“Why else would he tell you such a thing?” Gideon countered. “He already had the leverage of Nathaniel’s life, you didn’t need convincing.”
Hearing her father’s name proved nothing but a distraction for Inara. He was still out there, beyond the mountains and well and truly inside dwarven territory. On top of that, he had to convince the Namdhorians to turn around. She took some comfort knowing that Arathor had been dispatched to help him.
Seated on a stool beside the Dragorn, Vighon leaned in. “Don’t worry about your father,” he advised, proving perceptive beyond all expectation. “He’s survived worse than all of this.”
Inara couldn’t argue with his logic, but his words weren’t enough to stop her from fretting. It was made all the worse by seeing her mother, easily the strongest person Inara had ever met, lying so close to death beside her. It was proof that her parents weren’t invincible, as she had been so happy to believe.
Inevitably, her thoughts moved to Alijah. He was missing and presumed dead by most, but not her. The question hanging over her twin made the hole in her heart all the more ragged. Her family had been shattered…
Oblivious to the brief reassurance from Vighon, Gideon and Doran continued their conversation.
The dwarf was throwing his arms in the air. “Why he had us make the damn thing aside, I want to know why he didn’ jus’ tell us how to open the bloody doors! He had them scribblin’s from that Crow fella. He knew ’ow to make the Moonblade, yet he left us to journey, perilously I might add, through the kin’doms o’ Dhenaheim!”
Gideon cupped his beard, lost in his musings for a moment. “For the same reason The Crow does anything,” he supposed. “Timing. If you’re going to orchestrate one event after another you have to make sure that everything happens exactly when it needs to. If you had gained access when you first arrived, Killian would have had the added complication of the Namdhorians and the dwarves that were guarding the tunnels. He couldn’t have revealed who he really was or forced you to forge the blade.
“Then, there’s the army. If you had forged the blade earlier, you would have returned here earlier and Nathaniel would potentially have brought the army back by now. The Crow obviously wants the army of Namdhor here, just not before the orcs arrive…”
“Why would The Crow want the army to return at all?” Vighon asked. “Surely, it serves his goals better to have Namdhor unguarded.”
Gideon shrugged. “Not unless The Crow wants the orcs to fail, which is very much a possibility.”
Vighon frowned. “Everything he’s done has led to the orcs conquering the known world. He’s backed us into a corner and set the foul beasts to the task of wiping us out.”
Gideon was shaking his head. “I can’t speak for The Crow’s plans, but I do not believe he wishes to see the orcs gain victory. He’s using them for something.”
Doran held his hands up again. “A’right, a’right. So, The Crow’s plans are all comin’ together. How dandy for ’im. What are we goin’ to do abou’ it? An’ whatever yer plan is, it had better start with how we get Asher back! First ye stop me heart by tellin’ me he’s back, then ye break it by tellin’ me he’s under the thumb o’ this blasted wizard!”
Gideon’s tone was sullen. “I’m afraid Asher remains something of a mystery. The Crow likely brought him back because he knew we would hesitate to cut him down. So far it’s worked…”
Inara turned from the sight of her mother for the first time in a while and looked upon her master. He still carried with him the weight of Lirian’s fall, Velia’s too.
“Emotional connection or not,” she added, “Asher is a warrior to be reckoned with. The great Elandril himself would have struggled to bring him down.”
“Put me in front o’ the old ranger,” Doran proclaimed, “an’ I’ll knock some sense into ’im!”
“If only it was that easy,” Gideon remarked. “Though, I can say we’re all thankful to have you here, Doran. The defence of Namdhor is going to need your sword.”
Doran held up the Moonblade. “I’ve got more than that, though I feel I’m the wrong one to be wieldin’ it.”
“You forged it,” Gideon reminded him. “I’d say it’s yours.”
The son of Dorain didn’t look convinced. “The way I see it, Moonblades were made for Dragorn, an’ since ye’ll never catch me feet leavin’ the ground, I’m not the one to be wieldin’ it.” The dwarf extended his arm, offering Gideon the hilt of bone, now tightly bound in dark leather.
The Master Dragorn took the blade in his hand and examined the opal edge. “It’s beautiful.”
Inara couldn’t agree or disagree with his observation. Her fears were mounting and her concerns for her mother were beginning to blind her. Her temperature had improved, but never had she felt one so cold who hadn’t already left this world.
“Still,” Gideon mused, “I don’t see how something so small can save the world.”
Vighon stood up, his eyes on the Moonblade. “You don’t really believe it can do such a thing, do you? Beautiful, yes. Powerful, perhaps. But, it’s still just a dagger. You can’t kill three thousand orcs with it. Besides, if The Crow wanted us to have it, that blade should be considered a curse. And,” he added, “if he wanted it for himself, we should throw it into the bottom of The King’s Lake and take it to our graves.”
As always, the northman was full of strong opinions he wasn’t afraid to share. Inara loved him for that, though, at this very moment, she found his voice, and those of the others, to be something of an irritation. They were concerned with the fate of the world, something she knew she should be too, but, right now, her mother appeared to be at death’s door and her father and brother were alone out there.
“We didn’ go to all that trouble, laddie, jus’ to throw it away! Wha’ever its purpose is, I’m happy leavin’ it in the hands o’ the Dragorn.”
Vighon sighed and let his argument go. “Were there any spells in this workshop?” he asked curiously.
“Spells?” Doran spat. “O’ course there weren’t no spells, lad, it were a dwarf’s workshop! Closest thing to magic were them blasted doors.”
Gideon looked up from the exquisite dagger. “Why do you ask, Vighon?”
The northman gave a mirthless laugh. “The Crow told Arlon that the dwarven mine possessed a spell. He was told he could harness the power of the sun with it, as the elves and dwarves did the first time.”
Gideon shook his head. “No such spell was used in The Great War. With this sword,” he gripped the hilt of Mournblade, “Elandril, the first elven Dragorn, killed the orc king and the alliance drove them into The Undying Mountains with numbers alone.”
Vighon shrugged. “At least we know Arlon can be fooled like the rest of us.”
Inara…
Athis’s grave tone was almost lost on her, but then she saw Gideon’s head pick up as Ilargo spoke to him as well.
They’re here…
Gideon rushed to the window a second before the bells rang out across the city. Vighon jumped up, glanced out of the window, and ran for the hall without a parting word.
Doran appeared confused. “I take it bells aren’ a good thing?”
“Nothing gets past you, son of Dorain.” Gideon turned back to the dwarf. “Are you ready for a fight?”
The dwarf hesitated. “I made a promise to keep Reyna safe.”
“The Dragon Keep is the safest place right now. Fight them out there and prevent them from gaining ground and it’ll stay safe.”
Doran took a long breath, conflicted.
“Go, Doran,” Inara said. “My mother will be kept safe in your absence.”
The son of Dorain nodded slowly. “As ye say. Be it on me word: no orc will reach this keep!”
Gideon lingered after Doran had left the room. “Inara. We need to go.”
The half-elf didn’t budge from her mother’s bedside. “I’m not leaving her,” she replied defiantly.
“Inara…”
�
��Look at her, Gideon!” Inara snapped, her eyes never straying from her mother. “That blade stole too much. The light of the immortals is leaving her.”
Gideon appeared by her side. “She yet lives,” he reminded her. “The Moonblade didn’t take everything. That means there’s still hope.”
There was that word again. Inara couldn’t escape it and now she was growing to loathe it. If that’s what the Dragorn represented then she wasn’t a Dragorn. Athis reached out and tried to comfort her but she wouldn’t hear it. A lone tear streaked down her face.
“I just want my family back,” she uttered.
Gideon placed a hand on her shoulder. “First, we fight,” he said softly. “We will keep the orcs at bay. Let the mages continue their work, Inara.”
The bells provided an urgent undertone to their conversation, pressuring Inara into making a decision. The Dragorn wiped away the last tear to streak down her face and stood up. It had been Reyna herself who had always taught her daughter the importance of duty.
The half-elf found herself cast back to the conversation she had had with Alastir, inside the cave…
“You haven’t been truly tested yet, but your time is coming, Inara Galfrey. A time when you might have to give it all to keep the darkness at bay.”
The Master had left her with much to think about. But, if there was one thing she knew; it was that she would die to keep her family safe.
Athis’s soothing tone cleared her mind. We would make that sacrifice together, wingless one.
Inara dropped a hand to her Vi’tari blade and turned to Gideon. “To war, then.”
41
Holding The Line
Namdhor’s horizon was one of marching dread. The ash fall lent The White Vale a hazy vista, but the black mass of war-hungry orcs couldn’t be missed as they encroached over the land.
Vighon made to climb up onto Ness’s saddle when a strong hand gripped his arm and turned him around. Arlon Draqaro had the look of a man in urgent need, his usual state of calm and control lost. A thick vein split his forehead in two and the lord of Namdhor set his cold eyes on his son.
“Did they find it?” he asked desperately. “Did they retrieve the spell?”
Vighon looked at his father with pity. “There was never any spell, Arlon. It was a workshop, a forge. They made weapons not magic.”
Arlon gripped Vighon’s tunic around the shoulders. “You’re lying!” he fumed. “They must have found it! It was the only thing in there!”
Vighon clenched his hands around his father’s and removed them from his tunic. “The Crow lied to you. Nothing more.”
Leaving Arlon to dwell on his poor choices and the sound of orcish drums, the northman climbed astride Ness and spurred her on, encouraging the horse to charge down the slope at full speed. Since the spikes had been dug into the hillside, there was only one narrowed path down the middle to follow.
Stragglers from the lower town began to hurry up the hill with all they could carry. The Skids ushered them up the slope, advising them to leave their goods behind and find shelter.
Beyond the city, Captain Flint’s company of riders turned back in search of a defensible line, within Namdhor itself. They would add their numbers to the remaining four companies, Vighon’s included, and form the spearhead of the city’s defence.
Vighon was already jumping down from Ness’s saddle before she came to a stop outside The Raucously Ruckus. Garrett was adjusting his golden cloak while simultaneously shouting orders to the Skids.
“Get everyone as high up as you can!” the soldier boomed.
Vighon strode over. “Leave the people to flee; they don’t need encouragement. Have the men find their way to the front.” The northman gestured to the great gathering of Thedomir’s men, all of whom were going against the flow to reach the bottom of the slope.
As always, Garrett had an opposing idea. “But, Captain, in this chaos they’re likely to injure themselves without appropriate guidance!”
Vighon walked past him and up the short steps to the tavern. “I don’t care about grazed knees and muddy dresses, Garrett. Get the men to the front! And have the catapults adjusted for the range! Make sure they’re looking for my signal!”
Rather than wait for further protest, Vighon entered the tavern and made for his room with Ruban close on his heels.
“I’ve had your armour polished, Captain,” the squire said eagerly as they ascended the stairs.
Vighon sighed. “That was a waste of time. It’ll be covered in blood before long.” The northman could practically feel the pained expression on the young man behind him. He paused before entering his room. “Ruban… Help me get the armour on. Then, you’re to head for The Dragon Keep.”
“Captain?”
“You’re to offer your services to the mages helping Ambassador Galfrey. You help them in any way you can, but you don’t leave the keep. Understand?”
Ruban hesitated. “I understand, Captain…”
“Good lad.” Vighon entered his room, eager to get his armour on and return to the company of his men.
Ruban went about his duties diligently, strapping Vighon into his various plates of armour. The northman declined his helmet, arguing that he couldn’t see a thing in it.
“Fetch me my shield,” he commanded, deciding that an enchanted shield would be the perfect companion on any battlefield.
Ruban hefted the round shield, engraved with Hadavad’s enchantments, and gave it to Vighon to be strapped over his back.
“It’s not a Namdhorian shield,” Ruban pointed out, clearly unimpressed with it.
“No,” Vighon agreed. “It’s better.” Satisfied with his shield and armour, the northman looked at Ruban expectantly. “Sword?”
The squire’s eyes fell on Vighon’s bare hip. “You… You have a…” Ruban’s eyes glazed over and he froze before dashing from one side of the room to the other.
“Ruban?” Vighon’s tone was troubled. “Where’s the silvyr sword?”
Ruban looked everywhere before he stopped, defeated. “It was in here! I left it with your armour!”
Vighon wanted to berate the boy for leaving such a valuable item in an unguarded room that was known to be his and Galanör’s. He did, however, recall telling the squire to leave it with his things.
“I don’t know how it could have gone missing,” Ruban continued, somewhat frantic.
“I do,” Vighon replied ominously.
The northman strapped his steel blade back on and made for the door. Ruban apologised the whole way, but Vighon was already beginning to let his mind close off. He needed to focus on what was about to happen.
“Get to the keep,” he ordered the squire. “Take Ness.” He didn’t watch Ruban disappear but, instead, turned down the slope.
The orcs were coming.
The foul beasts had left The Selk Road and spread out across The White Vale. From this distance, they were no bigger than his thumbnail, but he could make out the chariots that cut across their front line. Each carried a mounted ballista and a pair of orcs, all towed by six-legged monsters.
Vighon was forced to jump aside when a company of riders galloped down the central aisle, between the entrenched spikes. They were Ironsworn all, adorned in a varying collection of armour. Leading them from the front was Arlon Draqaro. The riders spread out at the back of Thedomir’s men, taking in the enemy before them.
Vighon strode through the mud and slush, hoping to reach his men without incident. Such a thing was impossible around his father.
“Aren’t you on the wrong side of the men?” Arlon called, drawing wicked smiles from his thugs. “Captains of Namdhor should lead from the front! And why aren’t these men advancing to meet the enemy?”
The men in question had spilled out where the base of the city met the flat lower town, with the majority still funnelled through the central aisle and filling the lower tiers, between each row of spikes.
“We don’t need to advance,” Vighon explained. “
We will draw the enemy in, between the spikes, and make their numbers count for naught.” He regarded his father’s disapproving look with exasperation, then he noticed the sword on his hip. “That was given to me,” he said with no surprise in his tone. Of course it had been Arlon who stole it.
“The sword of the north is too important to be lost on some battlefield. It should remain close to the crown…”
The northman could think of no better place for the sword than a battlefield, but that was him. There were at least three expletives he wished to express, one of which was a vulgar hand gesture. Instead, Vighon simply turned away from his father and made his way to the front.
The men of Grey Stone and Lirian looked ready for battle. This wasn’t the first time for many of them, having faced the orcs in their home or on their journey north. Every one wielded a weapon they were eager to sink into the beasts, their superior numbers be damned.
Vighon was proud to be counted among them.
At the very front of their defensive line, Vighon’s personal company were restless. The Skids had never faced odds like these before and no amount of encouraging speeches would change their experience. Courage, however, was something words could change.
Garrett banged the pommel of his hilt against his helmet, directing two of the men to put theirs on. Credit to the man, his calm demeanour aided the soldiers around him, helping them to hold their nerve.
Vighon came alongside him, their breaths mixing in the air. “If we get through this, you are going to tell me why that sword has been inserted so far up your arse.”
Garrett gave his captain a sidelong glance. “Fair enough. If we do get through this, I’ll kiss yours.”
Despite the thousands of orcs before them, Vighon managed a half-hearted chuckle. “Listen up fellas!” He stepped out of the line to face the Skids, but he ended up addressing most of the gathered men. “Look around you, brothers! We have reached the last days of hope! Today, you do not fight for any crown! Today, you owe no allegiance to house Skalaf! Today, your only allegiance is to the man beside you! You’re fighting for his family, and he is fighting for yours! They are relying on us to hold-this-line! Will you hold it with me?”
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