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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Adilandra had been convinced, since she was a young elf, that she was the one who would perceived the time they would fall, that she alone could sense the impending doom and the return of Valanis. But now, sitting where she was, Adilandra was convinced that she might too be the one destined to suffer for all.

  The elf thought to cheer herself up by peering across the void and seeing her daughter through the eyes of Ölli. Using such magic was undetectable to the human eye, and would therefore go unpunished. Adilandra groaned in frustration when her sight failed to pierce the ether. She was too weak to control the spell, leaving her alone to her torment.

  In her mental state, holding back the tears was simply too hard. The queen of elves curled into a ball in the centre of her cell, afraid to sleep near the edges, in case a Darkakin reached for her through the square bars. Sleep would not come easy this night.

  The inky abyss, between reality, that surrounded Alidyr quickly gave way to the dim light of Velia’s dungeons. The dry desert air of The Arid Lands was left far behind, now replaced by a cool chill that penetrated his long white robes. The portal had transported him further than he would have managed, had he not drawn on the crystal he held in his hand. Looking at it now, what had glowed so magnificently only a second ago, was just a hollowed out husk, as dark as a common rock. The meditation required to store such magic was taxing and time-consuming, but Alidyr made certain that he always carried two on him at any time.

  The elf’s sharp eyes and ears picked up the rats scurrying in the shadows, sticking to the walls as they searched for scraps. The walls and ceilings were wet with damp, dripping from the archways between the cells. Alidyr wasted no time in striding through the dank corridors, passing the curious onlookers, from within their cages, with little interest. He knew that Ro Dosarn would not be kept in any ordinary cell.

  Without a sound, the master assassin moved through the dungeon with ease, its layout memorised from the maps archived in Nightfall’s library. Alidyr looked in on a few rooms from which the strong aroma of blood clung to the air. As with so many dungeons in the human realm, the elf felt their torture devices and techniques were lacking, unrefined and uninspiring. Valanis had shown him the ways of inflicting real pain, of inducing enough fear to kill a man or elf without so much as a touch. Soon, he thought, soon the old ways would return and the human race would quake before Valanis’s power.

  And his own...

  It wasn’t long before the sound of jovial chit-chat filled the halls. Alidyr could tell by smell and sound alone that there were eight Velian guards round the corner, huddled round a table and playing cards. The twin, hourglass short-swords on his hips called to him, desperate to be unleashed and to taste blood. His time as master at Nightfall had kept his swords sheathed longer than they would have liked. In the forty years since Thallan took command of the Hand, the blades had urged him many times to strike the usurper down. Alidyr was confident that he was finally close to tracking down Paldora’s gem, however. Seeing Thallan’s expression after such a success was worth allowing him to keep it attached to his face.

  The elf rounded the corner without caution, his white robes flowing about him in his haste. The guards before him were of the brutish variety, a stupid breed, which saw no threat in an opponent if he wasn’t wearing garish armour and an oversized weapon. Not one stood up from their stool to challenge him. Not that it would have made a difference.

  “Who the hell are you supposed to be then?” the furthest guard asked, with his playing cards still in hand.

  “I’m afraid the answer awaits you in the next world...” Their grasp of Alidyr’s answer was slower than the swing of his majestic blades.

  Blood was sprayed across the faces of every guard when the elf decapitated the closest man with both swords. Alidyr could feel the glee of the sentient swords, gifted to him by Valanis, as they sent another soul into the afterlife. The Velian guards reacted as one, reaching for the swords scattered around the table, but all too late to stop the master-assassin from taking another life. The elf dashed and sliced, rolled and plunged, flipped and swiped another’s head from their shoulders. Parrying their sluggish attacks was child’s play to Alidyr, who had fought against the greatest warriors in the elven nation and survived.

  A strong side-kick sent one guard into the wall of the small annex, cracking his ribs, before his back broke on impact. The short-swords moved as an extension of his arms, delivering a swift death to any who strayed too close. It had been only seconds since the first guard had questioned his appearance, and now that same man was backed against Ro Dosarn’s cell door. His fear-stricken face was smeared with the blood of his friends.

  “Stay back!” The guard waved his sword wildly. “What demon are you?”

  Alidyr came to stand defiantly in front of the man. His white robes were perfectly clean, without a single drop of blood in sight.

  “Demon?” Alidyr slowly twisted the hilt of his sword in his hand, feeling the balance. “I am something far worse.” A flick of the wrist sent the blade spinning, end-over-end, until it impaled the guard where he stood, throwing him into the door. The elf held out his free hand and the skewered sword flew from the man’s chest and back to its master, as they always did.

  Alidyr replaced the swords, still dissatisfied with taking so few lives, and waved his hand over the dead guard, using magic to fling him back into the room and out of the way. The door to Ro’s cell was locked. The elf stood aside and, with another wave of his hand, the door exploded off its hinges, breaking the lock, and colliding into the table where the guards had sat. The cell was irritatingly bright, with extra torches mounted on the walls and candles lit across the floor. The room was occupied by a single wooden post, to which Ro Dosarn was shackled in chains. The assassin’s arms were bound high above his head and his feet were tied to the bottom of the post. His armour had been stripped away and his weapons no doubt taken far from the dungeons.

  Alidyr looked on in bitter disappointment at the warrior’s wounded body. Ro had suffered many cuts and bore a plethora of bruises. It crossed the elf’s mind then to abandon the failed assassin, and leave him to his fate, as punishment, but he was still an able hand with a blade and would serve Alidyr now with fervour to impress him. Alidyr didn’t believe for a second that Ro had been beaten by any guard or even a Graycoat, but could only have been defeated by the ranger.

  A slow-moving trickle of blood flowed down Ro’s neck, from the back of his head. Clearly the source of why the highly-trained killer hadn’t awoken yet. Alidyr removed a small vial from within his robes and popped the cork. Wafting the bottle under the assassin’s nose awoke him in a daze, startled as he was to see his master standing before him.

  “What a disappointment you are,” Alidyr remarked.

  “Master-”

  “My spies tell me that not only did you fail to do as I instructed, but you couldn’t even kill a simple Graycoat.”

  “He has the black crystal, the one you’re looking for!” Ro exclaimed. “He wears it on his finger, in a silver ring!”

  Alidyr kept his expression guarded, hiding the elation that swelled within him. Paldora’s gem had been found! After a thousand years it had finally resurfaced, and with an Outlander of all people. The elf was greatly interested to know how the ranger came by such a powerful artifact.

  “Wait...” Alidyr recalled Ro’s words again. “He wears it in a ring?” the elf asked.

  “Upon his right index finger. I would have had it but...”

  “But what?” Alidyr drew closer, hungry for information.

  “Asher defeated me with magic, powerful magic. And I swear he had no wand to hand!”

  Alidyr turned away, considering his options. He knew that the crystal was larger than that which Ro had described. It could never have been fitted into a ring. Did the ranger only hold a piece of the crystal? If so, did he still have the rest, or had he lost it, or never even had it?

  The elf considered his options, knowing full wel
l that a discovery of this magnitude should be discussed with the Hand. Asher was no doubt still inside Velia, possibly this very palace, but he was in possession of the gem, and that made him more powerful than even the ranger probably knew. The elf had to be smart about his next move.

  Being so close to the magical gem was exciting, and he wanted to storm the palace immediately until he found Asher and took it from him. But that would be folly. The ranger would be surrounded by Graycoats, Velian guards and the two surviving female elves. There was a chance that he would expose himself and fail to recover the ring, jeopardising everything. Alidyr had waited a thousand years to get his hands on the gem; he could wait a little longer, though what he had in mind was extremely drastic, but worth it for his master’s prize.

  “Release me, Master, and I will not fail you again. The crystal will be yours.” Ro pushed against his manacles, desperate to be unleashed once more.

  “There isn’t time for that now. It has found my ears that Asher is to accompany the elves to West Fellion at dawn. There, they will be heavily protected against a fool such as yourself.” Alidyr goaded the assassin. “No, we will come at them with a force that is guaranteed to retrieve the gem. You will return with me to Nightfall, Ro Dosarn, and prove your worth. I have but a final task for you.”

  Alidyr used magic to break the assassin’s bonds, setting him free. The elf picked out the remaining crystal, feeling its warmth emanating into his hand, offering its magical aid. The air crackled and distorted in protest, as the fabric of reality was torn apart to make way for the assassins. One step into the void and they were transported back into the warm embrace of Nightfall.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Taking Flight

  The sound of rushing wind filled Gideon’s ears between the rhythmic flapping of Malliath’s great wings. The young mage clung to the dragon’s bony spike with both hands, while his feet remained lodged on top of another, further down the tail. It hadn’t been long into the flight when Gideon had decided to use Abigail’s wand to freeze the muscles in his left hand, ensuring his grip never faltered.

  Abigail...

  The thought of his best friend made him angry again. Gideon looked for the source of that anger, further up the length of Malliath’s hide where Galanör, the elf, appeared to be sitting comfortably between the two larger spikes. The elf’s strength and agility made the dragon’s scaly body a lot easier to traverse. Gideon wondered if Galanör found it any easier to breathe than he did. They had been flying now for several hours, and dawn was beginning to break on the horizon. Luckily, Malliath chose to fly below the clouds, allowing the mage just enough air to breath, providing he kept his head to the side, away from the oncoming wind - but it didn’t stop the biting cold from chilling him to his bones. He was sure the only reason he hadn’t frozen to death yet was the constant warmth that ebbed from the dragon’s scales.

  Every now and then, he dared to shift his body and look down at the gliding landscape below. Malliath was travelling fast, covering a vast distance with every motion of his wings. Gideon found it hard to believe that he had gone from wondering what Malliath looked like, to being permanently attached to his tail. Hundreds would kill for the opportunity to ride a dragon, though Gideon felt that might be an exaggeration of what was taking place.

  It had been several hours since Korkanath had disappeared and the many lights of Dragorn had come and gone, along with the rest of the Lifeless Isles, south of it. Malliath had clearly flown off in a southern direction, but since then there had been nothing but black ocean below them, making it harder to determine their location. Gideon popped his head up and searched the skies for the source of the rays of light that pierced the clouds. The sun was coming up on his left, meaning the dragon was still flying south, but where were they going? How long could a dragon fly for? Having been enthralled to Korkanath, this must have been the furthest Malliath had flown in a millennia.

  It dawned on Gideon then, that Malliath could simply be looking for somewhere nice to settle down and eat them...

  Nathaniel watched from afar as the pyre burned away Mörygan’s body, reducing the elf to floating ash. Reyna had told him the ashes would be carried on the winds across Verda. The princess had also said that it was an elven affair, and that Faylen wouldn’t want him or any others to be present. As far as the Graycoat could tell, there was no love lost in the passing of Mörygan, but there was a deeper sadness that an elf had been killed. Nathaniel could empathise with the point however; the death of an ageless being was a great loss when he considered how much knowledge and experiences the elf had collected over the centuries.

  They stood on the banks of the Shining Coast, so that the pyre was facing Ayda, to the east. Velian guards stood further still, ensuring the funeral was kept private and the beach off limits. Asher and Elaith were not far from Nathaniel, both in quiet conversation while they prepared the horses on a grassy knoll. It had been the first reprieve Velia had enjoyed without any rain, but stormy clouds gathered overhead, threatening to unleash all the water in the heavens. Still, the first light of the new dawn pushed through the gaps in the darkness, revealing a choppy Adean. Fog in the distance kept Korkanath’s island from sight, but Nathaniel cared little for such sights. Everything paled next to Reyna.

  The Graycoat pressed his hand into the area on his abdomen where the Arakesh’s sword had wounded him. That wound should have killed him, slowly and painfully too, if not for Reyna and Asher. The magic of the elves was not to be underestimated, along with the resolve of the ranger. Nathaniel had always known that Asher was close by, refusing to believe that the ranger simply vanished back into the wilds. Something kept the older man close, but whether it was the current mystery they were all embroiled in, or some notion of friendship, Nathaniel couldn’t tell.

  All of his Graycoat instincts appeared to be fraying at the edges. Befriending Asher should have felt like a betrayal to his order, but sleeping with Reyna was a direct disregard of the oaths he had taken. Sex had always been considered a grey area among many of the Graycoats, a hardy group of men and women who spent a long time on the road and were often revered by locals, but it was still a mandate that they never lay with another person for fear of starting a family. Nathaniel knew better than anyone that having a family and being a Graycoat was unacceptable.

  But Reyna was different.

  The elf had disarmed Nathaniel in every way, making him forget the troubles of the world and his poor standing within the order. The princess had an honesty to her, much like Asher, that endeared the Graycoat to her. Reyna had been his first, though he hadn’t the courage to tell her at the time, and it didn’t really come up after being stabbed in the back by an assassin.

  Doubt began to creep into his mind. What if Reyna didn’t feel the same way? What if he had simply been her entertainment for the evening? It seemed very un-elf-like, but then he had been told by Asher and Reyna that everything he knew about elves was wrong. Should he even care, he thought? Even if the princess did feel the same way, it wouldn’t matter. The princess of the elves couldn’t be with the lowly knight of a human order. She would be destined to marry some noble elf far above Nathaniel’s station and they would live forever, together. That was something the Graycoat would never do. In fact, during his training, he had been told that he would be lucky to see his fortieth birthday, let alone live forever.

  The sound of galloping horses coming to a canter could be heard from the direction of the guards. Nathaniel put his worries aside at the sight of Darius Devale and three Graycoats, riding up to meet him. He turned to Asher and Elaith, raising a hand to keep them where they were. He could handle Darius Devale.

  “The king has informed me of your plan,” Darius began, before he jumped off his horse. “You’re either very stupid or very smart,” the Graycoat looked over Asher in the distance, “and since I don’t credit you with enough intelligence to be setting a trap, I’m going with stupid. If you think your ranger friend over there will be allowed
to walk freely inside West Fellion...”

  “It was his idea,” Nathaniel stated bluntly.

  Darius’s face dropped. “And did it never cross your mind that he might be setting a trap?”

  “To what? Trap every Graycoat inside their own fortress with little-old-him?” Nathaniel had always felt like fighting in the presence of Devale.

  “Lord Marshal Horvarth may see it differently,” Darius added quickly.

  “He’s already recalling every Graycoat in the realm.” Nathaniel took a moment to relish Darius’s dumb-founded expression. “Haven’t you received the message yet? I asked Galkarus to send one of his owls last night. The Lord Marshal replied immediately.”

  Darius’s expression slowly changed from stunned to angry, until he sighed and looked past Nathaniel to the burning pyre.

  The Graycoat puffed out his chest and took all of Nathaniel in. “Then we shall accompany you, as the Lord Marshal commands.”

  “Oh great...” Nathaniel replied, sarcastically. He walked away, leaving a seething Darius Devale.

  “What did he want?” Elaith had as much love for Devale as Nathaniel. It pleased him.

  “They’re returning with us to West Fellion.” Nathaniel met Asher’s cold, blue eyes. “You should reconsider coming with us.” The Graycoat was happy to travel with Asher, but he didn’t want to see any harm come to the ranger by his own people.

  “There’s more going on here than a simple assassination contract.” Asher observed the elves in the distance. “And I mean to find out what.”

  Nathaniel wanted to ask the ranger why. He knew Asher had been paid and had seen the ranger take away some papers given to him by the king himself, though the knight had no idea what Asher’s final prize might be. So why was he sticking around? By the very definition of his title, the ranger should have hit the road once more, seeking out the next job or adventure. Nathaniel decided against asking him, not wanting to put the ranger in an awkward position.