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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “You are the bastard of Tobin Galfrey. Everywhere you go you sully his name and deeds and bring this order down in the eyes of the realm. You should be on your knees, thanking me that I didn’t instantly exile you the moment I was given this title.” The tension was palpable between the two men, but it hung there in the silence that followed.

  “Is that why you sent me to apprehend Asher alone? You hoped I would fail and the assassin would get the better of me.” Nathaniel just wanted to hear the admission.

  “I don’t send my knights out to die, even the bastards. Despite your heritage, you are your father’s son and every bit as capable as he was in his youth. I had no doubt that you would bring Asher to Darius Devale, but you were supposed to fade back into anonymity, not entangle yourself in Illian’s concurrent events, and certainly not ally yourself with an Arakesh.” Horvarth took a breath and straightened his floor-length coat. “We’re done talking of this, you’re dismissed. Oh, and don’t let me catch you with the princess, or you’ll find that your new room does have bars.”

  “Sir...” Nathaniel bowed his head and stormed out of the office.

  Without stopping to think about it, Nathaniel marched across the courtyard and round to the firing range. Reyna was showing Elaith some of the finer points to using a bow when they noticed his expression of thunder.

  “What’s wrong?” Reyna asked.

  “We’re going to Elethiah, the four of us. Tonight when Faylen frees Asher, we’re going to be waiting.”

  “Five of us!” Elaith protested. After Nathaniel had told her about the elves quest to destroy Valanis, the young Graycoat had been desperate to help in some way. He feared that it all sounded a grand adventure to Elaith.

  “You can help us sneak out of West Fellion, but you’re not coming with us.”

  “I want to help, why can’t I help?” Elaith’s question was almost one word.

  “If you come with us you won’t be able to return. The Lord Marshal will exile you.” Nathaniel saw the look on Reyna’s face, but said nothing. There was nothing to be said. He would gladly give up his title of Graycoat if it meant contributing to the aid of the realm, which he had just been told was no longer an option. Elaith opened her mouth to protest, but Nathaniel cut her off. “You will make a fine knight, Elaith Nevandar. You may even be the best of us. But you have to keep that coat on.” He meant every word, though in truth he wanted to keep her safe from the horrors of Elethiah.

  “As you say...” she replied begrudgingly.

  Nathaniel looked from Reyna to the stone walls that surrounded them. His time as a Graycoat was over. When the sun rose tomorrow, he would be just a man, but perhaps that would be enough.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The Right Thing

  Gideon looked out over The Flat Wastes with despair. They had been walking across the expanse since dawn, wasting no time in the search for shelter. The sun was low in the sky now, setting over The Great Maw behind them, but the heat remained. The Red Mountains appeared no closer for their efforts, and even Galanör’s elven strength was waning. The two staggered and slowed inevitably.

  The ground was hard under their feet, unrelenting it felt to Gideon. This land wasn’t meant to be traversed by man or elf, nor even beast apparently. The mage had yet to see a single creature of any size in the desert. He had long taken off his leather jacket and folded into his depthless satchel, instead using a spare shirt to wrap around his head and neck to protect him from the sun.

  The horizon rippled in the heat, threatening to go on forever. More than once, Gideon had thought about how they should have returned to Malaysai and searched for Adilandra, if only to get out of the wastes. The young mage kept such thoughts to himself, since he had been the one who argued to find the dragons, as the queen of elves had demanded. Galanör hadn’t said a word since they set off, though the silence suited Gideon anyway. He wasn’t sure yet how he felt about the elf. Fighting alongside another person had a way of changing one’s perspective, and the mage felt his was shifting.

  That thought took him back to the pyramid’s halls. There had been so much blood... and the smell! Gideon had never killed anyone before, but killing to survive didn’t feel like killing. He had done what was needed to keep breathing, nothing more. No glee was taken from the act, nor did he feel hunger for more. In some way, the mage could empathise with the ones he had used magic against. The thought of them dying and how they died felt almost too real to Gideon, and he tried to forget the feeling immediately. Empathy could be a curse if he allowed it. Now they were in the wild, surrounded by an enemy that knew how to hunt them and a land that knew how to drive them to madness. Gideon had to be strong. He couldn’t let his feelings get in the way of surviving, especially if his survival was tied to Illian’s future.

  Galanör stumbled, but stayed on his feet in front of the mage. His dark cloak was tattered and covered in blood and sand. Gideon would never forget for the rest of his life seeing the elf fight the Darkakin. Like a man on fire, Galanör had cut through nearly a hundred warriors with his elven blades. More often than not, the elf had moved with such speed as to be a blur to Gideon’s eyes. The mage didn’t know how many he had killed and had no intention of ever keeping count, but it seemed to him that Galanör would never be able to keep count of so many.

  “We will rest here for the night.” Galanör’s voice croaked, as the elf stopped walking and pulled down his hood.

  “I haven’t seen you drink for hours.” Gideon brushed Galanör’s cloak aside and grabbed the water skin off the elf’s belt, checking its contents.

  Galanör pulled away from the intrusion, knocking free a small black orb from the back of his belt. Gideon watched it drop to ground and roll for a metre before the elf scurried after it with haste. The mage recognised it immediately as a diviner. The Magikar and some of the council members possessed one each, along with other mages across Illian, though most were in the court of some king or queen. Gideon knew that most diviners were often paired with another in their binding spell, to make for more intimate conversations over a large distance. Who was on the other end of that diviner, he thought?

  “I don’t need to drink as much as you do.” Galanör tucked the orb away again.

  “You still need to drink,” Gideon quickly replied. It was a bemusing thought, to think that not long ago he would have gladly watched Galanör die from thirst, but now needed him to live.

  “We need to rest. When that sun rises again we set off; we need to be ready. Do you have anything in that bag of yours to start a fire?” Galanör sat crossed-legged on the ground, adjusting the scimitars on his hip as he did.

  “Fire? I’m too hot to think about fire.” Gideon plodded himself on the ground, opposite the elf.

  “It’s going to get cold very soon. Either of us can start a fire, but it must be sustained while we sleep.” There was no emotion in the elf, just simple facts. Leaving Adilandra weighed on him.

  “I’ll have a look...”

  After the sun had set and the stars were displayed across the night sky, Gideon found himself not only wearing his red leather jacket again, but also wrapped up inside two blankets they had stolen from the Malaysai market. The nights in the desert were as cold as the days were hot. Galanör sat with his knees to his chest and his dark hood drooped low over his head. They had eaten and drunk what they needed, being careful to ration what was left. There were more supplies now that only two of them remained. It had been a bittersweet revelation.

  “Tell me about her...” Galanör said into firelight. “Tell me about Abigail Rose.”

  Gideon felt his guard go up at the sound of her name, especially coming from the elf. The mage knew Galanör hadn’t been the one to end her life, but his involvement complicated things.

  “She was...” Gideon hesitated, unsure how to describe someone who meant so much to him. He had taken her for granted, so used to her presence was he, that it was only after she was gone that he realised how important Abigail h
ad been.

  “She was gentle, but strong.” Gideon felt the tears gathering at the edges of his eyes. “We had been friends since we were eleven, always in competition with each other, yet always supporting each other. So obsessed was I with the thought of adventure and a life on the road that I couldn’t see what was right in front of me. I wish more than anything that I could...” Tears ran down his cheeks and he was glad of the shadows that concealed his face. “I just want to see her again, talk to her. Abigail always knew what to say and when to say it. She kept me grounded. Without her I would have been expelled from Korkanath years ago.” A dark thought crept into his mind. “It’s my fault she’s dead. I didn’t mislay the hex-traps; I just wanted a real challenge. The Hydra was stronger than my ego, however. We were forced into your path and Abigail’s fate was sealed.”

  “Abigail was killed by Lyra Valarkin,” Galanör said. “You cannot blame yourself. Lyra was more skilled with magic and a blade before your great grandparents were born; there was nothing you could have done.”

  “Perhaps I should blame you?” Gideon met Galanör’s eyes across the fire.

  “Perhaps...” The elf didn’t look away.

  “Do you feel no guilt for your part?”

  “I have more than just Abigail Rose on my conscience. Pray that you never discover the true depths of duty. Men and elf alike are capable of great atrocities if they can do it in the name of another, be it gods or kings. Duty can give you courage and a sense of honour, but it can give you cause to act without thought. My future was sealed before I was your age. My skill with a blade could not be overlooked, especially by my father. I was killing for him long before I was killing for the king.” The elf continued to stare into the fire.

  “Are you bound by duty now, crossing The Flat Wastes and searching the Red Mountains for dragons? Has the word of your queen set you on this course, or is there more to the will that drives your feet onwards?” Gideon didn’t truly believe that the elf was being an obedient servant to his queen. It was clear to see that Galanör wanted to make a difference. To tip the scales, as it were.

  “I’m doing the right thing. It’s not what I want to do, but I’m not doing it out of duty anymore. It’s taken me four hundred years, but I finally see that doing the right thing is all we can do.”

  “It’s all we should do...” Gideon corrected. Though it was his voice, they were Abigail’s words and it warmed him to use them.

  The two sat in silence for a while, each contemplating the other’s words.

  “Won’t the fire attract the Darkakin?” Gideon asked with a lighter tone than he had ever used with Galanör.

  The elf studied the map for a moment. “Doubtful. We’re a day’s trek across The Flat wastes, and Malaysai is in the heart of The Great maw. They’d have to cross The Trident river before they broke through the jungle.” Galanör pointed at the river that cut through the jungle and ran off in three different directions, to the south. “They won’t be on our trail for a while. We’ll be in the Red Mountains by the time they reach the edge of The Great Maw, providing this desert doesn’t kill us first.”

  Neither was talking about what they’d do when they finally found the dragons. That was a part of the plan that couldn’t be prepared for.

  “Have you ever seen a map like this?” Gideon asked, pointing to the parchment with his chin.

  “I have never seen a map of anything south of Syla’s Gate,” Galanör replied. “The Darkakin must have mapped out the south over the centuries. Thankfully they never found a way to Elandril. From the looks of this,” the elf stretched out the map on the ground, “The Flat Wastes continue north for almost four hundred miles before it meets some kind of valley between the mountains. On the other side of that is another desert we call Eternity’s Edge. They clearly believe an army cannot be exposed to such terrain.”

  Gideon moved closer to Galanör, shuffling round the small fire, to better see the map.

  “This is where their armies are amassing.” The mage pointed to the map where the land curved round in the shape of a crescent moon. “They called it The Hook of the World.”

  “And this is how they will enter Illian.” Galanör pointed to an archipelago of nearly thirty islands that formed a bridge between the two continents. “Drowners Run.”

  “Do you think they could get past Syla’s Gate?” Gideon asked, looking at the map. The great gate was situated in the middle of The Undying Mountains, the most southern point on any map in Illian.

  “My people left it when they sailed to Ayda. From what I read about it, the gate would be difficult to open even if it were undefended.” Galanör pulled his cloak tighter around him. “Do any of the kingdoms man it?”

  “The Emperor of Karath had it manned for a couple of centuries after your people left, or at least that’s what the history books say. Since meeting you and Adilandra I’m thinking the history books need re-writing. Syla’s Gate hasn’t been defended for nearly eight hundred years.” That would be the first thing he warned them of, Gideon thought. The Emperor of The Arid Lands needed to move his army there as soon as possible.

  “There’s a good chance they won’t even make it across Drowners Run,” Galanör added with little encouragement.

  They sat in silence for a while longer. Gideon couldn’t believe the war that was coming. Armies from the east and south were readying to fight the west, but Illian wasn’t even allied. The six kingdoms had six armies and their own selfish reasons for guarding their land. If they didn’t see that all of Illian was under threat, and not just their own fiefdom, then there might be a chance that the allied kingdoms could repel the elves and the Darkakin, or better yet, ally with the elves. Either way, finding the dragons was crucial.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Fight or Flight

  Asher spat blood on the floor after Ned Fennick had finished doling out his final beating of the night. The Graycoat seemed to take a few hours to sleep and eat in between his interrogation; a pattern the ranger had taken note of. Pattern and routine were the worst things to have when trying to break a prisoner. In Nightfall he would never see his beatings coming and they never lasted the same length of time, they weren’t even in the same place. From the sound of it he knew the guard outside his door changed shifts every five hours. The old assassin would continue to build his knowledge of his captors until he could use it against them.

  “I fancy me a little kip, in a nice feathered bed,” Fennick began, as he unbound his hands from the blood-soaked cloth. “When the sun rises and I’ve had myself a nice breakfast, maybe some bacon, I’ll return to this shit-tip and we can start over. While I’m gone, I suggest you think real hard about the location of Nightfall. I want to know where they are, how many there are and how to make that Nightseye stuff.” The grizzly knight knocked on the iron door and the guards opened it for him. “Sleep tight!” Fennick laughed all the way down the hall.

  With his jailor gone, Asher lowered his guard and let his head drop, allowing the pain to be felt. His ribs burned and everything ached at the slightest movement. The fresh cuts stung as if Fennick had stuffed glass in the wounds. He wanted to scream and rage but he refused to give in, to give the guards the satisfaction. Instead, the ranger hung there wondering if he was getting too old for this. Could he survive this? Would he ever be free?

  Suddenly, his ears popped, as if the atmosphere had changed on a mountain top. Asher looked up to see Faylen stepping out of a black hole that sat between him and the door. The elf entered the room dressed as a warrior in a tight-fitted green coat, which hung to her knees, with a bow and quiver strapped to her back. The hilt of the elven scimitar attached to her hip glistened in the firelight. Faylen’s dark hair was tied back and blended into the inky darkness of the portal behind her.

  The elf stood there for a moment in silence, as the portal collapsed in on itself. Asher had never seen such magic before, but the concept wasn’t beyond him, and if anyone would be using it, it would be the elves.
/>   “Nice trick...” Asher’s mouth ached to form the words.

  “Quiet ranger, I’m getting you out of here.” Faylen began examining his manacles. “You and I are leaving West Fellion tonight.”

  Asher couldn’t help his look of bemusement. “And where are we going?” He swallowed blood.

  Faylen stopped and met his eyes. “We’re going to Elethiah. You and I are going to find a way in and destroy Valanis. You have shown remarkable resilience to magic, I can only assume there’s elven blood in you. Together we can breach the citadel’s wards and stop our people from going to war.”

  “Sounds good...” Asher replied coolly.

  Faylen went to speak, but no words came out for a moment. “Did you hear what I said. Our people are going to go to war. My king will use Valanis as an excuse to invade and...” The elf looked utterly perplexed.

  “This is not a revelation,” Asher explained in a bored tone.

  “You already knew?”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to put things together in here.” Asher looked around his cell. “There’s not much to do in between the torture.” Faylen appeared to be finding his skills of deduction hard to believe. “I knew the two of you were hiding something. Reyna wears her emotions on her sleeve, and she’s wearing fear. I’ve seen her fight and hunt and neither bother her one bit, but talking about her father’s plans for our future alliance scares the hell out of her. She looks at the knight like she knows she’s going to lose him.”

  “How very perceptive... for a ranger.” Faylen looked him over.

  “I thought I was an Outlander?” Asher tried to smile through the pain.

  “How would you like to be a hero?” Faylen countered with a calculated expression.

  “I’ll be whatever you want if you get me out of these damn chains.” Asher rattled his manacles.

  Faylen continued her examination of the manacles around his wrists and ankles. Her nimble fingers ran over the runes and glyphs burned into the iron. The elf moved round the room to see the manacles from behind and gasped. Asher assumed she was looking at the whip marks that lined his back. The worst part had been the salt Fennick threw into the wounds.