenwyn suggested, half turning back to their camp. “I would hear of Queen Adilandra though. The two of you spent much time with her.”
Gideon and Galanör shared a brief exchange of looks. “The Darkakin tried to
break her, but she left these shores a stronger person,” the ranger declared. “You should have seen her when we rested in The Hook of the World, surrounded by dragons of every size and age,” he went on, returning to the fire beside Aenwyn. “She met Rainael face to face and convinced the queen of dragons to fly immediately to Velia. Had she not, that battle, nay the entire War for the Realm, might have ended very differently.”
Gideon gave the Goddess one last look before trailing them. “She was a demon on the battlefield too,” the old master recalled. “She required no aid that day.”
The trio took a seat around the fire, shared food and drink, and swapped stories well into the night. For a brief moment, Gideon forgot all about the troubles of the world and enjoyed the company of his friends and the rhythmic breathing of his companion behind him.
42
Preparations
A heavy slumber had settled upon Asher, taking the ranger back through the eons to a time of dragons. He sensed his young companion’s consciousness entwined with his own as Avandriell’s inherited memories gripped them both. It was an extraordinary experience to be awake yet trapped in his sleep, helpless to do anything but be carried along in the currents.
Though he saw naught but mist and shadow, the sound of beating wings and rushing air filled his ears. A familiar female voice called out to him through the ether, tethering him until the memory sharpened into light and colour. Asher wanted to hear Avandriell’s voice again but he was presented with a scene from millennia past, stealing his attention.
The sun shone brightly from its place in an ocean of pure blue, its light intensified by the desert sands. Seeing through the eyes of a dragon, nothing escaped Asher’s gaze. He looked out on a line of Riders as they awaited the arrival of another group, approaching from the south.
Thanks to Thessaleia’s memories bleeding through their bond, the ranger knew he was looking out on The Glimmer Lands, Erador’s most southern territory. He was instantly enthralled, curious as to what he was witnessing.
Thessaleia glanced to the side, giving Asher a good look at three other dragons. They were all watching their Riders as they met the southern strangers. The ranger’s curiosity peaked when that group came to stand at three times the height and width of the Riders. They possessed the features of humans, for the most part, and were well-muscled; easily noted by their scant clothing. Their size could only identify them as Giants, though Asher had never seen Giants like them, accustomed as he was to the lumbering behemoths that behaved in the manner of beasts and monsters.
The Giants that stood conversing with the Riders looked to have all the mannerisms of an ordinary person. The words that passed between the two groups were indistinct, but Asher knew Thessaleia was tense and ready to spring should the untrustworthy Giants prove violent.
As interesting as this had probably been, it felt wrong to Asher. This wasn’t their land and it wasn’t their time. They were taking on memories and experiences that would do little to aid them in the present.
Avandriell, he said, searching for his companion in the void. This is not our world.
It is all our world, Avandriell countered, her words and the strength of her voice taking the ranger by surprise.
Her words also brought an end to the memory. A flash of lightning tore through the desert, replacing the vast landscape and heat with the confines of West Fellion and a hammering rain. Asher was back in his own body, caught between the gates of the Graycoats’ fortress, as countless Arakesh poured in to take their pound of flesh.
Blindfolded, he raided the world for all it had, detecting every scent, hearing every breath, and feeling every raindrop against his skin. Blood spoiled the air and he tasted the hot liquid as it ran down the steel of his blade. While his every sense was more alive in the thrall of the Nightseye elixir, assassins were mounting at his feet, dead.
You have been stuck in the dirt all your life, soaking in blood. Avandriell’s voice expelled the memory, transporting Asher to the top of Syla’s Gate, where he had faced the wild Darkakin. You have been surrounded by enemies with no way forward but through the tip of your sword. Syla’s Gate crumbled beneath his feet and he landed on the high walls of Velia as Giants and Trolls assaulted the walls. You have suffered for those around you, forced to always sacrifice yourself for them. Asher saw himself plunge his broadsword into the eye of a Giant and follow it down to the ground, where a sea of Darkakin vied for his blood.
As the Giant slammed into the ground, however, he was suddenly sinking beneath the enchanted waters in one of the pools of Naius as Kaliban fell into ruin around him. We will soar over the realm, Avandriell promised. We will soar together. Erador, Illian, Ayda… all of Verda. You do not face the world alone anymore, nor your enemies. Now you have me.
Asher could feel the passion, love, and wrath, that formed the core of every dragon - a three-stranded cord that could not be broken. Avandriell was a warrior from an ancient time, her confidence gifted to her by a powerful mother and father. It was similar to his own, though his confidence was born of decades being honed in the shadows of Nightfall.
As he dwelled on that terrible place, a nightmare from his past, Avandriell broke through and brought light to the darkness. His tortuous lessons fell away and the sting of those memories faded, just as Malliath’s had. Piece by piece, she was renewing him, making him whole again.
Whether the ranger wanted to or not, his eyes opened to the real world and discovered a young dragon perched on his midriff. She was careful not to press down with her claws but there was nothing to be done about her weight, which was becoming considerable.
A slit of dawning light shone through his makeshift tent but he couldn’t take his sight from Avandriell’s golden orbs. “Morning,” he said aloud, intrigued by her intensity.
When there came no reply of any kind he tried the same greeting again using their bond, eager to hear her voice. Nothing. Somewhat frustrated by their lack of communication, the ranger rolled over, ushering her onto the ground beside him.
“So you can speak to me in my dreams,” he surmised, his voice gruff from disuse. Avandriell tilted her head at the words, displaying some understanding in her eyes, though she failed to give any kind of verbal response. “Do you know what I’m saying?” he asked, aware that the dragon had heeded his words previously. Avandriell pounced without warning and landed on his cot, her nose rooting around in the folds of the blanket. Asher sighed. “I’ll take that as a no,” he said.
Gathering his swords and equipment, the ranger departed his tent and greeted the cold morning. His breath clouded the air in front of his face while his back audibly cracked with only the most minor of stretches. Avandriell soon bounded through the flap of the tent and raced around the available area. A passing dwarf was forced to move his leg and hop to the side in a bid to evade the excitable dragon. A pair of elves, eating their breakfast, paused with spoons to their lips to marvel at her.
Asher took the opportunity to fasten his belt and broadsword to his hip before strapping the silvyr blade and quiver over his back. The folded bow required some adjustment to keep it latched to the quiver and his fingers naturally ran over the small knives and hunting daggers on their way, checking that everything was where he liked it.
Raising his head, the ranger inhaled a deep breath and orientated himself to reality - no easy task after hours of living in the past. Just having his feet on the ground was a peculiar sensation having soared across the Eradoran skies as a dragon.
“Avandriell,” he called, heading away from his tent.
Navigating the various species and campfires was second nature to Asher. Blending in and flowing through crowds was considered just as important as the art of assassination in the halls of Nightfall. Avandriell appeared to share some of those same skills, though she didn’t exactly blend in. She was nimble and quick enough, however, to weave between broad dwarves, numerous elves, and even under the occasional Centaur. Of course, her keen sense of smell often got in the w
ay of any progress, leading her to every source of food.
Asher sighted one of the carts from Vangarth, the origin of the new food. They had arrived nearly two days ago and been met with cheers from all, including the elves. Vighon had instructed his men to ration it all and share the food and supplies amongst the camp. It had increased their spirits, something which was much needed since news of advancing Reavers had spread three days past.
Making his way towards the council tent, the ranger happily accepted a red apple from one of the Namdhorians and proceeded to eat it as he approached the entrance. The absence of Sir Borin outside the tent immediately informed Asher that Vighon was not inside. A brief glance at the surroundings also informed him that neither Reyna nor Nathaniel were inside the tent, their guards missing from their usual stations.
Wandering a little further down the northern line, Avandriell in tow, he soon discovered Reyna in deep conversation with Faylen. The pair were looking out at the battlefield and the enormous pit, their hands outstretched as they pointed at various places. Following their focus, Asher laid eyes on several ranks of elves taking up positions at specific locations closer to the pit. Further to the east, Captain Dardaris was trotting up and down Namdhorian lines, ordering soldiers into formation. Among them was Vighon, only visible at this distance thanks to Sir Borin’s inescapable size.
Standing just beyond the camp’s northern line now, Asher caught sight of Nathaniel not far away. The knight, as he would always be to the ranger, was overseeing the distribution of food from one of the carts. Still eating his apple, Asher crossed the gap to meet his old friend. Nathaniel’s personal guard of elves noted his approach and responded in kind to the ranger’s nod.
“See that the wounded are tended to first,” the immortal knight commanded. “But make sure some is left for those out on the field… they will need their strength.” His words were met with obedience by humans and elves alike.
“I see preparations are well under way,” Asher remarked, his eyes leading Nathaniel to the battlefield.
A Clash of Fates: The Echoes Saga: Book Nine Page 47