“As you say, Vizier Sivilis,” Horvarth replied coolly. “We are peacekeepers. We are not soldiers bred solely to fight your wars.”
“We are not here to discuss a few rebellious slaves,” Rengar interrupted. He gave Sivilis a glare that told him to drop the conversation. “Now that we’ve cleared that up... there is still the matter of Princess Reyna. Since the battle she has been missing, along with her companion and the ranger.”
“That’s if they survived,” Gregorn commented.
“If they escaped it wasn’t witnessed,” Horvarth added.
“I suggest we have our respective spymasters get the word out,” Rengar said. “If we are to go ahead with our elven alliance, I don’t want to have to inform King Elym that his only daughter is dead or missing in our lands.”
“Our alliance?” Gregorn countered wickedly. “I thought it was all yours...”
Rengar ignored the obnoxious king of a land no one gave two shits about. He had more responsibility than the others since it was Velia with which the elves had first contacted. The emphasis was on him to keep those lines of communication open.
“My people have no time to fear some ghost army!” Sivilis exclaimed, ignoring Gregorn’s remark and Rengar’s steely gaze. “The Arid Lands and the good people of Karath are under real threat. The House of Owls incites unrest and war against the great families! They are a cult!”
Rengar was already aware of The House of Owls, thanks to his network of spies in the south. He had taken an interest in them when rumours spread that they were responsible for the death of Emperor Faro’s parents, the previous rulers of Karath. Sivilis called them a cult, but the king of Velia knew full well that they were no more than a band of men, women and children - orphans all. As the unclaimed children of slaves, the group worked tirelessly to free those under the heel of the ‘great families’. Ultimately, they were no threat to Rengar’s kingdom and therefore of no consequence.
“Your country’s civil war is a matter for another time, Vizier Sivilis.” Rengar stopped himself from rolling his eyes.
“Should we fear this army of Arakesh, Lord Marshal?” Isabella asked.
Horvarth answered before Rengar could intervene. “I would suggest mobilising your armies at once and securing the cities. Complements from all will need to be sent to the towns, but I warn you not to underestimate the assassins. Though their number is smaller than any one of your armies, they are the most skilled of fighters.”
“Yes, thank you for your strategical advice, Lord Marshal.” Rengar held up a hand, signalling the man to remain silent. “We shall all remain ever watchful for their return, though it would appear that they attack with a specific goal, rather than aiming to conquer. Perhaps we will give it more thought when the princess is found. After her return to Velia we can discuss any extra guard that may be required from the other kingdoms.”
“What makes you think she will return to Velia after nearly being assassinated within its very walls?” Gregorn spat.
“It was Princess Reyna’s very wish to return here and continue our discussions. You will of course be invited, as before.” Rengar couldn’t even look at Gregorn for fear of losing his temper.
A quiet tension overtook the small gathering. Had they actually been in the room, Rengar couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t have tried to throttle Gregorn.
“Do we even discuss Korkanath?” Isabella asked finally.
Rengar clasped his fingers over the table. “The timing is suspicious, but Magikar Pondaal has already returned to the island and is personally overseeing the investigation. The only thing we know for certain is that the dragon is gone.” The lack of surprised responses was testament to the speed with which the news had travelled.
“Let the mages deal with mage problems,” Gregorn offered ignorantly.
“Then this meeting is over...” Merkaris’ ethereal body evaporated, followed unceremoniously by Sivilis and Gregorn.
“Until the next time, Rengar.” Isabella faded away, leaving the king of Velia alone with the Graycoats and Galkarus.
Rengar hated it when the meeting ended on somebody else’s terms. He always liked to have the last word, whatever it might be.
“I always thought the dragon was a myth,” Fennick commented as they left the room.
Rengar ignored the knight’s comment. “I would ask Lord Marshal, that as your Graycoats travel north to Darkwell, they would look out for any signs of the princess or the ranger?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Horvarth replied, tracing the edges of his new scar. “If they’re still alive, my knights will find them.”
3
Burying The Dead
“They’ll never find us,” Faylen commented, upon observing the drunken Graycoats stumbling out of the tavern.
Asher pulled his hood lower to conceal his face, not wanting to take the chance. It had been his idea to keep to themselves and leave the Graycoats be. Faylen hooked her arm under his and the pair drew closer together, as they walked the streets of Vangarth, posing as a couple. The ranger slung the sack of food over his shoulder and continued to head towards the Greenleaf inn.
West Fellion was in ruins and the Graycoats scattered, but Asher didn’t fancy spending anymore time in one of their cells, or the more likely outcome that he would end up killing them. He still wasn’t sure how he would react if he ever saw Ned Fennick again - his personal torturer. There was a time when Asher wouldn’t have considered anything but killing the arrogant knight. His current company were changing him in many ways, some more subtle than others.
Faylen pressed against him within her dark cloak, having arranged her long, black hair to cover her pointed ears. Asher felt uncomfortable with how much he enjoyed the elf’s company; he had enjoyed the company of women before, but only for a night. Taking comfort or joy in anything tasted like ash in his mouth now.
Elaith was dead.
In keeping with Graycoat tradition, a pyre had been built by the companions and the young knight from Ameeraska had been cremated on the bank of The Unmar, a tenday ago. Asher missed the Graycoat’s witty sense of humour and innocent naivety, but mostly, he just missed how she looked at him. Elaith had found the ranger to be fascinating and inspiring, never the killer the rest of the world saw.
How many Graycoats had died in the battle of West Fellion? Elaith would not have been the youngest to die at the hands of the Arakesh, though the young knight had been slain by a greater evil than the assassins. Alidyr Yalathanil’s smug face was burned into Asher’s mind, not only by the many years he had spent being trained by the elf, but by the smirking expression as he told the ranger about the truth of his past, moments before the elf killed Elaith.
Asher was still trying to get his head around the idea that he had been standing still for a thousand years. For a millennium he had been frozen as a boy in the archway of Elethiah’s old tunnels. Any family he thought might still be out there, living inside The Wild Moores, would be long dead. It was even possible that his entire clan had been wiped out in any number of skirmishes between the wild folk of the woods.
More Graycoats rounded the corner in front of the couple. Asher glanced at them for a second, but was sure to keep from making eye contact. He had been trained vigorously in the art of blending in during his years at Nightfall, the home of the Arakesh. The ranger could move through any streets as if he were a ghost on the wind. Faylen’s beauty on the other hand was not something that could be easily hidden. By any man’s eye, the flawless complexion of an elf could not be ignored, and so the two Graycoats paused to take her in.
Asher held his breath and discreetly reached within his cloak for the small dagger that lay at the base of his back. It was the only weapon he had brought with him, or more to the point, it was the only weapon Faylen had allowed him to bring. The elf had rightly pointed out that Asher had been seen by all the Graycoats, upon their entry to West Fellion, and that a man walking around Vangarth with a short-sword strapped to his back would gain attent
ion. He had even left his quiver and compact bow behind, despite the fact that most of Vangarth’s population wore both. It was a town of hunters, most skilled at navigating The Evermoore.
The ranger kept his head low and ushered Faylen along, turning the corner from which the Graycoats had emerged. He wanted to get her out of sight before one of them tried their luck. Though they were the famous knights of the realm, whose lives surrounded that of honour and duty, he still didn’t trust them. Especially now that their order was in disarray and their leaders scattered to the wind, or buried under West Fellion. Now they were simply skilled fighters with no direction.
The sun hadn’t long set and the cold night was quick to descend. Winter wasn’t far off and they knew about it. Soon the icy winds would travel south, off the Slumbering Mountains, and bring snow to The Evermoore. The streets of Vangarth were still crowded however, as the townsfolk prepared for the celebrations in honour of Ymira, the goddess of the harvest. For the people of Illian it was as if nothing had changed. Asher looked around as everyone got on with their lives, putting up bunting and planting flags or building shrines to Ymira. They lived less than a hundred miles from West Fellion, where only a tenday ago the largest battle in any of their lives had been fought. The greatest knights of the realm, these people’s self-proclaimed protectors, had fallen and their home destroyed. Not only that, but Elethiah, an ancient city that had stood for thousands of years, had been razed to the ground.
Nobody cared.
War hadn’t been brought to their doors and Vangarth hadn’t been destroyed. No one knew that Elaith had been killed by an elf, or that there were even elves in Illian. The royal families had kept that secret to themselves after the celebrations had been cancelled in Velia. Considering everything they had gone through over the last month, being in civilised Vangarth seemed very surreal to the ranger.
Asher stole a glance over his shoulder to confirm that they weren’t being followed. After cutting through the alleyway, the couple were back onto one of the main streets. The town was predominantly made from wood, being surrounded by the largest forest in Illian. Vangarth was one of two towns that sat within the border of the forest and under the rule of Queen Isabella Harg. The queen ruled all of Felgarn from her throne in the city of Lirian, deep in the heart of the Evermoore and north of Vangarth.
“I need to pick up some more Evernight,” Faylen said as they approached the herbalist.
“More?” Asher asked in his usual gruff voice. “You bought some a week ago.”
The ranger didn’t want to go near the herbalist. The little shop sat next to the hunter’s lodge, which had been recently converted to house all the wounded Graycoats after the battle. The knights were always coming and going, visiting their injured comrades.
“I need it to make more elixir,” Faylen explained. “You have no idea what it’s like living among so many humans with an elven nose.” The elf wrinkled her button nose in disgust.
“Reyna doesn’t seem to mind,” Asher couldn’t hide his smile from Faylen, even under the cowl of his large hood.
Faylen offered a scowl in return. The princess’ mentor still wasn’t approving of the relationship that continued to form between Nathaniel and Reyna. Asher was thankful that the Graycoat had the elf to comfort him, however. After they left the swamps of Elethiah, Nathaniel had been a broken man, blaming himself for Elaith’s death.
Asher waited outside the shop and sat on a nearby bench, next to an old man enjoying his pipe. Sitting on his own was an easy way to stand out. A couple of Graycoats strolled by, but none took any notice of the hooded man. The ranger sighed and sat back, tired of never being able to relax; no man should still be fighting into his fifties. Even though he hadn’t told his companions, Asher had turned fifty three days past. He could never remember his actual birthday, but Nasta Nal-Aket had proclaimed the day he found Asher outside Elethiah to be it. Asher didn’t like to think about the fact that he was technically well over a thousand years old.
The ranger sat there, feeling the cold breeze settle into his bones, while his muscles continued to ache from his fight with the Arakesh and the dark elf, Adellum Bövö. Asher was used to feeling the after-effects of a battle, but Adellum had been a new challenge, not to mention the punishment he experienced at Alidyr’s hands. The ranger looked at his right hand and noted the absence of his ring. How many times had Paldora’s gem healed him? Now he was without its magic. Now he was just as vulnerable as everyone else.
The neighing of a horse across the street broke his reverie. The large square door of the town’s blacksmith blew open to reveal a rather frustrated horse resisting the smith’s attempts to fit new shoes. Asher’s eyes went wide when he saw the horse’s chestnut coating and twin braids along its mane. Hector!
“Son of a...”
The ranger shot up from the bench and stormed across the street and into the blacksmith’s workshop. The horse tried to rear up in protest, but the smith’s assistant held it down by the reins. Asher pushed the smith back and shot the assistant a threatening glare, until he let go of the reins.
“What are ye about?” the smith bellowed, brandishing the horse shoe as if it were a weapon.
Though Asher appeared less threatening than usual without his assortment of blades and swords, he retained that look in his eye that gave even the most skilled of warriors pause.
“This is my horse!” Asher placed a hand on Hector’s cheek and immediately calmed the animal.
“This here horse belongs to Mr Biggins, the stable master.” The smith lowered the horse shoe and backed off a step. “He’s had a load since that business down at West Fellion.”
Asher sighed again, as the smith gave such little care or credence to the battle and all the lives lost.
“And you don’t look much like one o’ them Graycoats...” the smith added with confidence.
“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s mine,” Asher countered.
“What’s all this then?” an authoritative voice asked from behind the ranger. Asher cursed under his breath; sure that he had just given himself away to the Graycoats. “Do we have a problem here?”
The ranger turned around slowly and concealed his expression of relief at the sight of Vangarth’s watch. Two soldiers dressed in silver chainmail with green and yellow hauberks were standing in the doorway. Each brandished a sword on their hip and wore silver helmets that revealed their faces. Dark green cloaks draped over their shoulders and collected mud at the bottom. The assassin in Asher had already assessed both men and decided where to strike to bring them down quickly and quietly.
But that was not his way anymore.
The ranger had his companions to think of now. If he started a fight here, it would compromise the others and put them at risk of being exposed. They had to remain hidden for now.
“He claims this ‘ere horse belongs to ‘im!” the smith exclaimed, his confidence now bolstered in the presence of the watch.
“Do you have any papers to back up this claim?” the soldier asked, sounding almost bored with the complaint.
Asher clenched his jaw in the sight of defeat. “No...”
“Then best be on your way.” The soldier stepped aside and gestured for Asher to leave.
The ranger patted Hector one last time and left the blacksmith with a warning look. It would be the same look that gave the man nightmares that night. Faylen met him in the street with a curious glance at the soldiers behind him. The elf quickly took his arm again and the couple disappeared into the lanes.
“What was that about?” Faylen asked.
“I found Hector,” Asher replied with no lack of frustration in his tone.
“You nearly got into a fight and exposed us all... over a horse?” The elf sounded bemused.
“My horse!” Asher replied a little too loud, gaining the attention of a young man walking by.
Faylen gave him her usual condescending look and steered them into the Greenleaf inn. The pub that dominated the lowe
r level was packed as usual, but no Graycoats in sight. They had picked this particular inn because of how far away it was from the converted hunter’s lodge and surrounding inns. Asher and Faylen moved through the crowd with ease, both experts in predicting body language. The ranger retrieved his key but Faylen interrupted him before he could press it into the lock.
“He’s in my room...” the elf said with displeasure.
Asher smiled, putting away his key, and turned to follow Faylen into the room she shared with Reyna. Her elven ears proved true, as they entered and found the princess and the Graycoat sitting on a single bed together. Nathaniel made to stand up at seeing Faylen, but Asher noticed Reyna’s delicate, yet incredibly strong, hands pull at the knight’s arm and keep him in place.
The ranger paused, catching sight of the exquisite blade, crafted from pure magic, sitting in the corner. Alidyr’s short-sword was propped against the corner, along with Adellum’s devastating bow. Its ornate, white handle curved slightly at the bottom where a crystal the size of a thumb sat, fused into the hilt. The steel blade was hourglass shaped, just as his own was, and both were lined in ancient runes. Asher could only see the blade spinning end-over-end until it found Elaith’s heart...
“A productive trip?” Reyna asked, looking from Faylen to Asher, who was thankful for the distraction.
“We bought some food, I acquired some more Evernight root and Asher nearly got into a fight with the town watch over a horse.” Faylen gave him another condescending look.
“You found Hector?” Nathaniel asked with forced enthusiasm. The knight was trying for the benefit of the group, but it was clear that he was still depressed. “He’s in Vangarth?”
“Taken in by some stable master,” Asher explained irritatedly.
“I take it you already have plans to reacquire the horse?” Reyna asked coyly.
“Leave it to me.” Asher’s definitive tone ended the conversation and he dropped the sack of food onto the round table.
Empire of Dirt: (Echoes of Fate: Book 2) Page 4