A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  He soon came across Pig, the Warhog’s frame hard to miss. He patted the beast on the head before inspecting its damaged tusks. “Ye gave ’em Reavers what for,” he commented mostly to himself. “Good Pig.”

  Working his way around the Warhog, he came to the broken pick-axe strapped to the saddle. He had kept it since Qamnaran, hoping to repair it and give it back to Russell. He ran his fingers over the notches carved into the haft, each a monster Russell had sent to the next life. The son of Dorain had no idea what to do with it now. He only knew that he didn’t want to discard it. Leaving it where it was, he moved round to see Lord Kraiden’s head, his crown of spikes still bolted to his skull. The wretch’s head could remain tethered to Pig a while longer, he decided.

  His inspection completed, the son of Dorain mounted his Warhog and guided it by the reins. Thinking like a ranger rather than a War Mason, he envisioned a journey that would cut across the land until they came to Barden Bridge, outside of Whistle Town. From there, they could take The Selk Road north. He was done hiding. If any Reaver or bandit fancied their luck challenging a company of dwarves, a hundred strong, then let them.

  Waddling under the weight of his armour, Thaligg approached the War Mason with a hint of apprehension about him. “If ye’ve words for me then spill ’em,” Doran commanded.

  Thaligg waited until he was right beside Pig to speak his mind. “Are ye sure to be puttin’ Commander Rolgoth in charge in our absence, me Lord?”

  Doran looked down on him, already aware of the dwarf’s concern. “Ye’ve a problem with Rolgoth?”

  Thaligg glanced over his shoulder, checking for those who might be eavesdropping. “He’s a Battleborn, me Lord.”

  “Oh,” Doran replied sarcastically, “was it the sigil tattooed across his entire face that gave ’im away?”

  The younger dwarf ignored the jibe. “Our clan is in a place o’ strength right now. Shouldn’ we put a Heavybelly in charge while we’re gone?”

  “It’s because he’s a Battleborn that I’m puttin’ ’im in charge,” the son of Dorain countered. “Battleborns ’ave been at the top o’ Dhenaheim’s hierarchy for centuries. That’s hundreds o’ years forbidden from attackin’ the clans beneath ’em an’ hundreds o’ years spent diggin’ in an’ defendin’.” He paused to point at the distant pit. “That’s exactly what we’re doin’ ’ere.”

  Thaligg’s mouth twisted this way and that as he considered Doran’s choices. “Aye, I suppose that makes sense,” he finally muttered.

  Doran’s eye went wide. “Oh, well if ye suppose…” The War Mason thumbed over his shoulder. “Get saddled an’ get this lot movin’!”

  With Thaligg’s departure, he turned Pig to better see those of his company. He was glad to see a great number of volunteers step forward to join him. He only hoped they chose to do so out of loyalty rather than a desire to depart The Moonlit Plains. He had cause to look twice at one particular dwarf joining his company. The tattoo on his arm identified him as a Hammerkeg, a clan that had resided beneath the Heavybellys for centuries.

  “You, lad!” he called in dwarvish. “What’s your name?”

  The younger dwarf hesitated before approaching the War Mason. “Finrig, son of Fearn, my Lord.”

  “You would cross Illian with me, Finrig? To The Black Wood?”

  “Aye, my Lord,” the dwarf answered without his previous hesitation.

  Doran licked his lips. “It’s mostly Heavybellys up there,” he warned.

  Finrig appeared tempted to avert his gaze but he possessed enough military discipline to look his superior in the eye. “You saved my life on the battlefield,” he explained as a matter of fact, though Doran could not recall anything of the such. “And my friend, Kalagad, would have perished on Qamnaran were it not for your axe and hammer, my Lord. There are more like me and Kalagad. Thousands more, all saved by those of another clan who march on your orders. We would follow you into The Dread Wood if you so commanded it.”

  Doran was quite taken aback by the response. “There’s no place for great names and hard lines on a map anymore. We need to look after each other. Oh, and should the day come that I issue a command to enter The Dread Wood, Finrig, you have my permission to strike me on the head with Andaljor!”

  35

  An Intimation of Hope

  Deep inside his sanctuary, a physical realm that bridged his mind to Ilargo’s, Gideon turned away from the perpetual night sky and ocean of stars. Instead, he looked to his companion, who rested on the lush plains of their quiet haven. The dragon’s rich blue eyes bore into the dark orbs of the old master’s.

  You’re sure? the old master asked him for possibly the tenth time, aware that Ilargo could think twice as fast as any human or elf.

  No more than I was the last time you asked. Our options are limited and time is against us. If this is truly the path we wish to commit ourselves to, we must simply act.

  Gideon slowly nodded in agreement, though he would have liked their odds of success to be a little higher. Still, it felt like the right thing to do, so what else could he do?

  I will take this to Inara, he said.

  I would not, Ilargo cautioned. We have disagreed with them on this matter. I do not believe their minds have been changed since last we spoke.

  Gideon quietly sighed. I have to try. She has buried her feelings. I know there is still a part of her that wants to save him.

  Ilargo’s head shifted and his gaze with it. They are preparing to leave. If you must speak with her, now is the time.

  Gideon took a breath, closed his eyes, and re-emerged in the real world. He was standing beside Reyna and Nathaniel, who had both offered farewells to their daughter. Asher and Avandriell were a little further away, closer to Ilargo who was watching Gideon with sharp eyes. Kassian and Adan’Karth were already astride Athis, though the Keeper looked as if he was ready to get down before they took off into the sky.

  Only Inara remained on the ground, pulling away from Vighon after a tight embrace and a handful of private words. It was the most open either had been about their relationship and Gideon could see the joy it brought to Reyna, beside him.

  “Inara!” the old master called, breaking away from the Galfreys. He passed the king and continued until he was face to face with his previous student. “I know time is short,” he began before Inara could make any protest. “Just listen to me,” he pleaded. “Ilargo and I have been thinking about Alijah.”

  Inara gave him a patronising look and half turned as if to walk away from him. “We’ve been over this, Gideon. Malliath or not, Alijah has made himself the enemy.” After delivering her response, the Guardian turned her back on him.

  “We think there’s a way to save him.” Gideon put it as simply as he could, but kept his voice low enough so that only Inara could hear him.

  Inara stopped on her way to Athis and reluctantly turned back to her old master. “I don’t even know what you’re thinking, but I know you must be clutching at straws, which we don’t have time for.”

  “If you can’t stand the idea of saving him,” Gideon replied with his last ditch effort, “then consider it another tactic to defeat Malliath.”

  Inara looked on him with pity. “Not everyone can be saved, Gideon.”

  “I know you, of all people, do not really believe that.”

  His words may have cut through her, but Inara was quick to harden herself against any truth he might spout. “Stay here,” she said firmly, though careful not to sound aggressive. “Guard the doorway.” Giving him no opportunity to say more, she made for Athis and climbed up his scales.

  Gideon stepped back as Athis’s red wings gave them rise into the sky, a plume of snow and debris lifting with them. He quickly turned north and continued to ascend, heading for The Evermoore.

  You tried, Ilargo said into his mind. She requires more time. I sensed a much greater curiosity in Athis.

  In their absence, Gideon replied, we will turn to those who can aid us.

 
Ilargo arched his neck, raising his head to the west. He is among the wounded.

  While those of the council who remained began to naturally gather, Gideon strode back into the thick of the camp. He weaved between the individual sites, avoiding the areas where food was being prepared and served to larger groups. The elves he passed knew exactly who he was and always bowed their heads out of respect. Most of the dwarves, however, didn’t know his face, but the children of the mountain had a better eye for steel than they did faces. The red and gold hilt of Mournblade turned more than a few heads among their number.

  On the far side of the camp, where the wounded had been triaged into a system from injured to dying, Gideon began his search in earnest. A nudge from Ilargo, whose height gave him a view of the entire camp, pushed the old master in the right direction.

  “You must be Aenwyn,” he said with a genuine smile.

  The elf bowed her head. “It is an honour, Master Thorn.”

  Moving past the lump in his throat, he waved the title away. “Please. It’s just Gideon.”

  Aenwyn bowed her head one more time. “As you say.”

  Gideon looked at the entrance to the tent beside her. “Is Galanör…”

  “He is healing,” Aenwyn answered pleasantly.

  Gideon battled the sense of urgency that demanded action. “Very good,” he said instead. “Actually, I’m most pleased to have met you. Galanör was telling me everything… Well,” he reconsidered, “Galanör’s never been one to tell everything.”

  Aenwyn smiled knowingly. “He certainly makes you work for it,” she agreed.

  “He spoke of his fondness for you though,” Gideon quickly added. “Indeed, I don’t believe he’s spoken of anyone the way he speaks of you. I have long worried that he was fated to wander the wilds with naught but his swords for company. I’m so happy for…” He trailed off as Galanör himself emerged from the tent, coated in a fine sweat.

  “Gideon?” The ranger looked a little pained to straighten his back.

  “Are you well?” The old master couldn’t hide his concern.

  Galanör took Aenwyn’s offered arm to steady himself. “I’ll be fine by midday,” he reassured. “Healing magic is—”

  “Hard,” Gideon finished. “That’s because you give a portion of yourself to every person you heal. You are not nearly schooled enough in this art to continue as you are.”

  “There are no healers amongst my people who can teach me,” Galanör told him. “All are affected by the tree.”

  Gideon nodded gravely. “You are a hero in more ways than one, Galanör Reveeri.”

  The ranger shook his head. “The real heroes are dying all around us.”

  Gideon didn’t want to disagree with him. “You’re doing good work here. How many are you able to save?”

  The elven ranger looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Two or three a day.”

  “Any more and he risks his own life,” Aenwyn pointed out.

  The old master looked out on the numerous makeshift tents, all filled with wounded warriors. “When we take the fight to Alijah, there will be fields of tents like these.”

  Galanör narrowed his eyes questioningly at his old friend.

  Gideon caught his look. “What I mean to say is: we need to stop this war before there’s no one left to rebuild whatever remains.”

  Now Galanör looked suspicious. “Is there a reason you have sought me out, Gideon? Faylen has filled me in on the meetings.”

  “I’m afraid there is no more to be gained from meetings,” Gideon stated boldly. “Now is the time to act.”

  Galanör found the strength to stand on his own, regaining some of the posture that identified him as a warrior. “What are you hatching, Gideon?”

  The old master responded with a coy smile. “One last adventure.”

  A few hours after midday, when the winter sun was beginning its decline into an early rest, Gideon found his path blocked by six foot of human ranger. In all the time he had known Asher, Gideon could confidently say that he had never been truly intimidated by the man, but he still wouldn’t try and forcibly remove him.

  “Asher.” The old master looked from the ranger to Avandriell, whose head rose just above his knee.

  “Schemes do not become you,” Asher said, his eyes flitting over Gideon’s shoulder.

  A quick glance informed Gideon that the ranger could see Galanör and Aenwyn collecting supplies from various sources. Further still, Ilargo had taken himself away from the bulk of the camp and was in the process of flexing his wings, preparing for a long flight.

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “Apparently I’ve missed something,” Asher quipped.

  Gideon held up his hands. “We weren’t going to leave without explaining.”

  “You shouldn’t be leaving at all,” Asher told him. “With Athis gone, Ilargo is our best chance of holding this position.” The ranger’s eyes flashed over Avandriell. “I don’t have to tell you how important this is.”

  “There’s a way to save Alijah,” Gideon blurted, halting Asher’s train of thought.

  “Save him?” he questioned sceptically.

  “You know more than anyone what it’s like to be trapped in a cage with Malliath. Inara and I have both seen the truth - he is being influenced. The fact that Alijah thinks their bond has been altered, blinding him to his own injuries, tells me that he is barely aware of his own actions.” Gideon put a finger to his head. “He’s stuck in there, Asher. The Alijah we all knew. The Alijah that loved his friends and family. The Alijah who wanted to save the world. He deserves to be saved like everyone else.”

  The ranger’s hard features softened somewhat. “I agree,” he said, taking Gideon aback. “But our efforts should be focused on defeating Malliath, not saving Alijah.”

  Gideon couldn’t hide his frustration. “I’m aware that most of the people in this field, perhaps the entire realm, would prefer to just kill them both and be done with it. They might even be right,” the old master considered. “But there is another way to look at this.”

  “Would that other way be the scenario you suggested to Inara?” Asher replied. “I saw her reaction after you spoke to her.”

  “She has hardened herself to all matters concerning her brother,” Gideon lamented.

  Asher nodded his understanding, reminding Gideon that the ranger had spent a lot of time with Inara while searching for him in Erador.

  “As to your perspective,” Asher pointed out, “you suggest that saving Alijah rids us of a powerful foe and unbalances Malliath at the same time. It’s a good twist on saving him, but everyone will see it for what it is and, like you said, they want Alijah dead, not redeemed.”

  “They don’t get to decide that,” Gideon argued. “I cannot be commanded by king, queen or ranger. And I know this is the right thing to do. I thought you would too.”

  Asher looked away, his thoughts always his own. “We all deserve a second chance,” he said reflectively. “Some of us are on our third or fourth. And no one should have to endure the mind of that monster.” The ranger turned back to Gideon. “I’m only asking you to consider the timing of this. We need you here, now.”

  “The timing is why we must leave now,” Gideon countered. “Even Adan couldn’t say for certain that his people would be able to save the tree, if they agree to try at all. We need to do something while we still can and, for that, I need Ilargo.”

  It was clear to see that, no matter how pragmatic the ranger was, Asher found it hard to accept that they could lose magic and all the dragons with it. “And how exactly are you going to save Alijah?”

  “Yes,” came a voice that startled them both. “How will you save him?” Reyna echoed, rounding the council tent to meet them.

  Gideon made to speak but he retracted the words before they could leave his mouth. This was a sensitive topic to discuss with anyone, but Alijah’s mother made it so much harder to articulate.

  “Are
you asking as the queen of elves?” Asher posed. “Or Alijah’s mother?”

  Reyna held the ranger’s gaze for a moment before looking at Gideon. “Perhaps we should take this inside,” she suggested, her eyes directing them to a pair of curious dwarves within earshot.

  With some reluctance, Gideon followed Reyna and Asher into the council tent. The absence of Sir Borin immediately informed the old master that the king was elsewhere. In fact, with Reyna’s guard commanded to stay outside, they were the only occupants.

  “Where are Vighon and Nathaniel?” Gideon enquired, wondering if he could ever get used to calling them kings.

  “They are both dispatching scouts to widen our perimeter,” Reyna replied. “Alijah knows where we are and that we have suffered heavy casualties. He could still have Reavers as close as Galosha, Whistle Town, and Tregaran.”

  Gideon nodded along while casting his eyes over the maps on the table. When he finally looked up, Asher and Reyna were watching him closely.

  “Can you really save him?” Reyna pressed, her emotions bubbling just under the surface. “Can you save him from Malliath?”

  “There might be a way,” he said with some reticence. “And when Ilargo tells me that - I listen. But I would caution against hope. Though I’m confident this will separate Alijah from Malliath, I cannot guarantee it will bring back the man we all knew. The best case scenario is that it unbalances Malliath and disrupts their command over the Reavers.”

  Asher gave a quiet sigh and leaned over the table, his blue eyes piercing the old master.

  Gideon bit his lip, buying just an extra second of time to collect his thoughts. His attention ran over the maps and landed on the coastal city of Velia, a place of memories for them all. “Do you recall the events immediately after the battle of Velia, at the end of The War for the Realm?”