The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 12
Trying not to dwell on the fact that he was past his prime years, Kassian remained against the wall and studied the pair. Reyna was undoubtedly faster, her movements so sharp they often made her husband appear to be moving purposefully slowly.
That wasn’t to say that Nathaniel was a poor swordsman. With an experienced mind and a young body, he was technically skilled and even inspiring in the way he was able to blend so many different fighting forms. Though he moved slower, he moved with more purpose, his strikes and footwork deliberately manipulating his wife to constantly reposition her. He also seemed to always know where to find her, though that was likely from decades of sparring with her.
Inevitably, his human stamina failed to stand up to that of an elf’s. Worn down, Nathaniel ended the fight on one knee with his wife’s scimitar pressed against his neck. Reyna didn’t even look tired.
There was a brief pause before they took up their positions again and started the fight anew. After a few strikes, they began talking to each other between blows, only Kassian couldn’t understand a word of it. He focused on their pronunciations and individual words and came to the conclusion that they were speaking in Reyna’s native tongue.
This troubled him from a security perspective. He had no idea what they were talking about, but Valatos was repeated several times. Instinctively, he reached for the translation spinner in his pocket, but he would have to spin it on the floor since there were no raised surfaces inside the empty hall. Deciding that was too obvious, Kassian resigned himself to his suspicions and paranoia instead.
When Nathaniel’s chest was heaving and sweat was dripping down his brow, he finally relented and held up his hand to stop their sparring. Reyna had a touch of fatigue about her now, but she looked ready for the next opponent.
“Kassian,” she called. “Would you care to spar?”
The Keeper hesitated. He wondered exactly what the rules were when it came to sparring with guests. Then again, he had been encouraged not to decline the ambassadors anything they might want. And, of course, there was the opportunity to engage an elf in combat; no Keeper could boast of such a thing.
“It would be an honour, Ambassador,” he exaggerated.
Most would relieve themselves of their cloak or coat before entering a sparring match but, for Kassian, his coat was part of his form, not to mention a weapon itself. He did, however, shift the bulk of it on his right side to rest behind the holster around his thigh. He had logged more practice hours than he could recall when it came to drawing his wand at speed.
Seeing as his opponent wielded a sword - and he wanted to be gracious - the Keeper freed his own blade. Of a mind to show off, Kassian dragged his sword across the top of his left vambrace, sparking the magic that bound the armour to the blade. The spell took effect with a blinding show of magic.
“Impressive,” Reyna commented, observing the white-hot glow of Kassian’s sword. “Perhaps we should continue with steel alone…”
Kassian bowed his head and tapped the blade against the same vambrace. The brilliant white glow died away, leaving wavy lines of heat in the air - given enough time and pressure it would have cut through the steel of any man’s sword.
Reyna stepped forward and stopped, her form one of exquisite discipline. Kassian didn’t have her patience and he lunged. The elf was cunning, her blade rising to meet his strike before she moved aside with uncanny speed. The Keeper, fearing a swift counterstrike, dropped into a roll and came up with a defensive posture. Reyna was upon him in a blink of steel and precision, her scimitar weaving in at every angle. It was only when her boot found his chest that Kassian realised he had been manipulated.
The kick hurt, but the landing hurt even more when his pride caught up with him. Against his training, Kassian allowed a little of his anger to dictate his next attack. The Keeper flicked his sword up, forcing Reyna back a step, and followed up with a leaping downward strike. It was a foolish thing to do, given the clarity of his actions, and the ambassador reacted as anyone would - another boot to the chest.
Kassian skidded across the floor until he rolled back and came up in a crouch. A deep breath and a stern word to himself later, and the Keeper was ready to bring his foe down with his greatest weapon. He had always wanted to test the magic of an elf…
Reyna darted forward with her scimitar in both hands. She could come at him from any angle, her approach too vague to discern. It didn’t matter; the elf would never touch him. Kassian’s right hand flickered over his holster and came up with his wand pointed directly at Reyna. In the second that existed before he discharged his spell, the Keeper witnessed a look of fear break across her face. The elf tried to stop her own momentum and her attack melted away, but it all happened as the spell formed in Kassian’s mind.
The magic flowed through him, safely harnessed by the Demetrium in his wand, and exploded from the tip with a blue flash. The spell caught Reyna in the chest and flung her backwards at some speed, taking her feet from the floor.
“Reyna!” Nathaniel shouted.
The Keeper had expected the elf to raise a shield using her superior reflexes. As she hit the floor on the other side of the hall, however, a sharp jolt of guilt and shame ran through him. Regardless of his emotions towards the Galfreys, he should never have raised his wand in a sword fight.
Thankfully, Reyna was already sitting up and rubbing her chest by the time her husband made it to her side. Kassian holstered his wand and dashed across the hall with a string of apologies on his lips.
“It’s fine,” Reyna reassured. “I’m alright. Just caught me by surprise…”
“My deepest apologies—”
Nathaniel’s head snapped up at him. “Stay your words, Keeper. Something you might apply to your wand.”
Kassian had more to say but he could see his part was only one of offence. Quite awkwardly, the Keeper stepped back, unable to decide on his next course of action.
“Leave us,” Nathaniel fumed. “We know our own way back.”
Again, Kassian had more to say in response to that - chiefly his responsibility to stay at their side - but his guilt weighed all the more seeing Reyna struggle to breathe deeply. With the bow of his head, the Keeper sheathed his sword and made to leave.
9
Kings of East and West
It was another bleak morning in The Ice Vales. Besides the cold and treacherous landscape, the Namdhorian camp was decorated with the bodies of sons and husbands who would never see home.
Vighon gripped the sword of the north in one hand, moments away from adding to that number. Though they hadn’t hailed from the north, the three governors who presided over The Ices Vales would never return to their towns or families.
Brought before the ravine-like entrance of Grey Stone, the traitors had been forced to their knees and their wrists bound behind their backs. A crowd had gathered in the gap between the towering walls and still more packed out the bridges above and lined the zig-zagging stairs.
“I take no pleasure in this!” Vighon announced. “However, the governors of these lands have schemed against the realm, spreading discord and seeds of rebellion! Most of you here remember The Ash War! I, myself, fought in the shadow of this great city to see it defended against the orcs! We cannot have another war! There can be no more needless death!” The king looked down at the governors. “Do you have any last words?”
“Please!” Governor Tarwun of Snowfell pleaded, tears streaming down his narrow face. “We only did as Lord Thedomir demanded! We knew nothing of an ambush!”
“Ignorant or not,” Vighon replied, “you pledged allegiance to another banner! I cannot have governors running my provinces if they are ruled by greed and tempted by power! We are to be servants to the realm and the people, the same people you would have suffer a war so that you might claim more land and wealth…” The sword of the north came up, its steel alight with righteous flames.
“Please, your Grace!” Governor Palkor sobbed. “I have a family waiting for me in Kelp Town!”
Vighon glanced at the expectant crowd and struggled to gauge their reaction. He reckoned there were some who wished to see the governors lose their heads for such deceit, but he could also see more than a few sympathetic expressions.
Looking over his shoulder, Inara and Alijah stood stoically in the snow beside General Garrett. Alijah gave him a nod, a signal of both approval and encouragement. As a fellow king, his old friend understood the importance of keeping the peace, even if it left a permanent mark on his soul.
Vighon looked back at Governor Palkor. “Do you see the bodies behind me? They all had families! Some of them had families in these very walls! How many men of Grey Stone lost their life fighting for your treachery, Governor?”
There were calls from the crowd from people who had lost their husband or father to Malliath’s fiery breath. Vighon could only hope they directed their ire at those who were truly responsible for so much death.
“And you, Governor Viedt?” Vighon asked the oldest of the governors, kneeling at the other end. “Do you have any final words before you meet the King’s Justice?”
“I see no king!” he yelled back. “My father never bowed to any king from the north and neither did his father!” Governor Viedt spat at Vighon’s feet.
The king clenched his jaw. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this. Hours earlier, he had offered the governors exile for information on the ones who had planted this rebellion in Thedomir’s mind. All three claimed to know nothing beyond seeing the mage Athis had killed outside The Black Fort. Her name and reason for being in The Ice Vales escaped them.
Vighon took a deep breath. “Then I, Vighon of house Draqaro, King of Illian, and Steward of Namdhor sentence you all to death for crimes against the realm!”
The governors were pushed down by a soldier each, their heads pressed against a log. The sword of the north came down across Governor Tarwun’s neck and sank into the wood beneath. His head rolled forward with flames licking at the ragged skin and hair. The crowd was silent.
Governor Palkor continued to sob until Vighon removed his head with one clean cut. His head rolled into the snow beside Tarwun’s.
“This won’t change a damn thing…” Governor Viedt muttered.
“It will for you,” Vighon whispered back. Then his silvyr sword separated the old man’s head from his body, bringing an end to the bloody deed.
The sword of the north had never felt heavier…
Half a day later, Vighon was clapping General Garrett on the shoulder. “Good man,” he praised. “See to the details and make sure the people know the king’s word still comes from The Black Fort.”
The king watched Garrett walk away knowing the old warrior had everything in hand. He had already found a suitable, if temporary, replacement for the stewardship of Grey Stone. Now the general just had to install him and see to the orders that would be sent to Snowfell, Bleak, and Kelp Town.
“This mess is far from over,” Vighon remarked in Sir Ruban’s direction. “But at least we’re done with the bloodshed.”
“Very good, your Grace. We will be returning to Namdhor?”
Vighon caught sight of Alijah walking towards his tent. “Likely not,” he replied, motioning for his old friend to join him. “We’re not to be disturbed,” he told Ruban.
“What of the Guardian, your Grace?”
Vighon hesitated. “You couldn’t stop her if you wanted to…”
A moment later, Vighon was offering Alijah a drink in the privacy of his tent. It was such a common thing to do, but considering the time that had passed between them, the king could scarcely believe he was reunited with the half-elf.
“It’s never easy, is it?” Alijah remarked, looking at the sword of the north on Vighon’s hip. “The life of a king isn’t one of banquets and balls. Your every word carries weight. And your sword must bring justice wherever it goes.”
Vighon gripped the hilt of his blade and thumbed the lion head that served as a pommel. “It’s a life I could never have dreamt of having. It’s also a life I couldn’t even have had nightmares about…”
Alijah looked to agree with the statement. “Taking the lives of three men, even three traitors, should always haunt you. It’s how you know you’re still a good king. A good man.”
Vighon shook his head in disbelief. “The mere fact that you and I, of all people, are both kings gives me reason to wonder if this isn’t all a dream. For all I know, I’m still unconscious inside Paldora’s Fall.”
“The future has a strange way of unravelling,” Alijah commented.
“After you left,” Vighon began, “I would look out over The King’s Lake every day, scouring the peaks of Vengora in search of you.”
The half-elf smiled. “How long before you gave up?”
The king matched his friend’s warm smile. “I never did…”
Alijah laughed into his drink. “Liar.”
Vighon shrugged. “I might have stopped looking for you, but not a day went by that I didn’t set my gaze to those mountains… I just forgot what I was looking for.”
Alijah set his goblet down and walked around the western edge of the map. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long,” he said, pressing his finger into the table where Erador would have been, if such a map existed in Illian. “I’ve had a lot to do. There are just as many people in Erador as there are here, Vighon. All of them in need of guidance, protection, stability. It’s a country that’s seen war in all its forms, going back more years than you can fathom.”
Vighon raised his cup to Alijah. “Then thank the fates you found them. I hope, in turn, that your time among the Eradorans has given you all that you needed. Malliath too…”
The king watched his old friend closely, looking for any sign that he might be hiding something. Alijah, however, was an open book.
“True enough,” he replied. “Malliath and I needed to heal after… well, everything. I wouldn’t be so bold as to claim we are entirely whole, but our bond has never been stronger. Over the years, we’ve both found that having a purpose has brought us together better than simply wandering the skies of Verda.”
“And your purpose now?” Vighon asked as lightly as he could.
“Unity,” Alijah declared. “I know there was a time when you all feared my destiny, as laid out by The Crow, but I’ve come to see that he was right.”
Vighon offered an expression of interest as he placed his cup on the table, freeing both of his hands. “We never feared your destiny,” he countered. “You’re Alijah Galfrey! You were always going to do something worthy of history’s note. We feared what lies The Crow put in your head - that he might twist your fate.”
Alijah swallowed and tapped the table. “He never lied,” he said quietly. “He just didn’t tell all the truth,” he continued with a more pleasant tone. “He was right: I was to be king, and a good king. With Malliath’s guidance I have brought Erador under one banner and given them the same purpose that drives me.”
“Unity,” Vighon concluded.
“Exactly!” Alijah flashed a familiar smile that Vighon had long missed. “The Crow said I was to bring the world together in a way that had never been done before. That’s why I’m here. You and I, Vighon, have the power to deliver peace to the people of both our realms.”
“If only it were so simple,” the king lamented.
“But it is,” Alijah stated boldly. “Erador isn’t perfect, but peace now exists where there once was only war. With my help, Illian can know that same peace. We just have to rid it of rebellion first,” he added with a more serious tone.
Vighon eyed the king of Erador. “You have a plan, then?”
Alijah turned his attention back to the map. “I told you about my travels in Erador, journeying beside the king from one region to the next. This was necessary due to the level of corruption and dissidence that had been allowed to spread in the absence of strong leadership.” The half-elf looked up at Vighon. “That is not the case in Illian. You are a capable and worthy king. Those that have risen to challenge you have done so from a place of malice and evil intent.”
The king was pleased to hear such words. “You don’t think we will have to visit the other provinces?”
Again, Alijah walked around the map until he could reach out and touch The Arid Lands, the southern province of Illian. “There is unrest in Tregaran, but it doesn’t stem from a place of rebellion.”
Vighon agreed. “A faction has emerged devoted to their ancient ways. They want slavery to return…”
“Barbaric,” Alijah sneered. “It certainly requires your attention, but their troubles go no farther than The Arid Lands. Do you trust the lord to keep their struggles contained for now?”
“I do,” Vighon replied confidently. “Lord Hasta Hash-Aseem has long been a trusted friend. I know he wishes to put an end to this talk of slavery as much as I do.”
“Then we shall leave Lord Hasta to his work… for now. We must concern ourselves with those who target your reign. What of Lirian? I noticed that a number of your men here are from Felgarn.”
“The entire province has done nothing but support me,” Vighon testified. “From Lirian, Lady Gracen offers her aid in every way.”
Alijah responded with a coy smile. “In every way?”
Vighon couldn’t help but laugh a little. “I doubt Lady Gracen is truly interested in being my wife. I suspect her feelings towards me are insisted upon by her advisors and governors.”
Alijah pulled up his bottom lip. “Is she beautiful? Gracen doesn’t exactly sound like the name of an old hag.”
Vighon considered the lady’s beauty, as he had with so many women over the years, and found none of them compared to Inara. He wasn’t about to say that to her brother though…
“She’s ambitious is what she is,” the king decided on. “The people of Felgarn were happy enough for her to replace her father and, since then, she has proven herself quite the leader and most certainly my supporter.”
