Empire of Dirt

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “Bale...” Russell Maybury’s tone was unmistakably threatening.

  The barbarian continued his determined stride. Nathaniel gripped his sword firmly now, ready to strike if he must. Having grown up in Longdale, in the north, Nathaniel had met many of the barbarian’s type as they travelled south, out of the Iron Valley, to trade. Though they weren’t as wild and unpredictable as the Outlanders from the mysterious Wild Moores, the barbarians were still brutish thugs with a warped sense of honour and glory.

  Bale’s accent was thick and his use of the common tongue was basic. “I have travelled world in search of contest. A good death cannot be found in Iron Valley. South of the slumbering mountains, all I hear are whispers of ranger, assassin, great warrior they say. I would know truth...”

  “You know the rules of my house,” Maybury unfolded his thick arms.

  They always talk, Nathaniel thought. The knight had already assessed the man-mountain while he spoke. For all the barbarian’s muscles and sheer bulk, he was still vulnerable in the throat and the knees, the same as everyone else. His nerve clusters were all in the same places and easily manipulated by the well-trained knight, and his size simply made him a massive target that couldn’t be missed by a well-placed throwing knife. With his spare hand, Nathaniel made certain that the two short daggers were resting in the small of his back.

  I’m starting to think like Asher! he thought with a pinch of amusement.

  Before it could come to blows however, Glaide stepped between Bale and Maybury, the apparent voice of wisdom in the Axe.

  Glaide’s words were soft but bold. “Bale, son of Hyil of the Oakbreaker tribe... have you ever known me to lie?” The barbarian looked down at the older man with suspicion and slowly shook his head. “Have you ever known me to exaggerate?” Again, Bale could only shake his head. “Then listen to me when I tell you that fighting Asher will not grant you a good death, just a messy one.”

  The barbarian looked from Glaide to Asher, quizzically. After another moment’s thought, Bale snorted his amusement and returned to his little table. Nathaniel released the white-knuckled grip on the hilt of his sword.

  “Bah! Always gettin’ in the way o’ some fun!” Doran Heavybelly practically spat his words at Glaide, who only chuckled at the dwarf’s response.

  The group returned their focus on Asher and the companions.

  “Tell us a tale, Asher.” Salim rested against the mantel piece as Hadavad and Atharia sat cross-legged on the floor.

  “Perhaps some introductions...” Hadavad said, his grey eyes fixed curiously on Reyna and Faylen.

  Nathaniel knew what surprise awaited the rangers of the Axe. They had already spoken of how their mission and very survival would depend upon secrecy. The revelation of the elves existence would put all of that in jeopardy. And yet, Nathaniel, and the elves to some extent, trusted Asher’s judgement.

  “I am Nathaniel Galfrey,” the knight announced, prolonging the elves introduction in case a lie was being constructed.

  “Galfrey?” The questioning voice came from the small bar in the corner. The unknown man, whose head had been slumped between his shoulders, stepped off his stool and joined them in the firelight, along with the man’s alcoholic odour. “As in, Tobin Galfrey?”

  He was older than Asher, but perhaps a little younger than Glaide, with short but unkempt white hair and a thick white moustache against a stubbled face. Cold, blue eyes and angular features told of a hard life on the road, but his build was wiry and strong, and like Salim, the man carried himself as a soldier. A long, haggard and dirty coat hung to his calves in tatters. Most of it was covered in armour and straps, except none of it appeared to match, with his shoulder pads and one knee pad layered in flat cylindrical spikes and single bracer on one arm, with strips of blue fabric wrapped around the other. The sword hanging from his waist was the most telling of all, however, for Nathaniel had an identical one sheathed on his own waist.

  “He was my father,” Nathaniel replied.

  The legendary Graycoat that had been his father would forever cast a shadow over any of his deeds. It was his father’s love for his mother however, that cast Nathaniel in a bad light. The order had always seen Nathaniel as a walking monument to their greatest warrior’s singular failure, in breaking his oath to never sire a child. To Nathaniel, he had just been the father he loved and missed.

  “I knew him...” The dishevelled man looked into the fire as if he was seeing into the past.

  “You are a Graycoat,” Nathaniel stated.

  Glaide said, “This is Kaleb Jordain, formerly of the Graycoats.”

  “I don’t need you to introduce me, Glaide,” Kaleb snapped, with unfocused eyes struggling to settle on the ranger. “I am Kaleb Jordain. And apparently not the only disgraced Graycoat in this establishment...” The old ranger looked over Nathaniel’s attire.

  “I have left the order of my own volition,” Nathaniel firmly replied. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to get into.

  “So did I... right after they told me to get out,” Kaleb added quietly. “The price of love.” Glaide held up his hand to stop the ranger from continuing his story, but Kaleb ignored him. “I left thinking I had a good woman and a baby to raise.” The ranger stopped mid-sentence to burp. “Until it turned out the baby wasn’t mine and...” the drunkard twirled his finger in the air as if that explained the rest of his sad tale.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Kaleb?” Russell Maybury put another tankard of ale into his chest and rested a meaty hand on the ranger’s shoulder.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Kaleb replied with simple smile, dropping into the comfy armchair.

  An awkward moment hung between the group while they waited to see if Kaleb would continue his rant.

  Hadavad, the old wizard, spoke up first. “I am sure that your tale is a good one Mr Galfrey, but perhaps first we could learn of your companions?” Hadavad looked at the elves with that same curious expression. “I can feel the magic that surrounds you both.” Atharia Danell nodded absently in agreement with her mentor.

  Faylen and Reyna looked to one another, before meeting Asher’s reassuring nod. The elves removed their hoods with both hands and allowed the ensemble of rangers to look upon their fair features. Nathaniel could see their pointed ears between their long hair, and so too could the rest.

  Reyna stepped forward and announced, “I am Princess Reyna Sevari of the elven nation, and this is my mentor and protector, Faylen Haldör.”

  As expected, there was a stunned silence that followed. Even Doran Heavybelly looked at the elves in silence, with beer dripping down his yellow beard as it flowed out of the tankard. Nathaniel looked to Asher, who was leaning against the wall with a broad smile on his face.

  “There are rumours coming out of Velia that elves have returned to Illian...” Glaide said, with his dark eyes fixed on the elves unusual ears.

  “Bah! If that’s an elf then I’m a bearded goat!” Doran slammed his now empty tankard down. “Elves left a thousand years ago for pastures better than these. Why would ye return now?”

  “That is a long story, master dwarf,” Reyna replied with a sad smile, while looking to Asher and Nathaniel.

  “We will need to stay here while we prepare for our journey south,” Asher explained to the elf. “Tell the tale and earn our keep.” The ranger made for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Faylen asked.

  “To get us some money for our supplies and find a caravan travelling south.” Asher looked from Nathaniel to Reyna, silently indicating for the Graycoat to remain behind.

  “I have supplies a plenty for any journey, Asher. You’re welcome to them,” Russell offered.

  “Thank you, but our journey will be long and more supplies required along the way.” Asher continued for the door.

  “You’re travelling south?” Glaide asked, tearing his eyes from the elves.

  “Sit awhile and listen to their tale,” Asher bade. “I promise you it’s a goo
d one.”

  “Well we best get some more ale then, eh...” Doran looked to Russell with a raised eyebrow.

  9

  In The Service Of The Gods

  King Merkaris strode through the maze of dark tunnels that formed the foundation of his keep. Originally built by his ancestor, King Gal Tion, the first human king in Illian, the elaborate tunnels had been built as a last resort in case of a siege. The enemy would be forced to pursue them into the labyrinth, where a series of traps and ambushes could be fought on the Tion’s terms. Most of the tunnels were abandoned now, and the separate rooms knocked together to form a chamber big enough to store Namdhor’s records.

  The two guards standing outside the tall, double doors had their backs to the king. He could sense the fear on them as they stared at the black doors with trepidation. They had been ordered to ensure Valanis’ privacy, but news had filtered up to the king regarding some apparent distress from within the archives.

  Merkaris was silent in his approach, listening to the sounds from within. The sound of tables being upturned and chairs broken apart echoed from inside. A roar that would halt the bravest of souls erupted from the other side of the door.

  “Leave.”

  The guards jumped back at the sudden order from their king. They bowed sharply and left at once, both wise enough not to question the king of Orith. Merkaris hesitated as he rested his hands against the cool metal of the doorknobs. He had only ever been in the presence of Valanis in the caverns behind Kaliban, deep in the mountains of Vengora. Seeing the dark elf in his personal chamber had been exciting, intoxicating... terrifying. Even as a human, Merkaris could feel the magical aura that surrounded Valanis, cocooning him in power. Hearing his master’s rage only made Merkaris feel as powerful as an insect.

  The king pushed through into the records room. Book shelves higher than most houses stood in rows that stretched back for fifty metres. The central aisle was usually decorated with long tables and chairs, with low-hanging chandeliers above each one. But now the chamber was a mess. Scrolls covered the floor, some burnt and shredded while others were left in frozen pieces. The tables and chairs were piles of splinters and pikes, strewn throughout the shelves and central aisle. Three of the large shelves at the back of the chamber had been toppled over like pieces of dominoes.

  “WHERE IS IT?” the other-worldly voice roared.

  Merkaris cautiously moved through the tattered papers and scrolls, searching for his master amidst the records. Valanis appeared, as if from nowhere, and picked the king up with one hand, his iron grip wrapped around Merkaris’ throat. Calculating, purple eyes stared back at him from behind that menacing mask. The dark elf’s breathing filled the chamber, overpowering the king’s desperate sputterings. Valanis eventually sighed and casually released Merkaris to fall to the floor, joining the pile of scrolls. The king massaged his throat and gasped while Valanis slowly walked away.

  “Forgive me, Merkaris...” The dark elf pulled back his hood and removed the helmet.

  King Merkaris forgot his plight in an instant, gazing upon the beauty of his master. Valanis truly was a god. His long, blond hair flowed down his back with two pointed ears protruding at the sides. The dark elf’s features were fair but strong, set against those dazzling purple eyes. The chamber was granted more light when Valanis’ skin literally glowed from within. Veins became visible across his face and neck, glowing like the sun.

  “I should not punish such a loyal servant of the gods,” Valanis continued.

  “Every breath I take is in service to the gods, My Lord... and you!” Merkaris added with as much enthusiasm as his sore throat would allow.

  “After the Dark War... after the Amber Spell, the world continued on without me. The elves stood aside as man rose to power and forged war with the dragons, a war they won no less. I have spent forty years catching up on a thousand years of history that should never have been allowed to happen.”

  “My Lord?” Merkaris knew he wasn’t wise enough to understand the musings of his master.

  Valanis looked away, as if he could see or hear something that Merkaris could not. For a moment the dark elf was completely distracted, apparently enthralled in another conversation.

  “History would have you believe that I started a civil war for no more than simple power. The truth is such an elusive concept. I only wanted to unite the elves so that we might wage war against the dragons.” Valanis spoke so casually of world domination until he laughed to himself. “But it appears such an army wasn’t needed. Mankind achieved this end all by themselves. Your kind is not to be underestimated, it seems.”

  Merkaris couldn’t grasp what his master was referring to. “Why did you want war with the dragons, My Lord?” He stayed on the floor, resting on his knees.

  “Why would the gods have me wage war with the dragons? That is a better question, good king. Alas, the truth of the gods and their needs are beyond your comprehension. You need only concern yourself with my needs.”

  Merkaris bowed, fully aware that he would never be privy to Valanis’ ultimate plan. All that mattered was where Merkaris would stand in all this. When the war was over, mankind would bow at the king’s feet, as Valanis put him in charge of their entire race.

  “At the end of the Dragon War,” Valanis purred, “who else plundered the Lifeless Isles, besides your ancestors?”

  There were many paintings and tapestries devoted to telling the story of the Dragon War. The archipelago that drifted down from the larger island of Dragorn had been home to the dragons for thousands of years. When King Tion finally broke its shores and wiped the great beasts out, the Tion kingdom had already begun to fracture into what are now six kingdoms. Merkaris knew well of the other figureheads, whose descendants now shared the land with himself.

  “The isles were plundered by all, but the bulk of its secrets were kept by the now four ruling families of Dragorn; the Fenrigs, the Yarls, the Danathors and the Trigorns. It was the treasures they found that elevated them to rulers. My ancestor, Gal Tion, thought that war with the dragons would unite our kind, but it only gave them the opportunity to rebel.” Merkaris looked hard at his master and wondered what treasure the dragons had been hiding. It must be something of great value if Valanis was personally hunting for it through ancient archives.

  “I have heard of these people.” Valanis replaced his mask and hood, concealing the supernatural light. “They do not crown themselves kings and queens, but they rule Dragorn none-the-less.” The dark elf looked upon Merkaris, his expression hidden beneath the mask. “Have you been to Dragorn?” The king nodded. “You have visited these would-be kings and queens?” Again, Merkaris nodded. “Picture it in your mind, as if you were standing there...” Valanis slowly approached the king and reached out to cup Merkaris’ face in his gloved hand.

  Merkaris did as he was asked and pictured the grand compound and lush gardens that housed the mighty Trigorn family. As Valanis touched his face, the king felt an intrusion into his mind, something Alidyr had trained him to detect years ago. There was nothing he could do to keep Valanis out, however. The dark elf penetrated his mind and took what he wanted, stealing the images and sounds that Merkaris dragged from his memory. The mental intrusion intensified until the king lost his sight and any sense of what was around him.

  The overwhelming presence vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Only now, Merkaris was lying on his back, atop a pile of discarded scrolls and very much alone. Valanis was gone.

  Valanis stepped through the portal, leaving the semi-conscious king and the dimly-lit archives, and into the fading light of the sun, as it set over Dragorn. The dark elf stumbled after his first step, feeling the weight of his magic take its toll. He had transported himself twelve hundred miles in a single step and without the use of a crystal. Naius’ power gave him unimaginable strength, but its price was becoming steep. Valanis could feel the threat of a seizure. His left hand twitched uncontrollably and his mouth was filled with a tangy taste.

>   The shard from Paldora’s gem offered him its strength, but it wasn’t enough to keep him on his feet. It was for this reason that Valanis had chosen the rooftop adjacent to the Trigorn’s luxurious mansion. No one was around to see him drop to his knees and ball his fists in the struggle to take back control. It took every bit of his considerable strength to keep the seizure at bay – something he could not have done a thousand years ago without the gem, even if it was only a shard.

  FOCUS... PATIENCE...

  The voice filled Valanis’ head, drowning out the thundering of blood in his ears. He recognised it as Ikaldir, the god of the hunt. As always, the gods offered him their wisdom as well as strength. Valanis trusted in Paldora’s gem to sustain him and he relaxed, sitting cross-legged on the rooftop. He would meditate until the moon replaced the sun.

  Then he would hunt.

  As the stars formed a canopy over the world, Valanis opened his eyes again. The crescent moon was high in the sky, casting a pale glow across the city. The dark elf rose to his feet and took in a deep breath, making certain that any chance of a seizure was past him. Dragorn and the Lifeless Isles that trailed off from the main island were a place of ancient and raw magic. Thousands of dragons had once called this place home and the echo of their magical auras continued to resonate throughout. Valanis basked in those echoes for a moment, soaking up its strength.

  The city was not as he remembered it. Of course, it had been well over a thousand years since he had stepped foot on the island. His father had brought him and his sister when they were no more than ten years old. They had come to say goodbye to their mother, who had been chosen as one of the Dragorn. She was to live the rest of her life out on this island with her precious dragons and fellow peacekeepers. She fell during the Dark War, though Valanis could barely remember the day. He had felt nothing when he saw her body strewn across the battlefield. It had been much harder to kill his father and sister after he discovered the pools of Naius, but the gods had demanded a sacrifice to prove his devotion. At least they had died for something, unlike his mother.