The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 30
As expected, the clan stopped and rested for a portion of the night. Russell didn’t sleep a wink. Neither did Doran. The stout ranger had laid down and kept his eye on him. Though the full moon was his trigger, he had seen Russell turn violent in the hours leading up to its arrival. Credit to him, he sat perfectly still with white knuckles clenched around his knees.
Doran kept one hand on his axe…
The last few hours of their journey felt like a lifetime. Doran would have busied himself by making conversation with his mother or his weary brother, but the son of Dorain was sure to keep his only eye on Russell. If he went feral, Doran would have none but himself be the one to put him down.
Proving he still had all the innate senses of a true dwarf, Doran finally emerged from the tunnels and looked upon the cresting sunrise he had predicted, a golden light he had surprisingly missed. There were cheers from many that they had survived the invasion as well as the long trek. It was much colder on the surface, a fact that was lost on Russell, who was visibly sweating.
“We need to move south!” one of the generals yelled over the rabble. “Follow the Largo River and cross The Old Bridge! From there, we can make for The Iron Valley!”
Dakmund waved his hand lazily in the air to signal his agreement. Doran turned to translate the general’s words for Russell, but the old ranger - absent his pick-axe - was already steering his horse east, towards a shallow and rocky portion of the river.
“Rus!” he called, breaking away from the clan.
“You shouldn’t be following me, Doran.”
The son of Dorain stopped by the bank of the river. “Jus’… Jus’ be careful, ye hear? Come an’ find me in Namdhor!” Russell gave no reply but continued his way across the freezing river. “I can take yer horse!” Doran offered, sure that it would be torn apart come sunset.
Russell halted in the middle of the shallows and looked back at the dwarf. “I’m hoping the horse will satiate the wolf. It might be the only thing that stops it from tracking you…”
“Trackin’ me?”
Russell looked almost apologetic. “I’ve known you a long time, Doran. The wolf has your scent…”
It was a grotesque thought, but undeniably logical when he put it like that. It wouldn’t have been the first time the werewolf had tracked Russell’s scent back to civilisation or a person and wreaked havoc. Doran tried not to dwell on the horse’s fate and nodded his friend on with a quick prayer to Grarfath and Yamnomora.
Returning to the clan, Doran hurried to catch up with his brother’s cart. They still had many miles of the Largo River to trace before they came to The Old Bridge and the icy air would do Dakmund no good at all. His integration, back into the trail of dwarves, was met with a mix of responses. There were those who wouldn’t even look at him, choosing to accept that as an exile, he simply didn’t exist. Others didn’t mind looking at him, their expressions scornful. Here and there, however, the occasional soldier would pat him on the arm as he walked past; a thanks for his aid in the battle.
Though they were among the few, it was more than the son of Dorain could ever have hoped for.
As summer’s midday sun reached its apex, The Old Bridge was just coming into view. It didn’t feel right to be crossing it without Russell by his side, but Doran had to put such feelings aside and remind himself that the old wolf would be just fine without him. After all, wasn’t it Doran who often put Russell in danger in the first place?
As the first half of the clan crossed over to the eastern plains, Doran found his head lifted by the outcries that erupted from all around. For just a moment, the son of Dorain gripped his axe as he himself was gripped by fear. It was only when he observed the direction of everyone’s gaze that he realised their calls had not been one of dread.
Athis the ironheart was soaring above them!
His red scales cut a line through the blue sky. From the ground, they could all see his slate-coloured chest that ran down and into his long, spiky tail. Like all dragons, he was magnificent to look upon, whatever the vantage.
And, of course, wherever Athis could be seen, Inara Galfrey was close by. As the dragon glided and banked, Doran caught sight of the Dragorn’s red cloak flying out behind her in the rushing wind. He wanted to yell her name and call her down to help his brother - not that any dwarf would ever allow a half-elf to use magic on them.
Any thought of a joyous reunion with the Dragorn was quickly replaced by a rising sense of panic. Inara was heading west, farther into Dhenaheim and undoubtedly towards the dark army and their shrouding mist.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no!”
“Doran?” his mother enquired.
The son of Dorain spun around to see his mother guiding Pig away from the procession. She looked as tired as everyone else, but still maintained that core of strength that had served as a supporting pillar for Grimwhal.
“She doesn’t know what she’s flying into!”
Drelda raised a bushy eyebrow and looked from her son to the departing dragon. “You know the rider?”
“Aye, she’s a friend. She’s also the most powerful weapon the realm has got. I have to warn her!”
“You would go after her, back into Dhenaheim?” Judging by her tone, the queen-mother considered such a thing to be beyond foolish.
Seeing his brother’s cart roll by, Doran was instantly torn. His clan might not want him around, but they were travelling into Illian, a place they didn’t understand - they needed him. But Inara was perhaps the best chance they had of defeating this new foe and she was blindly flying into their midst.
“I’m sorry…” he said, giving his answer.
Disappointed and now very concerned, his mother sighed. “It seems you are destined to leave me.” With that, the queen-mother climbed down from Pig and handed the reins over to her elder son. “May Yamnomora give you the speed and Grarfath the strength to see you returned to me. The Heavybelly clan needs the sons of Dorain…”
Doran was unaccustomed to hearing such sweet words but for in his dreams. He would have held his mother then had she not turned around and walked back into the waiting embrace of her guard. Since no one else appeared bothered by his departure, the stout ranger mounted his Warhog and made for the west, into certain peril…
26
An Orphan of Two Worlds
There was but one place in all of Illian that felt like home to an elf. In The Moonlit Plains, south of The Evermoore, a small forest had become something of a large forest. At its heart, beyond the view of travellers, lay Ilythyra. It was a place where the trees grew impossibly tall and impossibly thick with as little as decades behind them.
Such was the magic of the elves…
In the soft orange glow of floating orbs and organic lights, formed from tree roots, any of the fair folk of old should be content. But there was one elf who was never content, for all his endeavour.
High above the ground, perched on the end of the decking that stretched out from his cosy hovel, Galanör, of house Reveeri, looked down on the elven paradise and sighed. For the last three years he had taken up residence inside Ilythyra, in a hollowed bower carved out of an enormous tree. For the last three years, he had tried to embrace the ways of his ancient kin and live in harmony with nature - a peaceful existence.
For three years, his hands had itched to pick up his swords…
Today, like every day behind it, was a struggle. He had already sprinted through the forest, taking the highest and most dangerous path across the thick branches. Hours had been spent sitting with others, practising his magic; something he had long neglected in favour of his swords. Using the patience his ancestors were renowned for, Galanör had sat through another of Lady Ellöria’s history lessons.
He had spent almost all of that time fantasising about his days as a ranger of the wilds.
Now, perched above the peace and tranquillity, the elf realised he had stopped wondering what tomorrow would bring. For most of his four centuries, he had never given much thought to what would come next; everything had been about training and bringing glory to his house, to his father above all. Then, forty-five years ago, he met a young mage, a human by the name of Gideon Thorn. After that, everything had changed for Galanör.
Every day brought with it a new adventure and a chance to be someone else. He had relished the life of a ranger, putting his skills to good use for a change.
“You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”
Galanör whipped his head around to see Lady Ellöria standing on the end of the decking. Her blue gown flew out into the breeze, along with her silky blonde hair. Her skin was smooth and pale, a contrast to her vibrant green eyes. The lady of Ilythyra was the only elf who could sneak up on Galanör. After three years of contemplation, he had decided she used magic to float…
“I can see it on your face,” she continued in their native tongue. “Your mind is cast back into the past.” Ellöria turned to look at the chest that resided in the corner. “Something you cannot let go of,” she observed.
Galanör didn’t dare lay eyes on the chest. If he looked at it for too long, he knew the swords therein would be in his hands within seconds. Guardian and Stormweaver, gifts from Queen Adilandra herself. He battled with the urge to retrieve them.
“I’m trying,” he said.
“I see you try every day,” Ellöria replied. “But you hold on to that which lies behind you. Remember, Galanör; it was you who came to us. Killing is killing - your words. How many years did you fill with slaying orcs after the war? You spilled enough blood to fill a dragon. Again - your words. You wanted a new start to—”
“I know,” Galanör cut in. “I’m sorry,” he immediately apologised. “I forget my place.”
“You are tightly wound,” the lady remarked.
Galanör shrugged in a very human way. “I’m trying to find a better path.”
“You are a product of your upbringing. Four hundred years of fighting lie behind you; you can’t expect three small years in Ilythyra to undo all of that.”
“I want… I want to be more than I am. I just don’t know how to exist without a sword in my hand.”
Lady Ellöria smiled at the elven ranger. “To seek growth in one’s self is no bad thing. And it doesn’t mean you have to become someone you aren’t. You remind me of an elf I once knew…”
Galanör turned away from the sprawling view to face the lady. “Who?” he asked, sure that there had never been another elf like him.
“Lady Syla, of house Arinör,” she said casually, despite the legend that she had just named.
“You knew Lady Syla?” Galanör stood up as Ellöria entered his hovel behind him.
“Oh yes; she instructed the queen and myself in the art of the bow. Syla was a warrior. She only bore the title of lady because of her family’s position. She was never happier than outside the city, facing Valanis and his hordes. She struggled to find the balance between her own nature and that of her people.”
Galanör couldn’t believe he was being compared to one of the greatest warriors who had ever lived. Growing up, he had read all that there was on Lady Syla, even to the extent of studying her tactics.
Ellöria extended her hand to smell a flower beside his bed and it opened up to her. “She fought with herself for centuries, often vowing to her family that she would leave the warrior’s life behind after the war.”
“How did she find a balance?”
“She didn’t,” Ellöria said bluntly, her tone absent its usual melody. “As history notes, Lady Syla rode into every battle she could. Then, Valanis killed her.”
Galanör took a breath and let that sink in. “You’re saying if I don’t find a different way of living, it will be the end of me?”
“No,” Ellöria replied softly. “You came here because you were lost. An elf stuck between two worlds. If you remain in man’s world, apart from your kin, you will witness their cycle of birth and decay for eternity. If you return to Ayda, and the ways of our ancestors, you will have to reject the very skills your kin ladened you with. I did not pledge to help you find a better way to live or to embrace the ways of old. I pledged to help you find yourself. If that is to be the warrior then so be it. But you will leave here sure of yourself.”
Galanör’s lips formed to say thank you, but the word never found life in the world. Another elf had appeared by the edge of his decking - Aenwyn. He had grown particularly fond of her since his arrival in Ilythyra and enjoyed more than a few conversations with the handmaiden. Her duty to Ellöria, however, had kept her at arm’s length, preventing him from making anything more of their budding friendship.
“My Lady,” she greeted with a bow.
“Aenwyn,” Ellöria replied pleasantly.
“Word from the north, my Lady,” Aenwyn reported, her tone grave. “The lands of Dhenaheim have been emptied of dwarves.”
“Emptied?”
“There is talk of an invader,” Aenwyn shared, glancing at Galanör. “Every surviving dwarf has taken refuge in Namdhor.”
Galanör frowned. “What could possibly force the clans out of their own lands?”
Lady Ellöria moved to the edge of the decking, concern creasing her smooth features. “Nothing good for Illian,” she said absently. “Where is the king?” she asked Aenwyn.
“Hopefully not chopping another lord’s head off,” Galanör commented, still struggling to comprehend Vighon doing such a thing.
“He decapitated the governors,” Aenwyn corrected, “not Lord Thedomir.”
Ellöria appeared entirely unamused by the exchange. “The king?” she reminded.
Aenwyn bowed again in apology. “He travels north, back to Namdhor in the company of a few hundred men. They left four days ago.”
“And the dragon?” Ellöria queried.
“There have been no further reports since leaving the king,” Aenwyn replied curtly. “There is nothing to suggest they have deviated from their northerly heading.”
“Inara?” Galanör had to enquire given the serious demeanour of the lady.
Ellöria paused as if assessing Galanör. “Inara and Athis were seen leaving Velia days ago, travelling north. But there are sightings from Grey Stone to Velia of another dragon… a black dragon.”
Dragons came in many colours, but Galanör knew of only one with black scales. “Malliath?”
“We believe so,” Ellöria confirmed.
“And Alijah Galfrey? Has he been seen?”
“We have eyes and ears in many places, but none that can attest to identifying him.”
This was something of a revelation to Galanör. “How long have you known Malliath was in Illian?” His pointed question was proof alone that he didn’t truly consider himself a part of the elven hierarchy.
“Since he first arrived in Grey Stone and saved the king’s life from an ambush,” Ellöria said plainly.
“Why wasn’t I told?” he demanded.
The lady of Ilythyra had but to look at Aenwyn and the elf quickly disappeared. “There are few who know what really happened to my nephew, but I am among them, like you. I am aware of the importance his return might spell for the realm, and I am taking the necessary actions.”
“What actions?” he enquired.
Ellöria raised her hand to quiet him. “I did not inform you, Galanör of house Reveeri, because his presence bears no consequence for you.”
Galanör opened and closed his mouth. He might not be in the elven hierarchy anymore, but Lady Ellöria was over a thousand years old - a fact that demanded his respect.
“I should have been told,” he said calmly.
Ellöria raised an immaculate eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I know him… knew him. I know his parents. I was there when…” He finally closed his mouth and kept it closed. He couldn’t settle on the exact reason why he should have been informed.
The lady approached, her movements graceful, even by elven standards. “You have played your part in more than one event that has shaped the realm,” she complimented. “Perhaps you should stay away from matters surrounding the king, including this threat from beyond Dhenaheim. You need time to introspect; something you cannot do when you’re dragged into current events.”
Galanör’s argument was rising to the surface but he quashed it and, instead, bowed his head. “You’re right, of course, my Lady. I came here for a reason…”
Lady Ellöria began to walk away before stopping in front of the ranger. “You are not a prisoner here, Galanör. This is not Dragons’ Reach and I am not Adriel. You made it clear at the end of The War for the Realm that you were not to be commanded by my family anymore. If you wish to go, then do so. Should you choose to stay, however, I expect you to continue your efforts of self-discovery without distraction.”
Galanör bowed again. “Thank you for your patience, my Lady.”
Raising his head, Ellöria was already across the decking and disappearing around the girth of the mighty tree. He had just received a lot of information that needed digesting. In the past, he would have picked up his swords and begun his routines to help him think. In Ilythyra, they encouraged him to sit and meditate.
He settled for a second run…
27
A Dark Knight in Dhenaheim
At the top of the world, Vengora’s snow-capped tips welcomed Inara and Athis to a land of inescapable beauty and never-ending cold. Beyond Illian’s northern border, the white plains stretched in every direction, halted only by Vengora’s twin sister: The Whispering Mountains. Between the two ranges lay the vast and mesmerising valley that was Dhenaheim.
Inara cast her eyes to the north and the end of any map she had ever seen. The Whispering Mountains sprawled to the west and curved south, mirroring Vengora. They were distant and small from the Dragorn’s vantage in the sky. It was in those distant mountains, however, that the dwarves had carved out their majestic halls of stone and left their mark on Verda for all time.
