Empire of Dirt

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Elym looked down at the chest resting on his table. The rectangular box was engraved with ancient symbols and elven glyphs, keeping the chest shut to all but him. To the king’s touch, it was as if the chest had never been locked, opening with the greatest of ease. Inside he found the rolled up scroll he had taken from The Wild Moores so long ago. Unravelling it, he found the Echoes of Fate and the black hand print in the corner. For years he had kept it hidden; the scrolls existence wasn’t proof that the gods were fake, but it would have seen his sister made a fool of in her dying moments.

  Elym quickly rolled it back up and tucked it into his belt, under his robes. It would remind him in the coming days that he determined his own fate and that of his people, not some god in the sky.

  “My Lord…” Varö was in the doorway to his balcony.

  Elym retired his reverie and tore his eyes from the empty chest. “Are we ready?”

  Varö straightened his back. “We are, My Lord. The ships have been assembled and stocked; the army is on the beach awaiting your command.”

  The king glanced at the sky and looked back at his High Guardian. “You saw it?”

  Varö hesitated. “Yes, My Lord. We all saw it; a beautiful display of nature, nothing more.”

  Elym smiled, though he didn’t quite believe the elf. “You have put your faith in me, Varö. You have put your faith in my vision for this world.” The king stood up and clasped the High Guardian’s forearm. “We will rule Verda as the true gods, the only gods that matter.”

  With that, Varö threw a crystal into the king’s room and opened a portal. Elym strode through and stepped onto the beach of the Opal Coast, on Ayda’s western shore. Hundreds of ships lined the ocean with white and blue sails, while the beach itself was occupied by six thousand elves, all lined up and ready to go. Elym admired his warriors, who stood in complete silence, the epitome of discipline. The only sound came from the lapping waves and the trees in the breeze.

  Elym turned to Varö. “I always envisioned this scene to have dragons in it…”

  “Even with the Dragon Wall closed to us, we will still claim victory, My Lord.”

  “Seeing the army you have trained I don’t doubt it. When Illian is ours and some measure of peace is accomplished, I will return to Ayda and discover the secrets of Mount Garganafan. I would see the dragon eggs recovered and their kind returned to these lands.” Elym hoped that would see the return of Adilandra, his wife. He could only push away his thoughts of her for so long.

  Varö bowed his head. “We will see Verda returned to its natural state.”

  Elym paced the sandy beach, meeting the eyes of his warriors. “The gods are false…” he whispered to himself, before announcing, “The gods are false! We, the immortals, are the true rulers of Verda!” The army cheered in response. “We set sail today to forge a new world for our people, a world free of Valanis and his evil, a world free of man and its corruption! The elven nation will rise! We will bring about a time of peace and prosperity! If man must be wiped away to achieve this, then so be it!” The army cheered again. “GO NOW! TO WAR! TO VICTORY!”

  The army continued to cheer as they turned about and made for the ships. For the first time in history, elves would go to war with man…

  Epilogue

  Faylen dragged herself over the sharp rocks and the warm carcass of the dead monster. Everything hurt. Breathing had become a laborious effort with little reward. The elf had more cuts than she could count, and healing wasn’t an option right now; what was left of her magic had a single purpose.

  Killing Alidyr Yalathanil.

  The head of Valanis’ Hand was only feet away, stuck on his knees, wedged between the collapsing cavern and the slab of hard ground beneath him. Both of his hands were raised as he exuded enough force to keep the tons of broken stalactites from crushing him. The shield of pure magic flared against the jagged rocks, generating the only source of light and guiding Faylen.

  It took some time before she made through the narrow gaps, but her final effort in life was worth it. Before her now, and helpless to defend himself, was Alidyr. The elf was dripping with sweat and blood, his own injuries not far from mirroring Faylen’s. His arms shook and his teeth were firmly clenched as he watched her crawl ever closer. Faylen hoped he could see the look in her eye.

  Despite her long life, there hadn’t been anything Faylen could say she hated. Looking at the elf responsible for so many deaths however, she knew there was room in her heart for such a feeling after all. With every inch she crawled, that rage Faylen had been told lived inside of her was finally bubbling to the surface. For years she had clung to the ideology of her queen, Adilandra, believing that they could be more than that. Not now, not after everything Alidyr had put them through.

  It took everything the elf had left to get to her knees and face him. Killing Alidyr would be the sweetest way to leave this world, she thought. The two locked eyes in the flaring light, both aware that this would be their grave.

  “If…” Alidyr struggled to speak. “If you kill me... we both die.”

  Faylen glanced at the mountain of rock that threatened to bury them. “So be it…”

  With a wicked grin, the elf looked back at Alidyr and opened both of her hands, igniting them with brilliant, blue flames.

  Prologue

  Relic Of The Gods

  Thousands of years ago…

  On the highest slopes of the Vengora Mountains, where the air was thin and the wind a bitter chill, the king of the first men and the one true kingdom surveyed all of Verda. Atilan braced his hands against the icy, cold balcony of Kaliban’s state room and looked down on the world that was rightfully his. Illian was his by birthright and only he should rule over it for all time.

  And yet…

  Atilan looked high into the sky, as he had done his entire life, searching for dragons. The king knew he would fine none, for why else would he have built a fortress so high, where even dragons dare not fly? It was those dragons who had robbed him of his birthright, those beasts who served no purpose but to sustain mankind, as every other living creature did. Their rebellion and that of the Dragorn had cost him his armies, his home and the chance to live forever.

  The wind and the snow beat against the invisible shield that surrounded him, generated by his staff, which stood by his side without aid. The shield flared with a fiery orange here and there, but still, the staff filled the sphere with enough heat to keep the cold out of his bones. The thought had Atilan inspecting the back of his hand, a hand that reflected his increasing age. Prominent veins, dark spots and flesh more akin to a cracked desert floor reminded the king that he was growing closer to death with every second.

  Both magic and science had failed him. Atilan’s first attempt at prolonging life had resulted in an entirely new species he had no desire to see again. The elf, as they were apparently calling themselves, were nothing but a reminder that immortality would forever be an unattainable gift that could only be given, never received. A spiteful part of him wanted to wipe the elves away, denying them the life that should have been his own, but war with the dragons had consumed him. Their fire and ice had chipped away at his one true kingdom until there was almost nothing left… almost.

  Atilan’s staff released a soft pitch that only the king could hear, alerting him to a presence on the balcony. It could not be Naius, for the wizard never left his crystal pools in days of late. The footsteps were light too, excluding Lord Krayt. It could only be one other.

  “Paldora,” Atilan called softly, his voice just breaking the sound of the wind.

  “Your Grace…” Paldora practically glided onto the balcony in her black dress, its magical silk glistening as if the stars were trapped inside.

  Atilan commanded his sphere to expand and encompass his young wife, taking her into his globe of warmth. Inside his spell they were immune to nature’s harsh environment.

  “You might be my ninth wife, but you’re certainly my favourite wife!” Atilan enjoy
ed the smile on his wife’s youthful face. How he envied her youth.

  “You mean I am the youngest wife you have ever had,” Paldora replied with soft kiss on his cheek.

  I could still have younger, the king thought, though the mischievous idea was fleeting, his mind weighed down with visions of what was to come.

  “I have failed us all, Paldora…” Atilan crossed his arms and cupped his white beard.

  “There is still time, Your Grace.” Paldora clung to his arm, bringing her lips close to his ear. “Naius has almost completed his work.”

  “Life beyond the veil is not the immortality I envisioned for our people. From Naius’ estimations, life will be very different to the one we know.”

  Paldora clung tighter still. “But it will be life.”

  “What is life to be without a kingdom, without my kingdom? Illian is mine!” Atilan shrugged his wife off and shouted, “THOSE WICKED BEASTS HAVE TAKEN IT FROM ME!” Lightning sparked in the highest heavens and thunder clapped across the sky, as the mage unleashed his wrath. “If it is the last thing I ever do, I will see every one of them stripped of their wings, I’ll have their scales peeled off and their hearts will feed my dogs for an eternity! I’ll breed them just to watch them suffer!”

  Paldora’s expression should have been one of shock, but unlike his previous wives, Paldora could only smile at her king’s remarks, almost relishing in his descriptions.

  “They had no right to deny you immortality, Your Grace,” Paldora purred into his ear. “They should have granted you the same as any Dragon Rider.”

  “The Dragon Riders are not without blame!” Atilan spat. “They should have shared their secrets with their king!”

  Paldora leaned on his shoulder and said, “And now they are all dead for their betrayal. There is only us...”

  Atilan’s staff hummed again, alerting only the king to another arrival. The sound of his armour, crafted from the bones of dragons, could be heard over the chilling breeze.

  “Lord Krayt.”

  “Your Grace…” Krayt, Atilan’s minister of war, stepped onto the balcony.

  “What news of my people?” the king asked, looking to the south, where The Wild Moores sat behind the mist of clouds.

  “They have reached the Moores, but the dragons have hounded them every step of the way, Your Grace. Without anymore Crissalith we have only our magic to keep them at bay. I advise staying in Kaliban.”

  rayt was not a large man, but his talents lay not in his muscles but in his brain. Atilan had always valued his opinion and took heed of his strategy in war, but they were not at war anymore, now they were fleeing, clawing to stay alive.

  “I promised my people immortality, Lord Krayt.” Atilan faced his minister. “I am a man of my word.”

  The three retreated into the depths of Kaliban, until its stone halls became the Vengoran rock of the cavern. The crystal pools illuminated the space in brilliant, white light as they churned within their pits. Naius had been cultivating the pools for decades, a fact that was evident by the cavern’s unique sense of up and down. Naius himself was standing over a pool, with his staff stirring the liquid-like crystals. To Atilan and the others it appeared as if the wizard was standing upside down, between two stalactites.

  Without hesitation, the three walked up the nearest wall and joined Naius by the pool. The wizard was only a few years younger than the king, but his long, dark hair had retained much of its natural colour. His normally clean-shaven face had grown wild with greying stubble and his pallor had taken a turn. His eyes were wide and never left the glowing pools to greet his king.

  “Is it ready?” Atilan asked.

  Daius tilted his head but remained fixed on the crystals. “It is.”

  Atilan had never been a patient man, or even a merciful one, but reservations were required when dealing with genius. Naius was perhaps his greatest weapon, besides his own command of the magical arts, and he knew when to push him and when to simply leave him be.

  The wizard tentatively reached into the pool, his hand gently displacing the ever-changing crystals. The Veil, as Naius had come to call it, was removed from the warm bath and presented to them as a trophy. Atilan had never seen it before, but his demands of the wizard had been quite specific. The golden sphere fit perfectly, cradled in his hand, no bigger than Naius’ palm. Its gleaming surface was layered in beautiful glyphs, branded as it was with powerful magic. Naius flattened his hand and the sphere came to life, with a previously unseen ring of gold metal expanding out from the main body. The ring was tethered to the sphere, not by any mechanical piece but by magic. The hovering ring vibrated and another ring shot out and fell into a different orbit around the sphere.

  “Magnificent…” Paldora whispered.

  Atilan was transfixed by the device, which had now produced two more floating rings that continued to circle the sphere with various orbits. Sending Naius to Kaliban so long ago had been a hard decision for the king, but now it had born fruit. Their last ditch effort to find immortality was not as he had intended, but it would give them the time to plan.

  “We will be gods!” Krayt reached out to touch The Veil, but hesitated seeing Naius’ guarded expression.

  “Will we be able to observe this world, from the other side?” Paldora asked.

  “Our influence is yet to be determined,” Naius replied. “We will see things… hear things… but not everything.”

  “Our time on the other side temporary,” Atilan announced with his commanding tone. “We will use that time to learn more about the dragons and how we can defeat them, nothing more.” A thought occurred to the king. “The Veil will accompany us to the other side, yes?” His question was more of a statement, since this particular detail had been outlined years ago, during The Veil’s inception.

  “Of course,” Naius was quick to respond, “the portal will close and The Veil will follow us through. We can return whenever we so choose, Your Grace.”

  Atilan smiled wickedly at his own brilliance. Outside of time neither death nor dragon could harm him. When he finally had the perfect plan, he would return to Illian and exact a bloody vengeance upon their kind and rule over all of Verda as a true immortal.

  The king removed a small crystal from his belt and casually threw into the cavern, where it exploded into a dark portal, as quiet as the night. The four companions stepped through the abyss and left the caverns of Kaliban far behind, travelling hundreds of miles to the south in a single step. The breeze whipping around the great Wild Moores was far more pleasant than the arctic winds that blasted the tips of the Vengora Mountains.

  Atilan looked up into a sky blanketed with thick grey clouds. He had come to hate the clouds as the war dragged on; the dragons could move unseen. Krayt wasted no time in summoning the refugees of the one true kingdom. With a slender wand, drawn from the base of his back, the minister of war whistled into the dense forest, his pitch exaggerated by holding the wand under his lips. Paldora and Naius joined Atilan in watching the sky, the queen with her wand and the wizard with his staff.

  “There…” Naius lifted his chin at a cloud to their right, where the faintest shadow glided through the mist.

  “And there…” Paldora was looking to their left.

  Atilan braced his staff, tipped with a spear on one end and a globe of amber on the other. The Crissalith gems that laced the shaft would be his greatest weapon if one of the dragons touched down. The snapping of twigs and rustling of branches had the king turning to the Moores, from which his people were slowly emerging. A quick count had Atilan concerned, for only sixteen people walked out onto the plains to greet them.

  “Where are the others?” he asked immediately.

  Ymir, his minister of the harvest, replied, “The dragons were relentless, Your Grace. Many have fled deeper into The Wild Moores…”

  Atilan was quick to anger. “My instructions were clear! Is my word not my bond? I promised immortality and I have delivered!” The king gestured to Naius, who
was holding The Veil. “We must cross over now, as one people! It may be years before we return!” Atilan fought the urge to kill someone.

  “It was The Echoes, Your Grace.” Ymir’s voice trembled. “They have foreseen calamity.”

  Atilan rolled his eyes. The Echoes was a religion he should have seen to years ago, but as with everything else, the war had consumed his efforts.

  “Those crippled old men think they can see the future!” the king spat. “I have seen the future! The one true king! Their prophecies come from a god that does not exist. I am their god! How dare they poison my own people against me!” Atilan was pacing now, his staff stabbing the soft ground. “Fine! Let them rot in the forest with their precious god, all of them! We will live forever and return to rule without them.” The king gave Naius the order to proceed with a simple nod.

  The wizard threw The Veil away from them all, but the sphere of gold never reached the grass before the magic inside came to life. The orb floated in the air and its rings expanded from nowhere and spun around the ball at incredible speeds. The glyphs that lined the metal began to glow, until the details of The Veil couldn’t be seen at all; there was only light.

  “Dragons!” someone shouted.

  Atilan tore his eyes from the spectacle and looked up to see none other than Garganafan and Malliath dropping out of the sky. The two largest of their kind, with Malliath of a temper not dissimilar to Atilan himself. The king had always dreamed of keeping the black dragon for himself, as a mount.

  Krayt ran ahead of the group, past The Veil, and fired two spells of destructive energy into the sky, forcing the dragons to change their approach. Garganafan came in first, from the left, and swept over the top of the trees with a breath of molten fire. Atilan raised his staff and cast a defensive spell that arced over the twenty humans, shielding them from the inferno. The air was soon filled with the smell of sulphur and ash. Someone screamed at the sound of their roar, but most responded with spells of their own, lighting up the sky with every colour.