The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 13
Alijah didn’t appear quite as satisfied by his response but he was happy to move on. “So, we need not visit Lirian,” he surmised. “Obviously, the north needs no reminding of the banner they live under. I remember when you were crowned. The roar of the people… It must have carried all the way to The Undying Mountains.”
Vighon dwelled on that day, an eternity past. “That seems like a lifetime ago,” he mused. “Seeing you now, unchanged by time, I am convinced it truly was a lifetime ago. Look at me! It won’t be long before I forget what colour my hair was!”
Alijah took in his oldest of friends and smiled. “You look just as formidable as you did back then. A little grizzlier perhaps…”
The two shared a laugh, a moment that took Vighon back to the days when they would travel the land side by side in hunt of the next adventure. They had been good times.
“So,” Alijah announced, drawing them both back to the map. “Grey Stone is back under your control. The rest of The Ice Vales will fall into line behind it. That only leaves…”
Vighon followed Alijah’s gaze to the last province to be mentioned. “Alborn,” he concluded. “Palios, Barossh, Galosha… There is unrest in all, including Whistle Town.”
“The province has been infected,” Alijah stated. “But where is the source of the conspiracy?”
The king pointed to the largest city in the eastern province. “Velia. I was uncertain before, but the mage who attacked Athis has confirmed my suspicions; the source lies within Valatos.”
“And it lies within the city walls?” Alijah enquired.
“Very much so. It looks like a city inside a city now.”
Alijah chewed over the information. “And what of the lord in the east?”
“Lord Carrington of house Landor. There was a time when I would have counted him as a supporter, but I fear the mages of Valatos have corrupted him. My spies tell me he is in possession of maps with new borders on them, borders that would grant him a lot more land were they enforced.”
Alijah folded his arms. “Do you think they have corrupted him with magic?”
“It’s possible. Or they could simply have promised him a larger kingdom and a crown if he successfully dissociates from my banner. Greed can be just as powerful as any spell.”
“What of the mages themselves?”
“They arose from the ashes of Korkanath,” the king explained. “There was talk, years ago, that magic was on the rise due to the return of the dragons. The Archon, as they are now, came to me with a proposal for a new school, one where they could teach these magical people to use their abilities safely. It has grown considerably since then.”
Alijah tapped Velia on the map. “That is our destination. Root out this conspiracy. Bring the realm back under one banner. Unite all of Verda.”
Hearing it said like that made it all seem so simple, yet Vighon had lost more nights of sleep over the matter than he could count. “You’re right. I’m the king. That should still mean something.”
Alijah nodded in agreement. “What could possibly stand in our way?”
It was only minutes later that Vighon had left his tent and was issuing commands to his captains, ordering them to muster the soldiers. Two thousand were to remain in Grey Stone and ensure the transition of lords was a smooth process. Half of the force that remained would travel east, across Illian, to face this evil at the gates of Valatos, while the other half returned to Namdhor with the dead. Malliath and Alijah would easily make up for the difference in soldiers.
It felt right.
Then he saw Inara. The Dragorn was striding towards him as Athis took back to the skies in the distance. A pang of guilt struck the king: he should have consulted with her before giving his orders. Why? he asked himself for perhaps the first time. He was the king. He had still taken advice from a Dragon Rider, if not a Dragorn.
“I’m hearing orders to march east,” Inara said once Vighon was within earshot. “You’re going to Lirian?”
The king inhaled a long breath. “Actually, yes.”
Inara narrowed her eyes. “By way of Namdhor?” she pressed.
“You know I’m not returning home yet…”
Inara fell in beside him while he marched through the camp, his presence rousing for the men. “You’re taking half the army across the country again? Can you not see the—”
“I wish I was taking half of my army, Inara, but too many lives have been lost to say that. Do you know why so many lives have been lost? Because something wicked stirs in the east, an evil that demands my attention. Yours too.”
Inara stopped, forcing Vighon to turn back. “I am well aware of the lives that have been lost, your Grace. My duty, as Guardian of the Realm, is to ensure that we lose no more. Marching soldiers to the gates of a community who wield magic is a fine way to lose lives.”
Vighon took three purposeful strides towards her and lowered his voice. “That’s why you’re coming with me. We will get to the truth of all this.”
“My presence wasn’t enough to stop Thedomir from enacting his plan,” Inara pointed out. “Why should Velia or Valatos be different?”
Vighon was loath to give her the answer, but it was the only one he had. “I highly doubt the mages have forgotten about Malliath the voiceless.”
Inara looked shocked. “So you’re using them as a threat.”
“A deterrent,” the king corrected. “In the absence of violence, words will prevail. I thought that’s what you wanted.” Vighon didn’t wait around to hear Inara’s argument. He had made a decision and he wasn’t going back on it, not when so much hung in the balance.
With Sir Ruban and the guard trailing behind him, Vighon made his rounds, encouraging the men to pack down their gear and prepare to journey east. He made promises that those responsible for their brothers’ deaths would be brought to justice - something he believed himself.
He had to believe…
10
This is Going to Hurt
Dawn was upon The Evermoore and the trees stretched their branches, reaching for the new light that streaked through the canopy. It should have been the last moment of peace before the creatures of the forest roused from their slumber, but the clashing of steel had disturbed the night and carried on into the day.
Asher had been set upon by seven Arakesh of Nightfall, the best assassins in Illian. Clad in their traditional dark leathers and red blindfolds, the killers had given no warning but for the hunters they had slaughtered in the dead of night. They had been taunting the ranger, no doubt aware of his position at all times thanks to the elixir flowing through their veins.
As deadly as the seven were, Asher now only faced four of them.
The first two to die by his sword had made the fatal error of underestimating him, most likely due to his perceived age. The third, and latest to find his end between the trees of The Evermoore, had been used by Asher as a human shield and taken a mortal blow intended for the ranger.
The remaining four had yet to make a mistake that Asher could take advantage of. After the deaths of the first three, they had assumed a more cautious approach to their target, always circling him. With his silvyr blade still inside the head of his second victim, the ranger drew his two-handed broadsword, raised it to shoulder level, and pointed it at the nearest assassin.
“Who’s paying for my head?” he spat. “Give me an answer and I’ll make your end the swiftest.”
The closest assassin smiled, his eyes hidden behind his blindfold. Of course they would never divulge such information - he certainly wouldn’t have during his time as a servant of Nightfall. Instead, the Arakesh darted in, feigning a left attack before angling his twin blades from the right. Asher, however, had already detected the slightest of movements and knew the entire attack was a distraction.
The ranger dropped and rolled to the left, narrowly avoiding the blades from the assassin who had been flanking him. Deciding the odds needed shifting in his favour, Asher came up swinging, engaging one of the Arakesh who had been circling to the side. Their swords clashed, ringing out in every direction. Wielding the longer blade, the ranger was able to direct their fight, pushing the assassin towards his comrade.
The scenario was simple in Asher’s mind: drive them together and create chaos as their fighting patterns intersected. He knew from experience that the Arakesh were miserable when it came to fighting side by side, always trained to be individual killers. Whoever had paid for his head, however, knew better than to send just the one after him…
The ranger’s plan fell apart when a small dagger cut through the air and impaled his arm. He spared a yell for the pain but never stopped fighting - despite his sword’s weight in one hand. The Arakesh he had been driving back easily batted the broadsword away, sending it spinning into the grass and dirt. Asher had no choice but to barrel into the younger man and take them both to the ground.
The Arakesh took double punishment when his head bounced off the ground only to find Asher’s forehead smashing into his nose. Letting loose an ounce of feral rage now, Asher growled and pulled free the dagger lodged in his arm. The tip was driven straight into the boot of the approaching assassin, halting his inevitable attack.
Leaving the grounded assassin to his head wounds, the ranger shot up and drove his palm into the next Arakesh’s throat. He was forced back at such speed that his boot came up with the dagger still piercing his foot. Killing him now was a simple matter of snapping his neck, but there were still two unharmed assassins leaping in to claim their target. Instead of breaking his neck, Asher planted a boot in the chest of the man who could barely breath and launched him into a tree.
There was only half a second to react to the incoming short-swords behind him now. Asher lifted one leg, ducked his head, and shifted his shoulders to evade three edges of steel. That left one sword he couldn’t avoid and it went straight into his leg, biting through the muscle of his thigh. The ranger was instantly dropped to one knee, though the cry on his lips was immediately stolen by a second blade plunging into his shoulder, piercing his armour and cloak.
Believing they had won, the two assassins pulled free their weapons and backed off to take in the sight of him. Asher couldn’t help but fall to his hands and knees, which became a struggle with an injured leg and shoulder.
“This is it?” the dark-haired assassin remarked with dissatisfaction. “For all my years of training, hardly a day would go by that we didn’t hear about the fearsome Asher.”
The blonde Arakesh beside him tilted her head in Asher’s direction. “Are we sure this is him? He’s too young.”
“It’s him,” the other replied confidently. “You’re supposed to be a legend.”
The blonde assassin smiled wickedly. “A legend is exactly what he’ll be in a few minutes.”
Now they were making mistakes. They should have cut his throat the moment he fell to all fours. The ranger, on the other hand, was still playing out the various scenarios in his head, each one ending with their blood on his hands. That was just how his mind worked…
With a smile pushing at his cheeks, Asher said, “At least you had the sense to bring numbers…”
The female assassin approached with a sneer. “What was that, hero?” she mocked.
Asher’s reply came in the form of a rock to the side of her leg. Using his good arm, he hammered the rock with enough force to shatter the knee, snapping it to the side, and bringing her down to his level. Her scream of pain was cut short when the ranger grabbed her wrist and shoved one of the blades into her heart.
The dark-haired assassin hesitated, succumbing to shock. It was all the time Asher needed to remove the hidden dagger from the back of his boot and throw it underarm into his groin - he had been aiming for his throat. Still, the Arakesh stumbled backwards with a length of steel jammed in a place no one wanted a length of steel. The assassin fell back and over his guild brother who was still nursing his head wounds, only to acquire one himself upon hitting the stump of a tree.
The ranger groaned as he forced himself back onto his feet. “You clearly… don’t know… who you’re dealing with…”
Asher limped towards the Arakesh, each step sending shooting pains through his leg and hip. He grabbed the fallen assassin roughly by the quiver on his back and pushed him down until his face was pressed against the dirt.
“Who sent you?” he demanded, snatching the blindfold from his eyes.
The assassin turned his head as much as he could. “You should know when you’re dead,” he hissed, his eyes flitting to the side.
More mistakes.
The ranger detached the folded bow from his victim’s back and snapped it open with a quick tug. Raising the bow over his head, he blocked the incoming strike using one of the extended limbs, preventing his flanking foe from gaining victory. A twist of the bow disarmed his silent attacker, allowing Asher to spin around on the ball of his foot without the fear of a deadly counterattack. At such close range, there was no opportunity to use the bow as designed, but that didn’t stop him from using one of the arrows in his quiver. He plunged the bolt into the Arakesh’s eye, through his blindfold, until it was deep enough to ensure his death.
Asher would have marvelled at the bow he had long missed but, instead, he collapsed it with another quick tug and hooked it onto his own quiver. He then turned his attention back to the dark-haired Arakesh who had been stupid enough to open his mouth in the first place.
Falling upon him - for anything else would have taken more effort and finesse than he could handle - Asher pinned him to the ground. Judging by his pained expression, the transition was hard on the assassin’s eyes, betraying his inexperience. Asher slipped the curved dagger from his belt and rested it against the Arakesh’s throat, the touch of the steel enough to overcome the pain in his eyes.
“Who put a mark on my head?” As the last word left his mouth, Asher could feel his senses drifting away with the blood trickling out of his wounds.
“We but obey the will of the—”
The ranger took a handful of the killer’s hair and slammed his head into the hard ground. “Who put a mark on my head?” he growled.
Off to the side, the assassin sporting two head injuries finally managed to stand on both feet. His dark armour was smothered with mud and splattered with blood from his broken nose. It was the short-sword in his hand, however, that stole Asher’s immediate attention.
“Wait here,” he commanded before rising back to his feet. His right arm was practically numb now, preventing him from doing anything but hold onto the red blindfold still clutched between his cold fingers.
The assassin caught wind of the ranger’s approach and spun around with his blade angled to cut across Asher’s face, but he half ducked, half staggered under the short-sword and came up with his dagger. It plunged into the Arakesh’s ribs once, then twice before the pair fell over and rolled over an awkward rise in the ground.
The assassin groaned, though the sound was gargled by the blood frothing in his lungs. Trained to see things through, Asher climbed over the killer’s body and drove his dagger down into the man’s heart. The armour was tough, forcing the ranger to slam the hilt with the weight of his chest and hammer it home.
He was exhausted, bleeding out, and in the kind of pain that even his training struggled to deal with. Then, it got worse.
Asher was torn off the dead assassin and pulled back by a hand wrapped around his jaw. With nowhere to look but up, the ranger was met by the bloodied face of the dark-haired assassin. Gone was the stony composure typical of an Arakesh, replaced now with rage and hatred. It was the kind of emotional outburst that Asher could have used to his advantage but, then again, a fresh blade had just been rammed into the side of his chest.
A short gasp escaped the ranger’s dry lips. Fatigued as he might be, the old assassin knew a mortal wound when he saw it or, in this case, felt it. At last, he thought, his past had finally caught up with him. In the years since his exile from Nightfall, Asher had always known, deep down, that he would meet his end by the blade of an Arakesh…
He also knew that whoever delivered that final blow would go to hell with him. Asher took what breath he could, gritted his teeth, and threw his arms up with the red blindfold scrunched at each end. The fabric looped over the Arakesh’s neck before dragging his head down into the ranger’s. It hurt, to say the least, but their collision hurt them both and, combined with the assassin’s wounded groin, he crumpled to his knees behind Asher.
A swift elbow to the eyebrow dropped the killer flat to the ground, where he was at the mercy of Asher’s weight. The ranger yanked the knife from the side of his chest and clambered over his foe’s fallen form with deadly intent. With what was left of their strength, one pushed down with the dagger and the other pushed up, keeping the tip of the steel only an inch from the Arakesh’s throat.
Death was coming for one of them and Asher could sense it. The dark claws of fate had finally won out against his stubbornness to die and stay dead. The ranger could do nothing but accept that and make sure death came for them both instead.
The assassin relented one of his hands in the resistance and thumped Asher over the new wound in his ribs again and again. Every blow stung deep inside and he growled with the impacts. In the end, the ranger had no choice but to let all of his weight drop onto the end of the dagger and drive it into his enemy’s throat.
Death claimed its next victim.
Asher rolled off the corpse and waited for the same fate. He was bleeding from his arm, shoulder, leg, and a particularly wicked wound to the side of his chest. That didn’t take into account the bruises, broken ribs, and gashes he had acquired. It was also possible he had fractured his skull if the blinding pain in his head was anything to go by.
At the end of his very long journey, Asher should have dwelled on his life and the accomplishments he had managed to attain in spite of his earlier career. After all, he had played his part in saving the world a couple of times. But his mind would never cease. Instead, he thought about the circumstances of his death. Who had hired the assassins of Nightfall to murder him? They had long given up their hunt for him - he had died once already since his exile. Who wanted him dead so much that they would get involved with the Arakesh?
