A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “We need to prise it from the rock,” Aenwyn said, reaching for her dagger again.

  Her words took a moment to sink in as Galanör was still holding a moment of triumph with Gideon. “We need a piece large enough to be used as a weapon,” he finally suggested.

  Aenwyn inspected various collections and clumps of the crystal before settling on a particularly pointed gem, its shape close to that of her own dagger. “This one will do.” She hacked with the steel and hammered with the hilt, her mining abilities far from those of a dwarf. “I thought you said Atilan made the Crissalith,” she observed during her efforts. “This looks to be a natural formation.”

  “The crystal is natural,” Gideon explained, “and found only in this location apparently. Atilan’s grimoire detailed little regarding his discovery of it, but it did tell of his experiments with the crystal. He used spores from a strange type of plant he found in The Silver Trees of Akmar, in Erador. Combined with magic of his own engineering, the crystals turned green and developed their unique property of severing one from magic.” The old master pointed around the cave. “Atilan spread the spores everywhere he could find the crystal.”

  Galanör listened to it all, fascinated, but he never took his eyes from the passage they had passed through. They were making enough noise to be easily located, even without the sensitive ears of the Darkakin. Another confrontation was inevitable.

  Hearing the crystal break, the ranger dared to glance back and watch Aenwyn place the Crissalith inside Gideon’s satchel. Swallowed by the pocket-dimension, the crystal might as well have ceased to exist.

  “We have the Crissalith,” Gideon summarised. “And we have the Hastion gem. Time to get out of this nightmare,” he finished, looking to Galanör.

  Galanör exchanged a silent conversation with Aenwyn and they swapped places so that she could cover them with her bow while he drew on his magic to create another portal.

  “Have you had enough time?” Gideon enquired with concern.

  Galanör could still feel the strain from opening the first portal, a fatigue that manifested in a slight tremble present in both of his hands. “Why?” he replied sarcastically. “Do we have time for me to rest down here?” The ranger took a breath to compose himself. “Just be ready to catch me on the other side.”

  His fingers reached into the pouch on his belt and investigated every inch of the leather. A cold dread rushed through his veins as he found the hole in the bottom. Removing the pouch completely, he opened it with both hands and looked in dismay at the lack of crystals therein.

  “What’s wrong?” Gideon demanded, likely aware of the calamity.

  “The crystals are gone,” Galanör stated, his tone hollow.

  “Gone?” Aenwyn repeated, tearing her eyes from the passage.

  “They must have fallen out when the Darkakin attacked me,” he concluded, meeting Gideon’s eyes to share in his trepidation.

  “Without them we will be—”

  “Stuck,” Galanör cut in, finishing the old master’s obvious statement. “We will just have to retrieve them.”

  “That is easier said than done,” Gideon retorted.

  “It’s either that or accept this place as our tomb,” the ranger spat, angry with himself more than anything.

  “He’s right,” Aenwyn said, agreeing with Galanör. “This is just another problem. We will face it and overcome it or die trying.”

  Gideon nodded in agreement. “Then let us face it. I would not linger in this foul place any longer than we need to.”

  With no time to further chastise himself, Galanör took up the lead and guided them back the way they had come. Eventually, the light of his orb pushed forwards into the rectangular chamber and reflected off the black surface of the water. Unlike the first time they had passed through this chamber, the ranger had a bad feeling about it now.

  Slowly, with Stormweaver in hand, he descended back into the deeper waters. By the time he was crossing the middle of the chamber, Gideon and Aenwyn were up to their waist in water behind him. He could see the slope and the adjacent doorway up ahead.

  Something brushed past his leg.

  The ranger looked down, though he could see naught but the orb shining brightly on the water. Then he heard Aenwyn yelp behind him. He only glimpsed her before she was dragged down into the black.

  “Aenwyn!” both Galanör and Gideon cried.

  The water exploded all around them. Darkakin filled the chamber, lashing out at their prey. Gideon abandoned his torch and met the attack with Mournblade in both hands. Galanör skewered the first savage to come at him, forcing Stormweaver up to the hilt in the man’s scrawny gut. He yanked it back and flowed into a sweeping arc that cleaved the next Darkakin’s head from his shoulders.

  “Aenwyn!” he yelled, as yet more came for his blood.

  Gideon had been quickly piled upon and was under threat of being weighed down under the water. He slashed Mournblade high and low, relieving savages of limb and life alike but his sword arm was nearly submerged. Galanör fought his way across the chamber, cutting down Darkakin with every flash of his steel. One of them, however, succeeded in landing a blow to the side of the elf’s face, knocking him off course from Gideon’s plight. He was then faced by another pair of Darkakin who intended to stab him in the chest.

  That was when Aenwyn burst from the water, her bow coming up as she retrieved an arrow from her quiver. In the blink of an eye she let loose her missile and took down one of Galanör’s opponents. He dispatched the other with a swift horizontal strike of his scimitar, only to be relieved of the third savage - who had previously struck him in the face - by another arrow from Aenwyn.

  Thankful as he was to see Aenwyn unharmed, Galanör immediately turned to renew his aid to Gideon. The old master, however, proved that the word old only referred to the number of years he had lived, not his state of health. With one mighty shrug, he freed himself of the surrounding Darkakin. What followed were the movements of a wraith, not a man. Flowing through the smooth forms of the ancient Mag’dereth, Gideon sliced, hacked, and slashed through every one of his foes until he was ringed by floating bodies.

  Gideon’s shoulders sagged while he caught his breath. “You’re injured,” he pointed out, looking at Aenwyn.

  The elf shrugged off the concern. “Nothing serious,” she replied, though Galanör would have preferred they took a moment to properly examine the multitude of cuts she had acquired under the water. “Gideon!” she said with some alarm, directing them to the stone dagger protruding from under his ribs.

  Galanör waded through the water at speed to join his friend. “Don’t touch—” His advice was moot when Gideon pulled the dagger free and tossed it away.

  “I’ll be fine,” he groaned, placing a hand over the wound.

  “That would kill any man,” Galanör warned, fearful for his friend’s life.

  “Then it is a good thing I am not any man,” Gideon quipped. “Ilargo’s strength will see me heal quickly.”

  Galanör wanted to ask him what strength he spoke of, but now wasn’t the time. “Let’s get out of here,” he said determinedly.

  Keeping Gideon between them, the companions back-tracked through the tunnels, ever wary of ripples in the water. Only once did Galanör question their direction, but Gideon confidently directed them, proving his mind remained sharp despite his blood loss. For how long that would last was a bridge to be crossed when they got to it.

  Any lingering doubt on Galanör’s part was eased when his glowing orb cast light over eight dead bodies floating in the water. The ranger navigated the corpses until he found the young savage who had leapt out from the wall at him. He moved the Darkakin, pushing the body further up the tunnel, before getting on his hands and knees. The tunnel floor was rough and layered in loose stones and debris - he could have touched the crystals and never known it.

  Groaning in frustration, the elf rose to his feet. “I could search this one patch of ground for a hundred years and
never find even one of the crystals.” He held his hands out, keeping them close together.

  “What are you doing?” Aenwyn asked, though her judgmental tone suggested she already had a good idea about what he planned to do.

  “I need to use magic.”

  “You will need all of your magic to get us out of here,” she corrected.

  “I can do it,” he reassured. “Besides,” he added, glancing at Gideon leaning against the wall, “we don’t have time.”

  Galanör parted his hands and with them went the water around his feet. The waterspout gradually expanded, revealing the hard ground. The crystals were easy to spot, their glistening exterior exaggerated against the black stone. The elf reached down and snatched them both up before the water rushed in once more. He secured one of them in a pouch he knew wasn’t torn or compromised.

  “Galanör…” Aenwyn’s dark eyes were set over his shoulder, but he knew what she was looking at.

  “We’ll keep them off,” Gideon told him, sighting the Darkakin himself. “Open a portal back to the surface.”

  As Aenwyn took up her position in front of Galanör, the old master stood his ground behind him, Mournblade braced low by his hip. The ranger clenched his fist around the crystal and tried not to think about the peril that closed in on them. He needed to focus. While the orb had done little to deplete his reserves of magic, the waterspout had taken a part of what he had recovered after the first portal. Now, at such a crucial moment, he could feel that hollowness that always accompanied taxing magic.

  As Gideon took his first swing and Aenwyn unleashed her first arrow, Galanör shut his eyes. He sharpened his power to a single point, directed through his body and into his hand. So much of him began to go numb, including his attention. He was barely aware of the body that dropped at his feet. Aenwyn cried out in pain, chipping away at his discipline. He could hear the effort in Gideon’s breathing every time he raised Mournblade.

  The elf scrunched his eyes and gritted his teeth. The heat building in his hand was like a naked flame. His heart thundered in his chest. It wasn’t long before the muscles in his arm began to seize and he feared he would be unable to release the crystal from his iron grip.

  Aenwyn called out his name, though the words that followed were lost on the ranger. Everything he had was pouring into the crystal, preparing to tear through the fabric of reality.

  “Now,” he uttered, his voice just more than a whisper, but he couldn’t be heard over the violence around him. “Now,” he repeated, sure that the crystal would explode in his hand if he didn’t release it soon.

  Finally, Galanör’s eyes snapped open and he called on the last ounces of his strength. “NOW!” he growled.

  Unable to lift his arm and launch the crystal, the ranger used what control he had to simply drop it at his feet. Magic tore through the world and ripped open a portal from one place to another, taking Galanör with it. He fell through the hole with gallons of water and landed hard on the ruined ground of Davosai’s surface. He tried to keep his eyes open under the deluge and crawl away from the portal fixed in the air above him.

  Seconds later, Aenwyn and Gideon dropped through the portal, though only Aenwyn managed to stay on her feet. The old master rolled aside, narrowly missing the Darkakin that followed him through. An arrow from Aenwyn’s bow caught the savage in the side of the head and ended the threat.

  Galanör could only watch as the portal snapped closed, to be replaced by Ayda’s night sky. Not far away, he saw Gideon rest his head against the ground and close his eyes, his midriff red with blood. He desperately wanted to reach his friend but his limbs refused to move.

  Aenwyn rushed to the ranger’s side, her face framed by stars. The ranger tried to speak, to encourage her to tend to Gideon. Instead, the words died on his lips and his vision fell prey to an enclosing darkness.

  45

  ’Tis Life

  Vighon’s eyes snapped open only moments before Sir Ruban entered his tent. The captain’s expression was enough to inform the king that calamity was upon them. Already dressed, it took no time at all before he was mounting his horse alongside the captain and Sir Borin, his enormous guardian.

  A pale and cold dawn had risen to meet them in the east and, with it, a light mist had blown in over the snowy fields. It was in that mist where Vighon discovered his enemy.

  Reavers on horseback were steadily approaching like demons come to herald the end of the world.

  Riding across the plain, Vighon spared a glance to the north and caught sight of Reyna and Nathaniel taking up positions amongst the elven ranks. Faylen could be seen shouting orders in her native tongue and her kin responding by nocking arrows.

  The king set his steed to a gallop and joined his men as fast as he could. His gaze never strayed from the advancing Reavers as he dismounted and unclipped his cloak. He barely registered the soldier who took it from him or the one who handed him his shield. Feeling its familiar weight on his arm was enough to drag his eyes from the enemy. He squeezed the leather handle in his glove, bracing the shield close to his body.

  Hadavad’s enchantments still lingered, the ancient runes a part of the shield for evermore. It was a pity, the northman thought, that those enchantments would only protect him against magic. He faced steel this day. Steel and madness.

  Pacing along the front line, he cast a critical eye over every man, checking for loose or ill-fitted plates. They were fine soldiers all and better prepared for battle since the supplies from Vangarth had arrived. There was, of course, a handful among them who couldn’t hide their fear and he wasn’t about to command them to do so. Fear was to be overcome with action, never quashed with words.

  Trailing behind him, Captain Dardaris was barking orders across the ranks, ensuring the archers were the first to make themselves known. When the enemy was too close, they would fall back and be replaced by spearmen, who would be immediately backed up by row upon row of swordsmen.

  Reaching the end of the line, Vighon had a clear view of the empty plain that lay between them and the elves guarding the pit’s eastern perimeter. Commander Rolgoth of the Battleborns was in the process of marching his dwarves, accompanied by the Centaurs, across that empty plain, ready to fill out the smaller elven force. Still battle-weary, Vighon hoped that none of them, elf, dwarf or Centaur, would need to see violence.

  “Your Grace.” Ruban’s tone quickly turned the king further north.

  Vighon took what felt like his first breath in a week. Drakes, hundreds of them, were crossing The Moonlit Plains and making for the pit. The northman moved away from his soldiers and narrowed his eyes. They were too distant to make out individuals, though he was confident he could see Inara’s red cloak as she led from the front. Sure that it was her, he looked to the sky in search of Athis. A single dragon would decimate the incoming Reavers.

  There was no sign of him.

  Clouds continued to roll ever westward, undisturbed by a flying dragon. His absence weighed on Vighon. He couldn’t fathom anything between here and Vangarth capable of slaying the ironheart. It had to be the tree. Was he dead already? That and so many more questions demanded answers in the king’s mind but, more than anything, he wanted to reach Inara.

  The northman’s attention shifted back to Reyna and the elves. A portion of their force was moving around the pit to meet the approaching Drakes, hopefully to escort them down to the doorway.

  “Your Grace.” Sir Ruban drew his focus back to the advancing enemy, all of whom were riding undead horses.

  Vighon was already calling on his warrior’s discipline to rid himself of the distraction of Inara’s return, but seeing the Reavers’ numbers up close did it for him. There were, indeed, hundreds of them, as he had feared when hearing that the city of Galosha was being emptied.

  “They’re still the smaller force,” Captain Dardaris said so that only the king could hear him.

  Vighon sighed. “I’m not sure numbers entirely count when one side fights without all
the mortality of the living.” Looking at his men, he could see that most of them were thinking something similar as their own thoughts and fears preyed on them. “PREPARE FOR BATTLE!” he bellowed.

  Every soldier loyal to the banner of the flaming sword took steel in hand or nocked an arrow. Striding back down the front line, Vighon glimpsed a shadow in the pale sky, turning him to Avandriell in flight. Returning his sight to the ranks, he quickly found Asher staking his ground between a pair of Namdhorians. The ranger removed his two-handed broadsword from its scabbard and plunged it into the ground. Without pause, he snapped his bow to life and nocked an arrow like the others before offering the king a nod.

  “From all four corners of the realm you have gathered!” Vighon shouted. “Our fate, scribed long before we were born, brought each and every one of us to this place! It brought us here for one reason and one reason only! We are here to protect that which is most precious: the future! Today, you don’t just fight for family and you certainly don’t just fight for king and country! Today, you fight for all the unborn sons and daughters of Illian! The blood you give will fill these sweet lands with generations for the next millennia! What say you?”

  There wasn’t a man present who didn’t beat their shield, stamp their spear, or roar into the dawn. Vighon freed his sword and held it high, rallying their cry all the more. Flames or not, it was still the sword of the north and it was in the hand of the one true king.

  Placing himself dead centre of the front line, Ruban beside him, the northman gripped his sword and shield and slowed his breathing down. To his left, Sir Borin the Dread stood with all the movement of a rooted tree. To be so calm, the king mused.

  “Archers!” he yelled. Two hundred bows were aimed high, awaiting the command to unleash hell on the enemy. Vighon watched the undead riders begin to gallop towards them, armoured in black, unwavering in the face of true death. A little closer, he thought. A little closer. “Loose!” he shouted. A cloud of arrows feigned their reach for the heavens before raining down amongst the Reavers. “Fire at will!”