A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Nathaniel’s mouth twisted in amusement. “Avandriell might have made you immortal, old man, but she hasn’t made you any quicker.”

  Asher pulled his broadsword a few inches from its scabbard. “Care to test that theory?”

  Though he heard four blades of steel leaving their fine elven scabbards, the ranger barely had the time to blink before they were all pointed at him, one even resting on his shoulder. He glanced back to see the elf in a battle stance, prepared to defend his king with bloodshed. The elf, however, did show some unease upon hearing Avandriell’s aggressive hiss beside his leg.

  “Stand down!” Nathaniel barked. The elves didn’t hesitate, moving as one to draw back their scimitars and return to a guarding stance. “This man is never to be treated as our enemy.”

  “I’m afraid such a man does not exist.” The response led them to Captain Nemir and his small entourage of warriors. “At least, the royal guard cannot afford to believe as such. Your Grace is our king now. You will be defended as such for the rest of your days.” Nemir looked to Asher. “Should you require a sparring partner, I would offer myself in place of the king.”

  The ranger opened his mouth to reply with a resounding yes when his gaze found Faylen. Both she and the queen had stopped their conversation to watch the event, though whether they could actually hear what was transpiring from so far away remained to be seen.

  He couldn’t say what Faylen was thinking but he had a good idea of how she would feel watching him clash swords with her husband. With that in mind, he lowered his broadsword until the cross-guard met the scabbard.

  Nathaniel stepped between them. “As much as I would like to see such a spectacle, there is still much that needs to be done in defence of the doorway. Besides, I don’t think it will be long before all of our swords are needed.” He gave the captain a nod, dismissing him with a look.

  Asher glanced back at Faylen and Reyna again, though both had quickly returned to their plans.

  “I thought there was no bad blood between you two,” Nathaniel said quietly in Nemir’s absence.

  “There isn’t,” Asher confirmed. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to break his nose.”

  Nathaniel laughed and patted the ranger on the arm. “Come. You can help me with the supplies from the next cart.”

  Asher nodded along before looking down at Avandriell. “Next time, don’t announce yourself - just take the leg.”

  43

  End of the Road

  The midday sun struggled to rise much higher than the horizon, and struggled all the more to pierce the thick clouds rolling over The Moonlit Plains. Snow reigned silently over the land, blanketing everything as it removed the finer edges from the world. Looking back over her shoulder, Inara could no longer see the great pines of The Evermoore, the forest nearly two days behind them now.

  Instead, she looked upon the many Drakes that walked without complaint through the icy weather. It would have been enough to break the spirits of any, even more so given their final destination, yet Adan’Karth and his kin continued diligently. Inara was both inspired and heartbroken by their march.

  Turning back to the south, she could just make out Kassian Kantaris through the snowfall, leading the procession beside Adan. Had she not been astride Athis, there would have been no view but the backs of numerous Drakes. Of course, it helped that Athis was bowed under the weight of his own horns, as he had been since they left The Evermoore.

  With every passing hour, Inara could feel the heat leaving his body. When they had set out from Vangarth, the dragon had been near the front, well within range of calling Kassian or Adan. Now, sluggish as he was, Athis had slipped further and further down the line of Drakes. His every step was clearly an effort, his tail simply dragging along the ground behind him.

  Inara patted his scales. Keep going, she encouraged. The doorway isn’t far now. We might even reach it by tomorrow’s dawn.

  I fear that the next dawn is beyond me, wingless one. Athis’s voice was just as weak as his limbs.

  It filled Inara with a cold dread. Do not say that, she rebuffed. You are Athis the ironheart! If you could fly you could be over the pit in a few hours.

  But I do not have my wings, Athis pointed out. Soon I will not even be able to rely on my legs.

  The sorrow weighing on Inara’s heart kept her mouth closed and her words locked in her mind, beyond even Athis’s reach. She feared the worst was upon them, but how could she voice such a concern? Not when Athis needed her strength - now more than ever. How many times had he pulled her through the darkest of days? How many times had he lent her his strength and seen them both to victory?

  But what could she really do? That question echoed in her mind, extinguishing any light of hope. Words alone would not bolster Athis, for magic was dying and it cared little for sentiment.

  With so little to offer the dragon, she simply pressed her body to his and stroked his scales.

  Time and land slipped by under the relentless snow. Having taken to the road herself now, Inara’s thoughts had been torn between memories of Vighon and Athis. She recalled Kassian joining her at some point, the Keeper in need of sleep himself. He was walking only a few feet in front of Athis, though they were a few hundred feet behind the Drakes.

  Inara was instantly struck by the danger posed to the Drakes by her companion’s reduced speed. Looking at Athis, it didn’t take someone well versed in the culture of dragons to see that he was ailing. His blue eyes, absent their vividness, were closed more than open. Where he had recently been able to hold his head up, the hard ridge of his jaw was currently dragging through the snow and mud. Even his claws had lost their smooth motion and now twitched with the strength required of them.

  I cannot… I cannot go any further. The dragon’s slow plod had come to an end before his words. His jaw took the full weight of his head until the rest of his body slid to the ground, flat.

  Athis! Inara rushed to the side of his head and placed both of her hands over his scales. He was so cold.

  I am… not strong enough. You must—

  Whatever he said next was hidden from Inara. She reached out across their bond and even plunged into the sanctuary they shared, but Athis’s presence couldn’t even find the strength to inhabit it.

  “What’s happening to him?” Kassian asked.

  Inara tried to fight back the tears that welled in her eyes. “He’s dying,” she uttered, falling to her knees beside him.

  “His aura is beginning to dim,” Adan announced, turning Inara and Kassian back to the south. Behind Adan, every Drake had stopped in their tracks to look upon Athis, as if paying their respects.

  It maddened Inara. “He will not die!” she fumed.

  Adan’Karth simply bowed his head, his hands folded within his voluminous sleeves.

  Inara ignored the Drake and returned her attention to Athis, finding one of his large eyes. “Fight it,” she urged, relying on his hearing instead of their bond. “You have to fight it. For me.”

  “Inara.” Kassian’s voice was as soft as the falling snow.

  With an outstretched hand she kept him and his words at bay, refusing to take her gaze from Athis. “This isn’t how Athis the ironheart dies,” she declared, though her voice lacked the conviction. “You are a hero,” she continued. “A warrior without compare. With tooth and claw you have saved the realm. You’ve bled for it. The realm still needs you. I need you. Fight it.”

  There was a flicker of life in the dragon’s eyes as he focused on Inara.

  “The currents return,” Adan stated. “But they are weak.”

  A blast of cool air escaped the dragon’s nostrils. You must fight… for us both now, wingless one.

  Inara’s heart quickened at the sound of his voice. I can’t. Not without you. Stay with me.

  There has never been a day… when you needed me, Inara. There is no greater strength in this world… than that which lies in your heart. I have seen it.

  A defiant tear ran down
Inara’s cheek as she pressed her hands deeper into his scales. I won’t leave you.

  You must, Athis insisted. Save the tree. Save the world. You must go now.

  “He still has time,” Adan’Karth told her, his hand placed against the dragon’s chest. “Though his will fades, his heart is still strong. If we can save the tree, there is still hope for Athis.”

  Inara wanted to tell him where to stick his hope. The rage bubbling under the surface had begun to erode the anguish that had settled over her. Now the Guardian of the Realm was imagining the idea of cleaving her brother’s head from his shoulders.

  Focus, wingless one. Athis’s voice brought her back to him. Leave me here. Do your duty.

  After a moment of contemplation, Inara rose from her knees, her chest heaving. She was torn between action and inaction. The latter, however, would spell Athis’s doom for certain.

  “Let’s go,” she said, battling her own voice to remain even. Looking at her companion, their bond still connected by slivers of magic, she promised, We will see each other again.

  A few extra seconds were required before Inara was able to turn around and force her feet to march behind Kassian and Adan. She couldn’t look back at her companion. To do so would root her in place, never to leave his side.

  After a hundred yards, Athis’s voice whispered in her mind as the last vestiges of their bond lost their hold. He only said three words, but they were enough to both break and bolster Inara’s heart.

  44

  Those Below

  With the sun camped in the west, the shadows of the nearby mountains reached across the dry ground in a bid to touch the edges of Davosai. Seen from the sky, the Darkakin city was naught but a ruin of broken stone smashed against the landscape, its original shape barely recognisable.

  Such was the wrath of dragons.

  Galanör had seen as much with his own eyes nearly fifty years ago. Looking out from Ilargo, the elf even caught sight of the cliff from which he and Adilandra had witnessed Davosai’s fall. The desert heat had been mild compared to the inferno the dragons wrought upon the city that day.

  The ranger recalled it all with horrifying clarity, for who could forget such a spectacle? There were few throughout history who could claim to have watched and survived a dragon attack, especially in those numbers.

  Of course, there had been one particular dragon who delivered destruction upon the savages with gleeful and terrible abandon. Galanör leaned out and looked down at an area of destruction that led out of the city’s main gates and across the sun-baked land. It had been there that he had seen Malliath the voiceless pursue hundreds of fleeing Darkakin only to bathe them in fire. None had survived.

  Ilargo dipped his head, angling them down towards the inner city. It gave them all a good view of the circular pit that sat in the centre of Davosai. It was twice as large as the shaft dug into The Moonlit Plains, though its purpose had been just as singular in nature. Down there, in the dark, Atilan had forged his greatest weapon against the Dragon Riders.

  “Hold on!” Gideon shouted over his shoulder.

  Not again, Galanör thought, bracing himself.

  Ilargo dived for the ground, pressing Aenwyn’s back into the ranger’s chest. They held on together, fearing that the green dragon would never level out. Fortunately, Ilargo possessed enough strength to flex his wings and catch the currents. His tail and claws skimmed along the ground as he sailed between the ruins of the city, bringing them closer and closer to the pit.

  When the debris closed in on them, Galanör could feel the dragon’s leg muscles already moving as he matched his speed, closed his wings, and continued the remaining distance on the ground. That, however, did not last long. Ilargo slowed and eventually collapsed to his hardened stomach, his jaw flat.

  Gideon took a breath and patted his companion’s scales. “That was close,” he remarked.

  “He did well to remain aloft for so long,” Aenwyn offered.

  “Had he flown any longer we would all be stains on the ground,” Gideon replied, climbing down.

  Galanör tried not to think about that alternative as he navigated his way down the curves of Ilargo’s body. Having worried about the dragon’s health since leaving Malaysai, the ranger felt good to have his feet on the ground again.

  He walked by Ilargo’s head and stroked the scales around the back of his right eye. “Your strength knows no bounds, old friend. Thank you.” The dragon could only blink in return.

  “He says he wishes that were so,” Gideon relayed. “Though I am in agreement with you,” he added, looking at his companion. “It is your strength that has brought us this far.” Ilargo had just enough energy to lift his nose, gesturing towards the pit. Gideon nodded. “We will,” he said. “You stay here and rest.”

  Galanör felt the latter was redundant given Ilargo’s condition, but he knew Gideon was speaking aloud for their benefit. Bidding the dragon farewell for now, the three companions made their way through the remaining debris until they were standing by the edge of the mine. It was too dark to see the bottom.

  “The Crissalith was down there?” Aenwyn asked sceptically.

  Galanör pointed to the inner wall of the mine shaft. “There was once a network of walkways and pulleys, much like the ones in The Moonlit Plains. The Darkakin were mining the Crissalith for generations.”

  Aenwyn surveyed the inner walls. “What happened here?”

  Galanör looked up at the sky before returning his vision to the darkness below. “Dolvosari,” he said simply.

  “The storm maker,” Gideon verified.

  “Dolvosari is a dragon?” Aenwyn questioned.

  “An old one,” Gideon answered.

  “A big one,” Galanör added.

  “Like Malliath,” the old master elaborated, “he had spells etched into his hide that could conjure storms after reaching a particular height. His choice apparently. He had the ancient Riders do it when they were at war with Atilan.”

  “I had never seen a storm like it,” Galanör told them. “With rain he flooded the mine and with lightning he destroyed the Darkakins’ work. Nearly killed me and Adilandra in the process.”

  Aenwyn crouched down and peered into the abyss, her apprehension clear to see. “We’re sure this is the best option?”

  “It’s the only option,” Gideon said, removing the three crystals from his belt. “Can you open a portal into Atilan’s lab?” he asked Galanör.

  The ranger accepted the crystals but his mind pondered something else, causing him to glance back at the way they had come. “I can open a portal,” he affirmed. “But I can’t get us back to Illian.”

  Gideon looked from Galanör to Ilargo and back. “He just needs to rest,” the old master assured.

  “He’s been getting worse since Malaysai,” the elf reminded him. “How many stops did we have to make between there and here?”

  “He’s fine,” Gideon said firmly.

  “And if he’s not?” Galanör countered. “If Ilargo can’t fly us home we’re going to have to brave Drowners’ Run - a name those islands have well-earned. Not to mention the time it will take on foot.”

  Gideon looked away. “I said he’s fine, Galanör. He’ll have time to rest while we look for the Crissalith.”

  “Time is the one thing he doesn’t—” Galanör’s words were stopped by Aenwyn’s hand pressing against his chest.

  She gave him a subtle shake of the head before saying, “We have come this far. We have no choice but to continue onwards, whatever our way back to Illian. If Crissalith is The Rebellion’s path to victory and Alijah’s path to redemption, I say we go and get it.”

  Galanör nodded once in agreement, fingering one of the crystals in his hand. “Give me a moment.”

  Stepping away from the others, the ranger closed his eyes and cast his mind back to The War for the Realm. The decades between melted away and he visualised Atilan’s ancient lab with the clarity only an elf could conjure. He placed the desk and ch
air in the chamber, focusing on the largest open space in the middle of the room. He had it.

  Drawing on his own well of magic, Galanör began to pour his will and power into the crystal, enhancing its brightness. His fingers were hot and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It had been a long time since he had used this kind of magic and he had forgotten the extent of its requirements. He continued to give it all he had, balling it up in his fist now. As the first beads of sweat began to make their way down the side of his head, the elf flicked his wrist and tossed the crystal into the air.

  A blinding flash erupted before their eyes, eclipsing the crystal and all else for a brief second. What remained could only be described as a void in reality, a place where nothing had shape or texture. Sparks and bolts of lightning flickered around its edges, scorching patches of ground.

  “Quickly,” Galanör uttered.

  One after the other, they dashed through the portal before it collapsed on itself, leaving Ilargo alone on the surface.

  Crossing from one place to another, the cold air was immediately noticeable, as was the even colder water that filled the chamber to their knees. It was also pitch black, an unnerving and disorientating condition. Warriors all, the companions naturally reached for their swords, though Galanör was more aware of Stormweaver’s weight after opening a portal.

  “We need light,” Gideon stated, his words aimed at the ranger.

  Galanör felt nauseous just thinking about using more magic, but what choice did he have? Without light they would never find the Crissalith. The muscles in his arm pinched and his fingers ached as he cast an orb of white light. It floated up, revealing the flooded chamber in stark shadows, lending the ancient site a menacing appearance.

  Unsure of his ability to keep the orb alight - and aware that he needed to recover his strength to open a portal back to the surface - Galanör examined the chamber’s details and scanned the walls, searching for torches resting in the fixings. He found two and quickly set them aflame, not wishing to dwell on the use of more spells.