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

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Malliath’s purple eyes found him immediately.

  Galanör’s foot hesitated before finding the ground, but he thought of Adilandra. The queen had to be saved. As the elf approached, the black dragon shifted his weight and extended his wings in time with his arching neck. Galanör had seen the movement before and knew that a jet of fire was usually what followed.

  “Malliath!” The elf genuflected and looked up. “This our moment. Both of us. We can fly away from this place and be free, free to be unleashed. Take me to Malaysai and we can do what we were both made to do.”

  He was yet to be consumed in fire and Galanör took this as a good sign. Perhaps his time among the other dragons had begun to work after all. That thought was fleeting when the black dragon bared his numerous teeth and narrowed his eyes. Apparently, Malliath had no intention of burning the elf, but was in fact planning on eating him. The dragon lunged, his mighty head arced high to come down on Galanör. The deadly maw was only inches away from the elf when a hulking mountain of ebony scales collided with Malliath’s neck.

  Galanör was rolling across the ground, giving into his survival instincts, as the two dragons smashed into one another. Fire was spat high into the air and ice sprayed across the ground in the savage battle. Galandavax’s claws raked down Malliath’s hardened chest, tugging loose scales and cutting the flesh beneath, while the black dragon clamped his jaws around Galandavax’s neck.

  That was when the largest and oldest dragons arrived.

  Rainael the emerald star hit the ground hard with Vorgraf the mountain child and Dolvosari the storm maker by her side. Beldroga the great hunter flanked Malliath while Angala the wise went low for his legs. Emenar the golden one was the last to drop out of the sky, and drop he did. The gold dragon buried Malliath, throwing up dirt and broken logs into the air.

  “You will never learn!” Adriel was advancing on Galanör with some speed.

  “We need to -”

  Galanör’s protest was cut dramatically short when Adriel’s flat hand thrust out into a nerve cluster in his shoulder. The ancient elf followed it up with three swift, open-palm, attacks that each found a vulnerable place on Galanör’s body. The point of Adriel’s fingers caused an explosion of pain to ripple through his muscles.

  Another flash of pain had Galanör on his knees in the mud. He couldn’t quite find the right amount of air to please his lungs or the balance to stand back up. Beyond Adriel, the younger dragons had already started gliding over the treetops and putting the fires out with their ice breath.

  Galanör finally looked up at Adriel and saw new wounds appearing across his neck and patches of his robes dripping with blood. Galandavax’s wounds were mirrored in the Dragorn’s body, though he seemed to barely notice. Instead, Adriel brought his hand down across Galanör’s neck like a hammer, robbing him of conscious thought.

  Galanör had no clue as to how long he had been unconscious, but the sun was higher than it had been when Adriel unleashed Mag’dereth on him. The air was hot and dry, also. The elf blinked hard and sat up, taking in his new surroundings for the first time.

  There was no mistaking The Flat Wastes.

  For miles around there was nothing but harsh desert and a wavy horizon. The Red Mountains were small in the distance, the backdrop to Gideon and Adriel, who both stood under the sun watching him. As he found his feet again, both Ilargo and Galandavax dropped down, their claws sinking into the crusted ground. The sound of birds and insects soon found Galanör’s ears and he turned around to see that he was standing on the very edge of The Great Maw.

  “You are exiled from Dragons’ Reach, Galanör.” Adriel’s grave tone told of his disappointment. “Rainael the emerald star agrees that your freedom is the best thing, though I would point out that your path leads only to death.” The elf looked beyond Galanör, to the jungle.

  Galanör ignored Adriel for the moment and focused on Gideon. The mage couldn’t meet his eyes, choosing to look at the elf’s chest. Galanör wanted to ask if he would come with him so that they could rescue Adilandra together, but that would have been selfish; Gideon was born to be a Dragorn, a title that bore responsibility. He decided to make it easy on the mage and address Adriel instead.

  “When history looks back on this…” Galanör laughed mirthlessly, withholding the insult that sat on the end of his tongue. “Well, I suppose when all of this is over, you’ll be the only one left to write history. Enjoy paradise.” The elf turned and strode towards the jungle, hesitating before entering. “And Gideon…” He half-turned to regard the young man. “You’re the first of your people to become a Dragorn. Being the first means you get to make the rules. Be the Dragorn you want to be…”

  Without waiting for a response, the warrior-born entered the jungle and quickly disappeared from sight.

  29

  Schism

  Tauren son-of-none leaned against the old iron parapet and looked down at the valley below Syla’s Gate. On the one side was civilisation and Illian as man knew it, and on the other, a world that hadn’t been seen for over a millennia. Illian’s southern lands were unknown and as dangerous as, if not more so, The Wild Moores in the north. Tauren narrowed his vision beyond the valley floor and the encompassing mountains, searching for any sign of the Darkakin horde.

  The dust cloud on the horizon opened a pit in his stomach.

  “I can’t believe they’re actually coming...” It was the Graycoat, Nathaniel Galfrey, who made the comment.

  Tauren had brought them up at the request of the Princess, the elf. That fact alone turned his whole life upside down. There had always been a part of him that considered the elves to be no more than stories, but fighting Nakir, meeting Alidyr and now standing side-by-side with Princess Reyna… Tauren didn’t know what to think anymore.

  “This gate will bar them,” Reyna replied confidently, her lithe hands running the edge of the parapet.

  Faylen turned back to look at the city in the distance, her fair features marred with concern. “If anyone could find a way it would be the Hand of Valanis. We already know that both Nakir and Alidyr are in Karath. Both were blessed by Valanis with a portion of Naius’ magic; they shouldn’t be underestimated.”

  Tauren examined the gate under his feet, taking in its incredible width of at least twenty-feet of solid iron. The walkway that formed the top of the gate was interrupted by a single line in the middle, where the two doors were sealed. Most of it was layered in sand and dust after centuries of standing in the desert, but up close the son-of-none could see the intricate work of the elves. Almost every inch of the dark iron was engraved with glyphs Tauren didn’t recognise.

  “We shouldn’t be up here,” Nathaniel said, unimpressed with the view.

  “We have time,” Reyna countered. “If Alidyr marched the Karathan army out of the city we would see them coming.”

  Nathaniel crossed the walkway and looked out over Karath. “This is a killing field. Open spaces, no cover, a wall to our back and no escape route. They’ll cross the desert and pin us against Syla’s Gate with arrows before a single Karathan soldier even lifts his sword.”

  “Are you always so glum?” Tauren said, the hint of a smile on his face. In truth, the man was just happy to have left Salim below, where his grief could not tip his own over the edge. In some ways he welcomed the fight to come, if only so he could give himself over to the mayhem and forget about the deaths that weighed on him.

  “You’ll get used to him,” Reyna said, though her smile spoke of her true feelings for the Graycoat.

  “My owls are good fighters. They aren’t Arakesh, but they can stand up to any Karathan soldier.” Tauren directed his words at Nathaniel, who didn’t seem convinced.

  “Then let’s hope Alidyr decides to leave his greatest weapon inside the city walls.” Nathaniel turned away from the vista and locked eyes with Faylen, but Tauren could not decipher the silent conversation.

  “The Arakesh are unaccustomed to open warfare,” Reyna said. “We
saw that at West Fellion. They get in each other’s way and they certainly won’t get along with the Karathan army.”

  “And what’s left of West Fellion now?” Nathaniel added.

  The princess didn’t have anything to say to that. Tauren had certainly heard of West Fellion, having narrowly avoided their patrols of Karath as a child, while they searched for fresh recruits. The battle described to him at their fort was hard to imagine, but something told him that the battle about to take place at Syla’s Gate would dwarf it.

  The son-of-none looked from north to south, weighing up the events that were taking place around him. Never did he imagine that he would be in the heart of a struggle that held all of Verda in the balance. Though he was young, the White Owl could see where the battle would be fought and where the war would be fought. Valanis was the insidious will that drove the Darkakin north and manipulated the elves to the east. He was the enemy.

  “If your task is as grave and important as you claim, you should leave now.” Tauren knew he was offering the greatest fighters at his disposal a way out, but his was the battle and theirs was the war. “Go to Nightfall before Karath marches on the Gate. Asher said it is north east of here. If you follow the Undying Mountains east until you smell the sea, then turn north, you will avoid any patrols.”

  Princess Reyna stepped away from the parapet with her magnificent bow in hand. “Your owls are too few, Tauren son-of-none. Every blade and arrow is going to count in the fight to come.”

  Before Tauren could reply, the sound of a horn blared on each side of the Gate, where the look-outs held positions. They all moved swiftly to the north side of the walkway and gazed intently into the distance, where a line of armoured men on horseback could seen. The riders were charging out of Karath’s southern gate in rows of three, their black cloaks draped over their mounts.

  “We need to be down there!” Tauren ran for the scaffolding to their right and instructed the two owls to lower them all on the pulley system.

  The group were closed in tight on the way down, the only sound coming from the two men turning the levers above. There were stairs beside them, but the height was dizzying and the energy required to run down so many steps would be gruelling before a battle. They could only watch as the soldiers closed the gap across the strip of desert, each with a spear and a shield emblazoned with the head of a horse.

  “Asher…” Reyna whispered.

  The ranger was still in the desert, between the Gate and Karath. Tauren squinted to see the man stand up and pull his broadsword free of the ground. It was quite the sight, to see his green cloak billowing and his sword shimmering under the sun, as an army of Karathans charged towards him.

  “Fool! Why isn’t he running?” Fayeln asked.

  “I don’t think he knows how to run…” Nathaniel offered.

  “He is an angry man.” Tauren’s comment had their attention. “I have only known him for a few hours and even I can see the anger that lives inside of him.” In truth, Tauren could see his own anger reflected in the ranger. It was a quiet anger that lived just under the surface, always ready to take over and never satisfied. He would recognise it anywhere.

  “Angry he may be,” Reyna said, “but he would stand before an army if it meant keeping others safe.”

  The princess’ admiration was easy to see and easily shared by the son-of-none.

  Tauren hung over the side to see his owls below. They were running about, forming lines and defensive positions with the other rangers running ahead of them to their horses. The big man, Bale, was easy to see, even from this height; he was riding in line with Glaide, Doran and the two mages.

  Salim was nowhere to be seen.

  “Doesn’t this thing go any faster?” Nathaniel asked with irritation.

  By the time the lift reached the bottom four flights of stairs, the companions jumped out off the platform and sprinted down the steps. The horses were lining up now in front of Asher, spreading their size around him in a semi-circle and concealing Karath in the distance. Tauren was new to war, but even to him it seemed a foolish thing to have stopped their charge and simply line up. With the speed of the horses, the Karathan soldiers could have ran through Asher and the lines of owls, cutting them down with ease. In that regard, perhaps being so close to Syla’s Gate was a deterrent.

  The son-of-none joined the three in mounting a horse and riding out to meet the rangers. He called to his owls to hold their positions before leaving.

  The elves showed incredible agility, jumping down from their trotting horses with a bow in hand and an arrow nocked. The rangers had all left their mounts and come to stand behind Asher now. Hadavad, the mage, was whispering into the end of his staff; the spells were just mutterings to Tauren, but he was more than glad that they had some magic at their disposal. Bale of the Oakbreaker clan looked ready to kill anything that moved, with an axe in each hand and a massive grin on his face. Doran appeared more as a bull, squat and ready to charge with his wide sword and spiked gauntlets. Glaide and Asher were of a calmer demeanor, each holding their sword in a casual hold.

  The sound of three bow strings being pulled taut beside Tauren had him looking at the elves and the knight, each as focused as the next. They were certainly few, but the son-of-none was sure these few could make a dent in the Karathan army that would be remembered for all time. His own owls were behind him, in the distance, looking out at the riders lined before them.

  “Well what are ye waitin’ for?” Doran yelled, smashing his fist into his chestplate.

  There was only silence that followed.

  A single rider left his horse behind and approached the group on foot. He dug his spear into the ground, along with his sword, before slowly removing his helmet to reveal a southerner’s face and shoulder-length black hair. Tauren was sure he had seen the soldier before, but he couldn’t place him.

  “I am Kail An-Agoh. Before you are twelve-hundred of Karath’s greatest warriors. Each man here has pledged an oath to protect these lands, but more so, they have sworn to protect its people.” Kail looked past Asher and locked eyes with Tauren. “We were taught the true meaning of this oath by our commander, Halion Al-Anan.”

  The next moment was that of only stunned silence.

  “You’re not here to fight us?” Tauren asked, incredulously.

  “We have come to fight, but we would fight by your side. The Darkakin must not be allowed to breach Syla’s Gate; our families depend on it.”

  Asher commanded Kail’s attention. “You would fight your own to this end? Twelve-hundred men do not make up the army of The Arid Lands. Alidyr will march out your brothers to take this gate.”

  Kail raised his chin. “If our brothers cannot see the evil that has taken a hold of our lands, or do not truly understand what marches on our city, then they will be re-educated. At the point of a blade if necessary.”

  Asher appeared to be assessing those words closely. “How many more remain under Alidyr’s command?”

  “Around eighteen-hundred,” Kail replied grimly.

  Tauren wasn’t really taking in a lot of what they were saying. Instead, the son-of-none was dazed, examining every Karathan face. These were men who had each spoken with Halion at some point and at great length if they had all come round to a new way of thinking. These soldiers were the ones his brother had been converting for years, convincing them that slavery was not the way forward. These men were the future of Karath, if it had a future.

  All these years he had thought his brother had the easier task of the two, with Tauren living a harder life on the streets, fighting slavers. Now he saw that Halion had been completing the much harder task of changing a mindset that had ruled over Karath for a thousand years.

  Asher glanced at the old mage. “Hadavad?”

  The old man looked about the faces with a scrutinising eye as he leant against his staff. A quick shake of the head was his only reply to the unasked question.

  “Where is the rest of the army?” Asher asked.
“Why haven’t they marched out yet?”

  “They will soon,” Kail replied. “The shadowed ones, Alidyr and… Nakir. They have sent word to the outlying forces. They are waiting for reinforcements to arrive, but they will certainly march tonight, with or without all of them.”

  “How do we know this is not a trap?” Faylen lowered her bow, her question directed at Asher.

  “There would be no sense in setting a trap,” Asher replied, his eyes scanning every soldier. “They already have superior numbers and Alidyr knows it.” The ranger turned to Tauren. “Does this make more sense to you?”

  The son-of-none nodded his head. “Halion and I have been working together for years; the owls and myself on the streets, Halion on the inside. Our original intention was to take the palace and replace the emperor with a better ruler, thereby ending slavery in The Arid Lands. My brother always said there were those loyal to our cause...”

  The ranger sheathed his sword and the others followed.

  “Asher…” Faylen said with caution.

  “Only alliance and trust between two shores.” Asher’s words were lost on Tauren. “Isn’t that what you keep saying?” The ranger turned and looked at Faylen. “I suppose this will have to be the trust part…”

  Glaide announced, “We will need to work fast if we are to be ready for their attack.”

  “Not just them,” Tauren added, “The Darkakin are almost here.” That comment had the line of riders muttering amongst themselves; their concern evident.

  “You are sure?” Glaide asked.

  Nathaniel replaced his arrow and shouldered his bow. “Unless there is a cloudless storm in the south, an army is marching towards us.”

  “Then there is work to do.” Reyna appeared more warrior than princess to Tauren. “Asher?”