The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 6
“As we speak,” the master continued, “violence is already sparking across the realm. We stand on the cusp of rebellion. Can the Archon count on you, Kassian Kantaris, to keep us safe by the edge of your sword and the point of your wand?”
The Keeper replaced his concern with conviction. “Until my dying breath, Master.”
“And would you kill to keep Valatos safe?” the master probed.
Kassian had been ready to answer positively and swiftly to the next question, but that one caught him off guard. “I would see any threats to Valatos dealt with severely,” he finally answered, unable to say that he would kill.
“Then the Archon can rely on you as it so believed.” The master sounded satisfied as he gestured to the library door.
Kassian made to leave, noticing the rest of the Archon watching him expectantly from afar. The Keeper paused on his way, a burning question bringing his feet to a stop.
“Yes, Kassian?” the master enquired.
“Forgive me, Master.” Kassian turned sheepishly. “If this was always to be the ambassadors’ reception, why did we order so much exotic food and… hire musicians?”
The master almost shrugged. “They’re for the king.”
That answer only confused Kassian all the more. “The king is coming to Valatos?”
“Oh yes!” the master replied rather happily considering the company he was talking of. “We’re going to have quite the celebration when he finally arrives…”
Kassian could see the Archon had said all they were going to, leaving the Keeper with nothing to do but bow his head and leave the library. He had entered that grand chamber sure of mind and left with a degree of uncertainty, an unfamiliar feeling to the Keeper. One thing was for certain; sleep would elude him…
3
Playing the Game
As it ever had been, The Pick-Axe was a hub of activity and constant noise. However, and rather more unusually, the source of the raucousness was not the tavern’s patrons nor the travelling band from Palios. In fact, the patrons had run from the tavern screaming, abandoning their drinks, and the band had ceased their playing and cowered in the far corner, hugging their instruments.
“HEAVYBELLY!” came the recurring, angry call from The Pick-Axe’s owner, Russell Maybury. “Why is there a Gobber in my tavern?”
The Gobber in question was an alpha among its species and therefore slightly larger and more aggressive than the majority. It was also very upset about being captured and dragged from its dwelling by one Doran Heavybelly.
“I didn’ think it was goin’ to wake up, did I!” the dwarf yelled over the Gobber’s shrieks.
“Why did you even bring it in here?” Russell shot back, leaping over the bar to reach his famous monster-killing pick-axe.
“I was thirsty!” the son of Dorain shouted, hefting his double-sided axe.
“You couldn’t have delivered the Gobber to the employer first?” Russell swung his pick-axe horizontally but the monster leaped over it and through the hatch to the kitchen, taking most of the framework and some of the wall with it.
“I told ye!” Doran snapped. “I-was-thirsty!”
“So were my customers!” Russell argued, kicking the door through to the kitchen and disappearing beyond.
“Bah!” The son of Dorain waved the old wolf’s problem away. “They’ll be back! This jus’ makes it all the more excitin’!”
A loud kerfuffle exploded from the kitchen. Glass shattered, plates broke against the walls, cutlery fell to the floor, and heavy pans bounced around. Then Russell came flying through the hatch, splintering what was left of the wooden frame with his broad shoulders. The tavern owner smashed into the front door covered in food and fresh cuts.
Finally, Doran turned his attention on the only patron still sitting at his table in one of the cosy booths. “Are ye goin’ to help or are ye jus’ goin’ to sit there drinkin’ ye Galoshan tea?”
Asher had found the whole scene rather amusing, right up until one of his oldest friends had been hurled from his own kitchen. The ranger put his tea down and got to his feet, his warrior’s mind already working through the scenario that was about to play out. Given the cramped quarters inside the kitchen, he left his two-handed broadsword resting against the table and drew the short-sword from his back.
Despite his decades of drawing blades from their scabbards, the sound never grew tiresome. The ring filled his ears and immediately sent his heart rate up, tensing his muscles, and focusing his senses. The silvyr blade caught a ray of light piercing the window, exaggerating the runes that ran up the middle. It was as deadly as it was beautiful.
The kitchen door swung on its hinges after Doran stepped through. “Ye should o’ stayed asleep, beastie!” The Gobber screeched and their battle was renewed.
Asher paused on his way to check that Russell was conscious. The old wolf was sitting up, rubbing his bruised head and dusting himself down, sprinkling the floor with pieces of glass. He had taken harder hits than that in his time, but the curse of the werewolf was finally starting to take its toll, ageing Russell with every full moon until he found his end.
“I’m fine,” he groaned. “Do me a favour and get rid of that thing…”
Judging by the crashing sounds that boomed out of the kitchen, Doran wasn’t winning. Asher swept his green cloak behind him and strode beyond the bar as the terrified band made their hasty escape.
What greeted him was a sight only Doran Heavybelly could have achieved. The dwarf was without his axe and his sword still rested on his hip. Instead, the son of Dorain wielded a pair of iron pans…
“Come an’ get it ye ugly—”
The Gobber shot forward and robbed Doran of his words. The two fell over in a tumble of limbs, claws, and gnashing teeth. The dwarf swung an arm free from their tussle and came down with the bottom of a pan. It collided with a satisfying bong followed by a pained grunt from the Gobber - which was now furious. Cornered as it was, the beast lashed out with its claws, raking at Doran’s chestplate. Being an alpha, it had the clout to throw the dwarf about, slamming him into the counters and shelves.
A shelf of hard cheeses dropped onto the Gobber’s head, disorientating it long enough for Doran to bring both of his pans to bear.
The dwarf chuckled. “Now ye’re goin’ to get it…”
The son of Dorain used the pans like hammers, pounding the Gobber relentlessly with one then the other. Fangs were knocked loose and the beast fell back, its limbs wild.
Asher saw his opening and knew a swift flick of his wrist would bring a definitive end to the fight, but Doran looked to be enjoying himself. The ranger remained close, watching the dwarf beat the Gobber back towards the hatch, one pan flying in after another.
Something of the monster’s feral nature kicked in and it fought through the pain and the beating to attack again.
Claws of bone lunged forward with exceptional speed and attempted to open Doran’s throat. Asher had no choice but to intercede with his short-sword. A flash of silvyr chopped down through the Gobber’s wrist like butter and the second, horizontal, swipe passed through its reptilian neck and sprayed hot blood across the walls. Its lizard-like head slowly slipped away and fell to the ground absent its body.
Doran froze and his jaw dropped. “What did ye do that for ye dolt?” The dwarf kicked the lifeless body. “What am I supposed to do with that now? The contract was very specific about it bein’ alive!”
Asher picked up a cloth and wiped the blood from his sword. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh no,” Doran began, shaking his head. “Don’ ye make out that ye jus’ saved me life! I had that under control!”
“Doran, you’re holding a couple of pans. You’re lucky it didn’t rip your head off; you know that’s an alpha.”
“I was usin’ pans on purpose!” Doran threw his arms up. “Ye can’ kill anythin’ with pans, which was all part o’ me plan ye damned idiot!”
Asher recalled a fight from many years ago and knew well how easy it was to kill with a sturdy pan, but that had been another life. In this life, he had to contend with a haughty dwarf and old bones…
The ranger turned on his heel and left the kitchen behind, already feeling sorry for Russell and the mess that had been made. Doran threw the pans down and retrieved his axe, sure to follow after Asher with more name-calling.
The rangers came to a stop when they noted the pair from the city watch, standing in the doorway. Attired in hauberks of yellow and green, the colours of house Penrose, the two soldiers surveyed the chaos that had erupted when the Gobber arose from its dwarf-induced slumber. Russell was sitting on a stool off to the side where he was still nursing his head.
“It’s a’right fellas,” Doran assured with his large axe in both hands, “we took care o’ it. Jus’ a Gobber that didn’ know when to quit.”
The taller of the two soldiers frowned. “We’re not here about some Gobber. We’ve come on the orders of Lady Gracen of house Penrose.”
“Oh…” Doran looked around at the disaster. “Ye’re not ’ere about the monster that was on the loose?”
“No,” the soldier replied bluntly. “Lady Gracen wishes to speak with the ranger known as Asher.” The soldier had three people to choose from and naturally landed on the man himself. “Would that be you, Ranger?”
Asher considered his answer. These men had never seen him before and he was a master in the art of lying; he could convince them he was their father given enough time. But, anyone who held a title before their name often had plenty of coin to spare, coin a ranger could rightly do with when there were so few jobs available. Of course, there was every chance the lady of Lirian wanted him in irons. It was so hard to say with the life he had led…
“That’s me,” he answered gruffly.
“You are to come with us,” the taller soldier demanded, his tone suggesting it was to be irons then.
“Hold on fellas!” Doran protested. “On what charge do ye arrest ’im?”
Again, the soldier frowned. “There’s no charge. Lady Gracen requests the ranger’s time, nothing more. We have been instructed to tell you there is coin to be made.”
Asher held onto his smile. “I’ll get my things.”
“Coin?” Doran echoed, licking his lips. “This is abou’ a job? Does Lady Gracen know that Doran, son o’ Dorain, o’ clan Heavybelly is in Lirian? Perhaps she is in need o’ my particular set of skills also?”
The Lirian soldier sniffed and looked down on the dwarf. “Just Asher.”
“Don’t worry, Heavybelly,” Russell called wearily. “You’ve got a job of your own…” The old wolf scanned the devastation that had overtaken his tavern.
Doran sighed. “Aye, I suppose I do…”
Asher strapped his broadsword to his belt and slung his bow over his shoulder, nestling it between his silvyr blade and his quiver. They were only his visible weapons. A curt nod to his old friends and the ranger was content to leave with the city watch. The argument that started behind him was enough to see him on his way with a smile pulling at his cheeks.
“It took me six years to get The Axe back to the way it was! Six years! Why is it every time you come to stay it feels like I have to rebuild again?”
“What are ye abou’?” Doran retorted defensively. “It’s jus’ a few spilt drinks…”
Their argument faded as Asher was led through the streets of Lirian. It was summer and the surrounding trees were full of activity as they emanated the sound of chopping wood and sawing. Every town and city was the same and had been since The Ash War. The ranger attributed the busy work of rebuilding the realm to the shortage of jobs for his ilk. The new human settlements had become loud and busy, filled with enough activity to give the monsters of the world pause.
Of course, there were still those who disappeared in the wilds and a few brave beasts here and there that gave in to their hunger and attacked, drawing rangers from all over. Those jobs, however, were few and far between, forcing Asher to travel often. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t miss those first few years after The Ash War. Clearing out the cities and towns of orcs and all manner of monster had been what he lived for and was made all the better by the company of rangers.
In truth, Asher did his best to avoid returning to Lirian whenever he could. He had friends here, but the smell of the city and the surrounding trees… they always dredged up his worst memories. He could still picture the city burning from astride Malliath’s back, fifteen years ago. The ranger remembered vividly his fight with Russell and Gideon Thorn in the streets. Asher possessed enough haunting memories to drive an ordinary man into an early grave…
Journeying north, between the two soldiers, Asher soon came into the shadow of the small mountain that loomed over Lirian. On the first rise, the Ever Hold looked out over the city, offering the kings and queens of Lirian’s past a view of their domain. Today, and for just over a decade, it had been the home of house Penrose, the most elevated high borns to have survived The Ash War and Lirian’s previous demise.
Asher followed the soldiers without cause for alarm. He noticed other soldiers on their route but none indicated that he should be concerned by Lady Gracen’s unusual request. Inside, it became clear that even the Ever Hold had yet to be completely refurbished, the country’s funds and taxes spread relatively evenly.
A small plump man with a moustache far too thin for his round face approached Asher and the soldiers. He wasn’t a member of the Penrose family, but his finely-pressed attire certainly placed him as a high-ranking servant.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said dismissively. “I can escort our guest from here.”
“We’ll need to take his weapons,” one of the men stated, unaware that such a thing was beyond his skill.
“That won’t be necessary,” the short servant replied with the wave of his hand. “Lady Gracen has permitted her guest to carry whatever he likes. That will be all…” He waited until the soldiers begrudgingly left before looking up at Asher. “As I said, your weapons are your own in the Ever Hold but…” The servant licked his lips nervously. “Perhaps you would like me to take your cloak or… I could find you a fresh pair of boots to…” Asher’s expression alone was enough to deter him from going any further. “Right! Follow me. Lady Gracen is in the drawing room.”
Trailing the master of servants, Asher left a mess of muddy flakes flying free of his cloak, which was nothing compared to the muck that came off his boots. Entering the drawing room, the ranger was forced to stop behind the servant.
“Lady Gracen of house Penrose, daughter to the late Lord—”
“I know who she is,” Asher interrupted, finding his way around the smaller man.
The lady flashed an amused smile. “That will be all, Mr Dentry.”
Caught somewhere between flustered and offended, the master of servants bowed his head and backed out of the room.
Asher made a quick assessment of the woman: young, in her mid-twenties. Fair skin that had never seen a day’s labour. Luxuriant dark hair that flowed down to her waist and was tended to daily by maids. The lady was undoubtedly fierce, however, suiting her strong name. Her body appeared honed, her movements controlled and precise. She reached for her wine glass and the ranger caught a glimpse of calluses at the base of her fingers. Fencing he reckoned, an interesting hobby for one such as herself, but it explained how she kept in such good shape.
Most found people in such lofty positions to be easy to read and their motives even easier to understand since the powerful were always reaching for more power. Asher wasn’t so quick to make the same assumptions. In his time, the ranger had met several kings, queens, lords, and all manner of rulers and found them to be quite the variety.
Lady Gracen had immediately tried to give the impression that she was like Asher, one of the people who didn’t care for the surroundings attributed to the rich and powerful. But the ranger could detect an edge to her, a sharp mind that knew exactly what she wanted to say and how to say it. This didn’t mark her evil, but it was good to know…
“Not one for formality, I see.” Lady Gracen stood up from her comfy sofa and sipped her wine. “I suppose life is too short for such trivialities.” She paused in her elegant stance to look over the ranger. “Though, seeing you in the flesh,” the lady continued, “I am inclined to believe that you’re in no short supply of life.”
Asher quietly sighed to himself; some things were unavoidable.
“I have heard many a tale of your life, even from the king himself. I must admit, you are not what I… expected.”
“And what did you expect, my Lady?” Asher already knew what was coming.
“An old man,” Lady Gracen said bluntly. “I asked for your company in the hope that you could advise me on the hiring of some reliable rangers, but I see now that no such advice will be needed; I have the ranger in my drawing room.”
“My age is rather complicated, my Lady. For the years I have lived I am in my sixties—”
Lady Gracen scoffed into her glass. “I have dusty old advisers in their sixties. You are not a man of such age. You don’t even look to be fifty yet. I would know your secret before I have too many decades behind me.”
Asher’s eyes roamed over the grand room. “Like I said, my Lady; it’s complicated.”
“There’s very little I find complicated,” she replied boldly. “And like I said, I have heard many a tale of your life, including the ones where you fought in The War for the Realm, almost fifty years ago…”
Telling her he was born over a thousand years ago was opening the book to his life and he wasn’t inclined to share. Also, he was unable to explain the unique reason for his stunted ageing, something that others had noted in recent years.
“Is there a reason you find yourself in need of a ranger, my Lady? I’ve seen no shortage of soldiers since arriving in your city.”
It was clear Lady Gracen wasn’t finished with the subject of Asher’s past, but the lady responded to his question rather than continue to pursue. “I need something to be handled with delicacy.”
