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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “Traitors!” the Graycoats cried over the chaos.

  The elder unleashed a concussive spell so powerful it shattered a soldier’s shield and blew the man backwards, into three more of his brothers-in-arms. Bones were broken and flesh torn in the throng of limbs.

  The ancient elf looked about, between parrying blows and evading stray arrows, to see his kin, each enjoying themselves. Taking human lives was the very thing they had all been trained for and they loved it. They revelled in their superiority over man; their strength and speed unmatched. Hela was even laughing through most of it.

  “Die traitor!” the blond Graycoat, known as Darius Devale, jumped in front of the elder and plunged his sword into the belly of a golden warrior, his blade piercing the mail and biting into the soft skin beneath.

  “For King Tion!” two gold cloaks shouted back, advancing on Darius. “For the north!”

  Darius pulled on his sword, but found the blade wedged. Tai’garn stepped between them and swiped his staff across both of their faces, knocking the gold cloaks down. Nalmar appeared from nowhere and finished them with an ice spell, reducing the soldiers to frozen blocks.

  “Who are these men?” Nalmar asked, seeing the soldiers flooding the upper levels of the theatre now.

  “They are Merkaris Tion’s men,” Darius replied, tugging his sword free.

  Tai’garn loosed another firebolt, wiping a soldier’s face clean off. “Was it not King Tion who invited you here?”

  There was no time for words as more gold cloaks descended on them. Graycoats were starting to be overwhelmed, especially with many of their number still injured from the battle of West Fellion. Tai’garn could see the fight shifting unfavourably. The cramped quarters of the theatre made for terrible battle grounds, offering advantage to the shield bearing northmen. The Graycoats, for all their skill and grace, had no room to manoeuvre; constantly facing the broad shields.

  The Lord Marshal and Ned Fennick were being backed into a corner by a group of soldiers. The two men fought fiercely, with venom in their veins, but their righteous anger would not save them from the spears and swords. Tai’garn made his move to help, when a savage cry from the balcony above gave him pause. The drunk, Kaleb Jordain, threw himself from the railing and landed atop the gold cloaks.

  The older man stumbled to his feet, though through some miracle, his sword continued to bat away spears and even counter thrusting blades. He may be a drunk and dishonoured knight, but his skill could never be taken from him. Tai’garn commended the ranger and used his staff to launch the remaining soldiers up into the ceiling, breaking their necks.

  Horvarth and Fennick eyed the old ranger, neither thanking or rebuking him. Kaleb didn’t help himself by standing up, swiping the nearest tankard of ale and downing it in one.

  “Why have we been attacked?” Tai’garn shouted over the ruckus.

  “King Tion has betrayed us!” Horvarth wiped the blood from his mouth.

  “But why?” the elder pressed.

  “If Tion wants Graycoat blood he must be planning an invasion. He doesn’t want us stepping in. It must be Velia he desires; they have the largest army of all six kingdoms.”

  Tai’garn flicked his staff upwards and broke the jaw of an advancing soldier. “Why would he attack the kingdom with the largest army? Surely he would seek to conquer the smaller regions first.”

  “You have never met King Tion, My Lord…”

  No, Tai’garn mused, but he had met his ancestor, the first of his name. He too had been ambitious and greedy, setting his sights upon the dragons and their treasured Lifeless Isles.

  “Merkaris Tion would see Velia as the head of the snake,” Horvarth continued, almost every word between a parry or swipe of his sword. “He has but to win the one battle and the other kingdoms would fall into line with Velia under his banner.”

  Tai’garn’s companions had rallied to him now, cutting a bloody path across the theatre. The elder noticed the other soldiers giving them a wide berth, as well as a few Graycoats who now clung to the elves.

  Nalmar placed a heavy hand on Tai’garn’s shoulder and the elder followed his gaze to the theatre’s entrance. Nalmar had felt it first, but the magical aura emanating from the doorway could not be ignored by any of the elves.

  A cold pit opened up inside Tai’garn’s gut.

  A lithe figure, clad in black and gold armour stood as a sentinel, with the light of dawn breaking over her cloaked silhouette. A dark hood covered her head and a stylised veil concealed her mouth and nose. The shadowy figure held a spear upright, each end housing a curved blade with an edge of diamond. Tai’garn had seen that weapon before and the one who wielded it.

  Samandriel Zathya, a General in the Dark War and devoted disciple of Valanis. The twisted elf had been a member of the Hand since the beginning and was responsible for the deaths of countless innocents, many of which had been Tai’garn’s friends and family.

  Samandriel’s golden eyes blazed from within her hood and the elder was sure she was trying to delve into his mind. The General sought to plant fear in him, driving him from battle and securing the northerners victory.

  Tai’garn could not be so easily swayed.

  The elder made for the dark elf and his companions fell into line behind him, as if the manoeuvre had been practised. More soldiers died at the end of their blades and spells, none strong enough to halt their progress. After Tai’garn had blown the last soldier from his path, the doorway was empty.

  “She’s outside,” Nalmar confirmed.

  The elves drew together, leaving the Graycoats to their heated battle. Samandriel was a foe no man could stand against, though Tai’garn was led to dwell on Asher, the elusive ranger. By Faylen’s report, both the ranger and another Graycoat had fought against Adellum Bövö and lived. Still, the elder would face the General with his kin at his side.

  The light of dawn was cresting the rooftops, casting stark shadows in the early morning. The streets were deserted and for good reason; there was no doubt that the battle inside the theatre had woken the entire town, if not the marching battalion.

  The elves naturally fell into formation with their backs to one another; their keen senses taking in the world.

  “Was that who I think it was?” Ezeric asked.

  “There was only one who wielded a spear of that description,” Alwyn offered, referring to the tales of old that all elves were brought up on.

  It occurred to Tai’garn then how young these elves were. The Dark War was a story to them, the death toll and bloodshed impossible to truly understand. Fighting for them had been a game… until now.

  Without a sound, Samandriel dropped from above the doorway and brought her double-ended spear down vertically. Alwyn died instantly, as the diamond-tipped blade cut a line from the top of his head down to the base of his back, severing his spinal column. The elves reacted immediately and turned on the General, but Samandriel’s defences were already up. Tai’garn’s super-heated spell exploded against the dark elf’s magical shield, erected by an outstretched hand, and blinded the others.

  The elder regretted his attack but had no time to dwell upon its failure or indeed the death of Alwyn, for a swift side-kick found his sternum and launched him down the street. Tai’garn tumbled and used what elven grace he had left to land on his feet. Samandriel was a demon among the elves, however. Her spear kept them at bay before coming back down on their blades with deadly intent. Hela flew around the General with both of her scimitars probing for any vulnerability, and more than once her swords found flesh, but nothing could slow the dark elf down.

  Tai’garn was old enough to predict some of Samandriel’s attacks and see where her spear would fly next, and so the elder dived into action, sprinting down the street, where he intercepted the curved tip of the General’s blade before it cut Nalmar in half. His enchanted staff took the blow, jarring his hand and wrist as he struggled to keep it aloft. When Samandriel twirled away, the elf glanced at his staff and tried t
o hide his surprise at the fresh cut that would forever scar the wood. Tai’garn wasn’t aware of any weapon that could damage his staff.

  Ezeric and Hela pincered the General between their combined attack, hoping to overwhelm their foe. Samandriel proved the superior opponent and bowed her body, extending the spear ahead of her, while bringing her leg out behind her. The leg caught Ezeric in the gut and forced the air from his lungs, but the spear found its end deep inside Hela’s chest. By the time Ezeric had rolled to a stop, Samandriel was already sliding her spear clean from Hela’s chest and allowing her limp body to collapse in a heap.

  “It has been a long time since I have taken the life of an elf…” Samandriel twirled her spear by her side and stalked around the survivors.

  “You would kill your own kin and take pleasure from it?” Tai’garn knew it was folly to barter words, but he could never be rid of that hope that lay inside his soul, a hope for every elf.

  Samandriel laughed to herself. “I see no kin of mine.” The General looked down at Hela and Alwyn. “You are a thousand years behind the times. You should have embraced your true nature before the Dark War; maybe then we could have cleansed Verda together and embraced the gods upon their return.”

  “Gods?” Nalmar exclaimed, his anger easy to hear. “Madness has claimed you, just as it did Valanis!”

  “Take a care, young one…” Samandriel’s eyes were fixed on him.

  Tai’garn stepped forward, wishing to regain her attention. “You say return? You believe the gods have already been here?”

  Samandriel laughed again. “You will find no answers here. Valanis offered you all a chance to be a part of his vision. You declined and chose war instead.” The General adjusted her grip on the magical spear, giving away her intent. “Besides, you are moments from death. The gods will answer your questions personally…”

  “I can wait.” Tai’garn hadn’t been interested in any of Samandriel’s words; he simply needed to distract her while his spell took effect.

  The dark cloud that had formed from nowhere was now over Samandriel, its presence blocking out the new sun. With one knock of his staff against the ground, the cloud delivered its payload of charged energy. The lightning struck the dark elf with the speed and unbridled ferocity that only nature could muster. Tai’garn shielded his eyes from the flash, only catching a glimpse of Samandriel, who was hurtled down the street.

  Ezeric joined the elder and Nalmar as they cautiously approached the prone form, draped under a black cloak. Tai’garn put his arms out to stop them from advancing when Samandriel stirred and slowly rose to her feet. Her armour and hood were smoking and burnt, the stylised veil across her mouth ruined.

  Still she smiled.

  “You do not possess the power or weapon to undo the magic that fuels me.”

  Tai’garn looked beyond the General, to the doorway of the theatre. “Perhaps we do not, but I think we have enough blades to pin you down while we find such a weapon…”

  Samandriel turned around, pain evident across her face, and looked upon the amassing Graycoats. Lord Marshal Horvarth strolled out with his knights at his back, every one brandishing their one-handed swords, stained with the blood of northmen. Mixed within them was Kaleb Jordain, a sword in one hand and a bottle in the other.

  “I do not know who you are,” Horvarth spoke boldly, “but you can run back to King Merkaris Tion and tell him this betrayal will be answered for. You tell him that it will take more than a battalion of soldiers to end the Graycoats.”

  Samandriel stood her spear against the ground. “I do not serve mortals. You can give your message to Merkaris when his army marches over you.”

  Tai’garn glimpsed the smallest of glimmers within Samandriel’s hand. The elder moved to stop her but she was too quick, especially so for someone who had just been struck by lightning. The crystal shot from her hand and exploded into a portal in front of the Graycoats, shocking them into stepping back. Samandriel dashed for the portal of pure black, a clear limp in her left leg. Tai’garn stopped short of the portal and extended his staff with a spell on his lips, drawing more strength into the magic. A fireball erupted from the end and passed through the abyss with the General.

  Wherever she was going, he had no doubt that the destructive spell would find her.

  The portal collapsed in on itself, leaving a crowd of surprised Graycoats. Only Kaleb Jordain stood unaffected by the display of magic, though it was possible his blink lasted longer than the entire event.

  A quiet settled over the group of knights and the elves regarded their dead kin. Hela and Alwyn were drenched in their own blood, as lifeless as the street on which they lay. Ezeric brushed Hela’s red hair aside and stroked her cheek, while Nalmar closed Alwyn’s eyes and uttered a curse upon Samandriel.

  Tai’garn offered a silent prayer on their behalf, his faith ever a secret. He would mourn their passing in time, thankful that he never got to know them on a deeper level. They had journeyed together, but he had only met the group of elves upon High Guardian Varo’s introduction. Besides, there were more troubling things to set his mind to.

  The elder turned to Ezeric. “Why would Samandriel Zathya be leading a battalion of Tion soldiers?”

  “It is as King Elym feared. Valanis has taken control of man’s armies.”

  Valanis was playing a game that Tai’garn was yet to fathom. It troubled the elf beyond words.

  “I am sorry for your loss, master elf.” Horvarth sheathed his sword, his words hollow. “These treacherous bastards have claimed many Graycoats this day. More than our order can take, I fear.”

  Tai’garn ignored the marshal’s comments and addressed Kaleb Jordain. “You say Princess Reyna has gone south, to The Arid Lands?”

  Kaleb swigged his bottle and wiped his mustache. “To Karath… I think.”

  “Show us the way and you will be rewarded,” Tai’garn offered.

  “I’m already owed a reward.” Kaleb took another swig. “Nathaniel Galfrey owes me a bag of coins the size of my fist.”

  “Galfrey?” Darius Devale asked, his blond hair matted with blood. “He lives?”

  “The stupid bugger paid me to come and warn you… keep an eye on you.” Kaleb shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you why. From what I could gather he wasn’t exactly appreciated by you self-righteous bastards. Much like myself.”

  “If Galfrey is alive he is no longer a Graycoat,” Ned Fennick announced. “He sided with the assassin…”

  Kaleb snorted. “Well if he hadn’t sent me, you and the lordy over there would be dead.”

  Horvarth reached for his sword again. “You were not -”

  Tai’garn stamped his staff into the ground and generated the smallest of sparks between the wood and the ground, adding an ear-piercing crack to his protest.

  “A guide through Illian would make our journey swifter.” Tai’garn’s gaze continued to rest upon the dead elves at his feet.

  Lord Marshal Horvarth stepped into the middle of the street. “Master elf, our destination should be Velia. Your heard the…” The Graycoat struggled to define Samandriel. “Tion’s forces are on the march; the other kingdoms should be warned. A raven from King Rengar will carry the weight required to convince the other monarchs of Tion’s betrayal.”

  Ezeric stood up from Hela’s body. “We did not cross The Adean to get involved in your feuds.”

  Tai’garn held up his hand, sensing the elf’s aggravation. “Valanis has a hand in this…” The elder looked through Ezeric, lost in contemplation.

  “The swiftest route to The Arid Lands is the Selk Road,” Horvarth continued. “Accompany us south and we shall part ways at Velia, though King Rengar would benefit greatly from your recounting here.”

  Tai’garn could see that Ezeric and Nalmar wanted to go their own way, without the knights who were famous for their part in the Dragon War. The elder could see the benefit in travelling with the small army, however, especially with Valanis’ spies in Illian. Ultimately, it was
the Echoes of Fate that swayed the elf. If there was to be any hope for the realm, an alliance between their two shores would have to be forged.

  “First we cremate the dead,” Tai’garn said, “then we travel south, to Velia.”

  Kaleb Jordain let out an obnoxious burp and threw his bottle aside. “I still get paid though, right..?”

  24

  Unwelcome Guests

  After the sun rose, Asher approached the gates of Karath on foot and bade the others to follow his lead, each pulling their horse by the reins. The ranger was always thinking ahead, anticipating his target’s perception and he knew how intimidating the group appeared without setting upon the gates astride their mounts. If the Karathan guards felt vulnerable, they would likely turn hostile and call for reinforcements. Asher knew that avoiding violence in The Arid Lands was impossible, but he at least wanted to be inside the capital first.

  The dusky road that lead from the main gates was unusually sparse of life. Asher had visited the city many times in his life, and knew the area to be busy with trade, either stalls or moving caravans. The ranger didn’t like it.

  “Something isn’t right…” Salim said close to his ear.

  Asher nodded his head in agreement and glanced at Nathaniel and Reyna, a silent warning. They were a group of fighters all, so there was no point in hiding their weapons and concealing their armour; even the dumbest of soldiers would be able to assess the threat they posed.

  The ranger cautiously entered through the large gates, left entirely ajar by their keeper. Karath’s doors were usually open and so the sight didn’t bother Asher too much, but the absence of any guards was alarming. People could be seen milling around, going about their day, but the outer edges of the city were relatively deserted.

  “Is there a festival?” Glaide asked.

  “No,” Salim replied from behind his scarf, pulled up to hide his mouth. “Karathans do not celebrate the harvest of Ymira. This is too quiet.”

  Asher walked up to the first person who didn’t run from the sight of him. “Excuse me,” he asked in the language of The Arid Lands. “Where is everyone?”