The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 38
Doran looked around them, sure that no one had ever experienced this particular view and lived to tell of it. The shield flared and rippled all around them, each strike taking its toll on Inara. The Dragorn’s face was pinched together in concentration and her closed fist began to tremble. It quickly became a battle of wills between the Dragorn and the ferocious Clackers.
“The dagger,” she said through gritted teeth.
“The what?”
“The dagger… on my belt.”
Doran moved her cloak aside and discovered the dagger in question. He instantly recognised the hilt, made from human bone, as well as the blade’s curved shape. Of course, how could he forget such a weapon when it had been he who forged it?
The son of Dorain removed the Moonblade from its sheath and admired its opal-like material. It glowed softly with the magic that Inara’s mother, Reyna, had infused it with, transforming the original steel into something else altogether. So powerful was it, that any spell cast by man or elf would be instantly broken.
Since that unique property wouldn’t help them in this situation, Doran had to wonder what Inara planned to do with what was effectively just a dagger.
The Dragorn’s hand slid from atop his pauldron and accepted the Moonblade. She placed the tip of the blade to the floor between them and took a deep breath.
“Cover your ears,” she warned.
Doran dropped Andaljor’s separate parts and clapped his hands over his ears. Then, Inara hammered the Moonblade into the stone with all her might. Had it been made from steel, the tip would certainly have snapped, if not the entire weapon. Forged from magic, however, the Moonblade slammed into the floor and released a high-pitched sound that resonated throughout Grimwhal’s passages.
The Clackers recoiled in pain, relieving Inara of their oppressive attack. The closest fell to the floor, motionless, as blood trickled out of their many ear holes. Those farther back, scrambled to their feet and staggered around, bumping into each other and the walls around them. It was only seconds later that they abandoned their hunt altogether and fled the area, leaving their dead behind.
Doran carefully removed his hands and took in the graveyard that surrounded them. As a dwarf, a natural warrior, he was immensely impressed by the Dragorn.
“Ye seemed to ’ave perked up,” he commented by way of thanks.
Inara exhaled a long breath and assumed her full height. The Moonblade was noticeably still on the floor, glowing as usual. Doran raised a bushy eyebrow and looked to the Dragorn, who was now massaging her hand.
“Are ye a’right?” he asked.
“It’s just gone into spasm,” she explained. “It’ll be fine in a minute.” Using her good hand, Inara retrieved the Moonblade and sheathed it at the base of her back again. “What happened?”
Doran scratched his head. “Well, ye seemed like ye were down for a while, so I went in search o’ Andaljor. Dakmund left it ’ere when we were attacked. Unfortunately, it wasn’ the only thing I found. They must o’ tracked me back ’ere, I guess.”
“Perhaps we should keep our excursions to a minimum,” Inara suggested.
“I couldn’ ’ave left Andaljor behind,” he expressed with more passion than he reserved for actual people. “This weapon is clan Heavybelly. Grimwhal might ’ave fallen, but the clan lives on. An’,” he continued, picking the weapons up, “with this in the hands o’ the king, the clan will always rally around. They need that now more than ever,” he added with a low note.
“Then we should take it to them,” Inara announced. “We fly to Namdhor.”
Doran frowned. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Are ye in any fit state to fly? Athis didn’ look too good out there.”
Inara rubbed the back of her neck. “We’re fine,” she replied.
The dwarf wasn’t convinced. “It wasn’ that long ago ye couldn’ put a sentence together. I’m not sure ye should—”
“We heal fast,” she cut in, making for the left passage.
Her face begged to differ. “Well, ye won’ get very far goin’ that way,” he called after her. The Dragorn turned around and he thumbed over his shoulder to the right passage.
Rather awkwardly, Inara reversed her momentum and made for the opposite passage. It was at that moment when Pig decided to return. The Warhog trotted down the central hall, weaving happily between the Clackers. The animal stopped in front of the one who considered himself its master and looked from him to Inara’s departing form. Then it followed her.
Doran tutted and rolled his eyes at the beast. “Bloody pig…”
Together, they left the halls of Grimwhal behind and walked out into a bright and freezing world of snow. Athis rose from the ground and shook great heaps of snow from his body before flexing his wings. They were magnificent, even to one such as Doran, though they were pocketed with small tears and jagged holes.
“He says thank you,” Inara relayed.
Doran wasn’t accustomed to being addressed by a dragon and stumbled over his response. “Oh, well, ye know…” He settled on a shrug and whispered, “It was no bother.”
A moment of silence passed between Inara and Athis, their conversation private yet brief. It apparently came to an end after the dragon nodded his horned head to the west. Inara walked away from them all and stopped thirty feet later. The Dragorn crouched down and came back up with her Vi’tari blade in hand, its crystal pommel shimmering as it caught the light.
“We will fly in from the east,” she said upon her approach. “If we head directly south from here, we will emerge right on top of Namdhor.”
“I thought that was where we wanted to be,” Doran remarked.
“We have to assume Malliath is there,” Inara explained. “They’ve had more than enough time to take the capital and there’s no reason to hope that any kind of resistance has succeeded. If we come in from the east, Athis can take cover and we can make the rest of the journey on foot.”
“Ah, ye want to get the lay o’ the land first - good idea! Though, for what it’s worth, I think we’re goin’ to come across quite the battle. I reckon those Reavers ’ave bitten off more than they can chew!”
Inara did not look convinced. “Keep your hope, Doran. Keep it for both of us…”
The Dragorn walked towards Athis’s neck and made to climb up. It was only then that the dwarf realised he was supposed to follow her. Something heavy apparently dropped into his stomach and, despite the cold air, he felt sweat collecting in the creases of his face.
“Hang on a second!” he protested. “Ye don’ mean for me to… ye know… I mean I can’ go up.” Doran swallowed hard. “Dwarves are called children o’ the mountain for a reason! We weren’ made to fly.”
Inara looked down at him from Athis’s back. “How many days will it take you to reach Namdhor from here?”
The son of Dorain didn’t need to work it out to know the answer was too long. “I might never make it if I go up there! What if I fall off?”
“You won’t fall, I promise.”
Doran eyed Athis from head to tail and felt the palms of his hands becoming clammy. “Ye had better promise! If I enter Grarfath’s Hall because I fell off the back o’ a dragon, me ancestors will laugh me back out!”
Scaling Athis proved even more difficult than the dwarf expected, but he eventually found himself astride a dragon. It was terrifying.
“So what do ye do?” he asked, searching Athis’s back. “Do ye give him a kick?”
The dragon exhaled a sharp breath through his nostrils.
“I wouldn’t kick him,” Inara advised.
“Wait! What about Pig?”
Athis turned around to face the south. His movements startled the Warhog and it shot off, heading across the white plains. The dragon braced, his wings extended. Doran was sure that heavy feeling in his stomach was going to continue on its journey until it left his body altogether.
“Hold on!” Inara warned.
The son of Dorain gripped Athis’s spikes just in time before the dragon took to flight. Staying low, he glided over the land, covering the distance between them and Pig in mere seconds. One deadly claw reached out and snatched the Warhog from the ground.
Then they rose higher… and higher…
Doran watched the world fall away from their dizzying height. It would have been beautiful and awe-inspiring, but the dwarf was now gripping Inara’s waist with his eye tightly shut. After a minute of being in the air, he was certain of only one thing: he wasn’t going to reach Illian before being sick...
32
Heroes Die
Under the canopy of The Evermoore, Asher came to a stop on his journey with one foot resting on a fallen log. The ranger looked around, taking in the trees, the roots in the ground, the sound of the forest. There was no mistaking it: he had been here before.
“Stop,” he commanded, halting Adan’Karth up ahead.
The Drake turned his horned head to see Asher. “Is there a problem?”
Asher stepped over the log to meet his escort. “We’ve been here before,” he replied with an accusatory tone. “I’ve seen these trees before. Last time you brought us through here from over there.”
Adan’Karth looked to retreat into himself. “You are mistaken—”
The ranger growled deep in his throat. “I knew this was taking too long. You said we were avoiding the Lirian patrols, but they’re not even north of Ikirith are they?”
The Drake slowly shook his head. “Forgive me, Asher. I was—”
“Days! We’ve been trekking for days, Adan!” Asher began searching the area in a bid to gain his bearings.
“You mean to do harm,” the Drake explained. “We had hoped to show you… a better way.”
“Taking me in circles is not a better way,” he retorted. “Where in all the hells are we?”
Adan’Karth walked back the way they had come and veered off to the left, bringing them to a thicket. The Drake eased his way through and Asher followed behind, a sinking feeling in his gut. At last, Adan’Karth moved the last of the hanging vines from their path and revealed a green meadow.
They were back in Ikirith.
Asher swore in man’s tongue and stepped into the field. He could see dozens of Drakes going about their day, enjoying the life they had forged. To his right, the meadow stretched up and curved into the sky, just as it did in the distance.
“We have been walking in and out of the barrier to disorientate you,” Adan’Karth told him apologetically. “You are most welcome here, to live amongst us. You do not have to return to violence.”
The ranger shook his head. “It tends to be the other way around,” he commented to himself. “Adan,” he began. “I need to reach Namdhor. I can’t just stay here and bury my head. Lady Gracen wants me dead and I have to know why. Depending on her reason, staying here might put everyone in danger.”
“We are safe in Ikirith,” came the voice of Abun’Sun. The Drake crossed what was left of the meadow and greeted them with a warm smile. “You have seen our barrier for yourself. You can live in here… if you want.”
There was a part of Asher that wanted it, to taste that life at least. But not now. Now, the Arakesh were back in his life and he needed to know he was rid of them.
“I hope to return some day,” he said. “And I hope to be welcomed.”
“You will always be welcome,” Abun’Sun quickly responded.
Asher nodded along. “But I am leaving. And yes, I will likely see more violence before I return, but that’s my future and I’ve more than earned the right to decide it for myself.”
Abun’Sun bowed his head in respect. “You have earned the right to decide your future many times over. But we cannot have any part in your violence. For that reason, we cannot show you the way to Namdhor.”
“Don’t worry, once I get through the barrier I just need to find north and I can get there myself.” As frustrating as the entire scenario was, Asher found it almost impossible to be mad at the Drakes. As if their aura wasn’t calming enough, they spoke sense. If all of Verda lived like Ikirith, there would be eternal peace.
Peace, however, was a dream for kings. Asher’s life was simply placing one foot in front of the other and seeing what scrap it got him into. With a lasting look at Adan’Karth, Abun’Sun, and their enchanted world, the ranger turned to make for the rest of his life and some answers.
Then the sky fell.
The white clouds were expelled in every direction and a deafening crack ripped open the ocean of blue. Lightning hammered the meadow, blinding them all in a series of brilliant flashes. What was left in their wake was a different sky, filled with dark clouds that very quickly unleashed a torrent of rain. Things became far worse after that.
The pocket dimension began to collapse on itself, imploding Ikirith from the edges. The meadow shrank, yanking Drakes from their feet and tearing trees from their roots. The curved land that reached for the heavens was sucked back into the earth, tearing the land up like an earthquake. The unique plants and flowers were flattened by debris and falling trees, as were unsuspecting Drakes.
Asher shoved Adan’Karth out of the way but failed to reach Abun’Sun before a tree thundered into the ground between them. The Drake disappeared beneath the trunk, his death guaranteed in an instant. The ranger himself had the ground taken from under his feet and he was swept away with the contracting land. He bounced off logs and rocks along his journey and even collided with more than one screaming Drake.
After striking the end of a fallen tree at an awkward angle, Asher spun in a circle and skidded to a stop in what was now the middle of Ikirith. He groaned in pain and rolled from side to side until his joints felt up to the task of taking his weight again. The rain poured down on him, adding to the chaos and stinging the fresh cut above his eye and those over his hands.
Rising to his feet, he gripped his sore ribs and examined his new environment. Drakes were calling out for help, stuck beneath The Evermoore’s debris. There must have been many more who were now buried under the land itself. Asher relived the previous seconds and saw Abun’Sun die again, crushed by the tree.
Their beautiful world was gone in an instant. Ikirith was now exposed to the outside world, where stormy rainclouds awaited. The ranger couldn’t be sure if he had hit his head, but he was certainly struggling to make sense of it all.
A wild and terrible roar reached Asher’s ears. He knew that roar, intimately. For a time, he had been bonded to its owner and forced to do the worst of things. It was also the very same creature who had haunted his dreams for the last fifteen years.
The ranger ascended a heap of fallen logs and shattered rocks to better see the devastation. There, standing in the middle of the ruin, was a black dragon…
Malliath the voiceless.
Deep was the dragon’s mind and deeper still was his wickedness, a darkness that only Asher had seen. Malliath, however, was not the only thing to rule his nightmares, for the dragon had a rider, a rider who had been forged by dark magic.
Above, through the rain, Asher could just make out the flying forms of another five dragons. They were a mystery in themselves, but the ranger decided to keep his focus on the one that had landed, for that dragon was opening his mouth.
The heat of Malliath’s fiery breath rushed towards Asher like a wave. The black dragon swung his mighty head from left to right, igniting what was left of the once magnificent Ikirith. The ranger dived into a muddy hole where the roots of a tree had been ripped out. It was hard to say if Malliath had seen him or if the dragon was just expressing the rage that swelled within him.
Asher sat in the wet mud, his gaze distant and lost to thought. If Malliath had returned to Illian, then so had Alijah. There was only one reason they would come back and it was for the same reason that Asher had threatened the half-elf on the eve of his departure. He had seen it in their minds long ago, a twisted sense of purpose and destiny put there by the necromancer.
They had come to conquer…
“Are you out there, Ranger?” Alijah’s voice tensed every muscle in Asher’s body. “You’re nothing if not the survivor!”
Asher ignored his new injuries and navigated his way around the debris. The sound of the rain made it harder to locate Alijah’s exact location. He peered between the piled logs and over the mounds of upturned earth, searching for the half-elf. All the while, he had to keep one eye on Malliath, who surveyed the destruction with his purple eyes.
Movement to his left turned the ranger. Drakes, terrified and wounded, were creeping through the devastation. Asher gestured for them to head in the opposite direction and flee. He waited for them to disappear from sight before renewing his search for Alijah. Of course, the question of what he would do when he found him was very much on the ranger’s mind. He had told the half-elf that he would be ready for his return, but was he prepared to kill him?
There was little Asher could say he truly loved, but Reyna and Nathaniel were held above all. How could he ever look them in the eye with their son’s blood on his hands?
He closed his eyes and rested his head back against a log, searching for his conviction. It was in the darkness, behind his eyelids, that he saw the pure rage and violence that lived within Malliath. Thousands upon thousands of years lay behind the dragon, and every one of them was filled with bloodshed, anger, and suffering.
Asher knew in that moment that he was the only one who could kill Alijah. No other had seen the depths of Malliath’s mind. No other could understand the all-consuming nature of his mind over Alijah’s. The half-elf was lost to him.
A distant yell of pain snapped Asher’s eyes open. Lowered to a crouch, he weaved through the damp logs and soggy mud until he homed in on the source of the cry. As he had feared, the yell belonged to Adan’Karth. The Drake was on his knees, helpless in Alijah’s grip around his throat.
“Where is he?” Alijah demanded.
Adan’Karth squirmed and clawed at Alijah’s belt as the air was squeezed from his lungs. Passive as he was, the Drake made no attempt to use his magic to free himself. Asher was on the verge of stepping out and revealing himself but his legs locked into place. There was an old voice in his head warning him of such a foolish advance. The shadows were his ally. If he stepped out now he would be forced to face both Alijah and Malliath - a certain death.
