The corridor opened up into a small foyer with a central table, decorated with lavish flowers and fruit. The Arakesh wasted no time utilising the extra space to pull out the acrobatics, flipping and contorting his body into every unorthodox position to gain the upper hand. It had been a long time since Asher had need of such skills, and his joints had only gotten worse with his years on the road. The ranger took hit after hit, as Ro kicked and punched Asher from head-to-toe. The blunt force only made the ranger slower, giving the Arakesh more opportunity to slash him with his short-swords.
“Argh!” Asher lunged for Ro, while trying to make as much noise as possible. The ranger knew his only hope of winning this fight now, was if the palace guards heard the commotion and came to investigate.
Fatigue was well past setting in, and Asher could feel the weight of his broadsword for the first time. He no longer had the energy to perform the exotic twists and turns of the large blade, putting him into a purely defensive stance. Ro’s swords whipped around the ranger, cutting his arms and legs, always searching for the mortal strike that would end the fight. The heavy footsteps of armoured guards echoed through the hallways, coming up the stairwell behind Ro.
Asher had one trick left up his sleeve. The ranger dropped his broadsword and fell to his knee before Ro Dosarn, feigning pain to the injury in his cut leg. He looked up at the assassin with very real exhaustion. The blindfold hid the look of victory in the Arakesh’s eyes, but Asher knew it was there. That overconfidence was everything the ranger was relying on to give him the perfect opening. Ro lifted both of his short-swords over his head, preparing to bring them both down on Asher’s head.
The ranger threw himself at the assassin, his momentum taking him down the stairwell after Ro. The two men tumbled and rolled over each other, down the spiralling steps, slipping punches in between their tangled bodies. Ro landed on top of Asher and surprised the ranger by abandoning his swords in favour of using his hands. The assassin held Asher’s right arm down and grasped for his fingers, desperately clawing at his index finger where the black gem resided in its silver ring.
“Stay down...” Ro growled, struggling to get a hold on the ring with his knee on Asher’s chest.
Asher fought all the harder when he realised the Arakesh was trying to steal the ring. How did he know about the gem? Had he been sent to retrieve it, or kill him, or both? The ranger was suddenly filled with a lot of questions, but decided to think about them after he got out from under Ro Dosarn. The ranger retrieved a slim blade from the sheath on his hip and jabbed it into the assassin’s thigh. Ro howled in pain and stopped grasping for the ring. His face was consumed with anger, manifesting in the back-hand he gave Asher.
“Halt!” A dozen guards in red and blue capes rushed towards them, swords drawn.
Asher could see Ro gathering his strength at the sight of more men to kill. The Nightseye elixir combined with whatever else he had clearly taken was fuelling the assassin to keep going and kill anyone that got in his way. The ranger could feel the tug of the black gem again, calling to him to be unleashed. Magic just wasn’t his way; it never had been and never would be. Keeping the slither of the crystal in his ring had made sense, if only to protect him from the magic of others.
Ro was too busy - calculating the different ways he was going to kill the guards - to notice Asher pointing his open hand at the assassin’s chest. A concussive wave erupted from the ranger’s palm and caught Ro in its wake, hurling the assassin high into the air until his back and head collided with the ceiling. A small impact crater was left in the ceiling, with a web of cracks where Ro’s head had connected. His drop to the floor looked just as painful as his collision with the ceiling.
Asher groaned in pain and exhaustion, as he rolled onto his knees, keeping one eye on the assassin at all times. Ro remained where he fell, blood matting his spiky, grey hair and dripping onto the white floor. The ranger hadn’t even straightened his back before the guards surrounded him. They looked from him to Ro with confusion and no small amount of fear. The guards recognised the blindfolded Arakesh and knew of Asher from his first meeting with King Rengar. Neither were men they wanted to get in a fight with.
“This assassin tried to kill the guests of your king...” Asher arced his back and sighed in dismay at the many cracks and pops. “There are more upstairs.” The ranger looked up the spiral staircase, but none of the guards followed his gaze.
Four guards broke off and tentatively investigated Ro’s prone form. “He’s still breathing,” one declared.
“Take him to the dungeon!” the only guard with no helmet ordered.
Asher watched them drag his body down the corridor and collect his short-swords. “He’s going to need chaining up, preferably suspended from the ceiling with another set of chains keeping his feet secured and off the ground. Strip him naked and burn everything you find on him. Oh, and make sure he’s never in the dark...” Asher stopped offering advice when he looked on their faces and realised they weren’t listening to him.
The sound of a man in gut-wrenching pain reminded Asher of what was happening upstairs. Nathaniel was dying. The ranger made for the stairs, only to be blocked by the side-step of two guards. Their swords had the slightest wobble to them, betraying the guard’s fears. Asher gave them a hard stare while clenching his fists, cracking the knuckles. Certain that he had made the desired impression, the ranger stepped forward and carried on up the stairs, as the guards parted for him.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Keep Your Enemies Closer
The Hydra lay dead in the middle of the hall, its bulk completely burying the fountain and several dead fiends. Adamar had hacked his way to the creature’s heart and plunged his sword through to the hilt. Lyra placed a hand on the monster’s scaly hide, taking a moment of silence for Naiveen, her body somewhere inside the Hydra’s belly. Galanör felt nothing for the death of Naiveen. The companion’s loss would only make their mission that much harder to achieve, nothing more.
Galanör dragged his eyes from the lifeless corpse of the girl, killed by Lyra. The terror frozen on her dead face would haunt him with the faces of the children, snatched away by the Mer-folk.
“Ailas?” Adamar walked over one of the dead Hydra heads to stand beside Ailas at the door. Ailas stood as still as a statue, with his bow in hand, his gaze fixed on the corridor where they had all heard a great explosion.
Adamar sighed, drawing Galanör and Lyra to their sides. The corridor was a ruin of glass and rubble, the walls and floor consumed by fire. In the middle of the destruction were the charred remains of a body and a broken, half-melted bow. Eliön was dead.
Galanör put a hand on Ailas’s shoulder and gave the elf a reassuring squeeze. The two archers had been friends for nearly three centuries and had trained together for this mission for years.
“What magic is this?” Adamar looked on in awe.
Galanör noted the melted stonework. “This is no magic. It’s Malliath...”
The other elves turned to one another, questioningly. “Why is Malliath attacking?” Lyra asked. “He didn’t kill us on the beach, which can only mean that Princess Reyna received the invitation.”
“It must be an addition to the enthralling spells,” Galanör mused. “The mages must have enacted a silent, magical alarm when they found the teachers bodies. That’s why the hex-traps have awoken in our presence and why Malliath is seeking us out. We have openly attacked the mages and now the entire school is against us.”
“You have led us to ruin...” Adamar was quick to blame Galanör.
If they hadn’t already lost two of their companions, Galanör would have seriously entertained the idea of separating Adamar’s head from his body. He had no trust for the big elf, but his particular skill set would most likely be required between here and the Elder Book.
“We push on,” Galanör ordered, striding into the heat of the corridor. A small spell kept the molten droplets from burning his flesh and the fires at bay.
“Come on!” Gideon stood guard over Abigail while she studied Master Tibit’s door, his staff held up, pointing down the hallway from which they had come.
“This isn’t as easy as pointing my wand and commanding the door to open!” Abigail replied, sharply.
They were both stressed. Seeing the bodies of their fellow mages didn’t help, but being inside the tornado of Malliath’s fiery breath was hard to forget. They had both nearly died several times in the last hour, putting their nerves on edge and making them overly sensitive to every noise and shadow.
Gideon turned back briefly, to see Abigail carefully scanning her wand over every inch of the door. The sound of lightning being discharged, somewhere beyond the hallway, yanked Gideon’s attention back to guard duties. The whip and crack of the lightning was followed by screams and steal clashing against wooden staffs.
Gideon pointed his staff to the floor and commanded the elements to coat the stone in a layer of slippery ice. If the intruders came at him, they would have a hard job moving as fast as the archer had. The unmistakable sound of fireballs scorching the walls and rebounding off magical shields resounded down the hallway. They were drawing closer.
“Who do you suppose they are?” Abigail asked, feeling for the vibrations in her wand.
“I don’t know,” Gideon hefted the staff in his hands, adjusting his grip, “but they’re well trained in the magical arts, or they wouldn’t have made it this far.”
“The Black-Hand, perhaps?” Abigail’s tone was that of great concentration.
Gideon considered the suggestion for a moment. It was entirely possible the rogue group of mages had finally had enough of being hunted by Korkanath’s mages, and decided to strike back. The group of dark wizards had formed over two centuries ago, after a falling out between the Magikar at the time and his protégé. Very little was taught on the subject, but plenty of myths and legends had been built around them and the constant battling in the shadows that had taken place between the two groups.
“I don’t think so.” Gideon winced at the sound of a distant explosion. “They seem to prefer weapons to magic, and I didn’t see any wands or staffs.”
“I’ve got it,” Abigail announced triumphantly. A silent revealing spell exposed the door’s secrets. The dark oak was suddenly overlaid with blue and green light that twirled and spiralled, until words began to form.
“What is it?” Gideon asked, wondering what the delay was.
“The door can only be opened with the correct phrase,” Abigail answered with dismay.
“What do you mean?” Gideon asked more frantically.
“I’ve commanded the locking mechanism to reveal the clue built into the magical ward that protects the room. Listen to this,” Abigail cleared her throat before reading the words projected on the door, “I am the king of my kind, the greatest of all. My fangs are legendary, delivering everlasting pain, but to look upon me brings only death. Should you survive our meeting I will stay with you always, but know that my presence is what makes you stronger...’?”
Gideon’s mind went blank. He thought through every page of Palantine’s Bestiary, trying to connect the riddle to the monster. The sound of arrows being loosed and swords slicing through flesh grew ever closer, distracting him from the riddle. An agonised yelp escaped the lips of another fallen master, who skidded across the floor at the end of the hallway, his robes smouldering around his chest.
“Oh, of course, ‘the king of my kind!’” Abigail repeated with excitement. She stood back from the door and boldly spoke, “Basilisk.” The blue and green writing disappeared as the metallic lock unbolted and the door opened by itself. “Yes!”
“Get inside!” Gideon wasted no time in bundling her into Master Tibit’s room and slamming the door shut behind them. With his staff pointed at the lock, Gideon resealed the magical ward that barred the door shut.
Both mages turned to meet each other’s gaze and immediately embraced with a comforting hug. They had been one another’s rock throughout all their years of tutelage at Korkanath, often relying on the strength of the other to keep them going through hard times. Surviving Malliath’s fiery breath topped the list of things they had endured together.
“The book!” Abigail seized Gideon’s arms, catching sight of it in the corner of the room. “How do we protect it?”
“If Master Tibit’s warning is anything to go by, we shouldn’t touch it.” Gideon looked around the room for inspiration. The master was clearly in the middle of several experiments, though Gideon could only fathom half of it all.
Abigail gasped and covered her mouth. They could both hear several voices talking on the other side of the door. The ice had done little to slow the intruders’ progress, apparently.
“What do we do?” Abigail whispered harshly.
Gideon continued his frantic search around the room, only now he was looking for somewhere they could hide. In his desperation, Gideon always found he became more resourceful, and there it was, staring him in the face. He grabbed Abigail’s arm and dragged her over to the large wardrobe, opposite the Elder Book. The young mage opened the doors with haste, ripped all of Master Tibit’s ceremonial robes off their hooks and flattened them to the wardrobe’s base.
“Get in!” He had no idea how long it would take the invaders to breach the warded door.
Abigail complied and stepped into the wardrobe, keeping her wand out of her leather holster.
Gideon aimed his staff at the Elder Book. “Ebori...” he spoke the word aloud to give it stronger meaning, aware of the magic it would consume. The book and stand faded from sight, becoming completely invisible to the eyes of any being. Satisfied with his spell, Gideon mentally commanded his staff to shrink so that he could fit inside the wardrobe. Abigail pushed her toes into one of the doors so they could still see into the room.
They didn’t have to wait long.
The door to Master Tibit’s room exploded into the room, splintering into chunks, and crashing into the many experiments. Glass was shattered and tables broken under the impact of the door, sending exotic liquids and potions in every direction. The two mages braced themselves against the shudder that overtook the wardrobe. Gideon couldn’t believe the power of the intruders. Clearly that explosion was intended to go the other way if the door was ever breached, but somehow they had repelled the entire warding spell. It was also possible that they hadn’t even attempted to open the door, but had instead used magic to blow it off its hinges.
Gideon tilted his head to get a better look through the crack between the doors. Four people strode into the room with the confidence only gained from killing so many. They all wore dark cloaks, with their hoods down, exposing their elegant features and prominent cheekbones. With the exception of the bald one with braids, the other three had long beautiful hair that appeared softer than silk. The only thing that lessened their visage was the spatters of blood that stained their clothing and skin. The dark haired woman scanned the room and continued to speak in perfect elvish.
“We should converse in man’s tongue for now,” the one with long brown hair said. “We shouldn’t give away our identity yet. Now find the book, the human said it was in here.”
Everything he said gave Gideon pause and alarm, forcing him to inspect the invaders again with a careful eye. The young mage felt his mouth drop at the sight of the bald one’s pointed ears.
Elves!
Judging from the vice-like grip, Abigail had come to the same conclusion. The elves spread out and began to investigate everything in Master Tibit’s possession. Gideon could feel exhaustion setting in as his concealment spell started to take its toll. He called upon the magic stored in the small crystals, interlaced around the centre of his staff. Sweat gathered around his temple
s and dripped down his cheeks, as the magic called for more energy to keep the spell alive. The knuckles on his hand turned white under his intensifying grip. He had to hold on.
Galanör kicked the wooden debris, left by the door, making certain the Elder Book hadn’t been buried underneath. They had all sensed the magical wards barring the door and had no patience anymore to unlock it with their own magic. Ailas had moved over the icy floor, as easily as the rest, and hit the door with a fireball strong enough to break the spell guarding the door and force the explosion inwards. The rage he felt for Eliön’s death was evident.
At first glance, it appeared the Elder Book wasn’t stored in the room at all, but Galanör knew it was more human trickery. The mage had told them nothing but the truth and the elf didn’t doubt it. Another door inside the master’s chambers caught Galanör’s eye, the magical barrier surrounding it proof of more secrets behind it. From what he recalled of the map however, the room beyond was a spiral staircase that led to a lone room beneath this one and nothing else. In fact, the three dimensional map showed there to be a hole inside it. Galanör moved to investigate the door, when he felt the overbearing presence of another.
Adamar was close behind him, appearing to look busy inspecting the contents of a small cupboard. A sixth sense, honed after centuries of training, told Galanör that something was very wrong. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when he considered the way in which Adamar had been forced upon his group. The big elf had shown nothing but contempt for Galanör since before they left Ayda’s shores, and had done nothing but try to undermine him every step of the way. The advisors to the king, responsible for thrusting Adamar upon them, were all elves who sought a loftier position within their hierarchy. Was it possible that another family had designs on removing the rising Reveeri family from the picture by killing Galanör?
Rise of the Ranger (Echoes of Fate: Book 1) Page 26
