The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 22
Garrett grimaced. “It’s my job to doubt, your Grace. Keeps me young!” he jested.
General and king continued their conversation until the light had finally gone and the stars reigned supreme. After that, Garrett retired in search of a hot meal while Vighon remained rooted to the outcropping of stone. He just couldn’t seem to tear himself away, as if by sight alone he could remove the rebellion that stirred in the east.
“I’m beginning to wonder if you sleep at all.”
Vighon looked over his shoulder to see Alijah approaching from within the camp. His dark cloak rippled in the light breeze, revealing glimpses of a red interior. The two king’s guards whipped their heads around, caught out by the half-elf’s sudden appearance. Vighon gave them both a nod to relax, allowing the king of Erador to reach him on the outcropping.
“I could say the same of you,” the northman replied.
Alijah offered his casual yet disarming smile. “I don’t need as much sleep as I used to. Malliath lends me his strength and sees me through days at a time.”
“I could do with some of that,” Vighon remarked, turning back to the dark fields of Alborn. “I feel like the crown ages me years with each passing day.”
Alijah cast his blue eyes over Vighon’s head. “Is that why you don’t wear it?”
The king almost laughed to himself. “If only its absence would undo its work. I only wear it when I have to; ceremonies and such. I wasn’t born with one on my head and I don’t intend to live with one on my head. The way I see it; a king is made by his deeds, not his appearance.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Alijah said, folding his arms.
“What about you?” Vighon returned. “Don’t kings of Erador wear crowns?”
“They do,” the half-elf replied. “But it kept flying off my head,” he added with a look to the sky and an amused grin on his face.
Now Vighon laughed, picturing Alijah’s crown being carried away into the clouds, never to be seen again.
A serious veil shadowed Alijah’s face. “Don’t expect this insurrection to be dealt with in a day. Our presence should be enough to dissuade any violence, but if we are to rely on words to bring about peace, we should expect it to take time.”
That wasn’t what Vighon wanted to hear. He gestured for them to take a walk along the edge of the camp, hoping some exercise would help him to think. “My fear is the extent of the Archon’s schemes. I have to suspect Lord Carrington culpable. The mages must be using his resources to stretch their reach across the realm.”
Alijah strolled effortlessly beside him. “If it comes to light that the lord of Velia has been aiding your enemies, you have but to speak and he will face justice. Though, given the executions in Grey Stone, the people of The Ice Vales will expect you to deliver equal punishment to others who betray you.”
Vighon gripped the hilt of his sword. “I’ve never been so reluctant to draw my blade.”
Alijah chuckled. “I recall all too easily your appetite for a good fight. Do you remember that crypt we discovered in The Iron Valley? You deliberately chose a path that would take us through barbarian territory.”
Vighon recalled the event, though likely not with the same clarity as Alijah. “It had been weeks since I had cause to take a swing at anything. Besides, the barbarians love a good fight!” The two men shared a laugh before Vighon was drawn to the sword on Alijah’s belt. “I haven’t seen that since the day you left,” he commented.
Alijah let his hand casually fall onto the black hilt of his elven scimitar, though his lips remained sealed in response. Vighon struggled with the details, but he remembered Alijah’s mother, as well as Gideon Thorn, taking offence to his wielding of the blade. What he did recall was the scimitar’s colour - a rare steel of green.
“Have you had much cause to use it during your time as king of Erador?”
The half-elf looked off into the night. “There were occasions. But wielding a Vi’tari blade has many benefits; one being its understanding of your will. Where I could, I would disarm my opponents or maim them, sparing their lives.”
Vighon considered his flaming sword - anything but a swift death for his opponent was difficult at best. “You sound like a very good king,” he complimented.
Where once Alijah’s ego would have fed off such a comment, he now only shrugged with indifference. “Is that ever enough though? Gal Tion was said to be a very good king - for a time. So was Atilan,” he added with an incredulous tone. “The people deserve more than just very good. I’ve given it much thought over the years and realised it is impossible to be the greatest of kings… if you try it alone. That’s why our alliance is so important. Together, I truly believe we can make each other better kings.”
Vighon found himself smiling. “I would like that. You know, there are times when you sound just like the Alijah who used to flirt with barmaids and cheat at Galant. Then there are times when you speak with a passion I don’t recognise in you.”
“My passion for the people grows with every beat of my heart,” Alijah replied. “And I’m not averse to flirting with the occasional barmaid,” he continued in a lighter tone.
Vighon chuckled. “I bet! I saw you with Lady Gracen. You still work fast I see. You’d only known her a handful of hours.”
“Oh…” Alijah smiled. “Yes. The lady of Lirian simply wanted to show me her private collection of blades - she’s quite the sword fighter by all accounts.”
“I’m sure she is,” Vighon replied coyly. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed her private collection.” The king frowned as a thought occurred to him. “I thought your type didn’t mix with others?”
“That’s a Dragorn point of view,” Alijah explained, unaware that it shattered everything Vighon had been told by Inara. “I like to think of myself as a Dragon Rider,” he continued.
Whatever he said next was missed by Vighon. He was taken back fifteen years to a conversation with Inara, in which she had told him there could never be anything romantic, as he had desired, as it was impossible even, given the bond that existed between herself and Athis. Vighon wasn’t unaccustomed to rejection - he had spent more of his life not being a king - but this particular rejection stung the most, even years later.
“— you should come and see it,” Alijah said, his words finally breaking through to Vighon.
“See it?” the king repeated, somewhat lost.
“Drakanan.”
“Dra—kay-nan?” Vighon was unfamiliar with the word.
“Yes. The home of the ancient Dragon Riders. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen, beautiful really, if something of a tomb.”
“Perhaps one day,” he agreed, unable to see a day when he would be in a position to physically leave Illian. “We should establish ports on our respective coasts. Imagine that! The first to sail across The Hox…”
“That would be something,” Alijah admitted, the sound of defeat carrying his words. “The Leviathan that stalks those waters has been on my list of things to deal with for many years now. The problem is the water itself. Dragons can swim, but their effectiveness is diminished. Until it rears its ugly head, Malliath poses no threat to it.”
Vighon shook his head, still, after all these years, struggling to wrap his mind around the gigantic beasts of the pre-dawn. “I have a similar problem, though my Leviathan plagues the land instead of the sea,” he added.
Alijah lifted his head into the air, his eyes suggesting he was recalling the past. “Ah yes, the Cerbadon. It is still dead, I hope.”
“Very dead,” Vighon clarified. “I believe the realm has yourself to thank for that.”
“And Malliath,” Alijah was quick to point out. “Why is it still causing problems?”
“Due to its size, the damned thing is still lying on top of that island. We’ll never be able to move it, which means we’ll never be able to prevent the marrow extraction.”
Alijah turned to Vighon with real confusion. “Marrow extraction? What in all the hells is that?”
“Maybe ten years ago, some of the criminal organisations that survived Dragorn’s destruction made a discovery. Don’t ask me how or why, but they extracted some of the marrow from the Leviathan’s bones and experimented with ways of ingesting it. Apparently, the marrow has properties not found in any herb or magic known to man.”
Alijah raised a suspicious eyebrow. “What does it do?”
“In small doses it can make a person feel invincible, immune to pain even. Larger doses are damn right evil. I saw it myself a few years back. It can make a man feral, like a beast. They’re strong, fast, and hungry for anything.”
The king of Erador took it all in his stride. “And these criminal organisations? They still exist?”
“Unfortunately,” Vighon admitted. “They’ve proven even harder to root out than the orcs.”
Alijah patted the king’s shoulder. “One thing at a time. Let’s prevent civil war before we eradicate the gangs, eh?”
“You make everything sound so easy; it’s refreshing.”
A cocky grin, long missed by Vighon, spread across Alijah’s face. “That’s because everything is easy… for me.”
The king laughed again. “Is that why you always cheated at Galant?”
Alijah suppressed his own laugh and displayed a face of mock insult. “I never cheated at Galant…”
The two walked side by side around the camp, covering the distance twice before they returned to the warmth of a fire. Ruban and his drinks were welcomed by both men and the three sat together in front of the king’s tent. It reminded Vighon of old times and brought a smile to his face. Garrett, his meal eaten, also joined them by the fire, the lines of his face exaggerated by the flickering light.
The last to emerge from the dark of night was Inara, draped in her red cloak against the chill. She was welcomed by the others, but not the king. Vighon remained silent as she settled down beside Ruban, his eyes fixed on the flames. He had struggled to accept her reasoning for fifteen years - her feelings consumed by a love he could never understand. Now her reasoning was flawed, making her rejection of him a choice, a choice to prevent them both from being happy.
Since he was no longer in his youth, he did what any man from the north would do in this situation: quash it. He needed a distraction to help him ignore the lingering emotions long enough to bury them. A smaller, though more rational, voice whispered in his mind to confront her, hoping that some spark might be ignited between them and their mutual feelings finally be unleashed. But, also like any stubborn northman, he had long learned to replace hope with practicality. Theirs was a union to be doomed by their difference in lifespan.
To the distraction then. “Tell us something of Erador,” he spoke up, looking to Alijah. “Such a land must be filled with great stories.”
“Yes,” Ruban encouraged, “I would love to hear anything of Erador.”
“Just so long as it’s got a good fight in it,” Garrett added. “Lest I fall asleep.”
Alijah offered the general an amused smile. “Erador has seen more wars than Illian ever will.” The half-elf took a moment to consider his tale. “The Red Fields of Dunmar…” he began, apparently satisfied with his choice. “Now there was a battle worthy of note. It should be known, before these events, the land was simply known as Dunmar, a stretch of unremarkable plains. It was only after blood rained from the skies for three days that they changed the name…”
Now Garrett looked very interested. “Go on,” he said.
Indeed, Vighon was finding himself already drawn in. He had forgotten how good Alijah was at telling stories.
“In all their years, the Dragon Riders only once fell into civil war. Now, at that time, King Selaghan, third of his name, was seated on the throne of Erador. His reign would have gone entirely unnoticed by history were it not for Lord Kraiden, the leader of the Dragon Riders. Ashamed as the Riders were, there is little to explain why Kraiden tried to take the crown from Selaghan. Most accounts from the time speak of simple greed or frustration at how the realm was being ruled.
“What was recorded, and in far greater detail, was the schism Lord Kraiden caused within the order. Lya Galastos, another Rider, protested Kraiden’s declaration of war on the king and led an uprising against him. The Dragon Riders were split in half, each side opposing the ideals of the other. Before Lord Kraiden could take Valgala, the capital, Lya amassed her force and met the usurpers over the fields of Dunmar.”
Ruban paused before taking a sip from his cup. “Imagine that,” he said. “Dragons fighting dragons…”
“A spectacle I’m sure,” Inara replied dryly.
“For three days they battled,” Alijah continued. “For three days they fought in the heavens with fire, steel, and magic. Dragons and their Riders fell in their dozens, littering the plains with corpses. Now, thousands of years later, those same fields are an eden of wonder, with plants and flowers of every colour, never to fade or wilt.”
“What happened to Lord Kraiden?” Vighon enquired.
“Kraiden and his dragon, Morgorth, were among the few of the usurpers to survive. It is said, however, that by themselves they significantly reduced what remained of Lya’s numbers.”
“But he was defeated yes?” Ruban clarified. “This Lya Galastos - she killed him?”
Alijah took a breath. “That would lend the tale an epic ending, would it not? The hero beating the villain in a duel of fates. Alas, Lya Galastos was not the one to bring Lord Kraiden down, though she did survive the battle.”
“What became of him then?” Inara asked.
“Seeing that the fight was lost, a Rider under Kraiden’s command made a desperate bid to survive. By way of surrender, he stabbed Kraiden in the back…”
Garrett appeared satisfied. “Sounds to me like he had it coming.”
“A fascinating tale,” Ruban agreed.
“’tis but one,” Alijah confessed. “Erador’s history is long and wholly unbelievable in places.”
“Then we look forward to more,” Vighon said, rising to his feet. Ruban and Garrett made to stand with him out of respect but the king waved them away. “Stay a while, enjoy the night. I would rest.”
He glanced at Inara before leaving the firelight and was thankful to find his emotions were less turbulent. The king closed his eyes that night, dreaming of ancient dragon wars and adventures in a far-off land.
He was happy to have his brother back.
19
Never Trust a Fart
Keeping the northern face of Vengora to their left, Doran Heavybelly and Russell Maybury had finally reached The Iron Valley not two days past. Since taking the northerly path, into the land of Dhenaheim, they had spent most of that time avoiding the barbarians who claimed much of the valley as their territory.
It wasn’t going well.
They had awoken at dawn to find their foraging mounts had wandered farther than they could see - a fact that Russell blamed entirely on Pig. During their search, the duo had been forced to seek shelter as a band of barbarians had emerged from a narrow passage in the western block of mountains.
Their hiding place was discreet enough and the two companies should never have met. There was, however, an extra portion of beans to consider as, the previous night, Doran had insisted on consuming them.
The barbarians, hunters all, were highly attuned to their environment, taking to it like any animal. Catching the dwarf’s pungent scent had been inevitable, leading to a conclusion that was just as unavoidable: a lot of running.
“Pick your feet up, Heavybelly!”
Doran was struggling to ignore the burning in his lungs and decided to throw himself down the slope rather than spend precious energy trailing Russell down the path.
Hitting the snow-covered rock had not been part of the plan.
With a sore head and spiralling vision, Doran was yanked to his feet again by Russell’s meaty hands. Whatever the old wolf said next was drowned out by the howls and cheers of the pursuing barbarians, who had just reached the top of the slope. Most of them mimicked the son of Dorain and used the slope to shorten their hunt, only none of them collided with the rock.
“Can you see the horse?” Russell called over his shoulder, searching the icy desert for any sign of his cowardly mount.
“I’m not seein’ much o’ nothin’,” Doran complained, blinking as hard as he could to straighten out his vision. That was when a spear, twice the length of his own body, sailed past his ear.
Daring to steal a glance over his shoulder, the band of barbarians weren’t in short supply of spears and large cleavers. Covered in leathers and furs, they were a hard people to judge when it came to size and sheer muscle, but if they could throw a spear as far as they did, Doran had to assume they were as strong as man could be.
Of course, Doran had only ever known one barbarian - Bale, son of Hyil, from the Oakbreaker tribe - the Mother and Father rest his soul. If his hulking mass was anything to go by, neither of the old rangers would survive in a fight against a whole band of them.
Even with that argument in mind, the son of Dorain knew there was a very good reason his ancient kin had combined the skill of swinging large axes with their short legs: they weren’t made for running away.
“Down there!” Russell yelled, pointing to his horse close to the valley floor.
There was no sign of Pig, who had naturally run away after Russell’s horse had been spooked. Since his friend now had a way of surviving this mess, which Doran refused to admit was his fault, the dwarf saw no choice but to give the old wolf a chance.
“Try not to tense!” he warned.
“What?” Russell spat, a moment before Doran shoved him hard down the last slope, towards his horse.
Doran barely had time to spare a glance at his rolling friend before the next spear came hurtling his way. The dwarf, a warrior to his core, rolled under the spear and came up facing his enemies. The two-handed axe felt like a deadly extension of himself and he intended on sinking it into the gut of the first barbarian to challenge him.
