A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Alijah’s mind was filled with violent images, though none more so than Vighon impaled on a green Vi’tari blade while all of Namdhor watched. The imagery became all the more gruesome when Malliath ate his corpse, wiping the house of Draqaro from history. The king blinked hard, regaining his grip on the sanctuary’s reality.

  Malliath raised his head, his muscles tensed beneath his scales. For the crime of his defiance, Vighon Draqaro has but one fate! You should embrace it.

  Vighon was indeed his enemy, and a powerful one at that given his claim to the throne, but he was not the gravest threat to Alijah’s plans.

  What of my sister? Alijah’s choice of words was met by a sense of disappointment from Malliath. What of Inara? he asked instead. With Athis by her side she poses a greater threat than Vighon.

  Malliath slowly dipped his head to bring his gaze in line with Alijah. It was unnerving. The king’s stomach lurched when he processed the information that passed between them.

  Inara was in Erador.

  Alijah reached out and leaned against the rock as he considered the potential repercussions of her presence there. Taking his time, and assisted by Malliath, he relived events from within Valgala’s walls. His fears only worsened when he saw Asher in Inara’s company, both fighting in the foyer of his personal chambers.

  One detail especially caught Alijah’s eye: Mournblade. He had mounted it in his study, yet now he was looking at it slung over Inara’s shoulder.

  So they’re looking for Gideon, he concluded.

  They were looking for Gideon, Malliath responded. This was days ago. The last time they were seen was on The Spoken Road.

  Again, Alijah pushed through the memories of dead Reavers until he found the right one. Indeed, the companions, including a Drake of all creatures, had last been seen fleeing the capital on the road to the Tower of Jain. Thanks to Athis, the memory was burned away.

  Alijah could sense Malliath’s unease. If they find Gideon, the dragon reasoned, they will come to know everything including the importance of our work in The Moonlit Plains.

  Alijah could feel every ounce of his companion’s quiet fury. We should assume they have discovered him by now.

  Malliath’s thick claws dug deep into the rock as his purple eyes pulled the king in.

  I will eat your sister, he promised. But not before she watches me rip out Athis’s heart. Gideon Thorn, however, will die by your hand. You wished for him to remain alive - his interference will be on your hands.

  Alijah turned away from his companion, haunted for the moment by the image of his sister disappearing down Malliath’s throat.

  How long have I been asleep? he asked, changing the subject.

  Two days, Malliath answered flatly.

  I want to wake up, Alijah said with the hint of a demand in his tone.

  You are still healing. The Jainus’s spell took its toll on you in more ways than one.

  “I want to wake up!” he barked out loud. “As you’ve shown me, the realm is in danger of falling into ruin. It needs its king.”

  Looking down on him, Malliath exhaled a long breath from his nostrils. With it came a cloud that stole away the details of their sanctuary.

  Alijah opened his real eyes and sat up, barely aware of the comfortable bed on which he resided. He looked around the room, assessing every detail to determine his surroundings. Alijah didn’t need to be told he was inside The Bastion, high in The Vrost Mountains. There was something about the black stone that would never leave the king, nor he it.

  Comfortable in his environment, Alijah’s mind began to settle somewhat. Even now he was becoming aware of the Reavers working on the fortress in a bid to restore it to its ancient grandeur. They were like ants in his mind, busy toiling away without complaint.

  Only it wasn’t his mind that was pulling the strings.

  Malliath had them under his command, ensuring they continued the work they had begun nearly two years ago. Wondering why, of all places, he was inside The Bastion, Alijah recalled his last words to the dragon.

  Home. The word and its meaning tried to steal Alijah’s attention, but he didn’t want to dwell on his attachment to the dreadful place. Besides, it was time that eluded him.

  Closing his eyes, Alijah reached out, drawing comfort from the bond he had with Malliath. He could feel the dragon, feel his power and magnificence. It was, as ever, intoxicating for the half-elf.

  The king swung his legs over the side of the bed and made a quick inspection of himself. Though he could see no cuts, he could feel the itch of where the skin had recently healed. The muscle beneath was tender, yet to knit fully back together. His bones harboured an ache where The Hox had broken them, but they were strong enough to support his every movement.

  He spared a second to marvel at the speed with which he could heal himself and survive without food or water. For all the potency he was to acquire during his life as king, he knew none would make him more powerful than his bond to Malliath.

  Taking a breath, Alijah stood up. A sharp pain shot through his left knee, forcing him to reach out and use the end of the bed as support. With a flushed face and gritted teeth, he exhaled and straightened himself. His back and shoulders forced a groan from his lips. Pinching his fingers together, he quickly discovered that they were partially numb.

  So he wasn’t entirely healed.

  Fighting through the pain, he waved his hand through the air and conjured a mirror image of himself. The image moved exactly as he did, giving the king a good view of his body. A large and discoloured bruise ran up his left leg and touched his hip. He also caught sight of a fresh scar, under his ribs, that ran up and around his torso before splitting into three strands across his back. Neither hurt to touch, but his knee was more than aware of his weight when pressure was applied.

  He was about to dismiss the image when he discovered the wound on his face. Alijah leaned forward and the conjured twin did the same, mirroring his fingers as they traced the jagged cut that split his left eyebrow and reached for his hairline. The king had never considered himself a vain person, but he instantly hated his disfigurement. He was indomitable, unyielding, invincible. He shouldn’t be seen to bleed.

  The people should see you bleed for them, Malliath argued from afar. Rising to defend them will be what defines you. They will see that you put their lives before your own. In return, you will have their loyalty and with that you can forge a real and lasting peace.

  Alijah was picked up by every word, his resolve given new life. He waved his hand again, reducing his mirror image to a cloud of coloured smoke to be carried away in the draught.

  Enduring the pain in his knee, Alijah limped away from the roaring fire beside his bed, his naked skin left to fend for itself against the mountain chill. Pausing in front of the arched window, he gave no care to the icy breeze that penetrated his chamber. How long had The Crow kept him chained to a freezing wall, exposed to The Vrost Mountains? Only now did he appreciate the strength it had given him.

  Outside, he could see Reavers, all immune to the blasting winds, hauling stone, fitting glass, and installing new doors and furniture, all of which had been transported up the treacherous mountain path.

  Testing the potency of his bond to every Reaver, Alijah silently commanded those outside his chamber to enter. He knew that they had been waiting there, per Malliath’s command, with his clothes, armour, and cloak. It satisfied him to see the knights of Erador react immediately to his command.

  Given the pain in his knee, he allowed the Reavers to assist in dressing him and fastening his armour in place. It was with irritation that he noted the dragon scales were chipped where Galanör’s spells had impacted them.

  Alijah accepted his Vi’tari blade from the last Reaver, thankful that Malliath had retrieved it from The Hox. He studied its emerald edge before sheathing it on his hip. The extra weight didn’t help his knee and his hand wrapped around the hilt, squeaking against the leather strap.

  He dismissed the kn
ights with a thought before leaving the chamber himself. Without real awareness, he wandered through the ancient halls. The Bastion would always be his retreat, somewhere he could rest and quieten his mind. It was within these walls that he had been remade, forged into something that truly mattered. The Crow’s lessons were never closer to his heart than when he resided herein. He promised himself, when the realm had been set on course, he would spend more time here, where he could renew his vows to himself.

  Inevitably, he found himself on the highest platform in The Bastion, exposed to the elements. Circular in shape, though time had ravaged its edges, the platform overlooked much of the fortress and offered a magnificent view of The Vrost Mountains.

  It was very likely, once upon a time, that King Atilan himself had stood on this platform and stared at the same mountains. Try as he might, Alijah couldn’t hold on to that thought, his mind snatched by dark memories. It had been here, on this very stone, where he had tried to kill himself, to prevent The Crow from turning him into a monster. How wrong he had been. How naive.

  Limping to the jagged edge, he looked over the side. There was nothing but a stomach-churning drop and sharp rocks: a sure death had The Crow not intervened.

  You dwell on the past when you should be thinking about the future.

  Malliath’s voice washed away all memory, honing Alijah’s thoughts. He stepped back from the edge and made his way to the centre, his eyes searching the mountain tops for the dragon. Malliath wasn’t hard to find against the pale dawn, gliding between the snow-capped peaks. Alijah studied his companion in the distance for there was something different about the way he was flying. He was certainly slower than usual. He decided the recent spell, burnt into the dragon’s hide by himself no less, was responsible for his apparent fatigue and, possibly, the hint of pain the king detected, though it could easily have been his own wounded leg muddying their bond.

  The dragon glided round, banking towards the fortress. It wasn’t long before he was grappling the side of the mountain, beside the platform. His claws easily found purchase, digging into the rock face and allowing his head to dip over the hewn stone.

  I sense reproach in you, Malliath observed.

  Alijah experienced a wave of nausea rise up in him, his vision blurring around the edges. With his wounded knee, he staggered away from Malliath’s gaze to take in the mountains.

  We have but enemies now. There is no bond, blood or otherwise, that is stronger than ours. Vighon, Inara, your parents… they must be sacrificed for the good of the realm, for the good of the millions yet to be born. Remember where your heart lies. It is the people we serve. We must love them above all others. Anything else would lower us to the standards of those who came before us.

  Alijah felt an icy wind pick up his cloak and blow out his hair before it knocked loose a tear from his left eye. The path before him was laden with familial bodies.

  Heroes die, Malliath announced, reciting The Crow’s second lesson. We will lay low the enemies of our kingdom and rise to fight again and again because we are not heroes, Alijah. We are kings. Only we can redefine what that means.

  Alijah cast his eyes to the cold stone and saw his parents lying bloodied side by side. They were dead, along with Vighon and Inara beside them.

  Then, Malliath’s breath washed over him from behind like a cleansing vapour. His vision cleared and his stomach settled. He was the king of Verda, not the brother of Inara Galfrey nor the son of Reyna and Nathaniel Galfrey. He was everlasting. He was the pillar on which the realm would reside. Any who tried to break him would die - it was that simple.

  “Sacrifice without hesitation,” he muttered under his breath. Gideon will die, he vowed, turning back to Malliath. And Ilargo with him.

  Malliath’s head inched closer. Good, he hissed. We should move quickly, he insisted. Inara and her ilk will move to undo our work in The Moonlit Plains.

  They cannot stop us now, Alijah opined. The Moonlit Plains have been prepared. There are already reports of unusual activity at the lowest depths.

  If there is even a single doorway down there, Malliath urged, you should take it now. With magic gone, we have but to wait until its death claims Ilargo and Athis. Without them, Gideon and Inara will fall and there will be none to protect the usurper. With him gone, The Rebellion dies.

  Alijah nodded his head, but mention of Vighon ignited a seething rage in his veins. He sits on my throne! That cannot go unchallenged. It could have lasting consequences for my reign, even generations from now. Every second The Rebellion occupies Namdhor the weaker I look. I want his head. The king looked away as a strategy began to form in his mind though, admittedly, he couldn’t tell whether it originated from himself or Malliath, their thoughts so entwined on the matter.

  Malliath tilted his head. You propose abandoning our work in the plains.

  No, Alijah said definitively. He paused, reaching out to his Reavers across the realm. With thought alone, he redirected them from their current tasks and stations.

  Malliath could sense and interpret his every action. You would move so many of our forces to defend the doorway?

  Of course, Alijah replied with half a grin taking shape. Let Athis and Ilargo descend upon it with all their might. It will do them no good against our army.

  Any confrontation jeopardises the doorway, Malliath protested.

  I want his head! Alijah fumed, giving in to the spring of hatred that swelled from nowhere. We will go to Namdhor and take it. We have no other choice. To hold the capital is to hold the realm itself. I cannot let that ripple through my kingdom.

  Our kingdom, Malliath corrected.

  Of course, Alijah conceded, taking a breath. You know, as well as I, that The Moonlit Plains cannot be taken by two dragons. The ballistas alone would tear them to shreds. Besides that, the longer we leave the doorway to form the more stable it will be. I fully intend to succeed, Malliath. And when I do, I don’t want to emerge into a world that heralds Vighon as king again.

  Malliath slowly shifted his position. Then we shall take his head.

  Alijah grinned for nothing felt better than when they were in harmony. First, he exacted, I would take his courage and, with it, the backbone of this tiresome rebellion. Reaching into the minds of the Reavers still positioned outside Namdhor, the king gave them one simple command.

  Malliath emanated a sense of pride, raising the hairs on the back of Alijah’s neck. All he wanted was to be worthy of the dragon, a sentiment he couldn’t hide.

  Malliath extended one of his front claws onto the platform, inviting Alijah onto his back. We are equal to one another, each a half of the whole. Our fates are bound, destined for greatness.

  Greatness sounded good to Alijah but, with someone else sitting on his throne and threatening his kingdom, he would settle for wrath.

  2

  Northman

  Winter was upon Namdhor and, with it, the black city was adorned with white roof tops and lined with powdered streets. Vighon Draqaro walked those streets, his boots crunching through the snow. Though the city’s towering cathedrals and spires lifted the gaze of most, the northman’s sight was cast low, for there were the bodies.

  The majority had been claimed by loved ones, but there were still numerous corpses up and down the main slope, draped in cloth. They had fallen two days past, having risen up to fight beside their king and repel the Reavers.

  Vighon stopped by one of the bodies and crouched down. With care, he pulled back the material to see the face of a man, perhaps a little younger than himself. He wasn’t attired in the clothes of Kassian’s Keepers but the simple garb of an ordinary man. To Vighon, however, he had been anything but ordinary. Without armour or sword, he had stood up to his enemy and given his life for the people around him, for the realm itself.

  He was a hero.

  The king looked over his shoulder at the small group who had accompanied him everywhere since they took back the city. Two of Kassian’s Keepers stood tall beside a pair of ser
vants from the keep. Despite his best efforts, Vighon had been unable to walk freely without any of them - Nathaniel’s doing.

  “If this man has a family, I want him returned to them. He deserves a pyre.”

  One of the Keepers nodded his chin down the road. “Your Grace…”

  Vighon turned back to see a woman and a young boy approaching. The mother was holding the child tight to her side, her hands wrapped around his shoulders and head. Even before they reached the king, the woman’s expression fell into despair as she laid eyes on the body. Together, they fell to their knees as tears ran freely down their pale cheeks. The boy cried out softly for his father while the woman gripped her husband’s frozen hand, her jaw set in anguish.

  His heart breaking, Vighon made to stand up and leave them to their grief. There was another part of him, however, desperate to leave before the wife turned her anger on him, blaming the northman for her husband’s death. And she would be right to, he thought. He had raised his flaming sword and rallied Namdhor’s bravest to fight with naught but shovels and whatever else they could find.

  Before he could stand, the wife threw herself at the king and wrapped her arms around him. Vighon heard the Keepers reaching for their wands as he himself was tempted to reach for a weapon. But the wife simply held him in place, her face pressed to his chest, as her shoulders bobbed with her crying.

  “What are we to do, my Lord?” she wept.

  Still somewhat surprised, Vighon tensed his arms and hugged her close. “I’m so sorry,” he choked. “Your husband met a hero’s end.”

  The wife pulled her head back to lay eyes on the king. “Braden didn’t want to be a hero, my Lord.” Her arm outstretched, she pulled her son into their embrace. “And there’s no sorry to be heard,” she continued. “My Braden looked up to you - always said we had the luck of the gods to live under your kingship. He was there when you stood up to The Ironsworn you know. And the orcs too. He wanted to be just like you.” Her gaze fell over her husband’s body. “He just wanted to protect us.”