Rise of the Ranger (Echoes of Fate: Book 1)

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Beyond the stump he could still see the Wild Moores in the distance. The forest was over five hundred miles from north to south with incredible depth. Asher gasped for breath, unbelieving of his new reality. Where had the night gone? Where had Valanis’s forces and the dragons gone? Where was his family? He cried for his father and his brother, screaming at the top of his voice.

  The reply came not from his father or brother, but from the howl of a creature he had never heard before. Asher ducked into the long grass, seeing dark shapes moving through the strands, crouched low to hide their true form. Something slipped out of his shirt and he held it in front of him. The black crystal. He didn’t have time to think about it before the howls came again, much closer this time. He dropped the crystal back into his shirt and ran for the forest that lay sprawled before him. His clan was surely in there somewhere and they would protect him. The rapid padding of many heavy feet came from behind, but he had no idea of their number.

  It wasn’t long before he realised the forest was simply too far away. The Outlander would never make it before the predators caught him. Changing course, Asher ran for the collection of large rocks dug into the small hillside on his left. Maybe he could lose them in there.

  By the time Asher reached the first rock, he was exhausted. He fell to the grass and crawled further into the outcropping. Rolling onto his back, he saw a lumbering creature climb the rock at his feet and stretch to its full height. Dark green scales covered its sloping leathery head, with two thick arms reaching down to its knees and ending in pointed fingers of sharp bone. Its face was closer to that of a lizard, with several rows of razor sharp teeth. A screeching howl preceded five more, who appeared from behind the other stones, licking their maws with long slimy tongues.

  The first creature jumped off the rock, blocking out the sun as it came to land on top of him - only it never did land, at least not alive. The beast had been struck in the face by an arrow, mid-air. Looking up from his back, Asher glimpsed a stranger came charging over his head and diving into the fray, with a short-sword in one hand and a bow in the other. The beasts leapt at their new prey, only to have their limbs removed with every slash of the stranger’s sword. His movements were similar to that of an elf but Asher could also see the differences; this was a man.

  The fight was over in seconds and the stranger was standing amid a heap of diced monsters.

  The stranger turned to Asher, his sword shining under the sun. He wore dark leather armour, engraved with unusual, intricate patterns and a grey cloak which spread out across the ground, collecting mud. Perhaps the strangest element of his appearance was the red blindfold he wore. He had apparently defeated those beasts without his sight. The stranger proceeded to remove the red cloth from his face, revealing shadowed, brown eyes and curly black hair.

  “Gobbers,” the stranger stated flatly, wiping the blood off of his sword with the edge of his cloak.

  Asher had heard Nalana speak of such creatures and was thankful for surviving the encounter.

  “And who might you be?” the stranger asked.

  Asher’s eyes searched the plains for his father once more. “I am... Asher,” he stuttered.

  “Is that a statement or a question, boy?” The stranger flicked his bow in the air, activating a series of mechanisms and cogs built into the wood. A moment later the bow had folded into itself, before the stranger placed it out of sight, under his cloak.

  Had Asher not been too stunned by the events of the past few minutes, he would have marvelled at the bow’s construction.

  “My name is Asher,” he replied more boldly, standing up and wiping the dirty water from his face.

  The stranger regarded him curiously. “Is that it? Just Asher? Well, this is no place for a boy to wander; between the swamps of Elethiah and the Wild Moores… you must have a talent for survival.” His voice had a foreign twang to it that Asher couldn’t place.

  The boy nodded absently, trying to make sense of the stranger’s words. From here, Asher could see what remained of Elethiah - its beautiful spires and domed towers were gone, with nothing but decay hanging over the entire land. It was more akin to a swamp now, the splendid Moonlit Plains nothing but a memory. He wrapped his hands around his arms feeling the cold against his wet skin.

  The stranger announced, “I am Nasta Nal-Aket, of Nightfall...”

  Asher remained silent, unaware of the man’s significance or the place he was from.

  “Have you never heard of it, boy?”

  Asher shook his head slowly.

  “I am a spectre, an Arakesh,” he stated proudly.

  Asher’s face dropped at the sound of the elvish word; he knew that word.

  “I am an assassin,” Nasta Nal-Aket confirmed.

  Asher stood his ground, as his father had taught him when facing a bear.

  “If I had to guess from your appearance, I would say you’re an Outlander.”

  Asher became self-conscious of the black tattoo, outlining a wolf’s fang, below his left eye, signifying he was from a clan of hunters.

  “I didn’t think your kind strayed beyond the Wild Moores these days. What are you doing out here?” The assassin tucked his blindfold into his belt, letting it hang loosely in the breeze.

  Asher noted the assassin steal a look at Elethiah, but he appeared physically disturbed by the landmark and walked further into the hillside, as if to gain more distance.

  The Outlander looked up at the sun and knew it should be the moon that greeted him. “I was...” Asher didn’t know how to explain it. “The elves were fighting and...” He could only look at the ruins of Elethiah.

  Nasta looked from the ruins to Asher in puzzlement. “Elves? Are you talking about the Dark War?”

  Asher didn’t know anything of a Dark War and began to look round for his family once more. They wouldn’t be out there looking for him, he had fallen behind. He was alone.

  “And what would a young Outlander know of a battle over a thousand years past?”

  The gravity of Asher’s situation drained the blood from his head, blurring his vision. “A thousand years...” He span in every direction, desperate to find something, anything familiar. The landscape began to blur when the colours of the world faded and his vision narrowed. The ground rose up to greet him and the darkness swallowed him whole.

  part one

  Chapter One

  A Ranger’s Life

  Forty years later...

  The forest began to close in, the canopy gathering, until only the narrowest shafts of golden light illuminated the ground. The smell of damp wood and old moss had taken over the aroma of pine and sweet-scented flowers, the air now becoming stale and cool. Asher had followed the tracks through The Evermoore for over six miles from the border of Whistle Town; however the effects of the dark magic were just as easy to follow, with the life of the great wood decaying under the dark magic’s insidious will.

  Asher was careful to step over and between the fallen branches to hide his approach. Looking back, he could no longer see his horse, Hector, the thoroughbred’s black coat impossible to see through the mile of trees that separated them. He hated leaving his only companion behind, but felt Hector would most certainly give him away, especially with his prey’s senses. Asher had followed the human tracks, but was more than aware of the giant paw prints which accompanied his target. The occupants of Whistle Town had seen those same tracks and immediately sought his unique expertise.

  His measured approach did nothing to slow down the hunt, however. After decades of honing his every muscle and senses, under the tutelage of the most dangerous men and women in Verda, this was just another stroll through the woods. Asher continued on with the knowledge that he was the scariest thing in The Evermoore right now.

  After another mile, Asher noticed the absence of wildlife around him. The ground remained undisturbed, while the sound of the birds faded until an eerie silence settled on the forest. The ranger pulled in his thick green cloak to avoid snaggin
g it, as he climbed over a fallen log, pausing to run his hand over the three claw marks streaked across the wood. They were big. He tugged at a piece of fur caught in the splinters, holding it close under his nose. There was no mistaking the unique scent of a wolf, regardless of how mutated it was by the dark magic controlling it.

  The drop from the log was small, but Asher continued his stealthy approach by slipping a hand under his cloak and supporting the quiver on his back. The arrows made no sound as his feet sunk into the mud.

  He pushed on, crouching routinely to check the tracks beneath the rotting plants. It wasn’t long before the familiar smell of death reached his nostrils. Asher instinctively rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword, sheathed on his hip. His fingers wrapped around the two-handed grip until the spikes on the rounded pommel dug into his glove. A moment’s thought made him reevaluate his approach and he released the handle, instead reaching for the rune sword on his back. The sound of the metal sliding out of the sheath was comforting, having heard it every day for as long as he could remember. The sound had slowly grown from the fear of combat to the ensuring of his success.

  The few beams of light that pierced the canopy reflected off the short-sword, accentuating the runes that ran the length of the blade. The Runes were an ancient script that predated the elves, and were known to only a few across the whole of Verda. The ancient form of spell casting imbued the rune sword with incredible durability and an edge sharp enough to cut through a griffin’s hide. Without them, Asher’s job would be made that much harder.

  The ranger hefted the weight in one hand, feeling the perfect equilibrium in the balance between the blade and the hilt. With the length of the blade being just shorter than his arm, it was easily manoeuvred as he twirled it in his hand. The sword was hourglass shaped and made from pure silvyr, the strongest and most expensive mineral in all of Verda. It had been forged by Danagarr, the greatest blacksmith in Illian. He was also a very short-tempered dwarf when he wasn’t tending to his forge and anvil, but Asher was lucky enough to have the blacksmith in his debt, after an unfortunate incident with a mountain troll.

  The point of his blade led Asher into a small clearing, devoid of light. The smell would be unbearable to most, but the old ranger thought nothing of it, more concerned with the creature that created such a foul stench of dead flesh and shit. Asher could feel the weight in the air, as if a sixth sense was telling him there was something wrong about his environment, something unnatural. The dark magic was coalescing in the opening before him, the epicentre of the forest’s infection. He had found his prey.

  Asher pulled tight on his fingerless glove to uncover the shard of black crystal, set into the silver ring on his right index finger. The fragment of the gem was his oldest possession and, though only a shard of the whole, still connected him to the magical world. This connection had always come naturally to him, for as long as he could remember. Despite the fog of his childhood memories, there was a part of him that recognised the dark crystal was responsible for his sensitivity to magic.

  The ranger held up his hand and felt the familiar tingle in his fingertips. A ball of soft light was birthed in his palm, before floating away, over his head. As the orb grew in height, so too did its intensity, until the gruesome scene was clear to see. Half-eaten bodies of men and women were strewn across the bloodied ground; some were fresh kills with horrified expressions covered in buzzing flies, while others appeared to be skeletal and utterly decomposed. No single body was intact. Asher hesitated with his next step. It was impossible to walk through the clearing without stepping on a stray bone, some of which remained hidden beneath torn clothing.

  The trees had grown tall, producing what looked from the ground to be a tower of darkness, every branch and trunk fused together. The orb found its resting place at twenty feet, revealing the disturbing sight of a large, hairy spindle-like leg, retreating higher into the darkness above. It seemed the wolf wasn’t the only creature affected by the magic.

  “You’re either very brave or very stupid...” The nasal voice came from the shadows in front of Asher, where the floating orb was unable to cast any light on the source. “You must be the hunter.”

  Asher gripped his sword tighter when the shadow took form in front of him. The hulking form took shape as it rose to its feet, all four of them. The giant wolf quivered, shaking its black fur as it ran its tongue over teeth dulled with old blood. A low growl rumbled from deep inside its throat, while golden eyes bored into Asher with deadly intent.

  The scrawny figure that emerged from behind the wolf was every bit as pathetic as his voice suggested. Bloodied rags drowned the haggard man, his balding head covered in wrinkles and liver spots. There was something about his eyes, a spark that Asher could only describe as youth.

  “I bet those fools in Whistle Town sent you in here to kill a Werewolf!” The scrawny man chuckled as he made a slow circle around the edge of the tree line, while the wolf moved off in the opposite direction.

  Asher’s voice was gruff from disuse. “That’s not a werewolf. Just a sick animal you’ve tormented.”

  “I’m afraid there’s more sickness in these woods than you know, ranger.”

  The sound of a dozen legs crawling over wood echoed from above.

  Asher took greater note of the long staff supporting the man and began to put the pieces together. The staff was taller than both of them and adorned with a head of antlers. Somewhere inside that staff would be a crystal no doubt, fixed into the wood and harnessing the true strength of the magic the pathetic man tried to control. Judging from his complexion, Asher could see how that control had taken its toll on what had most likely been a young man.

  “You don’t talk much,” the scrawny man observed. “I thought there would be some righteous speech. I’ve heard the last words and dying pleas of many a folk these past months.” A black tongue made a quick dash over his cracked lips.

  Asher’s free hand found its way to the strip of dirty red cloth that hung from his belt, as it always did in times like this. He thought not only of the power it would grant him, but the comfort too, as it slipped over his eyes. He let it go, confident in his abilities as well as his prediction of the darkness that was about to fall over him. The ranger had no greater ally than the dark.

  The giant wolf continued to stalk round to his left, while the scrawny man closed the gap on his right. The crawling overhead grew closer. They were boxing him in with no communication required to organise their attack. The staff was the key, it had to be.

  “Like my staff, do you?” The scrawny man had taken notice of Asher’s lingering gaze. “Found it on the back of a merchant’s cart, he had no idea what he carried but I could feel its power. It called to me, it needed me!”

  Asher had seen infectious relics before and cared little for where this one came from. The ranger took a long breath. He had seen more bloodshed, and caused much of it himself, than most men would in their lifetime. The wolf and whatever else lived in the nest would have to die, but if there was a chance this young man could atone for his crimes, then shouldn’t Asher give him the opportunity?

  “The folk of Whistle Town want the matter resolved and the beastie dead.” Asher glanced at the growling wolf. “Hand over that staff and walk away. Use whatever years it hasn’t taken from you and do something good with it.”

  “Stupid old fool, aren't you. Why would I give up my power, ranger?” The scrawny man had come to a stop, just beyond a sword’s reach.

  “Because I’ll kill the wolf and take the staff if you don’t.”

  The scrawny man laughed hoarsely. “But in the dark, you’re just prey...”

  The silent signal had been given. The underbelly of a giant spider was momentarily visible before the weight of its body flew through the air, dissolving the orb of light. Asher was submerged into pitch black and surrounded by monsters. Dozens of legs scurried down the twisted oaks while the wolf leapt for his throat, its mouth easily capable of encompassing his enti
re head.

  The Nightseye elixir, which would forever course through his veins, came to life. The darkness brought clarity to his mind, granting him new vision. Asher side stepped the wolf, feeling the position of every creature as they closed in. The smell of the wolf was instantly increased as it passed him by, mingling with the acrid aroma of the spiders and rotten flesh displaced beneath their feet. He had once found the attack on his senses nauseating, but now he welcomed it. Asher could hear the heartbeat of every beast, the scrawny man included, thumping like thunder in his ears. He kept his mouth shut to try to avoid tasting the blood and shit in the air.

  Every muscle responded with decades of memory in the art of dealing out death. He pointed his sword forward, impaling the first spider to make a move. It squealed in a moment of agony before death claimed it. Asher continued his attack, trained never to give an inch. He flung the spider off the end of his sword, throwing it into the oncoming wolf. A small yelp from the beast confirmed the collision, as Asher pivoted on one foot, just in time to bring his sword down on the next spider, the blade cutting through two hardened legs and a torso. Without stopping, he thrust his left leg into another spider, pinning it to the nearest tree while swinging the sword to his side, slicing through two more spiders at once. The arachnid beneath his boot wriggled and squirmed to get free, but soon succumbed to death at the point of a sword.

  The scrawny man laughed at the spectacle, despite his own lack of vision. “You’re lasting longer than most!”

  Asher could smell the raw flesh on his breath.

  The wolf came for him then. Asher deftly pivoted again, slashing his sword across the belly of the pinned spider, spilling its guts, before he rolled under the leaping wolf. He felt the impact in the air as the beast head-butted the tree, its anger rising. Four quick movements of his sword brought an end to the lives of three more spiders, their pungent blood spoiling the air.