Moving away from the door for the moment, Galanör ensured his back was never to Adamar, who would surely make his move the instant they located the Elder Book.
“It’s here!” Ailas exclaimed.
Galanör kept Adamar in his peripheral vision, while he walked across the room to Ailas’s side. The archer had his hands out, pointed in the direction of an empty space in the corner of the room.
“I can feel the power of the spells inside,” Ailas continued. He looked to Galanör for permission to reveal the artifact, before using magic to break the concealment.
As if emerging from an invisible fog, the Elder Book took form in front of them, nestled within a glass covering. The book itself was bound in thick leather, its colour faded over a thousand years, and the pages a tint of yellow. All thought of Adamar’s ill intent was forgotten at the sight of the book and the prospect of finally returning home, victorious. Though for Galanör, he felt he would simply be happy to forget his time on man’s shores and do everything he could to erase the images of the innocents he had killed.
“What are we waiting for?” Ailas’s grief made him impatient and careless.
Galanör didn’t move quick enough to stop the elf from reaching out and lifting the glass covering. “No!” His plea was too late for Ailas.
The spell protecting the book was merciless, its singular purpose created to bring instant death to whoever removed the covering. Ailas gasped in frozen terror, as the glass box turned to ice in his hands, before it slowly moved up his fingertips and continued along his arms. From his skin to the marrow in his bones, everything was turned to solid ice, including the clothes and weapons he wore.
“Help... help me...” The words barely left his lips, which were losing their colour.
The other elves stood back, afraid to touch Ailas in case the curse could be passed on. The archer dropped to his knees with the frozen, glass box stuck in his shiny, ice-covered hands. His legs were soon covered by the encroaching ice, cementing him to the floor.
“Help...” Ailas’s last plea was just audible, before the ice froze his vocal cords and his entire head glazed over. The moment of silence was only broken when the archer’s body shattered and crumbled into a thousand pieces, spreading him across the floor and between his companions feet.
Another one dead.
Galanör crouched low, hesitantly picking up a piece of ice that resembled the side of Ailas’s face. Like the other killers who had died in under his command, Galanör felt nothing at the passing of Ailas, except that he only wished a swifter death had met the archer. That curse had been designed not only to kill, but to deter anyone else from trying to take the Elder Book. To steal the book wasn’t just to die, but die slowly and painfully.
“Will we all die under your leadership, Galanör?” Adamar was behind him again, his large shadow looming over the elf.
His sixth sense screamed at Galanör now, urging him to take immediate action or face certain death. Under the cover of his cloak, Galanör rested his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He could have it out and brought to bear in the blink of an eye.
The unforgettable sound of a sword passing through a person’s body came from behind, where Adamar was standing. Galanör wildly turned on the large elf, confused but battle-ready. Standing before him, Adamar gurgled and dribble blood. Galanör followed the large elf’s gaze to the elegant scimitar protruding from his chest cavity, coated in warm, red blood. Adamar’s eyes betrayed his anger and confusion, all too aware that his death was imminent, but also unjustified.
The blade slid out of Adamar’s back and the elf dropped to his knees, before falling flat on his face in the icy remains of Ailas. Standing in the place of Adamar was Lyra, her sword wet with the blood of her kin. She had seen the coming calamity and acted to save Galanör at the price of killing one of her own. He sighed heavily at what had transpired, but managed to give Lyra a warm smile of appreciation.
Lyra’s reflecting smile vanished like a candle blown in the wind. Galanör didn’t have time to see the deception until it was too late. Lyra flicked her hand over his face, unleashing a wave of magic that lifted the elf off his feet and launched him across the room.
After the book had been found, Gideon was barely able to regain his strength enough to remain standing, but events outside the wardrobe kept his attention fixed. The protective spell that killed the archer had been hard to watch, and he felt Abigail’s head fall on his shoulder more than once, seeking comfort. Everything after that had only created more confusion for Gideon. The female elf killed the larger, bald elf and hurled the apparent leader across the room. All the while, the young mage kept his eyes on the exposed Elder Book.
Abigail and he looked at one another, the same thought passing through their minds. Now there were only two of them, and from the looks of it there would soon only be one, and the two mages stood a better chance of overpowering the remaining elf. A strange question Gideon had never had to entertain crept into his mind after following that train of thought. He had already decided that he was prepared to take a life to protect Abigail and himself, but did he have the same gumption to protect a book? To lose the Elder Book would surely mean the possible death of many more than just the two of them. The power to control Malliath the voiceless could be devastating, though why any elf would seek that end, Gideon did not know.
“Lyra...” The one known as Galanör rose unsteadily to his feet. Gideon could just make out the thin line of blood that ran down the elf’s face. “Why..? I don’t understand.”
“I should hope not.” Lyra stalked round the dead body of the large elf, her tone laced with superiority. “We have spent a long time planning this, longer still than your precious king has planned to re-take Illian from the humans. Keeping all of you in the dark was a crucial part of the plan,” the elf purred patronisingly.
“We?” Galanör leant into the archway that divided the room.
“We are everywhere,” Lyra continued. “We advise your king. We fill your ranks. We know your secrets.” The elf laughed with a glee that made Gideon’s blood chill. “Paldora’s celestial star graces daylight sky, and in its beauty ordains calamity...”
Gideon had never heard that phrase before, but judging by Galanör’s expression, the elf knew of it well.
“Why do you speak of this?” Galanör asked.
“Come now, lover,” Lyra adopted a seductive tone, “you know of Echoes of Fate as well as I. A few days from now, Paldora’s star will reveal itself for the first time in daylight sky, and Valanis will rise again... so it is foretold.”
Galanör’s expression turned from confusion to horror. “You serve the dark one?”
“It is folly to serve any other,” Lyra replied quickly.
“Paldora’s star has streaked across the night’s sky nine times since that prophecy. What makes you so sure this time will be any different?” Gideon could see that Galanör’s horror had quickly turned to anger.
“That’s the problem with our kind; no faith anymore.” Lyra didn’t wait for a reply, but instead burst into action and threw a small, concealed knife at Galanör.
Caught off guard, the elf was struck in the shoulder by the blade, forcing him back towards the sealed door. Gideon didn’t know what to make of any of it. The two mages could only watch in fascination, as the two elves collided with their swords in a flurry of twists and turns so fast that human eyes struggled to keep up with them. The name ‘Valanis’ rang a bell in Gideon’s mind but he couldn’t place it. He mouthed the name to Abigail who replied in hushed tones.
“The Dark War. The civil war between the elves.”
Gideon nodded his understanding. Valanis had been the key instigator in starting the war, though the mage could hardly remember why. An elven war a thousand years past wasn’t at the top of his to-know-list.
The two elves fought with speed and grace, reminding Gideon of a dance rather than a fight to the death. It was hard to make out who was winning though, when
it came to sword fights, the mage was no expert. Again, he found his eyes drawn to the exposed book. They had to protect it from both elves, it didn’t matter which one survived. Apparently one wanted it to help the elves overthrow Illian, and the other wanted to use the book to serve Valanis, a being wholly associated with evil.
Gideon was about to suggest a plan, when current circumstances forced the mage’s hand. Both Abigail and he jumped from the wardrobe in a desperate attempt to avoid the stray fireball. The wardrobe exploded into pieces, raining splinters down, amid a thousand chunks of frozen dead elf. Gideon looked up through bleary eyes to see that Galanör and Lyra had paused their fight to look upon the fallen mages.
“We need to get the book!” Abigail scrambled to her feet before Gideon could stop her. Her wand levitated the book from its stand, while she made for the door. But her genius was for nought.
Gideon could only watch with dread, when Lyra levelled her hand at Abigail and loosed an icicle, sharper than any sword. The elf moved so fast that Gideon heard the icicle slam into Abigail’s chest before he saw it leave Lyra’s palm. Her pained gasp stole the breath from Gideon’s lungs, leaving him to relinquish his staff without thought, in place of catching her falling body. The Elder Book landed on the floor at the same moment he caught her. He didn’t know what to say, he only knew that she would certainly die from this wound and that there was nothing he could do. That helplessness stung deeper than any wound Gideon had ever suffered.
The world and its troubles disappeared in that moment. Abigail’s copper ringlets fell over his crouched knee and her bright blue eyes looked longingly into his. He couldn’t bear to look at the icicle protruding from her chest. Her wonderfully pale skin was turning a deadly shade paler every second. With a soft hand, Abigail stroked Gideon’s cheek, as if she knew she would never get the chance again. Gideon held it tight in his own, shocked with the speed at which she was losing her warmth. Tears flowed freely from his eyes at the thought of never being greeted by her warm smile again. He was barely aware of the clashing steel behind him.
Without a word, Abigail’s hand went limp, as the light faded from her eyes. She was gone, forever.
Shock set in. Gideon held her body, his senses taking everything in but his mind unable to process it. The two elves continued their dance, wreaking havoc across the room. The young mage brought Abigail close to his chest and embraced her with all his strength, as if he might bring her back with his love alone.
“It doesn’t matter what you accomplish today!” Lyra’s voice sounded a hundred miles away. Gideon’s vision took in the sight of the elf, on her knees and at the mercy of Galanör’s blade. “Valanis will rise and usher in a world fit for the gods-” Her words were literally cut short by the sweeping motion of Galanör’s sword.
Gideon placed a gentle kiss on Abigail’s forehead, oblivious to Lyra’s rolling head. The silence that followed woke the mage from his grief, revealing him to be the only living thing in master Tibit’s chamber. Galanör was gone, and so too was the Elder Book. Gideon felt his grief turn into a burning anger that demanded his attention. Lyra was dead, but Abigail’s death could still be laid at Galanör’s feet. Gideon quickly unstrapped Abigail’s wand holster and applied it to his own leg, before sheathing the wand and retrieving his staff.
The elf would pay.
Galanör burst through the door and into the lashing rain, atop Korkanath’s high walls. The relentless wind and ice-cold droplets did nothing to numb the betrayal of Lyra or the killing of yet another innocent girl. Somewhere between sadness and rage, the elf screamed into the night. He knew that the king’s machinations were ultimately to remove Valanis from being a potential threat, but Galanör had no idea that Valanis had people fighting back, and so close! There was a war brewing; only he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be between elves and men. How long had the dark one been manipulating them? Had his entire quest so far been at the designs of Valanis’s followers?
The faces of the dead haunted him once more, along with the despair of the young mage who held her dying in his arms. Was his duty worth the suffering of so many?
The sound of great wings flapped overhead, drawing the elf’s keen eyes to the night sky. The pouring rain made it almost impossible to spot the black dragon. Galanör looked to the Elder Book, floating by his side and protected from the rain by a spell of his own. The elf levitated it before him and commanded the pages to turn without touching it, fearful of any curses. He would have to act fast now, before Malliath descended on him.
The spell was easy to find, with his education in the ancient language. There was no counterspell or incantation to recite. He need only burn the pages, expressing his intent to Malliath before offering the invitation to his king. Galanör hesitated. Now, in the final moment of his mission, the elf didn’t know if he was doing the right thing. The sound of gliding wings rippled through the sky, making his decision for him. It didn’t matter what Galanör did after he freed Malliath, the important thing was that he freed Malliath. It might just be the only good thing he had done since leaving Ayda.
A blast of superheated energy, akin to lightning, caught Galanör on the back of his shoulder and knocked him to the floor. With his concentration broken, the Elder Book collapsed with him, its pages sprawled open.
“ELF!” The rage-filled scream exploded across the night.
Galanör lifted himself from the floor, flexing the same shoulder joint that had now been stabbed and burnt by magic. The young mage from the master’s chamber stood opposing him in the rain, with his staff aimed high. Galanör had never seen so much fire in a human’s eyes before now. This man, if he was old enough to be called one, intended to fight a superior foe with no concern for his own life.
“GO BACK!” Galanör shouted over the pelting rain.
The mage took no notice and came at the elf, wielding his staff as if it were a spear. A high jump brought the man down on Galanör with the tip of his staff angled to strike the elf’s head. To Galanör’s superior senses, the mage appeared to be moving in slow motion, his every action easily anticipated by the experienced warrior. He didn’t have it in him to counter the mage however, and continued to dodge and evade the man’s every swing and thrust. More than once the mage let loose with another blast of energy or a fireball, both repelled by Galanör as an afterthought.
Before the next lunge, both elf and man stumbled under the buckling wall. Galanör had seen the look on the mage’s face before, on the faces of others who looked upon something awe inspiring, yet terrifying at the same time.
Malliath was behind him.
Galanör turned quickly to see the great head of the dragon, his purple, reptilian eyes fixed on the elf. Four curving horns sat above his eyes and extended into the air, as a crown on the head of a king. Malliath’s head coiled in the manner of a snake, ready to strike, as his magnificent wings spread out beside him, each filled with a tough, purple membrane. The dragon sat upon four thick legs, plated in black armour, natural to his kind, ending in claws sharp enough to score the stone wall he rested on. In the darkness behind him, a giant black tail, that ended in the shape of an arrow head, swished through the air, hypnotically.
The elf moved back, slowly, the mage long forgotten in the face of such a creature. Malliath’s maw opened to allow a forked tongue to slip out between razor sharp teeth. Galanör could sense it coming, as if the dragon was waiting for the mage to move aside so he could reduce the elf to ashes. He only had one move left to make, though whether it would save his life or not, he didn’t know.
Galanör unleashed a fireball at the open pages of the Elder Book, setting the enthralling spells alight. The wall shuddered again, knocking the two bipeds over, when Malliath the voiceless roared for the first time in a thousand years. The elf guessed the dragon’s roar to be somewhere between pain and a cry of freedom. Malliath thrashed about, dealing more damage to the crumbling wall, while ancient glyphs shone a brilliant purple along his body. Until now, the imprinted
glyphs had remained hidden, blending into the dragon’s dark scales and plated armour. As Galanör watched in wonder, the ancient glyphs slowly vanished from Malliath’s body, causing the dragon more distress.
Somehow, through it all, the mage found the balance and courage to renew his attack upon Galanör. This time he came at the elf firing from both a staff and a wand, forcing Galanör to deflect both attacks while watching his footing on the crumbling wall. More than once, the two combatants were made to duck under a wing or jump over flying debris. Still, the mage came at him, all fury and abandon. Whether the man could see it or not, the wall was coming down and Malliath intended to fly away. Galanör knew in that moment that his only hope of survival was to latch onto Malliath and let the dragon take him far from here. How far, he didn’t really care anymore.
“Run!” was his final warning to the mage, as he turned for the dragon.
With elven agility, Galanör nimbly scaled Malliath’s muscled leg and wrapped his arms around one of the many horns that ran along the creature’s spine. To the elf’s great surprise, the human mage didn’t hesitate to follow him and ran for the dragon’s leg. Only his speed could not compare to that of an elf. Malliath launched into the air, off his hind legs, with enough force to bring down the entire wall. Galanör wanted to turn away, sure that he was about to witness the death of another, too young to die. The mage surprised the elf again with his determination and no small amount of luck. At the last possible second, the young man leapt across the opening chasm and grasped one of the spikes on Malliath’s tail.
Korkanath dropped away and both were taken high into the heavens, astride the beating wings of a dragon.
Rise of the Ranger (Echoes of Fate: Book 1) Page 27