A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  What there was of the Reaver’s head came together between the two hammers in a spray of ancient remains. Gondrith the Just was returned to Gondrith the dead.

  Russell staggered backwards and fell to his hands and knees. He was heaving, his chest panting at an unhealthy speed. Whatever he had managed to keep in his stomach was released across the battlefield. His fingers dug into the dirt as the bones in the back of his hand snapped and realigned into something worse.

  Doran struggled to his feet and approached his old friend. Russell shot up a hand to halt him, displaying extended fingers and razor-sharp nails. The skin began to discolour, losing its pale complexion as it turned into a dark brown. It was his eyes, however, that truly stopped Doran from getting any closer. Though yellow, they were still Russell’s. They showed something of the man trapped inside as well as his fear for Doran.

  It quickly became too much after that and his head bowed. His clothes tore and his leathers ripped as his frame expanded. It looked like agony. Eventually, he was pushed off his knees when his feet changed shape and his arms lengthened. Doran was now slowly backing away, his eye scanning the ground for his axe and hammer.

  The wolf’s head snapped up at last. There was nothing left of the man Doran had come to call a friend. Sharp yellow eyes looked down a large snout at him. Thick saliva slopped from the Werewolf’s mouth, between a jaw of deadly fangs. A low growl rumbled out of its throat.

  Doran had no idea how he was going to fight the wolf - he could barely lift his arms anymore. Stepping on something hard and flat, Doran glanced down to discover the axe of Andaljor under his boot. He didn’t dare reach for it or make any sudden movements.

  His attention darted to the left when two elves emerged from the chaos to attack the wolf. Their scimitars sliced its arms, enraging the beast. As it lashed out with tooth and claw, Doran retrieved his axe and then his hammer, not far from where he was standing.

  When next he looked back, the elves were dead, a mangled heap of bloody limbs at the wolf’s feet. Its yellow eyes soon returned to the son of Dorain and the beast crouched, ready to pounce. For the first time, Doran was saved by Reavers after a small group of the mindless fiends were forced into the wolf’s path by a Centaur and an elf. The cursed creature ripped their undead heads from their bodies like they were made of parchment.

  “Stay back!” Doran warned the Centaur and elf.

  The War Mason rocked from foot to foot, no clue as to how he was going to survive the next few seconds. The wolf closed the gap between them in a heartbeat and knocked Doran over with a hard shove to the chest. It took the air out of the dwarf’s lungs, leaving him gasping on his back. The Werewolf then came to hunch over him, all four of its limbs boxing Doran in while its frame eclipsed the sky above.

  This was not the way Doran wanted to leave the world, but at least it was Russell and not some meat puppet of Alijah’s. The wolf opened its maw and the dwarf turned away from the foul breath that greeted him.

  “Make it quick, lad,” he instructed.

  The wolf was happy to oblige. Its head dropped down, ready to snap its jaw around his entire head, when the unstoppable arm of a Troll slammed into its side. Doran heard the wolf’s whine, like an injured dog, as it flew into the air and disappeared somewhere inside the fray.

  The Troll continued its sweeping attacks, launching every combatant into the air with a roar on its dark lips. Doran managed to stagger out of the way, avoiding one of its lumbering feet, before its leg caught him across his right side and sent him careering into another dwarf.

  Slow to recover, it took Doran an extra moment to realise the Troll had stopped its attack. The simple beast looked across the battlefield, its steaming breath spilling into the air. Without explanation, it turned to the west and fled with abandon.

  “What now?” the son of Dorain grumbled.

  As the Troll fled west, every Reaver on the battlefield was running to the east, breaking away from the battlefield. Exhausted, The Rebellion forces guarded themselves and simply watched as their foe retreated with no apparent cause.

  “What’s going on?” the dwarf beside him asked in their native tongue.

  Doran couldn’t say and he didn’t dare hope that they had won. If Alijah had been slain the Reavers should have dropped to the ground. To his right, he could see Ilargo and Athis now, both looking weary by their hanging heads. There was no sign of Malliath but the black dragon had always been hard to spot at night.

  As the battlefield began to clear of Reavers, the son of Dorain could see further and he was looking for something in particular. To the south, he found it - the Werewolf. The beast was limping away into the night and quickly fading from view.

  Doran sighed, too tired to even muster a tear for his broken heart. He let the wolf go with a promise made to himself.

  Plodding through the sludge and debris, the War Mason began to make his way towards the dig site. He barely recognised a soul on his way, their faces covered in mud and blood. He didn’t have it in him to even pat the arms of his kin or offer a word to his allies. He just kept seeing Russell’s eyes, warning him.

  As he reached the edge of the pit, Galanör and Aenwyn emerged with Inara propped up between them. Not far, and striding towards them all, was Gideon. They converged on each other by one of the few tents to have survived the fighting. Galanör and Aenwyn carefully laid Inara down on the remains of a cot by the side of the tent.

  “What happened?” Doran demanded, his throat horribly dry. “Did ye stop ’im?”

  Inara could hardly keep her eyes open as she looked from him to Gideon. The old master crouched down and grasped her hand, their eyes locked.

  “Well?” Doran pressed, glancing at Galanör and Aenwyn.

  “He succeeded,” Gideon announced on Inara’s behalf. “The tree burns.”

  24

  Aftermath

  Soon after the first rays of light, having had no sleep at all, Gideon stepped out of the doorway through which reality had been torn asunder.

  Re-emerging onto Verdan soil, he inhaled Illian’s air. Despite being deep beneath the surface, the air was much clearer and easier to breathe than that of the magical realm. Ash and smoke had assaulted his lungs from the moment he had stepped through.

  He immediately reconnected with Ilargo, where the two shared equal dismay. They had already absorbed Inara’s memories, thanks to Athis, but Gideon had simply needed to see it for himself. The tree was, indeed, burning and what magic he commanded had done little to help. The flames were too high and the damage too extensive.

  Return to me, Ilargo bade.

  Gideon happily ascended the shaft, pausing only to inspect the cells where Alijah had been holding the Drakes. He had given it much thought over the years - wondering how the half-elf might coalesce enough magic to open a doorway - but this was beyond his nightmares. It filled the old master with such sorrow to think of so many being trapped in the dark, for years and years.

  Rising back to The Moonlit Plains, he closed his eyes and soaked up the morning sun. This should have been a victorious dawn, he lamented.

  Every dawn we see in these dark times is a victory, Ilargo commented, drawing Gideon to the south, where the green dragon lay beside a sleeping Athis.

  I fear your dawns are numbered, old friend, Gideon replied with glassy eyes.

  We have had more than most. Though distant, Ilargo was still able to direct Gideon’s attention to the battlefield that sat between them. It was littered with the bodies of heroes and villains alike, all scattered between the giant carcasses of Trolls and abandoned catapults.

  Gideon began to make his way through it, weaving between the dead. Having taken the night to rest, elves, Centaurs, and dwarves had already started to clear through the fallen. They piled the Reavers and set the bodies alight while lining up their kin to prepare for funerals.

  Is Inara awake? he asked of Ilargo.

  She stirs, though I would say she needs…

  Gideon frowned and
shook his head. She needs what? he pressed.

  Nothing.

  There was nothing but his own thoughts inside his mind. Gideon reached out, as he had done countless times over the decades, in search of Ilargo’s feelings. Nothing. The silence was deafening.

  Ilargo? He repeated his companion’s name over and over, his speed picking up as he crossed the battlefield.

  Between the piles of bodies, he glimpsed Ilargo’s head rising up to find him, similarly concerned. Gideon? Without warning, the dragon’s voice suddenly cried out inside his mind, causing him to stop and wince.

  I can hear you, he told him.

  And I you, Ilargo replied.

  Gideon continued his journey, a quick stride on him now. What was that? The old master already had the answer to his own question but he didn’t want to voice it.

  Our bond is that of magic, Ilargo expressed for them both. As the tree burns, the conduits of this world will lose their hold on magic.

  Gideon paused on his journey and looked back at the pit. The realms are separating.

  Returning to the dragon, Ilargo dipped his head and the two stood together, skin to scales. As they parted, he got a good look at his companion, wounds and all. Malliath and Godrad had dealt out a good deal of punishment. Large claw marks cut red lines through Ilargo’s majestic scales and Gideon could sense, if not feel, deep bruises beneath those that remained intact. Spikes were missing up and down the length of his body and the knot of bone at the end of his tail had been worn down and chipped.

  Malliath evaded us for most of the battle, Ilargo explained, looking down at Gideon with bloodshot eyes.

  Evaded? Gideon repeated,

  Yes. He only revealed his aggression after Alijah descended into the pit.

  Gideon met Ilargo’s gaze as the companions put more pieces of the puzzle together. Try to rest, he said, rather than attempt to unravel the growing mystery surrounding their enemy. I’m going to check on Inara.

  Leaving Ilargo to rest, the old master made his way around Athis, on the other side, until he could see the makeshift tent that had been moved over Inara. Faylen herself had seen to watching over the Guardian, no thought given to her own injuries and fatigue. She was seated on a small barrel, her elbows resting on her knees, and her head hanging over her chest.

  “Faylen,” Gideon greeted softly. The High Guardian of Elandril tried to stand in his presence but Gideon kept her down with a hand on the shoulder. “You need not stand for me,” he told her. “You need rest.”

  Faylen looked into the tent at Inara, who appeared restless on her cot. “She is many things to many people, but she is the princess of Elandril to me. I will protect her to my end.”

  “The Galfreys have ever counted themselves fortunate to have you as their friend,” Gideon offered. “Just as Ayda is fortunate to have you as its High Guardian.”

  Faylen managed a faint smile. “It is good to see you in the flesh again, Master Thorn.”

  There was too much dirt and blood on Gideon’s face to reveal his flushing cheeks. “I’m afraid that title no longer applies to me. I’m just Gideon.”

  “There’s no just about you, Gideon Thorn. Here you are again, putting yourself between the light and the dark. I see why Adilandra liked you so much.”

  Though he didn’t think it was possible, Gideon felt new depths of sorrow upon hearing the late queen’s name. “I will miss her all my days,” he promised.

  “As will we all,” Galanör chimed in, approaching from behind.

  His blue cloak flowed out, picked up by the winter breeze, and flecks of dried mud took off into the wind. His bronze-coloured chestplate was dented in parts and marred by scratches, the causes of which would have spelled his doom were he not wearing it. Since the battle had ended, the elf had tied his long chestnut hair into a knot, but his face was just as filthy as everyone else’s. The most notable aspect of the elven ranger was the single scimitar sheathed on his hip. There would be no recovering its twin.

  “How fairs Inara?” Galanör continued, peering into the tent.

  “Better than others,” Faylen answered, cocking her head towards the pain-filled cries of the wounded.

  Galanör acknowledged the gesture. “Aenwyn is helping to organise the injured so that we might heal those most in need first. There are many.”

  “The dwarves will prove more difficult,” Faylen commented. “Their natural resistance to magic won’t help them.”

  “Where is Doran?” Gideon asked.

  Galanör stepped to the side and set his gaze to a specific spot, searching between the foot traffic. “He’s still out there,” he said gravely.

  Gideon moved to find the dwarf himself, following Galanör’s direction. Doran was just standing there with his back to them, removed from the camp. He was facing south, away from the battlefield, as if held by some trance.

  “The dead weigh on him,” Gideon assumed.

  Galanör folded his arms. “The earliest reports actually suggest that the number of dwarves saved has increased their numbers. Doran has been told as much.”

  “Then why does he stand apart?” Gideon enquired.

  Galanör glanced at Faylen, who appeared to understand whatever wasn’t being said. “It’s Russell.”

  The old master turned from Doran to look at the elf. “Russell Maybury? The owner of The Pick-Axe?”

  “The ranger,” Galanör added. “Russell has been fighting with us since Alijah invaded.”

  “What happened?”

  “You know of Russell’s affliction?” the elf questioned.

  “I only met him a handful of times,” Gideon recalled, “but I believe he was a Werewolf.”

  “An old one at that,” Galanör said. “His curse finally ran its course. He had been struggling for weeks, months even. On the battlefield, he turned for the last time.”

  Faylen nodded her head in the War Mason’s direction. “Doran said the beast ran south.”

  Gideon watched the dwarf for a time, wondering what was going through his head. “They were close?”

  “Very,” Galanör confirmed.

  “Are you concerned?” the old master asked pointedly.

  “His grief is a burden only his shoulders can bear,” Galanör replied. “But bear it they will. I am more concerned that he will go after the wolf alone, to end Russell’s torment.”

  “Whatever Doran decides,” Gideon replied, “he needs rest first. You all do. You’ve been fighting for days without sleep or food. Go,” he bade. “I will see to Inara.”

  Faylen nodded, if somewhat reluctantly. “I will find my husband first. I left him counting our fallen.” The High Guardian made to move, pausing only to pat Galanör on the shoulder. “You fought well,” she complimented.

  The ranger found an amused smile. “Did you even see me out there?”

  “No,” Faylen admitted, as she walked away from the tent. “But you’re still here, so you must have fought well.”

  Gideon couldn’t argue with her logic and by the look on Galanör’s face, neither could he. “Rest,” the old master urged the ranger in Faylen’s absence. “You and I have some catching up to do and I wouldn’t have you falling asleep on me.”

  Galanör sighed and nodded along with heavy eyes and dark lids. “Gideon,” he said, on the verge of leaving. “What do we do now?” he asked, glancing back at the dig site.

  Gideon gave the only answer he had. “I don’t know.” He planted a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Get some rest, old friend.”

  After Galanör turned and walked away, Gideon ducked his head and entered Inara’s shelter. She was rubbing her eyes, creating a deep frown between the two. Her leathers were a testament to not only the battle, but also the duel with her brother.

  “Gideon?” Inara’s voice was hoarse, like so many who had survived the fighting.

  “I’m here,” he assured, taking a seat beside her.

  “I feel so weak,” Inara complained, wincing at the light.

  “You
used a lot of your magic. You will recover.” Even as he said those words he couldn’t get the image of the burning tree out of his mind.

  “You saw it?” Inara was looking up at him from her cot.

  “Yes. I tried to put out some of the fire but there’s too much.”

  Tears streaked down the side of Inara’s face, cutting through the dirt. “I failed,” she sobbed. “I failed us all.”

  Gideon’s eyes welled with tears now and he reached out to comfort her. “You didn’t fail.”

  “Of course I did,” Inara protested. “We came to stop him, yet he still succeeded. I’m not the one you thought I was. My birth wasn’t fated to happen. I wasn’t meant to save the world. Everything The Crow did was to make sure Alijah destroyed the world of magic. Now we have to watch them die.”

  Gideon didn’t need to ask her to know that Inara was referring to their dragons. “I don’t believe that,” he stated firmly. “We are still alive, which means there is still a fight to be had. We will not let this be the end.”

  Inara squeezed his hand. “I can’t beat him,” she said defeatedly. “I tried. He’s too powerful now. He…” Her words trailed off as her eyes glazed over.

  “What is it?” Gideon demanded.

  Inara made to answer but her thoughts and words collided with naught but silence for their efforts.

  “Inara?”

  “In the pit,” she said at last, “when we were fighting…” Her hand reached up to touch her neck. “I was sure I saw wounds appear from nowhere. It looked like a bite mark.” Inara shook her head. “It’s all so fuzzy. I must have been seeing things - I hit my head more than once.”

  Gideon, Ilargo commanded. I bit Malliath’s neck after Alijah and Inara descended into the pit.

  Indeed, a flash of memory informed Gideon of the details, including the taste of Malliath’s blood in Ilargo’s mouth. It also offered new and crucial pieces to the puzzle that had plagued them since Namdhor.