Empire of Dirt

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The sky became dark with unnatural speed and filled with storm clouds that rumbled like angry gods. The heavens cracked and lightning erupted from every cloud with malicious intent. Gideon’s heart sank when lightning bolts exploded from above and struck the soaring dragons.

  The ground thundered under his feet and Gideon looked towards the foreign city to see an army of thousands running at him. The mage held out his hands in panic, but the screaming army ran past him without notice. He didn’t recognise any of their armour or the Sigil they bore. The army didn’t appear to be charging at another army, but they all had their eyes firmly fixed on the sky. That was when he saw it. Every twenty-foot there was a soldier with a tall spear, held upright, with a large green sphere attached to the top.

  “Crissalith…” Gideon whispered under his breath.

  A torrent of fire tore through the ranks only a hundred-feet away, as a mighty green dragon swooped over the top. Gideon followed the dragon’s flight and recognised Rainael the emerald star immediately, though she was smaller than he knew her to be.

  The smell of burning clothes and melted flesh reached the mage’s nose and he cringed. Giant spears and enormous rocks were hurled from somewhere inside the city walls, creating chaos amid the dragons’ flight patterns. The ground shook every time a dragon was struck and fell to the battlefield, crushing dozens of soldiers.

  An ear-splitting roar had Gideon spinning about, where a large, black dragon was on all four legs and being overrun by soldiers with Crissalith spears.

  “Malliath!” Gideon yelled over the battle cries.

  The black dragon’s head dipped as the anti-magic took effect, weakening him, while Gideon could only watch as the soldiers closed in with their deadly spears. A stream of ice came from nowhere and froze the soldiers in place, killing them instantly. The biggest dragon Gideon had ever seen dropped from the sky, in front of Malliath, and crushed the ice-figures with his bulk. The dragon inhaled again and a jet of fire spread across the battlefield, taking the lives of at least a hundred men.

  “Garganafan…” Gideon didn’t know where the name came from, but he was certain that was the identity of the dragon before him. “Where am I?” the mage screamed above the raging battle.

  Chaos surrounded him and he realised the question should be ‘when am I’, as Garganafan had been killed a thousand years ago in Elethiah, before the Dragon War. Was he witnessing a battle from the Dark War? Gideon had no clue, but his surroundings made it hard to think straight.

  Fightning continued to light up the sky, every bolt searching for a dragon. Using a storm as a weapon was an incredible feat of magic, in Gideon’s mind. He looked around him for the caster but instead he saw a soldier running directly at him. The mage stumbled backwards, seeing the spear of Crissalith aimed at his belly. He was defenceless. He had no staff and Abigail’s wand wasn’t attached to his thigh.

  “NO!” Gideon’s cry blew the vivid dream away and he awoke, bolt upright.

  The mage was sitting on the grass in front of Mournblade. Rays of moonlight pierced the branches, bathing the magnificent blade in soft light. A heavy sigh, Gideon had come to recognise as a dragon’s, came from behind him. Ilargo was lying close by with his wings tucked into his sides, as if he too had been sleeping. The dragon’s long neck stretched high, bringing his elongated head to tower over Gideon’s.

  “What was that?” the mage asked, referring to his nightmare.

  Ilargo tilted his head as if considering an answer.

  “What was what?” Adriel walked into the clearing.

  “I…” Gideon didn’t know where to begin.

  The mage stood up and straightened his clothes, taking in the serene surroundings. Galanör was close behind Adriel as they entered the clearing; both elves, regal in their approach, with perfect posture and handsome features. How was it that he, a human, could ever be a Dragorn, he wondered?

  “You have been asleep since yesterday,” Adriel said. “I’m sure it all feels very confusing.”

  “And then some…” Gideon added, rubbing his eyes.

  “How’s the arm?” Galanör gestured to Gideon’s left forearm.

  The mage examined the healed skin and nodded absently, trying to fix himself in reality again. The dream had been so vivid with its sights, sounds and smells. What was happening to him?

  “What happened yesterday?” Gideon finally asked.

  Adriel replied, “You were mentally connected to Ilargo at the time. Through his mind you were then connected to every dragon in the Reach. That many voices and minds must have been overwhelming. Some of the earliest Dragorn experienced the same thing before we developed the training. You will need training, Gideon.”

  The mage glanced at Galanör before facing Adriel. “I don’t have time to be trained. We need to return to Malaysai and free Adilandra. Then we need to find a way of getting word to the kingdoms of Illian. They must be warned before the Darkakin invade.”

  “Being a Dragorn is not something to be taken lightly,” Adriel countered. “It is not a path you can easily walk away from. The call of a dragon cannot be denied.”

  “I’m not Dragorn!” Gideon strode over to the only rock in the clearing. “See!” The mage pulled with all his might on the scimitar’s hilt.

  Adriel smiled and walked over to meet him. “Observe.” The elf gripped the red hilt and attempted to lift the stubborn blade. “I told you; Galandavax laid a spell over Mournblade centuries ago. It can only be removed by a Dragorn when they are needed again. Even I cannot lift the blade.”

  Gideon’s shoulders sunk. Growing up in Korkanath, he had dreamed of a life of adventure and destiny; to have a purpose in life beyond that of normal men had been his only desire. Now he just wanted to have Abigail back.

  “Adriel’s right,” Galanör said. “You should train, Gideon. This is an honour my people have dreamt about for a thousand years. You shouldn’t pass it up.”

  Gideon shared Adriel’s expression of surprise. It was the first time Galanör had agreed with the ancient elf instead of protesting to leave.

  The mage locked eyes with Ilargo and felt that familiar pull that, he now knew, was a call to connect on another level. The prospect of becoming a Dragorn was indeed exciting, but it also sounded like a long process.

  “How long does it take to complete the training?” Gideon asked.

  Adriel hesitated. “Longer than a human lifespan…”

  “Probably best to start now then,” Galanör added, placing a heavy hand on Gideon’s shoulder.

  Galanör had stayed with the new master and student for as long as he could before boredom set in. He wasn’t like his ancestors. Galanör didn’t have the patience to sit and watch Adriel teach Gideon the art of elven meditation. The elf needed to be doing something, to be on the move. He filled his time with swordplay, moving through his routines and stances. Even after four centuries, practice was required.

  It was easy to stop and marvel at the flying dragons however, each more beautiful than the next. Rainael flew overhead and it made Galanör think of his own queen. Adilandra needed saving from that hell. He knew in his heart that she was still alive. He had to believe that or succumb to his guilt.

  The elf looked back at the wall of trees that concealed Mournblade, where Gideon was receiving his first lesson. The way Galanör saw it; there were two ways the mage’s training could go; either, Gideon would come round to Adriel’s point of view and believe that the dragons should stay in the Reach, or, he could use his new found connection with Ilargo to help them attack Malaysai.

  Galanör couldn’t leave it to chance.

  The elf climbed atop one of the floating boulders with the need to act pressing on his mind. Who knew how long it would take for Gideon to master even the most basic of skills needed to be a Dragorn. What he did know, was that Adilandra’s time would be running out. If she wasn’t dead already, the Darkakin’s cruelty would force her to find creative ways to kill herself.

  Crouched by t
he lip of the boulder, Galanör scanned the vast crater for any weaknesses he might have missed. His sharp eyes took in every detail of the almost sheer cliff face that wrapped around Dragons’ Reach. There were no gaps or valleys to take advantage of. The thought of climbing out of the crater was a futile one and he knew it. Even if he did make it past the vicious Sandstalkers that lived in the Red Mountains, he would surely die of dehydration between here and Malaysai.

  Galanör hung his head in defeat.

  Everything he had done was for nothing. All the terrible acts on behalf of his people would be with him forever. The faces of the children, taken by the Mer-folk, flashed before his eyes and brought tears with them. The students, children all, in Korkanath who had fallen under his leadership… Tears ran freely down his cheeks and the elf felt despair for the first time in his long life.

  Before he could fall any further into his dark reflection, his keen eyes caught movement in the distance. Galanör wiped his eyes and watched as Malliath took off into the sky with an entourage of dragons. They flew in a wide circle before heading out, beyond the Reach. What were they doing?

  Galanör practically flew down the boulder and the thick roots that attached it to the ground, when he saw Adriel and Gideon heading for the small lake with Ilargo in tow.

  “Malliath’s leaving!” Galanör shouted as he closed the gap.

  Adriel stopped by the edge of the lake and turned to regard Galanör without a trace of alarm. “He’s not leaving. He’s hunting. A dragon that cannot fly goes mad. Even the mages at Korkanath knew that. Every day he is escorted to the north where he can hunt and enjoy the gift of flight. His freedom will be increased every day as he regains some semblance of himself.”

  Galanör felt like a fool for rushing over. He looked at Gideon, but the mage was stroking the scaly hide between Ilargo’s eyes, oblivious to their conversation. Perhaps he already knew of Malliath’s daily jaunts through his connection to Ilargo.

  Rather awkwardly, Galanör nodded his understanding and turned to leave. Ever the warrior and tactician, the elf found an idea forming in his mind. Perhaps he could lie in wait during one of Malliath’s hunts, hiding within the debris and the mud. Then, when the black dragon returned, he wouldn’t have to sneak into the clearing to converse. That thought vanished when he considered Malliath’s size and weight. It was more likely that the dragon would return and land on top of him.

  Galanör sighed and strode into the forest. The elf could feel desperation creeping into his thoughts, planting schemes that most would consider irrational and dangerous. Desperation was not a good place for Galanör to be...

  Adilandra squeezed her hand until the knuckles turned white and her grip was that of a vice. Her elven strength was a magnitude above most humans, proving true in this very moment, as she relinquished her latest bedmate of his life. The ugly Darkakin struggled and clawed at her bare arms, but the elven queen continued to look ahead and tighten the vice. Adilandra had to be precise with her grip, ensuring that not a single gargle could escape his blue lips and alert the guards.

  The elf lifted her leg and rolled off the Darkakin after hearing a crack inside his throat. The cold floor found her first as she battled the elixir of drugs still coursing through her veins. Finding the strength to strangle the savage had taken most of her energy.

  With her head leaning against the side of the bed, the queen sat there for a moment and focused her resolve. She had to escape. The Goddess had continued to pass her round the richer clans within their twisted society, always drugging her into submission. Adilandra was unsure of how many days and nights she had been fettered now, each day blending into the next, but the elixirs were beginning to lose their bite. It was only the gladiatorial matches that gave her any reprieve from the drugs.

  Adilandra brought her hand up to her face and balled it into a fist, testing her strength. Perhaps she was developing an immunity to the concoction of drugs? The elf could only dare to hope. Scrambling for her clothes, the queen was finally able to stand, though her new found freedom was accompanied by overwhelming nausea and dizziness. Adilandra used the edges of the bed to walk around the room and make for the balcony, where the green crystal sat perched on a stand.

  She hated those crystals.

  In their presence, her magical connection was lost. Her greatest advantage over the humans had been taken from her by nothing more than a rock, and she had no idea how. Between the crystals and the drugs, she had been used time and time again as nothing more than a plaything.

  Before Adilandra could reach the crystal however, the vomit in her stomach demanded attention. The reflex couldn’t be helped and the queen wretched, spilling her guts across the floor.

  The doors were bursting open before she could clear the tears from her eyes. Bare feet padded into the room with the harsh language of the Darkakin shouting unintelligible words at her. It didn’t matter; she just had to reach the crystal and launch it from the balcony. With it gone, her powers could return and she could reduce the guards to charred corpses.

  In her hands and knees, Adilandra made a dash across the floor, ignoring the vomit beneath her. A swift kick to her ribs had her sprawled over the cold tiles and gasping in pain. A second kick, quickly followed by a third and fourth brought pain and blood, but still the elf crawled across the floor. As her fingers touched the stand, numerous hands grabbed at her and lifted from the floor. The stand wobbled and the crystal fell to the floor, where it rolled ever closer to the balcony. Adilandra kicked out, trying to stall the inevitable club to the head, while watching the crystal roll towards the gap in the railing.

  With a prayer on the edge of her lips she willed the crystal to drop, but a foot came to rest on top as it teetered on the lip. Adilandra followed the foot up an athletic leg, laced in tattoos, until her eyes rested on The Goddess. The elf now found herself within the grip of four Darkakin, who forced her to her knees with rough hands and serrated blades.

  “You have saved me the trouble, elf-queen.” The Goddess flashed her wicked smile and picked up the crystal. “I was coming to killing Lord Xix myself. He was only to have you for the night, not three. He refused my guards the right to bring you back.” The Goddess regarded the corpse of Xix with disgust and pity. “He thought with my armies invading Illian I would be weak. Did your subjects test you so, old one?”

  Adilandra surged forwards in an attempt to break free and snap the savage’s neck, but eight strong arms coiled around her with python-like strength.

  The Goddess didn’t flinch, but smiled all the wider. “Are you hollow yet? Have we stripped you down and left you raw?” The savage queen stroked Adilandra’s cheek with the back of her hand. “You will be among my legacies. I will hand you down through the generations of my bloodline, each one breaking you again and again. When your gods give you strength and hope musters in your heart, the Darkakin will be there to crush it.”

  Adilandra wanted to unleash the fury that had been building inside of her. She wanted to curse and spit and make promises of a bloody death to all Darkakin, but that shouldn’t be the elven way. Her husband, Elym, would have every elf behave in such a way and prove their superiority, but Adilandra refused to give in; she would be as her ancestors had been and…

  The faces of all those who had accompanied her on the pilgrimage to these lands flashed through her mind. Most were the faces they made upon their death at the hands of the Darkakin. She saw Lörvana have her head removed by Overlord Kett and Fallön slice his own throat under the influence of The Goddess’ elixirs. She saw Ederön be thrown from the balcony of the throne room, as if he were nothing but a sack of wheat.

  The queen’s rage couldn’t be denied any longer. “I will kill every last one of you!” Adilandra screamed and pushed against the guards, putting their strength to the test. “This city will be left a smoking ruin! Not a soul will escape Malaysai when I am finished burning it to the ground!”

  The Goddess laughed with glee “You’re going to be perfect…!”
The queen of savages brought the hand-sized crystal down on Adilandra’s head, robbing her of thought.

  23

  Dark Tidings

  The elves heard it first, as they would. The thunder of boots falling into the rhythm of a march. The scraping of armour against armour. Had the doors of Darkwell’s theatre been open, Tai’garn was sure they would have inhaled their sweaty aroma too. The elves looked at each other, keenly aware of the danger moving through the streets, but it was Nalmar’s tortured expression that raised the fine hairs on the back of Tai’garn’s neck.

  The elven companions were on their feet moments before the doors were forced open and a stampede of soldiers in gold cloaks rushed into the theatre. Their war cry and drawn weapons were clear signs of their intentions, and Ezeric had an arrow flying across the theatre before a single Graycoat had found their sword.

  Lord Marshal Horvarth exploded from his chair with Ned Fennick and Darius Devale at his back, but all three were quickly set upon by the soldiers. There was no warning or questions asked by either side; just bloody battle. Ezeric glided around the stage, firing arrows with envious speed and precision, every projectile delivering a fatal message. Hela and Alwyn waded in with their exquisite scimitars, bringing down the strange soldiers with every swipe and slash.

  “Nalmar; with me!” Tai’garn rallied the elf and dropped from the stage with his staff at the ready.

  Destructive spells burst forth from the elder’s staff and Nalmar’s hands. Shields were cracked and swords melted by the magical attacks. Any who found their way past Tai’garn’s spells found their doom at the end of his enchanted staff.

  “Traitors!” the Graycoats cried over the chaos.

  The elder unleashed a concussive spell so powerful it shattered a soldier’s shield and blew the man backwards, into three more of his brothers-in-arms. Bones were broken and flesh torn in the throng of limbs.