A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “We did it,” he croaked.

  Gideon mirrored his friend’s smile and moved to crouch by the elf’s side. “You did it,” he praised. “Opening two portals so close together isn’t just hard it’s dangerous. We would never have got down there and back without you, never mind escaping the Darkakin.”

  “What do we do now?” Galanör questioned. “I only ask because I have big plans to sleep for the next week - perhaps we could put off saving the world until then.”

  Gideon was thankful the elf still had some humour in him. “As soon as you’re able to sit on Ilargo without falling off, we should begin our journey back to Illian. I’m not sure the world can wait.”

  “That is not today,” Aenwyn pointed out, a hint of firmness in her voice.

  “I agree,” Gideon said. “In the meantime, we should look for better shelter and fresh water. We could…” He trailed off seeing a look of amusement on Galanör’s face. “What is it?”

  “We both know there’s only one thing you want to do right now,” the elf told him. “There’s time. Just go.”

  Gideon held his expression before it broke and he glanced back at Ilargo. “We might better spot what we need from the air…”

  “Go!” Galanör insisted, his smile broadening.

  Gideon and Ilargo didn’t need any more than that. The old master found his familiar place at the base of the dragon’s neck and braced himself for the most exhilarating feeling there was. After breaking into a sprint, Ilargo’s wings unfurled and beat hard towards the ground. In seconds the world was falling away, the pair beckoned by the heavens.

  It was glorious.

  Part IV

  47

  A Master’s Wrath

  Through the eyes of the dead, the world was laid bare for the most powerful necromancer to have ever walked the earth. Alijah Galfrey looked out on the snowy Moonlit Plains, his time limited. The Reaver he commanded had been added to a burning pile and soon the flames would rob him of one more soldier.

  Besides the cheering and general celebration taking place among the rebels, there was one thing that captured his attention, one thing that set a fire in his veins. There in the sky, flying with exuberance, was Athis the ironheart.

  Soon after, Alijah’s sight was engulfed by flames as the Reaver succumbed to its burning fate. The king withdrew from his undead servant and opened his real eyes to the throne room of The Bastion.

  “HOW?” he raged, erupting from Atilan’s throne.

  His wrath manifested itself in the form of a spell and exploded outwards from his entire being. The stone floor rippled and broke apart around his feet. The throne behind him, a relic that had survived the eons, was reduced to pieces and launched towards the back of the hall.

  He opened his mouth to bellow the same question but froze as a savage roar could be heard from beyond The Bastion’s black stone. A burning fury had ignited in Malliath’s heart, a feeling that soon took physical form when the dragon unleashed a torrent of fire into the air, the flames seen through the narrow slits in the far wall.

  Alijah’s seething anger was white hot, demanding he use his voice. “How could they do this?” he growled, storming towards the main doors.

  A flick of the wrist and a touch of magic would have been sufficient to open the doors, but the half-elf threw his hand at them and cast a far more powerful spell. The doors were instantly ripped from their hinges and launched onto the frozen steps that had been carved into the plateau. A blasting wind slammed into the king, dragging his cloak out and up as high as his neck.

  Alijah’s hair whipped about his face as he turned to look upon his companion, whose black scales blended in with The Bastion.

  The dragon dropped down from his perch with a ground-shaking quake and turned his horned head on Alijah, his purple eyes boring into him. You were to do what I could not! Malliath fumed.

  Alijah’s mind split open and the ancient dragon poured his rage inside, dropping the king to his knees in agony. Millennia of images, sounds, and experiences bombarded his smaller mind. Malliath made him relive the worst parts of his existence, ensuring that Alijah felt every spell and shard of steel that had pierced his scales and hide. Through it all, the king screamed, his pain spreading across The Vrost Mountains.

  Your hands were to open the pages I could not, Malliath continued, his voice cutting through it all. Magic has ever been at the fingertips of you mud-walkers and your precious books! It’s not fair! I am magic incarnate! I am as old as the mountains, my mind as deep as the oceans. Yet your kind has lorded over the realm with absolute power. You were a gift. You were to be my hands, to delve into the magic hidden from me. Malliath stalked across the plateau and loomed over Alijah. You have failed me.

  Alijah wanted to look away from those terrible eyes, from the judgment, but he couldn’t move. His body was trapped in the thrall of Malliath’s memories. They continued to fill him up, taking him back to countless wars throughout history.

  Alijah relived a moment from thousands of years past, when a Jainus mage had struck the dragon with a spell so wicked it flayed one of his back legs. From there, he was transported to a brawl between Malliath and a rogue dragon, the two fighting for territory in a time before the great Riders. The rogue dragon clubbed him around the face with a tail of spikes. The damage done was agonising and it took most of the next year to recover his left eye.

  Taking the half-elf back even further, Malliath recalled his part in the fight against the last of the Leviathans as the dragons chased it into The Hox. Malliath, a young dragon at the time, had made the mistake of landing on the behemoth’s black hide, a surface that bubbled and oozed with a toxic acid. There had been no cure, only pain for weeks and weeks. Alijah lived every day of it in seconds.

  Then there were the mage knights of Atilan, who brought the dragon down with Crissalith and harvested more than half of his scales before Garganafan intervened, saving his life. Malliath made sure Alijah felt every scale that was torn from his body.

  And on and on it went. There was no end to the torment that had befallen Malliath the voiceless. It fuelled his rage, bolstered his wrath, and plagued him with a mind of fury for all time.

  When next Alijah opened his eyes, he was standing in the broken doorway of the main hall, his breath even and hair immaculate. He looked at the twisted doors, half-covered in snow. His memory stitched the scenes together, making him aware that he had just struck the doors with a spell. Any curiosity surrounding the amount of snow that buried the doors was erased and, with it, he lost his grasp on the passage of time. A strong wind was sucked into the hall, throwing his cloak out, before he strode outside to find Malliath for what felt like the first instance.

  He found the dragon, sitting like a gargoyle, in front of The Bastion’s outer wall. He was perfectly still, his purple eyes lost to the mountains around them. Alijah could feel the cold calculating fury that quietly resided in his companion. In some ways, it was more terrifying than a feral outburst such as his own.

  Alijah moved towards him, his fist clenching with the anger that swelled in him. He quickly unfurled his fingers, however, when they protested with a painful ache. The half-elf simply explained the pain away as fatigue from his recent over-use of magic in general.

  “How could they do this?” he asked again. Malliath continued to stare at the distance, his mind closed to Alijah. Using their bond, the king tried again. I said, how could they do—

  I heard what you said, Malliath interjected, his eyes never straying. You saw all that I did, he continued, referring to the Drakes that flooded the realm of magic.

  They used the Drakes against us, Alijah complained as he paced in the blistering cold, protected by his scale mail. How could this have happened? The Crow orchestrated their creation for our purposes. He would have seen this. He must have! We are to rule - he foresaw it! Have we been betrayed? Have we… The king trailed off as his mind succumbed to the controlling influences of Malliath.

  Calm yourself, th
e dragon bade, preventing Alijah’s thoughts from spiralling. Everything that challenges us is part of a greater design, The Crow’s design. We will only grow stronger, and tales of our victories will only spread further when we have faced the mightiest of foes. Magic or not, we will crush this rebellion. Then, we will destroy the elves - abominations in the eyes of nature - and the threat of their magic will be destroyed with them. We will… Malliath winced and exhaled a slight groan, exposing some of the injuries along his neck. If we cannot erase magic, we will simply wipe out any and all who know how to wield it.

  Alijah stopped rubbing his neck as the last of the dragon’s words sank in. Yes, he agreed. With fire and steel we will bring the world to heel… for its own good.

  The dragon cast his eyes over Vilyra, who was patrolling the mountain pass astride her dragon, Godrad. This victory will make them bold, Malliath remarked. And we shall let them be bold. Let them gather their meagre forces. The Rebellion will wash over The Vrost Mountains like water on rock: they will make no difference. The Bastion has stood for thousands of years and it is our territory. We control it. He finally looked down at the king. Let us prepare.

  48

  Thorgen’s Blood

  After a long and tiring nine days on the road, Doran Heavybelly finally looked upon the trees of The Black Wood. The journey had been arduous and longer in places where a degree of stealth had been required - no easy task for a dwarf and even harder for Warhogs. But, at last, there he was, standing before the forest that concealed so many of his people, families mostly.

  His family.

  Despite the chill that surrounded him, the dwarf could feel the palms of his hands becoming clammy. He wasn’t sure what he would find in there and a part of him didn’t want to discover the truth. But he hadn’t come this far to sit idly in his saddle. In fact, he had a feeling his days of sitting idle were long past him now.

  A tap of his heels set Pig to a trot, closing the gap between them and the wood. Behind him, a modest escort of a hundred and twelve dwarves trailed diligently. There had been a few among them who had complained about their journey, but Doran had heard the whispers that silenced them, whispers of what they would witness in The Black Wood. It seemed the entire company wished to be present to see history unfold before their eyes. All but Doran.

  Finishing the last leg of their great trek, the dwarven company finally emerged from the trees and entered one of the vast clearings where the heart of the rebellion had long camped - a hub of advanced civilisation compared to what they had left on The Moonlit Plains. Dwarves, humans, and even a few elves ceased their roaming to pay homage to the battle-weary dwarves. Doran lowered his hood and bowed his head at those they passed, appreciating the respect he thought he would never again receive from his kin.

  As they progressed through the camp, people of every race approached the riders and offered them fresh food and water. Unlike those behind him, Doran declined them all, his appetite having dwindled from the moment they passed into the northern realm. Instead, his eye was on the largest tent in the middle of the sprawling camp. There, either side of the entrance, he could see the banners of his clan flapping in the wind.

  Before reaching it, the War Mason was impressed to see that several forges and sturdy workstations had been erected, the heat from which washed over the side of his face. Wherever they were in the world, the children of the mountain could not be stopped from reshaping the natural gifts of Grarfath and Yamnomora. It almost brought a smile to Doran’s face. Almost.

  The son of Dorain was soon dismounting Pig and standing before the royal tent, his journey at an end. He dismissed Thraal and Thaligg with a look and the pair dispersed his unspoken orders to seek shelter and rest while they could. Doran had to face this next part on his own.

  The guarding Heavybellys bowed their heads as he passed them by and entered the deep blue tent. There was little light inside, the flaps closed to keep in the heat. Torches and a hearth in the centre brought firelight to the environment, though Doran almost missed the sight of his mother altogether, her black dress absorbing the light.

  His lips moved to call her name but the word got stuck in his mouth when he looked beyond her, to the single bed that occupied the tent. Dakmund lay upon it, his skin still a sickly pale colour and exaggerated all the more by the dark veins. Worse still, there was no sign of the encapsulating spell that had been keeping him suspended. He was so still that Doran feared the worst had already happened in his absence. The War Mason took his first breath, however, when he witnessed his younger brother utter something, drawing their mother’s ear to his face. Whatever Dakmund said, it turned the queen mother to her oldest son.

  “Doran,” she croaked, moving to greet him. Before taking him into her embrace, Drelda paused to look her son up and down. The spark of hope she had expressed slowly died away, leaving a lump in her throat. “You do not have it,” she observed in their native tongue. “You do not have the blade. We cannot discover the truth of the spells that spur on the poison…” The lump got the better of her, stealing her words.

  Doran reached out and pulled his mother in as she began to sob. He muttered his apology over and over again but nothing he said was enough to make the queen mother embrace him back; she simply rested her head on his shoulder and quietly wept.

  “When did the spell fade?” he asked, breaking his mother’s grief.

  “Yesterday morning,” she replied, stepping away from him. “The elves in the camp know nothing of the magic that kept him alive - they left with Queen Adilandra.”

  That magic wasn’t keeping him alive, Doran thought. It was just prolonging the inevitable. “Queen Adilandra perished on Qamnaran,” he told his mother. “She and many more have died since last we saw each other,” he added, unable to say Russell’s name. “I came back to… to…” The dwarf couldn’t find the words now that he stood before his family.

  “You came back,” Dakmund breathed, “to say… goodbye… brother.”

  Doran glanced at his mother, who ushered him on with a short nod. Moving to his brother’s side, he perched on the edge of the bed and cast his eye over him. Dakmund had always been broad in the shoulders, his build larger than Doran’s. The War Mason had always thought it ironic given his preference for the arts over war, but he had always loved his brother for being the dwarf he was. Now, sadly, he appeared frail, his size diminished by the poison that had spread throughout his once strong body.

  Tentatively, he took Dakmund’s hand in his own. Doran’s brow twitched as he failed to conceal his surprise at how cold his brother’s fingers were. He couldn’t help but think of Russell’s hand, at the end.

  Dakmund slowly turned his eyes on Doran. “Grarfath has… walked with you… I see.” His every word was a labour, draining him of what precious life he had left.

  A lone tear instantly broke free of Doran’s eye. “I don’t know how you can say that. I have failed you, brother. I could not retrieve the blade.”

  Dakmund gave the subtlest shake of his head. “You… are here,” he managed. “How else… could you have… crossed all the hells… if the Father was… not walking with you?”

  The oldest son of Dorain nodded along, unable to argue. “I can’t decide if I am blessed or cursed,” he confessed. “I do not want to live only to say farewell to those around me.”

  With his free hand, Dakmund called on all his strength and pointed at a small chest beside his bed. “Open it,” he whispered.

  Doran let go of his brother’s hand and retrieved the small chest, easily carried in two hands. Returning to his perch beside Dakmund, the War Mason rested the chest on his lap and unlocked the latches on the lid. It creaked as he opened it and an old musty smell found his nose.

  “Take it,” Dakmund insisted.

  Doran put the chest aside. When his hands returned, they brought with them the crown of Grimwhal. He was very familiar with it having seen it atop his father’s head all his life. He realised then that this was the first time he h
ad ever held the crown. Thinking back, it was easy to believe that it had been a part of his father’s skull, permanently attached.

  He turned it over and over in his hands, feeling the cool silvyr between his fingers. It was jewelled in places though not overly so - the sapphires and rubies small enough to almost blend in with the crown’s intersecting pattern of lines. The silvyr rose up at four different points around the circlet, their harsh lines removing any possibility that it could ever be described as delicate.

  “Do they live?” Dakmund croaked. “The other kings… do they live?”

  Doran turned back to his brother. He opened his mouth to explain the circumstances of King Gaerhard’s death, but Dakmund’s time was limited and didn’t require filling up with needless details. “No,” he said instead. “You are the last king of Dhenaheim, Dak.”

  There was no change to Dakmund’s expression. “Our clan?” he asked.

  “We are strong,” Doran explained. “Unfortunately, there is no other clan who can boast of our numbers anymore. We saved all that we could though, and at the price of Heavybelly lives.”

  “Then… you have made… heroes of our people.” Dakmund slowly reached out and attempted to squeeze Doran’s hand. “They will… look to you… now, brother. You must undo… the failures… of our ancestors. Unite Dhenaheim. Make us… whole again. You must… do this… while we are… strong.”

  Doran wanted to offer his brother hope and tell him he might still recover, that he might still live to be king of all Dhenaheim. But even now, Dakmund looked to have lost some life since they began their conversation. It wouldn’t be long.