A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Vighon absorbed the information with a quick glance at Sir Ruban, who said, “Lord Carrington’s replacement, your Grace.”

  The king nodded along. “One wretch replaced by another; and not by me,” he defended, aware that Alijah had publicly executed Carrington before bestowing the title of steward on Lord Gydon. “It’s been a long time since Velia had a respectable lord and Alborn a steward worthy of its land. I must see to that in time.” Vighon paused to cast an eye over some of his weary men filling the street. “Governor Tarlan, our forces are tired and in need of shelter, rest, and hot food.”

  “Palios will treat every one of you like the heroes you are,” Tarlan reassured. “And you shall all have chambers made up in my estate,” he added, taking in the royal gathering.

  “We won’t be staying long,” the king informed him. “A day, perhaps two, while we gather our strength. From here we are taking the fight to the enemy. I won’t issue a command, but I would have you spread the word: any who wish to volunteer to join our force will be rewarded and carry a great honour for the rest of their days.”

  “I will of course spread the word of the king,” Governor Tarlan promised. “And you will all have a place at my table this evening.”

  A distant scream turned Vighon to the western district. “I look forward to it, Governor.” The king drew the sword of the north, its flames enough to make Tarlan step back. “Until then, there are still Reavers to put down.”

  It was a satisfying evening as the sun, heading to its rest, had cast the city of knowledge in a burnt orange. A strong wind had blown in from the east and evicted the thick snow clouds that had threatened to unleash fresh powder. In their place, a crystal-clear night looked down on the Palosians, offering the people a heavenly vista of stars. It was still bitterly cold, but the stillness of it all had beckoned Vighon to the veranda between his chamber and the dining hall.

  Standing sentinel in the passage, Sir Borin watched over his master. Vighon was happy enough not to have the Golem’s overbearing shadow for a time, however brief it might be. How often he pondered on Queen Yelifer’s witchcraft, undecided on whether it was a gift or a curse.

  Hearing the door to the veranda open, the king casually looked over his shoulder to see Nathaniel Galfrey, the closest thing he had to a father. The old knight was hardly recognisable having had a bath and retired his mud-covered coat for clean clothes. His hair, short as always, appeared washed and free of the debris it had picked up on their journey north. Having bathed himself and welcomed the clean clothes from Governor Tarlan, Vighon wondered if he too looked a different man.

  “You’re easy to find,” Nathaniel quipped, thumbing at the giant in the doorway.

  Vighon chuckled lightly. “He is lacking a certain… stealth element.” The northman gave another look over his shoulder. “Where’s your better half?”

  “She said something about a second bath. Elves,” he added with a shrug. “Where is Inara?” he queried.

  Vighon felt an instance of awkwardness. It would still be some time, he reasoned, before everyone’s knowledge of their relationship was a comfortable affair. There were times, even now, when he could hardly believe he was in a relationship with the woman he had longed for all his life. It was all new and happening at the worst time, a time of turmoil and chaos.

  “She went for one last flight with Athis before dinner,” the king answered.

  Nathaniel laughed to himself. “Another? Her feet barely touched the ground on the journey here.”

  “They nearly lost each other,” Vighon explained. “I think they’re going to be more inseparable than usual for a while.”

  “I can imagine,” the old knight replied, searching the starry night for any trace of his daughter. “So what has left the king of Illian brooding in the cold?” he eventually asked, turning his attention back to the northman.

  Vighon continued to lean against the railing, his arms folded over the banner. “I’m not brooding,” he insisted.

  Nathaniel gave him a once over. “You’re definitely brooding. Trust me; I know brooding.”

  An amused smile pushed at Vighon’s cheek. “From your time with Asher?”

  “Of course,” the old knight said. “You might be the king of Illian, but Asher is the king of brooding. He’ll die on that hill.”

  Vighon’s gaze drifted over the city and turned skyward. “Kassian said they set off from Vangarth with seven-hundred and thirteen Drakes. Seven-hundred and thirteen, Nathaniel. That’s how many people had to willingly sacrifice themselves to keep this world in the light. Kassian tells me they aren’t dead as we know it but… Now I can’t help but wonder how many of them are left.”

  Nathaniel, ever the pragmatist, replied, “The Drakes’ sacrifice has given us another chance to win this fight, but it’s no different to all the men and women who have died in battle against Alijah and his Reavers. The Drakes fought back in the only way they could, in a way that fits with their beliefs. And like all those who died before them, the Drakes will be honoured in all our deeds. Moving forward is all the living can do. It’s our duty.”

  Vighon sighed. “You’re right, of course. Don’t you ever get tired of duty?” he asked wearily.

  “All the time,” Nathaniel said honestly. “That’s why we have strong women like Reyna and Inara in our lives. Duty is in their blood.”

  The northman couldn’t disagree. “How long have you and Reyna been married for now?”

  Nathaniel slowly turned his head to look at Vighon, though his expression was one of suspicion and calculation. “I believe this year marks our forty-sixth anniversary,” he said evenly.

  Vighon turned a display of disbelief on the immortal man. “You don’t even look forty-six.”

  “I have Asher to thank for that,” Nathaniel said as he leaned against the rail.

  The king gave the veranda a cursory glance. “Where is our fearsome ranger? I haven’t seen him since we entered the city.”

  Nathaniel half turned to take in the governor’s grand estate. “This isn’t really Asher’s scene. He said something about finding a tavern.” The old knight’s gaze came to rest on Vighon, where he deliberately held it for a long moment. “Are you going to ask her?”

  The sudden question took the king aback and he feigned ignorance for a second. There was no getting around Nathaniel’s intense scrutiny, however. Instead, Vighon lowered his rising defences and exhaled a cloud of vapour into the cold air.

  “I was thinking about it,” he admitted.

  “Just thinking about it?” Nathaniel echoed. “Is there something wrong with my daughter?”

  Vighon heard the jest in his voice. “The timing seems a little… inappropriate.”

  “You’ve been in love with each other since you were teenagers,” Nathaniel pointed out. “I would say it’s overdue.”

  The northman was shaking his head. “I was referring to the war we’re still in the middle of. I don’t think my people will be too happy to know that their king has priorities besides fighting the enemy.”

  “I’m not suggesting you end your campaign to organise a wedding,” Nathaniel explained. “I just think it’s time you two stopped waiting. It was hard enough watching you mope around the halls of The Dragon Keep all those years.”

  Vighon scowled. “I never moped!”

  “You moped a little,” Nathaniel said with a shrug.

  The king laughed it off. “I know I want to spend the rest of my life with Inara. I’m just not sure how much life that is. We still have a long way to go…” Vighon let his words fade into hot vapour before he talked of killing Alijah in front of Nathaniel.

  “All the more reason not to wait,” Nathaniel uttered quietly, his own thoughts likely drifting to Vighon’s unsaid words and the war’s inevitable conclusion.

  The king slapped a hand on the old knight’s shoulder. “Come,” he bade with some enthusiasm. “Let us enjoy a drink before the meal. Kassian has come to me with an idea about the future and I would k
now your thoughts on the matter.”

  50

  Endings and Beginnings

  There wasn’t a tavern in all of Palios that wasn’t caught in the thralls of celebration. The Palosians drank to a city freed of Reavers and the return of their king, while those who had fought on The Moonlit Plains toasted to soft beds, hot food, and a significant victory under their belt.

  The general ruckus was amplified by the bands that brought their music to every watering hole in Palios. In The Giant’s Eye, several patrons had taken to dancing on the tables while others stamped their feet and sang along. Ale was going everywhere, sloshed into the air with every beat in the rhythm.

  It reminded Asher of The Pick-Axe.

  Sitting alone, the ranger brought his tankard to his lips and paused. He dwelled on memories of both Russell and Adan’Karth before taking a drink.

  Asher spared a moment to wonder about Gideon and the elves. If they had succeeded in their task, there was, perhaps, a path to ultimate victory. And from there… The ranger could not comprehend the true meaning of immortality yet. Endless sunrises and sunsets. The fatigue of old age never to grip his frail body. The idea of it was too much for him to fathom.

  A Namdhorian soldier gave him a rough pat on the shoulder as he passed the ranger’s table. He shouted something unintelligible, known only to the inebriated, and the entire tavern chanted Asher’s name - a brief interlude before the singing continued. The ranger threw out some friendly nods and half a smile while lifting his tankard in appreciation.

  To be known was an unfamiliar and wholly unsettling feeling. It felt wrong to be recognised. Learning to move unnoticed had taken years of training in Nightfall, an art he had practised until it became second nature to pass through the world like a ghost. Now complete strangers were chanting his name in a tavern in Palios.

  Unable to reconcile his mixed feelings on the matter, Asher shook his head, put down his tankard, and left The Giant’s Eye. He had rented a room in the tavern but he had no intention of sleeping there - another lesson from his past. Instead, he had always planned to slip away and sleep in the large stables on Governor Tarlan’s estate, north of the All-Tower. It was there that he had left a young sleeping dragon, nestled in a pile of hay.

  Without thinking about it, Asher ducked into the first dark alley he came across and began a circuitous route to the grand estate. He meandered the winding streets, sometimes doubling back on himself, while his thoughts wandered the halls of his mind. He could still see and even smell Thessaleia’s memories. It was an extraordinary feeling, but the ranger was quite sure Avandriell was dreaming of those same memories as he walked the streets.

  Eager to see his companion, Asher found a more direct route and began a swifter journey to the stables. He passed one lively tavern as Kassian and a large group of his Keepers were coming out. They were laughing amongst themselves having enjoyed an evening of revels, though Kassian himself wore the expression of a man carrying a good deal of weight. He noted Asher’s passing and offered the ranger a friendly nod before following his fellow mages to another tavern down the street.

  Having met the soldiers guarding the governor’s estate on his way out, Asher was welcomed back with a short bow of their heads. He nodded his thanks as they opened the gates for him, revealing the gardens that stretched to the small fortress. Smaller buildings dotted the grounds: places for servants to rest and guards to take breaks.

  Taking the path to his left, between the rows of neatly-trimmed hedges, the ranger made for the large stable-block that had been abandoned by the governor in favour of the newly erected one on the other side of the estate, closer to the main gates. Having heard of these details earlier in the day, Asher knew he had found his bed for the night.

  Taking care with the creaky door, the ranger entered as quietly as he could, sensing Avandriell’s sleeping form nearby. She was exactly where he had left her, in the back right stall, curled up on the hay that had been left behind. Her tail was curved around the shape of her body and resting against the side of her jaw.

  Lying down beside her, Asher reached out and ran a gentle finger along her snout, feeling the ridges of her scales. It was only a flash but, for just a moment, he saw through Avandriell’s eyes as she dreamed of flying over mountains. The ranger absorbed some of her peace and rested his head in the hay. Perhaps they would dream together.

  Before the dawn, when the world was in a deep slumber and the night still held sway, Asher’s eyes snapped open. He remained still, on his back, while his senses did their best to inform him of the environment. What remained of the moon cast the stables in a pale gloom; enough light to prevent the Nightseye elixir in his veins from activating.

  The air was still and noticeably cold since Avandriell was no longer beside him. The latter set alarms ringing in Asher’s mind. When had she moved? Where had she gone? Focusing on their bond, he knew she was nearby but… The ranger quickly shifted his focus away from the dragon, his attention captured by that sixth sense he had spent his entire life honing.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Asher cautiously rose into a sitting position and scanned his immediate surroundings. His quiver, folded bow, and short-sword were still propped up against the wall, his broadsword lying on the ground in front of them. Fully attired in his leathers and green cloak, he only had to take his weapons in hand to be ready for anything.

  Somewhere above him, further along the building, one of the wooden beams creaked. It was subtle and easily explained away with half a dozen reasons, but something told the ranger to arm himself sooner rather than later. Instead of picking up his broadsword and quiver, Asher simply grasped the hilt of his deadly short-sword and pulled it free from its hourglass scabbard.

  Leaving the stall and his other weapons behind, the ranger crept into the main area of the stables. His eyes roamed from left to right, surveying the web of beams overhead, where he discovered naught but impenetrable shadows. Though he was careful not to cross a shaft of moonlight and potentially expose himself, his silvyr blade passed through and glistened as if it was inlaid with hundreds of diamonds.

  “Exquisite,” came a low voice, turning Asher on the spot.

  Facing the back of the stables, where there was no door, the ranger watched as the shadows gave birth to a lone figure clad in black hardened leathers. Asher would have recognised the outline anywhere, an outline made all the more distinct by the short-swords poking over each shoulder.

  “I can hear it,” the voice continued as the figure moved towards the ranger. “The silvyr,” he elaborated. “It’s excited by the moonlight.” Entering some of that light himself, his bald head and dark skin were contrasted by the red blindfold that concealed his eyes.

  Asher’s grip tightened around the hilt of his blade. “Veda Malmagol,” he said casually, as if the man in front of him wasn’t among the best killers in the realm.

  “I love its duality,” Veda continued, his head tilted to suggest his gaze was lowered. “Its beauty is paired with a deadly edge. How many people have you killed with it, I wonder.”

  The ranger twisted the blade in his hand. “I’m about to revise the number,” he threatened with half a smile.

  Veda met it with a broader smile. “You have more than earned your confidence, Asher. Today, however, I fear it is arrogance.” The Father of Nightfall remained perfectly still as multiple Arakesh emerged from the darkness all across the stable. They were high and low, positioned to come at the ranger from a variety of angles.

  “After all this time,” Veda drawled, “tracking you down was so easy. To think I had eyes looking out for you everywhere.” The Father laughed. “There was no missing a force of thousands trudging across the realm. I never thought you would be so careless,” he taunted.

  Asher took a breath, his expression one of boredom. “Your mistake was thinking I cared to begin with.”

  Veda’s mouth twisted with amusement. “Your words may sound as hard as that blade in your hand, but we both know
that you have spent a lifetime running from the past. Well,” he said, raising his hands, “we are your past. And we have cornered you like the animal you are.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Asher retorted. “You’re not my past. You’re barely Arakesh. You’re just survivors, a faded echo of an order long dead.”

  Veda’s expression shifted, losing any and all amusement with it. “We are the future,” he insisted with an edge of fury in his voice.

  “Was that before or after I whittled your numbers down?” Asher prodded.

  The Father’s chest puffed out with his breath. “I have rallied every living Arakesh to this one spot so that, together, we can eliminate the last remnant of an old order.”

  Asher made a cursory inspection of the men and women surrounding him. “This is all of them?” he enquired eagerly. “Do you promise?”

  His hungry smile enraged the Father all the more, causing him to step forward and draw both of his short-swords. Mirroring their leader, every Arakesh pulled free their weapons and braced themselves in an attacking stance. Asher didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he waited and watched.

  “Which one of you is the bravest I wonder. I suppose it’s whoever doesn’t want to watch the others die.”

  “We are Arakesh,” Veda stated. “We do not know fear.”

  To Asher, that was just another reason why none of them were real Arakesh. He tilted his head to better see the scar that ran down from Veda’s left eye to his jawline. “You were afraid when I gave you that,” he pointed out. “Or was running away part of your strategy?”

  Veda flashed his teeth with a quick snarl. “You will not get the honour of a quick death.”

  The ranger was hardly aware of the man’s last words, his attention having shifted to his faithful companion. It brought a fresh smile to his lips.

  “What are you smiling at?” Veda spat, clearly distressed with what had likely been a rehearsed conversation gone awry.