The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 47
He would kill Alijah Galfrey tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Nothing would stop him, not even his own hubris.
In the event that he did indeed kill Alijah, the ranger had little need of an escape route, given that every Reaver under his command would return to a heap of bones on the ground. For most, at this stage, there would be a quiet voice in their mind telling them that the chances of this were slim, their own death far more likely. But Asher had never been considered among the most.
And now, submerged back into the mind of the killer, there was but one voice, confident and calm, if frighteningly cold. He hadn’t heard that particular voice in a long time and, though it sounded like his own, he had long believed it to be that of death itself, guiding him when it wasn’t, instead, trying to claim him. He would succeed. Alijah would die.
That’s all there was.
Continuing his preparations, Asher focused on the task in front of him. When he hadn’t been gathering information, he had been gathering ingredients and supplies to ensure his victory. Now, inside the cover of the tent, under the stars, he brewed his elixir. Using a small bowl, he ground the herbs and granules into a fine powder, ready to add them to the pot of boiling water.
“This looks interesting,” Inara commented as she entered the tent. The Dragorn crossed her legs and sat on the ground opposite the ranger, her shoulders tucked within her red cloak.
“Adan’Karth?” Asher enquired.
“I saw him safely to Athis,” Inara answered, her eyes examining all that Asher was preparing. “Hiding his horns wasn’t easy but, since he’s clearly not a dwarf, the Reavers showed no interest.”
“Good,” he replied absently, adding another expensive ingredient. “What of the Brightbeards? It’s been quiet around here.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Inara replied, “they suffered a few casualties. No deaths thankfully. The Reavers didn’t give them an inch though.”
Asher offered a grunt in recognition of her words.
“What is all this?” she continued.
“I told you,” Asher said, “the keep is crawling with Arakesh.”
“Ah, yes, Lady Gracen…” Inara stopped to sniff a small cup of unusual paste he had made earlier. “That’s foul,” she remarked, placing it back down again. “How is this going to help you with the Arakesh? I know their senses are heightened in the dark, but I don’t think they’ll be subdued by a bad smell.”
Asher kept his eyes on his work. “Heightened doesn’t cover it. When submerged in total darkness, they tune into their surroundings as if they were a part of it, like the roots of a tree spreading underground. They can feel the air moving against their skin, informing them exactly of where you’re about to be. They can taste your sweat on their tongue and gauge your fear, using it against you. If you’re bleeding, they’ll sniff you out through stone. And,” he said, pouring the powder into the pot, “they can hear your heart beating in your chest…”
“You forgot to mention their legendary skills in combat,” Inara quipped.
“One problem at a time,” he replied, stirring the liquid.
Inara peered over the lip. “What will this do to you?”
“It should slow my heartbeat down. It won’t conceal me, but it might give me enough of an edge to gain the upper hand.”
“Should? You’ve never made this potion before?”
“Once, but it didn’t work as intended.” Asher recalled the experience as one of the few times he had had luck on his side.
“What happened?” Inara asked.
Asher gestured to the paste. “I forgot to add in the Nefalyn. Without it, your heart slows down and so, naturally, do you. I damn near passed out last time - not a good thing when you’re climbing up a cliff.”
“This horrid stuff keeps you on your feet?” Inara’s nose wrinkled as she scowled at the Nefalyn paste.
“After stripping your tongue, yes.”
“How did you survive last time?” Inara placed the cup of paste much farther away this time.
“I had a rope and harness. I was hanging from that cliff for hours…”
Inara rested back against a small chest. “Struggle as I might to understand how my brother could be in league with the Arakesh, I still don’t understand how they survived the war. I thought The Black Hand wiped them out in Nightfall.”
Asher had asked himself that same question since learning that Lady Gracen had tricked him. “Escape and evasion are among the earliest of lessons in Nightfall,” he explained. “Some must have survived to continue the order.”
“Well they haven’t been using Nightfall,” Inara pointed out. “We searched that wretched place twice after the war and found naught but corpses.”
“They’ve adapted,” the old assassin reasoned. “That’s what we’ve always been best at…”
“That’s what they’ve always been best at,” Inara corrected.
He could feel her gaze on him after that, her interest lingering on his facial features. It made him uncomfortable, a natural response for one taught in his trade. When he finally looked up at her he realised her gaze wasn’t on him but, rather, through him. It seemed her thoughts had quickly run away with themselves, though he could see a hint of concern pulling at her brow.
The ranger hoped to take advantage of her distraction and to continue with his work. But he kept glancing at her, his own concern growing by the second. Once upon a time, he would have happily ignored the Dragorn’s quiet distress, but she was a Galfrey and, apparently, he had a weakness for them.
“Spit it out,” he said, sure that there was a better way he could have approached the subject.
Inara, snapped out of her daze, focused on Asher. “What are you talking about?”
“What’s on your mind?” he tried again, convinced, irritatingly, that he was becoming more empathetic by the day - some would simply say he was going soft.
Inara reached around her belt and pulled out a small black orb with a polished surface. Asher examined it and saw a distorted version of himself looking back at him. Though he had never used one, the ranger knew it to be a diviner. They were always paired with another, and the list of people Inara would have contact with was undoubtedly short.
“Who has the other one?” he asked immediately.
“Gideon,” she uttered.
Asher couldn’t help but notice her lack of enthusiasm. “Have you spoken with him?”
Inara dropped the diviner on the ground between her crossed feet. “I’ve tried several times since we arrived here. He’s not there…”
“Maybe he lost it,” the ranger suggested.
Inara shook her head. “Unlikely.”
“Then what?” Asher posed, “He’s dead?”
“Even more unlikely,” Inara replied.
“Then you fear the worst,” Asher concluded. “He doesn’t care…”
“You don’t know Gideon Thorn like I do,” she countered. “The only reason he moved the order to Dragons’ Reach is because he cared. Possibly too much,” she added. “He wanted them to be strong enough to protect the realm as well as themselves.”
“Then maybe they’re just busy training.” Asher was beginning to regret opening the conversation.
Absent a reply, Inara went quiet again, offering the ranger an opportunity to return to his preparations. As usual, the emotions he had found later in life rose to the surface in a bid to control his thoughts and actions.
Irritating indeed…
“Keep trying,” he encouraged. “We need your order now more than ever. And I’m sure that after fifteen years of training, Gideon will arrive with quite the force at his back.”
Inara held another moment’s thought before scooping up the diviner and replacing it in her belt. “What need will we have of my order when you’re going to solve everything with a blade in the dark?”
The ranger flashed his eyes. “You’d be surprised how many problems have been solved by a blade in the dark.”
“I grew up hearing stories about you,” Inara began, an edge of disappointment in her voice. “Stories of how you faced an army of Arakesh at the gates of West Fellion. How you stared down the army of Karath with no one at your back. My mother tells of the hero who fought by her side atop Syla’s Gate, standing his ground against hordes of Darkakin. My father told us again and again of the giant you brought down from Velia’s walls. How can you be that same man?”
“It wasn’t an army,” he simply replied.
“What?” Inara frowned.
“It wasn’t an army of Arakesh, at West Fellion. There were maybe five hundred and I didn’t face them all.” It was a guarded response but, when Asher felt defensive, he either shut down or drew his sword.
Clearly frustrated, the Dragorn tilted her head and scrutinised the ranger. He gave nothing away, his focus returned to his preparations.
“I can’t read you like she can.”
Asher dared to meet her eyes again. “Who?”
“My mother. She says she can tell what you’re thinking just by looking at you.”
Asher was able to recall many a time that Reyna had proven such a thing. In the beginning, it had made him even more uncomfortable than being observed by someone. The ranger had soon come to love that about the princess though, realising that her insights made everything easier. The elf had told him it was quite a common thing among friends. He missed her, Nathaniel too.
“Do you believe they’re here, as the Archon claimed?” The art of manipulating conversations was another of Nightfall’s earliest lessons and, in this instance, he was grateful for the skill.
“No,” the Dragorn replied confidently. “Given everything that’s happened here, I am sure we would have seen some evidence of their presence.”
Asher had to agree. “Then where are they?”
Inara appeared troubled by that same question. “I don’t know. Knowing them, they’re probably heading into trouble rather than away from it. You have that much in common with my parents,” she added.
“Speaking of heading into trouble, Galfrey; have you planned your way into the keep?” Asher kept himself busy with the potion.
Inara looked to the tent’s entrance, as if she could see Namdhor. “The dungeons are located towards the back of the keep, closer to the lake—”
“They’re also several hundred feet above the lake,” Asher cut in sarcastically.
“I had noticed, thank you. That’s why I’m going to climb up the King’s Hollow and enter the keep from behind.”
Asher stopped what he was doing. “You’re going to climb to the top?”
“Yes.”
“And then break Vighon out of the dungeons?” His increasing disbelief was evident in his tone.
“Yes.”
The ranger put himself in her position and knew well that he would need a night’s sleep to recover from such a climb, never mind breaking someone out of a cell. “You should definitely think about helping me instead.”
Inara rolled her eyes. “It’s a big climb, yes, but I’m as strong as an elf and a Dragorn to boot - it’s doable. Besides, I thought you preferred to work alone,” she added in a gravelly voice.
Asher took the mockery in his stride. “I do far better alone,” he agreed. “But I’ve never tried to kill a Dragon Rider with Arakesh bodyguards before. I could do with some of that elven strength…”
“Maybe I don’t want you to have my strength,” Inara posed. “Maybe I want you to fail.”
Satisfied with his elixir, Asher poured the liquid into a small vial and corked it. “If you wanted me to fail,” he countered, “you would have stopped me by now.”
The ranger let that hang between them, a shared knowledge that Inara was one of the few people in all of Verda who could stop Asher in his tracks. He could see it dawning on her, the quiet revelation enough to silence the Dragorn, be it shame or ignorance. Asher couldn’t blame her for either. In fact, he would rather commit the gruesome act in her stead.
They didn’t speak again that night…
The next day was one of yet more preparation, including the whetstone he took to his silvyr short-sword. The wait for his prey, however, was finally over. Not long after sunset, the stars came out with the company of a thunderous roar, quickly followed by a chorus of terrified screams. Asher, it seemed, would never escape that roar. He rose from the ground with one hand locked around the hilt of his broadsword.
Inara was lighter on her feet and the first to leave the tent. Asher was close behind, his eyes turned skyward. There was no missing Malliath, nor the escort of dragons flying behind him. They were terrible beasts, unnatural and fiendish in appearance as they cut across the northern sky. Beside Malliath, their undead forms were all the more obvious and hideous.
It was the black dragon himself that pulled at the ranger’s attention. His flight path continuously veered to the left, forcing Malliath to correct himself every few hundred feet. Asher had been astride the fierce dragon, while enthralled to The Crow, and experienced first-hand such an unusual flight.
Malliath was injured…
Observation and memory told him the dragon’s left wing was wounded. That meant Alijah was similarly wounded. Asher was overcome with a hunger not dissimilar to that of a predator’s when it caught sight of its prey, the kill a certainty.
Malliath cast his considerable shadow across the city before coming to rest on the ramparts of the keep, his long neck hanging low. The remaining dragons, Reavers all, ascended higher into the sky and scattered in every direction.
“There aren’t many who could injure either of them,” Inara contemplated. “I fear for those in his wake…”
Asher was holding the red blindfold in his hand, though when he had grasped it escaped the ranger. “Tomorrow night,” he asserted, turning to Inara. “Get Vighon and get out. Don’t get in my way.”
The Dragorn looked to protest when a much louder protest was made not far from their tent. Dwarves, angry by the sound of them, were shouting and cursing in the tongues of both man and dwarf. Together, Asher and Inara raised their hoods and moved to investigate, bringing them to the eastern edge of the camp. Several rows of dwarves were lined up on the boundary, yelling at the black knights trampling through the scorched field of Battleborn corpses.
“What are they doing?” Inara questioned.
Asher kept most of himself concealed behind a post as he observed the knights of Erador. Dozens of them were spreading out amongst the charred remains, their helmeted heads searching the ground. Then, as one, they began yanking and tearing the silvyr armour away from the dead. This angered the dwarves all the more, increasing the size and volume of their protest. A dozen extra Reavers broke away from the vale and placed themselves in front of the dwarves, deterring them from taking action.
Asher weaved through the camp and found a better vantage farther down. The knights were removing every scrap of silvyr and piling it up on carts. When the carts were full, they were guided away by undead horses and led to The Selk Road. Curiously, they were heading south.
Inara came up behind the ranger. “What’s this about then? What could Reavers want with silvyr?”
Asher shook his head. “The question is: what does your brother want with silvyr?”
Inara had no answer to that, but she gripped his arm before he could walk away. “I know what you mean to do. But there comes a time when we have to make a choice. That choice has the power to—”
“Really?” Asher interrupted. “Look at me, Inara. Do I look like someone you give that speech to? I’ve lived long enough to know what my choices are and I’ve lived long enough to know what the consequences are. After I’ve put this on,” he said, showing her the blindfold, “if you get in my way, you too will come to understand those same consequences.”
The ranger walked away from the Dragorn, determined to finish his preparations. Tomorrow night, he would kill a king…
39
The Promise of Blood
Vighon’s eyes snapped open to the sound of a heavy bolt shifting out of its lock. Chained to the wall and on his knees, the northman kept his head hung low, keeping his face concealed behind a curtain of hair. He knew who was about to enter the cell and he didn’t care to receive them.
The iron door creaked open on its old hinges and a rattle of keys resounded from the passage. Then he walked in, the betrayer, the fiend who wore his friend’s face. Alijah’s steps were light as he crossed the short distance to take the only chair in the cell.
The door creaked once more and slammed shut, sealing them in together.
“There isn’t much that can make this keep shudder,” Vighon croaked, his throat dry. “I do hope that wretched dragon of yours isn’t damaging my home.”
“I had hoped this would remain your home,” Alijah replied, his own voice out of sorts.
Vighon finally looked up, curious. Alijah was slumped in the chair, his head resting back against the stone. His left arm hung by his side with streaks of dried blood running from his wrist down to his fingertips. His right arm was wrapped around his chest, gripping his ribs. Around that area, the northman could see that the scales of his armour had taken damage and were chipped and scratched in places.
He was certainly injured and his complexion, pale and clammy, told of deeper injuries. A nasty bruise spread out from beneath his collar and over his jaw, where it met a patchwork of cuts and more dried blood.
The northman smirked. “So, you’re not invincible then.”
Alijah’s expression didn’t change. “No one is invincible, Vighon. Even Verda’s most powerful can be killed…”
Vighon’s brow pinched as he put the pieces behind Alijah’s words together. “What have you done?” he asked, horrified by his suspicions.
“What needed to be done.” The half-elf winced as he adjusted his posture. “In time, there will be balance. But until then, I need Illian to be free of… complications.”
