Petur cleared his throat. “I hate to add another dilemma to your reasoning, Ambassador Reyna, but even if we were free of these cells, we still don’t know how to open the workshop doors.”
Reyna let her head rest between the bars as despair began to creep into her bones. Doran could see her reasoning and he was sure that, if anyone, the elf could convince the old war-witch of Namdhor to withdraw. There were, however, too many obstacles between them and that workshop. Chiefly, his clan.
After untold hours of wallowing in the cells of Karak-Nor, Doran’s sensitive dwarven touch detected a vibration in the rock. He knew instantly that the one who approached was wearing heavy armour, but he also knew they weren’t alone.
“Psst.” The son of Dorain woke his companions and nodded to the gate of his cell.
The mine, as ever, was still a cacophony of pick-axes on rock and general shouting. Their visitors came from the right, passing by Nathaniel and Petur’s cell as they came before Doran and Reyna. Both were cloaked and hooded, their identities concealed, as they walked along the narrow path.
“What are ye abou’?” Doran demanded in Illian’s common tongue.
As one, the two dwarves lowered their hoods, revealing Dakmund and Doran’s mother, Queen Drelda. Doran discovered his tongue had gone numb in his mouth.
To human eyes, the queen of clan Heavybelly would have been described as fierce by her appearance. She was stout with broad shoulders and a face that looked to have been carved from the mountain itself. She would never be complimented as Reyna was, but she was beautiful none the less.
She was also the first and only person to tell Doran he was loved…
“Mother.” The first-born son of Dorain bowed his head and hesitated to look her in the eyes again.
Queen Drelda stepped closer to the bars. “I thought I would never see you again,” she said in dwarvish, her tone as soft as it could be. “I dreamed that you had found a better life, away from all the death. But you left your brother,” she added, glancing at Dakmund behind her. “Now, I will soon lose him to your father and his throne. I do not blame you for leaving, nor leaving without a word. But you should not have left Dakmund to this fate.”
Dakmund puffed out his chest. “Mother…”
Queen Drelda wouldn’t hear it. “Neither of you should have to endure that wretched crown. And killing your own kin to prove that you are worthy is beyond ridiculous!”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Doran choked. “If I had stayed, perhaps I could have changed things. Used the crown to make things better.”
Drelda sighed and shook her head of greying blonde hair. “Unless your name is King Uthrad, son of Koddun, and you reside in Silvyr Hall, there is no crown that can make a difference.”
Doran couldn’t even fathom a crown such as that. To sit as the king of the Battleborns was to sit at the top of Dhenaheim. Perhaps it was naive to believe he could have made any real difference. Especially when he was surrounded by his kin, all of whom enjoyed their violent hierarchy.
“What is to become of us?” Doran asked, fearing for his friends.
“Nothing good,” the queen replied ominously. “I have convinced your father to stay your execution, but your companions have arrived at a bad time. With every mile that Namdhor’s army advances into Dhenaheim, your father’s paranoia, and that of the other kings, increases tenfold. They believe we are on the brink of war with Illian and you are spies.”
“Bah! Two of them are ambassadors and the other is a witless shit who knows nothing about dwarves. And I didn’t even want to come here!”
“Be that as it may,” Drelda continued, “that ancient mine has set events in motion that cannot be undone. Your friends will be executed.”
Doran groaned and his shoulders sagged. “That bloody mine…” he grumbled in the common tongue.
Reyna stepped forward. “What about the mine?”
Queen Drelda wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Tell the elf to stand back. She smells of damp wood and old mushrooms…”
Doran held his hand up to Reyna. “Give us a moment, me Lady,” he said, skewing his mother’s translation.
“You have come to say goodbye then, is that what this is?” he asked, eyeing both his mother and brother.
The queen turned her head to look down both sides of the path, checking their privacy. “I will not let my first-born rot in Karak-Nor. Your father’s will be damned and that of all the clans. I have secured you a way out of here.”
“I won’t go without them,” Doran insisted.
“I thought you wouldn’t,” his mother grumbled. “I have secured their passage too but, be warned, their escape will be treated as an act of aggression. You will be hunted relentlessly.”
“We all go, or we all stay.” They were bold words, but he would die by them if he had to.
“You have changed…” The queen eyed her son with some affection. “Your opportunity will come when you are all removed for questioning. I cannot free you, you must achieve that yourself. Once you are free, dwarves loyal to me will escort you to the surface.”
“What of yourselves?” Doran asked, worried that they would suffer his father’s wrath in his place.
“Be assured,” Dakmund spoke for the first time, “it will not trace back to us.”
The queen moved closer to Doran. “This time, do not be so foolish as to come back. Live free.”
Doran gripped the thick bars with white knuckles. “I don’t want to leave you. Come with us, both of you.”
Drelda shook her head. “Our place is here, boy. We are what we are. Your father and I will grow older and die and your brother will assume the throne. But even my sweet Dakmund cannot change what Grarfath and Yamnomora have made.”
“Fear not, big brother.” Dakmund gave him a wink. “We have managed the last sixty years, we can manage the next.”
Doran sighed and let his bruised forehead rest between the bars. They were but rocks on the mountainside; none of them could change the shape of the mountain itself.
“Doran,” Reyna pressed again. “Are you talking about the mine? Tell them it’s imperative that we learn more about it. Getting inside could be—”
Doran held up his hand again, concerned that his mother might go so far as to spit on the ambassador.
“What is the elf blabbering about?” the queen asked.
Doran shrugged. “She wants to discover what that ancient workshop’s about. She believes the contents, or lack thereof, might dissuade Queen Yelifer from advancing her troops.”
Queen Drelda looked at Dakmund ever so briefly, her concern evident to Doran. “Just get yourselves ready. Remember; you are to escape custody without aid first.” Doran made to speak but his mother grabbed his fingers around the bar and squeezed. “I never want to see you again…” Without waiting for a response, the queen strode away, lifting her hood to hide her royal features.
Dakmund lingered a moment longer. “I wish things could have been different, brother. I hope that whatever life you return to is a good one.”
Doran nodded, thinking hard on his life as a ranger. “It is,” he replied confidently.
Dakmund smiled. “Then we shall never meet again.” Both brothers clasped forearms between the bars, taking in each other’s features for the last time.
“Farewell, Dak…” Doran stepped back into his cell and watched his younger brother walk away.
“What was all that about?” Nathaniel asked.
“Are they going to execute us now?” Petur quavered with tears welling in his eyes.
Doran craned his neck and looked up at the tiers of Karak-Nor, noting the guards on patrol. “We’re gettin’ out o’ ’ere,” he said quietly before turning to his companions. “Prepare yerselves.”
7
The Would-Be King
Approaching from the south, Namdhor rose up into the north, the capital city entrenched in a mountainous hill. The great slab of earth rose up from the flat snows and rested over The King’s Lake, i
ts bulk supported by a single column of natural rock.
From the caravan’s advance, Vighon Draqaro could see the arch under the rising slope, between the column of rock. It was in that gap, where the lake met the shore, that all of Namdhor’s kings and queens had been ceremoniously crowned.
“Why would they crown them under there?” Galanör asked, having been listening to Vighon’s observations. “I thought coronations took place in a throne room.”
Happy for the distraction, the northman replied, “It’s supposed to be symbolic. To be crowned under the weight of the city. It’s meant to remind the king or queen that they serve the people and the responsibility sits on their shoulders.”
Beside them, Russell Maybury turned his sight to The Dragon Keep, at the very top of Namdhor’s slope. “Did anyone inform Queen Yelifer of that?” he asked dryly.
Vighon couldn’t bring himself to laugh or even smile at the quip. Just seeing the city and the lake behind it made his stomach drop. He clenched his fists around the reins of the horse he had been given, battling with the storm that raged inside of him. He desperately wanted to turn the horse around and ride south until the mount’s legs gave way.
The motion of the caravan was relentless, however, and he was soon forced to continue with them. The lower town, spread out across the flat ground at the base of the slope, was a gathered mass of people. Whether the people of Namdhor were out to welcome their guests or shun them was yet to be decided.
Processing through the central road, down the slope, were the knights of the north, recognisable by the golden cloaks flowing out behind them. It was the riders behind them that concerned Vighon. These men appeared without armour or sigil yet they followed the knights closely and unfettered.
The Ironsworn…
Focus as he might, the lead rider was too far for his human eyes to identify. It was a man, unmistakably, and dressed in black. There were few who could command from the front without the lion sigil on their breast.
Sure that Arlon Draqaro was riding towards them, Vighon’s instinct to disappear and blend into the crowd began to take over. Directing his steed, the northman started to drift into the caravan, away from his companions. The instinct to avoid his father was comparable to avoiding a sword swinging at his neck.
“Vighon?” Galanör called.
The elf’s questioning tone brought Vighon back into the moment and he faced the ranger as a horse and cart passed between them. Galanör guided his horse to come alongside the northman and the two followed slowly behind the soldiers that surrounded King Jormund and King Weymund.
“Why the bloody hell am I here?” Vighon asked aloud, answering Galanör’s silent question.
The elven ranger turned his hooded head. “Whatever demons of your past await you here, we will face them together.”
Coming from a warrior as accomplished as Galanör, that should have been a comfort, but it wasn’t. Vighon had seen firsthand, having done it himself, what The Ironsworn did to those who stood up to them. In his nightmares, he could still see the blood on his hands.
“You would fight for me?” Vighon queried, certain that the elf owed him nothing.
“We have fought shoulder to shoulder,” Galanör replied honestly. “That makes us brothers where I come from.”
Vighon nodded along, his mind still racing. “It’s the same here,” he said absently before concentrating on the elf. “I still think you’re really annoying, though…” He offered the ranger a coy smile as he dug his heels into the horse.
Matching his speed, Galanör fired back, “And I still think you’re just a rogue whose only skill is with a sword… and I don’t think you have much skill with a sword.”
Vighon frowned at the elf and gestured to them both. “You need to work on this; that was just harsh.”
Galanör smiled apologetically. “Forgive me: my wit is not that of Alijah’s.”
Vighon missed the brotherly banter they shared but, more than anything, he just missed having his friend around. There wasn’t much that could distract him enough to stop worrying about the half-elf. The only comfort he could take was in the knowledge that Alijah was in the company of Gideon Thorn. He hoped, wherever they were, that the pair had solved the mystery of the spells cast over him and Malliath.
The sound of hooves beating in the snow drew his attention to the north again. The riders had reached the lower town and were advancing on them, by the edge of the buildings.
With Russell behind them, towing his cart of goods, the pair weaved between the few that cut them off from the royal party. Vighon decided he could only be of help if he actually knew what was happening or, more specifically, what his father was saying.
Sighting his vision between the bobbing heads of soldiers and crowned kings, Vighon finally laid eyes on the commanding rider. Arlon Draqaro, the would-be king of Namdhor, rode his horse as a nobleman, donned in a long black coat, fine jewellery, and a furry white cloak with the head of a wolf hanging over his shoulder. His expensive gloves concealed the intricate pattern of tattoos that decorated his hands, but the high collar of his shirt failed to hide the tattoos that ran up his neck.
It didn’t matter how many expensive clothes he wore or how high he rose in The Dragon Keep; Vighon knew his father would always be a thug under it all.
Arlon brought his horse and that of his men to a stop. “King Jormund! King Weymund! Welcome to Namdhor! I am Lord Arlon Draqaro, special advisor to Queen Yelifer of house Skalaf.”
Words passed between the kings and Lord Draqaro, but Vighon missed it all, his heart beating as loudly as it was. He watched his father intently, sure that, any second, he was going to notice his son. Perhaps that recognition had to happen, he thought, just to remind him that the world wouldn’t come to an end.
As Arlon’s gaze wandered over the faces of the kings and the soldiers, he was turning inevitably towards Vighon. Just as their eyes were to meet, however, the sound of beating wings averted everyone’s attention to the black sky.
Inara Galfrey, the real reason Vighon had begrudgingly returned home, dropped out of the sky astride Athis the ironheart. With no light to pierce the dark clouds of ash, the dragon was without his impressive shadow. His landing more than made up for it. Athis brought his hind legs down first and reared in the manner of a horse, presenting the crowds with his chest of slate grey and deadly front claws. His wings fanned out beside him before the dragon finally came to all fours, revealing the half-elf on his back.
Vighon tore his eyes from the spectacular arrival to discover his father’s eyes on him, as black as a shark’s and as eager to devour their prey.
Athis’s bulk and sudden appearance startled many of the horses, displacing the mounted soldiers between Vighon and Arlon. When next a gap presented itself, the lord of Namdhor was beckoning the kings and Inara to follow him, his son apparently forgotten.
“The churches of Atilan and Fimira have already offered many of your people shelter,” Arlon announced, turning his horse back to the city. “They have overly large cathedrals that few use anyway…” he added, never religious himself.
Vighon was more than happy to delay speaking with his father and find a tavern nearby before the refugees filled up every available space in the lower town and the city itself. Inara, however, caught his eye in the distance and gestured for him and Galanör to accompany her. He hesitated until the ranger began to make his way through the crowd.
“You go ahead,” Russell waved them on. “I’ll find somewhere to keep my things and maybe a couple of beds for us.” With Nelly, his dog, the werewolf pulled his hood low and headed farther into the lower town.
Vighon would have preferred to have Russell’s strength on his side, but he wouldn’t willingly put the man’s life in danger just to have his support. He fell in beside Galanör and trotted along the muddy road, lined with snow, until they were only a few feet behind the kings and their escorts.
The Gold Cloaks of Namdhor led the way with Arlon, but The Iron
sworn thugs moved aside, allowing them to bring up the rear of their party. Vighon could feel their eyes on him and his back felt vulnerable, even with his shield slung over it. He couldn’t resist looking back over his shoulder. A bald man lined in tattoos blew him a kiss, eliciting a snigger from the others. Beside the bald thug, a younger man he knew to go by the name of Rowley ran his thumb from one side of his throat to the other.
Glancing at the others, Vighon recognised most of them. Murderers, thieves, rapists… They were the backbone of The Ironsworn and he hated every one of them.
“Vighon…” Galanör uttered his name with some authority.
The northman followed the elf’s attention to his own hand, resting on the hilt of his one-handed broadsword. Vighon made a conscious effort to let go of it and focus on the sloping road.
“Don’t rise to them,” Galanör advised. “Your lack of response will irritate them more than anything else.”
Vighon gritted his teeth for a moment. “I don’t want to irritate them. I want to kill them.”
Galanör frowned. “You would kill these men without cause?”
“I have plenty of cause,” Vighon replied, recalling all too easily the many atrocities he had witnessed these men commit. “They’re no better than orcs to my eyes, maybe worse. At least orcs have the excuse of being monsters.”
“They are still men,” Galanör argued. “Criminals yes, but they are men all the same. Would you not—”
Vighon cut him off. “I didn’t tell you about my life here so you could instil me with better morals. I told you so you’d know what you’re dealing with. Make no mistake, Ranger, these men will slit your throat while you sleep for nothing more than the pleasure of it…”
Behind Arlon’s lead, the group ascended Namdhor’s straight climb, passing the streets dug out of the mighty slope. Enormous churches, as old as human civilisation itself, dominated many of the upper levels. The higher they journeyed the grander the houses became. Only the frequency of taverns remained, proving that no matter what your social standing, people still wanted to drink and have somewhere warm to share stories.
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