Empire of Dirt

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Tauren managed to stand up and stretch his back until it cracked. Defeating Nakir wasn’t an option right now; he had been surprised and caught off guard. If he was ever to challenge the elf it would need to be on a field of his choosing. The balcony was on the other side of Nakir and it was still his best chance at escape. Alidyr and Ro Dosarn continued to stand by Halion and watch them fight. Had they chosen to get involved, Tauren would be dead by now.

  Relying on his anger to grant him one last burst of energy, Tauren ran at the elf and jumped at the last second to bring his foot up into Nakir’s jaw. The elf easily stepped aside and pushed Tauren’s foot away, before following up with another series of punches and elbows that forced the White Owl into the wall. Tauren slid to the floor and spat blood into his mask. One of his ribs was definitely broken, as his armour did nothing to soften Nakir’s blows.

  For all the pain he was actually in, Tauren played heavily on his suffering and made it appear worse than it was. He slowly crawled on all fours and groaned as he attempted to stand, adding in a stumble to his performance.

  Nakir laughed. “I’m not sure you could even stand up against an Honour Guard. How you defeated three Arakesh is beyond me.”

  Tauren sucked in a breath, aware that his next actions would cause considerable pain. Using his cloak to conceal his hands, Tauren quietly removed a blade from his waist as he rose into a crouch. His hand flew out, stretching his chest and pulling at his broken rib, while releasing the blade in Nakir’s direction. As expected, the elf caught the knife before it could plunge into his neck, but that had not been the point of the attack. Tauren dashed to the left again and dived cleanly over the railing with his grapple already in hand.

  The White Owl allowed himself to fall to the next floor down before throwing the grapple over a smaller, curved balcony. The hook snagged and became taut, but Tauren’s injuries proved too much, and his grip loosened under the sharp pinch from his ribs. His halted fall prevented him from breaking anything, after dropping down another floor and landing awkwardly on the next balcony. He was just thankful the state rooms had been built with symmetry.

  It took everything he had to climb fully over the railing and onto the balcony floor. He was now two floors below Halion and the elves, but still inside a palace filled with Arakesh. As painful as it was, Tauren drew in a long breath and blew into the curved horn. He could only hope that it carried enough to warn any who had yet to be set upon by the Arakesh.

  Tauren tried not to think about Halion, and instead thought of how he would escape the palace. If he could survive this, there was still a chance that he could return and save his brother.

  If he could escape…

  Tauren ran through the lavish hallways with abandon, all attempts at stealth forgotten. Clashing swords rang out, echoing off the hard walls, along with the sound of his owls crying out in defeat. The House of Owls was well trained, but they were no match for the Arakesh. The White Owl blew into the horn again and again in hopes of signalling his friends.

  Leaving the slave hallways behind, Tauren headed deeper into the palace until he came across a grand staircase. Warriors of his house fought for their lives against the assassins, who pushed them back down the stairs, away from the double doors that led further into the palace. The three Arakesh, one of which was Argo, were all dressed in the garb of Karathan soldiers, but they had replaced their helmets with strips of red cloth.

  “Run!” Tauren screamed as he jumped onto the stairwell, attacking the assassins from behind.

  The distraction saved the life of a young female owl, who was helped to her feet by the others. They looked at Tauren for guidance but he only screamed at them to run away again. Hesitantly, the group rallied around the injured female warrior and retreated back to the gardens.

  The three blind assassins lunged for Tauren as one, working together in harmony. Despite using the weapons of the guards, and not their usual twin blades, the Arakesh fought with grace and deadly precision. Tauren was forced to ignore the pain in his ribs and evade the multitude of strikes that aimed to remove his limbs. The White Owl threw small knives here and there, but the acute senses of the assassins always prevailed, allowing them to easily dodge the flying blades.

  A miss-step on the stairs put Tauren in the path of a roundhouse kick that connected with his already broken mask. The young fighter went spinning across the landing with a mouthful of blood.

  The pain made him angry.

  He stood up, all pain forgotten, and swiftly removed the two short-swords concealed upside down on his back. Two lunging moves put the assassins on a retreating foot, but their balance on the stairs was impeccable, and the three killers batted aside his attacks and slowly circled him.

  How long could he really keep this up?

  Tauren was already injured and outnumbered, and who knew how long it would be before one of the elves showed up to finish him off? It didn’t matter, he told himself. He only needed to give the owls more time to escape.

  “Tauren!” Braigo came charging into the foyer at the bottom of the staircase with six owls, all armed with bows.

  Six twangs unleashed the barrage of arrows at the assassins, who either cut the projectiles down or evaded the tips. For Tauren it was his best opening. The White Owl lashed out with both swords and took out the legs of one while bringing the weapons up and into another’s chest. The Arakesh who had been cut to his knees succumbed to the next barrage of arrows, leaving only one; Aro. Tauren pulled free his swords from between the plates of armour and watched the bloodied body collapse at the survivor’s feet.

  “Surrender…” Tauren rasped.

  Argo slowly turned his head. “Where you were taught to surrender, I was taught to survive.”

  The treacherous Arakesh leapt from halfway up the staircase with his sword held high. Braigo and the owls braced themselves and even managed to hit the assassin with two arrows as he descended. Tauren half leapt, half ran down the stairs, but the assassin was already amongst them, cutting through the owls with trained ease. By the time Tauren was within striking distance, Argo had cut through the group and killed four of the seven warriors. The White Owl attacked Argo with a flurry of swordplay, each attack designed to push the assassin back, away from the others.

  It made little difference.

  Even with two arrows in his shoulder and leg, Argo slipped past Tauren and plunged his sword into Braigo’s stomach.

  “NO!” Tauren cried, his shock holding him in place as his oldest friend received a mortal wound.

  Before he could counter-attack, Argo spun around and kicked Braigo into Tauren, driving them both to the floor. The surviving owls retrieved their bows and forced Argo to flee through a side door.

  “Braigo…” Tauren held his friend in his arms as blood spilled onto the floor. “Quickly,” he ordered the owls, “take him! We need to retreat!”

  The owls picked Braigo up and dragged him out into the gardens. Tauren blew again and again into his horn and looked around frantically, searching for any more assassins in the shadows. He quickly followed behind the trailing Braigo and looked on in horror as his friend’s blood streaked the floor.

  They had failed. He had failed…

  III

  Part Three

  19

  Anti-Magic

  Gideon looked on in wonder, when the morning sun filled the small clearing and caught the blade of the ancient Dragorn sword. Mournblade’s pommel, the sleek head of a dragon, glittered and shimmered in the light. The mage had never been interested in swords, always relying on his magic or the strength of his staff, but something about this blade called to him. He had sat on the soft grass for most of the last two days, simply marvelling at it while his leg got better.

  It had been a relatively lonely time, as Galanör often retreated to the higher perches of the floating boulders, and Adriel had avoided them entirely. It was easily done considering the size of Dragons’ Reach. Oddly, Gideon had noted more the absence of Ilargo. The g
reen dragon had been injured, saving him from Malliath’s rampage, but he was confident the young dragon would heal quickly. That particular confidence came from the fact that Gideon’s own injury, in exactly the same place, had already healed.

  Before he could truly consider the implications of that connection, Galanör walked into the clearing. The elf had deliberately made some noise to announce his arrival, as he was more than capable of creeping up on Gideon. It was a consideration the elf would have once foregone.

  “Why do you continue to stare at that thing?” Galanör asked.

  “I honestly don’t know. There’s magic bound to it… as a mage I suppose I’m naturally drawn to magical items. Isn’t it the same as your kind?” Gideon remained on the ground with his legs crossed.

  “I can feel it,” Galanör admitted, eyeing the sword. “It’s from a time before either of ours. Not that I wouldn’t like to give it a try.” Galanör fixed his grip around the red hilt and pulled. The sword didn’t even wobble in the stone.

  Gideon quietly chuckled to himself. “I told you about the spell Galandavax placed over it…”

  “Just making sure I’m not a Dragorn,” Galanör said with jest. “Have you not tried it?”

  “The sword? Why would I? I’m not even an elf, let alone a Dragorn!” Gideon had wanted to, but found his attention entirely stolen by its mere appearance.

  “Well come on then,” Galanör bade, wiggling his arm on the hilt. “What else is there to do?” There was a bitter tone to his question.

  Gideon sighed and stood up to face the sword. Its red and gold hilt was of the finest craftsmanship and incredibly cool to the touch. One by one his fingers wrapped around the grip and the magic contained within ran up his arm, promising great power. The mage adjusted his grip at the last second and pulled with all his strength.

  Nothing happened.

  “I told you it was pointless.” Gideon released the sword.

  Galanör waved the notion away. “What would you do with a sword anyway? You’re as likely to stab yourself as anyone else.” The elf laughed, though it was clear he was trying to goad Gideon.

  “You want to test your blade against my staff?” Gideon retrieved the staff from his back and mentally commanded it to grow to its full length.

  “I feel obliged to remind you that I choose to fight with swords. I am still an elf, of four hundred years no less, and therefore still your better in the magical arts.”

  “Prove it…” Gideon replied with a cocky smile, before running at the elf.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Galanör began to slowly pull his swords free of their scabbards when a blinding light formed between them, followed by a concussive force strong enough to launch the pair in opposite directions.

  Then Gideon opened his eyes again he was flat on his back at the foot of the rock containing Mournblade. Galanör was in a similar position on the other side of the clearing, with his chestnut hair covering his angular face. Both of their weapons had been lost in the tumble and now lay at Adriel’s bare feet, by the edge of the clearing.

  “If you must use your time this way, please do it elsewhere,” Adriel looked at Mournblade as if it were a religious relic.

  “Apologies, Adriel.” Gideon stood up and brushed the grass off his trousers.

  Adriel watched Galanör rise from the ground. “Your actions against Malliath could have cost not only your life, but that of Gideon’s, Ilargo’s or any of the other dragons keeping watch.”

  “Keeping watch?” Galanör spat back. “He doesn’t need watching Adriel, he needs unleashing! He’s got a thousand years of rage trapped inside him. Let him take us to Malaysai and rid the world of the Darkakin once and for all.”

  “I grow tired of this discussion, Galanör.” Adriel moved further into the clearing. “Rage may be something our people now embrace, but it is not the way of the dragons. He will –”

  The sun was momentarily blotted out by the descending shadow of Galandavax. His gargantuan size wouldn’t fit inside the clearing and so he continued to hover above the trees. Adriel looked up at his companion and appeared lost in thought for a time.

  “A scout party of Darkakin have made it past the Sandstalkers,” Adriel explained. “I must leave with Galandavax and deal with it.”

  “Take us with you!” Galanör shouted over the beating of Galandavax’s heavy wings.

  Adriel looked back at his elven kin with a doubtful eye. “I think it better if you stay here.”

  “You don’t want us to fight here… let us fight out there,” Galanör countered, picking up his fallen blades.

  Before Adriel could reply, Ilargo came bounding out from between the trees, previously hidden from view. The green dragon roared and met Adriel’s questioning gaze with brilliant blue eyes.

  Adriel’s confusion quickly turned to curiosity. “It seems Ilargo wishes to take you, Gideon.”

  The sound of Galandavax’s wings was the only noise to fill the clearing, as all eyes fell on Gideon, who continued to stare at Ilargo in surprise. The green dragon didn’t wait for Adriel to speak, as he did not require the elf’s permission, and bowed one of his strong legs and dipped his left wing, exposing his spine. Gideon felt all control abandon him, when he walked over and used Ilargo’s wing as if it were a step, and climbed onto his back.

  Adriel remained silent, gazing upon them from a distance. His expression was unreadable to Gideon, who struggled to find a comfortable place between Ilargo’s spikes. A short roar from Galandavax reminded everyone that action was required. The great ebony dragon dipped his hovering body just enough allow his powerful tail to drop into the clearing. Adriel moved with centuries of experience and caught a hold on the dragon’s thick scales, quickly ascending the tail with the speed and natural grace of a cat, until he found his position at the base of Galandavax’s neck.

  Gideon’s neck craned and his mouth fell open as he observed Adriel. The elf was incredibly comfortable at such a height, and the mage could only wish for such dexterity.

  “Wait!” Galanör shouted over Galandavax’s wings. “What about me?”

  Ilargo exhaled a sharp sigh through his nostrils and dipped his wing again. Galanör cautiously approached the young dragon, his eyes flitting from the Ilargo’s big blue ones to the space available behind Gideon. Another sharp sigh told the elf to get a move on; the dragon was clearly eager to find the Darkakin scouts. The mage offered his hand but wasn’t surprised when Galanör hopped into the dragon’s back with irritating ease.

  “I hate this part…” Gideon swallowed hard, remembering his first sickening flight holding onto Malliath’s tail and then again in the claws of Rainael after she saved them from the Sandstalkers.

  Before Galanör could reply, Ilargo shot into the air as an arrow from a bow. The ground dropped away and the tops of the trees quickly became pinpoints in the distance. Gideon lost sight of the clearing and only caught a glimpse of the lake and waterfall in the heart of the Reach, when Ilargo banked sharply to the right and headed for the surrounding wall of the Red Mountains.

  The mountains lay sprawled across the horizon, concealing The Flat Wastes that sat wedged between Dragons’ Reach and Malaysai. Gideon looked down briefly but felt his stomach rising into his mouth and turned away. Galanör, on the other hand, appeared completely at ease with their soaring height. Indeed, it was the first time the mage had seen him genuinely smile in many days.

  In line with the horizon, Gideon could see Galandavax gliding on the air currents alongside Rainael, whose pale green scales glittered in the desert sunlight as if she were nothing more than a mirage. After a few minutes of flight, the mountains began to open up to flatter ground and sparse trees that offered little shade. Gideon recognised the valley where Galanör and he had been set upon by the Sandstalkers; that day would forever be imprinted on his mind.

  Ilargo bowed forward allowing a better view of what they were heading towards. Gideon and Galanör adjusted their grip on the spikes and peered into
the bright distance.

  “I can’t see anything!” Gideon bellowed over the howling wind in his ears.

  “It’s a Darkakin scouting party,” Galanör replied, closer to his ear. “Thirty or so by my eyes!”

  Twenty-eight, actually…

  Gideon heard the number in his head and had to fight the dizzying wave that threatened to steal his conscious mind. The voice had not been his own, but that of a younger man, a teenager perhaps. The mage blinked his confusion away and kept the dizzying moment to himself. He couldn’t explain what was happening to him, but he knew now wasn’t the time to examine it.

  Galandavax and Rainael dropped into a dive, tucking their wings into their body, and plummeting towards the ground with unbelievable speed.

  “Oh no…” Gideon knew what was coming. “No, no, no, no –”

  “Hold tight!” Galanör shouted, anticipating the same thing.

  Gideon couldn’t help but shout at the top of his lungs when Ilargo dropped out of the sky like a stone discarded from the heavens. The mage’s howl only faded when he could no longer draw enough air to make a sound. The ground rushed up to meet them and the Darkakin finally took shape against the desert sand. A dozen of them were riding giant lizards while the others walked along the sides. The group bristled with spears and other pointed weapons that had been specially crafted to inflict maximum damage from every angle.

  At the last possible second of their dive, Galandavax and Rainael extended their wings and flew over the top of the scouting party, breathing a line of fire either side of the caravan. The Darkakin howled and leapt about to avoid the great beasts, while throwing spears into the air. The projectiles might as well have been moving through treacle when measured against the speed of the dragons.

  Ilargo’s wings fanned out, dramatically slowing their descent, until the dragon’s strong legs were able to take the impact as they set down at the head of the caravan. A jet of fire exploded from Ilargo’s mouth and consumed the lead lizard and its rider, reducing them both to cinders. Gideon and Galanör were quick to jump off the dragon’s back and retrieve their weapons, ready to battle the Darkakin. Ilargo didn’t remain grounded, but instead took off again, pausing only to dip and pick up another lizard with its rider still in the saddle.