A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The Keeper raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a secret?” He glanced back at the company. “It might be a little late for that, your Grace.”

  The king wasn’t sure what to say. “Does everyone know about us?”

  “I’d say so. Though why you’d both keep it a secret is beyond me. The fact that the two of you have managed to find each other in this mess of a world is nothing short of a miracle. If you ask me, you should hold on to each other and never let go.”

  Vighon would have loved to do just that, but Inara was still miles away, her fate unknown. “It’s been a long time coming,” he commented quietly. “And you’re right,” he continued, “Inara’s wisdom would be crucial to your plans.”

  “So you agree then?” Kassian probed eagerly. “There should be a place for magic?”

  “If Alijah’s schemes have shown me anything,” Vighon said, “it’s how important the world of magic is to Verda. And whether a person can wield magic or not, they are a subject of my kingdom and I will serve them as such. The real question is: are you ready to serve them?”

  Kassian didn’t reply with a bold declaration but, instead, a humble nod of the head. “I would like to. But, I suppose I’m bringing this to you now because, well… let’s face it, there’s still a chance I won’t survive this war. I need to know that you will still do something in my absence.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Vighon offered, “I don’t think you will be added to the fallen. You’re too stubborn. But, if it gives you peace of mind, know that I will do all that is in my power to help people like you. You have my word.”

  Kassian gave an appreciative nod and half a smile. “It wasn’t that long ago I considered you to be just as ordinary as any other northman. Now, I know the value of your word.”

  Vighon smiled. “I hope, in time, you come to value the word of every northman. We are an honest breed.”

  “Well if it’s honesty you appreciate, I should tell you and every northman: you need to find somewhere else to live. Namdhor is bloody freezing!”

  The king laughed. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “But the cold is good for us - it keeps the fire in our veins at bay!”

  The two men shared a laugh before falling into deeper conversation, sharing ideas and possibilities for the future. It felt good to talk about the world in such a manner, pretending, for the moment, that the realm wasn’t hanging in the balance.

  As the waning sun showed its face, between the thick clouds and the distant horizon, their discussion came to an end. They were approaching the last rise in the plains where smoke could be seen rising into the sky. Naturally, Vighon scanned the sky in search of Athis or Ilargo.

  “Prepare for battle!” he bellowed over his shoulder.

  With his horse spurred into a gallop, the king rode towards that final rise. He did his best to ignore the anticipation that dug deep into his gut and focus on the fight to come. There was only him and his sword.

  Trailed by his company of warriors, Vighon drew his sword and pointed it to the south. His confidence, however, was instantly knocked when he realised his enchanted weapon remained dormant. The silvyr, as always, appeared exquisite, but there were no flames.

  The northman stared at the blade, his attention stolen by the phenomenon. How could there be no flames? The enchantment had never failed, not once. As the answer struck him, his horse reached the apex of the rise and began the gentle descent towards the dig site. There was no battle, at least not anymore. There were plenty of dead though - proof that one had been fought there.

  In the distance, just south of the battlefield, a makeshift camp sprawled across the snowy plains. That appeared to be the source of the smoke, where numerous fires had been lit. The dig site itself was a black void in the middle of the land, a portal that transported one down into the depths of the realm.

  Then, without any warning, the sword of the north came alive with blinding flames. Vighon held it away from his cloak before again holding it high into the air, signalling their arrival to the others. He couldn’t acknowledge, even to himself, the obvious conclusion.

  Skirting around the edge of the battlefield, the king noticed the largest corpse amongst the debris. He couldn’t identify the dragon, but he knew it to be one of Alijah’s Reavers. By his calculations, the wretched necromancer only possessed one more. It was a small victory if nothing else.

  Soon after, they were greeted by a throng of elves, dwarves, and Centaurs, the latter surprising Vighon. Seeing some of the flames dampen on his sword, he returned it to the scabbard on his hip. He offered nods to any and all who met his eyes, but the king was searching for a few among them.

  Athis and Ilargo were easily spotted, lying to the east of the camp. Even from this distance, Vighon could see the damage both had taken. Before he could make his way to them, Faylen Haldör emerged weary and exhausted.

  “Your Grace,” she greeted with a bow of the head.

  “High Guardian.” Vighon offered the same gesture. Faylen, however, was quickly distracted by those behind the king, directing him to Reyna and Nathaniel.

  Reyna brought her horse to the front of the company and removed her hood, revealing golden hair and emerald eyes. Faylen shouted something in elvish over her shoulder and every able elf and Centaur stood up before genuflecting with bowed heads. Reyna responded with a gentle word in her native language and Faylen rose from the mud with the others.

  “Where is my daughter?” she asked in the common tongue.

  Faylen’s expression subtly dropped and her head turned to the east. “She rests, your Grace.”

  Vighon felt a distinct lurch inside his gut. “She is injured?”

  “Inara is already recovering,” Faylen assured. “Gideon is with her.”

  Nathaniel turned his horse to the east and set off at a quick trot. There was no stopping the father, nor Reyna who followed after him.

  Vighon was torn between his love and his duty. Were he to take off behind them, he would be revealing priorities unbefitting of a king, especially since he had missed the battle. “What happened here, Faylen?” he asked urgently.

  “We lost.” The words sapped Vighon and his company of energy and hope, but the words had not come from Faylen. The king turned with everyone else to see Adan’Karth. The Drake remained astride his horse while his reptilian eyes searched their surroundings. “The two realms have already begun to separate.”

  Vighon turned back to Faylen as Galanör arrived by her side. “He’s right,” the elven ranger confirmed. “I have seen the tree with my own eyes. Alijah has taken fire to it.”

  The king gripped his hilt, his worst fears laid bare. “And our enemy?” he uttered.

  “As soon as his task was completed,” Galanör replied, “Alijah fled with Malliath. The Reavers followed thereafter.”

  Faylen opened her mouth to add something when a distant squawk drew her gaze to the sky. There she set eyes on a young Avandriell and was lost to the dragon’s majesty.

  Galanör craned his neck and narrowed his vision. “Is that…”

  Vighon had waited as long as he could. “I would see Inara,” he insisted. “Then I want a full report.” He didn’t wait for their response, his horse set to a swift trot down the line with a large Golem on his tail. Athis and Ilargo were the perfect markers, directing him to Inara’s position within the encampment.

  He was dismounting before the horse came to a complete stop, his attention directed to the tent where Reyna and Nathaniel were crowding. He barked a command at Sir Borin, ordering him to remain where he was. The Galfreys parted as he arrived, giving the king a good view of Gideon Thorn. The man was filthy and marred by a plethora of minor injuries.

  “Your Grace,” Gideon greeted with a dip of the head.

  Vighon looked through the gap and found Inara lying on a cot. He tried to push past but Gideon placed a firm hand in the centre of his chest, barring the way. The king fought the instinct to slap it away and remind Gideon who he was.

/>   “Forgive me,” the old master began. “Inara used a considerable amount of magic against Alijah. Added to her injuries, it’s imperative that she rests…” Gideon trailed off as he looked up, beyond the northman.

  Vighon turned to see Athis’s head looming over them all, his magnificent blue eyes fixed on the king. Vighon had no idea what the dragon was thinking nor his intentions, but he knew they were holding a moment. Athis gave a slow blink and glanced at Gideon before returning to his place of rest beside the tent.

  Without explanation, Gideon stepped aside and gestured for the northman to enter the tent. Vighon nodded what little understanding he gleaned and ducked to walk inside the torn canvas. He crouched down by Inara’s side and grasped her hand under the blanket. She was cold. The king didn’t hesitate to remove the furs from his shoulders and place them over her.

  Outside, he heard Gideon recounting events for Reyna and Nathaniel but he hardly listened. His thoughts were so consumed by his fears for Inara that he couldn’t focus on much else.

  Rather than perch beside her and do naught but watch her sleep, Vighon used the rag and a small bowl of water beside her cot to begin cleaning the muck from her face. She didn’t so much as stir, despite how cold the water was.

  “We should have waited,” he whispered. “We should have attacked together.” The king squeezed her hand and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “I love you,” he professed with glassy eyes.

  The northman held her hand for a few minutes more. He wanted to stay with her until she woke again, but even without a crown on his head he could still feel the weight of it. Given the significance of their defeat, Vighon made to leave and fulfil his other duties.

  A light touch of snow sprinkled across his face as he met Gideon and the Galfreys again. “She’s strong,” he said reassuringly to Reyna, who looked at him with great concern. “But Gideon is right: Inara needs to rest now.”

  “I’m not leaving her,” Nathaniel stated.

  “Nor will I,” Vighon echoed. “The circumstances and location aren’t ideal, but I want to convene the council immediately. Right here,” he added, pointing at the space beside Athis. Gideon and Nathaniel nodded in agreement but Reyna’s gaze had drifted back to her daughter. “Reyna,” the northman said, taking her hand. Only when her eyes met his own did he speak directly to her. “I have valued your counsel for years. I need it now.”

  “And you have it.” Her response was bold but her voice lacked the tone of dependability he had come to expect from her.

  Vighon, instead, glanced at Nathaniel, who gave him a reassuring nod that his wife would be up to the task.

  “I will summon the others,” Gideon offered.

  As the old master walked away, Vighon advised the Galfreys to sit with their daughter until the council was ready. He hoped some time with her would ease their concerns but, like the northman, they wouldn’t be content until she opened her eyes.

  Rounding the tent, the king looked out on the camp. He could see Kassian and many of his Keepers were already spreading out to put their magic to good use where the wounded were concerned. There were so many of them. Like the sun, Vighon’s hope was waning. A familiar face, though, brought a much-needed smile to his face.

  The captain of the king’s guard, Sir Ruban Dardaris, approached with a number of soldiers at his back. Beyond them, Vighon could see a growing camp of soldiers, men gathered from around the realm, though predominantly from the south. They all bore the sigil of the flaming sword and they all bent the knee in his long shadow.

  Ruban didn’t bow.

  The captain gave Vighon a hard look, though the pause in his approach allowed the king a cursory inspection of the man and his forces. That was all he required to see that none had been in the recent battle. A closer scrutiny of Sir Ruban’s face, however, informed the king that his old friend wasn’t entirely glad to see him. The captain raised his arm, putting Vighon on edge - he had promised to put him on his back, after all. But then, in the blink of an eye, his demeanour changed with a broad and delighted grin breaking out across his face. Happy to be surprised, Vighon clasped his friend’s forearm and crushed him in a tight embrace.

  “Forgive me,” Vighon whispered in his ear, his tone pleading.

  “You do not need forgiveness for being flesh and blood like the rest of us,” Ruban replied. “I have seen the kind of king you are time and time again. I saw that in you before you were king, in fact. But the realm is not yours alone to hold up. You should have confided in me. Your fears are mine.”

  “I know,” Vighon said, shutting his eyes tight.

  Ruban increased the strength of his embrace. “The next time you feel the weight of it all, you come to me. If you don’t - should you falter again - I will hunt you down myself.”

  Vighon smiled through the cutting guilt that stabbed at his heart. “Never again, old friend,” he promised, stepping back from the captain. “I know who I am.”

  Ruban mirrored his grin. “It is good to see you,” he said earnestly. “Though the company you keep is questionable,” he added, looking over the king’s shoulder.

  Vighon glanced back at Sir Borin. “It’s a long story.”

  “I would hear it over a drink and a hot meal,” Ruban replied.

  The northman patted his captain on the shoulder with an agreeable smile and moved past him. “Rise, all of you!” he commanded to the force beyond. “For two years you have kept the flaming sword alive with your courage! For the rest of your days I will not see you kneel to me! I would always know who you are! And there will always be a place for you at my table!” The men took the honour in their stride and cheered the name Draqaro.

  Vighon turned back to his captain and placed a hand on his pauldron. “The council is convening - I want you there. Fetch Kassian too.”

  Ruban’s face lit up with the contented smile of a man who was happy to have his king back. “As you command, your Grace.”

  The northman stepped away and let his gaze drift over the survivors. It dawned on him then. If Alijah had truly won and the realm was, indeed, his now, they would face naught but dark days and forever be known as survivors, nothing more.

  “No,” he muttered to himself, his fists clenching by his side. He would make heroes of them all, even if it killed him.

  26

  Familiar Faces

  As a bitter wind picked up his green cloak, Asher climbed down from his horse with both eyes on the sky. He found Avandriell with ease, his mind drawn to her. But his gaze travelled further still, to the thick clouds that threatened more snow. The ranger thought of Malliath piercing those winter clouds and descending upon his young companion with merciless wrath.

  It brought back memories from his time under the thrall of The Crow. Even now, years later, Asher could still hear the screams of Dragorn and the cracking bones of their dragons within Malliath’s jaws.

  The memory stirred his emotions which, in turn, affected Avandriell. The bronze dragon tucked in her wings and dived towards him in search of comfort.

  Too fast! he called out across their bond. Too fast!

  The ranger quickly assumed a wide gate, preparing to catch Avandriell and cushion the impact - if his knees were up to it. At the last second, her wings fanned out and she crashed into his chest with all four claws, some of which tore his leathers. He staggered back, thankful for her last-second attempt at slowing down.

  “Easy!” he reassured, moving his head to avoid her new horns, each the length of his hand now. “Easy,” he repeated in a softer tone.

  Avandriell looked up at him with her golden eyes. Whispers echoed in the back of his mind but the speech was too chaotic to discern. Amidst the chaos, however, one word pushed its way forward with clarity.

  Asher.

  Her voice struck his mind like a bell, but the moment was broken when her meaty tongue ran up the bristles on his cheek. The size of a large dog, there was no stopping her from pouncing away. Happy to have her on the ground again, Asher took a
few seconds to scan his surroundings. Vighon had left soon after Reyna and Nathaniel, all disturbed by the news of Inara. The ranger himself felt a pang of unease where her health was concerned, but Adan’s words had cut right through him.

  “What do you see?” he asked the Drake.

  Adan climbed down from his mount, his eyes still surveying the land around them. “The world is losing its colour,” he uttered. “The light of the elves is already beginning to fade. Soon they will be shells, a shadow of what was.” Adan crouched down and ran his fingers through the snowy grass. “It’s all dying,” he lamented.

  Asher turned back to Avandriell, who was examining a Centaur with curious eyes. His concern for her quickly rose to the surface. “What about…” He couldn’t bring himself to ask the question since he wasn’t entirely sure he could handle the answer.

  Adan stood up and pulled his hood back to look at the dragon. “Avandriell’s magic will outlast us all, even that of Ilargo and Athis. Her connection to the realm of magic is still so raw and, after thousands of years in her egg beside her brothers and sisters, she is a powerful conduit.”

  Asher took his first breath since the Drake had started talking. But then his world came crashing down on him. All Avandriell had was more time than the rest of her kin; her fate was still sealed. Before the ranger could sink into that depression, a hand landed on his shoulder, turning him around. For all the misery dragging him down, seeing Faylen brought a smile to his face.

  “Hello, stranger,” she said with a coy grin.

  Asher spread his arms and pulled her in. There was a time when all he had wanted was the feel of her skin, the smell of her perfume, and the sound of her sweet voice. And, though he could not deny any lingering feelings towards her, he had found a place in his heart to be happy for her.

  There was also a part of him that still wanted to punch Nemir, her husband, right in the face. He felt that all too keenly upon spotting the elf emerging from the camp to greet them.

  Asher stepped back from Faylen and gave the elven captain a nod. “Nemir,” he said politely enough.