A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “You found us,” came Kassian’s voice from behind, his tone hinting at some relief. Adan’Karth soon appeared beside the Keeper, his hands clasped inside his voluminous sleeves.

  “I’m not the only one apparently,” Inara replied, eyeing the Reaver.

  “It followed us with a Seeker,” Kassian explained, “but I took care of it.”

  “You should have killed it,” Inara chastised as she removed Firefly for a third time that night. Using her free hand, she cast a simple spell that tugged the Reaver away from the tree. Before all of its weight came down on its feet, the edge of her scimitar cleaved the fiend into two parts, separating head from body. “Alijah knows you are here now,” she told them, returning Firefly to her hip. “And worse: he knows what you’re doing here.”

  Kassian frowned and opened his mouth to argue until his eyes tracked down to the headless corpse. He swore.

  “I have had the displeasure of speaking with my brother,” Inara continued. “He has heard you speaking of our plans and, as we speak, is commanding Reavers to attack the dig site. We need to move, now.”

  The Keeper stepped aside, revealing a handful of Drakes huddled in the light of the moon. “I think we’re going to need more than six if we’re going to save the tree.”

  Inara took in the sight of them, noting the caution that each carried in their demeanour. “Do they know why you have called on them?” she asked Adan.

  The Drake shook his head. “This is a decision that must be made by my people as a whole. They will arrive at their answer with haste if they are altogether and convening as one.”

  Inara couldn’t hide her impatience but, from his place of dominion over Vangarth, Athis reminded her, Theirs is a great sacrifice, wingless one. They cannot be pushed. We must wait.

  The Guardian took a breath. “As you say,” she reluctantly replied to both Adan’Karth and Athis. Considering the options that now lay before her - one of which was sitting on her hands - Inara turned back to the south and made to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Kassian questioned.

  “You’re safe here,” she answered, gesturing to the dead knight. “I’m going back to the town.”

  “What for?”

  Inara’s hand tightened around Firefly’s hilt. “To kill some more Reavers.”

  38

  The Future Lies in the Past

  It was a privilege to accompany a dragon in flight, something most would kill to experience. For Galanör Reveeri, this was his ninth time soaring through the heavens and he hoped he was never going to have to stop counting. He wondered if he had enjoyed such an honour more than any other in the realm who was not bonded with a dragon.

  Of course, they had not all been as exhilarating as sitting astride Ilargo. His first flight, on the back of Malliath, had been terrifying at times. And he could still recall, with horrifying clarity, the time Rainael the emerald star had scooped him up in her claws and taken him to Dragons’ Reach. Given that he had also had the pleasure of flying with Athis, during The Ash War, and one of the elder dragons, during The War for the Realm, he was sure he held some kind of record for non-Riders.

  For Aenwyn, however, this was her first time and it showed. Galanör was certain her cheeks must be sore from so much smiling. Even after the sun had gone down and they flew through the night, she had beamed with glee to observe the stars from so high up. And now, as the glorious sun bounced off the waves of The Adean, she grinned with pure happiness.

  Her joy was infectious and Galanör lapped it up. The days they were leaving behind had been of misery and exhaustion and the days ahead of them only threatened to be worse. The elven ranger was glad to have his mind taken elsewhere and his mood uplifted, even if it was only briefly.

  His wings flexed and held steady, Ilargo glided away from The Shining Coast, Illian’s eastern shore, and set his sights on the archipelago on the horizon. Galanör narrowed his vision to try and see it in better detail. How long had it been since he had laid eyes on The Lifeless Isles? It had been longer still since he had last set foot on them.

  The closer they got, the lower Ilargo flew, bringing them within a few feet of the sea. It was a magnificent display of the dragon’s speed, though he was flying no quicker than when he had been among the clouds. Aenwyn tensed in front of Galanör and lowered her head, but it was not fear that moved her. She was loving it.

  Eventually, Ilargo crossed the gap and entered between the cliffs of The Lifeless Isles. He banked left and right, high and low, to navigate the labyrinth of islands big and small. Here and there were signs of an ancient settlement where the Dragorn of Elandril’s time had carved their homes out of the stone. For a time, even Gideon had called this home.

  Galanör tilted his body to see the old master further along Ilargo’s body. He was looking out at the platforms and balconies that extended from the cliffs, an air of melancholy about him. It wasn’t the happy return the elven ranger had once hoped for his friend.

  Rising above the cliffs, Ilargo angled his body towards the largest of the islands, further south, before diving back into the channels below. Galanör knew exactly where the dragon was taking them and he recognised that particular cliff face when they came upon it. Halfway up, a wide cave had been carved out of the stone, large enough to accommodate most dragons. Ilargo came to a halt inside that cave, his claws scraping across the ground.

  Gideon was the first to dismount, accustomed as he was to the contours of his companion’s body. He paused in front of Ilargo and took in the familiar sight. Galanör and Aenwyn climbed down and joined him, pausing themselves to run a hand along Ilargo’s jaw and thank him for bringing them so far.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Aenwyn pondered, scrutinising the four pillars that held up the jagged ceiling. Beyond them lay a single chamber that housed a long table and a collection of high-back chairs, though it was all cast in gloom.

  Gideon walked over to the nearest pillar and grasped one of the torches from its mount. He waved his hand over the head but nothing happened. He tried again and again, his third attempt producing a flicker of light but no flames. Aenwyn offered her help but found her own magic wanting when it came to the simple spell. Only Galanör possessed the power to bring light to the cave, his magic setting the end of the torch on fire. Turning to the rest of the cave and the chamber beyond, the elven ranger raised both of his hands and flipped them palm up. Half a dozen braziers and twice as many torches came to life with flickering flames, illuminating the ancient dwelling.

  “For seven thousand years,” Gideon began, “since the time of The First Age, this was the council chamber of the Dragorn.” The old master crossed the cave and approached the head of the table, his dark eyes fixed on the chair at the other end. “Elandril, Valtyr, Aerilaya… The best of the Dragorn. They all sat in that chair. They all held back the darkness of their time.”

  Galanör could see the guilt and shame Gideon was putting upon himself. “As did you,” he pointed out. “Twice. The Darkakin, the orcs; they all faced you in their pursuit of conquest. Now Reavers and necromancers threaten the realm and here you are again. You have placed yourself on the line between good and evil every time.”

  Gideon was shaking his head. “If history has shown us anything, it is that standing up for the light isn’t enough. Every leader of the Dragorn gave their life to keep back the darkness, and to keep the order alive.”

  “Then I would say it is a good thing you are not Dragorn,” Galanör replied softly, having no wish to see his friend die for the cause.

  The old master eventually nodded, though whether he was agreeing or simply avoiding further discussion remained to be seen. On the other side of the table, Aenwyn’s attention had been captured by the stone murals that lined all three of the chamber’s walls, just as they had once enraptured Galanör.

  “Amazing,” she commented, running her fingers over the carvings.

  Her choice of words brought back an old memory for Galanör, bringing a smil
e to his face. “Adilandra said the same thing when she saw it for the first time. That is Valtyr,” he explained, looking at the depiction of an elf astride a dragon. “He fought—”

  “Against the Darkakin in The Second Age,” Aenwyn finished. “Assisted by Lady Syla,” she added with a bashful smile. “I know my history, Galanör.”

  “Then you know more than me,” the ranger replied with amusement. “I’m just repeating what Queen Adilandra told me.”

  “If you think this is something,” Gideon said, making his way to the door on the right of the table, “wait until you see this.” His hand clasped the door handle, his touch enough to deactivate the wards he had placed over it before he left for Ayda.

  Galanör watched Aenwyn closely, eager to see her expression when she laid eyes on the library of the Dragorn. Unlike the chamber outside, the library was instantly illuminated by a series of torches and an enormous hearth. Gideon led the way, taking to the steps first and descending to the lowest level. Galanör remained beside Aenwyn as she pressed up against the railing and absorbed her new surroundings. He enjoyed the awe and wonder that lived in her eyes as she looked up at the tiers of books and relics. Beneath them, in the open-plan ground floor, there were even more relics of the past, all encased in displays and cabinets.

  “As a child,” Aenwyn revealed, “I dreamt many times what this library would look like. My mother described it as the heartbeat of history itself, though she was never as fortunate as me to actually see it. I want to explore every corner of it!”

  Galanör laughed and his voice carried up to the highest tier. “I could have guessed.” Looking down at Gideon, who was currently rummaging through the lower half of a tall cupboard, the ranger’s tone took on a more serious edge. “Perhaps another time though,” he said, planting an affectionate kiss on the side of Aenwyn’s head.

  They joined him on the ground floor, though Aenwyn was quickly lost after drifting towards one of the glass cabinets. Galanör rounded the long table to meet Gideon, only to pause at the sight of a familiar sword mounted horizontally on the wall. The ranger rapped his knuckle against the dragon bone. “I remember this,” he remarked. “What did he call it again?”

  Gideon stopped for as long as it took him to see what Galanör was talking about. “Dragonslayer,” he said with a hint of disgust.

  “What a foul name,” Aenwyn opined. “Who did it belong to?”

  “Karakulak, the orc king.” Galanör’s tone was that of Gideon’s.

  Aenwyn’s eyes lit up in understanding. “I only glimpsed him during that last battle - he was big.”

  “He was a head shorter by the time Gideon was finished swinging Mournblade,” Galanör quipped.

  “Good riddance,” Aenwyn commented, returning to her exploration.

  Galanör left the horrid sword where it was and turned to Gideon, who was frantically shifting the contents of another tall cupboard, his eyes scanning its every nook and cranny.

  “Where is it?” he muttered to himself. “I know I left it around here somewhere.”

  “What are you searching for?” Galanör enquired with some concern. “The Hastion gem?”

  “No,” Gideon answered, moving to the next set of shelves. “The gem is locked away over there,” he said absently, gesturing in the direction of the hearth.

  Galanör left Gideon to his task and approached the area beside the hearth, though he discovered naught but books either stacked on top of each other or lined along the numerous shelves. “I don’t see it,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Don’t touch that!” Gideon warned.

  Galanör spun on his heel and quickly followed Gideon’s outstretched hand to Aenwyn. She froze, her finger under the golden latch that secured a vertical glass display. Slowly, the elf retracted her finger and removed her hand before turning back to Gideon.

  “My apologies,” the old master said, calming down. “I should have told you: certain items in here are warded, especially that one. Best not touch any of them.”

  Galanör looked past Aenwyn to examine the particular item in question. Inside the glass case, hanging on a simple hook, was a long chain with a large ruby on the end. He would know that ruby anywhere, having seen it around Hadavad’s neck for many years.

  “The Viridian ruby,” Galanör uttered.

  “A Viridian ruby,” Gideon specified. “There are supposedly five of them…” His words trailed off as he stood back from the cupboard to look at every shelf in frustration.

  “This is the ruby used by the mage Hadavad?” Aenwyn checked.

  Galanör was glad to know that she had been listening to his tales after all. “Yes. It’s how he moved from one host to another.” The ranger turned back to Gideon. “I didn’t know you possessed it.”

  “I couldn’t leave it for just anyone to find,” the old master replied without looking back at him. “And it was no easy task. Before leaving for Dragons’ Reach, I returned to the site where we faced The Crow. There was a lot of debris to clear, but Ilargo saw to most of that. I was just thankful the Leviathan wasn’t covering it.”

  Galanör let his sight linger on the ruby for a moment. There were still times when he missed the old mage and their days hunting down The Black Hand. Taking his mind from such memories, the ranger returned his attention to the Hastion gem. “There’s nothing but books over here, Gideon,” he reminded him.

  The old master tore himself away from his task and joined Galanör in combing the books. He scanned along one of the shelves, his finger running across numerous spines before stopping on one nestled in the middle. “Here it is,” he announced, handing the book to the ranger.

  Galanör read the cover. “Merdians of the Blue,” he said curiously.

  “Merdians are among the deepest dwellers of The Adean,” Gideon explained to a quizzical elf. He flashed an amused grin before opening the hardback cover to reveal a hollow cut into the pages. Sitting inside was an ornate ring, the finest craftsmanship to house the Hastion sapphire.

  Galanör shared some of his friend’s humour. “Merdians of the Blue. Very imaginative. Shame about the book though,” he added, removing the Hastion gem.

  Gideon lifted a finger to the air. “There’s another copy on the third floor - fascinating read.”

  The elven ranger was sure to secure the gem on his belt before responding. “I’m sure it is,” he agreed, though he had made a personal vow, decades earlier, to steer well clear of all Mer-folk for the rest of his immortal days.

  “What are you looking for?” Aenwyn asked Gideon, who had already returned to his personal hunt.

  “This!” he declared, retrieving a leather satchel from the last cupboard on the ground floor. It was a disgusting looking thing that appeared to have seen more years than all of them combined. “Don’t you recognise it?” Gideon held it up for Galanör to see.

  The ranger shook his head. “Should I? It looks like the inside of an orc.”

  The old master stifled a laugh and turned the satchel upside down. From within, half a cupboard’s worth of books were emptied onto the floor at his feet. Seeing the pocket dimension in action, Galanör’s memory was cajoled into recalling the ancient satchel.

  The elf pointed at it. “Adilandra brought that back from Davosai. She found it in Atilan’s lab.” His eyes looked down to the pile of books, searching for a specific tome.

  “It’s not there,” Gideon told him, deciphering his thoughts. “Atilan’s grimoire - the one Adilandra placed inside - is locked away and warded.” He looked down at the other books. “I just needed somewhere to put all of those.”

  Galanör raised an eyebrow. “So you used the ancient satchel of a self-proclaimed god.”

  Gideon shrugged. “It did the job.”

  “How will this aid us?” Aenwyn enquired, bringing them back on track.

  “The satchel is enchanted with a pocket dimension,” Gideon said rather redundantly. “If we place the Crissalith inside, we can transport it anywhere without it affect
ing us. Of course, as soon as we retrieve it from within, we will require the Hastion gem to maintain our advantage when facing Alijah or Malliath.”

  “Won’t the Crissalith prevent the enchantment from working?” Aenwyn pointed out.

  Gideon shook his head. “No. My first up-close encounter with Crissalith severed my bond with Ilargo, but it didn’t affect the enchantment on Mournblade - a fact that saved my life once upon a time.”

  “It doesn’t affect objects,” Aenwyn said with revelation.

  “Exactly,” Gideon replied with a broad smile.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Galanör took the satchel from Gideon and draped it over his shoulder and hip. “Let’s go and dig up the past.”

  As hard as it was for Aenwyn to leave the library behind, they returned to the council chamber. The trio paused briefly so Gideon could retrieve the three crystals he had hidden in his room, two of which were vital for their errand. Despite having everything Gideon had outlined in his plan, Galanör held loosely to any hope that they could actually free Alijah from Malliath’s influence. After all, they still had a long way to go and no end of perils in their path.

  Ascending Ilargo’s green scales once more, they braced themselves as the dragon dived from the cliff and spread his wings to carry them into the vast blue of the heavens above. He turned south-east, to a murky horizon of waves, and put civilisation behind them.

  39

  An Alliance of Two Shores

  Feet firmly planted in the land, his land, Vighon Draqaro ignored the icy blast of wind that sent his dark cloak billowing and kept his eyes fixed on the misty plains to the north. Nothing. It had been two days since Inara had left with the others and he believed another whole day would come and go without any sign of them. He knew it wasn’t nearly enough time to complete their errand but his attention continued to divert to the north.

  He sighed, his eyes narrowing in the rising sun.