Doran looked about, his view obscured by the large forge in the middle. “Knowin’ that dolt, he’s probably only gone an’ got ’imself lost in a chamber with one bloody door…”
“I’m over here,” Petur called from the other side of the forge.
It was subtle, but Doran detected something different about his voice. Judging by her haste, so too did Reyna. The pair rounded the ancient forge and discovered a distressing sight.
Nathaniel was slowly floating in the air, his expression agonised, as if he was drowning on air. Reyna gasped and Doran rushed over beside her. Then, they saw Petur.
He was aiming a wand at Nathaniel.
“Petur?” Reyna sounded just as confused as Doran looked.
The scholar walked around Nathaniel, his wand now by his side. Doran looked the man up and down, seeing something other than the gangly moron that had accompanied them thus far. His movements were smooth, calculated. His expression was cold, absent of its usual mania. His eyes were sharp and focused, free of their erratic nature.
This was not Petur Devron…
“I am aware of your magical prowess, Ambassador, but if your fingers so much as twitch, your husband will never be freed of this spell and, I assure you, if I do not release him from it, death is certain. And painful.” Even his voice was different, commanding and confident.
“What are ye abou’?” Doran demanded furiously.
“Why are you doing this, Petur?” Reyna added, her attention flitting between her agonised husband and the man holding the wand.
“Petur…” The man tasted his name. “I would say I’ve played quite the fool, but it would be a better description to say I’ve played you for fools.”
Doran dropped a hand onto his belted hatchet. “Start talkin’ boy or—”
“What, dwarf?” the man finished. “Are you going to throw your little axe at me? Nathaniel here would be left to suffer for hours, beyond your aid, before dying in front of your eyes.”
Using a more tactful tone, Reyna asked, “Who are you?”
“My name is Killian Torvaris,” he said boldly. “But, it matters little. The only name that truly means anything is Kaliban.”
Doran’s face crumpled as his mind dredged that name up. “Kaliban?” he echoed.
Reyna’s face, by comparison, had a touch of revelation to it. “The Black Hand,” she uttered.
Killian offered an arrogant smirk. “Your familiarity with my order will save us all some time.”
Doran remembered. “Oh, ye’re one o’ them magic nutters that likes messin’ with the dead.”
The dark mage’s top lip curled. “We worship the one true god: Kaliban! There is no greater work to be done in this realm than His!”
Doran spat on the floor at the mage’s feet. “Bah! Ye’re jus’ a bunch o’ necromancers! Nothin’ more!”
“Take a care, son of Dorain.” Killian pointed the tip of his wand at Nathaniel’s floating body. “The process can be sped up at my leisure. Now, to make things simple; you should accept me as your master for the time being. Do as I say and the princess gets her husband back. Continue to blaspheme,” he added ominously, “and he will not be returned in one piece.”
Reyna held her hands out to calm the pair, her emerald eyes focused on Killian. “Why the deception, Killian? What business does The Black Hand have in all of this?”
“The Black Hand has been shaping the realm for centuries, Ambassador. A push here, a word there… We have seen to the rise and fall of entire kingdoms. Now, at last, The Lord Crow, as was promised, has returned to show us the way, Kaliban’s way.”
Doran tutted. “Is there a point to all this ramblin’, lad? Or should we expect jus’ as many words out o’ yer trap as yer alter ego?”
Killian’s reply was action more than words. The response was slow, but Nathaniel’s pained expression began to worsen, yet his voice was never heard.
“Stop!” Reyna yelled at the mage, her husband’s pain unbearable. “Doran, stop,” she added pleadingly.
Shocked and horrified at his friend’s pain, Doran nodded solemnly and silently vowed to tone his attitude down. He didn’t want to be the cause of any more pain for Nathaniel.
Killian continued, “This will go a lot smoother, and pain free, if we all play nicely.”
Reyna blinked her tears away and composed herself. “What do you want?” she asked.
Killian Torvaris looked to their right, directing everyone’s attention to the wall of engravings. “You two are going to forge a Moonblade,” he said simply.
Both dwarf and elf stared at the dark mage as if he had lost his mind.
“Did ye not hear a word we said?” Doran was being as diplomatic as a dwarf could be. “We don’ even know if Moonblades are real! We can’ jus’ make one because ye tell us to!”
With his free hand, Killian removed a bound scroll from his satchel and threw it to Reyna. “Moonblades are very real, Doran, son of Dorain. And you will forge one.”
Reyna broke the seal on the scroll and unravelled it. Her elven eyes scanned every inch of it before looking up at the wall of engravings.
“What is it?” Doran asked, too small to see the scroll in her hands.
The elf held the parchment out for him to see. “It’s a translation of the engravings,” she answered, bewildered.
Doran could see that the top of the page had the glyphs scrawled out just as they were on the wall. The bottom half of the page had the word for word translation. They were forging instructions.
“Where did ye get this?” the dwarf challenged.
“From The Lord Crow, of course. He sees all.”
Reyna looked from the wall to the scroll to Killian. “These engravings haven’t been seen for five thousand years,” she pointed out. “How could your Lord Crow know this?”
Killian grinned arrogantly. “The almighty Kaliban pierces all shadow and darkness. Nothing lies beyond His sight.”
Reyna lifted an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting The Lord Crow can see through the mountain?”
“The mountain?” Killian mocked. “The Lord Crow has been blessed with The Sight. Kaliban has given him the power to see all that is to come. You can’t hope to beat that kind of power.”
“He can see the future?” Reyna questioned.
“He can see more than you,” Killian replied. “That is all that matters. Even now, you are blind to the world beyond these mountains. You have no idea what’s happened to Illian in your absence.”
Doran didn’t like the sound of that. “What are ye talkin’ abou’?”
“While we’ve been running around Dhenaheim, Illian has fallen into ruin. The orcs have returned and ravaged it with war.”
Doran’s eyes flashed with anger. “Ye’re lyin’!” he accused.
Killian slowly shook his head. “I was there when The Lord Crow liberated them from their Under Realm, in The Undying Mountains. I saw him unite their barbaric tribes under one king. Their plans for Illian were vicious.”
Reyna’s eyes were glassy. “You must be wrong,” she insisted. “There were only a few orcs. Gideon and Inara went to investigate them…”
Killian responded with a wicked grin. “I’m afraid the orcs will have been waiting for them. I too am saddened to have missed it all,” he confessed, if for the wrong reasons. “Still, we all have our parts to play. You should be honoured that Kaliban has such use of you all.”
The dwarf wondered if Lirian was still standing and if Russell was still alive. Then, he decided, the mage was likely lying to them.
“Why should we believe a word that rolls off o’ that forked tongue o’ yers? Ye’ve done nothin’ but deceive us an’ now ye threaten us!”
“I might have missed the start of the war, son of Dorain, but my master has never missed anything. The translation of those glyphs is proof enough. He has already seen to the details. Why do you think you’re here? It was my master who told the Namdhorians that this place even existed. He told them where to dig an
d he knew exactly how long it would take.” The mage looked specifically at Reyna, his tone serious. “Because he has seen it. He said that when we arrived, at this moment, only Namdhor would still be standing.”
Reyna looked physically hurt. “That would mean thousands of people are…”
“Dead,” Killian concluded. “Yes, I’m afraid this war is very real. It’s the only reason we are here. Your choices are simple: forge the Moonblade or Nathaniel Galfrey dies.”
Doran clenched his fist. “If we forge one o’ them blades Reyna will die!” he countered.
Killian imitated a sympathetic expression. “Your place, dwarf, is to wield the hammer, nothing more. The choice is Reyna’s alone. Forge the Moonblade or watch your husband die a slow and painful death.”
“Why?” Reyna asked. “What’s to stop you from killing Doran and Nathaniel after the blade is forged?”
Killian nodded along. “Yes, The Lord Crow said you would argue that point. You will forge the blade, without delay and without protest. The reason for your compliance is quite simple.”
Doran doubted it. “Enlighten us, Torvaris.”
“Because events are constantly in motion, a cascade of decisions and actions. Your decision to obey my commands and your actions in forging a Moonblade will set the next event in motion.”
Reyna turned a suspicious eye on the mage. “And what event would that be?”
Killian had the air of victory about him. “You’re going to help save the world, of course…”
32
When the Dragon Met the Snake
Gideon Thorn stood before the empty throne of The Dragon Keep and wondered, with some irritation, why he was talking to the lord of Namdhor.
“Where is Queen Yelifer?” the Master Dragorn asked tersely.
Lord Draqaro glanced at the hideous skull in which the throne resided. “I’m afraid Queen Yelifer isn’t very well at this time. A passing sickness to be sure, but, in her stead, I will be seeing to Namdhor’s needs.”
There wasn’t one thing Gideon liked about the man. All his life, the Master Dragorn had considered himself a good judge of character and, right now, his gut told him this man was not to be trusted.
A minor commotion among the gathered lords and knights turned Gideon to a pair of familiar faces in the surrounding crowd. Seeing Galanör, his oldest friend, was a great relief and gave him hope that Inara had also survived the battle at Grey Stone. The man standing next to the elf reminded Gideon why the lord of Namdhor’s name sounded so familiar.
Attired in dark leathers and, curiously, a golden cloak of Namdhor, Vighon Draqaro stared back at Gideon with anticipation. It was clear to see that both wished to speak with him urgently, but their restraint spoke of a need for privacy.
Seeing Vighon brought Alijah to the surface, distracting Gideon for a moment. The guilt he felt threatened to open a pit inside of him.
The lord of Namdhor cleared his throat. “Master Thorn?” he said in an expectant tone.
If the man had asked him a question, Gideon didn’t care to hear it again. “If you are seeing to this city’s needs, Lord Draqaro, why is your army miles from here?”
Interestingly, the lord of Namdhor glanced at Galanör and Vighon before returning his attention to the Master Dragorn. “We live under threat of war from the dwarves of Dhenaheim, Master Thorn. The brave men of Namdhor have journeyed north to deliver a message to those that dwell under the mountains: Vengora belongs to us.”
Gideon was rapidly losing any patience he had. “Messages do not usually require an entire army to deliver them.”
“Dwarves give little power to words,” Lord Draqaro replied coolly. “A great deal of steel is required to make sure they understand.”
“The lack of understanding appears to be on your end, Lord Draqaro. I have travelled here ahead of an army of orcs. Their path has already taken them through Darkwell and Dunwich, towns under your protection. As we speak, a fellow Dragorn is escorting refugees from Dunwich—”
Lord Draqaro shot up from his seat with some theatricality. “Then Namdhor is saved! Did you hear that, everyone? More Dragorn are on their way to save us all from the dreaded orcs!” His cold dark eyes bored down into Gideon. “Just as they did for the people of Lirian and Grey Stone,” he added with no lack of venom. “Just as they did for The Arid Lands…”
Lord Draqaro began pacing the podium. “Oh, wait! The Dragorn failed to prevent the orcs from conquering every other kingdom in the realm. Apparently, Master Thorn, the orcs have a dragon of their own, and it is far more powerful than yourself.”
Gideon had to remind himself that the master of the Dragorn was expected to refrain from knocking lords through walls. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said as calmly as he could manage.
“And when it comes to the north,” Draqaro shot back, “neither do you. This country is ours. We have been fighting in it and defending it for centuries. Do not come into my house and demand answers. When the orcs arrive, we will wipe them out in one fell swoop.” Taking a lighter tone, he said, “But, Namdhor thanks you for your services and your escort of our people. We would appreciate any assistance you could offer in this time. As you can imagine, our resources are fraying under the added pressure of so many refugees.”
Gideon regarded the blank faces that lined the throne room, noting the absence of representatives from the other kingdoms. “Where is King Jormund or King Weymund? I would speak with both.”
Lord Draqaro’s expression contorted into disingenuous sorrow. “It saddens me to be the one to inform you, Master Thorn, but the kings and their families were assassinated by a group of orcs. Right here in The Dragon Keep, in fact.”
Gideon looked away, his mind racing. As terrible as it was to imagine the deaths of both kings and their families, the loss of both had far reaching consequences.
Ilargo reached the conclusion first. Queen Yelifer of house Skalaf remains the only living monarch in all of Illian now. Even the dragon said it with a dreaded recognition.
Lord Draqaro continued his scathing report. “It remains, unfortunately, another example of the Dragorn failing to keep us safe…”
Gideon’s attention snapped back and he met Draqaro’s gaze. “Inara was here,” he concluded. “Where is she now?” Despite asking the lord of Namdhor, he looked at Galanör and Vighon, who both offered reassuring nods.
“That is an excellent question, Master Thorn. As the leader of your order, I was hoping you could explain her sudden departure. We are, as you say, challenged by the orcs.”
“I’m right here!” came a call from the back of the throne room.
Everyone, including Gideon, turned to see Inara Galfrey standing between the open doors. Her hands were worryingly coated in dried blood and her face and leathers were littered with ash, much like everyone else who ventured outside.
Gideon sent a silent question to Ilargo, wondering why his companion hadn’t informed him of Athis’s approach.
Athis wanted her to have a dramatic entrance… Ilargo explained.
The dragon’s response would have been amusing if the Master Dragorn’s frustration hadn’t been mounting since Lord Draqaro opened his mouth. His irritation crossed over their bond, but Ilargo had already begun to busy himself with removing obsidian arrows from Athis’s back. Regardless of the minor annoyance, he was still overjoyed to see Inara alive.
The young Dragorn strode into the throne room with an air of confidence Gideon couldn’t recall seeing in her previously.
“Forgive my absence and lack of explanation,” she announced, pausing only to acknowledge her master with a curt nod of the head. “I have just returned from a flight south of here, following the mountains to the west. A fellow Dragorn, Master Knox, was in distress. Unfortunately, I return to you now with alarming news.”
Lord Draqaro gestured to the gathering. “Please, Master Galfrey, regale us with your findings.”
Gideon reserved his desired response; but he was lef
t wondering, however, if this was all just a game to the lord of Namdhor.
Inara addressed the entire hall, but her focus was on Gideon. “A vanguard of orcs rises up from the west, three thousand at least.”
A series of gasps and curses erupted from the lords and knights, their collective tone one of great trepidation. Only Lord Draqaro remained composed.
“The fate of Alastir?” Gideon asked Inara in the middle of the din.
“He lives, Master. Both he and Valkor are injured and taking shelter in the mountains.”
Gideon sighed in relief, happy to have heard something good from her report.
“There is no need to panic!” Lord Draqaro proclaimed, holding his hands up. “Preparations have begun in the defence of this city!”
“And what of those outside the city?” Gideon enquired.
Lord Draqaro sat in the chair beside the throne and crossed his legs. “Namdhor was built for Namdhorians. Those of the lower town will be given shelter, but we are a patriotic people, Master Thorn. Convincing everyone to open their homes to foreigners will be difficult to say the least.”
Draqaro took a moment to consider his proposed dilemma. “Unless,” he suggested, “I could tell the people of Namdhor that the foreigners at our gates aren’t those of another land but are, in fact, one of us. There is, after all, only one throne and one crown left to offer fealty to. Perhaps, this would be a good time to bring Illian together as we once were, so long ago…”
Gideon narrowed his eyes. “You would ask the refugees to offer their loyalty to Queen Yelifer?”
“To the crown,” Lord Draqaro articulated. “To Namdhor. It was once the jewel of Illian, was it not? The heart of power that brought the realm together. Why should it not be that again?”
“It was also ruled by Gal Tion, a man who went to war with my order,” Gideon pointed out, channelling some of Ilargo’s ire.
“The Tions are dead, Master Thorn, their lineage naught but history. House Skalaf rules the north now.”
Gideon considered who he was talking to and wondered if it wasn’t house Draqaro that ruled the north.
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