Horvarth’s expression turned grave. “The Graycoats know better than most the risk of harbouring you. West Fellion lies in ruin after the last time we extended the courtesy.”
Nathaniel wasn't sure where this was going, but he wouldn't be surprised if they were all expelled in the next few seconds. The Lord Marshal couldn't be blamed if he did, after all, the hundred or so knights left in the sector house were all that remained of their order. A good many of them had been killed during the battle at West Fellion… protecting them.
“But,” Horvarth continued, his tone lighter, “we are knights of the realm. No Graycoat will ever turn away those in need of their sword. You may rest here. These walls are well guarded.”
“Want a bet?” Doran coughed, warranting a rough nudge from Glaide.
“Thank you, Lord Marshal,” Reyna replied. “The elves of Elandril will ever be indebted to you.”
The companions were led away by a young Graycoat, but Nathaniel found his path blocked by a familiar face. Darius Devale stood barring his way, his shoulder-length blond hair matted with blood and dirt and his long face marred with cuts, new and old. Even with his battle wounds, the knight still had the appearance of a prince rather than a knight. Nathaniel expected venomous words or at the very least a snide look, but Devale simply extended his hand.
“Well met… brother.”
Nathaniel hesitated before grasping the knight’s forearm. “Well met,” he replied.
“I saw you on the wall,” Darius explained. “I saw you at West Fellion too. You fought well, and from what I’ve heard you fought at Syla’s Gate.”
Nathaniel nodded along, unsure what was happening. “It was a hell of a fight. Not like this, but still…”
Darius licked his lips, hesitating in a way Nathaniel had never seen before. “It’s only in times such as these that we see the mettle of our leaders.” Devale looked to Fennick in the background with a sour look. “For whatever it’s worth, I apologise for my behaviour towards you. The truth is, you made a damn fine Graycoat. Your father would have been proud.”
Nathaniel was caught off guard by the sincerity in Devale’s voice, something he hadn't believed the knight capable of. For years, Darius had treated him, well, treated him as the Lord Marshal had everyone behave towards the son of Tobias Galfrey. Nathaniel had been the black sheep of their order for as long as he could remember, born of a knight who broke his oath. This was an apology he had never expected to receive and he had no idea how to respond.
“Thank you,” he finally managed.
Darius bowed his head and walked away, another unexpected move on his behalf. The old Devale would never have given a compliment if he didn't think he would get a better one in return. Stunned, Nathaniel watched the man walk away before joining his friends.
What was left of the day passed by in the blink of an eye, a perception brought on by everyone’s exhaustion. Nalmar and Ezeric stayed with Tai’garn, taking it in turns to offer their magic and try to heal the elder’s amputated leg. Hadavad tried to help in the beginning, but the elves shrugged her away, dissatisfied with human magic. The mage settled for meditating in the corner instead.
Doran’s snoring could be heard through the walls of the room he shared with Tauren and Glaide. Nathaniel left them to it and entered the room he had been given with Asher, Faylen, and Reyna. The ranger was sleeping sitting up on his cot with Faylen’s head resting on his shoulder. There was definitely something between the two, as unlikely as they were.
“Let them sleep,” Reyna whispered from the doorway.
The elf was a vision, as always. She had washed the blood and dirt from her face and hands, revealing the small cuts and bruises left behind. It did nothing to deflect from her beauty, though it was her smile that always pulled the knight in, regardless of her appearance. It took the princess and he some time to find another room that hadn't been taken over by Graycoats. They eventually found themselves in the angled room of the attic, a forgotten chamber left to the spiders and tired furniture. Reyna gravitated to the circular window at the end of the room, where a waning sun reached for the western horizon.
Nathaniel joined her and looked out over the tiled rooftops of Velia. Everything below was a scene of death and sorrow, a city thrown into anarchy and despair. Only the beauty of the orange sun offered any intimation of hope and light in the world.
Reyna’s voice broke the silence. “Tonight, tomorrow, a few days from now… Everything might come to an end.” The elf turned and looked up at the knight, her hand resting on his chest. “I don't want to leave this world denying the only thing I know to be true.”
Nathaniel could see it in her eyes, the poise of her lips. Reyna was moments from kissing him and saying the words he had longed to hear. The Knight placed a hand over hers as doubt crept into his heart.
“You would say it now?” he asked. “Now at the end of all things? It’s easy to love when there are no consequences.”
Tears welled in Reyna’s eyes and she cupped his cheek. “I say it now because it gives me the strength to live. Loving you will get me through this because I know the life I want on the other side…”
Her tears brought on his own and he pulled her closer, searching for the truth in her eyes. Reyna looked back at him, offering everything she had, and Nathaniel saw it, the love she had denied and the fear she was finally letting go of.
“However long we have,” the princess continued, “I will always love you, for eternity.”
Nathaniel took Reyna in both arms and lifted her to his lips. “I love you,” he whispered, looking into her emerald eyes one last time before they embraced again.
40
The lifeless isles
Seeing The Lifeless Isles from the sky would stay with Galanӧr for the rest of his life, the vista exaggerated by the setting sun. The archipelago of islands stretched south over The Adean, crowned by the larger island the humans had renamed Dragorn. Spying the sprawling city in the distance brought back memories he would rather bury. Having met an actual Dragorn now, the elf found further offence that man had taken their title for the island. Every island, the larger one included, had once belonged to the Dragorn, a fact drastically changed by the outcome of The Dragon War.
All in all, the archipelago held a place of grief in his heart. Hopefully, he thought, Gideon and Adriel would bring about a new age for their order, one that would herald a time of peace, as the Dragorn had maintained before. Galanӧr raised his head over the spikes on Beldroga’s neck and looked to the east, where Mount Garganafan lay beyond the mist. It troubled him that neither of the Dragorn had met them in the Hook of the World. He had great respect for Adriel, but Galanӧr looked upon Gideon as a friend.
It was a peculiar feeling to remember his time on the island of Dragorn, his feelings toward humanity, and the part he’d had to play against man, and consider that he now counted one of their own as his closest friend. For four hundred years he had been told who he was, but it had taken meeting his enemy to discover his true self.
Without warning, his stomach jumped up into his chest and his torn cloak floated high above him. Beldroga’s smooth gliding had turned into a dive, along with the rest of the dragons. They shot past Rainael the emerald star, leaving them to descend at a more leisurely pace.
“Why do…” Galanӧr moved his head to take a breath. “We have… to fly… so fast?” The blue dragon levelled out, bringing the elf’s crotch down hard on the scales. Galanӧr clung to the thick spikes in pain, fighting the urge to simply slide off and fall into The Adean.
When at last he opened his eyes again, Beldroga was flying between two islands. Galanӧr caught his breath and shot the dragon a glare that would have most cowering on their knees. Steep cliffs rose either side as they darted in between the close islands. Beldroga continued to glide closer and closer to the sea until the tips of his claws cut through the black water.
Galanӧr made sure to take it all in before the sun set and the majesty of the drago
ns’ ancient home fell into shadow. He had grown up hearing stories of the Dragorn living on the islands and training to become the fabled warriors they were known best as. Galanӧr counted himself privileged to not only see The Lifeless Isles up close, but to also be astride a dragon as he did.
The elation and awe quickly dissipated when Beldroga the great hunter flapped his wings, taking them higher into the cliffs, and circled back to land on a flat outcropping a hundred feet from the top. The dragon snorted and shrugged its shoulders, making it clear that Galanӧr was to get off immediately. His feet had barely touched the floor of the outcropping before Beldroga dropped off the edge.
The elf cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Why have we stopped?” Galanӧr ran to the edge and watched Beldroga glide along the snaking ocean below. “Velia is that way!” He gestured to the north.
Thankfully, Galanӧr saw Rainael the emerald star flying towards him, giving him enough to time to get out of the way. Galanӧr’s long hair and cloak were thrown out behind him when Rainael’s wings flapped, bringing her to a sudden stop. Her immense wing-span reached from one end to the other of the outcropping, and just like Beldroga, the dragon only just fit on the ledge. Adilandra was given more time and grace to slide off the edge of the dragon’s neck.
“I don't think the great hunter likes you much,” Adilandra said.
Galanӧr ignored the obvious statement. “Why have we stopped?” he asked again. “Velia isn't too far now.”
“They need to rest, Galanӧr.” Adilandra turned to watch Rainael dive off the edge and fly away. “The younger ones were flagging.”
Galanӧr couldn't hide his frustration. “Malliath flew Gideon and me from Korkanath to Malaysai without a single stop.”
“And I’m sure you could run for longer than me,” Adilandra countered. “You cannot compare one dragon to another.”
Galanӧr sighed by the very edge of the outcropping. They were at least four-hundred feet above The Adean and the top of the cliff was a hundred feet above them. They were stuck.
A subtle gasp from the queen of elves had Galanӧr turning back, his hand reaching for the hilt of his scimitar. Following Adilandra’s gaze, however, had the elf staring at the cave’s content in wonder and reverence. The rocky wall at the back of the outcropping had been carved out into some kind of habitation. Four pillars, built from the rock, kept the jagged ceiling from collapsing on an oval chamber that housed a single, long table carved from the rock. Three high-back chairs of marble lined the sides with another at the head of the table.
“Is this...?” Galanӧr couldn't find the words.
“The council chamber of the Dragorn…” Adilandra replied with her fingers on her lips.
The two passed through the pillars and into the room in silence. Ancient rugs lined the floor, but time had ravaged their patterns and texture. Adilandra waved her hand over the room and brought the braziers to life. The flames illuminated the chamber, revealing doors in the far corners.
The wall to Galanӧr’s right caught his attention, drawing him in. A vivid mural, again, carved out of the white rock, came out of the wall. The elf traced his fingers over the figures as his mind put the picture together with his memories. The mural depicted the Dragorn leading an army of elves and dwarves with dragons flying above them. The other side of the carving was damaged, its details impossible to make out, though from what his keen eyes could tell, the enemy they faced was hideous.
“Amazing…” Adilandra whispered from the other side of the chamber.
Galanӧr could see another mural, in the same style, behind the queen. It wasn't nearly as damaged and the elf had no trouble recognising the depicted Darkakin. The image revealed the moment the Dragorn and the elves of old pushed the savages behind Syla’s Gate. Adilandra walked around the table and came to look at the mural he had found.
“This was before my time,” the queen said.
“Are they what I think they are?” Galanӧr asked, pointing to the damaged sculptures of the opposing army.
“A rare moment in history,” Adilandra explained. “Elves and dwarves united against a common foe.” The queen looked at the damaged figures with disgust. “I would not talk of their wretched kind. Let them be damned to history.”
Adilandra walked away, leaving Galanӧr to stare at the mural in wonder. “Orcs…” he whispered to himself.
The queen came to a stop at the head of the table with her attention entirely fixed on the high-back chair. She placed Atilan’s grimoire on the table so that her hands were free to run along the chair’s smooth edges.
“What is it?” Galanӧr asked.
“Elandril himself would have sat in this very chair.” Adilandra had tears welling in her eyes. “The first Dragorn sat right here, planning Illian’s defences against -”
“Evil,” Galanӧr cut in.
Adilandra turned around, her eyes resting on the third and last mural adorning the back wall. The rock had been carved out long after Elandril’s death, for it depicted the moment Valanis had been trapped in Elethiah, surrounded by elders and overlooked by Garganafan.
“Each one was the battle of their time,” Adilandra said, looking at all three murals. “Elandril fought and died against the foulest of creatures. Valtyr exiled the Darkakin with Lady Syla’s help. Aerilaya led the Dragorn during The Dark War, though she fell by Valanis’ hand.”
“This is…” Galanӧr turned on the spot, taking it all in. “I never thought I would see this. History…”
Adilandra had already made for the closed door in the far, left corner. The old wood opened with a tremendous creek and broke the cobwebs covering the frames.
“Impossible…” the word escaped Galanӧr’s lips.
Their arrival activated a spell laid over the new room, causing the surrounding braziers to breathe fire and light into the dark. The elves looked upon a chamber at least twenty times the size of the previous one. The rocky walls had been carved out, leaving shelves for the hundreds of books that lined every available space. They walked out onto the middle level, with stairs leading to a tier above and pit below. The top tier was similarly lined with ancient books, but the bottom level was decorated with podiums and glass cabinets.
“You’ve spent too long training with those blades,” Adilandra observed. “This is a pocket dimension.”
Galanӧr pressed himself against the railing and inspected the contents of the podiums and cabinets below. “It’s a trophy room is what it is!”
“I would call it a library.” Adilandra led the way down the spiralling staircase, but as soon as there was enough space, Galanӧr darted past, eager to see everything.
“I thought the humans plundered The Lifeless Isles centuries ago,” he said with his hands flat against the glass of the nearest cabinet.
“I imagine they never found this place,” Adilandra opined. “Nestled high into the cliffs without any stairs… not a place for humans.”
Galanӧr smiled. “Not a place for anyone without a dragon.”
The cabinet in front of him housed an upright gauntlet. The elvish inscription underneath described the gauntlet as Hammerfist, the gauntlet of King Koddun of clan Battleborn.
“This belonged to a dwarf king!” Galanӧr exclaimed before moving onto a spear that had been placed on a long podium. His hands reached out to touch it but Adilandra slapped them away.
“Touch nothing,” she warned. “Who knows what wards have been placed over these relics?”
Galanӧr retracted his hands, desperate to touch the spear whose inscription named it Giant Slayer. A quick glance revealed a variety of different trophies and gifts that Galanӧr was determined to commit to memory.
Adilandra was drawn to the books around the outside. “Some of these were authored by Elandril! They’re training books…” The queen moved about, reading the spines of them all. “These volumes chart the life of Garganafan… and these the perils of the Darkakin war. This one is a biography of Valtyr!”
A
dilandra’s excitement brought a smile to Galanӧr’s face. There wasn't much in their lives of late that brought any joy, but finding the history of the world in one place did just that.
“This one is called the Rise of Aerilaya!”
“What are those?” Galanӧr gestured to the row of shelves on the far wall. The red leather binding of the twenty volumes had maintained its colour despite their age, but the most curious aspect to the books was the web of chains placed over them.
Adilandra held her hands out in front of them, careful not to touch any of the spines. “They have no titles,” she observed. “They’re all blank.”
Galanӧr wiped the dust from the plaque above the books. The inscription had three words.
“The First War…” Adilandra said aloud. “These must be written from the memories of the oldest dragons.”
“Why are they chained?” Galanӧr noted the ancient runes carved into the metal of the chains.
“Because it’s the history they hid from the world. The only record of Atilan and the first kingdom…”
Galanӧr took a step back. “I suppose all of this belongs to Gideon and Adriel now.”
Adilandra had no reply as she stood in front of the chained books. It was clear to see that the queen still struggled with the truth of things. Her faith had unravelled and her daughter was in grave danger. It was a wonder she held everything together so well.
After a moment’s silence, she finally replied “We should see if there is anywhere to rest in this place. We’ll reach Velia tomorrow.”
Galanӧr didn't know exactly what to expect when they arrived on The Shining Coast, but the elf wasn't foolish enough to believe that they would find anything but bloody war waiting for them. With that in mind, he knew rest would be hard to come by this night…
IV
Part Four
Relic of the God Page 34