Empire of Dirt: (Echoes of Fate: Book 2)

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Galanör strode through the central meadow that sat under the canopy of the dozen floating boulders. The sights and sounds around him were serene and calming, yet they did nothing to sooth his mood. How could Adriel be so passive? How could creatures with so much power sit back and hide in their crater?

  As the sun dropped below the Red Mountains, the shadows of the flying dragons ceased to glide across the ground. A cool, night air settled on the valley and the elf wrapped his cloak a little tighter around his arms. Galanör was drawn to the waterfall that poured out of the protruding mountain. He circumnavigated the giant pool at its base and climbed the smaller rocks until he found a way into the cave, behind the waterfall.

  It was dark but oddly warm, offering comfort in his dour mood. Galanör sat in the middle of the cave, facing the wall of rushing water. The roar was hypnotic and helped to calm him. As an elf, Galanör’s emotions had the potential to control him, forcing him to take action he might later regret.

  The elf dropped his head and sighed, trying desperately not to think about the horrors Adilandra would be experiencing in Malaysai. He thought about what else might be going on in the world. What would King Elym do now that Malliath hadn’t been returned to him? Would they still invade? Would it affect the timescale of the war? Then he thought about his betrothed, Reyna. The princess had been promised to him by the king when he agreed to bring back Malliath. Would the wedding be off now that he had failed? It was a trivial detail in the madness of everything else, but it didn’t stop him from wondering.

  The diviner on the back of his belt weighed heavy on his mind. He could, if he wished, contact Mörygan or even the king to discover the answers to his questions. Galanör wasn’t up to speaking with the king, even to inform him that Adilandra was a prisoner of the Darkakin. He knew he was a coward for that, but he still hoped to save her, and by saving the queen there was always the chance that the king would forgive him for failing on the mages’ island of Korkanath.

  There was that voice again; the voice of his duty-bound conscience finding a solution that allowed him to keep his honour and stay in favour with the king and the highborn families. Galanör had promised himself that when the opportunity arose, he would seek out some kind of new freedom and life in the world. A life where he didn’t need to pick up his blades and make decisions that ended the life of another. A part of him still wanted that life and despaired at the thought of the fighting he would have to endure in order to achieve it.

  Galanör couldn’t walk away from the fact that all the land was about to be plunged into war, and that shadowy figures were manipulating everything from behind the scenes. He didn’t want to witness the genocide of mankind at the hands of his own kin, though he didn’t mind the idea of wiping out the Darkakin and their evil ways. Galanör wasn’t stupid enough to believe that the war could be averted with words, and that peace would only come after a bloody fight, but he knew the dragons would bring a swift end to any conflict. Adilandra had birthed that vision and been right about where to find them. It was almost enough to give the elf faith and trust in the Echoes of Fate.

  He lacked the conviction that Adilandra wore on her sleeve. If anyone could convince Adriel and the dragons to help, it would be Adilandra. How he would save her without them he couldn’t fathom, however. He had no crystals to help him open a portal and he had no idea how to climb out of the crater. There was a reason Adriel had named it Dragons’ Reach, after all.

  Galanör was tired and out of answers.

  Without really thinking about it, the elf reached around his back and removed the diviner orb from its pouch. The black sphere sat in the palm of his hand, almost weightless. Galanör decided he would have some answers, even if it was just for peace of mind. Pouring his magical aura into the orb, Galanör called for Mörygan’s own diviner to receive his consciousness. In the dark of the cave, the only light from the waterfall, the elf waited for a response.

  It took some time, but eventually Galanör felt himself being pulled into another realm where only shades could exist. He couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw the ethereal form of a female elf instead of Mörygan. It was impossible to discern any great detail while in this plane of existence, but Galanör still recognised her, even if he couldn’t place her name.

  “I know you...”

  “I am Faylen of House Haldör,” the elf replied with a curt smile.

  How Galanör knew where he had seen her. Faylen had always been present in court and never far behind Princess Reyna.

  “I am –”

  “Galanör of house Reveeri,” Faylen said before he could finish introducing himself. “I know who you are and the nature of your mission.” Faylen had an air of desperation about her now. “Tell me everything, Galanör. Where is Malliath?”

  Galanör hadn’t quite gotten over the shock of seeing someone other than Mörygan. He also didn’t like the way Faylen demanded answers.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Has something happened? Where’s Princess Reyna? Where’s Mörygan?”

  Faylen’s ethereal face looked away for a moment. “Mörygan is dead. He was killed by what we suspect to be a member of the Hand.”

  Before Galanör could question her more on that most shocking statement, his physical body detected another presence in the cave. The elf paused, becoming detached from the conversation, as he considered who else could be inside the cave... or what else. That fighter instinct, that never went away, told him to prepare for violence. He disengaged from the diviner immediately and without warning to Faylen. In the blink of an eye Galanör was back in the dark cave and up on his feet.

  Two startling, purple eyes appeared in the dark, followed by a giant black head which took shape in the shadows. Malliath’s breath blew Galanör’s chestnut hair out behind him and threatened to overwhelm his keen elven nose. The dragon’s low growl continued to rise in pitch and aggression and his four, well-muscled legs brought him ever closer. Galanör hadn’t been around dragons for very long, but he could see the rage in those violet eyes, and he was thankful that Malliath wasn’t pushing those emotions on him. Instead, that fighter instinct kicked in, and was very clear in its decision that running away was his only option.

  Using every ounce of his elven reflexes, Galanör turned on the spot and dashed for the waterfall. Malliath’s roar filled the cave and four booming legs ran after him, until the elf dived through the wall of water and dropped into the pool below. The cold water hit Galanör like a fist to the chest, but the threat of Malliath allowed him to ignore it and push on for the shore. He had barely taken his first breath when the black dragon burst forth from the waterfall and plummeted towards him, claws outstretched.

  At the last second, when Galanör had been sure his life was about to come to an end, a green blur slammed into Malliath and sent the black dragon flying into the trees, beyond the pool. Galanör steadied himself in the water and watched as Rainael the emerald star batted Malliath’s claws away and held him down. Their mighty tails swung from side to side, crushing and snapping trees like twigs, uprooting ancient rocks with ease. Rainael entwined Malliath’s tail in her own and clamped both of them down to the ground, launching a wave of dirt high into the air. Malliath thrashed under her weight and snapped at her neck with his powerful jaws, but Rainael managed to evade every bite.

  The sound of giant wings soared overhead, followed by Galandavax, who swooped out of the night’s sky and landed beside the struggling dragons. With an ear piercing roar, Galandavax dropped his heavy front claw onto Malliath’s head and kept it there, as if the black dragon was caught in a vice. Malliath roared and continued to struggle until another dragon dropped out of the sky. The red scales gave his identity away as Dolvosari the storm maker. Together they held Malliath in place and waited for him to calm down.

  “It will be some time before we break through the years of imprisonment he suffered under the human mages.” Adriel appeared by Galanör’s side after he emerged from the pool. Both elves could
only look on, with the dragons struggling to contain the giant Malliath.

  “He’s angry...” Galanör observed.

  “And yet we cannot blame the humans,” Adriel continued. “They do only what is in their nature.”

  “Dragons live just as long as elves,” Galanör said, baiting Adriel.

  “Longer perhaps.”

  “The mages kept him as a prisoner for nearly a thousand years, and now he’s broken, an echo of his former glory.” Galanör turned away from the spectacle of dragons and looked at Adriel. “Adilandra could live just as long, except instead of human mages who pay her no heed, she will be tortured by the Darkakin. Seeing Malliath now, don’t you wish you could have done something all those years ago?”

  Adriel looked to reply but his jaw clamped shut. Galanör knew he wouldn’t change Adriel’s mind so easily, and didn’t expect to after one conversation. Instead, he turned away and left the ancient elf to think on his words.

  As the cold water ran down his face, Galanör slipped between the trees as a new idea began to surface in his mind. Perhaps there was a way he could save Adilandra after all...

  Before he could fully form the new idea, Galanör’s thoughts flew to the west, to Illian. The elf reached around his back in search of his diviner, only to be alarmed by its absence. He must have left it in the cave, or dropped it in the pool!

  “Galanör you fool...” the elf berated himself.

  7

  The House Of Owls

  An ocean of stars hung over the city of Karath, its flat rooftops illuminated under the stark light of the full moon. The daytime heat of The Arid Lands had been replaced with its usual icy chill. Like a bird of prey, Tauren son-of-none crouched low over the corner of a warehouse, located at the edge of the city. The district was usually quiet at this time of night, with most of the inhabitants either sleeping or drawn to Karath’s entertainment district in the heart of the city.

  At least that’s how it used to be.

  Now the city was overflowing with violent retribution. In the distance Tauren could make out a range of fires that worked to burn down temples and grand houses, the smoke rising to block out the stars on the horizon. The capital of The Arid Lands had reached its tipping point seven years ago, when the slaves outnumbered the privileged free peoples. It had barely taken a nudge to plunge the city into chaos. Now, almost a decade later, the slaves were taking back their years of forced servitude at the end of a blade.

  Initially, the emperor’s forces had pushed back, and severely. Many slaves were made an example of around the clock with public executions and floggings. Their efforts had only helped to fuel Tauren’s rage. Now, at twenty-four, the young man had spent his adult life fighting for the freedom his parents never had. Like all those he had grown up with, his parents had only two options available to them when their child was born; offer him to their masters, who could do with the babe as they saw fit, or whisk the infant away in secret, risking all their lives in the process.

  But that was before Mother Madakii.

  The elderly ex-priestess of Fimir, the god of wisdom, took in every stray and slave child she could find. Her orphanage was run in the shadows and kept away from the masters. It was there that Tauren found an education and opportunities he would never have received as a slave. Of course, Mother Madakii’s orphanage had only ever been known as the house, until Tauren came up with a new name, a name the grand families would come to fear.

  Tauren looked away from the effects of the very war he had incited, and fixed his gaze firmly on the adjacent warehouse, where he counted every armed guard he could see. There was once a time when the slavers of the southern lands would flaunt their power and boast to their friends. They would openly trade in lives, as if they were trinkets on a market stand, and laugh as their wealth grew off the misery of others.

  For seven years, Tauren had worked tirelessly to turn the orphanage of would-be-slaves into a force to be reckoned with. Now the guards were quiet and wary of what terrors the night brought. Now they transported the slaves across The Arid Lands in the middle of the day and with as much secrecy as possible. The slaves were moved a lot and the locations always changed at the last minute. This particular group of slaves were owned by Orfad Val-Agad, a grossly overweight man with ties to the great families that ran the city and now controlled their young emperor. Trading in lives was only one of Orfad’s services to the people of Karath; he also expedited the transport of minerals and supplies from Namdhor, the capital in the north. Such minerals were used in the production of armour and weapons for the emperor’s armies.

  This was a fact that gave Tauren pause.

  The guards were numerous and all well armed with fine weapons, but Tauren couldn’t pass up the opportunity in front of him. Not only could he free these slaves, but the information that came by his ‘owls’ informed him that Orfad Val-Agad was also present inside the warehouse. Apparently this particular group of slaves were being transported to Ameeraska at dawn, and Orfad wanted to see the transport off himself.

  “Everyone is in position, Tauren,” Braigo son-of-none announced from behind.

  “Excellent. Make certain they know their place in all this; they are to follow only. Anyone who gets out of that building did so because I wanted them to. Let us see where the rats run to when the fat man is dead.”

  Tauren stood to his full height at six-feet and turned to greet Braigo, his oldest and most loyal friend. Despite giving Braigo the instructions, Tauren knew that his friend had already taken care of the details.

  “Are you sure I cannot accompany you?” Braigo asked, as he always did.

  “We all have our gifts, and The House of Owls uses them all,” Tauren assured. “This strike must be surgical if the slaves are to be freed and Orfad slain.” Tauren would never doubt Braigo’s fighting ability, or that of any of his owls, since he had been the one to teach them all following his own instruction, but the skills required for tonight were specific to Tauren alone.

  “Mother Madakii will be displeased if we aren’t back by dawn,” Braigo added with a smirk.

  “By dawn, Mother Madakii will have over a dozen new sons and daughters.” Tauren matched his friend’s smile and the two gripped each other’s forearms, as they always did, before death was given its next opportunity to claim them.

  “See you on the other side, brother.” Braigo handed over the white helmet that Tauren had crafted on his nineteenth birthday, five years ago.

  Though covered in scratches and the odd deep cut, the visage was still plain to see. Tauren placed the mask and helmet over his head and knew that Braigo now looked upon the face of the White Owl. The facial features of the encompassing helmet were simple in craftsmanship, but undoubtedly that of an owl. Only his eyes could be seen through the large owl-shaped sockets - a fact that pleased Tauren. He had heard it said that the window to the soul lay in the eyes and he hoped it to be true, for when his enemies saw his own they would witness nothing but rage and fury.

  The White Owl threw the black cloak over his brown, leather shoulder pads and pulled the hood over his painted helmet. From head-to-toe he was adorned in daggers, short-swords, hidden blades, smoke pellets and a simple four-armed hook and rope that hung from the side of his belt. He was walking death, as he had been trained to be.

  Turning back to the edge, Tauren swept the area in search of his owls, but was glad that he couldn’t spot a single one. He had trained them well. Having already planned his entry, Tauren leapt from the top of the warehouse and flung his hook across the street, where it snagged against the lip of the roof. The White Owl swung between the buildings, until he could drop onto a platform, built from scaffolding, that was still attached to the side of the building. He was careful to shift his weight as he landed, ensuring his stealthy approach. A practised flick of the wrist brought his hook back to him in a flash.

  “I’m just saying, we could have some fun with the pretty one before we see them off,” a bald guard wielding a wide scimi
tar offered to his friend.

  The other was a typical Karathan, with thick, dark hair and tanned skin, wielding a double edged axe.

  “Orfad would know,” the axe-man replied. “He doesn’t like the merchandise damaged.”

  “Then we’ll be careful,” the bald one added, slyly.

  “Then you’ll be dead,” Tauren interrupted with an acrobatic flip off the scaffolding.

  The White Owl landed in between the surprised guards, who couldn’t even lift their weapons before Tauren buried a dagger in each of their foreheads. They died instantly without a sound, but he was careful to lower them both to the ground, using the buried blades to leverage their weight.

  Tauren left the bodies and proceeded to climb back up the scaffolding, having had no intentions of entering the warehouse via the main door. He just needed to ensure that those inside would have no help from the men outside.

  Back on the rooftop, Tauren made for the double doors, built on a slant, which led into the building. He quickly picked the lock and slowly opened one of the doors to avoid it creaking. The White Owl dropped down on the balls of his feet and rolled forward to absorb the landing. With a dagger already in hand, Tauren came out of his roll ready for a fight, but there was none to be had. Light shone through the floorboards from the room beneath him, where deep voices drifted up to greet him.

  Tauren moved swiftly down the only set of stairs and dashed up the wall so that he could use the wooden beams to observe his prey. The four-storey warehouse was now sprawled out below him, its secrets laid bare. The room from which he had heard voices was to his right, where he could now see the plump Orfad Val-Agad talking to his thugs. Tauren moved silently along the beams, until he could see through the window and get a better look at what the men were crowding round. There looked to be a map of some kind on the table, but Tauren was too far away to see the details. Whatever it was, Orfad was very animated in his instructions.