The cave trolls beat their mighty fists into the Sandstalkers, crushing them into the ground. The few who scuttled between the trolls never found the riders again, lost in the stampede. The roars and screams of the opposing monsters echoed throughout the valley as they rode their mounts to the other side and continued south, rounding a curve in Syla’s Pass. Even with their cries growing distant, Alijah kept an arrow nocked and ready to fly.
The horses were only too happy to slow down, though Galanör’s horse showed no sign of fatigue as it trotted back to greet them. Alijah could see that Vighon was ready to get down and rest, but he kept his friend going until the monsters could no longer be heard.
Transferring the elf to his own horse, Alijah and Vighon walked beside their own, leading them by the reins for the rest of the day. They could do nothing but walk through Syla’s Pass and head south. Before the sun gave way to the moon, they followed a ramp that rose up into the valley wall and ascended to a plateau that gave them a view of the pass both north and south.
Only after the horses had given in to exhaustion and the pair had eaten and drunk from their supplies did Galanör stir. The elf sat up and groaned while rubbing his eyes. It took another moment for him to orientate himself and look upon Alijah and Vighon.
“Nice sleep?” Vighon asked between mouthfuls of Lirian wheat loaf.
Galanör found his feet but still required the valley wall to keep himself upright. “How far south have we travelled?” he asked.
“How far?” Vighon repeated, offended. “Never mind how far we’ve come! You have no idea what we’ve faced to even reach this far! I never thought I’d be so thankful to see a whole mob of cave trolls…”
“Cave trolls?” Galanör echoed, looking to Alijah.
The half-elf shrugged the entire exchange off. “We’re about halfway through Syla’s Pass,” he explained. “We should reach Paldora’s Fall by sundown tomorrow if we set off at dawn. Will you be fit to travel?”
“I’ll be fine. Have you found any trace of The Black Hand?”
“No,” Alijah replied before Vighon could say something witty. “The Sandstalkers and cave trolls were something of a distraction.”
Galanör looked from the stars to his grey horse, resting close by. The elf could barely walk, but he made it to the horse’s side and rested with his back to its ribs. There was a kinship there, between elf and horse - much like Vighon and every animal he came across - that Alijah had never experienced himself.
“You should get some rest,” Galanör said.
Vighon stood up and pulled his cloak around him. “I suppose that’s all the thanks we’ll be getting…” he commented on his way past Alijah, seeking a new spot to find rest.
Once again, Alijah shrugged at Galanör’s questioning expression. What else could he say? Vighon loved a fight more than any man Alijah had known, but the northman had a particular dislike for the monsters of the world. Saying that out loud, however, would offend him further.
The elf cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said meekly. “You kept me safe.”
Vighon pulled his cloak a little tighter, his eyes on the valley. “It’s not me you should thank. Ned’s the one that took your load.”
Galanör looked back at Alijah, clearly uncomfortable thanking a horse for anything. With that, their bartering of words came to an end, soon followed by Vighon’s snoring. They had refrained from starting a fire, unsure what other monsters lurked in the darkness of The Undying Mountains. Under the pale glow of the moon, it wasn’t long before Alijah noticed the elf’s attention fixed upon him.
“You have something to say?” Alijah asked softly.
“I’ve never been one for saying much,” Galanör replied, wrapped within his blue cloak and white furs. “But, I can’t help but notice some of your gear.”
Alijah glanced at the folded bow and short-sword standing against the wall beside him. His quiver, lying by his leg, was almost empty and in need of more arrows from one of the satchels hanging off his horse. Self-conscious of his things, Alijah pulled on the hood of his green cloak and had it cover a little more of his face.
“I’ve seen that blade before,” Galanör continued. “The bow too.”
“What of it?” Alijah retorted sharply.
The elf raised his hands. “I meant no offence, merely an observation. One doesn’t easily forget a silvyr blade or the bow of an Arakesh for that matter.”
Alijah glanced at the folded bow again. Its design was just as unique as the silvyr of his short-sword. Neither had been made for him…
“They were collecting dust above my father’s hearth,” Alijah said, though he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to explain himself. “I thought I would put them to better use.”
“They weren’t given to you?” Galanör clarified.
Alijah couldn’t meet the elf’s eyes. “Nothing has ever been given to me.”
“Your parents gave you life,” Galanör countered. “They gave you love. The latter is more than I received from my parents.”
Alijah rolled his eyes. “I will not be lectured about family by some ranger of the wilds. Elf or not.”
Undeterred, Galanör replied, “These scimitars are better than any blades forged in Illian, made by the finest smiths in Elandril, yet neither of them has the edge, balance or strength of that short-sword. Do you know where it was forged?”
Alijah sighed, having said more about his past to Galanör in the last minute than he had to Vighon in the last three years. “I thought you weren’t one for saying much.”
The elf smiled. “Perhaps I just needed to find the right person to talk to…”
Bar feigning sleep, which he was seriously considering, Alijah could see no way of ignoring the ranger. “It was forged in Darkwell by a dwarf named Danagarr. It is said that the dwarf gave it to Asher by way of payment for slaying a troll in the area.”
Seeing Galanör’s eyes on the sheathed blade, Alijah picked it up and removed the short-sword. Under the light of the moon, the hourglass blade sparkled as if inlaid with diamonds. Ancient glyphs ran up the spine of the silvyr, adding an extra sting to any monster unlucky enough to feel its bite.
“Here.” Alijah threw the short-sword into the air and the elf caught it easily enough.
“Magnificent…” Galanör observed. “It must be the only silvyr weapon in all of Illian. I wonder how he sneaked it out of the mines; the dwarves of Dhenaheim would not easily part with the metal.” The elf looked up from the blade and his eyes drifted over the rogue. “Between this, the bow, and now that cloak, I would say you were about thirty years away from looking the spit of the great ranger himself.”
Alijah had taken too many things in his life to feel guilt over a couple of weapons and a cloak. “Dead men have no wants or needs. But Asher had good taste, I’ll give him that,” he added with a disingenuous smile.
Galanör’s playful manner dropped away. “Asher died so that your mother and father might live. Myself included, and your grandmother, even Gideon Thorn. I would say he had more than just good taste.”
The stubbornness that Alijah hated to recognise as his mother’s rose in him with ire. “I must be cursed. I left my home to make something of myself, to make a life out from under…” He bit his tongue and reconsidered his words. “Since walking into the world I’ve done nothing but meet people,” he gestured to Vighon’s sleeping form, “who have known me since childhood or people who knew my parents before I was born.”
Galanör didn’t respond straight away. “Maybe you were never meant to walk away from your family.”
That brought an incredulous smile to Alijah’s face. “You sound like a priest. We both know the gods aren’t real, so let’s not pretend something as ridiculous as destiny exists.”
“There aren’t any gods that we know about,” Galanör corrected. “Save for Kaliban, of course, who we’re all hoping is naught but fantasy. Perhaps us little folk aren’t supposed to know about such beings or their plans for u
s.”
“You know, I’ve decided you are someone who has a lot to say. And I’ve also decided that it’s irritating.” Alijah held out his hand for the silvyr blade and the elf obligingly threw it back. By the time he had sheathed it and placed it next to his bow, Galanör was hidden beneath the hood of his cloak and searching for sleep.
Alijah’s choice of words gnawed at him for some time, keeping rest at bay. He had spoken harshly to an elf, known for good deeds, whose greatest curse was his eye for detail. There was only a handful of people in the whole world who could look upon his silvyr blade and bow and recognise them as Asher’s. Yet somehow, just as he had said, the half-elf couldn’t escape those who had a connection to his family and their history.
Forget it, he finally told himself. Forgetting his family and the life he had was the only way any of them would move on. It was his place to be alone in the world, even with Vighon by his side, an old friend who meant well but knew nothing of what toiled inside the rogue’s heart. With or without him, he was doing something that mattered now, something that made a difference. Alijah repeated that over and over until sleep claimed him.
16
A Dark Reflection
Gideon Thorn’s eyes snapped open. The sound of the crashing waves and the wind blowing through the torches came back to him. It was still night and the stars were almost exactly where he had left them before he began to meditate, telling him that he hadn’t maintained his moment of peace for very long.
Rising to his feet, the Master Dragorn took in a breath as well as the view beyond his home. Halfway up a steep cliff, the alcove was dug deep into the rock face. For thousands of years, the hollow had housed the council’s chamber as well as the Master Dragorn’s personal quarters and the library. From the very edge of that alcove, Gideon was able to see The Adean below and the stars above with nothing but more rock face on the other side.
The archipelago provided the perfect place for the Dragorn and dragons to live in harmony, as it had done thousands of years ago, but even in this place, his home, Gideon couldn’t rest easily. Here there was peace, but out there… out there was unrest in the north and a re-emergence of evil in the south.
The Master Dragorn sighed and glanced one last time at the restless ocean below, his attention turning back to the alcove. The torches lining the walls showed him the way, between the four pillars, and into the council chamber of hewn stone. The long table in the middle was surrounded by seven empty chairs and three murals carved out of the white cliffs.
Often he would stop and take in the history being depicted in those murals, tales of heroism displayed by previous Masters, but tonight, like so many before, he couldn’t concentrate. Gideon stopped at the head of the table, beside his own chair, and contemplated which door to pass through. The one to his right would take him to his bed, the one on his left would take him to the library.
Ilargo’s soothing voice sounded clear in is mind. I would advise sleep, but we both know you’re going to stay up late reading again.
The green dragon wasn’t anywhere near the cliff, but when Gideon closed his eyes he was sure he could feel the ocean spray on his face. Ilargo was likely gliding close to The Adean, hunting.
Orcs, Ilargo. No Dragorn has had to think about their wretched kind for five thousand years and now…
We should wait to hear back from Inara and Edrik, Ilargo countered. It’s possible we’re dealing with a small band of orcs who are just taking advantage of the devastation wrought upon the land by the collapse of Karath.
Did that seem like a small band to you? They filled the palace of Karath and I have no doubt there were more in the tunnels beneath.
The dragon probed his feelings. There’s something else, isn’t there? Something that stops you from meditating or finding any rest for that matter.
Gideon knew better than to keep things to himself. Ilargo was the other half of his mind that allowed him to process everything and discover a better understanding of not just the world, but also himself.
I can’t shake this feeling that I have.
What is it? Ilargo asked.
The feeling that everything is about to change. The end of an Age…
The new Ages are only ushered in by times of peace or great cataclysms.
Gideon was all too aware of that fact. The Pre-Dawn had been the time of Atilan and the First Kingdom, a time that only a few knew about. The First Age began with the bonding of the first Dragorn, Elandril, and the rising civilisation of the elves.
The Second Age arose when the elves and dwarves defeated the orcs, five millennia ago, and a golden age of peace stretched across the realm.
The Third Age began when The Dark War came to an end, a thousand years ago, and mankind assumed control of the land, slaying many of the dragons and exiling the elves to Ayda.
The Master Dragorn had hoped that the defeat of Valanis would usher in the Fourth Age, but the kingdoms and their Time Keepers weren’t in agreement that the current Age should come to an end just yet, despite the unprecedented peace.
The world was turning once again now; he was sure of it.
Gideon shook his head and made for the library door. Learning more about the orcs would help him to feel better equipped to deal with this new threat. Maybe then he could find some rest.
The library was a pocket dimension, a vast, three-tiered chamber, that shouldn’t exist inside the cliff. Walking out onto the middle level, Gideon descended the step to the lowest tier, where the walls were lined with books and the floor was filled with glass cabinets displaying ancient relics and trophies.
The long table in the middle was already piled with various books and scrolls related to The Great War. Gideon had done his best to take in as much information from the tomes of the previous Dragorn and understand everything he could about the orcs. As complete as the records were, he felt there was always something missing and decided it was the perspective of the dwarves, who fought alongside the elves in the war.
Gideon sighed and lifted the top book, glancing at the title before throwing it down the table, towards the pile of books that offered the least insight. The last book he had read was about the ancient martial arts of the Mag’dereth, developed by Elandril during The Great War. The orcs were only mentioned in comments relating to the proficiency of the various fighting forms.
So far, the only book he had put to one side for a second read through was The Red Dawn. Written by Glanduil of house Myro, an elven Dragorn on Elandril’s council, the book documented the earliest encounters with the orcs in Vengora. It was still lacking in the detail Gideon was searching for. It was the dwarves of Dhenaheim who came across the orcs first, not the elves or Dragorn.
The Master Dragorn dipped into the chair at the head of the table and examined the next leather-bound book. They were all starting to look the same to him. He needed to know the specifics of how the orcs travelled underground. Was this network still under Illian’s surface? Had the ancient dwarves and elves found a way underground? Surely, the dwarves, great miners all, would have found these tunnels and sealed them.
Frustrated, Gideon pushed the next book aside and sat back in his chair. As usual, he was distracted by the relics and trophies that surrounded him, all far more interesting to look at. On the other side of the table, the display case held the horizontal blade of Alidyr Yalathanil, the long-dead general of Valanis. The short-sword had been plunged into the evil elf by Asher himself, a deed that saw Alidyr to his end. And what a violent end it was. The blade was charred and the exquisite hilt damaged beyond repair after the general exploded with powerful magic.
You’re getting distracted, Ilargo warned. You might as well seek out some rest. The books will have more clarity in the morning.
Gideon dropped his head, feeling a failure. Perhaps the greatest evil that had ever challenged the goodly folk of Illian was once again above ground for the first time in five millennia and he, the Master Dragorn, had no explanation. He couldn’t even assess the
level of risk having only seen a band of them in the ruins. There were six kingdoms in Illian and he had never felt more thinly spread than he did right now.
Gideon, this isn’t a war yet. You are behaving as if the entire realm is already under attack.
Gideon pinched his nose and screwed his eyes. Something isn’t right, Ilargo. I can feel it in my bones.
I feel it too, the dragon replied softly. But we can only react.
What if reacting is too late?
A sense of resolve crossed the bridge between man and dragon and Ilargo’s voice said clearly, Then the Dragorn will rise up and rally the kingdoms of man, elf, and dwarf to see the threat pushed back.
Gideon used the last of his energy to laugh to himself. Only a predator of your renown could have such confidence.
A confidence you should share, Dragorn. As I am the predator at the top of my food chain, so too are you at the top of yours.
I didn’t feel like the top of anything running away from those orcs…
The green dragon filled his mind with a sense of understanding. You ran because Inara would have fallen if you had stayed. Even Athis could see that.
It was hard to argue with the logic of a dragon and impossible to argue with one who shared his very soul.
Gideon pushed back from the table and stood up to leave. As he reached the bottom step, the strangest thing caught his eye, halting him from taking another step. The Master Dragorn left the stairs and walked over to the long mirror that ran down the corner where the bookshelves met.
Standing in front of it, Gideon waited to see if he had imagined the ripple that distorted the flat mirror. Just as he was about to leave and chalk it up to exhaustion, the mirror rippled again. Gideon placed his hand on the cold surface and discovered nothing unusual about it.
He blinked once and there was a man standing behind him in the mirror. The Master Dragorn spun on the spot to face the threat, his hands already alight with the flames of his spell. There was nobody there. Gideon looked about, his hands still flaming, but there was no man but him standing in the library. Turning back to the mirror, the man was still standing there, beside the table.
The Fall of Neverdark Page 18