“No…” Gideon uttered, his worst fears realised.
Ilargo flew to the heart of the islands, where the cliffs were smaller. The plateau on the central island was a semi-circular strip of land that housed the majority of dwellings for the Dragorn and provided enough space for more than a dozen dragons to wander comfortably.
It was a site of ruin and death…
The corpses of dragons and their companions lay strewn across the stone and rocks. A yellow dragon Gideon knew to be Segator lay dead half in the ocean, half on the beach, his throat torn out. In the centre of the meeting place lay the body of Rastek, a dragon with the most beautiful violet scales. The dragon’s head had been completely severed.
The few dragons that remained, all with injuries, moved between the dead, grieving for their kin. They were young, all of them. A quick glance at every survivor told Gideon that the younger, more inexperienced Dragorn, were all that remained. The older ones among their order had thrown themselves in front of the threat.
In all his years, it was the worst thing Gideon had ever seen.
Ilargo landed between the bodies, where the other dragons and their riders could converge on them. Still pained by his wounds, Gideon was slow to dismount and face those of his order. Exhausted and ashen faces greeted him, pleading for answers and guidance.
“What happened here?” he asked, no doubt in his mind as to the answer.
It was Rolan Baird who emerged from the crowd with the answer. “Malliath,” he said simply.
Gideon met his fellow councillor’s judging gaze without his usual confidence. He was used to Rolan and his harsh outlook, but the Master Dragorn always maintained his superiority around him. Now, Gideon felt the crushing weight of that judgement.
“We should have been here,” he began.
Rolan shook his head, cutting Gideon off. “You were where you were supposed to be. What you should have done was train us for this,” the councillor seethed, blood sprayed up one side of his face. “Years ago I warned you of the danger Malliath posed, the danger of a rogue and very angry dragon. You were too obsessed with bringing him into the fold. You said we would never be under threat from one of our own!”
Ilargo spoke up where Gideon failed to find the words. This particular discussion is for another time and place, Master Rolan.
Hearing Ilargo’s words through the bond with his own dragon, Rolan backed off and sighed before storming away. Alensia, his orange dragon, huffed at Ilargo before turning to follow her companion.
Ayana Glanduil, one of the few elves to be counted among the Dragorn, stepped forward and dismissed those gathered, requesting them to make preparations for the dead. After dispersing, the elven councillor turned to Gideon, her expression one of sympathy and grief.
“Master Thorn.” She bowed her head, respectful as ever, regardless of the circumstances.
“Ayana…” Gideon tilted his head with great sorrow and the two briefly embraced. “When did this happen?”
“It seems Velia’s destruction didn’t satiate Malliath for very long,” she explained. “He attacked us last night.”
Gideon looked away, tears blurring his vision. “This is all my fault,” he whispered. “I couldn’t beat Asher. If I had put him down there and then none of this would…” The Master Dragorn pinched his eyes, refusing to recall that putting Asher down had never been a possibility during their fight.
“The blame is not with you,” Ayana appealed, “nor is it with Malliath or Asher. The Black Hand and their Crow are the root that has sprouted this evil. They are the ones who have unleashed the orcs and Malliath’s fury upon the world.” The elf placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. “Do not blame yourself, Gideon.”
Lifting his head, Gideon drew in a deep breath, aware that he was being watched from afar by those who looked up to him. “Who did we lose?” he asked.
Ayana looked out on the devastation. “We’re still finding bodies across the isles, but our losses would still be too many if Malliath had killed only one of us. I’m afraid the council has suffered losses too.”
Gideon snapped his head around and scanned the corpses, searching for a dragon that belonged on the council.
“Alise is dead,” Ayana confirmed. “We found her south of here. Malliath’s work.”
Gideon could feel vomit rising in his gut and he fought the urgent need to release it all.
“That’s not all,” Ayana continued, her sorrow so painful she struggled to meet her master’s eyes. “Garin and Jorla returned from The Arid Lands in the middle of Malliath’s assault.” Gideon was shaking his head, refusing to believe what he knew Ayana was about to say. “They tried to protect the younger ones. He killed them both…”
Gideon almost stumbled away, his world turning upside down. While he had been crawling away from Velia, beaten and defeated, his family had been torn apart. Three of the seven that sat on the council were now dead, their home had been invaded, and the whole world had been shown that the Dragorn weren’t the protectors all believed them to be. How could they save anyone if they couldn’t even save themselves?
“We should have trained for this,” he said over and over.
Ayana tried to soothe him. “No one could have foreseen this…”
“I should have!” Gideon snapped, angry with himself. “That’s what I’m supposed to do. Instead, it is our enemy who foresees everything,” he spat. “We’re fighting a foe who has seen all our moves before we even conceive them.” Any dregs of hope were beginning to fade away.
Now is the time to be strong, Ilargo urged. They will need your guidance more than ever.
Gideon found Rolan’s back in the distance. How am I supposed to have the entire order rally behind me when I can’t even get my council to?
The council is not Gideon Thorn, Ilargo pointed out.
“Where is Alastir?” Gideon enquired, wanting to know the location of the only surviving councillor he had yet to see.
“He left for Grey Stone as you left for Velia. He’ll be on the other side of the country by now.”
For the first time since the order came together, Gideon felt very vulnerable having any Dragorn so far away, even one as skilled and accomplished as Alastir. Hopefully, the councillor had come to the aid of Inara Galfrey and the people of Grey Stone before any attack.
“I haven’t been able to communicate with anyone for days,” Gideon complained. “Why hasn’t the relay system been in place?” he enquired, eager to get lost in the details rather than dwell on the death that surrounded him.
“It was,” Ayana shrugged, mimicking the body language typical of a human. “The countryside is crawling with orcs since the attack on Velia. Many of the Dragorn who were situated to relay communications are now on the hunt, saving as many as they can.”
“So we have no idea about the state of Grey Stone or the refugees from Lirian and The Arid Lands?”
“I’m afraid not,” the elf admitted.
Gideon rubbed his eyebrow and glanced at the black daytime sky. “These orcs are making the Darkakin look like amateurs,” he remarked. The Master Dragorn turned to Ayana, his eyes bloodshot. “Make sure every Dragorn is paired with their dragon. They should be together, even in death.” The elf hesitated to leave him, but ultimately relented to his commands and bowed again before walking away.
Gideon watched her, accompanied by Deartanyon, her dragon, as she did what he failed to do; pick everyone up. He closed his eyes for a long moment, wondering how they were to recover from this.
The same way we always do, Ilargo averred, the dragon’s confidence battling his deep grief. We will do it together…
10
A New Direction
After centuries of forcing prisoners to mine and dig, Karak-Nor was a mountainous hollow riddled with tunnels and burrows. Were any of the prisoners to escape, they would likely wander the maze until they returned to their cells voluntarily in the hope of avoiding madness.
It had been sixty years since Do
ran had set foot in Grimwhal and even longer since he had cause to visit the pits of Karak-Nor. The son of Dorain took note of every tunnel and tried to memorise the faces of the shackled dwarves working the rock. After several minutes of being escorted through the mine, however, they all began to look the same.
They went up then down, left then right. The tunnels curved in every direction and all the dwarves wore the same rags and used the same tools.
Behind him, the Galfreys and Petur Devron appeared just as lost as he did. How the dwarven soldiers pushing them along knew the way was beyond Doran.
They had been woken from their first sleep and dragged from their cells at what was most likely first light. Doran had asked where they were going and his only reply had been, “Questioning!” The stout ranger found himself praying to Grarfath that his mother’s loyalists were ready for them.
Looking ahead, he could see a small clearing opening up where a choice of tunnels presented themselves. Doran decided the space was big enough to make his stand and too small for the dwarves to surround them. He stole a glance over his shoulder and gave Nathaniel the nod, who passed the silent message along to Reyna. Petur’s part in all this was to drop low and do his best to avoid the brawl altogether.
Doran fell forward, feigning an innocent trip, and landed face down in the clearing. As predicted, two of the guards moved in to pick him up by the arms.
“Get up, traitor!” one of them barked.
Doran helped them by pushing up with one leg, only he used a lot more force than they did. His solid head shot up and rammed the dwarf to his right in the nose, staggering the guard. A sharp elbow to his left broke the second guard’s jaw and a kick to the gut put him on his back.
The guard with a broken nose roared before he charged at Doran for bloody vengeance. Nathaniel jumped forward, feet first, and caught the angry dwarf in the side of his face, freeing the son of Dorain to tackle the guards who had been leading their escort.
Armed with battle hammers, the two wielded weapons that could put him down for good. Doran was just hoping that they were under strict instructions not to kill him.
The first hammer came at him from above, easily blocked by intercepting the haft with both hands. Locked in a stalemate, Doran dashed to the side and let the guard drive the weapon’s head into the ground. Crouched over his own hammer, the dwarf was powerless to prevent Doran from looping the chain of his manacles up and around his neck. One quick squeeze and three successive knees to the back dropped the guard at his feet.
Behind him, Reyna had wrapped her own chains around one of the guards bringing up the rear and sought to throttle him. With a strength no one would guess her to possess, the ambassador almost lifted the dwarf from the ground she pulled so hard. His face went from red to blue before he finally passed out.
Petur scrambled across the ground, careful to avoid the melee as he hugged the walls. Nathaniel stepped in and grabbed the hammer coming down on the scholar from Palios. The old knight caught it with both hands and pushed down, reversing the haft of the weapon into the guard’s face. Reyna skidded across the ground and delivered a swift kick to the back of the guard’s knee, putting him on his back. Nathaniel finished him off by hitting him again with the butt of the hammer.
The last guard faced Doran with his battle hammer, his girth shifting left and right as he sized up the son of Dorain. Then he stopped. The guard stood up straight and casually checked over his unconscious comrades with a critical eye.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t hit me first,” he said in dwarvish. “Follow me,” he bade, making for the tunnel on their left.
Doran shared his moment of confusion with the others before realising the truth of their situation. “Praise, Grarfath,” he muttered, taking off after the dwarf.
The four companions ran down the tunnel, light on their feet, in the wake of the leading guard. The dwarf paused at several junctions and checked for patrolling Heavybellys. When they came across digging prisoners, the dwarf lined the companions back up and pretended to be escorting them through the mine.
Taking more twists and turns than Doran could ever hope to remember, the group was finally led down a long tunnel that had far fewer torches lining its walls.
“Psst!” came a hiss from the shadows between torches.
The leading guard brought them to a stop as four more dwarves emerged from a side tunnel. They each carried the gear and weapons that belonged to the companions, all of which were gladly reclaimed.
“Make it look good,” the guard said to the other dwarves.
Before Doran could inquire as to his meaning, the four dwarves each had a turn hitting the guard in the face. His bruises and broken features grew worse with every blow, but the last one, a headbutt to the nose, dropped the guard out cold.
“Follow us,” the new dwarves commanded.
Doran did his best to attach his weapons and adorn his armour as they resumed their journey through Karak-Nor. They navigated the maze a while longer, zig-zagging as they ascended the deep roots of the mountain.
The cold air hit him first, then the sound of the howling wind as it blew into the mountain. The final corner revealed a square of bright light at the end of the tunnel. Sitting in the shadows, beside the entrance, was a cart with two Warhogs tethered to the front. It was a simple cart, stacked with boxes, some of which appeared over-stuffed with food and cloth.
One of their escorting dwarves pulled the tarp off the cart and showed them the truth of it. The boxes lined the outside, hiding the small dwelling in the middle of the cart where a few might huddle in secret.
“I suggest you take the reins and they hide in the back,” the nameless dwarf advised.
“Thank you,” Doran replied, searching for any sign of animosity from his kin. How they felt about Grimwhal’s traitor would remain with them, however, as they seemed content to obey his mother.
“This is for you,” the dwarf handed Doran a bound scroll no bigger than his hand.
Before Doran could unroll it, the four dwarves turned and disappeared into the depths of Karak-Nor again, their task complete.
“What is that?” Reyna asked.
Seeing the script was in his mother’s writing, Doran read the message to himself first.
Run Doran; that is my advice. I sense, however, that there is more to you now. If discovering the content of that mine will prevent your brother from going to war, I would have it known. Dakmund told me of these stubborn doors. If there is an answer to their mystery, it will be found in the archives of Silvyr Hall. Inside the cart, you will find a trading medallion. This will allow you to enter King Uthrad’s domain. Beyond that, I can offer no aid in breaching the archives. As I said: Run, Doran. Staying out of Dhenaheim is the only way you get to live. Be safe, my son…
Doran swallowed hard and scrunched the note up. He wanted to keep it, of course, but should it ever be found, his mother would be incriminated.
“Burn it,” he instructed Reyna, throwing it over.
The elf caught it and quickly inspected the unreadable glyphs. “What is it, Doran?”
The son of Dorain looked inside the cart and found the circular medallion the note spoke of. It was engraved with dwarvish script and stamped with the symbol of the traders’ guild.
“It’s a note from me mother,” he finally answered. “Ye need to burn it, me Lady, jus’ to be safe.”
Reyna held her hand out, the note scrunched in her palm, and ignited a flame. The spell reduced the note to little bits of ash, which blew away in the wind.
“We can move with little notice in this,” Doran continued, gesturing to the cart and Warhogs. “But we have this.” The dwarf held up the medallion.
“What is that?” Nathaniel asked.
“A tradin’ medallion,” Doran explained. “With one o’ these, an’ the appropriate wares, ye can travel from kingdom to kingdom an’ trade.”
“Why would we need one of those?” Petur asked, clinging to his reclaimed satchel.
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Doran considered his mother’s words. “Dak told me mother about those damned doors, back in the mine. She thinks the answer to openin’ them might be in the archives at Silvyr Hall.”
“Silvyr Hall?” Reyna echoed. “The most powerful kingdom in Dhenaheim?”
“An’ the most guarded,” Doran added.
“Why would she help us with this?” Nathaniel asked.
“Unlike the rest o’ me kin, me mother sees the folly in any war, even an easy one with Illian.”
Despite Petur’s freezing body, the scholar had a look of excitement to him. “We’re going to Silvyr Hall?” he beamed.
“Don’ look so happy abou’ it,” Doran warned. “Gettin’ into the city is easy. Gettin’ into the archives and findin’ what we need is goin’ to be bloody hard with three giants!”
“The alternative is heading east, to The Iron Valley,” Nathaniel suggested instead. “Even if we can’t open those doors, perhaps we can find some way of turning the army around.”
Reyna shook her head. “We need proof that what they’re fighting over is nothing but dust.” The elf looked down at Doran. “We need to get inside,” she implored.
Doran thought about what his mother and brother had already put on the line for him. He couldn’t change the world they lived in or free them of their bonds to his father. If they simply returned to Illian now, however, war would be inevitable, a war that Dakmund would have to lead from the front of the Heavybelly army.
“A’right…” Doran pocketed the trading medallion. “We go to Silvyr Hall an’ find out what we can abou’ that pesky lock.”
“Fantastic!” Petur exclaimed.
Doran frowned at the ridiculous excuse for a man. “Aye, maybe ye can actually learn a thin’ or two abou’ dwarves while we’re there.” The son of Dorain gestured to the back of the cart. “There’s furs inside an’ some supplies too. Huddle in an’ stay warm. Don’, under any circumstances, show yerselves unless I say ye can. One peep at ye an’ all o’ Dhenaheim will descend on this cart!”
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