The orcs howled when they saw her, thinking foolishly that they were challenged by a weak woman, and alone at that. Inara, however, was neither weak nor alone, not when she had her Vi’tari blade in hand.
The Dragorn dropped into an unorthodox position and kicked the first orc to attack her. With the power of her mother’s kin behind her, Inara booted the beast into those behind it, creating a cascade effect. Many of the foul creatures were pushed from the edge of the steps and thrown to their deaths. Not realising how many of its kin had just died from a single boot to the chest, the next orc continued to charge up at Inara.
Down came the Vi’tari steel.
The fine blade cut through armour and flesh and another boot sent the corpse over the edge. Two more twirls of the scimitar claimed the lives of two more orcs. As the bodies piled up, the following orcs struggled to reach the Dragorn. The Dragorn didn’t struggle to reach them. Again and again her blade came down and across, cutting them down in droves. A flick of the boot pushed the bodies over the edge, allowing her to gain more ground.
With the trail of people catching her up, Inara decided to clear the steps with a little more efficiency. Calling upon the magic she shared with Athis and that of her natural heritage, Inara pushed out her hand and cast a wave of condensed air over the orcs. Their pale skin rippled across their muscles and their obsidian armour crumpled into their bodies as they were all thrown from the steps.
The wave pulled a cloud of debris from the ravine wall and cracked the flat plateau between the zig-zagging stairs. That crack snaked into the rocky wall and became a larger crack that ran along the wall. A moment later, sheets of rock were falling into the western street below, blocking the advancement of the orcs.
Inara experienced a moment of clarity. “We need to collapse the streets…”
The Dragorn ignored the steps in front of her and dropped down from one flight to the next, pausing only to slaughter orcs. With only two more flights between her and the circular courtyard in the heart of the city, Inara spotted Vighon and Galanör fighting at the head of the northern street. They had been separated from Russell, who was farther into the ravine and swinging his pick-axe with abandon. The courtyard was quickly being overrun by orcs flooding through the side streets and alleys that cut through the rock.
They were being swarmed.
Inara leaped without thinking. The very centre of the courtyard was rushing up to meet her, but the Dragorn had a special landing in mind. With her arm pulled back, Inara’s free hand summoned a destructive spell that gathered more energy as she fell. As her feet touched down, the half-elf dropped into a crouch and thrust her palm into the stone. The telekinetic magic that burst forth expanded over the ground in every direction, collecting orcs in its wake. The pale beasts were slammed into the walls, their bodies broken beyond repair.
Standing up, Vighon and Galanör took refuge behind a wall of soldiers to marvel at her work. The courtyard was free of orcs, for a moment.
Inara nodded at the pair and flicked her scimitar into form four of the Mag’dereth. The Dragorn twisted her body into every unorthodox position she knew, flipping around the oncoming orcs and weaving between their attacks. In such numbers, they were clumsy creatures compared to what she could do with a Vi’tari blade. Once fully surrounded, just where she intended to be, Inara spun one way then the next, her blade whipping out and claiming limbs and opening arteries. Finishing with a kick that knocked an orc off its feet, the half-elf plunged her sword into its chest and looked back at Vighon and Galanör. They were staring at her like half-wits.
“If you two feel like helping, I have an idea…”
47
Home
Doran never thought he would be so happy to see the light of the world. Not once had he been in the warm embrace of a mountain and even thought about the sky.
Being hunted by an enormous pack of Gobbers had a way of changing one’s mind, even a stubborn dwarf’s.
Reyna let loose another arrow, as she had continued to do since they fled from the dead Dweller. The Gobbers had picked up their trail almost immediately and resumed their chase. The elf’s arrows kept the fastest of their wretched kind at bay.
At the end of the ancient hall was a rectangular wall of morning’s first light. It wasn’t the brightest dawn the son of Dorain had ever seen, but compared to the shadows of Vengora, it might as well have been a blazing fire.
Winter’s icy touch kissed his cheeks as they ran towards the light. A light fall of snow blanketed the northern ridge of the mountains, though the contrast prevented the dwarf from seeing any detail.
“Fast as ye like, brother!” Dakmund shouted back at Doran.
Lagging behind the party, Doran had come to see what areas of his life required improvement. Long-distance running was at the very top of his list.
“Where’s that damned pig when ye need it?” he muttered under his breath.
Another arrow whistled past his head and caught a Gobber in the head. So close was it that Doran felt its dying squeal on the back of his neck.
One by one, the dwarves disappeared into the light, followed by Reyna and Nathaniel. Doran bellowed at the top of his lungs digging deep for that last bit of energy. The dwarf burst into the light at such speed that he failed to see the edge of the path and, like the others, tumbled straight over the edge.
Curses in more than one language escaped his mouth on the way down the slope. His armour saved him from the rocky outcroppings, but his bulk and speed hurled him down the mountainside without reprieve.
When finally he came to a stop, his face was buried up to his ears in the freezing powder. He came up spitting the snow from his mouth and groaning from a plethora of new sores that ached in his muscles.
At the top of the ridge, the Gobbers gathered in a line and shrieked at the sky. It wasn’t long, however, before their exposed hides began to shiver. The definition of cold was very different north of Vengora. The pack soon decided against hunting their prey in the elements. When the last of them disappeared from sight, Doran lowered his axe and took a breath.
“Foul beasts!” he growled.
Doran’s spine cracked as he straightened his back. They had been running from the Gobbers for most of the night, but they wouldn’t find any rest sitting around in the snow, especially when the thick clouds promised to dump more on them.
“We need to find shelter and fast,” he observed, wondering how long it would take for an elf to freeze to death.
The son of Dorain strapped his axe back to his hip and turned to face his companions and the grubby faces of his kin. The dwarf’s eyes went wide and his heart doubled its beats in his ears. Held on their knees in the snow, Petur, Reyna, and Nathaniel each had a silvyr blade held to their throats.
“What are ye abou’?” Doran demanded, taking his axe in hand again.
Dakmund’s reluctance faded away, replaced by dwarven resolve. “Look at where ye are, Doran,” he said, gesturing to the mountain peaks behind him. “Ye’re on the other side o’ Vengora now. This is Dhenaheim…”
Doran examined the barren landscape of white tundra and mountains peeking through the mist. It could have been anywhere in the north, but his brother was right; north of Vengora belonged to his kin.
“Ye weren’ invited to these lands,” Dakmund continued. “If ye’re not invited, ye’re trespassin’. And if ye’re trespassin’… ye’re to be prisoners o’ clan Heavybelly.”
Doran glanced at his friends before eyeing his brother. “Don’ do this, brother.”
Dakmund apologised with his eyes, but his thumbs hooked into his belt and he puffed out his chest. “I am the prince o’ Grimwhal. I’ll do whatever I like, an’ I’d like to take me prisoners before the king for judgement!”
“The king?” Doran echoed, a pit growing in his stomach. “Ye wanna take me before father?”
Dakmund licked his lips. “Ye have no other choice.” Doran knew his brother well enough to understand that it was, in fact, he w
ho had no other choice.
His options laid out before him, Doran had to decide between slaying his kin to free his friends or go willingly back to Grimwhal. Back to his father.
The dwarf gripped his axe and he moved to retrieve the sword from his back. But he stopped. If he pulled that blade free, he would have no choice but to cut down his kin, maybe even his brother. He had walked away from that, determined never again to spill dwarven blood.
He looked to his friends, who silently pleaded for him to lower his axe.
With a great sigh, the son of Dorain dropped his axe into the snow. He seethed, unable to speak or utter so much as a curse. Two of Dakmund’s dwarves approached cautiously before removing his sword from its sheath. His axe was scooped up and the dagger taken from his belt. Manacles were fixed around his wrists and another chain tethered him to one of the dwarves, who was more than happy to drag Doran along.
“Let’s go!” Dakmund ordered, leading the party into the north west.
“I’m so sorry,” Reyna said as Doran was dragged past. The Galfreys were similarly stripped of their weapons and chained, each assigned to a different dwarf and separated on the march. Petur Devron offered no challenge but clung to his satchel, which the dwarves allowed him to keep.
Doran was glad to have been separated; he was fuming with them. Not only had he entered Vengora, but he had interacted with his kin, his very brother in fact. Now, he was on the other side of the mountains and exactly where he didn’t want to be. To say things had gone from bad to worse was an understatement.
Day had turned to night and back to day by the time the first kingdom of Dhenaheim came into view. In the setting sun, Doran looked upon Grimwhal, the city of his birth.
He was home.
For two days, Doran had kept his mouth shut, not speaking a word to either of his friends or Petur. Dakmund had stayed away while they briefly camped overnight, clearly too ashamed to face his brother.
Now, standing before the central pillar of his father’s kingdom, Doran conjured but a single word.
“Damn…”
Grimwhal’s entrance was an enormous hollow carved out of the mountain and supported by a substantial pillar. The top of the pillar was that of an inverted pyramid without the apex, creating a larger surface area for the pillar to hold up the mountain roof. Though vast within its hollow, Doran knew that the city was even larger underground, where the majority of his clan resided.
His teeth gritted and jaw set, Doran allowed his captors to drag him past the ancient pillar and into the very halls of Grimwhal. Dwarves appeared from everywhere, muttering and gossiping about Doran’s reappearance in chains. The word elf was thrown about too, and not in a kind way.
The heavy doors of the throne room were pulled back by unseen dwarves, revealing a chamber of great opulence. The pillars were encrusted with diamonds, the marble floor polished until its reflection was that of a mirror, and the roaring fire pits illuminated the golden statues of his forebears. Two silvyr thrones sat at the head of the chamber, atop a platform lined with fierce dwarven warriors.
It was those who occupied the thrones that held Doran’s attention.
The heavy doors were swung shut behind them with a mighty bang and the sound of the fires filled the chamber. Doran could feel eyes boring into him from all around, but none more so than those who sat upon the thrones.
A moment of regret rested on the son of Dorain. He hadn’t said a word to his friends since the chains had touched his skin, but they were most likely only minutes away from execution. He felt it to be a failing on their behalf that he had found himself back in his ancestral home, but he now considered it a failing on his behalf that husband and wife were about to have their lives cut short at the hands of his kin.
Still, there was nothing left to do now but face their fate. If he had to, he decided, he would fight to see them released. Two days past he couldn’t bring himself to kill a dwarf to see them freed, but standing here now, Doran knew what truly mattered to him. He knew who truly mattered to him.
Doran stood before the thrones and lifted his chin with squared shoulders. He would face his fate.
“Hello, Father…”
48
Journey’s End
Alijah’s eyes opened sporadically, but always he was looking up at the sky. Sometimes it was day, sometimes it was night. Thick clouds were replaced by blue skies and when next he awoke, the stars greeted him from the heavens.
All the while, his head pulsed with great pain. In those brief moments of clarity, he feared his skull had been broken. Whenever he tried to move, his limbs felt heavy, and his energy ebbed away before he could come to.
Every now and then, Hadavad’s face would loom over him and the mage would apply ointments or utter incoherent spells over him. It always hurt and he always passed out before he could ask the old man any questions.
As the rogue’s health improved, he became aware of the motion that carried his body. He was lying on something hard, and at an angle too. Judging by the constant rocking, Alijah guessed himself to be on some kind of sled behind a horse. Of course, such thoughts were momentary before blissful oblivion took hold of him again.
It was sound that woke the half-elf this time. He heard the crackling of a fire. It took some effort and a short bout of nausea, but Alijah managed to open his eyes and focus on his surroundings. He was layered in a missmatch of blankets that felt so heavy they weighed him down. Beside him was a modest fire and on the other side sat the mage, cross-legged with his staff resting across his legs.
“Hadavad…” he croaked.
“Easy, boy.” The mage came to his aid with caution in his eyes. “You took more than one knock to the head, not to mention the rest.”
“What happened?” Alijah struggled to sit up, but when he did a jet of vomit shot from his mouth and onto the snow. Next came the dizziness and a coughing fit that he thought would never end.
“Easy now,” Hadavad said. “Drink this, you need to stay hydrated.”
Alijah blindly took the water skin from the mage and sipped at the cold liquid. The feel of it going down his throat brought broken images of Hadavad pouring small amounts of water into his mouth while he was semi-conscious.
“You need to rest,” Hadavad continued with a steadying hand on the rogue’s shoulder.
“How long have I been asleep?” Alijah straightened his back and groaned through the stiffness and pain. “Where are we?” he added, seeing nothing but darkness beyond the fire.
“Three days,” the mage replied bluntly.
Alijah stopped sipping the water and stared wildly at the mage. “Three days?” he echoed incredulously.
“As to the where,” Hadavad continued. “We’re in The Vrost Mountains.”
Alijah was hit with another fact that he found hard to swallow. They weren’t even in Alborn anymore, let alone Velia. The mage had carried him north, into Orith and the deep snows.
“It doesn’t seem cold enough to be The Vrost Mountains,” Alijah commented absently.
Hadavad raised his hand and touched an invisible field with his finger. The air rippled in the light, revealing a small dome that encompassed their camp and the horse.
“A trick I learned from your sister actually.”
Mention of Inara brought recent events to the forefront of Alijah’s mind, each revelation hitting him like a hammer. Velia was gone, overrun by the orcs. Gideon had disappeared and was potentially dead beside Ilargo somewhere. Korkanath had been razed to the ground and all of its students gone with it. Then there was the matter of the prophecies, apparently written by the same person who had seen him and Gideon through time. The Black Hand actually being able to see into the future was a nightmare scenario, but it paled in comparison to the last revelation that sat in Alijah’s gut like a stone.
He was bonded to Malliath…
“Alijah?” Hadavad said his name as if it was the second or third time he had tried to get through to the rogue. “You need more
rest.”
“No,” Alijah protested, holding up a hand. “I’ve rested long enough.” The half-elf was about to lay it all out for the mage when a single question blurted from his mouth. “What are we doing in The Vrost Mountains? In fact, why were you in Velia?”
Seeing that Alijah wouldn’t return to sleep, Hadavad sat back by the fire and sighed. “This was always my destination. I was on The Selk Road outside Velia when I saw the invasion. It was just luck that I found you when I did. That orc looked to be ending your life.”
Flashes of the orc painted with the white V struck Alijah like lightning. “Where’s my blade?” he asked suddenly.
Hadavad hesitated. “Lost, I’m afraid. You have your bow and quiver,” he said, gesturing to the pack on the side of the horse.
Alijah was disheartened to have lost Asher’s short-sword. For the first time since he left home, the rogue felt a twinge of guilt for taking the weapon.
Hadavad’s words cut through his train of thought. “I would that say by midday tomorrow we’ll reach our destination.”
That comment placed Alijah back in the present. “And where is that exactly? You never did say.”
The mage stared into the flames, considering his reply. “There’s something out here, Alijah. Something very old and full of answers. I’m sure of it.”
The half-elf glanced at their barren surroundings. “Hadavad, there’s nothing out here but more snow.”
The mage shook his head. “I’ve seen it. The Bastion…”
The name meant nothing to Alijah. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“I don’t think there are any still living who have,” Hadavad replied cryptically. “It looks to be from The First Kingdom by the design of it.”
“Looks to be? You’ve seen this place before then?”
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