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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “I must have read every book ever written about the Dragorn.” Lyra joined him in his wistful expression, across the building tops.

  Galanör had a similar childhood. “My mother told me stories of them growing up. It was said that the dragons actually allowed a select few Dragornians to ride them...” The elf couldn’t imagine a more magnificent experience, even with Lyra standing next to him.

  “You mean hold onto them while they fly,” Lyra corrected. “No one rides a dragon.”

  Galanör knew her words to be true. The chosen elves, who called themselves Dragorn, had been allowed to live among the most noble of creatures, because of their ability to converse with the dragons in a way that could only be dreamed of by others. But living among them and speaking with them still paled in comparison to soaring above the mountains of Verda, defying the gods will that all intelligent creatures remain enslaved to the land.

  “Now we see the mockery the humans have made of their great name.” Lyra continued with a look of disgust at the human architecture. “Perhaps we will see it restored, yes?”

  Galanör thought of everything that would have to happen for that future to be recognised. The largest city in Verda and all its inhabitants would have to be removed, at the point of a blade no less. The elf considered that thought and realised that he was already laying the foundations to enacting that plan. He would be the catalyst that saw the end of man. That idea had weighed heavy on Galanör’s mind since they left Ayda...

  Galanör ignored Lyra’s question and focused on the mission. “The Trigorn’s man is already inside.” He was duty-bound to see the rise of the elves, even if that meant the fall of man.

  “We should just kidnap the women and children. We take a great risk involving the humans. I hope this is worth it, Galanör. We don’t have much coin left.” Lyra perched on the edge of the roof, imitating a cat.

  “Let me worry about that. All that matters is getting to Korkanath.” It had proven costly to arrange this meeting, and if it went well it would only cost more.

  “Your worries are mine.”

  Their relationship was purely physical, but Galanör could sense Lyra’s other motives. She hopelessly endeavoured to show him that they were a better match than his intended. His family was among the highest in Ayda, and becoming a part of that would elevate her greatly. Unfortunately, Galanör’s father felt the same thing would happen by arranging his marriage to Reyna Sevari, the daughter of their king. The Reveeri’s would become a part of the royal family of elves and their place secured for all time. These plans had been set in motion years ago, and Galanör was powerless to change them. He was an instrument of his father’s ambition and his lord’s machinations for Illian. Nothing more.

  “Be ready for anything.” After four centuries scaling the giant trees of The Amara forest, Galanör dropped into the alley off the main road with ease.

  Before he reached The Anvil’s door, Ailas walked past him in rags and dirt smeared across his angular face. The two never looked at one another, but Galanör caught his hushed words. “Three more inside.”

  Galanör had seen only two go in with the Trigorn’s man, they must have sent one ahead as he had. Inside, the tavern was an explosion of sound, as men and women, on all three floors, drank into the night. The elf moved through the drunken crowds with grace, constantly aware of his surroundings. Two men were fighting over a whore on the second level that no one seemed to care about, while Galanör noticed the four pick-pockets moving around the room, taking coin with ease. Adamar was sitting at the back, near the darkened booth where the Trigorn’s man sat, waiting. The large elf had a woman straddled across his lap, laughing at Adamar’s jokes. Galanör resisted the urge to curse aloud and hoped the larger elf wasn’t too drunk to notice the meeting taking place next to him.

  With a cursory glance, he found the two guards sitting close by, at separate tables. The third was sat at the end of the bar, near the door. The humans were as subtle as their odour.

  Galanör took his seat opposite the Trigorn’s man. He had been easy to spot in his finer clothes, well cut hair and freshly shaved face. To most in this part of the city he was walking money, the perfect mark. But Galanör had stalked the man for many blocks to the tavern and observed the wide berth given him.

  Nobody crossed the Trigorns.

  Elf and man sat in silence for moment, taking one another in. Galanör had cast the spell to round his ears and put some stubble on his cheeks to make him appear more human. The human had short-cropped hair, as black as his clothes, with cold eyes that bore witness to the Trigorn’s cruelty. Galanör had spent the last couple of days setting this meeting up and knew all about the Trigorn’s man. He was called Lucas Farney, but the people of Dragorn called him the Fang, on account of the pointed tooth at the front of his mouth. When the Trigorn family had need of violence they sent Mr Farney. It didn’t bode well that he had been sent to meet with Galanör, but the elf was an unknown, a fact that put the Trigorns on edge, no doubt.

  “You know who I represent.” Farney’s voice was a rasp.

  “I do.”

  “Then you have me at an advantage.” This was clearly a position Mr Farney didn’t like. “You don’t work for one of the other families; otherwise you would have contacted my employers via the usual channels.”

  The Trigorn family was one of four that ruled Dragorn, with an elected member of each on the High council that governed the island. Of course the election was rigged with a member from each always winning the position. No one else had the money to fund a campaign and buy the votes to compete. It was the biggest difference between Dragorn and the rest of Illian. To Galanör’s knowledge there had never been a royal family on the island since humans took the land from the dragons.

  “My name is Galdor Reveer. I am part of an independent organisation, one that has no interest in challenging the Trigorns, or any of the other families, I assure you. I need something your employers can acquire for me, discreetly.”

  Mr Farney looked away, subtly scanning the tavern. He was suspicious of Galanör. Thankfully, Adamar was currently face-deep in the cleavage of the woman on his lap.

  “What is it you want, Mr Reveer?”

  “In just over a week from now, I need two women, attractive women, and three children, preferably under ten years old.” Galanör could hardly believe he was actually doing this, bargaining in lives. He reminded himself that their part in the plan was pivotal, and that failure could mean the end of all of Verda.

  Mr Farney shifted, uncomfortably. “You’re obviously not from Dragorn, Mr Reveer. You’re not in The Arid Lands, this is not Karath. The Trigorn family doesn’t deal in slaves. If you require women and children I can direct you to the nearest whore house.”

  “Your employers own the establishments that sell these people.”

  “We sell an experience, Mr Reveer. We don’t sell people.”

  The plan was starting to unravel, it was clear to see that Lucas Farney’s position was unwavering. It angered Galanör that scum like the Trigorns could draw a line in the sand and feel righteous about it. They committed every crime imaginable, ruling their quarter of the city with an iron fist, but they decided that controlling men, women and children under threat of death wasn’t slavery.

  “If it’s a matter of coin-”

  “Keep your coin. I’m more interested in who you represent. You might not be here to challenge the families, but from the coin I hear you’ve been throwing around, and the need for women and children, you must be seeking a stake in some territory. It doesn’t matter in what corner you peddle your wares, Mr Reveer, every inch of this city is owned by one of the four. So if it’s a brothel you’re interested in, I suggest you seek one to buy rather than starting your own. I can schedule you a meeting with the Trigorn accountants if that’s the case...”

  Galanör’s anger was rising. “I have no interest in whore houses, Mr Farney.”

  “Then what could you possibly want with two women
and a few children?” The Fang’s interest was piqued.

  The elf could see his failure now. They would have to resort to their back-up plan, which was now potentially compromised by Lucas Farney’s curiosity. Eliön had already scouted the location of one of the Trigorn’s brothels where they could take the humans if it came to it, but Farney’s knowledge of their needs put everything in danger.

  Galanör had but one choice, for Verda.

  “It used to be an honour to live on this island...” the elf mused, allowing his disgust with Dragorn’s current occupants to lace his words.

  Lucas Farney raised his eyebrow in curiosity, but with speed beyond human reaction, Galanör whipped his arm across the table and buried his hidden knife into the Fang’s eye. With his superior strength, it took little effort to ensure the blade sank into the man’s head until the hilt met his eye socket. Lucas Farney was dead before he even realised his fate.

  The three guards reacted as predicted, each jumping from their chairs and reaching for their swords. Adamar moved before Galanör had removed his own blade. The large elf leapt up, taking the woman on his lap with him, before throwing her backwards into the nearest bodyguard. The impact sent the two humans tumbling across the table in a tangle of limbs and broken chairs. Proving his worth, Adamar dashed to his left and used the empty chair to give him height so he could jump clear over the three men sitting next to him. When he landed on the other side, he brought his powerful fist down on the second bodyguard, shattering the man’s solar plexus. The wind was knocked out of the human, bringing him to his knees at Adamar’s feet. The elf snapped his neck without hesitation.

  The bodyguard by the door lost his nerve and turned to run for help. Galanör casually threw his knife across the length of the tavern, demonstrating his elven precision and narrowly missing several patrons. The blade sunk into the back of the human’s neck, killing him instantly and pushing him into the closest patron, his dead weight forcing them both to the ground.

  The last bodyguard pushed Adamar’s woman off and stood with his sword ready. He advanced quickly on Galanör with a strike intended to remove the elf’s head. To Galanör, the man might as well have been moving through treacle. The elf ducked under the swing and popped up at the man’s right side, where he promptly forced his open palm into the guard’s throat. Before the human could drop to his knees and choke to death, Galanör wrapped his left arm around the man’s head and flicked his hand away, taking the human’s head with him. The speed and force of such an action was enough to break the fragile vertebrae between the his head and shoulders.

  With four dead men in the tavern, a great many of the patrons decided to leave with all haste. Chairs and tables were knocked over in the rush to flee the murderers.

  “That was fun...” Adamar swigged an abandoned tankard of ale.

  Galanör looked at Farney’s dead body, slumped over the table. He was angry with himself for going down this route, for thinking it could be as simple as buying the women and children. Now he had put his companions and the mission in peril. They would be hunted by the Trigorns and their element of surprise would be lost when they took the humans. A pang of guilt gnawed at his conscience when he looked upon the dead bodies. Being trained to kill and actually killing were two different things. He soothed his guilt by reminding himself that these men were scoundrels and rogues.

  “We need to leave, now.” Galanör strode towards the exit, with Adamar following close behind.

  Outside, the patrons ran in every direction to get away. As the crowd dispersed, Galanör caught sight of the elves, each with a body at their feet. With no guards to follow them, the elves climbed the walls of the tavern and fled across the rooftops.

  “We should have done this my way!” Adamar stood in the centre of their apartment. “Eliön already scouted the location. We knew their numbers, their weapons and best of all; they didn’t even know we existed. Now they’ll think they’re under attack and increase their security. Not to mention the mages at the Trigorn’s disposal. They will use magic to hunt us now!”

  Galanör leant against the wall, looking out the rain-soaked window for any sign of the Trigorn’s men. He could feel all of their eyes on him, judging him for his tactical error. Damn this storm, he thought. It had ruined everything!

  “We will reach Korkanath’s shores and fulfil our duty, even if it see’s the end of us!” Galanör turned on the group with fire in his eyes. “We will burn the Trigorn family to the ground if we must. For each of us, not a hundred men could stand against. You fear these humans, Adamar, but you forget brother, we are not the elves that fled Illian and left the humans to our lands. We are as mighty as the elements. We are elves. We will take what we need and complete our task. When we return to Elandril, we will be heroes. Think about what we’re bringing back! Our names will be carved into history when the future of our race hears how we saved all of Verda.”

  He only believed a handful of his own words, but that wasn’t the point. Galanör had successfully manipulated Adamar by inciting his fear of the humans. The large elf offered no further challenge, but instead appeared eager to see their duty through with as much violence as possible. The others looked convinced, with Lyra nodding her head in agreement.

  “Eliön, take Ailas and scout the brothel again.” Galanör met Lyra’s eyes, a silent message informing her of his need. “Adamar, Naiveen, return to The Anvil and observe the investigation. I have a feeling the city guard will be taking orders from Mr Farney’s replacement.”

  They all accepted their tasks and readied themselves to leave. Lyra walked ahead of Galanör into the bedroom, his signal received. The evening’s violence coupled with his rousing speech had put him in the mood for a different kind of physical activity.

  Chapter Ten

  A Ranger’s Price

  “No no, this will not do!” Lovani, the master of servants looked Asher up and down with disgust. “You cannot be presented to his grace like this.” He tilted his head with more disgust at the sight of muddy footprints and rain water that trailed the group of Graycoats and the ranger.

  With the click of his fingers, another servant ran off to perform some unknown task, while the castle guard stood firmly behind the master of servants, barring the way.

  “The king wishes to see this man!” Darius Devale was clearly eager to please the king.

  “I see no man before me brother Devale, but a beast! No, the smell alone will permeate the king’s library and curl the pages of the books.” He clapped his hands impatiently and the same servant returned with another man holding a leather satchel. This new man had recently been woken up, given his dishevelled appearance. “Jevano here will give you a shave and clean you up. Your clothes will be cleaned and dried.” This was obviously news to Jevano, whose expression was a mixture of shock and fear at the sight of Asher.

  “He’s not touching me with any blade.” Asher turned a threatening expression on the barber.

  “Ah, but when he is finished,” the master of servants commanded the three buxom maids to push past Jevano, “you will be cleaned...”

  Asher had a sudden change of mind. “Well a little trim wouldn’t hurt.” Without looking at Devale, Asher walked off with Jevano and the maids, smiling as he did.

  “Brother Devale, might I suggest you sit by the hearth and dry off?” The master of servants indicated the large fireplace in the castle foyer, much to Devale’s chagrin.

  A couple of hours later, Asher admired his reflection in the floor length mirror. His beard had been trimmed neatly and his hair washed with expensive perfumes. He tied the top of his hair into a small ponytail that rested over his crown; it was a nice change to be able to put his hand through his greying hair. He looked back at the mess made by his bath. Soap and water had poured over the side with the lining of its interior crusted in dirt from his naked body. The ranger was glad to see the back of the maids however, who had scrubbed him violently with large brushes on long sticks, crushing his dream of enjoyi
ng the three of them in the soapy bath. He couldn’t help but feel a little tricked by the master of servants.

  Asher fixed his cloak to the latches on his leather shoulder pads, impressed with its shade of green. Every inch of his armour had been cleaned and dried, except for the strip of red cloth hanging from his belt; his orders had been quite specific.

  The master of servants soon returned and led Asher and brother Devale to an unassuming door. The corridor leading to the door was sparsely decorated and off the castle’s well adorned halls. Asher knew a secret entrance when he saw one.

  “This is Galkarus Vod,” Lovani announced at the sight of the tall man, standing in front of the secret door. “He is King Rengar’s court mage.”

  The tall man wore a long red robe, lined in gold, with a staff in one hand, almost as tall as him. Galkarus stroked his bushy white beard and took in the sight of the ranger. The belt around his waist was covered in pouches upon pouches and appeared far too heavy for a man of Galkarus’s age to carry. The wizard reached around his back and retrieved a thin wand, covered in growths like the saps on a tree.

  Galkarus waved the wand over Asher, creating a distortion in the air. Asher was happy to stand there and allow the mage to search him with his revealing spell, knowing that the stone in his ring would protect him. Not that it mattered, he had been relieved of all his weapons and had his armour picked apart while the king’s servants cleaned it. With no reaction to his spell, Galkarus stepped aside, eyeing Asher with a suspicious look.

  The door opened into a small library with an ornate desk situated in the corner, layered in scrolls and leather bound books. A single arching window stood between the book shelves, reflecting the candlelight from within the room.

  “King Rengar the sixth, of the royal house Marek, Lord of Alborn...” The master of servants introduced the king, who was taking his last step off the small library ladder, to their right.