Relic of the Gods: (Echoes of Fate Book 3)

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Gideon gasped for a lung full of breath at the same moment the savage was launched high into the air. The proximity of the spell bent the Darkakin in half, until his torso passed between his legs, snapping his spine on his way back to the ground.

  More legs jostled the mage as he continued to choke and cough when he found his feet again. He pushed people out of the way to reclaim his staff, which had been kicked even further away. There were too many people crowding him, however, and the staff continued to elude his grasp. Gideon stopped massaging his sore throat and aimed Abigail’s wand into the rushing mob. The spell he uttered was simple enough, but its consumption of his energy was taxing. The wave of magic encompassed everyone in front of him, taking the speed out of their movements; this made them pliable and easy to move aside. Gideon sent them tumbling slowly into each other before he bent down and picked up his staff.

  Gideon!

  Ilargo’s cry was followed by the dragon slamming into the side of the pyramid, his claws keeping him pinned. The dragon was looking down the angled wall to the base, where a line of Darkakin was now emerging. Ilargo’s roar was defiant, but Gideon could feel the anger within. The Darkakin each possessed a spear tipped with Crissalith, easily seen as the crowds parted, leaving a space between them and Gideon.

  The bond between dragon and Dragorn waned and Ilargo suddenly felt very far away. His thick claws struggled to maintain their grip and he began to slip down the side of the pyramid as his energy ebbed away.

  “Ilargo!” Gideon screamed.

  The mage ran forward and aimed his staff at the line of Darkakin. The spell he had in mind would turn all of them into solid blocks of ice, freezing them to their core.

  Nothing happened.

  Gideon thrust his staff again and again but the spell refused to come forth. The Crissalith had severed his connection to magic, rendering the staff in his hands as useless as a stick. The Dragorn looked up in panic, an emotion he could tell was being shared with Ilargo. One last roar of defiance had the dragon push away from the pyramid and take off into the sky, where he again came under fire from the ballistas.

  The mage’s relief was short-lived when he realised the Darkakin now faced him and he was entirely without magic or a dragon.

  “Oh shit…”

  The Darkakin once again formed a natural circle around him, as if they were born with such instincts. The Crissalith tips had been sharpened at the ends but remained jagged on the outside.

  Use the sword.

  The link between them was quickly disappearing, reducing Ilargo’s words to a faint whisper.

  I'm no good with swords! Gideon turned this way and that, trying to anticipate the first attack.

  Mournblade does not require your skill to wield.

  Then it’s magic and it won't work! Gideon swung his staff out, warding them off and giving himself more time to think.

  Crissalith cuts off your connection to magic. It cannot take away the magic inside the blade. Use it!

  Gideon grimaced as he dropped his staff and reached for the hilt poking over his shoulder. The Darkakin closed in and the bond between him and Ilargo finally dissipated into nothingness. Mournblade felt foreign in his hand, but he couldn't deny the perfect balance of the weapon. Of course, he had no idea what to do with it.

  The boldest of the Darkakin lunged for him, spear thrust forward to skewer the mage. As a man possessed, Gideon sidestepped the Crissalith tip, guiding it away with the edge of Mournblade, allowing him to spin around and bring the sword across the savage’s back in the same fluid movement, opening him up from shoulder to hip.

  As astounded as Gideon was, there was no time to assess his new found skills. The mage soon found himself dancing around the next three attackers with Mournblade lashing out at every one of them. His movements and counter-attacks were perfect, fluid and deadly; every swipe removing a limb or slicing through a major artery. The Darkakins’ first attack was their only one, with no life left in them to attack again.

  Four dead bodies lay at his feet and the remaining three hesitated, glancing at each other for reassurance. Gideon took no notice of them, his gaze firmly fixed on Mournblade in his hand. The sword had taken over him, leaving him utterly powerless to its control. To wield it is to wield death, he thought.

  The remaining three came at him as one, each at a different angle. Even for the finest swordsman, it was a deadly scenario, as one blade couldn't possibly deflect all three weapons. Again, Mournblade detected the threat and took action, turning Gideon into an army of one. The sword shot up and out, turning away two of the spears, while Gideon’s body twisted into an unorthodox position to evade the third Crissalith tip. The third spear dug into the ground and the mage sliced through as if it were nothing but air. Completely out of control, Gideon gripped the severed end and threw into the charging Darkakin, ending his life before he hit the ground. An elegant swivel later and the next savage was relieved of his head. The horror of it infected the last Darkakin, whose spear had already been severed, and the man ran for his life, pushing through the crowds.

  The Dragorn held up the sword and examined the blade carefully, entirely unsure of what to think. Adding to its extraordinary nature, every drop of blood dripped off the steel until it was clean again. His first instinct was to talk to Ilargo, which quickly brought him back to reality, where the spears of Crissalith continued to sever his link to the dragon. With a quick look to the skies, Gideon sheathed Mournblade on his back and retrieved his staff before entering the pyramid.

  Ilargo?

  I am here.

  Relief flooded them both as their bond was reforged. The difference he now felt was profound, as if being without Ilargo was to be separated from his legs or his arms. Even his mind felt oddly hollow and empty without the dragon’s constant presence.

  The sword…

  I know, a Vi’tari is a powerful weapon; you have to trust it.

  A what? Gideon had never heard Adriel refer to the sword as anything but Mournblade.

  There was a pause from Ilargo and Gideon could tell the dragon was having a hard time of it. The bolts chased him across the sky and Darkakin arrows came from every direction. Ilargo’s emotions continued to bleed over, filling Gideon with a sense of excitement, but also fear.

  Be careful in there, Gideon. I am not strong enough to breach the pyramid’s walls yet.

  I'm inside now, so just climb. You don't need to stay. Get out of their reach! Gideon knew that the dragon would be constantly aware of his actions and when a swift exit would be required.

  It is they who should get out of my reach!

  Gideon had flashes of Ilargo’s time held captive inside Malaysai, when he was forced to fight in their barbaric arena. They had been cruel to the dragon, even when he wasn't in the arena. There would be no swaying Ilargo and, in some way, Gideon wanted to share in the delivery of that fiery retribution.

  The blurred lines between their emotions almost clouded Gideon from his own errand. His path was not that of destruction, but salvation. He had to find Galanӧr and Adilandra and get them away from the city before they were overwhelmed by the populace. Ilargo would rain hell over Malaysai, but he wasn't large enough or powerful enough to raze the entire city; eventually, they would be forced to face every Darkakin who called this place home. Those were not favourable odds, even with Mournblade on his back.

  2

  No Redemption

  Galanӧr had relinquished every part of him that hadn't been trained to fight and kill. The elf moved as a wraith between his foes, his two scimitars dancing through the air and cutting the Darkakin into pieces of themselves. In the heart of the great pyramid, there were no balconies or windows, forcing Galanӧr to battle in stuffy corridors, dimly lit by torches. The sweat had collected across his brow and matted his long hair, but it was his lungs that struggled the most. Besides the confines and the mounting number of Darkakin, smoke had begun to filter through the halls.

  “Adilandra!” the elf continued t
o scream as loud as he could.

  Spears, swords, clubs, and axes came at him from every direction, each attached to an ugly Darkakin foe. The savages wanted his blood more than anything, with most pushing their fellow Darkakin out of the way to reach him. Galanӧr ducked a spear and spun around on his knees, bringing his scimitars around with him, and dropped six savages to the floor.

  “Adilandra!”

  Galanӧr’s strength and speed were beyond anything the Darkakin could keep up with. A punch or kick would always send more than one of his enemies flying back into the mob. If he was injured himself there was no telling. The elf had fully embraced the side of his kin that had been preached for the last thousand years, offering the Darkakin a feral animal that knew only death. The passing of time escaped him. He no longer knew how many levels he had ascended or how long he had been fighting for.

  A crazed roar erupted from the back of the savage mob. The elf took half a second to register the origin and decide the new threat needed to be taken down immediately. What could only have been a result of generations of inbreeding, the Darkakin that charged through the middle of the group was a full head and shoulders taller than the rest. Galanӧr had seen savages like this one before and knew they were as slow as they were strong. With a blast of telekinetic magic, the elf forced a gap down the hall, leading him to the man-mountain.

  “Adilandra!”

  Galanӧr burst into a sprint and skidded the distance on his knees, raising each scimitar to slice open the soft bellies of every Darkakin between him and the big savage. At the last moment, the elf jumped up, gaining enough height to bring his blade down into his foe’s chest. With both hands and reflexes that the man-mountain should not have possessed, the savage gripped Galanӧr’s sword hand and his throat in one smooth motion. The sudden jerk had the elf releasing his second blade, but the increasing grip around his wrist had him dropping the other scimitar. The beast screamed in Galanӧr’s face and pulled him close, exposing his sharpened teeth and deformed features.

  The hand around his throat became the least of his problems when the savage turned on the spot and thrust the elf through the nearest door, shattering the hinges and breaking the wood. The impact hurt, but the quick drop and kick to the chest hurt more. Galanӧr was forced through another door and into a connecting room, where he tumbled into a heap on the cold floor. The savage marched through after him with his meaty fists clenched into iron balls.

  Coughing and desperate for breath, Galanӧr made it to his hands and knees before the next kick found his ribs, throwing him into the base of the wall. Unfortunately, his head snapped back and connected with the stone, sending his world out of alignment. A part of him knew he must be getting tired, otherwise, the man-mountain wouldn't have got the better of him, but that feral creature inside of him had little care for logic right now.

  With a roar of his own, Galanӧr launched himself up at the beast and came down with a head-butt. The impact put the savage back a pace, just enough time for the elf to take in the swelling number of Darkakin who had followed them. Instead of taking the opportunity to attack, however, they appeared content to watch the contest.

  “Ad… Adilandra!” His cry was somewhat hoarse now.

  Galanӧr ducked the next punch and delivered one of his own, though he might as well have hit a wall. The savage took the next four hits with a toothy smile before finally delivering a head-butt of his own. The elf slid down the wall, only partially aware of the beating that had commenced across his torso. The surrounding Darkakin were chanting now, baying for more blood as the room slowly filled with smoke from the hall.

  Rough hands pulled at Galanӧr’s collar and dragged him down the room to the next door, which the man-mountain unceremoniously tossed him through. This new room was blinding with an open balcony interrupting the slope of the pyramid. Daylight poured through, forcing the elf to blink hard in hopes of adjusting before the savage followed him through. A fist the size of his head dropped into his back, flattening him to the floor. Blood oozed from cuts across his nose and mouth, as well as a particularly nasty gash in his left eyebrow. Thankfully he was numb to the pain for now, but the beating and exhaustion were draining his feral nature, bringing the elf back to reality.

  “Adilandra…” he croaked, dragging himself towards the balcony, towards the light.

  Heavy feet stalked him all the way. This couldn’t be it. This couldn't be the way he died. Galanӧr had always known he would die in battle, but not now; he had to know if Adilandra was alive.

  “Save a life…” he whispered to himself.

  For all the death he had wrought, the elf sought to save just one. It wouldn't redeem him, nothing ever would. Too many had died, children included, to save him, but he had to try and save one.

  The elf was once again lifted from the ground and turned to face his giant foe. The view of Malaysai was replaced with a room of savages and a hideous beast who would soon see him dead. As he was stood up, Galanӧr deftly removed a small dagger from his boot and concealed it behind his wrist. Again, the beast roared in his face, determined to instill some sense of fear in the elf before he met his end. Galanӧr half-smiled and spat blood in the giant’s face. Coarse fingers wrapped around his neck and constricted, pushing the elf into the stone railing until his back arched over the edge.

  The light was still blinding, but Galanӧr didn't need his eyes to thrust the dagger into the giant’s chest. With as much speed as he could muster, the elf stabbed the man-mountain again and again, but the savage never released him from his iron grip.

  Above Galanӧr, where the sun was at its highest, a dark shape eclipsed the light for just a second, before it continued to slide down the sloping wall of the pyramid. His eyes had begun to water, making the shape harder to define, but the sliding figure was soon by his side. Galanӧr’s eyes focused and he dared to hope it wasn't the lack of air in his lungs that conjured such a vision.

  Adilandra, the queen of the elves, caught the balcony’s ledge at the last moment and pulled herself up with the grace of a cat, her actions appearing entirely effortless. With one open hand, Adilandra unleashed a destructive spell of brilliant light and energy into the giant’s face, removing everything above his shoulders in a flash. Galanӧr gulped in a breath as the man-mountain dropped to the floor, though the elf was entirely captivated by his queen.

  “Adilandra…”

  The queen leaped from the balcony and landed in front of the baying mob. As savage as they appeared, it was clear to see that magic was not something they were ready to face. Adilandra took on the form of a dancer, moving her arms rhythmically through the air, each hand conjuring a spell of fire that sprung forth as a torrent. The flames filled the room and beyond, burning every one of them. A single Darkakin ran at the queen, his entire body alight, but the attack never phased the elf, who formed a spear of ice in the other hand. The Darkakin was skewered by her throw and launched back into the raging fire.

  To finish her deadly performance, Adilandra flicked both of her hands out and expelled a wave of hardened air. The spell cracked the opposing wall and knocked the mob of burning savages away, along with most of the flames. The crackling of the charred bodies was the only sound to fill the room.

  Galanӧr found his feet, ignoring the pain that was spreading throughout his body, and simply stared at Adilandra. Since the queen herself had opened the portal that cast Gideon and himself into The Flat Wastes, he had done nothing but think of this moment. All of his time in Dragons’ Reach had been consumed with finding a way of getting to this very moment.

  “You’re alive,” he finally managed. “And free.”

  Adilandra’s expression softened for the first time since he had seen her. Her auburn hair was matted in the same fashion as his own and her skin marred with ash and soot. It seemed the queen had been setting the pyramid on fire for a while. Her clothes were tatters of their former self, but Galanӧr had expected to find an emaciated queen of pallor complexion. Instead, Adilandra look
ed to be more toned in muscle and her skin tanned. The savages had put her in their barbaric arena; it was the only explanation. They kept her well fed and stuck under the desert sun so she could fight for their entertainment. It made his blood boil and his expression hardened.

  “Galanӧr…” Adilandra’s tone disarmed him immediately. The queen dashed to his side and embraced the elf. For a long moment, the two held each other. “You should not have come. I -”

  Adilandra froze and her eyes looked beyond Galanӧr, to the open sky and sprawling city outside. Tears filled her eyes and a single drop ran down her cheek, smearing the ash. As if in a trance, the queen let go of Galanӧr and approached the edge of the balcony.

  “You found them…”

  Galanӧr followed her gaze to the blue sky, where a shimmering, green dragon was gliding over the city. A jet of fire exploded from the dragon’s mouth and reminded the Darkakin below that man was not the apex predator they thought they were. Black bolts cut through the air from every angle, but none could find their mark.

  “That’s Ilargo,” Galanӧr said mostly to himself. “Gideon…” The elf began to look around as if the mage would suddenly appear.

  Adilandra was still fixed on the spectacle before them. Galanӧr had to remind himself that the queen hadn't seen a dragon for over a thousand years, whereas he had quickly grown sick of the sight of them in his paradise prison.

  “Ilargo?” the queen echoed. “You know their names?” she asked incredulously.

  The sound of more savage cries found Galanӧr’s ears. “It’s a long story, My Lady. One that will have to wait I’m afraid.”

  Adilandra’s knuckles faded to white on the balcony wall. “I am not your queen today, Galanӧr. Today, I am but fire and ice…”