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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Gideon’s own distress at the dead mages was mirrored in Abigail’s expression of horror. Who were these strangers? How had they infiltrated Korkanath? They moved so fast, cutting the beasts to ribbons with ease. There wasn’t time for anything else. The Hydra had caught up with them.

  A dozen thick, reptilian heads exploded into the foyer, using brute force to push through the doorway and litter the room with more debris and broken stone. The monster towered over the strangers, who were crouched over one of the hex-traps, and screeched at the top of its mighty lungs. The feral sound was just bearable for Gideon and Abigail, though it appeared to cause some distress among the strangers, who all covered their ears in pain.

  A wet crunch smothered the noise of the female stranger’s scream, who had been standing over the hex-trap, defending the other woman on her knees, apparently trying to close the portal.

  “Naiveen!” The name was shouted in anger by one of the archers.

  The woman’s legs were all that could be seen, poking out from one of the Hydra’s jaws. They kicked furiously, for only a moment, but inevitably went limp in the creature’s mouth. Two more heads coiled round and ripped off a leg each, swallowing them whole.

  An Imp squawked over Gideon’s head, fleeing the ravenous Hydra, and paying the two mages no attention. In fact, all the monsters were ignoring them. If it hadn’t been for the surrounding mayhem and dead bodies, Gideon would have stopped and admired Master Tibit’s spells. Instead of doing that, however, he raised his staff and used a deflective spell to stop an arrow from piercing his chest.

  Abigail gripped his arm. “We need to get out of here!”

  She was right, of course. They had intended to kill the Hydra, but now that the beast was helping the other monsters in attacking Korkanath’s intruders, it made sense to leave the creature to it and escape, before they got caught in the cross-fire.

  One of the strangers shouted over the din in a language Gideon had heard many times, but never spoken so fluently. The words were unmistakably elvish, with the exception of two words; Elder Book. The question of why these people were communicating in elvish was lost to the fear of what they wanted with the Elder Book. The other strangers continued to fight the monsters and evade the Hydra’s many heads.

  “They’re after the Elder Book! We have to get to Master Tibit!” Gideon immediately noticed the attention of the stranger, who had spoken in elvish, fall on him. The mage instantly regretted his actions. “Run!” They ran for the only door that hadn’t been reduced to splinters.

  The elvish speaking stranger barked another order between the slashing of his sword. Gideon looked back to see one of the archers break from the fighting and make for the same door they had escaped through.

  Gideon aimed his staff over his shoulder and thought of the ancient word for earth, filling the spell with the urge to explode. The stone floor burst open, as if a volcano had erupted from beneath, firing chunks of stone towards the approaching stranger.

  With incredible speed, the man ducked back into the room of monsters, narrowly avoiding the explosion. Gideon dared to look beyond, if only in curiosity at how the strangers combated the beast. The Hydra was making a mess of things. The largest of the group, with two long braids adorning his bald head, had somehow managed to actually climb onto the Hydra, and use the creature’s thick necks to navigate between the snapping heads. As impressive as the man’s agility was, his chosen method of attack was doomed. The stranger’s scimitar lopped off heads left, right and centre. He either didn’t notice the multiple heads growing back, or he didn’t care.

  The remaining archer had the smarter idea of trying to pierce its hide with his arrows. Gideon almost stopped to watch, as his uncanny accuracy put every bolt between the Hydra’s tough scales and into its soft flesh. A flash of purple light, at the base of the monster’s bulk, told Gideon that the kneeling woman had succeeded in closing the hex-trap.

  The cloaked invader, who had avoided Gideon’s spell, dashed back into the corridor after them, notching an arrow as he did. The corridor leading to the west wing was long with, no doors to their left and only a wall of glass to their right. There was nowhere to escape the inevitable arrow being aimed at them.

  Abigail flicked her wand over her shoulder, creating a momentary shield behind them. The arrow whistled through the air, only to collide with the shield in a flash of light and snap into pieces.

  More arrows hurtled down the corridor with more speed and accuracy than Gideon thought possible from a running man. Between them, they managed to deflect every arrow, until they reached the door at the end.

  “It’s locked!” Abigail pulled and pushed on the door with some force.

  “It’s Korkanath’s defensive wards! Each wing is in lockdown!” Gideon turned to face the archer, only twenty metres away, with his bow held high.

  The stranger came to a halt with a menacing smile that chilled Gideon’s blood. This man was going to kill them and he was going to enjoy it. As if to savour the moment, the stranger came to a stop and took a long, slow breath.

  “Get the door open,” Gideon instructed Abigail. He brought his staff to bear in a defensive manoeuvre he had learnt years ago, in the sparring hall.

  Abigail wouldn’t die, and neither would he.

  Gideon would fend of this attacker with every spell he knew. He had to. The young mage didn’t know if he had it in him to take a life, though he had always wondered how far he would go to save himself. With Abigail behind him, there was no question.

  The archer appeared to take Gideon’s stance as a challenge and put away his bow and arrow, instead retrieving the sword from his hip. As sharp as the blade looked, Gideon knew it couldn’t even chip his staff, enchanted with spells designed to make it as tough as diamond. At least six spells sat ready in his mind, each one harmful and capable of striking a mortal blow.

  The rain lashed against the tall, arching windows, covering the sound of the melee at the other end. It was just Gideon and the intruder. Abigail was protected behind him, while she used her wand to reveal the spells that covered the door.

  The stranger charged at Gideon, covering the twenty metres between them with what could only be enchanted speed. The mage braced himself, ready to let loose with a telekinetic wave, strong enough to shatter bone.

  Everything happened at once.

  Gideon heard the massive intake of a sharp breath, so loud it could be heard beyond the dark windows, pelted with rain. The stranger turned to the window mid-charge; his malicious smile now one of fear. Gideon shouted at the top of his lungs for Abigail to take cover, but he never heard the words over the mighty explosion that filled the corridor. The windows blew in and the stone arches were reduced to flying shrapnel, as a stream of fire engulfed the stranger and continued to spread along the corridor.

  Gideon dropped to one knee and braced the back of his staff against the floor. He shouted the spell at the top of his lungs, but his voice was drowned out by the wave of fire flowing over the translucent shield, protecting both Abigail and himself. The magical shield kept the fire at bay, but the spell wasn’t strong enough to keep out all the heat.

  When the fire stopped pouring into the corridor, Gideon released the spell and rose unsteadily to his feet. The stone walls had melted and glowed bright orange with steaming droplets, falling from the ceiling. There was nothing left of the stranger that could identify him as even being a man. Gideon turned to Abigail, who shared his look of complete shock. They were both covered in sweat, their hair matted and ash smeared over their faces.

  Malliath’s hovering bulk sheltered the corridor from the relentless rain. The sound of his giant wings drowned out the winds and turbulent storm. Gideon took a cautious step forward, tilting his head to catch a sight of the dragon, but the sound his wings faded and the rain returned. The rain that poured in and created more steam, as it cooled down the molten stone.

  Both mages were stunned into silence. They had spent years at Korkanath having never so muc
h as glimpsed Malliath, and in a single day they had seen his mighty tail descend into The Adean and actually survive his dragon breath. How the intruders had set foot on the island without Malliath killing them was a mystery, but now that they were openly attacking mages, the strangers had obviously activated another of Malliath’s enthralled spells.

  The locking mechanism in the door clicked and the door swung open. They still couldn’t find the words to describe what had just transpired. A silent agreement was made that they would press on for now and talk later.

  They had to reach the Elder Book.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A King by any other Name

  Merkaris marvelled at his own physique, as he vigorously pulled on the hips of the prostitute. He considered himself the pinnacle of what any man could hope to achieve with their body, his abdomen and chest dripping with sweat while his muscles worked into the nameless woman. The king gripped her shoulder hard and pulled up, so that her back was flat against his torso. Changing position added nothing to his pleasure, but it made him feel strong to manipulate her so. The prostitute moaned with rehearsed pleasure, groping at every inch of his skin, as if she needed more.

  Merkaris pulled her long dark hair back and kissed her neck, while his free hand explored her breasts. King Rengar had provided only the best of whores for his guests, and the woman in Merkaris’s grip was well versed in how to react. His mind wandered in the rhythm and the heat. Before the prostitute had arrived, he had received word via the diviner that he kept on his person at all times.

  Alidyr Yalathanil’s voice had cut through the ether like a knife, commanding all of Merkaris’s attention. “Your lord would have use of you...” the elf had said, his image a distorted reflection across the void.

  “I live only to serve Valanis,” Merkaris had replied, knowing that an order from one of the Hand was to be taken as if Valanis had commanded it himself.

  “Indeed you do. Your assault upon Stowhold was impressive, even I didn’t expect you to get as far as you did.”

  “My spies tell me they moved the Elder Book to Korkanath the very next day,” Merkaris explained, smugly.

  “I am aware,” Alidyr replied flatly. “I am sending an Arakesh to Velia, to see our master’s needs are accomplished. You are to help this assassin.” Alidyr’s tone left no room for debate.

  “What can I do to serve the great Valanis?” Merkaris had asked.

  “Princess Reyna travels with two elven companions. They will make my assassin’s job near impossible to complete. You were shown many wonders during your time in Kaliban, Merkaris. Your grasp on the magical world surely surpasses that of any human, even the Magikar.”

  Merkaris had felt a swell of pride overwhelm him at the memories of his time in Kaliban. His knowledge of magic was beyond the comprehension of the pathetic mages inside Korkanath. The king had been made into the perfect secret weapon for his master and, at the same time, granted more power than any other in the realm. He owed everything to the majesty of Valanis.

  “You are to kill the elf known as Mörygan Mörgö,” Alidyr had continued. Perhaps Merkaris’s acknowledgment had been too arrogant, but the elf felt the need to explain the gravity of his command. “Mörygan is well accomplished in the art of magic and will offer a challenge you have never faced. But know that in completing your task, you will please the Hand of Valanis, and therefore Valanis himself.”

  “It will be done, my lord.”

  Merkaris returned to the present and manoeuvred himself so that he might discard the exhausted whore across the bed. The king didn’t even bother to look the whore in the eyes, as he pulled her roughly across the bed and rested her legs over his chest. Her practiced moans of ecstasy were delivered perfectly, when the two picked up the rhythm right where they left off. For nearly another hour, the king of Orith used the nameless woman for his own gratification, until the climax was reached. He cared little for the whore’s enjoyment.

  It didn’t take long for the woman to fall into a much needed sleep, while Merkaris sharpened his mind and thought of the task ahead. The king spent another hour in meditation, dwelling on the lessons imparted to him all those years ago. At the foot of the pools of Naius - the only human to ever do so - he had absorbed every detail of the magical world and all it had to offer. The power given to him... no, the power he earned, was what granted him the courage and the skill to usurp his parents, plotting the scheme that saw to their demise and that of his sister. It was only fair in Merkaris’s mind. His parents had been weak, unfit to rule, with designs on sending their magically talented son to Korkanath, where his power would be wasted.

  Now he ruled all the north with a purpose that his parents could never have imagined. Merkaris opened his eyes, satisfied with the soft glow that emanated from the three crystals that sat on the stone floor before him. The magic now stored within them would aid him in the battle to come. The king collected the crystals and began to dress himself in the dark robes, hidden within one of his chests. Before he could conceal his face with the black cloth, the whore began to stir in the bed. She gasped at the sight of his shadowy image, a pair of long daggers sheathed on each hip.

  “Sshh...” Merkaris held his finger to his lips, which had stretched into a malevolent smile. Without another word, the king strode over to the bed and picked the whore up by her throat in one hand. It was a strength that any other man could only dream of. The woman squirmed and gurgled in his grip, desperate for precious air. Merkaris carried her out to the balcony and surveyed the mass of ships that made up Direport, below.

  “Know that in the swift death I am granting you, you will avoid the suffering that is coming to this land...” The woman’s terror-stricken expression told only of her fear that death was imminent, and that there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Merkaris pushed the woman over the lip of the rail and turned back to his room, her death unworthy of his time. Instead, he finished fitting a pair of bracers to his wrists, each inscribed with the ancient language, giving his hands supernatural speed. Inside the same chest, he opened a secret compartment that held a slender box, the size of his forearm. Merkaris took the box out, as if its contents were sacred and delicate. The king couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his wand, crafted by himself in the heart of Kaliban. The black shaft was perfectly straight with an elegant strand of rare silvyr coiled from end-to-end. The handle was made from the bone of a centaur, personally hunted and killed by Merkaris for the very purpose of crafting the wand. In his hand it was more deadly than any sword, hammer or axe could ever be.

  A light knock at the door indicated the arrival of his men. Merkaris called on the magic that filled every fibre of his being and flicked his wand towards the locked door. The mechanism clicked and the door swung open, allowing the group of equally shadowy figures to enter the room.

  Despite only being able to see their eyes, Merkaris trusted them all, hand-picked years ago to accompany him wherever he went. They were killers - his killers. They had each proven themselves to him over the years, taking lives on his order without question.

  They moved through the halls of Velia’s palace like reapers, sending anyone unlucky enough to get in their way to the afterlife. The wing housing the elves was easy to find, with the extra guards placed along the corridor. Merkaris had used magic to douse all the torches and candles in the corridor, casting the killers in darkness. As instructed, the men moved swiftly, eliminating the guards with as little noise as possible, using their bare hands to crack necks or throw small knives, before taking their places in front of the three rooms.

  Merkaris could feel the magic aura on the other side of the door, his skin almost humming in its presence. After years of training in Kaliban, he was always aware of magical beings. Mörygan was clearly a master of the arts, as Alidyr had stated, but it only served to fuel the king’s need to challenge himself.

  Trusting his men to organise their own attack, Merkaris touched his wand to the door handle, unlock
ing and opening Mörygan’s door, as well as casting a concealing spell to cut off the sound of the creaky hinges. The ancient language filled his practised mind, allowing him to wield magic at the speed of thought and without hesitation. It made him feel powerful, like an elf. Using magic in such a way had taken most of his adult life to master, and as far as he could tell, the teachings of Valanis were the only lessons that could impart such wisdom. The mages of Korkanath had grown lazy over the centuries, wasting time learning new ways to use magic, instead of taking the time to understand it.

  Mörygan’s room was dark and the balcony doors were closed, keeping out the howling wind and constant rain. It made Merkaris’s breathing sound like that of a giant in the quiet room. The king entered the room boldly, but quietly, while his eyes scanned the room trying to discern the various shadows.

  The door closed behind him at the same moment all the candles and torches came to life in the room. Standing before him, where only a second ago there couldn’t have been, was Mörygan Mörgö.

  “You weren’t so arrogant as to think you could sneak up on an elf, were you?” The tall elf stood defiantly in his long grey robes, with perfectly straight, black hair draped over his slender shoulders.

  Merkaris could only smile, though it was hidden behind the dark veil that concealed his face. This was going to be the fight that finally proved he was worthy of Valanis.

  “Do not fear master elf, I want to look you in the eye when I make history...”

  Mörygan looked confused. “History?”

  “I am to be the first man to kill an elf in a thousand years!” Elven blood hadn’t been spilled by man since the Darkakin were driven back after the Dark War.