The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 55
The ranger mouthed an unsavoury word and began working on a new plan. It started with figuring out where his target was. The king, as he was now considered, would likely be in the throne room or the war room since he could coordinate his efforts from either.
In the old days, Asher would have stalked his target for days, weeks even, gathering information about habits and rituals. With this, he could choose the most opportune moment to turn the target’s lifestyle against them. As much as he knew about Alijah and Malliath, they had built upon their personalities since last they encountered the ranger, making them somewhat unpredictable.
Frustrating as it was, he moved on to the next location. Every second of the night he wasted was another second he would lose the shadows.
First, he investigated the throne room - empty. The interior had changed since he had dined in the chamber, years previously. Gone was the dragon skull that Vighon’s predecessors had called a throne. In its place was a slender, but tall throne, simple in its design. In the centre lay a large hearth, its flames battling to keep the warmth against the exposed portcullis just off from the throne. The iron had an unusual smell to it, suggesting the bars of the portcullis had been burned.
Asher crouched down and wiped his fingers against the floor. It was bone dry, but he could still taste the blood that had been cleaned from the marble. He tilted his head, allowing all of his senses to fill the chamber. Seven men had died in here, though there was blood from more than seven, some of which still spotted the pillars, missed by the servants.
A dead end, the ranger turned away from the throne room and moved on. The war room wasn’t far, located on the same floor and off the same hall. Unlike the throne room, however, the war room was tiered, offering a surrounding balcony that lined the rectangular map built into the ground floor. With this in mind, he ascended the next stairwell to an empty floor, hoping to gain the advantage of height. A set of double doors on his left led onto the balcony but he didn’t dare enter.
Lady Gracen was inside…
With one hand on the door, Asher crouched down and focused his senses on the war room. He knew her voice, not to mention the faint aroma of her perfume. Including the Mother, there were eight beings inside the chamber, though only three of them possessed heart beats. The other five were only notable by the stench of death that clung to them. Unlike the other Reavers, their odour was subtly different. Dragon Riders then.
Asher was starting to wonder if he had made enough potions to see him through.
Returning his full attention to the room, he picked out the Arakesh standing beside Lady Gracen. There was nothing unique about the assassin, turning Asher to Alijah himself. He was walking over the map, but there was a subtle limp in every step, displaying a weakness in his left leg. Beside that injury, he could hear the bones grinding in his left shoulder where the surrounding muscles and tendons had been damaged.
Good, he thought - the target was in pain.
“I can reach out to them,” Lady Gracen was saying, “and I can certainly be persuasive. But I would caution employing even one member from the crime families, your Grace. They cannot be trusted.”
Alijah stopped moving. “The gangs are ruled by greed and power. I have the coin to keep them invested and I can give them the perception of power until I deem to take it away.”
More perfume wafted off Lady Gracen’s neck as she turned her head to follow the king. “Granted, but, I have to ask, why reach out to them at all? Their type seems ill-suited to the kingdom you have envisioned, your Grace.”
“In time, their kind will become relics. But, for now, I need people, not Reavers: who can actually communicate with the dwarves and the people as well as oversee particular aspects that require some level of intelligence… however limited it might be. Not to mention the unsavoury nature of what must be done if the realm is to be corrected. The gangs won’t question me so long as I fill their coffers.”
Asher didn’t have time to dwell on Alijah’s ominous words before the Mother spoke again.
“Then I will see it done, your Grace.” Lady Gracen stepped onto the map and her heart rate and temperature both increased. “Given the realm’s ultimate purification, your Grace, one has to wonder what will come of my order…?”
Alijah moved to stand in front of the Mother, his hand gently caressing her cheek. “I will honour our arrangement, gladly. You will become Queen Gracen of Verda. The Arakesh will be our blade by which we strike down our enemies, a force for good. You will have title, security, power, and… me.”
Asher detected her attempt to reach up and kiss Alijah, but the king placed a finger to her lips. “First, we must make things right.” The half-elf stepped away from the assassins and paraded the enormous map. “The silvyr?” he enquired.
Lady Gracen composed herself. “Every scrap taken from those on the vale has been collected and is in transit as we speak, your Grace. It should reach Qamnaran by week’s end - there are boats waiting.”
Curious, Asher considered where they were speaking of. Qamnaran was an island just off the west coast, in The Hox. It was almost as large as The Evermoore, but it wasn’t the island’s size that mattered so much as its depth. Though Asher had never been given cause to visit, he knew Qamnaran was the largest source of Demetrium in all of Illian, with deep mines nearly a thousand years old.
What were they doing with Demetrium - a mage’s requirement? And why would they be transporting silvyr to the mines?
“Very good,” Alijah said, “but it won’t be enough. What of Silvyr Hall’s deposits?”
The Mother shifted on her feet. “The silvyr mine is being plundered, but it will be some time before the Reavers can transport it all from Dhenaheim to Qamnaran. It would be faster if a dragon or two could assist…”
“No,” Alijah answered bluntly. “I need them in Illian. Unrest is to be expected and I want as many deterrents at my disposal as possible.” He moved across the map but Asher couldn’t tell what he was looking at. “I will send word back to Erador and have them position ships here, in the break between The Whispering Mountains and Vengora. From there, they can sail down to Qamnaran.”
“I thought The Hox was inhospitable for the likes of ships, your Grace. Does the Leviathan you speak of not pose a threat - it would be an awful lot of silvyr to lose.”
Alijah waved his hand. “They can hug the coast, where the Leviathan can’t swim.” He moved again, this time down to the other end of the map. “I think we’ve delayed our work in The Moonlit Plains long enough. Begin moving the dwarves there at once. Make sure, Lady Gracen, that the gangs can provide all the equipment they will need.”
The Mother bowed her head. “We will begin moving them south at once, your Grace. What of the Drakes? After your… arrival, in Ikirith, they have scattered.”
“They are pivotal,” Alijah told her, his tone serious. “Let all in the land know that a great reward awaits any who can bring me a Drake, alive. If any are harmed, that person will suffer the King’s Justice.”
Lady Gracen bowed again. “I will…” Her words faded and her shoulder shifted in Asher’s direction.
His heart resounded with a definitive beat…
The time between beats was decreasing, steadily bringing his rhythm back to normal as the elixir wore off. It was never going to last as long with the other potions coursing through his veins, but he had prioritised his ability to take a beating over being detected.
“What is it?” Alijah asked.
“We are being observed,” the Mother replied.
“Is that right?” Alijah’s tone suggested he was smiling. “There’s not many who could get this close to me without alarm. Is that you, Asher? Have you come to deliver on your threat?”
Asher’s head rested back against the stone. “Maybe I am getting too old for this…”
With that, he resigned himself to death, promising that he would come willingly into its embrace, if only Alijah preceded him.
Both steel and silvyr were unleashed from their scabbards across his back. Speed and ferocity were all that remained in his arsenal now. He barged through the doors and maintained his momentum across the balcony. He knew exactly where Alijah was standing on the map below, his position relative to the others. There were none close enough to the king to get in his way.
First came the distraction, a means of preventing Alijah from hurling any spells before the ranger could strike. He leaped over the railing, twisting his body as he did. A back-hand throw launched the steel short-sword down at the half-elf, giving him something to immediately think about. Credit to his reflexes, Alijah shifted his shoulders at the last second and narrowly avoided the flying blade that went on to impale The Moonlit Plains.
Then came Asher.
The ranger crashed down onto the king, bearing him to the ground in a violent collision. They tumbled over each other before crushing The Undying Mountains beneath their struggle. Asher came up on top, his silvyr stained with royal blood. The tip of the short-sword had pierced the dragon scales of Alijah’s armour and plunged under his clavicle bone, above his heart. Only a strong hand kept Asher from pushing the blade through and killing his target.
Alijah gritted his teeth and attempted to worm free his other hand. From those fingers could come a number of devastating spells and so Asher kept it pinned beneath his leg. Their tussle, however, was going nowhere and he was running out of—
His sword arm was yanked away from Alijah by Lady Gracen, freeing the king of the biting silvyr. A swift kick was immediately delivered to the ranger’s face, hurling Asher across the map with what felt like a broken nose, though he managed to roll over the steel short-sword impaled in The Moonlit Plains. He jumped to his feet, numb to any pain, and brandished both of his weapons. The potions were in full effect now and he knew, without a doubt, that he was going to kill everyone in this room.
Lady Gracen and her pet assassin put themselves between the ranger and the king. “Get him out of here!” she yelled at the Dragon Riders.
They surrounded Alijah and partially dragged him from the war room. The pragmatist in Asher, first instilled by his old teacher, Nasta Nal-Aket, told him his opportunity had gone. He couldn’t hope to kill Alijah now, not tonight. But the elixirs urged him on, convincing him that he possessed the energy and resilience to at least kill the Mother. He would settle for that…
Lady Gracen tasted the air. “What is that on your lips?” Her face soured beneath her blindfold. “It’s foul whatever it is.”
“Let me show you,” he growled.
Whether his muscles were tired or his body was in pain, Asher burst forward, ignorant of it all. The lowly Arakesh jumped in front of his master and met the ranger in a dance Asher hadn’t partaken in for many years. Their forms were similar, though Asher had developed his over more years than the assassin had even lived. Short-swords collided, limbs lashed out, and their bodies flowed through every conceivable shape to attack and evade.
Inevitably, as Asher knew, it ended with his silvyr blade chopping straight through his opponent’s steel blade and into his shoulder, bringing him down to one knee - his every action having been planned before he even rose to his feet. It was then that he brought his own steel weapon to bear and impaled his chest, killing him.
“Impressive,” Lady Gracen purred, “for a relic…”
Asher kicked the dead body off the end of his sword. “This relic’s about to burn down your whole world.”
The Mother cocked an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten our ways? Kill me and another shall take my place.”
“Then I’ll kill them all,” Asher spat.
Lady Gracen began walking around him in a lazy circle, her guard down. “You have no idea what we’ve become, Ranger. Things have changed since the war,” she added, gesturing to her blindfold.
Asher shrugged. “Eyes or no eyes; you’re still going to bleed out.”
“That’s your problem,” she replied. “That was your entire generation’s problem and all those before you. Everything starts and ends with a blade in the dark and blood on your hands. After The Black Hand decimated our numbers and left Nightfall a bloody ruin, we knew we had to change, adapt. Keeping my eyes came in handy - I think it would have been a lot harder to convince Lord Penrose to adopt me were I to have shown up at his door that night with ravaged eye-sockets.”
Asher remained poised as she circled him. “You must be the youngest Mother in Nightfall’s history,” he remarked, aware that more assassins were taking up positions in the shadows beyond the map. This, he decided, was a good thing, since he was of a mood to kill anything that moved right now.
“Oh yes,” she purred. “It was only the youngest of Nightfall who survived the Darklings. We could fit through all the little cracks. After that, we decided Nightfall was, in itself, one of our weaknesses. It was a place where our numbers came together - perfect for a single devastating strike.
“So we hid in plain sight. Met and trained in secret. The best thing I could have done was claim a title within one of the great families. I had all the resources, heard all the whispers, and there was never-ending opportunity. Now, I will elevate the Arakesh to new heights the likes of which no Mother or Father ever dreamed of. No longer will we live in the dark like monsters.”
“Light or dark,” Asher observed, “you’re still monsters, and I’m going to kill every one of you like monsters.”
Lady Gracen laughed. “You’re not even going to make it out of this keep, old man. Can’t you hear them? The Reavers are coming for your head.” She gave the subtlest of nods. “They’ll just have to settle for your corpse…”
The Mother stepped back as six Arakesh jumped onto the map. Many against one, they charged into the ranger in a flurry of steel and silvyr but, more importantly, Asher brought his rage.
Outside The Dragon Keep, it seemed the approaching dawn was to be marred by dark clouds and rain. For now, however, there was still enough darkness for a couple of elves to move about the capital unseen.
Since arriving in Namdhor, Galanör’s attention had been captured by the five hideous dragons resting on and around the keep. Until seeing them, he had truly believed there was nothing more unnatural and hideous than a human Reaver. The elf didn’t appreciate being corrected.
In the last few minutes, the ramparts had become busy with activity, stealing Galanör’s focus away from the undead dragons. Reavers, clad in black armour, were dispersing, with some entering the halls of the keep, leaving only a handful to guard the walls and gate.
“What could rattle the dead?” Aenwyn mused beside him.
“The call of their master…” Galanör reasoned.
A group of Reavers came running up the main street, towards the keep, causing the elves to dip their heads, concealing them within their hoods. The main portcullis was opened and the armoured creatures disappeared inside the courtyard. Galanör narrowed his eyes, sure that he had glimpsed a portion of Malliath’s body.
“It might have been a mistake to send Ellöria’s agents to The Evermoore,” he said. “Between your bow and my blades, I’m not sure we have enough to survive here.”
Aenwyn’s eyes flashed from within her hood. “We’re not here to survive, remember?”
Galanör smiled and wondered where Aenwyn had been all his long life. “Resist.”
“Resist,” she affirmed with a nod. “Though, given those that watch over the keep, might I suggest a modicum of caution. Perhaps we should commit ourselves to at least some observation, so that we might find a way in that doesn’t see us going through a dragon…”
There was still a part of Galanör that just wanted to mount an assault on the keep and find Alijah. But he found himself fearful for Aenwyn. He had fought beside many warriors, some of whom had since been deemed heroes. He had feared for their survival as dear friends and companions but what he was beginning to feel for Aenwyn was something else altogether.
“The tavern across the street has an outdoor balcony. It’s cold, but we would have a decent vantage of the keep from there.”
Aenwyn eyed him suspiciously. “I expected to wrestle you down this path.”
Galanör shrugged. “I’ve slain a lot in my time, but never a dragon, undead or otherwise.” He made to leave the alley and enter the tavern when Aenwyn gripped his shoulder and pressed him to the wall.
“What we are fighting for is worth more than both of us,” she stated “You will not treat me differently. Nor will you take the path that ensures my life.” Her grip eased and the elf stepped back. “Even if you are falling in love with me…”
Galanör failed to produce a single word that possessed all of its syllables. Tugging on his hood, he could do nothing but follow her across the street and hope his red cheeks had cooled by the time they reached the door.
48
All That Remains
In the pre-dawn, The Dragon Keep should have been a quiet and tranquil place, its lofty vantage so close to the heavens. And, indeed, it had been as silent as a tomb only a few minutes ago, as Vighon Draqaro crept through his own home. Now, however, the halls were filled with the rushing feet of armoured Reavers.
Asher, he assumed…
The ranger had a talent for drawing such fiends. The king jogged lightly on the balls of his feet, trailing the various clusters only a few feet behind. As they intersected with new groups of undead knights, he would dash to the side and hide in an alcove or through a door.
More than once, he found himself face to face with his own servants, terrified to step out into the hall. He instructed them all to remain calm before reassuring them that he would see to the invaders.
The closer he approached the throne room, the harder it became to advance. The Reavers who had flooded the keep were now beginning to take up positions, barring the passages. Vighon hefted the sword in his hand - a foreign blade. He wasn’t used to its grip nor its weight.
