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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Yes, he thought, the gem would be his very soon.

  Galanör nimbly shifted his weight, while holding onto the giant spikes on Malliath’s back, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. The elf was still concerned that too much activity would disturb the dragon and spell his doom. Galanör couldn’t help but feel that there was mental instability where Malliath was concerned, though it was to be expected after a millennium of servitude to the mages of Korkanath.

  Peering around and above the spikes, Galanör searched Malliath’s scaly hide for any sign of the young mage. His keen ears hadn’t picked up any sound from the human since the dragon banked hard to the left, hours previously. With his long brown hair whipping about him, Galanör caught sight of the young mage who, miraculously, was still clinging to Malliath’s spikes and small bony protrusions. Galanör suspected that magic was being used to keep him in place. As if aware that he was being watched, the mage looked up and returned a hard gaze at the elf. Their prolonged flight across the world had done little to temper the fire that still raged in the human’s heart. He wasn’t looking forward to dealing with him when they finally touched down. That was providing Malliath didn’t eat them both first.

  Shifting his weight once more, Galanör craned his neck to see the land below and was shocked at what he saw. The tree tops of Ayda’s forests had disappeared and had been replaced with sparse desert. How far south had they gone? Great canyons and valleys spanned the horizon, with little or no vegetation in between. It occurred to Galanör that he had never seen a desert before with his own eyes. The paintings and descriptions he had seen didn’t do the barren landscape justice, failing to depict the sheer scale and vastness of the waterless ocean. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky now, exposing them wholly to the sun on Malliath’s black scales.

  Galanör quickly lost interest in following the arc of the sun and keeping up with time. It seemed that Malliath had plans to fly forever. There was a moment when the elf thought the dragon would land in a valley, between two mountains, but Malliath’s gliding wings simply flapped once and they soared back into the sky.

  Later in the day, Galanör’s attention was gripped by more than the changing landscape, which beyond the mountains quickly became jungle-like, as his elven eyes were fixed on thousands of humans moving across the land. From their lofty height, the humans appeared as ants, but Galanör’s eyes were able to pick out details. Swords, axes and spears glistened in the sun, amidst the amble of the marching men and women. He knew it had to be an army, but they certainly didn’t travel like one, with no discernible ranks or formation. Far in the distance, Galanör could see a dust cloud, much like the one that enveloped the humans below, rising over the jungle canopy. Was there another army heading in the same direction? Who were these humans?

  Galanör had been sure that since Malliath had banked left and flown inland, they had entered the continent of Ayda, and yet there were humans below him...

  “Impossible,” the elf said to himself, the truth dawning on him.

  He looked down on the marching army once more with new curiosity. Not only were there humans in Ayda’s south land’s, but there were Darkakin! Galanör knew well of the skirmish between his ancestors and the war-like Darkakin that emerged alongside the humans, from within the Wild Moores. They had been driven south of Illian, exiled to fight amongst themselves since that was all they craved. They embodied every aspect of the humans that the elves had come to despise. How had they settled in Ayda? Galanör cursed his own people’s insular nature, and their lack of desire to seek out new lands and explore, as the humans did. The Darkakin had obviously explored the lands south of Illian and discovered a way of crossing into Ayda. The elf took heart that the armies weren’t heading north, to Elandril, but moving further south, towards...

  Galanör sat up, peering over the four sloping horns of Malliath’s head, to see the city in the heart of the jungle. Standing above it all was the unmistakable shape of a pyramid.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Between a Dragon and a Hard Place

  Adilandra lashed out in three different directions, her elven scimitar parrying two swords before splitting another man in half from groin to shoulder. Seeing their fellow gladiator’s blood spill over the ground only fuelled the remaining two men to attack wildly. The queen of elves had been taught to detach herself when fighting, in order to keep her mind sharp and disciplined. An emotional fighter made many mistakes. That philosophy worked well when fighting elves, but was not entirely required when faced with weaker, slow-moving humans. Adilandra unleashed her rage, enjoying the ease with which she tormented and wounded the gladiators. Slipping easily between their attacks, the elf cut and slashed both men across their thighs and arms, severing major arteries.

  There was no fight to be had after that.

  The arena erupted in cheers from all around, when the baying mob was finally appeased with the daily offering of blood and gore. Adilandra slowly turned to regard them all, her chest heaving visibly from the exertion of fighting all day on such little sustenance. The lust for more death was expressed on every Darkakin face. They always needed more.

  The sun was past midday and hidden behind the arena’s high walls, but it did nothing to cool Adilandra in the tropical heat, who dripped from head-to-toe in sweat.

  The Goddess stood up from her throne, silencing the jeering crowds immediately. Protected on her podium, the olive-skinned queen walked to the edge and looked down on Adilandra. Her cobra head-piece cast her features in dark shadows, giving the Goddess a menacing appearance.

  “You have proven entertaining elf-queen,” the Goddess began. “I find you almost as entertaining as my pet...” The Darkakin flashed Adilandra a wicked smile, knowing the reference to Fallön would sting. “Nevertheless, you have fought, and fought well! You are deserving of the reward you seek.” The Goddess’s sly tone suggested that Adilandra wasn’t going to like what came next.

  At the far end of the arena, metal gates were being opened on their pulley system. The elf slowly turned with a lingering look, straying from the Goddess to Lörvana, shackled on her knees. The ground shook, as if the earth itself had its own beating heart. The contrast between the shadows, beyond the gate, and the light of the arena made it impossible to see what was emerging from the darkness. Adilandra squeezed the grip on her sword, mentally preparing for a very different kind of fight.

  “You have traversed a continent in search of the ancient wyrms, old one!” The Goddess was playing to the crowd now. “I give you... DRAGONS!” The arena exploded into deafening cheers when not one, but two, dragons thundered out of the hidden depths.

  Adilandra lost her breath at the magnificent, yet disheartening, sight. The two dragons were clearly adolescents; otherwise they wouldn’t have both fit through the gateway. Between their heavy footsteps, the giant chains, shackled to their ankles, clattered and rattled as they were dragged across the sand.

  The dragon on the left was a beautiful, deep green with flecks of gold across its scales. The other dragon slammed its light, blue head into the green one, shoving it aside, while unleashing an almighty roar. The green wyrm flexed its jaw of razor-sharp teeth and reared up on its hind legs, while showing off its impressive wing-span. They were both angry if the empathetic waves that emanated from the creatures were anything to go by. Adilandra knew it was unusual for dragons to communicate so openly and on such a wide scale, but these were young and sadly inexperienced. The elf tried her best not to let the dragons’ mood affect her own, but she could feel the rage building inside her, the hunger and desperate need to rip and tear muddying her own emotions. The dragons’ emotions spilled out and infected the surrounding mob, turning their elated cheers into angry howls and bellows.

  Adilandra fought the urge to run at the dragons and slay them. She knew it would mean certain death if she tried, but the dragons’ extraordinary form of communication was impossible to ignore. The elf combated the effects by focusing on their details, such as the
blunt and chipped horns on their heads, or the broken spears that protruded between the scales on their legs and bodies. They were leaner than a dragon should be at their age, implying the horrific conditions they were being forced to live in. How had the Darkakin even captured two dragons in the first place?

  Her question would have to wait. Both dragons bounded across the arena with their golden eyes fixed on Adilandra. Though she had seen them as a young elf and studied them thoroughly, there was no training in all of Verda that could prepare a person to fight a dragon. Even an adolescent dragon was a giant compared to an elf, with scales that could deflect any sword. Adilandra braced herself, unsure how she was going to survive the next few seconds. Magic would be the only advantage, but besides the Goddess killing Fallön and Lörvana for it, dragons were notorious for being immune to most spells, as they were magical beings themselves.

  The thick chains were dragged across the sandy field and their clawed feet tore up the arena. This was it, the moment she either survived or died on her quest. The irony wasn’t lost on Adilandra, in her potentially final moments, that fulfilling her quest to find the last of the dragons would be the very creatures that killed her. No, she thought, this was not fulfilling her quest and it certainly wasn’t fulfilling Nalana’s prophesy. Finding the dragons was only half the quest, convincing them to return to Illian and finally destroy Valanis and stopping a war between her people and the humans was the rest. The queen of elves couldn’t die here, she wouldn’t. Adilandra believed, truly, that she was a part of that prophecy and that she alone would be the one to see it fulfilled.

  The light of the sun was overcast when the dragons were finally upon her. Adilandra looked up, realising that the giant shadow could not belong to either of the young wyrms. The dragons came to a sudden halt, skidding over the sandy ground, and looked up, as Adilandra did. Once more, the elf’s breath was taken from her, as a full-sized dragon with black scales and a wing-span that stretched from one side of the arena to the other, dropped onto the ground with a resounding boom.

  The empathetic waves of anger ceased immediately, replaced by a strong feeling of hope and anticipation. The dragons’ form of communication didn’t reach as far as the crowd, who's cheering instantly turned to screams of terror, as they ran for the nearest exit, creating chaos. The black dragon inhaled a sharp breath, before engulfing the closest stand in flames. The fire spread around the arena’s curving sides, setting every man, woman and child alight. Though stunned, Adilandra still caught sight of the two people that fell off the huge dragon’s back and tail, tumbling to the ground, while simultaneously trying to avoid the dragon’s stomping feet and swishing tail.

  “Kill the beast!” the Goddess screamed from her podium, behind Adilandra. Her personal guard ushered the queen from the makeshift throne, taking a weak-looking Lörvana with them.

  Darkakin guards posted around the arena were slow to react at first, struggling with the urge to run away. Spears and arrows were soon being launched at the black dragon however, though neither was successful in penetrating its thick scales. The two younger dragons threw themselves up the high walls, clawing at the rock to reach the Darkakin above. Their attack was cut short, as the chains around their ankles were being pulled back into the depths of the arena. They must have been on a pulley system, since there was no amount of humans that could drag a pair of dragons across the ground. The black dragon’s head swivelled around, stopping the flow of fire, and roared in protest. The larger dragon’s roar was harder on the ears and dwarfed that of the younger ones.

  A tail as thick as a tree tore through the stands of the arena, killing scores of Darkakin, while the black dragon turned to face the helpless younglings. Its mighty front legs pounced onto the chains, before gripping them between hardened claws and its powerful jaws clamped down. It wrestled and whipped its head about in an effort to break the chains. All the while, the two men who had fallen from its back jumped and rolled in every direction to avoid the thrashing.

  Gideon leaped to one side, narrowly avoiding Malliath’s thundering back legs. The mage hit the ground and rolled, aware that the tail always followed the back legs. Sand and dust was kicked up in a storm around the three dragons, making it hard to see and breathe. It was certainly a lot warmer than it had been on Malliath’s back for the last couple of days. The mage could hear the screams of thousands between the roaring dragons, but was too occupied to look around at his new surroundings. Before landing, he had seen what looked to be an arena, standing on three rocky pillars in the middle of a sprawling city, with a pyramid at its heart.

  Through it all, Gideon heard Galanör coughing in the sand storm. The mage turned to see him ducking under the outstretched leg of a blue dragon, its claws inches away from impaling him. Seeing the elf brought the mage’s thirst for vengeance rushing back. Gideon removed the staff from its sheath on his back and commanded it to grow, as he made his way towards Abigail’s killer. He made no distinction between Galanör and the other elves who had taken so many lives at Korkanath.

  Malliath gripped the thick chain in his maw and thrashed wildly, giving Gideon an opening to charge at Galanör. The mage broke into a sprint with his staff held tight in one hand, a spell ready in his mind. Using the fighting form Ali-maktah, Gideon jumped into the air, his staff high and pointed down like a spear. He had practised the technique a hundred times in the sparring hall and knew how to time it perfectly. At the apex of his leap, the mage fired a single bolt of energy at Galanör and, as predicted, the elf twisted his shoulders and dodged the spell. Gideon touched down at the same moment and span on the spot, bringing his staff round to bear. The magically hardened wood slammed into the elf’s chest with all of Gideon’s strength, knocking the wind from him, before putting him on the ground.

  As satisfying as the blow was, it wasn’t enough for Gideon. The mage came at the elf, bringing his staff down in hammering arcs. Galanör rolled and evaded every attack, already recovering from the Ali-maktah. In his frustration and anger, Gideon realised he was relying on physical attacks instead of his true strength. His staff came up in a sweeping-brush motion and exploded with a telekinetic wave that collided with the elf, throwing him into Malliath’s front leg.

  The great dragon’s body puffed up, as Malliath inhaled a sharp breath. Gideon and Galanör locked eyes for a second, both aware of what came next.

  “Run!” Galanör’s warning shocked Gideon, making him pause for a near fatal moment.

  The elf burst into motion, covering the distance in the blink of an eye, and threw himself on the mage, before Malliath’s fiery breath super-heated the air. The fire swirled around them, just as it had around Gideon and Abigail in Korkanath’s halls. With his eyes shut tight, Gideon could only feel Galanör’s body pressed against his, sheltering him from what the elf thought was certain death. Why would Galanör try and save him?

  The fire dissipated as suddenly as it started and Gideon opened his eyes to see another elf standing over both of them, her hand outstretched to her sides, having kept the fire at bay. Despite her dishevelled appearance, her beauty was undeniable. Her auburn hair was swept behind her in the wake of Malliath’s outburst, exposing her pointed ears.

  “Galanör?” The female elf looked down at them in confusion.

  “Adilandra...” Galanör went on to speak to Adilandra in elvish, losing Gideon completely.

  Before she could answer, Malliath roared again, now in triumph as the chains were melted and the smaller dragons were free. All three dragons shifted their considerable weight, giving the elves and Gideon cause to dash and avoid the curling tails and stomping feet. From flat on his belly, the young mage looked up to see the dragons launch off their back legs and take flight. The elves had managed to stay together, holding each other by the arms, while they watched the dragons disappear.

  Gideon finally had a good look at his environment and instinctively reached out for his staff. It wasn’t there. He got to his knees, searching frantically for his most trea
sured possession. It was next to the elves in the distance, beyond his reach. Galanör turned to look at him, and the instinct to survive reminded him of Abigail’s wand on his thigh. The elves ran over to him, picking up his staff on the way, and avoided the occasional arrow or spear hurled their way. Gideon whipped out the wand and pointed it threateningly at them, his mind racing through the various spells he could use.

  Instead of attacking him, they simply stood before him, offering his staff back. There was an urgency on their faces that he didn’t understand, but it felt like a trap to take his staff back.

  “Take it,” Galanör spat, looking around the chaotic arena, anxiously.

  “Get away from me!”

  An arrow impaled the ground beside Gideon, and Adilandra reacted immediately by holding her hand out once more, creating a shield that deflected another two arrows, mid-air. Gideon followed their flight back to a group of men and women with bows and spears; each was dressed in animal skins and painted in tribal tattoos.

  “They’re Darkakin! You know what they are, don’t you?” Galanör yelled. “You can either come with us, or you can stay with them.”

  Gideon looked from the Darkakin, a savage people he had never wanted to meet, to the staff in Galanör’s hand, the hand of the elf responsible for Abigail’s death. More arrows whistled through the air, only to be halted by Adilandra.

  The choice was simple, but hard.

  part four

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  A Half Truth

  On the second night, the group made camp on the eastern banks of the Unmar, only a day’s ride away from West Fellion. They had decided to camp a mile north of the bridge, to avoid any travellers that may be crossing the river. The ranger had taken precautions to keep the companions off the roads and beaten tracks, instead taking them over the wilder lands in between. They were far enough to the south that the woodsmen of The Evermoore wouldn’t come across them on their hunts, and north enough to avoid the Moonlit Plains, where the sea of fields were roamed by clans of Centaurs and other intelligent creatures who disliked humans.