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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Galanör took the insult in his stride. Starting a fight with an unknown amount of Mer-folk was a suicidal idea. He thought of his mother and father and applied a more diplomatic tone.

  “Forgive my rudeness, I forget myself, for my need is great. My name is Galanör of house Reveeri. I am on an important errand on behalf of the Lord of Elves. In exchange for this assistance, you but merely name it and I shall supply it, you have my word.”

  The Mer-man was silent, considering the elf’s words. “You could not say my name if you tried elfling, so do not think me rude for withholding it. Our demand will be equal to the task required of us. Before I can ask anything of you, you must first state what you need from us.”

  Galanör had already considered his words on the matter. Their mission had to remain a secret at all costs; there was no telling what alliances had been made beyond Ayda. Galanör was confident that the Mer-folk were part of no other alliance, but the lives dependent on the mission’s secrecy was more than just his own.

  “Five others and I need to reach the shores of Korkanath. Our reason is our own.” The elf bowed at the end of his request.

  The Mer-man gave a sharp laugh. “It has never failed to amuse how the sky can affect your kind in traversing the seas.” The creature looked away for a moment, before returning its abyss-like stare. “Let your reason be your own. The fact still remains that your kind would not survive such a swim. Your lungs are too small and your bodies too frail, even that of an elf. You could not fathom our speed…”

  “Leave that to us,” Galanör replied.

  “Hmm, more magic. So be it, elfling. But be warned, from here to Korkanath you will not see the sky, my kind do not break the surface within ten leagues of that island. I don’t need to tell you what protects it, I hope?” A wicked smile crept across the Mer-man’s face.

  Galanör considered the very reason for his mission, and knew well that he didn’t need educating on the island’s protector.

  “What is your price?”

  A forked tongue slithered out of the Mer-man’s mouth and tasted the air. “Six of you mean six of us. We require a child each…”

  Galanör’s mouth opened, but he failed to find the words. He didn’t much care for human children, but innocence was innocence. “Kidnapping six children isn’t easy, even in a city as large as Dragorn. The mission relies on our being here to remain a secret and, forgive the pun, but it will make waves.”

  “Then our talking has been for naught, Galanör of house Reveeri.” The Mer-man began to sink back into The Adean.

  “Wait!” Galanör called. The Mer-man paused before facing the elf again. “I can get you three children.” Galanör knew that with those words, a part of him had died.

  “Then perhaps we should take only three of you to Korkanath…”

  “Anymore and we risk revealing ourselves. That would put my lord’s errand in peril.” Galanör hoped the reminder of who sent them to Dragorn would be enough to convince the Mer-man. It was not wise to cross the Lord of the Elves, even for a Mer-man. “Three children and anything else you wish.”

  The Mer-man puffed out his impressive chest and he half turned back to the open sea. The elf’s sharp ears picked up the faint sound of whispering but he couldn’t define the words coming from the ocean.

  “Very well, elfling. Three children it is, but you must also bring two women, as beautiful as you can find. Is your word your bond?”

  Galanör considered his limited options. “It is.”

  With that, the Mer-man turned to the sea and dived back into the comfort of its embrace. In that same moment the waves returned with a crash and the current resumed its flow into the cave behind Galanör. He was alone.

  When the sun finally rose, it struggled to pierce the grey storm clouds, their heaving mass now looming over Dragorn. Galanör sat crossed legged on the wooden floor, watching the tumbling clouds through the window of the dirty apartment the elves had rented since their arrival on the island. The storm reminded him of a hungry god, come to devour all of Verda. Perhaps Atilan himself, the king of the gods was finally preparing to undo all his work. The thought made Galanör chuckle to himself, as if the gods could ever exist, he thought.

  The elves had lost their faith long before Galanör was born, handing their superstitions over to the humans. When mankind emerged from the Wild Moores, Galanör’s ancestors made the mistake of teaching the humans all they knew, with the hapless race taking on the elves love of the gods, as if they were their own. Galanör couldn’t imagine believing in a god now, in this day and age, especially after the so-called gods were the reason for so many elven deaths. If only Galanör had been alive during the Dark war, he thought, he could have proven his worth by slaying the mad elf, Valanis, the self-proclaimed herald of the gods.

  A single ray of sunshine defied the storm and broke through to illuminate Galanör’s window. He closed his eyes and soaked up the rays as he thought of home and wished he could be back there. The shining city of Elandril was six hundred miles from where he currently sat, in the north of Ayda, to the east. Its beautiful spires and glistening pools were far from reach now. He was tempted to pick up the diviner orb and speak to his father, no, not his father, Galanör wanted to speak with his mother or even his sister. His father would no doubt be counselling their lord, making further promises on Galanör’s behalf in order to elevate his own position.

  He just wanted to see the eternal forest again. The Amara’s gigantic trees and chance for adventure called to him across The Adean, calling him home. His father’s words rang clear in his mind, ‘all of Verda is ours by right, Galanör. Illian was our home before the humans crawled out of the mud, and so it shall be again…’ If the humans had transformed Illian into anything like Dragorn, then it wouldn’t be worth claiming back.

  The human stench wafted through the open window with the usual buzz of the waking city. Galanör heard the stall owners shouting their prices across the crowds, while jesters made fools of themselves for coins on the roadside. Their chosen district was a poor one, packed with the many vices man fell prone to. Even at this early hour, Galanör could hear the prostitutes calling from the doorways and windows of their brothels, while other stragglers staggered out of taverns that never closed, easy prey for the many thieves that never slept.

  The creaky door opened behind him and the sweet smell of Lyra filled the room. She came to her knees behind him, bringing her face close to his own as she swept aside his long brown hair. Her soft fingers gently caressed the skin on his neck and he felt her warm breath on his cheek.

  “Have you not slept?” Even her voice was melodic to his ears.

  “Their price is steep…” Galanör looked at his boots in the corner, still damp and matted in sand. “Their desire for child flesh is no myth; they hunger for more than just their blood.”

  “We will meet their price, whatever it is. The mission demands it.” Lyra’s unflinching resolve to see the lord’s errand through was one of the reasons she had been picked for it. She was beautiful but deadly.

  Like most elves after the Dark War, Lyra was a shadow of their former ways. No longer did they spend hours singing to the trees or writing poetry and creating magnificent works of art. The war had made them brutal and harsh, as they examined their own immortality and recognized their superiority over the world and their mistake in leaving Illian to the humans and the dragons to their demise. It seemed childish now to recognize the gods when they themselves were gods to all other creatures, man included. Despite them being his thoughts, Galanör could hear his father’s words behind them, always colouring his view.

  “We have to find three children and two women.”

  “What do the Mer-folk want with two human women?” Lyra asked.

  “There are legends that the Mer-folk can walk on land, given a good enough reason. I read as a child that they occasionally mate with the females in order to produce a half-breed. These half-breeds have an unwavering loyalty to their ocean b
rethren and become spies for them, so the stories go. It seems even the Mer-folk like to keep a close eye on human affairs.” Galanör imagined the half-breeds to have incredible advantages over the humans, possibly even the elves. There was no telling how it might affect their lifespan, but it would certainly enhance their strength and senses, not to mention their unique set of lungs.

  Lyra’s hand slipped under his shirt, tracing the edges of his muscles. “Adamar never came back last night. He’s quite taken with these brothels, though how he can stand their smell I’ll never know.”

  “I’ll speak to him when he comes back.”

  “Leave him to his fun…” Her hands moved ever south.

  “He needs to be careful. The women are lucky his strength hasn’t crushed them, let alone his stamina tiring them all to death.” There wasn’t much known about mating between the species, but sex with an elf posed certain dangers for the weaker humans. “I’ll send Naiveen to retrieve him, we need to be ready and there’s still much to do.”

  Lyra pressed against him so he could feel her breasts on his back while her teeth nibbled on his ear, her breath causing his hair to tingle along his neck. She moved round to sit on his lap and fold her legs around his waist. Galanör couldn’t help his hands as they naturally found the curves of her body.

  “Deal with him later…” she whispered seductively.

  Galanör looked up to meet her lips. Her black hair fell in ringlets down to the middle of her back. Her face was typical of an elf, with her soft milky skin, perfectly symmetrical cheeks and sparkling eyes, which shone a brilliant blue, while her luscious lips were complimented by a cute, upturned nose.

  How could something so beautiful be so deadly? Galanör had seen Lyra train in the Wynnter Forest, south of Elandril, and knew her skill with a sword and bow was hard matched. Her lack of interest in handing over the children to the Mer-folk was also testament of the elven ego, now common amongst their people. Galanör thought of his own hesitation in handing over the children and wondered if there was something wrong with him. That was before Lyra stood up and slipped off her negligee, revealing her warrior’s physique and pale breasts. She provocatively crawled onto the bed behind her and beckoned him with a finger.

  “You know I am promised to another.” Galanör only mentioned it because he knew how much it aroused her.

  “That’s what makes it more fun…”

  Galanör woke to the sound of talking coming from the main living room. Lyra woke with him, no doubt her sensitive ears picking out the same words as him. Adamar was back.

  “I had to pay for three of them last night!” Adamar’s boast was disguised as a complaint. “They kept tiring! These humans have no stamina…” He stopped talking as Galanör and Lyra entered the room.

  Adamar was the tallest elf Galanör had ever seen, the widest too. His physique was well muscled beyond that of any other of their kind, and his size was matched only by his violent nature in combat, saying nothing of his libido. Adamar maintained two parallel braids of light brown hair on each side of his bald head, another diversion from most elves, who preferred long natural hair.

  “You realise the coin we brought to this island is limited, and wasn’t meant to be wasted on whores and harlots?” Galanör took note of the others, all wearing their cloaks. They had obviously returned from some errand, made up no doubt, to get them out of the cramped apartment while Lyra and he started the day in their own way.

  “What’s an elf to do?” Adamar threw his hands in the air. “You’ve got Lyra, Naiveen isn’t interested in anything of the male variety and these two are content to simply sit!” He nodded at Ailas and Eliön, sitting in the corner.

  “This elf is to take orders and not endanger the lives of his companions!” Galanör had come to stand directly in front of the large elf. “Your ears…?” Adamar touched the pointed tip of his right ear. “When did you last cast an illusion?” A hint of anger had crept into Galanör’s voice.

  Adamar tried to shrug it off. “Humans haven’t seen an elf in a thousand years. They probably wouldn’t recognize one from a pair of pointed ears! I had my hood up the whole way-”

  His excuse was cut off when Galanör sprang with the reflexes of a cat, and jumped within arm’s reach of the larger elf. His hand lashed out, as fast as any whip, and caught Adamar in the throat, before another lightning punch with his other hand connected with Adamar’s kidney. Galanör followed the punches up with a swift kick to the inside of his knee, taking care to drop the large elf without actually breaking anything.

  With one hand over his sore throat, Adamar looked up at Galanör, supported on his one good knee. Galanör appeared perfectly calm, with his breathing controlled; it looked as if the elf had never moved. Adamar averted his gaze and knew well enough not to press the matter. If he rose so soon, Galanör would put him back down with annoying ease. Despite their difference in size, it could not be contested as to who was the better fighter.

  Galanör turned back to the group, his leadership reaffirmed. “I have secured our passage to Korkanath,” he locked eyes with Lyra, “but the price cannot be met in coins…”

  Chapter Four

  An Unlikely Truce

  Asher opened his eyes to the light of dawn, having pretended to sleep for several hours. From the lack of movement outside his door, the ranger had surmised that the young Graycoat had fallen asleep a couple of hours ago. Not long after they dumped him on the bed, he had heard the knights discuss taking it in turns to stand guard. For the first few hours his room was watched by the older Graycoat, who was far more seasoned, if his equipment and clothing were anything to go by. Asher had decided it best to wait until the runt was watching his door before making his move.

  Putting his old skills to use, Asher opened the door, careful not to make a sound. The young girl was drooling, slumped in a chair, opposite his room on the landing of the inn. He glanced at the door to his right, where the older knight slept, his snores audible through the walls; he only wished he could stay to see their faces when they awoke.

  Asher made his way down stairs, avoiding the steps he already knew to be creaky. The innkeeper was busy behind the bar, preparing for the day to come. Upon sighting the ranger, the portly man’s jaw dropped an inch, no doubt surprised at seeing him free of his Graycoat escort. Asher spotted his swords and quiver behind the bar, along with his folded bow, one of the few items he still possessed from his previous career. The thought alone was enough to make him subconsciously reach for the red cloth that hung from his belt, and rub the old material between his fingers.

  “That should settle my bill.” Asher dropped a small bag of coins onto the counter. “And this is for my gear, and as much time as you can give me.” He proceeded to drop another sack of coins onto the table. The innkeeper’s mouth twisted as he considered the bribe, before expressing a friendlier face and nodded politely.

  A cold air and soggy mud greeted the ranger outside the Green Hag. Dark clouds hung overhead, stretching to the east as far as the eye could see. Hector stamped his feet when Asher entered the stables, across the street from the inn.

  “Easy boy, the lightning wasn’t that bad, was it? We’ll soon be on the road again.” He stroked the horse’s chestnut neck and gave him a hearty pat across the ribs.

  Asher threw his cloak over the saddle and reattached his sword belt and sheath, checking all the small blades that rested in the small of his back. When the quiver and bow sat comfortably on his back, nestled close to his rune blade, he donned his long, green cloak again.

  With one foot in the stirrup he felt the urgency in his bladder; he had after all drunk a considerable amount of golden ale in order to fool the Graycoats. Thanks to potions he had been forced fed as a teenager, alcohol was as effective as water when dulling his senses. Of course the potions did nothing for his bladder.

  “Hold that thought.” Asher walked into the alley behind the stables and relieved himself of the longest piss of his life. A gasp of shock to his r
ight brought the old ranger some embarrassment. “Morning, miss…” he said casually. Another gasp saw the young woman hurry out of the alley and into a side door, to the local bakery. He managed a quick shake as the commotion grew on the other side of the bakery door.

  “Time to put Whistle Town behind us, Hector.” Asher jumped onto the horse and made a quick check of the saddlebags either side, a distraction from the ache he was beginning to feel in his knees. Hector let out a sharp breath through his nostrils. “Who are you calling old?”

  The horse left the stables at a canter, when the owner of the bakery came out of the side door to inspect the alley. The baker’s angry demeanour quickly faded upon seeing Asher atop his horse, though it was more likely the sight of his swords that calmed the man. The colour began to drain from his face as he tried to make his return to the shop appear natural; the baker even shot the ranger a quick smile and a nod of the head.

  Asher steered the horse east, towards Velia and the Shining Coast. The Green Hag was as quiet as a mouse in the early dawn. Thankfully, nobody was visiting the tavern at such an early time, and the innkeeper’s bribe should give him a two-hour head start at least. The ranger thought of the young Graycoat, asleep outside his door, and couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for her. That feeling only lasted a moment. Asher trotted all the way to Whistle Town’s outskirts, smiling from ear to ear.

  “You incompetent half wit!” Nathaniel thundered down the creaky staircase of the Green Hag.

  “It was an accident!” Elaith’s olive skin turned a deep shade of pink beneath her cheeks.

  Nathaniel immediately noticed the absence of the innkeeper and Asher’s weapons. The Graycoat decided to check the other side of the bar in case there was a dead body to be claimed. He frowned at the sight of an empty bar without a single drop of blood - no doubt the innkeeper’s purse had grown fat upon Asher’s departure. Nathaniel slammed the bar with his fist and cursed the absent innkeeper.