A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Vighon gently placed his head against hers. “Fight hard. Come back to me.”

  “By the time you reach the battlefield,” Inara replied, “I will be standing victoriously wondering what took you so long.”

  Vighon stared into her eyes for a long moment. “Let Gideon face Alijah.”

  Inara arched her back to better see the king. “What are you talking about?”

  “I have no doubt that you could best him,” Vighon explained, “but I do not want you to have to live with it.”

  The Guardian placed a hand against his cheek. “I will do what I must. Even if that means killing Alijah.” Inara was momentarily surprised by her own tone; speaking so matter-of-factly. But she also knew it was the only way she could slay her brother.

  Vighon could do naught but nod his understanding and kiss her again. “Then I will see you soon.”

  Inara squeezed him in her arms before making to move away. A hand each remained clasped until the last possible second. Rounding Athis, Gideon was now talking to Asher while her mother clearly informed her father of what she had just seen. Inara took a breath and decided to get it over with.

  “Have you said your farewells to the king?” Reyna enquired innocently.

  Inara blinked slowly and flashed her teeth with a bemused smile. “Our exchange was long overdue,” she said cryptically.

  “I’ll say,” Nathaniel muttered before Reyna tapped his stomach.

  “I always imagined this for you, when you were younger,” her mother began. “My heart swells to see that such a future is still within your grasp. You deserve some happiness.”

  “I think happiness is a long way from here,” Inara said dryly. “We all have quite the journey ahead of us.”

  Nathaniel broke away from Reyna and wrapped his arms around his daughter. “I hate having a hero for a daughter,” he groaned. The old knight kissed her on the head. “Be as safe as you can. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “And don’t do anything he would do,” Reyna added with a smirk.

  Inara was about to make her promises, empty as they would be, when her mother enveloped her in a firm hug. In truth, they were Inara’s favourite and she took joy in the embrace.

  “Inara,” Gideon called. “We should be leaving.”

  “As should we,” Kassian made known.

  Tearing herself away from so many that she cared about, Inara ascended Athis’s back as Gideon mounted Ilargo. They waited for Avandriell to find her way back to Asher before turning to face away from the keep. There was only just enough room for both dragons to safely manoeuvre without damaging anything.

  Since Ilargo had already disposed of Karsak’s ravaged corpse, the way was clear, offering them a view of the south. Their destination lay well beyond sight.

  We will make it in time, Athis imparted confidently. Magic will endure.

  The consequences, should they fail, made Inara feel sick to her stomach. Then fly swiftly, old friend.

  With a lasting look at Vighon, Inara braced herself against Athis’s scales. Both dragons, one in front of the other, flapped their wings and battered the city with strong winds. Within seconds they were clearing Namdhor altogether and ascending into the heavens as The Rebellion’s vanguard.

  Now for the south. Now for war.

  Part II

  16

  A Night on the Plains

  Under a starry night sky, Galanör casually weaved through the camp, his movements appearing effortless, as he offered friendly nods and smiles to both dwarves and elves. For those among his kin who looked in need of courage, where the imminent battle was concerned, he took the time to speak with them. Most had lived in Ilythyra, under Lady Ellöria’s leadership, and had shunned violence where they could.

  Alijah had seen to the end of those days.

  Where the elves were quiet, contemplating what tomorrow would bring, the dwarves were redefining the height of merriment for the ranger. Whatever their clan or history, the children of the mountain gathered around roaring fires and shared old mead and fresh hunts from the plains. They cheered and hollered, banging their shields and armour with abandon as they told stories from wars past.

  Their laughter was infectious and tempted Galanör to join them. More than a few even invited him with an offer of food and drink. The elf always politely declined, more than happy to drift through and soak up the atmosphere. He had charged into several battles in his lifetime, but never had he seen such revelry before dancing with death. Elven as he was, Galanör preferred the quiet before the storm so that he might centre himself and focus.

  It was his craving for such peace that cast his eyes out to the plains, searching for a quiet spot. Under a cold moon, the enchanted fields were luminescent and dotted with black silhouettes where the trees stood proud. There was one figure, easily seen as she moved towards the nearest trunk, that caught Galanör’s eye. He knew Aenwyn even in the dark.

  After receiving a pat on the arm from a fellow elf, the ranger broke away from the sprawling camp and made for Aenwyn. Sitting cross-legged, her face was illuminated by the glowing grass. Her quiver was on the ground beside her, the arrows spilling out. With barely a sound, Galanör took to the ground in front of her and enjoyed the feel of the supernaturally warm grass. Rather than speak, he watched her carve glyphs into every arrow head.

  For a moment, he thought they were magical in nature, lending every projectile a deadly enhancement. He was about to offer caution, aware that using a degree of magic with every arrow was dangerous while simultaneously exerting physical energy on a battlefield. But then he glimpsed the individual characters.

  They were names.

  Galanör couldn’t even count the number of arrows. “Have we lost so many?” he muttered.

  “I don’t have enough arrows for them all,” Aenwyn lamented.

  Galanör scrutinised her stoical expression and knew there was more she wasn’t saying. “I know we—”

  “Your name could have been on one of these,” Aenwyn interjected, her eyes flashing in the green light.

  Galanör held in his sigh, her anger more than justified. In fact, he had wondered when this particular conversation was going to happen. Aenwyn had clearly been showing a great deal of restraint while nursing him back to health.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, with as much sincerity as he could intone.

  “For what?” Aenwyn countered. “For lying to me? Lying to everyone? Challenging Alijah by yourself? Getting caught in a spell that could have killed you?”

  “Gideon has assured me the spell will have no harmful side effects,” he quickly pointed out.

  “You didn’t know that!” Aenwyn argued. “You went into that tower to die, if that’s what it took.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” the ranger questioned. “To die for The Rebellion? For the realm?”

  “If that is what victory demands of us then we will see it through together. Those were your words the first day we set foot on Qamnaran. And then you left me.”

  Galanör deliberately slowed his breathing down in an effort to hold back any tears. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

  “That’s all we have left now,” Aenwyn continued, her shoulders sagging. “Dying together is the best we can hope for.”

  It broke Galanör’s heart to think that that was their only future. “It cannot be,” he pleaded. “I have only just found you.” He closed the gap between them, a movement that Aenwyn acquiesced to. “I acted without thought,” he admitted. “I told myself I would be saving you if I killed him.”

  “I have warned you, Ranger, about trying to save me,” she replied, brandishing an arrow head in his face.

  Galanör held his hands up. “I know. I allowed Alijah to get in my head. Tomorrow, you and I will be shoulder to shoulder when we meet his Reavers. But, I promise you, it will not be our end. There will be another sunrise for us.”

  “And after that?” Aenwyn enquired incredulously.

  Galanör gave
her his most confident smile. “An eternity of sunrises.”

  Aenwyn rolled her eyes. “Perhaps that spell does have some side effects after all,” she remarked, touching the arrow to her head. “Was it an injury that saw you pledge yourself to Queen Reyna?” The question sounded innocent enough, but Galanör could hear deep curiosity in her voice. “Or was it guilt alone?” she added.

  The elven ranger twisted his lips, aware that this too was a conversation he could not have avoided. “I went into that tower alone and unprepared. Had I not, Adilandra would still be alive.”

  Aenwyn put her arrow down. “You cannot know such things, Galanör. It was a battle and a fierce one at that.”

  Galanör raised his hand to halt any further protest. “Directly or indirectly, my actions led to her death and Reyna’s ascension to queen - a position she must surely resent. Whatever I have to give in service to the realm, it will be at Queen Reyna’s behest.”

  “That’s quite the commitment for a ranger,” Aenwyn commented, probingly. “The Galfreys will be expected to return to Ayda after the war. If you are to be in service to them, you will have to follow them across The Adean.”

  “We would have to follow them,” Galanör corrected. “You are already in service.”

  Aenwyn leaned in to him. “You would make a new life for us? In Ayda?”

  Galanör looked out at the land, at Illian. He had made it his home, however nomadic he had chosen to live. And he had come to love it, in his own way. He had even found a great fondness for the humans that inhabited it; a species he had once vowed to destroy. Then he turned back to look in Aenwyn’s eyes, dark orbs that pulled him in.

  “My home is wherever you are,” he said softly. “If serving the king and queen offers us a roof over our heads… all the better.”

  Aenwyn gave him a contented smile and pressed the side of her head into his chest.

  “I am sorry,” he reiterated softly. “I should never have lied. And I should never have left you.”

  “And?” Aenwyn demanded, pulling away from him.

  Galanör gave her last question a moment’s thought before the answer dawned on him. “And I should have worn the cuirass.”

  Aenwyn was nodding along. “It took some magic to heal those wounds on your chest.”

  “If it were here I would wear it—”

  “It’s back at the tent,” she inserted with half a smile.

  Galanör let the rest of his sentence fall away. “Good,” he said simply. “Then I will wear it tomorrow.”

  “Then you are soon to be forgiven,” she replied, coyly.

  “Soon?” Galanör raised an immaculate eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry, by sunrise you will have made it up to me.”

  A broad grin slowly spread across the ranger’s face and he leaned in to kiss her. There was, indeed, a difference in her. It only added to his guilt for the grave concern he had put her through. Never again, he promised himself.

  Resting back against the tree now, Galanör noticed Aenwyn’s smile fade away as she regarded the arrow in her hand. Adilandra’s name was engraved into the head.

  “A great light has been extinguished from the world,” she spoke softly, “now to light the heavens instead.”

  Galanör regarded the stars with dismay. “There is nothing up there so bright as Adilandra Sevari,” he reasoned. “I would say she was welcomed by the sun itself.”

  Aenwyn added the arrow to the pile and picked up another. “Have you spoken to Faylen?”

  The ranger scanned what he could see of the camp. He discovered Faylen’s makeshift tent notably distant from the cluster. She was sitting outside, alone, staring into the flames of her fire.

  “I have tried,” he answered. “Outside of strategy, she does not wish to speak to anyone. Telling Reyna her mother had died must have been hard, especially when you’re the High Guardian. But she also had to break it to her that she is our new queen.”

  “I cannot imagine the responsibility Reyna feels now,” Aenwyn sympathised.

  “Reyna can handle it,” Galanör said with easy confidence. “I’m more concerned for how Faylen takes it all. She was close to Adilandra for centuries.”

  “Perhaps speaking to Reyna will make her feel better,” Aenwyn posed.

  The elven ranger sighed. “Reyna is days away from the plains. There’s a lot to overcome before they meet again.”

  Movement crossed the edge of Galanör’s vision and he turned to see Russell Maybury walking away from Doran’s personal camp. The old wolf cloaked himself and disappeared into the night.

  “I see conflict in you,” Aenwyn commented, having turned to see what had drawn Galanör’s attention.

  “Conflict?”

  “You fear the wolf that lurks behind his eyes.” Aenwyn’s words cut right to the heart of it.

  “His condition worsens; that much is clear to see. But the full moon is upon us soon.”

  There was a pause from Aenwyn before she asked, “Do you know how to slay a Werewolf?”

  Galanör didn’t answer right away. He heard the question but to his mind it wasn’t a Werewolf he would be slaying - it was a good friend. Still, he knew where her curiosity came from and it wasn’t from a desire to kill Russell. She only wished to protect them all.

  “The humans would have you believe you can only kill one with silver,” he finally explained. “As usual, their legends are skewed. Werewolves are flesh and blood like any creature. You just need the courage and strength to bring one down. And preferably a big axe,” he added.

  His own words stayed with him for a time. He already knew someone with a big axe and no end of courage and strength. It was just too heartbreaking to consider.

  Aenwyn was waiting for his eyes to find hers. “Go,” she advised. “You know where to find me. But don’t keep me waiting too long,” she added. “My forgiveness has its limits, Ranger.”

  Galanör planted one final kiss on her lips before crossing to the tents once more. By the edge of the camp, there was nothing between him and Doran Heavybelly. The War Mason was accompanied by Thaligg and Thraal, his trusted generals. Galanör entered the light of their fire and looked directly at Doran, who carefully assessed the elf standing before him.

  “Give us a minute, lads,” he commanded, sending the brothers away.

  Galanör nodded his appreciation and assumed the log they had been using. He picked up the wine skin at the end and sniffed the contents. That was enough to put him off ingesting a single drop.

  Doran chuckled. “Thraal’s home brew. It’s not got the kick me own does but it’ll get ye there.”

  “I can’t believe you can drink that stuff and still walk,” Galanör groaned.

  “There’s no ale out there that can stop me from walkin’… though there is a quantity,” he added with a shrug.

  Galanör found an easy laugh and he enjoyed it. “How are the clans holding up?” he finally asked, stalling the inevitable.

  Doran held out his tankard towards the camp. “The answer lies before ye, good elf. Since I know ye’re not blind, say what ye’ve really come to say an’ unburden yerself.”

  The elf looked out at the camp, though he failed to see Russell anywhere.

  “He’s taken ’imself away,” Doran interpreted. “He doesn’ trust ’imself at night. He says the wolf never sleeps.”

  “And he is right,” Galanör agreed. “The curse is consuming him. The wolf within is waiting for its moment to emerge. It’s waiting for Russell to give in and—”

  “Ye think I don’ know that?” Doran spat. “For years I’ve watched as that monster eats me friend from the inside out. An’ ye’re daft if ye think he doesn’ know it as well.”

  “He’s a good man,” Galanör asserted, hoping to calm the dwarf. “And he’s a damn good fighter.” The ranger let his words hang while he ordered his thoughts.

  “Jus’ say it, lad,” Doran insisted.

  “Tomorrow we fight,” Galanör began. “The scouts have already
reported a great number of Reavers guarding the dig site. There’s a good chance we’ll be fighting for days, Doran. Days,” he repeated.

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re all dwarves an’ elves,” the War Mason replied. “There’s no human in the realm that could fight for so long.”

  “That wasn’t what I was getting at,” Galanör said.

  Quite exasperated, Doran waved his words away. “I know exactly what ye’re gettin’ at.”

  “Then you know I am referring to the full moon two days from now,” the elf continued. “You must know what will happen if he transforms during the battle. We’ll be exhausted if we’re still alive. And then what? A Werewolf to contend with? The monster won’t choose sides; it’ll just kill anything in sight.”

  Doran threw his tankard into the fire and sent sparks and rogue flames into the air. “He’s fightin’ with us, ye hear! I don’ know how many more moons he’s got in ’im, but if Russell Maybury is leavin’ this world ye can bet he’s doin’ it with a bloody big pile o’ monsters under his feet!”

  Galanör spared a glance at the onlookers who’d witnessed the son of Dorain’s outburst. “I know the two of you have a lot of history, but you’re not thinking about Russell. If he transforms and kills even one of us he won’t be able to live with himself.”

  Doran’s frown creased all the more. “I won’ let that happen,” he declared earnestly, his tone lowered to that of a grave intensity.

  “You can’t take responsibility for him, Doran. You’ve seen more battlefields than I have. How many times has it gone sideways? How many times have you felt in control? The plains are sprawling, as will be the battle. You could be half a mile away from him when he turns.”

  The dwarf set Galanör in his gaze, his dark eye reflecting the flames. “In all the time ye’ve known me, elf, ’ave ye ever known me to say one thing an’ do another?”

  Galanör didn’t need to mull it over. “No,” he said, for there was no other answer.

  “I won’ let it happen,” he repeated, only slower this time.

  The elven ranger briefly closed his eyes and nodded solemnly. “I do not envy the task ahead of you. You have but to ask, Doran, and I would help.”