“It doesn’t feel real to me yet,” Inara replied. “This all happened so fast. The orcs returning, the kingdoms falling into ruin. Now, our order has suffered its greatest loss since The Dragon War itself.”
“We underestimated The Black Hand,” Gideon told her. “I became complacent in a time of peace.”
“You can’t take all of this on your shoulders, Master.”
Gideon half-smiled. “Now, you sound like Master Glanduil.”
“She has remained with the others?” Inara asked naturally.
There had been a time when Gideon would have kept his decisions and commands to himself or between the council. That time had passed, it seemed. Inara, through sheer survival, had found herself at Gideon’s side during the order’s greatest crisis.
“I sent her to Ilythyra,” he said. “She has gone to escort the refugees from there to here, though I’m hoping Ayana can convince Lady Ellöria to accompany them as well. There aren’t many elves in Ilythyra, but even a few elves can make a difference on a battlefield.”
“What about Elandril?” Inara pushed back from the wall, her mind travelling down the same path as Gideon’s. “Queen Adilandra could…”
Gideon raised his hand. “I have already spoken with Faylen. She is going to speak with your grandmother and…” The Master Dragorn checked his belt and cursed. “I left the diviner in The Lifeless Isles.”
They both looked to the south east, aware that such a trip would prevent them from assisting in the battle to come.
“We are alone then,” Inara concluded.
Gideon hated the sound of defeat in her voice. “Alastir was wounded, you say?”
“Yes. I left them to be here, to face the orcs. To face Malliath,” she added quietly. “They are too far to aid now. The orcs will be upon us before we could return.”
Gideon looked to the mountains, north of the city. “If I could spare you, I would have you searching Vengora for your parents. We would both feel better knowing they were safe.”
“They can take care of themselves,” Inara reasoned, her tone still one of defeat. “If I could be spared, I would be scouring the land for Alijah.”
Gideon felt that crushing guilt weigh down on him again. Searching Velia’s remains for the young Galfrey should have been the first thing he did, orcs or not. He had already broken their family apart when he allowed Inara to travel to The Lifeless Isles as a teenager. He had known, given their heritage, that at least one of the Galfrey children would be a Dragorn.
Since then, he had put one continuously in harm’s way and now he had abandoned the other, left for dead. Even their parents had been sent north by him…
“Most would believe that The War for the Realm defined me,” he began, surprising Inara. “I came out of it looking the hero astride Ilargo. Facing Valanis and the threat of Atilan’s return certainly shaped my view of the world and my place in it. But, I was the only Dragorn back then. And the world had a lot more heroes keeping the dark at bay.
“We’re both being tested, Inara. In our own way. As an order, I am taking the Dragorn through their first conflict. You, well, you know what trials you face and they are yours alone to overcome. When this war is over, and we will see it to its end, we will both be different people. Either way, we face our trials together.”
Inara appreciated his words, her demeanour picking up. Gideon knew he should have delivered a speech of that magnitude to the survivors after his return to The Lifeless Isles. It seemed, upon reflection, that he was failing in his own trials…
35
Hammer and Song
With half a mountain over his head, Doran Heavybelly should have felt at ease, likening his surroundings to home, even. Instead, he felt as if his world had been turned upside down.
Myths had been proven to be real, friends had proven to be enemies, and Illian had apparently been invaded by orcs.
Thanks to the magic of Reyna, the great forge in the centre of the workshop had been given new life and now burned red hot, bathing the chamber with brilliant orange. Doran had taken the time to assess the tools at their disposal, some being far too ancient and rusted to use.
All the while, Killian Torvaris stood by the doors with Nathaniel, his captive. The knight was unaware of his surroundings as he continued to float in a state of agony and horror. The spell cast over him was a countdown to his death or the forging of the Moonblade.
After taking the time to gather the correct tools, according to the translation, Doran met Reyna by the forge to consult upon their next course of action. What they really wanted to do was come up with a plan that would see Nathaniel freed of the mage’s grip. Then, Doran thought, he could finally strangle the life out of the deceiving little worm.
“We need steel,” Reyna said with an air of urgency, pointing to one of the first lines in the translation.
“Steel?” Doran questioned. “What for? The Moonblade is pure magic.”
“Apparently, it gives the magic a foundation to work from, almost like its intentions, I suppose. By the time we’re finished, there will be nothing left of the steel, only magic.”
A dark thought, that Doran couldn’t ignore, had to be voiced again. “By the time we’re finished, me Lady, there won’ be anythin’ left o’ ye, either…”
Reyna looked at the dwarf solemnly. “I know, Doran. But I won’t let my husband die like this.”
They both looked at Nathaniel, his body slowly contorting in torture. Killian nodded at the forge, urging them to get on with it. The mage raised an eyebrow when Doran reached for his hatchet and two-handed axe.
“Easy, lad,” Doran said. “We’re jus’ followin’ the instructions is all.”
The son of Dorain went to work dismantling his weapons, prying the axe blades away from their handles. The strenuous work led him to remove his armour and shirt, revealing two centuries’ worth of battle scars. Some of them he was proud of, some of them he wasn’t.
The blades, freed of their handles, were fitted inside a deep crucible and placed within the forge.
“We will need more than that,” Reyna observed, her words drowned out by the hissing forge. “There isn’t enough steel to forge the foundation of a whole sword.”
“Is everything alright?” Killian called from across the workshop, noting the elf’s confusion.
“Ye’ve tasked us with doin’ somethin’ we’ve never done before,” Doran yelled back. “It’s gettin’ done!”
The dwarf turned away from the mage and motioned for Reyna to follow him into the corner. A variety of moulds were available to choose from, allowing the would-be smiths to pick their intended weapon. Doran pulled out a smaller mould that had the outline of a curved dagger on the side.
“That’s certainly not a sword,” Reyna said in a hushed tone.
“Aye, ye’d be right abou’ that, me Lady.” Doran heaved the chunky mould and placed it beside the forge, where Killian couldn’t see it. “The way I see it, all them elves that died were forgin’ a whole sword. What if we made somethin’ a little smaller? There might be a chance ye survive that…”
Reyna was overcome with caution. “He demanded a sword. He may take our judgement as deception and my husband will pay the price.”
“Ye might be happy to die for ’im, but I’m not happy with either o’ ye dyin’, ye hear?” Doran offered the elf a look that wasn’t to be argued with. “He wants a Moonblade, he’ll get a Moonblade. Now, give me a hand with this. Our predecessors designed this place to be worked by two or more people, but specifically an elf an’ a dwarf. Some o’ the pulleys an’ tools are… too high for me to reach.” Admitting one’s height was a disadvantage was akin to deliberately slamming one’s head into a wall, but Doran needed the help.
The elf obliged and assisted him in preparing the mould, readying it to receive the melted steel. Some of the better hammers were situated on tall shelves and needed to be fetched by Reyna. The first problem they encountered was the hilt for their blade.
; “These are all knackered!” Doran declared, showing the mage the rusted collection of potential materials. “Without a hilt, the blade cannot be wielded.”
Killian narrowed his eyes, suspicious of every word that came out of Doran’s mouth. “Can’t you use the hilt of your sword? Or one of theirs?”
Doran scoffed. “Ye’ve never made a sword before ’ave ye, lad? The hilt an’ the blade are all one piece. Ye can’ jus’ snap ’em apart an’ use ’em on another blade.”
The mage sighed. “Well, what do the instructions call for?”
Doran shared a look with Reyna, both aware of what the instructions specified. “Somethin’ natural, not forged…”
Killian inspected the rotten pieces of wood. “The master said everything you needed was here. You just need to look, dwarf.”
The son of Dorain felt very passionately about restricting the flow of air in and out of Killian’s lungs. “Maybe I should use ye arm as a suitable hilt, eh? That’s natural.”
“Doran, that’s it!” Reyna looked from him to the door. “It’s not exactly the most respectful thing, but we could use one of the bones from the…” The elf nodded at the graveyard beyond the workshop.
“From the Namdhorians,” Doran finished. “It would need some seein’ to. A bit o’ filin’ an’ some carvin’. Maybe a touch o’ polish… Aye, that would work!”
“One of you goes,” Killian instructed. “You will stay where I can see you. Stray beyond the antechamber and Nathaniel here loses something he was born with.”
Reyna nodded her understanding. “I will go.”
“I’ll fill the mould,” Doran replied, hoping to take advantage of Killian’s split attention. “Oh, me Lady? Find a decent arm bone if ye can. We can fashion the joint at the end into a pommel o’ sorts.”
Using large tongs, the dwarf tipped the crucible of molten steel and filled the dagger mould. The burning liquid was a fantastic red that threatened to blind Doran. With any luck, it would be blinding for Killian too. When the mould was filled to the brim, he placed it out of sight again and left it to cool.
Under the mage’s distracted eye, Doran began to move the table and anvils around, positioning their work station at an awkward angle for Killian. By the time he had finished shifting the mighty anvil, the dwarf had a sheen of sweat coating his muscles.
“So answer me this, laddy,” Doran said, half-inspecting a hammer. “Why would this Crow fella wan’ to save the world if he’s the one that’s gone an’ spoiled it in the first place? Seems like a backwards thin’ to do in my opinion.”
“Then it is a good thing your opinion is not required to save the world. We all, The Lord Crow included, follow the word of Kaliban. Such divine words could never be understood by the mortal perspective of just one person: it takes all of us to see it through. We, Kaliban’s Black Hand, will reshape the world in his image. It will only become clear when the dust settles and the bones of one kingdom have been laid to rest, ready for that which follows.”
Doran hadn’t understood a single word. “Sounds to me like ye’ve got no clue yerself as to why we’re doin’ any o’ this.”
“One more word, son of Dorain, and your friend will suffer for it.”
Reyna eventually returned with a suitable bone: a human arm. It was gruesome work, but Doran was confident he could work it into something usable. During his time among the barbarians, in The Iron valley, he had watched them craft many useful items out of bones, humans’ and animals’ alike.
While Reyna sat and meditated, building on her reserves of magic, Doran went to work on the intended hilt. He cut it to size, allowing for one human hand to grip it with ease. The dwarf took some extra time in carving the pommel, doing his best to remove the bulbous ends and shape it into one smooth, but curved end. The finishing touch would be the strip of brown leather that would wrap around the bone, but the blade itself required tempering first.
It had been several hours since they began and they had eaten and drunk what little rations they had left. Unfortunately, there was no delaying the work any longer. Doran was loath to disturb Reyna, aware that her preparation was crucial, but they needed to work together now.
The son of Dorain cracked open the mould, careful to keep Reyna between him and the mage as cover. The curved dagger remained situated in one side of the mould, its width no bigger than a hand. Doran handled the cool blade, noting it to be the size of his forearm.
“Normally,” he said, “ye wouldn’ fix the blade to the hilt before actually forgin’ it, but I’ve been goin’ over an’ over the instructions while ye’ve been restin’. We ’ave to attach the two first an’ yer magic will bind them together. Should make the whole thin’ stronger, I suppose.”
Reyna picked up the instructions and read her part in the process. Doran had read the names of the spells she was to enact, but he had no idea what they were, only that they would transmute the steel into something else entirely.
“Are ye, ready, me Lady?”
The elf read the text a couple of more times. “I know what I need to do,” she quavered, filling Doran with little confidence.
He quietly said, “If ye’re not sure we can take a crack at ’im. I’m confident I can distract ’im long enough for ye to hurl somethin’ deadly his way.”
“No,” she whispered back. “If he dies, the spell over Nathaniel might never end.”
“He could be lyin’,” Doran suggested. “We know he’s good at that…”
“I won’t take the risk,” Reyna insisted. “We forge the Moonblade.”
Doran wasn’t at all happy, but he could see no other choice. At least this way, there was a chance he could save them both.
“As ye say…” He fitted the bone handle into place, slotting the steel into the groove he had created. Hefting the hammer in his hand, he said, “I believe ye supposed to apply heat.”
“And pressure,” Reyna added. “This is going to be bright.”
“I can handle it.” Doran hoped he was right.
The elf began to sing. The melody was light at first, her tone soft. It was captivating, stealing Doran’s attention from the blade on the anvil, which was now humming. The dwarf lowered his head towards it, sure he was hearing things. The steel was indeed humming, responding to the elf’s magic.
Reyna increased her pitch and incorporated her hands, holding them aloft, over the anvil. Very soon, the blade began to shine with a glaring white, sprinkled with pinks and blues. Doran squinted at the metal but he failed to see anything that resembled steel.
With one hand, the dwarf gripped the blade between a pair of tongs, allowing him to adjust it without touching the magic. In the other hand, he raised his hammer with which he would work on the blade’s edges.
The light intensified and the humming took on a musical note, harmonising with Reyna’s voice. Doran hammered the blade, feeling a mesmerising tingle run up his arm with every strike. The light became so bright that it wasn’t long before he had to shut his eyes. Still, he worked the blade. His actions were not his own anymore, the rhythm of his hammer taking on a life of its own. He instinctively knew where to strike and how much strength to apply.
Reyna’s elvish words grew distant, yet Doran felt they continued to command him. Only once did he dare to sneak a peek, but the glowing blade concealed everything, including the elf, who was only a foot in front of him.
A slave to the will of the magic, Doran continued to strike the blade where it commanded him to. Without him realising, his lips were moving and his throat vibrating with the elvish words that came out of him. The dwarf was singing the same song, despite the words and their meaning being lost on him.
In a disorientating moment, the light vanished and the music with it. Reyna was silent and Doran’s arm was motionless by his side. His eyes snapped open to a chamber of steam and a sweet smell in the air.
Reyna was on the floor.
“Me Lady!” he cried, dropping to her side.
Reyna’s skin was the
paleness of death. Dark veins stood out from her temples and under her eyes. Doran grabbed her by the shoulders and felt how cold she was. He feared the worst…
“Me Lady!” he hissed.
Reyna opened her eyes and parted her dry lips.
“Praise Yamnomora!” Doran cheered.
The elf appeared confused and out of place. Her green eyes, a shade darker than normal, looked past Doran to the anvil behind him.
It was glowing.
The son of Dorain checked Reyna over one more time, making sure she was alive and that his senses weren’t tricking him. Then, he stood up and looked upon their work. The Moonblade was magnificent. It had an outer shell of opal, its translucent surface sparkling with all the colours. It had bonded with the bone hilt, giving the appearance that it was one solid piece from end to end.
Doran tentatively picked it up by the hilt and glided his finger across the blade’s surface. “It’s warm,” he whispered in wonder. “It tingles,” he added, bemused.
The moment of awe was ruined when Killian Torvaris stormed over with a face of thunder. “What is that?” he demanded. “You were to forge a sword!”
Doran looked back at Reyna, thankful they hadn’t forged a full-length sword. The elf appeared at death’s door with the effort required just to make a dagger.
“Ye needed a Moonblade, didn’ ye? Now, ye’ve got one!” The dwarf was about to present the dagger to the dark mage when a distant sound echoed from beyond the antechamber.
Doran knew the rattle of human armour when he heard it. A moment later, a group of Namdhorian soldiers rounded the corner with a company of smiths and mages, by the look of them.
Killian squared his narrow shoulders. “Alert them and Nathaniel dies,” he told the son of Dorain. “Ah, you’re here at last!” he announced, addressing the new arrivals. The mage made straight for the doors, blocking their entry before they could see Nathaniel slowly floating off to the side.
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