Merkaris swivelled on the spot, the shock still not gone from his face, and dropped to one knee in front of Alidyr. The king of the north was wearing nothing but trousers and a bloody apron, his golden hair splattered with blood.
“My lord...”
“I am not your lord.” Alidyr stepped aside so that Merkaris might see the true herald of the gods.
Valanis’ dark form shifted from the shadows, as if he had been made of them. Only his breathing could be heard through the heavy mask when he slowly approached the genuflecting king. Merkaris’ expression told of his understanding about who was standing over him, despite the mask. Anyone attuned to the magical world could feel Valanis’ presence.
“Valanis!” Merkaris bowed his head to the ground and remained there out of respect, and no lack of fear, Alidyr suspected.
“Rise...” Valanis whispered.
The man hanging from the chains looked on, terrified, the sight of Valanis inciting darker thoughts of what horrors lay in store for him. It felt good to see others cower in fear of his master. For a thousand years his name had fallen into myth and legend, but now the world would remember what real fear felt like.
“You are free of the slumbering mountains.” Merkaris rose to his full height, where he stood in a puddle of the man’s blood, which was slowly pouring down a drain under his hanging feet.
“Indeed. Are you ready to take your place by my side and reshape the world?” Valanis asked seductively.
“I live to serve you!” Merkaris bowed again.
“And so you shall.” Valanis walked around the hanging man, taking in the various devices around the room.
Alidyr stood back, allowing his master to take the lead.
“The Graycoats are scattered and vulnerable, but they could still prove to be an untimely thorn in my plans. You are to use your influence as king to rally them, and then destroy them. Samandriel will assist you in overseeing their demise. Do this as you will, just ensure the task is completed.”
“Of course, My Lord, I will see it done!” Merkaris replied enthusiastically.
Valanis paused for a moment, examining the various torture devices. “For forty years I have studied the history that followed my imprisonment. After the Dragon War your ancestors plundered The Lifeless Isles, yes?”
Merkaris, clearly unsure of where the dark elf was going, could only nod in reply.
“During a time when the race of men was fracturing, I would imagine that King Gal Tion made scrupulous records of the treasures he discovered in the dragon lands?”
Again, Merkaris nodded, but now Alidyr was just as unsure as to what his master was hinting at.
“Do you still have those records?” Valanis asked casually.
“They are in the archives, My Lord.” Merkaris was on edge. “Under this very keep.”
“Excellent.” Valanis stopped and turned towards the king, with the hanging man between them. “You will show them to me, immediately.”
With that, Valanis rested his gloved hand on the tortured man and unleashed a spell that slowly turned his body into a solid block of ice. The man groaned and screamed until his vocal chords froze and his entire body glistened. It was clear that Valanis didn’t want the king of Orith to be distracted.
Merkaris quickly removed his apron and made for his chamber to change his clothes. That was when Alidyr noticed his master reach out for the nearest wall. Valanis staggered until Alidyr caught him and held him upright, checking over his shoulder to make certain that Merkaris hadn’t noticed.
“We need to return to Kaliban, Master,” Alidyr said in hushed but urgent tones.
Valanis inhaled a deep breath and stood up straight, pushing Alidyr away lightly. The hood and mask concealed his master’s expression, but he could guess it to be a pained one, despite his outward posture.
“You will return to Kaliban,” Valanis instructed. “Speak with Nakir.”
“Master?” Alidyr was confused.
“You are aware of your brother’s work in Karath?” Valanis asked.
Alidyr nodded, more than aware of Nakir’s actions in The Arid Lands. Centuries ago, the elf had started a cult in the southern cities known now as The New Dawn. With his power and ancient knowledge, Nakir had convinced the upper echelons of Karath’s ruling families that Valanis was their true god. Through these families, and that of Karath’s emperor, Nakir had steered The Arid Lands for years, fuelling their slave trade and bringing an end to their defence of Syla’s Gate.
“When the Darkakin armies arrive at Syla’s Gate, Nakir will need your help to open those ancient doors,” Valanis explained. “The people of The Arid Lands will resupply and offer their lives to the Darkakin, swelling their ranks. Karath however, has fallen into chaos and civil war of late. The slaves are finally fighting back. A failure on Nakir’s behalf. Now he is struggling to maintain control, and I fear that when the Darkakin arrive the emperor will have lost his forces entirely. I need those forces to join with the Darkakin. You are to send the Arakesh to Karath and coordinate with Nakir, to see that the Darkakin’s arrival is seamless and this civil war is quashed.”
“Master,” Alidyr started to protest. “I feel the skills of the Arakesh would be better used elsewhere.”
“And yet you will send them to Karath. Nakir is in charge of the Darkakin and their arrival. Between them and the armies of the north, the free people of Illian will be trapped. This part of my plan is pivotal, and I won’t see it compromised.”
“But Master, I have already had dealings with the Darkakin and their Goddess. Perhaps it would be better if I coordinate –”
The head of the Hand stopped short of finishing his protest, when Valanis’ dark aura threatened to overcome Alidyr and remove him from existence. No real show of power was ever required to get his point across.
“Forgive me, master.” Alidyr stood back and bowed his head.
Valanis turned and made for the door to Merkaris’ chamber, their discussion at an end as far as he was concerned. The king of the north was already dressed and ready to go, the blood washed from his hair and face.
“Merkaris...” Alidyr turned to regard the naked woman in his bed. “No witnesses.”
“Oh, she’s been dead for a while...” Merkaris didn’t even look at the woman, as he led Valanis from the chamber.
Alidyr examined the woman’s body again, now seeing the indications that she was indeed dead. Merkaris Tion was more twisted than he gave him credit.
The elf produced a portal, with the help of a small crystal, and returned to Kaliban, curious as to his master’s interest in Gal Tion’s records of The Lifeless Isles. Of all their conversations and his teachings over the years, Valanis had never mentioned the ancient home of the dragons with any significance before.
Curious...
Once back in Kaliban’s cold embrace, Alidyr searched for Nakir to no avail. The elf reached for the diviner orb, hidden within his white robes, when Thallan came by.
“Where is Nakir?” Alidyr asked, his mind still wondering about Valanis’ new interest.
“He had to leave for Karath,” Thallan reported. “The city is falling into outright war.”
Alidyr could feel his anger rising. Now he would have to portal to Nightfall to order Ro Dosarn, the stand-in leader of the Arakesh in his absence, to take the assassins to Karath, as well as portalling to the capital city to speak with Nakir himself. He wanted to personally oversee Nakir’s efforts, something he could not do through a diviner.
The elf made for the pools of Naius again. He was going to need a lot more crystals. Now he had to coordinate their efforts in Karath as well as somehow find the ranger in all the chaos. He still doubted that the man had survived the fall of Elethiah, but he wasn’t foolish enough to doubt the word of his master.
2
A Royal Meeting
King Rengar of House Marek strode through the lavish corridors of his palace, accompanied by Lord Marshal Horvarth and the Graycoat, Ned Fennick. A pair of Velian guards was sta
tioned by every door to ensure their king didn’t have to do anything as ordinary as use a doorknob.
The Lord of Alborn glanced out of the passing window and caught sight of a stray row of celebratory bunting, blowing in the morning breeze. The king subconsciously clenched his fist with the irritation that rose to the surface. He had been humiliated by the events of the past month. The moment in which history would remember his name had now past. The elves had been driven from his city by assassins; on the eve of his announcement to the world, the assassin, Ro Dosarn, had escaped his inescapable dungeons and not only that, but the heads of every region in Illian had been personally invited to the catastrophe.
Humiliated...
Rengar entered the final room at the end of the corridor, and tried to forget the embarrassment he had sustained upon announcing to the city that the celebrations had been cancelled, and the kings and queens of Illian had left.
The room was a simple rectangle with no windows or decorations. The bulk of the room was taken up by a long table with six empty chairs, the only illumination from the torches mounted on the walls. A plain black orb sat in the middle of the table, the room’s only ornament. Galkarus Vod, Rengar’s court mage, was already in the room, standing to one side in his usual robes and floppy, pointed hat. The mage’s over-encumbered belt hung with herbs and exotic instruments, all of which made some noise when he bowed to his king.
“Are we ready?” Rengar asked the wizard.
“They are already seated, Your Grace.” Galkarus gestured for the king to take his seat at the head of the table.
Rengar took his seat and watched Galkarus stomp his staff three times over the stone floor. The messy strands of wooden branches at the top of his staff glowed, as the crystal hidden beneath them offered its magical energy. The black orb situated in the centre of the table gave an audible chime before the empty chairs became occupied. The wraith-like form of King Merkaris sat at the opposite end of the table, his strong hands clasped out in front of him, always the figure of composure. Rengar regarded the young king with caution. Something about the northerner always made his skin crawl and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
To Merkaris’ right, King Gregorn Orvish’s dishevelled form took shape. As always, the king of The Ice Vales scraggy greying hair fell to his shoulders with almost imperceptible braids woven throughout. The back of the chair could still be seen through the wispy fur that lined the cloak of his collar. Rengar would never like the man, not after the wars their fathers had fought against one another. There was too much bad blood between their families to ever make lasting peace. For that reason, it was a good thing that the region of Felgarn was between their two lands. To Gregorn’s right and Rengar’s left, Queen Isabella Harg’s elegant features came to life. From her throne in the city of Lirian, Isabella ruled all of Felgarn and kept the opposing Marek’s and Orvish’s at bay.
Rengar couldn’t help but smile at the queen. He had always hoped to marry her and combine their kingdoms after her husband’s untimely death. Of course there was the matter of his current wife to contend with, but if the opportunity ever arose to marry the queen of Felgarn, Rengar was sure he could deal with his conundrum.
To Rengar’s right, the lanky form of Vizier Sivilis came together. The boy-emperor of Karath never attended such meetings, he was always too busy playing with his toys, Rengar thought. In truth, the king was surprised that Sivilis had attended the meeting at all, given the state of unrest Karath was experiencing. The vizier’s cylindrical beard protruded from his chin at an angle that was apparently fashionable in The Arid Lands. Rengar just thought he looked like a moron.
The last chair in the corner, beside King Merkaris, remained empty as always. The elected leaders of Dragorn hadn’t accepted an invitation to one of these meetings for years. It didn’t bother Rengar anymore, who knew the elected leaders were simply criminals, like all the vagabonds that lived on that island, he mused. So far from Illian’s shores were they, that the Dragornians considered themselves a country unto themselves.
“Thank you for joining us, Rengar...” Gregorn said sarcastically.
Rengar had always liked to keep the others waiting. He wanted them to understand the importance of his presence. Galkarus remained to one side, as did the other court mages that stood beside their lieges, hundreds of miles apart. Through the current created by all five mages and the diviners, the rulers could see and hear each other. Rengar knew that through their eyes, he was sitting at their table with the two Graycoats behind him.
Vizier Sivilis sat forward. “If you have summoned us to apologise for our wasted trip to your kingdom, then please do not. Emperor Faros enjoyed his time away from Karath.”
Because he lives under constant threat of assassination in his own land, Rengar thought.
“Get himself a new cuddly toy, did he?” the king of Velia muttered a little too loudly.
Though the others smirked and hid their amusement, Vizier Sivilis appeared shocked. “What did you say?”
“I said, I didn’t summon this meeting to apologise,” Rengar replied, allowing his impatience to be heard. “West Fellion has fallen.” The king left his statement to hang in the air.
Gregorn’s jaw dropped half an inch and he looked to the senior Graycoats, as if seeking clarification, while Isabella hung her head, no doubt already aware of their downfall. West Fellion sat in the southern region of Felgarn, Isabella’s land, where they were most likely housing many of the survivors. Curiously, Merkaris’ stony expression didn’t move in the slightest.
“How has this come to be?” King Gregorn asked.
Rengar turned his head to peer up at the Lord Marshal. Horvarth sported a wound that curved up from his right cheekbone and over his eye. It had been seen to and stitched since the battle, but the Lord Marshal had been bedridden for several moons in quite a daze. Ned Fennick, on the other hand, looked to have escaped the battle and destruction of their fortress without so much as a scratch. Even more curious...
“My Lords and Lady,” Horvarth began, “after West Fellion opened its gates to Princess Reyna, our home was set upon by an army of Arakesh.” Instead of eliciting shock, Horvarth created confusion among the rulers.
“I’m sorry, Lord Marshal, did you say army?” Isabella asked.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Horvarth lifted his chin, no doubt feeling the shame of his great defeat. “Never before have they come together in such numbers. We were… outmatched. They appeared in the dead of night without warning. Even now there is no trail to suggest where they came from, they moved across the land like an army of ghosts. To have even reached West Fellion they must have passed several towns, and yet there are no witnesses. Five hundred warriors march over the land, and no witnesses!”
“Yes, they are light of foot,” Rengar added impatiently, “as my own guards can attest to. Tell them the rest.” The king didn’t want Horvarth to go on and on, and he was all too aware that the Lord Marshal could.
“My knights are scattered,” Horvarth continued. “Those who survived or fled have taken refuge in Vangarth, Whistle Town and here, in Velia.”
Rengar cleared his throat deliberately, ushering the Lord Marshal along.
“Alas, I was injured, my life spared only by the grace of the gods.”
And your cowardly friend, Ned Fennick, Rengar kept that thought to himself.
“The accounts from those who survived are all the same, however. The Arakesh were led into battle by an elf.”
Even Merkaris’ ethereal body sat back in his chair at that news. Gregorn scoffed and Isabella lost control of her plummeting jaw. Sivilis only appeared intrigued, his immaculate eyebrow raised.
“With a single shot from a bow, this elf reduced the gates of West Fellion to rubble,” the Lord Marshal went on. “Those gates have stood for a thousand years...”
Rengar cleared his throat again.
“All reports state that the fortress would have been overrun a lot quicker, if not for the efforts of
the ranger.”
“The same ranger who accompanied Princess Reyna?” Queen Isabella asked, a little too intrigued.
“The same, Your Grace. His name is Asher and was once a member of the Arakesh,” Horvarth clarified.
“Oh, I am aware of the ranger’s past, Lord Marshal. He saved my life and that of my son’s many years ago.”
Rengar rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to hear Isabella’s recollection of Asher’s heroics yet again.
“It is said that he stemmed the flow at the main gate single-handed,” Horvarth explained.
Rengar glanced at Ned Fennick and saw the man’s discomfort.
“There are few reports about what happened after the elf breached the main keep,” Horvarth continued, “but those who have reported, tell of a battle between the elf and the ranger, with help from Princess Reyna and her companion, Faylen Haldör. Though they defeated the mysterious elf, it came with the price of West Fellion’s walls.”
“An elf led their army?” Gregorn was already over the destruction of West Fellion. “How many fucking elves are there in Illian?”
Rengar straightened his back. “I am going to try and open communications again with King Elym Sevari. We will get to the bottom of this mystery.”
“What is to become of the Graycoats?” Isabella asked, as if the two knights weren’t standing behind Rengar.
“Lord Marshal...” It was the first time King Merkaris had spoken. “Get word to you wayward flock; instruct them to take the Selk Road north. I will have a place ready for them in Darkwell. It won’t be as grand as West Fellion but my people there are welcoming. The Graycoats can settle there until you decide otherwise.”
Horvarth puffed out his chest. “That is most generous, Your Grace. I cannot thank you enough for your kindness. I will send word immediately.”
Merkaris simply nodded in response.
Sivilis’ ethereal form became animated. “No! Emperor Faros demands that every Graycoat left alive is to march to Karath at once. We contribute just as much to the peacekeepers of West Fellion, and their swords are required now!”
Empire of Dirt: (Echoes of Fate: Book 2) Page 3