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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Alas, her mind could not find peace, even in the quiet of the wilds. Reyna could only think of Faylen’s shocking news earlier this morning. Her mentor had spoken with Galanör!

  “He didn’t say anything else?” the princess asked again.

  Faylen’s sigh was not so subtle. “For the third time, no. And I couldn’t get back in touch with him after he disconnected.”

  “Was he in distress?” Reyna pressed.

  “It’s hard to say, diviners aren’t the best way to hold a conversation.”

  Faylen’s body language suggested she thought the worst of Galanör’s situation, but only Reyna could detect such subtleties.

  Nathaniel trotted up beside them. “So we don’t know if he’s with Malliath?”

  “We have to assume not, since King Elym was not aware of Galanör’s whereabouts,” Faylen replied through tight lips.

  Now it was Reyna’s turn to sigh. The young elf had met Galanör several times, before she left for Illian’s shores, in an effort to get to know her future husband. They had little in common. Galanör was a warrior, and one of the greatest at that, but he would make a terrible partner. The son of House Reveeri was devoted to the invasion plan and set on seeing his family elevated. Only once had Reyna seen a glimmer of another elf behind Galanör’s facade. She had seen it in his eyes during one of their escorted walks in The Amara. He would look at the distant lands with wonder in his heart, as Reyna so often had. But like her, Galanör was trapped within the plans of those around him.

  The princess looked back in her saddle for any sign of the ranger. Asher had told them to press on towards Lirian, situated in the centre of The Evermoore, while he retrieved Hector, his horse. The Selk Road remained void of any travellers behind them, however. Reyna was confident that Asher would find them before they reached the capital of Felgarn.

  Not long after the sun had set did the three travellers make camp. Faylen had wanted to stay close to the Selk Road, so that Asher might see their camp fire, but Nathaniel assured her that the ranger could find them anywhere.

  Reyna sat on the same log as Nathaniel and rested her head on the knight’s shoulder. The princess could feel Faylen’s judging gaze on her, but continued to enjoy the closeness all the same. The two had yet to rekindle any passion that lay between them since before the battle of West Fellion. Elaith’s death had hit them all hard, but no one more than Nathaniel. Only in the last day or so had she seen a difference in the knight, but there was still a gap she didn’t know how to cross.

  The young elf distracted herself and examined her new bow, marvelling at the craftsmanship in the firelight. The black coating sparkled between the ancient runes that lined the limbs in gold.

  As an elf, Reyna was more attuned to the world of magic than other reasonable beings, and so she could feel the power of the weapon humming in her hand. A part of her didn’t want to use the bow, knowing how many innocent lives it had taken in the hands of its previous owner, Adellum Bövö. Since she had been the one to finally end the dark elf’s life, and with his own bow no less, it was only right that she claim it. The bow certainly couldn’t be allowed to fall into the wrong hands and end up in the clutches of Valanis’ generals again. In some way, she thought, the bow went perfectly with her quiver, enchanted to never run out of arrows.

  Reyna’s pointed elven ears picked up the sound of hooves before Nathaniel’s did. Asher strolled into the clearing, guiding Hector by the reins in his hand. It was troubling to know that Asher had the skills to enter their camp undetected if he wished, though she held no fear of the ranger, but rather the assassins who possessed similar talents.

  “Any trouble?” Nathaniel asked, eyeing the short-swords strapped across Asher’s back in the shape of an X. The only way anyone was claiming Alidyr’s sword would be to prise it from Asher’s dead body.

  “They won’t know he’s gone until morning,” Asher replied casually, wrapping the reins around the branch of a tree.

  “Then get some rest,” Faylen bade. “We ride for Lirian at dawn.”

  Reyna’s eyes met with Nathaniel’s and held a silent conversation. Emotions, new to both, were swirling around their minds. She didn’t love him, or at least she didn’t think it was love - this was all too new for her. The princess’ frustration was quick to tip her emotions over the edge, her elven urges rising to the surface.

  A part of her wanted to forget her self-proclaimed mission to destroy Valanis and bring peace to Verda, and instead run away with Nathaniel to some quiet place and be happy. That train of thought took her to the logical conclusion that she would inevitably out-live Nathaniel. The thought made her stomach lurch and she broke eye contact and moved away from the knight, much to his surprise. He questioned her with a look, but the princess only smiled in return and lay beside Faylen.

  As the sun reached its apex the next day, the four companions broke free of the Evermoore canopy and rode into the city of Lirian. Asher patted Hector on the neck, happy to have his trusted steed back. The new saddle would take some getting used to but the ranger didn’t mind, he was more irritated at losing his goods from the previous saddle.

  “It’s beautiful!” Reyna exclaimed, taking in the forest city.

  The bulk of Lirian was located at the base of a small mountain, with its pointed roofs and elven-styled spires wrapping around the sides. The streets were cobbled and lined with shops and taverns that bustled with activity. The main street that branched off from the Selk Road ran through the middle of the city and continued up the slope of the small mountain. Asher watched the princess follow the path upwards, until she saw the palace and grand houses that lay nestled between giant pine trees.

  “That’s where Queen Isabella Harg lives,” Nathaniel said, also watching the princess. “She rules –”

  “Oh, I know my Illian history.” Reyna interjected. “It was once a great elven city, before the Dark War. My parents grew up in this forest. Now Queen Isabella rules all of Felgarn, the region that surrounds The Evermoore. The towns of Woodvale and Vangarth are loyal to her, the house of the stag. Felgarn has stood between Alborn and The Ice Vales for centuries, a geographical deterrent to war between Velia and Grey Stone.”

  Asher had to agree with her assessment. If not for Felgarn, in the heart of Illian’s landscape, the ranger was sure there would be nothing standing between King Rengar of Velia going to war with King Gregorn of Grey Stone. Theirs was a battle that had started hundreds of years before either was born.

  Though not before Asher was born...

  “I suppose that information would help if you were here to find our weaknesses,” Nathaniel replied without looking at Reyna’s hurt expression.

  Asher could see the new friction between the two, but he couldn’t find the cause. Offering advice to two young lovers was not something he was comfortable with, though even if he was, the ranger had no clue as to what he would say; theirs was a love destined to end in tragedy, if not by their mission, then by their heritage.

  “Where to ranger?” Faylen asked, no doubt sensing the same unease between the two.

  “Follow me.” Asher steered Hector away from the main road and into the centre of the eastern district of Lirian.

  Asher and Nathaniel took no precautions in regard to their appearance, but the elves continued to keep the wide hoods over their heads in a bid to conceal their pointed ears. Seeing armed people within the city limits was no shocking sight to the Lirians, who had long been hunters, still, Asher felt the enchanted short-sword on his back drew attention. In truth, the ranger was uncomfortable having twin swords on his back again. The Arakesh had always fought with twin short-swords on their backs, and it was the first thing Asher changed when he exiled himself.

  It wasn’t long before Asher found himself outside the only place that he had ever let his guard down. The tavern was unassuming and crammed between a row of shops and houses, with a simple sign hanging over the door.

  “The Pick-Axe?” Faylen inspected the exterior wit
h a critical eye.

  “We just call it the Axe.” Asher hopped off his saddle and walked Hector to the post outside the tavern.

  “Whose we?” Reyna asked, skeptically.

  “You’ll see...” the ranger replied with a coy smile.

  The others tied off their horses’ reins and walked up the short steps. The raucous noise from inside was surprising for the time of day, but Asher knew the tavern’s popularity had continued to grow since he rescued Queen Isabella, all those years ago. His ties to the tavern had caught the attention of many wanting to hear tales of the rangers that patrolled the land.

  “Is that a warthog?” Nathaniel asked incredulously. “With a saddle?”

  Indeed there was a warthog with a saddle strapped to its back, though it was no saddle a human would fit into. The animal’s thick curling tusks were decorated with golden bands to match the gold-laden saddle. Its light brown fur bristled as the hog snorted and pulled against its reins rebelliously. The familiar sight only made Asher smile all the more, and he realised that it had been too long since his last visit.

  The Pick-Axe was certainly teeming with patrons, with laughter erupting from every corner and tankards clanking in merriment. The companions weren’t given a moment’s notice from the drinkers when they walked up to the bar, avoiding the buxom maid carrying a tray of beers and the drunkards staggering away from their barstools. Nathaniel had visited Lirian before, but had never seen this particular tavern. The knight noticed Asher’s attention drift over to the gruff, but dramatic, voice by the far right wall, the tone often more a growl than any known speech. Though the speaker couldn’t be seen through the throng of on-lookers, he yelled above the others what sounded like an interesting tale about Gobbers, a gangly and vicious race of monsters.

  Nathaniel’s defences came up when the companions were halted in front of the bar by a solid wall of man. Asher managed to stop before he walked straight into the hulking barbarian, who looked down on the ranger as if he were a bug. Wearing barely any armour, the man’s bare chest and arms rippled with muscles and thick veins that protruded like worms on his taut skin.

  “Don’t mind him,” a stern voice said from behind the barbarian, who walked away, disappearing through a door, beyond the bar, without a word. “He’s from the Iron Valley. You know what them northerners are like...”

  Nathaniel saw a surprising smile light up Asher’s face. The man behind the bar was wiping tankards with a cloth, whilst smiling from ear to ear. The ranger strode over to the barkeeper and the two embraced forearms. Even though Nathaniel guessed the barkeeper to be older than Asher, the man’s arms were well formed and tight around his muscles, suggesting the simple barkeeper kept in better shape than the ranger, or even Nathaniel. With razored grey hair, thick, broad shoulders and the singular scar that ran up from the top of his left eye and cut through his hairline, the Axe’s owner appeared an unusual breed.

  “Russell Maybury...” Asher looked over the barkeeper and Nathaniel followed his gaze to the pick-axe mounted on the wall. The wooden shaft was decorated with several dozen notches from end-to-end.

  A very unusual breed...

  “Asher! You’re not travelling alone?” Russell asked with disbelief in his tone, his unnatural yellow eyes flickering across the companion’s faces.

  “It hasn’t been an easy road that’s led us here...” Asher replied seriously.

  Russell looked at the ranger and lingered over his sword belt, bereft of an actual sword, and the many cuts and gashes that marred his leather armour. That was apparently enough to spur the barkeeper into action.

  “Follow me.” Russell made for the end of the bar.

  “BY GRARFATH’S BALLS!” the overly-gruff voice from the other side of the tavern roared. “Step aside, step aside! Ah, shut it! I’ll finish the tale tomorrow!”

  Asher rolled his eyes before he smiled at Nathaniel’s confused expression. From their vantage, all Nathaniel and the elves could see was an angry crowd of men and women being pushed aside by some invisible force. The small mob jeered and groaned in protest, until the group burst apart to reveal a well-armoured dwarf. Only his hands and face could be seen besides the intricate black and gold armour that plated every inch of him. His long blond hair was pulled tight at the back of his head, where it flowed over his shoulders and mixed with his beard, which ran down to his waist and ended in a tidy braid.

  “I knew it was ye!” the dwarf exclaimed, as he stomped over towards the companions and punched Asher in the leg.

  Nathaniel had moved his hand within his cloak, keeping his sword within easy reach. The knight had never met a dwarf before and he couldn’t be sure of his feelings towards Asher.

  “Heavybelly!” Russell Maybury scolded the dwarf from the end of the bar.

  “What?” the dwarf replied with his hands held high. The smaller warrior looked from Russell to Asher to the three companions that stood to the side. “Are they with ye?” Asher nodded with a hint of annoyance on his face. “Seriously?” the dwarf asked again.

  “Yes.”

  “Well then,” the dwarf stood back and hooked his thumbs into the armoured plates on his chest, “I am Doran, son of Dorain of clan Heavybelly, at ye service!”

  Nathaniel couldn’t help staring at the dwarf, an unusual sight south of Vengora, the mountain range in the north that divided Illian from Dhenaheim, the dwarven realm. Faylen took it in her stride, like most things, and Reyna simply beamed at Doran, always excited to see new things.

  “Introductions can wait, Heavybelly.” Russell ushered them all, Doran included, through a door beyond the bar.

  “Thank ye youn’ lady!” Doran licked his whiskers and scooped up a tray of beers set down by the barmaid.

  Asher reassured Nathaniel and the others with a look, as they descended the staircase that led under the tavern. His show of ease and trust towards these people were enough for Nathaniel and Reyna, but Faylen remained ever vigilant.

  The private tavern beneath the Axe was a cosy chamber, void of windows and lit with torches and candles, with a stone fireplace set against the far wall. A small bar was situated in the corner, surrounded by a sheer wall of stacked beer kegs. A long table occupied the other side of the room, while comfy chairs and rugs were situated in front of the fireplace. The stone walls were lined with weapons, both old and new, as well as the mounted stuffed heads of a Gobber, a Troll and even a Sandstalker.

  The Pick-Axe was becoming the strangest tavern Nathaniel had ever seen.

  A light melody was being played on a tanbur by an olive-skinned man, sat atop the long table, with his foot resting on the bench. He stopped playing the tune the instant he locked eyes with Asher. He wasn’t the only one who stopped what they were doing, Nathaniel noticed. An older looking man with a bushy grey beard and tattered mages robes put his steaming drink down by the fireplace and stood up, along with a young woman with long, dark braided hair. The barbarian Asher had almost walked into upstairs was sitting at a small round table in the corner, but he paid no attention to their entrance. Another man with his back to them was sitting with his head hung low over the bar in the opposite corner, oblivious to them all.

  “That was a long stretch old-timer...” The eloquent voice came from the right of the stairs, where a man with dark skin and a bald head rested against a wooden beam. His white moustache and goatee lifted into a smile as his brown eyes took in the sight of the ranger.

  “Too long,” Asher agreed, embracing the man’s forearm.

  “Do my eyes deceive me?” the bald man asked, looking over Nathaniel and the elves.

  “Yes they’re with me,” the ranger announced, clearly growing tired of the assumptions.

  The bald man looked over the companions with a grave expression and bade them to take a seat by the fire. Russell closed the door leading to the tavern upstairs and locked it with a key.

  “Asher...” Faylen whispered, touching his elbow.

  “We can trust these people,” the ranger replied,
placing his hand lightly over the top of hers.

  “Indeed you can, miss,” the bald man said warmly. “We are rangers all, like your friend Asher here.”

  Asher moved to the fire and Nathaniel joined him, keeping close to Reyna, who was still mesmerised by the sight of Doran Heavybelly.

  “I am Jonus Glaide, but everyone just calls me Glaide.” The bald man placed his palm over his chest and smiled. “This is Hadavad and his newest apprentice, Atharia Danell.” Glaide gestured to the bearded man in old mage robes and the young woman close to his side.

  Still wary, Nathaniel observed Asher’s nod to the olive-skinned man walking towards him, but the two embraced as old friends.

  “This is Salim Al-Anan...” Glaide held out his hand when the southerner, Salim, stepped back from Asher.

  Salim cut a lean figure with long black hair and a well-trimmed beard. He wore black robes that touched the floor and a wide red piece of cloth that wrapped around his waist. A white ornate dagger with a curved tip was tucked into the makeshift belt, above several leather pouches. Nathaniel knew a trained soldier when he saw one. It was obvious by the way Salim carried himself, though the young knight couldn’t figure out the man’s history.

  “You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Doran,” Glaide continued, looking down at the dwarf who was inhaling a tray full of beer.

  “What is this place?” Nathaniel asked, glancing at a previously unseen head of a Gorgon - with its eyes gouged out.

  “This is the Pick-Axe,” Glaide smiled. “Mr Maybury over there is the proprietor of this fine establishment. It’s more of a home away from home for us wayward types, and Russ is content for us to pay our way through tales of the road.” Glaide pointed to the tavern above. “It brings in the customers. Though I doubt it’s our tales the people of Lirian crave.” Everyone’s eyes rested on Asher. “There isn’t a ranger here who can’t say they owe their lives to Asher...”

  The barbarian’s chair dragged across the stone floor until it toppled over. “So you the famous Asher.” The huge man slowly walked over towards the gathered group, his eyes fixed on the ranger.