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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “He is a student of Nightfall, an assassin of the highest order. He is not to be underestimated.” Nathaniel was assessing the space between Asher and himself, counting the people in the way and estimating the time it would take him to notch an arrow. The ranger downed his drink and ordered another with the flick of his finger.

  “I thought Nightfall was a myth, something the older masters used to give the freshers nightmares?” Elaith tried to stop staring at the ranger, but appeared to have lost control of her eyes.

  “We only wish it was a myth. Nightfall has been churning out assassins for as long as West Fellion has been churning out Graycoats. They are the order’s sworn enemy, though our hierarchy prefers to ignore them, since we can do nothing about them. For centuries we have searched for Nightfall and its deadly inhabitants, but to no avail. Asher here, is the first Arakesh we actually know about, the others are just shades.”

  Elaith suddenly appeared more excited about her boring assignment. “So Asher could give us the location of Nightfall?”

  “Knowing he exists doesn’t make him any easier a prize. Since he left Nightfall, our order has tried several times to capture him.” Nathaniel gave the ranger’s back a hard look, noting the barkeeper set down another tankard of ale. “I don’t suppose you lose those particular skills...”

  “Why did he leave Nightfall?” Elaith was hungry for information now.

  “Nobody knows. That’s the problem; he’s too much of a mystery. A couple of years after I came across him, he suddenly showed up in Lirian, in the heart of The Evermoore. He killed two of his own, stopping a plot to assassinate Queen Isabella. It made him famous overnight. It was also the first time in decades anyone had actually laid eyes on the bodies of two Arakesh. After that he showed up here and there, presenting himself as a ranger. There were rumours that he became Nightfall’s biggest target after Lirian. But like everything concerning that wretched place, it’s just rumours.”

  “What would king Rengar want with him?”

  “I have no idea. Our main concern is getting him there. He won’t come with a pair of Graycoats willingly.” Nathaniel took a moment to consider his plan. “Here’s what we’re going to do; you walk up to him one side, me the other. Don’t draw your sword until you’re right at his side. Before he stands, we’ll remove his weapons - all of them. We can’t leave him with a single blade. Then we walk him back to the sector house and wait until first light before setting off. We’ll have to bind him and tie him to his horse...” Nathaniel did a poor a job of hiding his lack of confidence. In truth he wasn’t sure they would even get past drawing their swords.

  A nod from Elaith was her only agreement, trusting in Nathaniel’s experience. They both stood as one and moved between the tables, weaving their way to the bar. It felt as if a hundred miles separated them, as they approached their target. They were so close now that the ranger’s pungent odour of sweat and alcohol permeated the area around him. Nathaniel’s hand went to his hilt, ready to draw it with all his speed.

  Asher’s hand fell to the bar, along with his empty tankard, before his head followed suit and rolled off the counter, taking his body with it to the floor. The ranger collapsed on his back with the stool awkwardly strewn between his legs. Nathaniel half drew his sword with the sudden movement, but now stood looking down on the unconscious man with shock and elation.

  “Well that was easy...” Elaith sheathed her sword and bent down to inspect the ranger.

  “Nothing to see here; Graycoat business.” Nathaniel flicked his wrist to encourage the patrons to continue with their merriment and drink.

  They crouched down to better inspect Asher’s sleeping form. The ranger’s face hadn’t changed much in the decade, a few wrinkles around the eyes, a new scar across his cheek to accompany the vertical cut beneath his right eye. Thick, greying stubble lined his sun-beaten cheeks, drawing Nathaniel to the black fang tattoo beneath his left eye. Tattoos like that were common among the Outlanders and Nathaniel had always wondered what the connection was between them and the old assassin.

  “What do we do now?” Elaith asked.

  “Change of plan.” Nathaniel stood and turned to the barkeep. “I’m going to need a room for the night, and I need to know which room belongs to this man.” The barkeep nodded gravely and disappeared to retrieve another room key. “Search him for weapons and leave them behind the bar, we can pick them up in the morning.”

  “We’re to stay here? With him?”

  “Well I’m not carrying him back to the sector house. We can take it in turns to guard him.”

  Nathaniel removed Asher’s sword belt and the concealed knives, sheathed on his thigh. Elaith unbuckled the strap across his chest and they rolled him over to remove the quiver and short-sword. Nathaniel took a moment to look over the sword, drawing it from its sheath of basilisk hide. The blade was exquisite, with an hourglass shape and ancient runes carved up the spine. The Graycoat tapped the flat of the blade and listened for the resounding hum.

  “What is it?” Elaith was busy removing more concealed knives.

  Nathaniel walked to the nearest window and held the sword out, allowing the slither of moonlight breaking through the clouds to shine down on the exotic metal. In the light of the moon, the sword sparkled as if inlaid with diamonds.

  “Silvyr...” He stepped aside to show Elaith, whose eyes lit up. “They say only a few pounds of this exists beyond Dhenaheim.” Nathaniel returned to the prone form and sheathed the sword.

  “Dhenaheim! You mean the land of the Dwarves?” Elaith’s hand hesitated over the hilt.

  “They mine it from a crater about a hundred miles beyond Vengora, in the north of Illian. The dwarves don’t like trading with it beyond their own people. It’s said that they use it themselves to forge their weapons and shields, giving them the advantage in any battle.”

  “So how did he come by an entire sword made of the stuff? Do you think he killed a dwarf for it?”

  Nathaniel noticed the increase in attention from the surrounding patrons. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Let’s get him upstairs.”

  Elaith lifted up the quiver and Nathaniel spotted the unusual contraption hooked onto it. If he wasn’t mistaken it was some kind of bow, or at least parts for a bow. He promised himself to look over it tomorrow, after they had tied Asher to his horse.

  Chapter Three

  A Long Way from Home

  The sun had set over Dragorn, and the great pyres had come to life atop the mountainous walls that protected the island nation. At nearly fifty miles across, the city was hard to navigate through its maze of districts, tight alleyways and labyrinth-like temples. The hum created by its thousands of denizens never ceased, even into the night. This proximity and noise was considered a regular way of life for Dragornians, a people often noted for their love of enclosed spaces.

  For an elf… it was hell.

  Galanör inhaled a deep breath and held it, as he passed through the outskirts of the city, composed mostly of farmland, though still within the protected boundaries of the high walls. He pulled his hood lower and wrapped his blue cloak tighter around his arms, as he exited through the main gate. The guards paid him no heed, always more concerned with citizens coming than going.

  The sea air was glorious and refreshing. The elf breathed deeply, trying his best to forget the pungent odours and scents given off by every human. Galanör’s elvish nose and ears were far too sensitive for such a place, forcing his kin and himself to ingest several potions a day, in an attempt to keep the nausea at bay.

  The path from the main gate sloped down to the crescent moon-shaped port, where hundreds of boats and ships rested in the harbour. The water’s edge was lined with warehouses and their own private guards, keeping watch over the legal and illegal goods that ferried between Dragorn and the rest of Illian. Nothing travelled east of the island, to Ayda, where the sun rose and the elves called home.

  After several minutes of walking along the harbour, Galanör le
ft the light of the port, continuing along the shoreline, with the moonlight his only guide. The beach soon gave way to a rocky terrain as the island rose up on his right, the base of the wall now a hundred feet above sea level.

  Confident that he was alone, Galanör stretched out his arm and conjured a ball of light the size of his palm. The glowing orb floated in front of him, highlighting the safest path around the island.

  After almost an hour of navigating the sharp rocks and small pools, Galanör came to a break in the shoreline, where the sea separated the two halves of the land, as a river would. He waded through until the water came up to his knees, leaving his long cloak to flow behind him. The ocean continued into the island on his right, where it entered a deep jagged cave that ran underneath Dragorn.

  Galanör ignored the cave and turned to the sea, commanding the orb to rise higher, so his eyes could adjust to the darkness beyond the water’s edge. The Adean was laid out before him, a vast ocean that separated Illian and Ayda, his homeland in the east. It was a fact that Galanör was only too thankful of, having observed the humans for the first time in their own environment. Everywhere humans went, they twisted the world to fit around them, forcing the land to pay tribute to their superiority.

  Galanör couldn’t fathom why his people had abandoned Illian a thousand years ago. They should have stayed and put mankind in their place, beneath the immortals. Elves were stronger, faster and far wiser with their long lives. Every elf was born with a natural connection to the world that made the manipulation of magic as easy as breathing. They had no need of wands or staffs to direct their will, though the use of crystals was used by both for harnessing greater wells of magic.

  Galanör’s first order would have been to stop them breeding like rabbits, maybe then the dragons would still be around.

  The waves crashed against the rocks with more force, bringing Galanör’s attention to the distant storm. The thunderous clouds stretched for hundreds of miles, from Velia, the coastal city on the very edge of Illian, to the shores of the Amara Forest in Ayda, in the east. There was something unnatural about the storm, something that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. That extra sense that attuned him to magic told him the black clouds were the will of some darker spell caster, either way it had disrupted an integral part of his plan, leaving him with only one choice.

  The satchel on his hip was light, filled only with the ingredients he required for such an occasion. He had spent the last two days gathering the necessary parts after his conversation with Mörygan, a far older and wiser elf than he. The feeling Galanör was getting from the storm, coupled with Mörygan’s news was unsettling.

  “The storm is unyielding, Galanör.” Mörygan had said. Both elves had sat crossed legged, each with a small black orb cupped in their hands and held tight to the chest. Despite the hundreds of miles between them, the orbs connected the elves’ minds in a reality between the fabric of the known world. “The oldest amongst us have tried to calm it, but to no end. We have sent word to King Rengar’s court; we will be arriving higher up the coast, in the mouth of the Unmar. If we head for Velia now, it will take us through the storm…”

  It had made sense to Galanör, who had spent years studying the map of Verda. The Opal coast of Ayda, in the east and the Shining coast of Illian, in the west, were closer in the north, as the two lands came together, similar to that of an arrowhead that never quite met.

  “That will add days to your journey, not to mention the added peril of travelling south to Velia on foot.” Galanör had struggled to hide the concern in his voice, made only harder by witnessing first-hand the cruelty of human nature amidst the alleys of Dragorn.

  “Fear not, Galanör. The princess will be safe with Faylen and myself. No doubt King Rengar will send an escort to meet us.” Mörygan’s image had been fleeting in the shadow realm. To one another, the elves had appeared to be made from smoke.

  “I fear the storm has undone our plans here as well, Mörygan. Until The Adean settles, no captain will take his supply boats north, to Korkanath.”

  “I trust you will find another way to achieve your goal,” Mörygan had replied.

  “I have already set another plan in motion. We will reach Korkanath, you have my word.” Galanör had felt a presence in the real world and knew another elf had entered the room where he sat.

  “I believe you have already given such a word to our king, and he a word to you.” Mörygan’s words dripped with arrogance. He was part of the inner circle and had therefore been privy to the pact made between Galanör and the lord of elven kind.

  “Indeed…” Galanör guarded his reply.

  After their return to reality, Galanör had relayed the news to the rest of his team and set about bringing his new plan to fruition.

  He now stood up to his knees in the cold Adean, while the sea breeze blew his hood back, revealing his long brown hair, tied into a tight knot at the back of his head. Galanör removed the first item from his satchel, a stalk from the Varlano plant that grows along most shorelines on every continent in Verda. The elf crumpled the stiff leaves and dropped them into the water in a semi-circle around his body. Moving quickly, before the current washed them away, he doused a small helping of oil over the top of the leaves. The elf continued the ritual by popping the cork on a glass vial and pouring a dark liquid amidst the leaves and oil. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the blood and tried not to dwell on how Adamar had acquired the sample from a child. Galanör knew the large elf had mentioned a local brothel with which he could source the ingredients - as Adamar had put it - but it still didn’t bear thinking about. With a flick of his wrist, Galanör conjured a flame that spread across the oil and set the leaves and blood on fire. Using the ancient language, he called out to the sea and waited.

  Galanör looked up at the moon, which had moved a hands length in the sky since his call to the sea. He tried to remind himself, that as an elf, he was expected to possess a certain amount of patience, though in this moment it eluded him. The orb of light had long since extinguished, along with the fire. Galanör stood in darkness, his eyes now fully adjusted to the light of the moon. A small splash that wasn’t in time to the waves caught his attention, and his keen ears narrowed the sound to an outcropping of rocks on his left.

  With an outstretched hand, Galanör produced another ball of light and commanded it to float higher and further out to sea. There was another splash, this time to his right, where he caught a glimpse of a large fish tail sinking below the water’s surface. Galanör resisted the urge to call out and state his business as being peaceful. Some of his earliest lessons as a child had covered the mysteries of the ocean and its ancient Mer-folk, even if it was a memory from four centuries ago. He knew to stand his ground after summoning a Mer-man, to remain silent and allow them the first word. Any hint of disrespect would end with a watery death for the elf.

  The ocean became eerily still, even the waves ceased to crash against the rocks. Galanör kept his arms at his sides, his hands easy to see, as the gloom gave way to one of the oldest creatures in existence.

  The Mer-man slid from the water, breaking the surface without a sound, as if some unseen force was pushing it up. Of course, Galanör knew that a powerful tail was coiled beneath the Mer-man, its tail fin breaking the water’s edge twenty feet out to sea and shining brilliant silver in the moonlight. The dark scales changed at the navel, becoming more akin to human flesh, while the fish-like scales faded. The skin was a beautiful mixture of red and gold, highlighted by the glowing orb above them. Long, pointed fingers glided at its sides with translucent webbing between every digit. The Mer-man’s chest was as chiselled as any statue of the gods, every muscle evolved to enhance their speed and agility at swimming. Small spikes protruded from the skin in a perfect row, straight down the middle of the Mer-man’s body, stopping at the chin. Galanör spotted three gills on each side of the neck, before they closed off completely, and the creature inhaled a deep breath through a nose devoid of ca
rtilage.

  “You dare to summon me, ape?” Its voice came out in a rasp, as if multiple membranes were opening and closing rapidly inside its throat. It was entirely possible that this was the first time in hundreds of years that the Mer-man had even used his vocal cords in such a way.

  Galanör was frozen in a moment of shock, having only ever glimpsed their kind as a child. Its wide-set jaw of razor sharp teeth rose up into a head with eyes as bottomless as the ocean itself. Though larger than his own eyes, Galanör couldn’t help but be drawn into them. From its head sprouted long tendrils of what could only be described as seaweed, though the elf was sure it was a different substance altogether.

  “Speak man-thing!” The Mer-man rose higher into the air and another coil of its tail pierced the surface.

  “Forgive me; I am not as I appear. But you must use more than your eyes to see it…” Galanör lifted his head slightly.

  The Mer-man moved with lightning speed until his upper body was level with Galanör’s, their faces only inches apart. Two small nostrils expanded on the sea creature’s face and its head tilted in the manner of a curious dog. Without the definition, it was hard for Galanör to tell where the creature’s eyes were looking, though the elf was sure it had taken a moment to observe his rounded ears.

  “I thought you stank of magic…” The Mer-man retreated to a more comfortable distance, but it did nothing to remove the odour of fish.

  Galanör curved his finger over the top of his ear, “Tis’ only an illusion, to conceal my identity amongst the humans.”

  “There is an accord between our people, elfling. A peace. Why have you summoned me, and on shores that are not your own, no less?” The Mer-man’s rasping voice got better with every word.

  “I have need of your people.”

  “Need?” the Mer-man echoed. “The arrogance of your kind. You draw my people out with your spells and younglings’ blood, yet I see no children for us, and I fail to see what you have to offer for our assistance, little elf.”