Last of the Dragorn, page 1
part #8 of The Echoes Saga Series
Last of the Dragorn
The Echoes Saga: Book Eight
Philip C. Quaintrell
Also by Philip C. Quaintrell
THE ECHOES SAGA
1. Rise of the Ranger
2. Empire of Dirt
3. Relic of the Gods
4. The Fall of Neverdark
5. Kingdom of Bones
6. Age of the King
7. The Knights of Erador
8. Last of the Dragorn
THE TERRAN CYCLE
1. Intrinsic
2. Tempest
3. Heretic
4. Legacy
This is for my Ma. Where would any son be without their mother?
Dramatis Personae
Adan’Karth (Adan)
A Drake
Adilandra Sevari
The elven queen of Elandril and mother of Reyna Galfrey
Alijah Galfrey
Half-elf and self-proclaimed king of Verda
Asher
Human ranger
Athis
Red dragon, bonded with Inara
Doran Heavybelly
A Dwarven Ranger/Prince and War Mason of clan Heavybelly
Ellöria Sevari
The late Lady of Ilythyra
Faylen Haldör
An elf and High Guardian of Elandril
Galanör Reveeri
An elven ranger
Gideon Thorn
Master Dragorn
Gondrith
Reaver - bonded with the dragon Yillir.
Ilargo
Green dragon, bonded with Gideon
Inara Galfrey
Half-elf Dragorn/Guardian of the Realm
Lord Kraiden
Reaver - bonded with the dragon Morgorth.
Kassian Kantaris
A previous Keeper of Valatos
Nathaniel Galfrey
An ambassador and previous knight of the Graycoats
Reyna Galfrey
Elven princess of Elandril and Illian ambassador
Rengyr
Reaver - bonded with the dragon Karsak.
Sir Ruban Dardaris
Captain of the King’s Guard
Veda Malmagol
The Father of Nightfall
Vighon Draqaro
The usurped king of Illian
Vilyra
Reaver - bonded with the dragon Godrad.
Contents
Prologue
Part I
1. Killing the Past
2. Apex Predators
3. The Light in the Dark
4. The Rebellion
5. Broad Shoulders
6. On the Hunt
7. Making Plans
8. As The Crow Flies
9. All That Remains
10. Just A Peek
11. Children of Fire and Flame
12. A Dwarven Promise
Part II
13. There’s Always Another Big Stick
14. Nothing is Ever Simple
15. Ignorance is Bliss
16. The Sword of Nothing
17. Washed Up
18. The Eye of Grarfath
19. Dredging Up The Past
20. Guardians
21. The Yarls
22. Land of Memory
23. Old Magic
24. A Golem Walks into a Bar
Part III
25. Remember Me
26. A Game of Risk
27. Hollowed Out
28. Why We Fight
29. Taking Flight
30. Essence
31. The Beast of Qalanqath
32. Erador
33. A Warning
34. Home Sweet Home
35. What Lies Beneath
36. The Path to War
Part IV
37. The Tower of Jain
38. The Plans of Mages and Men
39. Slipping Away
40. Together Again
41. A Light at the Top of the World
42. Back to the Beginning
43. The Battle of Qamnaran
44. Ancient History
45. Eye of the Storm
46. Victory
47. Origins
Epilogue
Author Page
Author Notes
Appendices
Prologue
The last days of summer were gone, taking with them the refuge of their warmth and hope. Gone were the good days. Autumn had been a brief gloom, passing entirely unnoticed by Illian’s inhabitants. And now, as winter forced itself upon the land, there was no ignoring the lashing rain and skies of thunder that accompanied it.
Death itself was riding this storm…
The heavens hurled lightning across the freezing plains of The Ice Vales. With every blinding flash, ancient beasts, dragged from their eternal slumber, could be glimpsed in the sky. Their bat-like wings beat without need of rest, bringing their wretched riders ever closer.
Vighon Draqaro, the rightful king of Illian, yanked his sword from a Reaver’s head and looked on in dread. Three dragons. How could they stand against such might? The northman narrowed his eyes, searching through the rain for those terrible features that would spell their doom. There was no mistaking the dragon that led the trio.
Malliath the voiceless.
And, of course, wherever he went, he carried the self-proclaimed king of Verda. Had the world ever known anyone so dangerous as Alijah Galfrey?
From this distance, it was impossible to discern which two of the four Dragon Riders accompanied him. It didn’t really matter. Be it Lord Kraiden or any of the others, they would unleash an inferno upon the land and smother his men with flames.
For nearly ten months, Vighon had fought the good fight, leading The Rebellion into one skirmish after another. In all those battles, he had yet to witness anything worse than the all-consuming agony of dragon fire.
The sound of thundering hooves brought the northman back to the battlefield. His sword came up just in time to parry the swinging blade of a Reaver. Astride its horse, the knight from Erador continued on only to be brought down by the spear of a distant Namdhorian.
Foot soldiers quickly followed the charging rider, leaving Vighon no choice but to meet them with fury. How he longed for his flaming sword of silvyr in the fight. Still, he wielded northern steel - it did the job. One fiend after another fell to Vighon’s skill with a blade, their heads parted from their undead bodies.
But more were coming…
From within the high walls of Grey Stone, every Reaver under Alijah’s command was flooding the icy plains to meet the three thousand that had rallied to the true king of Illian. There was a chance, however slim, that they would defeat the Reavers and reclaim the city, but not before Malliath and the Dragon Riders arrived.
With only seconds to spare before clashing swords again, Vighon turned his sights to the east. He couldn’t see them, but he knew The Carpel Slopes were out there. The scattered ruins that sprawled across the base of those slopes were, perhaps, their only hope of surviving to fight another day.
“Mount up!” he bellowed. “Make for The Carpel Slopes! Make for the ruins!”
His momentary reprieve was over when a Reaver came at him, its sword pointed at his chest. Sir Ruban Dardaris collided with the creature, shield first, before driving his blade through its rotten skull.
“We are abandoning Grey Stone?” the captain questioned, capturing the reins of a nearby horse, bereft of its rider.
Vighon looked up at the sheer cliff face of the ancient city. Light poured out of the central cut in the stone, illuminating hundreds of Reavers marching out to meet them. The northman had hoped to rally his men left there, months earlier, and take the city itself in the process, but they had greatly underestimated the enemy’s numbers.
“We have the men,” Vighon lamented. “That will have to be victory enough.” He stole a glance at the approaching dragons, reminding himself that true victory was far from certain. “Mount up!” he reiterated.
The chaos outside Grey Stone’s main entrance slowly began to dissipate as the Namdhorian force made for the east. The reinforcement of Reavers, however, simply marched over the dead in their pursuit.
Athis the ironheart made them suffer for it.
The red dragon swooped low and exhaled a torrent of flames that gave the Namdhorians a real chance at escape. On the ground, Inara Galfrey swept her Vi’tari blade in rolling arcs, dispatching any Reaver lucky enough to have evaded the inferno.
“Inara!” Vighon yelled her name as he galloped past. The Dragorn sheathed her scimitar and snatched his waiting hand. Her envious strength and agility saw the half-elf easily ascend onto the back of the northman’s saddle.
“Come on!” Ruban shouted, ushering his king away from the relentless Reavers.
Vighon spurred his horse, taking them away from Grey Stone with all haste. The wind whipped through their hair and the rain stung as it lashed against their faces, but still they rode, and rode hard. Death was coming for them…
Inara leaned forward. “I can’t hold all three of them off!”
Vighon dared to look. Malliath and the Reaver dragons were now banking east, coming up behind them. Inara was right - she couldn’t hold them off. With that realisation, the last thread of hope he had been clinging to unravelled, setting him adrift into the darkness.
“Every campaign!” Vighon fumed. “If he knows I’m there, he rains all hell down on us!”
“Of course he does!” Inara replied. “Ther e’s no greater threat to him than your claim to the throne!”
“I’ve lost more men than I can count!”
Vighon could only claim one victory since The Rebellion first stood up to Alijah’s reign. Since then, the new king had targeted the northman specifically, rallying his Dragon Riders and thousands of Reavers to his position every time. To ride with Vighon Draqaro was to ride into fire and hell. Yet he never failed to be surrounded by willing soldiers who bragged of the honour in fighting beside him. But how many more could he lead into such an honourable death?
“We should split up!” Inara suggested. “I will lead a contingent to the south and take them over The Unmar - save as many as we can!”
Vighon didn’t like the idea of separating from her, and not just because she was the fabled Guardian of the Realm. They had grown closer over the last ten months - the only good thing to have come out of such dark times. Inara was also the reason he had survived Alijah’s brutal retaliations that saw too many others perish.
“Go!” he growled over his shoulder. “Be safe!” he added.
Inara’s arms squeezed a little tighter around his waist. “Be safe,” she echoed quietly in his ear.
Vighon didn’t even feel the Dragorn depart from his horse and, looking back, he couldn’t see her on the ground. Instead he looked up to see Athis gliding overhead, his wings momentarily sheltering the northman from the rain. Inara was scaling the dragon’s side, reminding Vighon that she was far from human.
Half of the force peeled off, following Athis to the south in an arcing wave of thundering hooves. Behind them, one of the dragons broke away from the trio and stalked the southern contingent. That still left Malliath and one Reaver dragon on Vighon’s tail - his and that of a thousand others. Beyond the pursuing dragons, the Reavers that had been stationed at Grey Stone were riding their undead mounts, now surplus to requirement.
Malliath swept low overhead as they reached the ruins of The Carpel Slopes. His devastating tail carved up the ground, dividing the last of the Namdhorians to arrive. Vighon was practically dragged from his horse by Sir Ruban and shoved under a broken arch and into the old ruins. He looked back to see at least three hundred men cut off from the shelter, their horses rearing in fear. The Reaver dragon came in behind Malliath and let loose a jet of fire, boxing the riders in.
It was happening just like last time. They were all going to die and there was nothing Vighon could do about it.
Ruban clapped one soldier on the back after another, urging them to spread out amongst the ruins. Some were commanded to take up defensive positions while others were ordered to find escape routes and potential hiding places.
Inevitably, the Reavers arrived to assist Alijah in herding the captured riders. Their horses were discarded and the men themselves were disarmed and rounded up into rows. None dared to fight back while Rengyr and his dragon mount, Karsak, were circling them on the ground. Unseen inside his armour, carrying his battle-axe, Rengyr could have passed as human, but Karsak was unmistakably dead, his scales and rotten flesh hanging in strips from his ravaged body - a victim of a war so old it was consigned to the most ancient of history books.
Then there was Malliath, a dragon whose life exemplified the very meaning of ancient. His black scales were slick in the rain as he stood beside Alijah, who had ascended a cluster of boulders to the side of the prisoners. His black and red cloak was sodden, but the wind still picked up the heavy material, casting it about behind him. The green Vi’tari blade remained sheathed on his hip, though it wasn’t known for staying there.
Vighon peered out through a jagged hole in the weathered stone. What a fool he had been. He should have waited for Doran and his Heavybelly warriors…
“I did this,” he muttered, catching Sir Ruban’s attention. “I actually thought we could take the city and liberate the men. It turns out we could do neither…”
“We couldn’t have known Alijah himself would come,” Sir Ruban replied. “Nor could we have known he would bring not one but two of his Riders.”
“But I should have known!” Vighon hissed, watching the Reavers spread out. “My very presence jeopardises every campaign. How many times has The Rebellion lost because Alijah redirected his forces to my position?” The northman paused and gestured to a group of Namdhorians to move further down the ruins and ready their bows. “It would actually be a viable tactic,” he continued, “if it didn’t cost us so many lives.”
Ruban adjusted the armoured collar around his neck. “The Rebellion can’t afford to use you as bait, your Grace. You’re too important.”
Vighon looked out on the men who had believed he was worth their fealty. “The Rebellion might not be able to afford to use me as bait, but they also can’t afford for me to lead either. I’ve doomed us all…”
“VIGHON DRAQARO!” Alijah’s voice boomed across the gap, enhanced by magic. “HAS IT DAWNED ON YOU YET? WHEREVER YOU GO, I WILL BE THERE TO CRUSH YOU! I WILL BLEED YOUR LITTLE REBELLION TO ITS LAST DROP! ANYONE WHO SIDES WITH YOU WILL BURN! AND, VIGHON, YOU WILL BEAR WITNESS TO IT ALL! YOU WILL WATCH THEM ALL DIE CLINGING TO YOUR BANNER!”
Alijah half turned to regard the captured prisoners, shuffling nervously on their feet. “I KNOW IN THE PAST, THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN THE MOMENT I SPOKE OF MERCY! I WOULD LEVERAGE THE LIVES OF THESE MEN AND SEE YOU ALL IN CHAINS RATHER THAN GRAVES! BUT YOUR RESISTANCE HAS PUSHED ME AGAIN AND AGAIN! NOW, IF ALL OF YOU STANDING BESIDE VIGHON DRAQARO COME FORWARD AND BEND THE KNEE, I CAN ONLY GRANT YOU A SWIFT AND PAINLESS DEATH, DELIVERED BY STEEL!”
Vighon pressed himself against the stone. “No…” He shuddered, fearing the worst.
Alijah faced the ruins once more. “STAND YOUR GROUND, HOWEVER, AND YOUR LOYALTY TO THE HOUSE OF DRAQARO WILL SEE YOU SUFFER THE SAME FATE AS THESE MEN…”
Malliath and Karsak turned on the prisoners and reminded them all why dragons were at the top of the food chain. From nothing there came fire, and it spread throughout the ranks of the captured Namdhorians, torching them alive. Their screams pushed through the rain to be carried on the wind, where they haunted the surviving rebels.
Vighon called out in protest and slammed the wall with his fist. The flames that burned their brothers-in-arms were reflected in every Namdhorian’s eyes, the northman’s included. Able to bear no more, Vighon turned around and rested his back against the wall. Looking at the men around him, he could see the fear that gripped their hearts, just as it did his own. He did not fear his own death, though, but rather theirs.
“You can keep your mercy, usurper!” one Namdhorian yelled from the ruins. The sentiment was echoed up and down The Carpel Slopes, swelling Vighon’s chest with pride.
Sir Ruban placed a hand on the northman’s shoulder. “We’re not just Namdhorians. We’re men of Illian and you are our king. We will fight with you. And we will die with you. That is our honour.”
