A Clash of Fates: The Echoes Saga: Book Nine

by Quaintrell, Philip C.

  Coming up on their other side, an even bigger dragon made his presence known. Athis glided in beside Ilargo, their wing tips almost touching, as he reached out to speak with Ilargo. Gone were the days when their thoughts were one. Now, Gideon had to request permission to join the bridge between Athis and Ilargo, though it was freely given.

  It is good to see you, Gideon, Athis said after greeting Ilargo.

  And you, Athis, the old master replied with a genuine smile lighting up his face.

  Rather than waste time with words and endless questions, Athis gave Ilargo access to his recent memories. After they were absorbed at some speed by Ilargo, the green dragon filtered them through to Gideon at a pace his mind could comprehend. They witnessed events from Vangarth and The Evermoore, where the Drakes had taken days to decide on their action.

  It was hard to experience Athis’s weakening condition as the tree burned, though Gideon noticed anything to do with Inara, including her feelings, were guarded from him, protected as they were by her companion. The old master didn’t push it, content for them to maintain their privacy. Instead, he accepted the memories that pieced together the events surrounding the tree itself.

  A monumental weight pressed upon Gideon’s heart as it all came together. Adan’Karth and hundreds of Drakes were all gone, their life force and magic offered up to the tree. It was an enormous sacrifice. Both he and Ilargo only wished they could have been there to pay their respects to the brave Drakes and say farewell to Adan’Karth.

  Athis pushed on and Ilargo broke it all down for Gideon. While they had been flying across the world, eager to return to Illian’s shores, The Rebellion had been moving across the land. In Palios, Gideon looked down through Athis’s eyes and saw a ruined stable littered with bodies, all Arakesh. Asher lay unconscious among them, watched over by newly grown Avandriell. It felt a revelation to hear that those bodies were supposedly the last of Nightfall’s wicked order. Fitting, Gideon thought, that they should finally be brought down by Asher of all people.

  Since then, they had journeyed north intending to reach The Black Wood and meet Doran. As they had to pass the mouth of the valley that formed The Vrost Mountains, where it was believed Alijah and his forces were holed up, The Rebellion had made a substantial camp before going any further.

  Gideon looked over at those mountains again. He didn’t need to experience Athis’s memories to know where their enemy was. The Bastion. A cold and dark place that had never known warmth or light, its black stone forever reigned over by the corrupted and evil beings of the realm.

  Soon after meeting Athis and Avandriell in the sky, Ilargo was setting down on the snowy plains at the foot of the mountains. To the north of the camp, a large group of dwarves looked to be amassing while hundreds of elves and humans saw to fortifying the gap between the camp and the valley that cut through The Vrost Mountains. As before, a large tent was situated near the heart of it all, a place where The Rebellion’s council could meet, and Gideon’s current destination.

  Many broke away to greet them, though most were elves. They were offered good food and hot drinks from the fires that dotted the camp. Gideon promised himself he would indulge in whatever they had soon enough, but not before he met with his friends. The elves who had approached them looked only too happy to move past and tend to Ilargo, as always.

  Navigating the camp was no easy task. The Rebellion had clearly been restocked since leaving The Moonlit Plains and now possessed hundreds of carts with supplies, not to mention fresh horses from Palios. Of course, it was the Warhogs that proved the more difficult to negotiate, boisterous as they were.

  As the pavilion began to loom large in Gideon’s vision, he found his path blocked, though it wasn’t by Asher this time. The old master stopped in his tracks and met the vivid blue eyes of Inara Galfrey. It quickly became clear that the Guardian of the Realm wasn’t going to move out of his way. Instead of protesting, Gideon gestured for Galanör and Aenwyn to go on without him. Inara offered them both a friendly nod as they passed her by before returning her steely gaze to her former mentor.

  Gideon hadn’t missed, however, her brief glance at the satchel draped over Galanör’s shoulder. Thanks to Ilargo’s shared memories, Inara already knew what prize they had returned with.

  “You saved the tree,” he complimented with half a smile.

  “That’s an overstatement,” Inara corrected flatly. “Though I lent my sword to the effort, which is more than you can say,” she added sourly.

  The old master took a breath to steady his rising temper - no easy feat since altering his bond with Ilargo. “You know as well as I that any war requires fighting on more than one front.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing in Davosai?” Inara questioned incredulously. “Fighting on another front? Is this the part where you convince me that Crissalith is naught but a weapon to kill Alijah and Malliath?”

  “With the Hastion gem,” Gideon replied, “Crissalith is a weapon in our hands. It will sever Alijah’s bond with Malliath but, more importantly, it will sever the strings Malliath has used to control Alijah all these years.”

  Inara raised a hand to stop him. “I’ve heard this argument from my mother. I am not so naive as to believe your intentions towards Alijah. You still believe he can be redeemed, that he deserves to be redeemed. A ludicrous notion when we can’t even count the number of bones he stands upon.”

  “He’s your brother, Inara. Have you forgotten that?”

  “How could I forget that?” Inara spat. “Because of him, my very name has been tainted, my bloodline questioned. When this is all over and my brother is dead, do you really think the people of Illian are going to tolerate another Galfrey with a dragon?” She shook her head, exasperated. “No, Gideon, I have not forgotten that he is my kin. The difference between you and me, is that he’s already dead in my eyes.”

  Gideon didn’t hide his disappointment in her perspective. “We have a duty to save every life, Inara. Every life.”

  “Duty?” she queried with a frown. “We are neither Dragorn nor Dragon Rider. We have no such duty. I am the Guardian of the Realm, a title thrust upon me in your absence. I am honour-bound to protect the people of Illian from evil, whatever form it takes. Killing Alijah and Malliath will ensure their protection. There ends my duty.”

  Inara turned on her heel and made for the pavilion. “I need to save him, Inara!” Gideon growled, halting her mid-stride. “I need to save him,” he repeated hopelessly. “I am the one who failed him. He could have been so much more. His destiny could have been as glorious as I’m sure yours is. But I failed him. And because of my failings, he ended up in the hands of The Crow. So you see,” he said with a tired shrug, “I have to undo my mistake.”

  Inara held his gaze a moment longer. “No,” she responded evenly. “You have to live with your mistake.”

  Gideon remained rooted to the ground, the wind taken out of him by her sharp words. “Keep the hope alive,” he blurted, preventing Inara from completely turning away from him. “That is also your duty, is it not?”

  The Guardian’s hard expression faltered ever so briefly before returning tenfold. “You will have to be quick about your report,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Why?” Gideon asked with a hint of concern. “What’s happened?”

  “Word from The Black Wood: King Dakmund has passed away.” Inara’s tone was simply matter-of-fact, though Gideon suspected it was caused by talking to him rather than the subject matter. “As he was the last dwarven king of Dhenaheim,” she continued impatiently, “a great deal of his kin wish to pay their respects before the next battle. There’s also the matter of a new king. Given its significance and subsequent impact on the realm, the council has decided to accompany them further north. It’s been decided that our forces will remain here and prepare to take The Vrost Mountains when we return.”

  Gideon remained where he stood for a few seconds longer, watching Inara disappear inside the tent. She is carr
ying so much, he said to Ilargo. This is not the Inara Galfrey I know.

  A great deal has happened to her, the dragon replied. We all change.

  The old master shook his head slightly. Not like this. She has shut part of herself off to cope with it all.

  Perhaps, Ilargo posed, that is what is required to kill her own brother.

  Gideon was tempted to turn around and spot the dragon across the camp, well aware that his companion didn’t truly believe that. Whatever Alijah’s fate, we both know she will need all of herself if she is to defeat him. He is too powerful to be faced by anything less. I will speak to her again.

  And soon, Ilargo prompted. When next they meet, I fear only one will survive.

  52

  Feeling It

  Having taken on Gideon’s and Ilargo’s memories of their time in Ayda, Inara felt no need to be present for the report to Vighon and the others. Instead, she ascended to the heavens with Athis in the hope of finding fresh air to breathe, air that wasn’t shared with her old master.

  From the sky, they watched the world go by. As the day waned, the council eventually set out from the mountains, trailed closely by several hundred dwarves of varying clans. She could also see the four human scouts on horseback, riding off into the valley.

  Taking in The Vrost Mountains as a whole, Inara liked to think her brother and his forces were trapped in there. They had retreated in the belief that all they had to do was wait: wait for the tree to burn, wait for their most powerful foes to die away, and wait for The Rebellion to be at its most vulnerable.

  Inara held her head high in defiance. After so much fighting, The Rebellion had finally shown their might, undoing Alijah’s schemes, and cornering the treacherous necromancer. It was all coming to an end; she could feel it.

  Turning away from those ominous mountains, Athis began a slow glide towards The Black Wood in the north-east. The red dragon inevitably caught sight of Ilargo and Gideon, for there was only so much sky to share. Curiously, Athis closed a portion of his mind to Inara, keeping his immediate thoughts to himself.

  As they had previously established, it was perfectly alright for them to close off and have more private thoughts and feelings, but the timing of it stood out to Inara. She spared a moment to look at Gideon and Ilargo, to her right and slightly lower.

  Do you agree with them? she asked a little too bluntly.

  Athis held on to his thoughts a while longer. I share your passion for justice, he began, but I have been speaking with Ilargo. That surprised Inara and she couldn’t hide it. Athis acknowledged the feeling, noting the hint of a sting among her emotions, and continued. What if Alijah is just another victim in Malliath’s war on magic?

  You do agree with them, Inara concluded.

  No, Athis countered with irritation. But I am willing to listen and consider. Our duty requires more than our ability to swing a sword and breathe fire. Listening is a powerful tool. It can elevate you in the eyes of your allies and grant you knowledge where your enemies are concerned. And, the dragon added, his tone growing more serious, if we are to make judgement on another, should we not seek the counsel of others to ensure we are informed? Anything else would be an abuse of our power.

  Inara was on the precipice of replying, but there was something about the poignant words of wisdom, words only a dragon could spout, that stopped her in her tracks.

  I don’t want to talk about this, she finally said.

  Athis made no comment. Instead, he maintained his course and flew through the onset of night and over Dunwich, the only town to border The Black Wood. He continued to circle the wood until the council and dwarves were among the others.

  Inara hardly waited for his claws to touch down before she was preparing to jump. Walking past her companion’s head, the dragon simply said, We will speak later.

  Inara didn’t correct him. She, instead, gave a short nod of the head and let her true emotions wash across their bond. Athis, however, already knew the truth of her emotions. He knew she wasn’t really angry with him; she just wanted to run away from it all. It was an ugly task that the realm required of her and she would see it done. That’s all there was. Athis wholeheartedly disagreed with her approach to it, but Inara severed their bond before he could voice as much.

  All she had to offer her companion was a look of apology. She just couldn’t face it right now.

  * * *

  A quiet and aching sorrow had beset the atmosphere of The Black Wood, a contrast to the mesmerising sky above, bejewelled with an ocean of stars. The council’s exchange with Doran and his mother had been brief. Like the others, Inara had offered her condolences, though the queen mother looked to be in a permanent daze while Doran appeared to have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  For all the pressures and grief that plagued him, the dwarf still made time to enquire about recent events. Though short-lived, Doran’s spirits looked to be lifted upon hearing news of their victory.

  “I knew ye’d do it,” he had said, sparing an extra second to comment on Avandriell’s increased size. “She looks like a weapon with wings.” His remark had even come with a genuine smile.

  There had been no time for anything else after that - there was a king to bury.

  Amassed in the largest area, the camp of dwarves, humans, and elves stood silent with either a candle or a torch in hand. For the humans and elves, it was a moment to pay their respect to the dead liege but, for the children of the mountain, it was a time to grieve.

  Those of clan Heavybelly felt it the worst, their king of many years finally lost to them. But there was grief also among the dwarves of other clans for they had all lost someone like Dakmund, be it their king, brother, father or son. Here, with Doran and his clan, they shared it together.

  Emerging from the royal tent, Doran and three of his kin carried Dakmund’s body on a simple bier. Drelda would have fallen to her knees and sobbed were it not for her maids catching her by the arms. Doran had no tears to speak of, though the red skin around his only eye suggested he had already wept for his brother. With a set jaw, white knuckles, and steady gaze that never wandered from his destination, the son of Dorain put one foot in front of the other.

  Leading them was a bald dwarf whose beard nearly dragged on the ground. His voluminous robe and plethora of necklaces indicated he was some kind of priest or cleric of the dwarven faith.

  After a short walk to parade the king, Doran and the others placed his body down and took the bier away, leaving Dakmund to rest on the cold ground. Only Doran remained by his brother.

  “Here lies King Dakmund, son of Dorain!” he called out. “This is…” Doran faltered and swallowed before continuing. “This is no place to bury a king. Me kin, be it me father Dorain or me ancestor Thorgen, ’ave been given back to the mountain stone. This is not Vengora an’ nor is it The Whisperin’ Mountains. But, since it would be disrespectful to send a king on such a journey, we ’ave brought the mountain to ’im.”

  Inara followed Doran’s gesture to the pile of large rocks resting on the back of a cart. Given the time since Dakmund’s death, she assumed the rocks had been mined from Vengoran stone, just north of the woods.

  Without another word, Doran took the first jagged stone from the cart and laid it beside his brother. He was shortly followed by a handful of dwarves who joined him in the silent work. While they piled stone upon stone, the cleric stepped in and began to offer up dwarven prayers in their native tongue.

  It was a lengthy process to entomb the king and Doran was flushed and sweating by the end of it. Still, with bleeding fingers, he had laid one stone after the other until his brother was hidden from the world and returned to Grarfath and Yamnomora.

  Inara had never met Dakmund, and so the tears welling in her eyes were for Doran and his kin. She could feel their collective grief and would have been lying if she denied the effect it was having on her.

  There was something more to it, though, something that gripped Inara’s heart. Looking at
Doran, she saw someone who was burying their brother. It conjured up thoughts and memories of Alijah, feelings and events that she could never forget. For Doran, there was never going to be a second chance, another opportunity to speak to his brother. They had shared all the days they were ever going to.

  That was her future. For two years she had sharpened her resolve to a deadly point, one she intended to unleash upon Alijah. And then, when it was done, he would be gone forever.

  Inara shut her eyes tightly and took a steadying breath. No, she told herself; he was already gone. Her kind and caring brother, who had always found a way to make her laugh, had died years ago inside the very place he now resided. As hard as that was to believe, she knew it to be true. It had to be, for how else would she find the courage to kill him?

  Doran took the place of the cleric, bringing Inara back to the present. The son of Dorain puffed out his chest and raised his chin. “Tonight, we grieve,” he instructed. “Tonight, we mourn our loss an’ not jus’ that o’ King Dakmund, but all who ’ave fallen to this scourge. Every king o’ Dhenaheim. Every warrior who now dines with the Father. But tomorrow, we celebrate! We celebrate their lives! Their achievements in life! We will drink to their bones that they might enrich Grarfath’s soil an’ better His world! An’ then, with steel an’ wrath, we march on our enemy!”

  Every dwarf gave a short sharp roar into the air. What followed was a quiet dispersal as the various elves, dwarves, and humans found fires to huddle around and swap stories and share food. Those of the council naturally came together in the royal tent. Doran was sure to keep his mother close and within the comfort of his arm.

  “Tell me everythin’,” Doran said, eager, perhaps, to think of something other than his brother.

  Between them all, they recounted recent events for the War Mason, filling in the details from their different perspectives and quests. Inara remained relatively quiet for the most part, only speaking of her time in Vangarth. When it finally came to Gideon, Galanör, and Aenwyn, who had travelled further than them all, Inara subtly removed herself from the tent. Vighon had squeezed her hand and shot her a questioning look, but she had calmed him with a look before leaving.