A Clash of Fates: The Echoes Saga: Book Nine

by Quaintrell, Philip C.

  Vighon hadn’t noticed his own hand reach out and grip the hilt of his sword, but he looked at it now with a single thought: he was going to kill his oldest friend with it.

  There was a part of him that still recoiled from the image.

  “What’s happenin’?” Doran growled again, unable to hear Kassian.

  “Alijah and Malliath are here,” Nathaniel informed them.

  Galanör appeared on the verge of jumping out of his chair. “Is there no sign of Athis or Ilargo?”

  Reyna stood up from her chair. “Do not be concerned for us,” she told them. “March on The Moonlit Plains, free the dwarves, and destroy whatever Alijah is doing out there.”

  “This is folly,” Galanör remarked, shaking his head.

  Vighon joined the others on their feet and gave their ethereal allies his last word. “Keep the hope alive, keep The Rebellion alive.” With that he signalled the mage to disconnect the diviner, leaving four empty chairs in their place.

  * * *

  Keep the hope alive.

  Vighon’s last words echoed through Galanör’s mind but he couldn’t quite grasp them. What hope was there to hold on to knowing that Alijah and Malliath were at Namdhor’s gates? All the while, he was haunted by Reyna’s face. Her personal loss made Adilandra’s death sting all the more, if that were possible.

  Rising quickly from the table, Doran scraped his chair out before turning to boot it away. He swore in his native tongue and slammed his palms down onto the wooden surface.

  “We need to be there now!” he growled.

  Faylen remained very still in her chair, her expression hardened to stone. Galanör could see clearly what plagued her - Reyna and Nathaniel would likely die in the coming hours. Them and so many more.

  “Why are ye both jus’ sat there?” Doran grumbled. “We need to—”

  “What?” Faylen interjected. “What can we do, Doran? Namdhor is hundreds of miles from here!”

  The dwarf shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’ know! Use yer crystals! Open a portal!”

  Faylen’s head dropped in despair. “What few we have do not possess the magic to reach so far. And even if we did, there are none among us who possess the power to reach Namdhor.” She looked up and met Galanör’s eyes.

  “They are on their own,” he concluded.

  “Bah!” Doran spat, kicking another chair. “I’ll not sit ’ere while me friends die in the cold! Open a portal as far as ye can an’ I’ll ride up there meself with Andaljor!”

  “I could maybe get you as far as Lirian,” Faylen replied. “You would still face days of hard riding before you reached Namdhor. By then, Alijah will have left nothing but graves.”

  Doran’s anger was building to a crescendo but he had nowhere to vent it. His chest puffed out before quickly deflating, along with his spirits. He was left hunched over the table with one glassy eye and ragged breath.

  “I’m tired o’ prayin’ to the Mother an’ Father for a miracle that ain’ comin’,” he uttered. “Grarfath gave me two hands an’ a stubborn head an’ he expects me to use ’em apparently. I can’t do that stuck in these woods. The fate o’ those in Namdhor might be out o’ our control, but those who dwell in torment in The Moonlit Plains ain’. I’m takin’ me forces north an’ layin’ waste to anythin’ that tries to stop us. Are ye with me?”

  Galanör paused, waiting for Doran to look at him. “We should wait,” he counselled.

  Doran’s mouth fell open. “Did ye not jus’ hear what I said, lad?”

  “You heard the king: Inara and Gideon are on their way to Namdhor.”

  The dwarf’s face screwed up in frustration. “There’s bein’ on yer way to somewhere an’ actually bein’ there! How long would it take Malliath to torch the city? Minutes? Maybe an hour if he took his time!”

  Employing as much patience as he could, Galanör expounded in a calming voice, “If Inara and Gideon reach Namdhor in time their presence might just be enough to save them all. Then we could get back to coordinating an attack that will have two dragons behind it and a better chance at victory.”

  “So ye don’ want me to go to Namdhor an’ ye don’ want me to go to the dig site. Ye’d ’ave me jus’ sit ’ere an’ wait. Wait while the dig site is absent Malliath’s watch! Wait while me friends an’ me kin are put to death! Sounds like elf talk to me! We don’ all walk the road o’ immortality, Galanör.”

  “But you do walk the road of faith,” Galanör countered. “I beg of you, Doran, turn to your gods and pray. Just until midday,” he added. “If we haven’t heard back from them, and your gods can settle for letting your stubborn head lead the way, I will join you in attacking the dig site.”

  The son of Dorain grumbled and muttered under his breath. “Fine,” he snapped. “In the meantime, I’m havin’ me boys prepare to march.”

  Galanör bowed his head. “That’s fair.”

  Doran stormed off, leaving the elven ranger alone with a stoical Faylen. She had yet to turn her head and visibly acknowledge anyone else since the diviner cut out. Galanör feared losing Reyna and Nathaniel would be enough to break the High Guardian, and at a time when their nation and, indeed, The Rebellion needed her most.

  “The Galfreys have survived more than most,” he offered. “Vighon too. Keep the—”

  “If you say keep the hope alive I’m going to feed you both of your swords.”

  * * *

  Without speaking a word to each other, a queen, two kings, and a mage strode from the throne room and made for the southern ramparts with a hulking Golem in tow. From there, they could see what felt like the entire world laid out before them. In the streets below, hundreds were racing up the main road to take refuge inside the cathedrals, emptying the city’s nooks and crannies.

  In the distance, against a pale sky, a black dragon glided in lazy circles. A cold dread tried to steal Vighon’s spirit and grip his bones in terror - such was the malice that accompanied Malliath the voiceless.

  “Why isn’t he just attacking?” Kassian mused.

  “I can’t pretend to know him anymore,” Vighon confessed, his knuckles paling around the hilt of his sword.

  “Perhaps he is waiting to see who is loyal to him,” Nathaniel opined.

  The northman hoped that wasn’t the case, as every person in Namdhor was fleeing the very sight of their immortal king. They would be made to suffer for that betrayal, Vighon was sure. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  “It’s fear,” Reyna specified.

  Vighon was inclined to agree. “The catapults?” he questioned, looking to Kassian.

  “They’re loaded,” the Keeper replied, “but the men we have manning them aren’t experienced. There’s a good chance we’ll destroy half of the lower town trying to take out those Reavers.”

  The king shrugged off the consequences. “Walls can be rebuilt. Those Reavers cannot be allowed to enter the city.”

  “He’s landing,” Nathaniel observed.

  Vighon cast his gaze back to the view and watched Malliath glide down and disappear behind the furthest buildings of the lower town, where his Reavers were stationed. “What is he doing?” he uttered, mostly to himself.

  Kassian was braced against the stone. “My Keepers are still down there. If they were in a fight, we’d see it from here.”

  An idea occurred to Vighon. He stepped back from the rampart and directed his voice over the courtyard. “Fetch me a horse!” he bellowed.

  “You aren’t going down there,” Nathaniel warned.

  “If he wanted blood,” Vighon pointed out, “we’d be fighting already. I’d say he wants to talk first.”

  “Yes,” Kassian chipped in. “Talk first, then roast you where you stand!”

  The king almost smiled at the thought that came to him. “Alijah enjoys nothing more than the sound of his own voice. I will keep him talking and buy us some time,” he added, his eyes shifting to The Vengoran Mountains in the west.

  “We will acco
mpany you,” Reyna insisted.

  Vighon halted at the top of the steps that led down to the courtyard. “No,” he said sternly. “I fear just the sight of you both might enrage him. We need him talking for as long as possible.”

  “Well I’m going down there,” Kassian said. “Those are my mages holding the line.”

  Vighon didn’t argue with the Keeper. “Very well.” He looked up at Sir Borin. “He’s going to need a big horse.”

  8

  Face to Face

  Leaving Reyna and Nathaniel on the ramparts, Vighon set his horse to a gallop down the main road with Kassian and Sir Borin either side. By the time they were halfway down the city, the streets and alleys were clear of people, freeing them of any obstacles.

  Charging through the lower town, they soon came upon the Keepers guarding the furthest boundary. Beyond them, the Reavers had ceased their incessant percussion and returned to sentinels once more. Between the two groups, Malliath stood as a colossus, a mass of muscle and scales, even with his wings tucked in. His purple eyes contrasted with the black of his face like jewels on stone. A crown of horns projected back at an angle, each displaying centuries of violence.

  Then there was Alijah.

  The half-elf maintained a regal stance with his thumbs hooked into his belt and his dark cloak billowing out beside him, revealing flashes of its red interior. His Vi’tari blade hung casually from his hip, its green steel hidden within the scabbard. He stood proud, with his chin up, as if he was simply enjoying the northern air, immune to the cold in his armour of dragon scales.

  Vighon dismounted and made his way through the Keepers, sure to instruct Sir Borin to stay among them. He had no idea how the Golem would react to any threats from Alijah or Malliath.

  “Vighon,” Kassian hissed, his tone full of warning.

  The northman held out a hand to calm the mage. “Stay here.”

  His feet crunched in the snow as he put himself between Namdhor and his enemy. Alijah looked him up and down as he approached, though whether assessing him for weaknesses or simply judging his appearance was impossible to tell. Alijah had always been good at cards, his Galant face a shield against any tells. Arrogant as he looked, however, his wounded face and damaged armour spoke of a recent defeat.

  Malliath expelled a sharp breath from his nostrils and Vighon came to a stop with twenty feet remaining between them. His hand was aching from the grip on his hilt. The last time he had seen either of these monsters, they had torched a field of his men at The Carpel Slopes. That part of Vighon that recoiled from the thought of killing Alijah was quickly slipping away.

  “Hello, old friend,” Alijah called, glancing over the northman’s shoulder. “I was hoping to see my people bring you down the hill in irons, but a surrender will suffice I suppose.” His words drifted apart as he narrowed his vision. “Is that Sir Borin the Dread I see? What on Verda’s green earth are you doing with Skalaf’s wretched Golem? Scraping the barrel aren’t you?”

  Vighon was sure to keep his attention on Alijah, lest those purple eyes stole his courage. “Like every man, woman, and child in this country,” he replied, “Sir Borin knows who his king is.”

  Alijah clamped his jaw and sighed a jet of hot vapour from his nostrils. “It just isn’t meant to be, Vighon,” he began. “You had your time as king and I’m sorry it had to come to an end the way it did. But neither of us can deny Fate - nor should we. Not when the world to come is perfect! That’s what I’m here to accomplish, Vighon; a perfect world. You and your lot have branded yourselves as rebels but you’re not resisting evil. You’re just short-sighted children who don’t know what’s good for the world.” Alijah laughed to himself. “You wouldn’t even know where to begin changing the world for the better.”

  Vighon kept his mouth shut for the monologue, satisfied to let Alijah indulge himself with the sound of his own voice.

  “Look at you,” he continued. “Even now, in the face of the inevitable, you have no idea what to say. What could you say?” he pondered. “I have considered your death over and over. You could beg on your hands and knees, Vighon, but today is your last day.” Alijah’s face creased into a depiction of wrath and his tone lowered to a menacing pitch. “You should have stayed lost.”

  “I was lost,” Vighon admitted. “I took on a burden no man could bear. A burden you tried to lay at my feet. I saw them all dying again and again. Dying in the fields. Dying in the ruins. Dying in fire. But I know who I am now. I know what I’m fighting for. But, more importantly,” he added, half turning to the city, “I know what all of them are fighting for. They don’t fight for me and they certainly don’t fight for you. They’re fighting for the privilege of living free in the land their ancestors called home. And they’re fighting so their children can do the same.”

  Over Alijah’s shoulder, Malliath let loose a low and threatening rumble from his throat.

  Alijah’s jaw clenched all the tighter. “I suppose that all sounds rather poetic to you, doesn’t it? Fighting for their loved ones, for freedom. They’re stuck, like you, in a broken world that churns them up and spits them out.” He looked beyond Vighon and took in the capital. “That’s what I’m fighting for. I’m here to fix the world, to banish the shadows, and weed out the corrupt. When I’m finished, Vighon, there will be no threat I cannot face. There will be peace from Erador to Ayda.”

  The half-elf paused to take a breath and survey Namdhor. “I fear, however, that you have already corrupted the people of this once proud city. Your banner misguides them. All who stray from the dragon are led to torment and doom. That’s all you’ve done here, Vighon - led these people to their death.”

  Vighon felt every muscle in his arm tense, eager to draw his fiery sword and strike Alijah down. “You would slaughter every person in this city?”

  “By aligning with you, they have shown their true colours. There is no place in my kingdom for those who do not wish to live in peace. You’ve made rebels of them all and sealed their fate.”

  The northman imagined the families, the children that would succumb to Malliath’s fiery breath and the cold steel of the Reavers. He pulled the blade free. With every inch, the flames came alive until the sword of the north was blazing for all to see.

  Alijah was captivated by it, his eyes tracking the blade in Vighon’s hand. “Is she watching?” he asked, his attention flitting to the distant keep. “She always loved you, my mother. I think she detected the resentment your own mother had for you. I know I did.”

  Vighon pointed his sword at the usurper. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spat.

  “I know she tried to flee in the night,” Alijah said provokingly. “To get away from the burden of you I suspect. My mother convinced her to stay, reminded her of her duty. I never told you for obvious reasons,” he added casually.

  Vighon lowered his weapon. “Am I supposed to start weeping now? Did you imagine I would drop to my knees and sob into the snow?” He brandished the flaming sword of the north again. “You stand before the king of Illian. You will need more than words to bring me down.”

  A wicked grin pulled at Alijah’s cheeks. “You would be surprised what I can do with a few words.”

  “She is up there,” Vighon quickly revealed, wondering if it would put Alijah off balance. “Both of them in fact. Will you burn your parents with the rest? Or will you spare them so they might remember your deeds here for all time?”

  Indeed, Alijah’s eyes appeared to glaze over for a moment, his focus left to wander. Malliath’s, however, did not. His predatory eyes never drifted from Vighon, his gruesome jaws set slightly apart to reveal his razored teeth.

  “Like I said,” the half-elf finally replied, “you’ve led these people to their death. I have no parents here nor anywhere else. In choosing you they have disowned me. Now you all get to die together.”

  Vighon refrained from casting an eye over the western mountains, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stall for. Perhaps
it was futile. For all his efforts, Inara and her companions could still be a day away or more. He had no real idea how far away they had been. Coming to terms with the fact that this was most likely his last stand and these were, in fact, his last words, he decided to make them memorable.

  “Alijah,” he began, gripping the sword of the north in both hands, “I loved you like a brother once. But if you stay, I’m going to cut you down and chop off his ugly head and toss it into the lake for the fish.”

  Malliath bared his teeth and a plume of smoke escaped his nostrils. All he had to do was exhale and Vighon would be reduced to a charred husk with naught but ash for veins. Yet the northman stood his ground, the sword of the north braced in his hands for combat. He wasn’t going down before drawing blood from at least one of them.

  Alijah wrapped his fingers around the Vi’tari blade on his hip. “Out of respect for the friendship we had and your service to the realm as king, I will grant you a swift death. But it is you who will be dropped to the bottom of The King’s Lake, there to be forgotten.”

  The half-elf took a step towards him, his arm beginning to raise the green steel into the light of day. But he did not take another step. Instead, Alijah’s gaze lifted up and beyond Vighon to the very top of Namdhor. There was something in his eyes. It was only there for a moment but, however brief, the northman knew exactly what it was.

  Fear.

  Vighon looked back over his shoulder to the most spectacular sight. Two dragons, red and green, crested the keep and glided low over the buildings, bringing them swiftly to the lower town. Mesmerised, the northman watched Ilargo thunder into the ground not thirty feet away, his green scales sparkling with golden specks. Landing on his hind legs, Athis reared up with his wings flared before crashing into the snow with a steaming breath.