A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  It is not just the sting of the arrow that ails me, he complained, sure that he had been burnt somewhere across his back.

  An overwhelming weight pressed down upon the king’s mind and he collapsed onto the end of his bed. His thoughts fractured. Words failed him, their meaning entirely lost on him. An acute sting bit into his neck, forcing his hand to the skin. His fingers came away with blood. Where he had disturbed the wound, more blood trickled down his bare chest.

  Alijah thought the pattern of those wounds familiar - a bite mark. But he had not been bitten. The thought evaporated in his mind. He tried to grasp at it but he would have had better luck catching smoke in his hands. With what focus he was able to maintain, the half-elf waved his hand through the air and conjured a mirror image of himself.

  He looked dreadful. His face was bruised and swollen, his eyes bloodshot. Raking wounds marred his skin, the flesh torn. He even possessed what looked like a burn on his right hip.

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered.

  The oppression on his mind increased. Alijah leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. Malliath oozed soothing emotions across their bond.

  You were injured in the battle, the dragon purred. You were injured by Inara Galfrey. She challenged you. They all challenged you. Yet you endured. You wear your wounds with pride and honour, for you have done what no other could. You have changed the world.

  Alijah straightened and examined his mirror image. The blood streaking down his chest faded from view, as if it had never been there. Indeed, he could not recall whatever had drawn his attention to his neck, for there was only a dark bruise there now. Only the burn on his hip remained, but he suddenly remembered Inara casting the spell that had scorched him. The swelling across his face even eased, returning some of his chiselled features.

  You see, Malliath whispered in his mind.

  Yes, Alijah replied absently. I suffer from the battle.

  You suffer because of your sister! Malliath fumed, snapping the king from his haze. I have seen your memories. You faltered in the realm of magic, the dragon scolded. Inara Galfrey should be dead!

  Alijah waved a hand through his own image and it faded to mist. Burning the tree was the priority. Verda’s future is finally assured.

  Malliath filled more of his mind, shrinking the half-elf’s surroundings. You let our enemy live! The first time our bond is compromised and you reveal your weaknesses.

  “I have no weaknesses!” Alijah yelled.

  You are a man! Malliath provoked. You are riddled with weakness!

  Alijah lashed out with magic and blew the windows out of his chamber. “I am a dragon!” he roared.

  Yes! Malliath roared, expressing his pleasure. We are to be the only dragons in the realm. As such, we have no sisters or parents. There are no ties, blood or otherwise, that bind us. When next you meet another Galfrey, you will destroy them.

  His chest heaving and heart thundering, Alijah nodded along to his companion’s edict. “We are dragons,” he breathed.

  Malliath’s presence relaxed in his mind. What now, king?

  Alijah draped himself in a heavy fur cloak and left his chamber as it filled with snow. Now we wait, he replied. The tree is burning as we speak. With each passing moment, magic retreats from the world. Bereft of this gift, Vighon and his rebellion will lose all hope as they watch their most powerful allies fall into shadow. The elves will likely lose any sense of self and seek shelter in their homeland.

  The king gritted his teeth, bearing the pain that begged him to rest. Then, when the world is at its darkest, we shall emerge from these mountains and remind the realm who wears the crown. After we purge The Rebellion’s remnants, including my sister and Vighon, we can finally get to the business of peace.

  I fear you have taken refuge in the future, Malliath said. The land and its people - our people - do not stand united. The capital flies the banner of the flaming sword, The Arid Lands is restless without a clear leader, and The Rebellion’s forces are amassed in the heart of the realm.

  Alijah paused in the hallway and turned his mind inward. He reached out to his Reavers, detecting the bulk of them on the east road, having just passed Darkwell. They would enter the valley of The Vrost Mountains soon and stand guard at the base of The Bastion. Beyond them, he could feel hundreds more scattered throughout the realm, patrolling cities and towns.

  He left them all to their tasks and focused on The Moonlit Plains. There were but three of his knights with enough life in them to grant him their eyes. They were severely mutilated, missing most of their limbs and all three were pinned down by the scores of bodies that had been piled on top of them. Of the trio, only one could see the snowy fields and even the camp of rebels.

  Look, Malliath, the king bade, drawing the dragon in. They are in disarray. They have been beaten and broken and they feel it. When the truth sinks in, when they accept their fate, they might even lay down their swords and beg for our forgiveness.

  And would you have us grant it? Malliath enquired.

  Alijah displayed a wicked grin. Dragons do not forgive. They devour.

  Indeed. But do not underestimate our enemy. Until magic has fled the world and our dominance over the sky and land is assured, they remain a threat.

  We will keep a watch over them, Alijah reassured. And we will do so from the safety of The Bastion. Let the realm breathe for a moment. Uncertainty breeds unrest and unrest breeds violence. The Rebellion has shattered this country and soon every man, woman, and child will see that. I want them to reject Vighon in their hearts. I want them to despise him and everything he stands for. Then, when the fires rise, we will return to restore peace. There will be no dragons to challenge us and no magic to threaten us with. We will be invincible.

  Very good, Malliath expressed. Very good.

  30

  Old Friends

  The morning returned to the forest accompanied by a white mist, a concealing vapour that spread across every inch of the land. Asher cursed their luck as he kicked dirt onto the fire. Doran was already by the edge of their camp, crouched low to better inspect the wolf’s departing tracks. Whatever his mood, the dwarf had certainly found some sleep that night if his snoring was anything to go by. Asher was just pleased to see his old friend in better spirits and rested for the hunt.

  The ranger himself had only found sleep after Avandriell had relaxed and closed her eyes beside him. He watched her closely now, looking for any sign of lasting damage to her injured leg. Judging by the way she stalked a mouse through the foliage, the young dragon had fully recovered. While she devoured the mouse, he moved to Doran’s side and cast his experienced eyes over the ground.

  “This damned fog’ll slow us down,” the War Mason complained.

  Asher stepped ahead and to the side as Avandriell bounded through the gap. “Forget the tracks,” he told the dwarf. “The blood will lead us to its lair.” Even as he spoke, the dragon was sniffing the ground and following the trail of blood.

  “I could get used to huntin’ with a dragon,” Doran quipped.

  As beneficial as Avandriell’s natural talents were, Asher wasn’t comfortable with her leading the way. Every now and then she would get excited by a different scent, or simply the prospect of hunting their prey, and dash ahead. The ranger could always find her, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed losing sight of her. Still, he had been impressed with her assault on the Werewolf and the dragon knew it, his pride filling her with happiness.

  As the morning dragged on, the mist refused to fade away. They relied on Avandriell alone to guide them across the landscape. Without her, it could have easily felt like being stuck in a labyrinth with the trees and fog closing in on them.

  It was hard to measure the amount of time that had passed since setting off from the camp, but Asher guessed it to be nearing midday when they came across their first real obstacle. The ranger looked up at the rock wall, unable to see the top or any ledge beyond the mist. What he could
see, however, was blood and claw marks running up the stone.

  Doran tapped the steel of his axe against the wall. “Sheer,” he observed. “We won’ be followin’ it this way.”

  Avandriell rested her front claws against the wall as if meaning to mimic the wolf’s ascent. “No,” Asher warned her with an outstretched hand. The dragon dropped her claws back onto the ground and exhaled sharply.

  “No bear could make that climb,” Doran said, craning his neck. “There must be another way up there.”

  “Agreed. Let’s keep the wall on our left and follow it round.”

  Filled with confidence from a morning of leading the hunt, Avandriell moved to the front again and pounced between the trees.

  Asher focused on their bond, an almost tangible part of his mind. Avandriell, he called, giving the dragon pause. Stay by my side. A cornered wolf is a dangerous wolf.

  Avandriell raised her head and assumed a regal pose. There were no words in response but Asher could feel the confidence of a creature that knew it was an apex predator.

  Soon, he reassured. For now, stay with me.

  The young dragon waited for the ranger to catch her up before falling into line beside him. He enjoyed the level of understanding that currently existed between them, though he longed to talk to her, to know her thoughts and opinions on the world.

  “There,” Doran said, breaking the ranger’s reverie.

  Asher looked over his shoulder and followed the dwarf’s finger to a muddy slope. The path had been forged in a break in the rocky wall and gently rose up and round the stone. Avandriell moved towards it and ducked her head. Asher came up on her side and crouched down to waft away some of the fog.

  “Bear prints,” he announced.

  Doran took a long breath as he examined the slope. “Let’s finish this.”

  Together, they took to the slope and navigated the cliff side. In most places, the path was only wide enough for single file, certainly a width where even a bear would have been forced to tread carefully.

  “I don’ like the look o’ that,” Doran voiced, staring at a cut in the rock. It was a straight path that led into the heart of the cliff but, if they were attacked while passing through, they would struggle to swing their weapons.

  Asher checked the prints at their feet. “This is the way - we have no choice.”

  “I’ll lead,” Doran volunteered, his courage never to be questioned.

  Following him in, Asher was sure to keep Avandriell between the two of them. At least, of the three of them, she could fly away, her wingspan just within the walls. Of course, the ranger knew that would be the last thing she would ever do. The dragon would rather die fighting by his side than abandon him and survive. Asher both loved and hated that fact.

  Sacrificing stealth for speed, they crossed the narrow path while constantly scanning the fog above and behind them. Asher’s head twitched to the side, sure that he had heard something scrape across the stone. A few moments later and a small collection of loose pebbles trickled down the wall on his right. Looking up, there was nothing but fog and more wall.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t too long before they emerged on the other side, where the path was wider. Even the mist seemed clearer here, giving them a better view of the surroundings. Continuing to follow the rock face round to the left, they soon came across a smear of blood where the wolf had climbed over the edge.

  Doran frowned with disgust. “Ye smell that?”

  Avandriell certainly did, her nose pointed to the sky. “We’re close,” Asher concluded.

  The dwarf adjusted his grip around the haft of his axe. “If we can smell the wolf… the wolf can smell us.”

  Asher drew his broadsword. “Surprise won’t be on our side this time.”

  Using the blood, they trailed it round the path until it brought them to a wide cave opening and a shelf with a sheer edge that dropped down into the misty wood. There were signs everywhere that a bear had taken residence here, perhaps even generations of bears. But it was the blood that weaved between the debris and bones that held the rangers’ attention.

  Doran beat the flat of his hammer against his armoured breastplate. “Are ye in there, beastie?” he yelled.

  Asher sighed inwardly, suddenly reminded of their different styles when it came to facing monsters. He caught the dwarf’s eye and nodded for him to take the left-hand wall into the cave while he followed on the right. It took them both a moment to adjust to the gloom of the cave, though Avandriell, it seemed, had no such issue. The dragon stopped halfway into the cave, her golden eyes piercing the shadows. For just a second, Asher assumed Avandriell had seen the wolf, but her emotions didn’t correspond to that. She was calm, perhaps even a little confused.

  The wolf wasn’t in the cave.

  “It’s not here,” he stated confidently.

  “Ye’re sure?”

  Asher looked down at Avandriell. “It’s not here,” he repeated, relaxing his sword arm.

  Doran huffed. “Then where in all the hells is it?”

  Avandriell heard the wolf first, a fraction of a second before her alarm rang like a bell inside Asher’s mind. The dragon whipped her tail around to aid in her spin while Asher gripped his sword in both hands and swung blindly behind him. That fraction of a second saved the ranger’s life as his blade clashed with the wolf’s claws. The force of it, however, knocked him back a step. There was no opportunity to fall into a defensive stance as the monster came at him again and again. Asher parried those raking claws and batted the creature’s hands away, buying Avandriell time to line up her lunging attack.

  The wolf howled when its ankle was caught in the vice-like grip of the dragon’s jaws. The beast staggered, giving Asher time to adjust his style and put an aggressive foot forward. His broadsword arced through a chunk of the Werewolf’s arm before coming back around to swipe across its chest.

  Pained and enraged, the wolf dropped down and slammed a heavy hand onto Avandriell’s head. The dragon released its foe and cried out, a sound that boiled Asher’s blood. The ranger gave in to that anger and hacked at the monster with two-handed hammer strokes. With strong arms, almost twice the length of an ordinary man’s, the wolf only had to swipe at Asher’s legs to take him off his feet. The impact hurt, but it wasn’t nearly as painful as the bite he was about to receive.

  The wolf came down on him with an open maw and a breath that spoke of death. It was then that Asher was reminded why it was a good thing that his style differed from Doran’s. The dwarf charged into the side of the wolf, barrelling them both into the cave wall. Amidst the chaos of their wild limbs, the son of Dorain managed to yank the monster’s mane of matted hair and slam his hammer into its snout and face.

  “Don’ worry, old friend!” Doran grunted, lifting his hammer high again. “I’ll set ye free!”

  Unfortunately, the wolf retained enough of its senses and strength to snatch the head of the hammer before the next stroke fell. It growled from somewhere deep in its throat and looked Doran in the eye. The dwarf swore, though the word was barely given time to escape his lips before the beast hurled him across the cave, towards the shelf.

  Asher picked himself up, sparing Avandriell a glance, and renewed his assault on the wolf. He cut a line across its face, ripping a gash through its black nose and bloody snout. In a display of supernatural strength, the wolf scaled the cave wall in a heartbeat and pounced from above. The ranger turned his broadsword horizontally and gripped the flat of the blade, barring the Werewolf’s attack across the neck. The weight of the monster, however, was still enough to flatten him beneath it.

  Pressed against the wet floor again, Asher writhed on his back and put all of his strength into keeping his foe at bay. With open jaws, thick saliva drooled between its fangs and coated the ranger’s leathers and face. The flat of the blade quickly began to bite into his hand, threatening his only defence.

  Out of sight, Avandriell let loose her fiery breath, the flames illuminating the cave. The wolf
roared and then howled as the pain set in, relenting its attack on Asher. The beast leapt to the side and rolled across the cave floor, a portion of its mane set alight. Avandriell bared her fangs and growled at her enemy, her stance low and ready to attack.

  The flames extinguished, the wolf rose with a smoking back and a look of wrath in its black eyes. Dragon and Werewolf collided in a clash of claws and gnashing teeth. In the air, Avandriell’s wings flapped furiously, disorientating her foe as she tore through its chest. The sound of the wolf’s claws scraping across her scales made Asher wince. He desperately wanted to enter the fray but he risked striking his companion in the process.

  As Avandriell opened her jaws, preparing to breath fire upon the wolf, the wretched monster thrust its head forward and clamped its fangs around her neck. The young dragon couldn’t so much as squawk, her breath taken away.

  “NO!” Asher charged with all his fury and plunged his broadsword into the wolf’s gut.

  Everything happened so fast after that. Avandriell was released and dropped to the cave floor, the wolf’s attention turned to the ranger. It backhanded him into the wall and removed the blade from its gut. Before Asher could even think to retrieve his silvyr short-sword, the beast took his head in its hand and shoved him into the rock face. The knock to his skull robbed the ranger of his immediate senses and he crumpled to his hands and knees, blood dripping from the side of his head.

  “Beastie!” Doran yelled from the mouth of the cave. “I’m not done with ye yet!” he goaded.

  Asher looked on, his sight fractured. The wolf walked towards the dwarf on its two powerful legs, its hands and claws reaching out in anticipation. Asher tried to stand and offer aid but he dropped back to his hands and knees and slumped against the wall. Not far away, Avandriell lay coughing and spluttering. They were out of this fight.

  Doran slowly backed out onto the shelf, his eye locked on the approaching wolf. He dared to spare a glance at Asher and Avandriell - they were alive but certainly injured. Getting a good look at the wolf in the light, the dwarf could see the damage both had inflicted on it. A particularly nasty wound continued to bleed out from its gut and down its leg. It had, however, already healed the majority of wounds suffered the previous night.