The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 28
According to King Uthrad of Silvyr Hall, only himself and King Gaerhard of the Brightbeards had survived the invasion. King Torgan of the Hammerkegs was dead, along with King Thole of the Goldhorns. King Gandalir and the Stormshields had been wiped out from their youngest to their oldest. It was impossible for Vighon to comprehend the magnitude of that statement. Hundreds of thousands of dwarves had been slaughtered and apparently in as little time as six months.
There had been no mention at all of the Heavybellys…
The report went on, adding to the weight pressing down on Vighon’s shoulders. According to King Uthrad, this enemy was moving ever eastward, towards The Iron Valley and into Illian.
What in all the hells was coming for them?
There was one person who was going to discover the truth of that question and he had practically ordered her to go. Right now, as he resided on a throne, Inara was flying towards these invaders on her own. What had he done?
“Your Grace?” Lord Carrington’s voice finally broke through to the king.
Vighon looked up from the parchment in a daze, as if he was only just beginning to wonder what he was doing there. His fist gripped the hilt of the sword of the north. Even without drawing it from the scabbard, the blade felt heavy. He knew this couldn’t be the case since silvyr was notoriously light. But, to the king, it was heavy…
It reminded him of the oaths he had taken, to the people, to the realm… to himself.
“An opportunity has arisen for you to prove your loyalty, Lord Carrington.” The king stood up and descended from the podium. “Rally your bannermen at once and have them march to the mouth of The Iron Valley.”
Lord Carrington’s face went through a multitude of expressions before landing on confused. “Your Grace?”
Vighon held up the parchment. “Dhenaheim has been invaded and Illian is to follow.” There were clearly more questions waiting on the end of the lord’s lips, but the king continued, “We will meet this threat as a unified country. Every man fighting under one banner is easily our greatest advantage.”
Lord Carrington stumbled over his words. “Invaded, your Grace? By who?”
Vighon didn’t answer straight away, curious as to why the Archon showed no similar distress. “We don’t know,” the king admitted. “But they have bested the dwarves and driven them into our lands. Send word ahead to Palios: inform them we will be passing through and any soldiers there are to join me. Have Galosha and Barossh send as many as they can and meet us in the north.”
The lord of Velia cleared his throat. “At once, your Grace.”
“General, choose a small company of your best to travel with us. Inform the rest that they are to stay in Velia until my return.”
The general appeared conflicted. “Your Grace?”
“I want men here that I can trust,” Vighon explained.
“What of our force in the north?” the general questioned.
The king turned to Lord Carrington. “Send word to Grey Stone and have the soldiers there return home at once. Send a similar message to Lady Gracen of Lirian - I want every man she can spare.”
The lord bowed his head and left the chamber, soon followed by General Garrett. Vighon crossed the open space to stand before the seven mages of the Archon. All of them remained silent, their masks reflecting the king’s derisive expression.
“My business in this city is far from concluded,” he told them. “I will return and I will root out any who seek to harm this kingdom. In my absence, it is in your interest to find those who conspire and have them turned over to the custody of my men upon my next arrival.” The king nodded at Alijah and the pair made their leave.
One of the masters, however, called out, halting their exit. “It would be easy to find the culprits, if there are any, were we able to use more powerful magic. If we could consult the books you confiscated from Korkanath, your Grace, we might even deal with this conspiracy ourselves…”
“You have all the magic you need, Master. The books of which you speak can help no one - I told you that many years ago.” Vighon didn’t wait around for a reply; he had a journey to begin.
Everything felt rushed after that, but at least they were moving forward. Every second that passed was a second this new enemy drew closer to Illian and Inara flew into danger. Sir Ruban and the king’s guard surrounded him as they made their way through the streets - Vighon was already thinking about reaching The Selk Road and removing his crown.
General Garrett had the men forming up outside the city, preparing to ride and march north. It would be another day before Lord Carrington’s own forces were ready to join them on the road. Vighon had decided that was time Illian didn’t have.
Passing by the dark walls of Valatos filled the king with an urgent sense of anxiety that he had to fight to keep down. The issues surrounding the mages and their conspiracy to fracture the kingdom would have to be left unresolved - a guaranteed thorn in Vighon’s side that would pain him every day.
Seeing Alijah by his side, it felt natural to voice his thoughts, just as he had done when they were younger men. “Am I doing the right thing?” he asked, his eyes scaling Valatos’s high walls.
“You are king,” Alijah pointed out. “It is your duty to prioritise the needs of the realm. I would say an invading force is more worthy of your attention, though the separatists here will need seeing to.”
“Has Erador ever faced a threat of this magnitude before?”
“You mean a threat from inside and outside?” Alijah shook his head. “It’s endured its fair share of wars, but never with a foreign invader. And given what’s happened to the dwarves, we have to assume these invaders pose a greater threat than the orcs ever did.”
Vighon didn’t even want to imagine such a foe. “I shouldn’t have sent Inara…”
“You didn’t,” Alijah said firmly. “From memory, no one has ever told Inara what to do.”
“She’s alone up there,” Vighon continued, his concern spiralling. “By the time we reach the north she will have already faced the enemy.”
The half-elf turned to look at his old friend. “I will go,” he insisted. “I will fly north, ahead of you. Malliath is faster than Athis; we might even reach her before she crosses Vengora.”
Since they were abandoning their investigation into Valatos, the king could think of no reason they would need Malliath’s might on the road. “I cannot ask you to do that,” Vighon replied as they passed through Velia’s main gates. “You are the king of Erador; you shouldn’t be fighting our battles and I wouldn’t risk another kingdom losing their ruler.”
Alijah flashed his signature smile. “You can neither ask me nor command me, good king. I go as a brother seeking his sister.”
Vighon stopped before reaching his horse and turned to his oldest friend. “Then I would pray that you make all haste. Make sure she doesn’t do anything too… rash.”
Alijah tilted his head. “Upon our safe return, and there will be such a thing, I urge you to finally act on these feelings. I have a feeling they will be reciprocated this time.”
Vighon frowned, imitating confusion. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Alijah’s smile broadened as he parted from the king. “I mean act while you’re still young enough to do so.” The half-elf spun on his heel and walked backwards. “You old fool!” he added in jest. At that moment, Malliath’s majestic form dropped out of the sky and landed in the field beside the road.
Vighon mounted his horse, an entirely different animal, and watched in awe as the black dragon leaped back into the sky. His awesome wings flapped hard and blew the king’s dark hair over his shoulders. Fate was truly smiling on him to have delivered such a powerful ally in this time of great need. More than that, however, it was good to have his friend back.
24
Marked by the Past
Asher’s oldest memories washed over him, taking him back to his years under Nightfall’s shadow. He stood motionless in the forest, face to face with his foe. To be looked upon but never seen was the way of the Arakesh.
The soldier from Lirian moved his torch left and right, his eyes searching the darkness. It felt entirely foreign to Asher to be caught in that firelight and remain hidden, a product of the Drakes’ magic.
Seeing nothing, the man continued his search for the ranger. He was accompanied by three others, all of which passed by without concern. They were followed by more groups, all equally fooled by the mirage of the Drakes’ making.
Like the soldiers of Lirian, Asher was in company. Along with Adan’Karth, dozens of Drakes had volunteered to man the boundary and keep watch for any stray soldiers who might discover a weak point in the barrier. Since being attacked at the hunters’ camp, The Evermoore had been flooded with more soldiers, all sent on the orders of Lady Gracen.
They were all hunting Asher.
There had been several times the ranger believed the moment was upon him to make his leave and find his way back to Lirian. Every time, Adan’Karth had held him back, pointing into the depths of the dark forest. It might have been moments or minutes later, but more soldiers always emerged from the place the Drake had pointed to. Trusting their eyes, Asher remained by their side… for now.
As the night stretched on, the ranger only became more agitated with his lack of action. His days of waiting patiently for targets to be in the right place at the right time were long behind him now. He wanted to be moving. He wanted to be pressing Lady Gracen for answers. It had been a long time since anyone wanted him dead, but to go to the extent of hiring assassins of Nightfall spoke of more than wanting. The lady of Lirian needed him dead.
Putting the ranger’s skills to shame, the Drakes moved about the forest unheard. After more hours of waiting for his opportunity, Asher came to realise he was seated on a log with Adan’Karth alone. Bare chested, the young Drake appeared more in tune with the animal world than any other. A closer inspection showed that his right horn had a deep chip in the middle - the mark of a sword. It was so easy to forget that he and his entire species had lived many years as orcs.
“What will you do when you reach Lirian?” Adan’Karth asked quietly.
Asher considered his reply carefully, aware that the Drakes might attempt to foil him should they learn of the violence he had in mind. “I’m going to talk to Lady Gracen,” he said simply.
Adan’Karth turned to look at the ranger. “You will hurt her?”
“Often the threat of harm is enough to yield answers.” Asher knew his statement to be true, even if it didn’t entirely answer the Drake’s question.
“You are sure the lady is behind this hunt? That she sent the assassins?”
Asher produced the parchment bearing her sigil. “I don’t know for certain that she paid for the assassins, but I know she sent those hunters to bait me.”
“This proves it?” Adan’Karth scrutinised the parchment.
Asher pointed to the mark at the bottom. “That sigil belongs to her family.”
The Drake manipulated the parchment to better see every aspect of the design. “A sigil…” he muttered.
Seeing his confusion, Asher elaborated, “It’s the mark of her family name. Since they’re all dead, only Lady Gracen can use it.” The ranger gestured to the faded tattoo on Adan’Karth’s arm. “Like that,” he said.
The Drake’s confusion only increased as he looked at his own arm. “That is a sigil?” he questioned. “We have often wondered what they mean.”
Asher raised an eyebrow. “None of you know what they are?”
Adan’Karth shook his head. “We all possess one, though they differ in size and pattern. They were distorted after our transformation.”
The ranger nodded his understanding. “And none of you remember your old lives.”
The Drake brushed his fingertips against the faded sigil. “Do you know what this means?”
Asher squinted at the mark. “It’s too dark to make out.”
Without pause, Adan’Karth opened up his free hand and produced a small orb of pure light. Asher instinctively sheltered his eyes from the soft glow before looking to the edge of the magical barrier.
“They cannot see the light,” Adan’Karth reassured. “Only loud noises can penetrate the shield.”
After blinking a few times, the ranger became accustomed to the light and turned his attention back to the faded sigil on the Drake’s arm. The faint scales that layered his skin had indeed taken much of the colour and pattern out of it. During his time clearing out the cities and towns, however, Asher had come across every tribe of orcs and even interrogated a few of them, learning what he could.
“That sigil belongs to the Born Horde,” he explained.
Judging by Adan’Karth’s reaction, that meant nothing to the Drake - though he was clearly interested.
“They were at the top of the orcish hierarchy. Karakulak, their king, was from that tribe. They’re all gone now, the Born Horde. After their defeat in the north, Karakulak’s tribe took the brunt of the punishment from the surviving tribes. The last I heard, and this was years ago, was that a new tribe had assumed control: the Sons of Gordomo.”
“The orcs are few,” Adan’Karth commented with a hint of sadness.
“There are a few tribes still left,” Asher recalled, though the years following the war had been violent and bloody. “They hide in Vengora, like their ancestors.”
Adan’Karth probed the faded sigil. “I remember none of it. To capture even a single memory is to grasp smoke with your bare hands.”
“Take that as a blessing,” Asher remarked. “The life of an orc is… not worth reliving.”
The Drake went quiet, his contemplation his own for the moment. “Is that a sigil?” he asked, looking at the black fang tattoo under Asher’s left eye.
Asher was naturally self-conscious of any detail pertaining to his appearance. “Of sorts,” he answered cryptically. “I was marked as a child… a long time ago.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s a fang,” the ranger replied, “if a crude one. You’ve heard of the Outlanders in The Wild Moores?”
“The elves have told us of them. They warned us to stay out of The Wild Moores.”
“Good advice,” Asher concluded. “The humans who live in there are savage. They live in war-like tribes akin to the orcs.” The ranger pointed to the tattoo under his eye. “This means I was to be a hunter in my tribe.”
Adan’Karth’s reptilian eyes settled on Asher with a touch of revelation in them. “You come from The Wild Moores?”
“Apparently. I don’t really remember any of it.” Whenever Asher tried to surface any memories from that time of his life, he found only a blank spot that was quickly filled by a violent upbringing in the depths of Nightfall.
“Abun’Sun was right: you are unlike anyone we have ever met…”
“I could say the same of you, Adan’Karth. Your people seem content to stay within their borders. I get the sense that you’re more curious than the rest of your kin.”
The Drake set his eyes to the dark forest again, the light from his orb slowly fading. “I would very much like to see this world,” he admitted.
Before Asher could comment, another group of Lirian soldiers came by, the rustle of their attire impossible to miss. Like all the others, they approached the unseen barrier and paused to share quizzical expressions. They were about to move off when another soldier emerged from the south with a torch in his hand.
“Oi!” he called out. “I’ve been looking for you lot for ages!” The soldier approached the group, careful not to fall over the forest debris. “I only stopped to have a—”
“We know what you stopped for, Wendel,” one of the group interrupted. “We haven’t got time to stop. You heard Captain Kade: no one goes home until the ranger is caught. I, for one, would very much like to feel the softness of my own bed again.”
“Haven’t you heard?” The new soldier continued, “The captain’s just sent Byron’s group back.”
“What?”
“Apparently,” the new soldier explained, “Lady Gracen is going north, to the capital. The captain has sent Byron’s group to join the escort.”
The group of soldiers collectively cursed their luck. “And we have to stay here? Searching in the dark!”
Asher sat back and let his muscles ease as they chose a diverting path. They were terrible hunters. Had the ranger possessed only a fraction of his skill, he would still have evaded the noisy morons. He did, however, have his own path to consider now.
“She’s going to Namdhor,” he mused.
“Namdhor?” Adan’Karth questioned in elvish.
“Lady Gracen, she’s heading to Namdhor.” The ranger looked over his shoulder. “I need to reach the north…”
“We have waited here a long time,” the Drake pointed out. “You should return with me to Ikirith and rest; the north will still be there when you rise.”
Asher opened his mouth to argue but he couldn’t deny the fatigue he was still experiencing after his recovery. Fleeing the Lirian soldiers had shown him that he had yet to return to fitness - something he would need to make the trek north.
“As you say,” he conceded.
Together, they melted into the shadows and journeyed into the depths of Ikirith, where a world of colour and tranquillity awaited. It was all too easy to imagine himself living out what was left of his life in such a place.
If only he wasn’t so maligned by fate…
Part III
25
Holding the Line
Coated in sweat and blood, Doran Heavybelly knew nothing but the swing of his axe. There were times his vision was clouded, be it by the blood of another dwarf or blind rage, yet still he heaved that axe and aimed high. His foe were relentless in their advance, adhering to no form of conventional warfare or invasion tactics.
