“Quite a lot actually.” Gideon sat back in his chair and looked up at Inara. “Since the truth of The Crow’s deception, Arlon Draqaro has become even harder to converse with. I would say he’s bordering on panic for the first time in his life.
“Still, as we speak, the bodies are being cleared from the main street, Ilargo has already put out the fires, and new logs are being acquired. The catapults are being recalibrated and restocked. Of course, all of these things are going to take a long time. Vighon had what might turn out to be quite the idea; that said, Ilargo needed some convincing…”
The Master Dragorn glanced at Doran. “There are, however, significantly fewer soldiers. At last count, we lost just under five hundred men. That’s left us with around two hundred, many of whom are injured.”
Inara shook her head in despair. “We cannot stand up to ten thousand orcs.”
Gideon sighed. “From what I saw, I’d say there was more than that…”
The young Dragorn didn’t need to be an experienced general to know the odds of their survival. “Perhaps, Master, we should call upon our order. We need dragons.”
Gideon wouldn’t entertain it. “They’re all too young, too inexperienced…” He stopped himself from saying anything more.
“What is it?” Inara pressed.
Gideon appeared to chew over his answer. “I want them, I need them to survive this….”
Inara tilted her head as she saw through her master’s words to his true meaning. “You believe we will fall here. Namdhor too. You want the rest of our order to survive so that what? Something of humanity sees the next Age? To avenge the rest of us?”
“To live, Inara,” Gideon clarified. “They are the youngest of us, but they are the strongest of humanity. I want them to live.”
“What is the point of any of them surviving if there’s no world to live in?” Inara countered.
“But they would have a choice,” Gideon argued back. “With dragons for companions, they could go anywhere in the world, leave Illian behind. That’s what I’m giving them, Inara. I failed them. Now, after we’ve perished, after everyone is gone, they get to choose. Ideally,” he added, looking firmly at Inara, “they would also have a leader to show them the way…”
Inara stepped back as Gideon stood up. “You want… You would want me to lead the Dragorn?”
“I want you to take your mother and return to The Lifeless Isles. Rally those who are left and find a new life. You said it yourself; we cannot stand up to the orcs now.”
Inara couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’ve really thought about this?”
“I’m planning for the worst, as horrible as it is. When Arathor gets here, I will send him to you with your father. It won’t be long, hopefully, before Ayana arrives with the elves of Ilythyra. I would say to expect Ayana’s return, but she can be stubborn when she wants to be.”
“No,” Inara said without thinking, as if that one word summed up her entire response. “You’re the Gideon Thorn. You can’t be planning for the end of the world. You should be telling me how we’re going to win this!”
“It’s not the end of the world, Inara. It’s the end of Illian. That feeling I’ve been having, the turn of the Age? It’s happening. The Age of the orc is upon us and there’s nothing we can do about it. This whole thing has been orchestrated by a man who has already seen the future. I thought, I hoped, that The Crow wanted the orcs to lose. But, after yesterday… Their dominance is assured.”
Inara fought to keep her tears at bay. “So, you’re just giving up?”
Gideon raised his chin. “I’m going to fight. But, I won’t be a survivor. Thirty years ago, I swore to protect these people. If this is to be their end, then I will share it with them, Ilargo too.” The Master Dragorn removed the Moonblade from his belt, still in its sheath, and placed it on the table. “I can’t see it saving the world, but at least with you it will stay beyond The Crow’s reach.”
Inara refused with all her being, but the words simply couldn’t take shape in her mouth. Instead, she watched Gideon leave the room, and herself with a hollow feeling inside. Yesterday, it had felt like they had won. Now, it just felt like they were losing slowly…
As midday approached, Vighon Draqaro was ready to go back to bed. His sleep had been cut short to discuss the next stage in Namdhor’s defences, and talking about their dire situation had only spurred the northman into getting stuck in. He had spent much of the morning replanting the logs, shovelling orc bodies, and convincing everyone from children to the elderly to help source supplies.
Ruban caught his eye as the young man made his way down the slope, backed by a pair of Namdhorian soldiers carrying an upright barrel between them. Judging by the sour expressions on their faces, Vighon could guess the contents of the barrel.
“Is that what I think it is?” he called, halting them in their tracks.
The squire hesitated to describe the thick, oily liquid that gently sloshed around inside the barrel. “It’s from the green dragon,” he began. “They have… what did Master Thorn call it? Glands! Yes, they have two glands inside their mouth. It’s how they ignite the flames apparently…”
Vighon eyed the barrel of goop and shared the same expression as the soldiers. “It’s dragon spit,” he said plainly.
“Good a description as any, Captain,” Ruban replied. “It was fascinating to watch.”
Vighon raised an eyebrow. “It was fascinating to watch a dragon drool into a barrel?”
Ruban shrugged.
“At least we have it,” Vighon said, stepping out of their way. “Make sure the message gets around that everyone is to dip their sword in it. Oh, and keep it away from any flames!” he added as they continued their journey.
After helping with the placement of a few more logs, the northman made for The Raucously Ruckus in desperate need of a drink. He gave Garrett a nod on the way past, trusting the older man to keep everything going.
Back in his leathers and black fur cloak, Vighon felt free to move without the cumbersome armour. He had thought to protest his continued rank again but, since they were all going to be dead in a day or so, the northman decided that dying as a captain of Namdhor wasn’t so bad.
Still fatigued from what healing magic he knew, Galanör was sitting by the tavern’s fire, sipping something very hot. The rest of the bar was crammed with injured soldiers the owner had been gracious enough to offer shelter to. Vighon accepted the pats on the back and nods of respect as he weaved his way to the elf.
Vighon was unaccustomed to being so well known and the rogue in him wanted to slip out a side door and make for the next town. Those days were gone, he mourned. He longed to be care free again with Alijah by his side, though he would have happily forgone the carefree life just to have Alijah by his side again.
“You look ready to take on an army of orcs,” Vighon observed sarcastically, signalling to the barkeeper for a cup of water.
Galanör adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. “I’d still kill more than you…”
Vighon collapsed in the armchair and sighed with the physical relief. His back felt like someone had replaced the muscles with jagged rocks.
“Have you seen The White Vale?” he asked the elf. “The orcs are still smoking.”
“After healing the ninth broken bone, my vision has been somewhat blurred,” the ranger confessed.
“Well, it’s a big column of smoke,” Vighon continued. “Since some of this ash fall has relented a bit you can actually see it. Three thousand orcs just littered like fallen leaves…”
Galanör eyed the northman with curiosity. “Why are you here? Talking to me, that is? The last I saw of you a dark cloud hung over your head, despite the victory?”
Vighon let his head fall back against the rest. The elf was too damn perceptive.
“I spent most of the night in deep discussion with Arlon, most of which circled around the fact that…” Vighon cut himself short and checked their surrounding
s. He continued in a quieter tone, “Circling the fact that we simply cannot win. We have no resources, no men, and people are starting to complain that breathing all this ash into their chests is making them sick. It’s like the whole world is against us.”
Galanör narrowed his eyes. “You knew all of this before the meeting,” he pointed out.
“Aye, but like all discussions with Arlon, it turned sour quicker than you can lop off an orc’s head. I’m always left with a bad taste in my mouth.” In the elf’s deafening silence, Vighon elaborated, “The days are filled with hard labour now. The orcs will be here soon. I just… I suppose I just wanted to have a civilised conversation with someone before we all die a terrible death. The idea of dying on the battlefield doesn’t scare me, but the thought of dying and Arlon being the last person I shared words with…” The northman shook his head and downed his water.
“I’m honoured,” Galanör replied with a coy smile. “Though, I fear the void between our vocabularies will stunt your ability to converse with me.”
Vighon laughed and it felt damn good. “I’ll do my best to keep up.”
“What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever slain, northman?” Galanör asked.
Vighon was taken aback by the sudden question. “It’s got to be that bloody great orc in Grey Stone. What did they call it? Algamesh?”
The elf nodded. “It was big. I’ve hunted bigger,” he said with a flash of white teeth. “Have you ever heard of Shalaria?”
Vighon scratched his stubble. “What’s one of those then?”
Galanör smiled. “It’s not a monster, it’s a place, an island to be exact, just north of Ayda.”
“Shalaria…” Vighon tested the name in his mouth.
“It means crown in elvish.”
The northman shrugged. “It’s been a long time since I looked at a map.”
The ranger rolled his eyes. “Well, Shalaria is home to the six-headed Darghoul, a beast so foul its very breath can peel flesh from bone. Big as a house too…”
Vighon got comfy in his chair and welcomed the distraction of a tale.
Inara, defeated and at a loss for what to do in the face of her master’s orders, dropped into the chair. The thought of leaving now, on the cusp of battle, and not just any battle but one which would decide the fate of humanity, was beyond her comprehension…
Yet, her master had given her an order. Also, with the magic saturating The Lifeless Isles, her mother would have a better chance of recovering.
It wasn’t just Gideon’s words, his plans, that had disheartened Inara: it was his tone. She could hear it in his voice, the belief that all was lost. She knew he was talking about thousands of people, but the Dragorn couldn’t get past the deaths of Vighon, Galanör, Doran, and Russell. They would perish with everyone else.
Alijah…
Her brother was out there somewhere, desperately trying to survive in a war-torn and orc-infested country. If she left now, he would be abandoned to the same fate as Namdhor.
Don’t let go of it, Athis warned.
Don’t let go of what?
A Dragorn’s greatest weapon, he replied.
Hope…
The word hung between them, unsaid. Athis had told her before that hope was the core of their order. A Dragorn was to take it with them everywhere they travelled, sharing it with the realm.
Right now, Athis, hope doesn’t stand up to reality. Gideon was right; the orcs are going to win. As much as I hate that he’s done it, planning for the end of the world and the survival of our race is what Master Dragorns are supposed to do.
Hope can stand up to anything, the dragon insisted. That’s why they call it hope. Without it, all is lost.
We can’t leave, Athis. Not now. Our survival might be Gideon’s hope, but if we fly away now and never return, what hope do the people have?
Through their bond, Inara could feel Ilargo trying to commune with Athis. She pulled back from their connection and let the dragon’s mind fall away, neither of them wishing to ignore Ilargo.
Seeing the Moonblade in front of her, she removed it from the scabbard and ran her fingers over the hilt of bone. Moving over the blade, its magic felt almost electrifying. How much of her mother was in there? she wondered.
The blade itself was light, easily wielded. The edge was slightly serrated, giving it a natural appearance, as if the strange opal had simply been found and carved into a dagger. The light from within was quite beautiful, hypnotic in its ever-changing colours. It took some effort, but she was eventually able to sheath the weapon and place it back on the desk.
The Moonblade aside, Inara’s gaze fell upon the scroll Gideon had been reading rather intensely. It was his own handwriting, the blank scroll taken from the drawer. She recognised it instantly as the prophecy Alijah and Vighon had discovered in The Wild Moores.
It read:
As the Age turns to ruin, so too will the light turn to darkness.
A warrior shall be resurrected in the heart of a fallen star.
Only magic wrought of unity can break the chains.
Through the forge of war, the world will have…
There were side notes dictating that lines were missing from the three verses, as well as occasional words. Inara read the prophecy again and again. Then, she read it again.
The Age had certainly turned to ruin since the orcs re-emerged from the shadows. The light had been veiled by darkness as their invasion coincided with a volcanic eruption. Asher was the warrior resurrected in Paldora’s Fall.
Then, she stopped.
The third line, only magic wrought of unity can break the chains, stood out to her, but she couldn’t decide why. The last line, through the forge of war, the world will have… was entirely lost on her. It was likely a word or two followed, but they could be anything.
“Only magic…” she muttered. “Break the chains…”
A particularly loud snore from Doran made Inara jump, her startled movement, in turn, waking the dwarf up. The son of Dorain hefted himself, armour and all, to his feet and cracked his back, neck, and elbows.
Before he regarded Inara, Doran’s attention fell entirely on Reyna. It was clear to see that the dwarf worried for her and he carried some guilt on his shoulders.
He cleared his throat and turned to Inara. “Has she woken yet?” he asked with a thread of hope.
Inara shook her head. “Not yet. The mages keep coming back to administer something new, try a different spell, offer encouraging words…”
Doran balled his fist. “That Crow fella has got some answerin’ to do, let me tell ye.”
Inara agreed. “I think we would all like to pin him down for some answers.”
“Oh, there’d be answers a’right. They’d just come a little while later is all…” Doran was beginning to fall down a violent path.
In a bid to distract him from such thoughts, Inara asked, “Did this Killian Torvaris give you any information we can use against him?”
“That dolt knew how to blab on. He jus’ never made a lick o’ sense. He was, however, convinced The Crow could see into the future. In all me years, I’ve never seen proof o’ such a boastin’, but he possessed a perfect translation o’ that Moonblade script. No one has been in there for five thousand years…”
Inara turned back to Gideon’s writing. “Master Thorn has spoken directly with The Crow. He claims to have written this prophecy himself, the one found by Alijah and Vighon.”
“Aye, I remember Gideon an’ the lad tellin’ me abou’ it. He also said it was ten thousand years old, so the answer is simple: The Crow’s a liar.”
Inara sighed, struggling to see the wood for the trees. “The Crow is playing mind games with us. He looks to aid us, all the while supporting the orcs in their invasion.”
“Aid us?” Doran repeated incredulously. “How so?”
Inara gestured to Gideon’s scroll. “He told Master Thorn that something in the prophecy, the same prophecy he claims to have scribed, will
help us defeat the orcs. Why tell us that?”
Doran shrugged. “The same reason he’s done everythin’ else: to misdirect us, to stall us, to keep our focus elsewhere.” The dwarf joined her by the desk. “Let me take a look at this thing.”
Inara slid the scroll down the desk and laid it out in front of Doran. The son of Dorain pursed his lips as he read one line after another. Then, he read it again, only this time he narrowed his eyes. During his third read through, the dwarf began to stroke his beard.
“I mean, some o’ this makes sense. Doesn’ prove The Crow wrote it…” Doran trailed off, his attention still fixed on the scroll.
“Doran, what is it?”
The stout ranger pointed his stubby finger at the third line, Only magic wrought of unity can break the chains.
“It’s a bit vague, but if I had to guess I’d say it’s talkin’ abou’ the Moonblade.”
With dramatic animation, Inara sat up and pulled the scroll back towards her. “The Moonblade?”
“Well, it doesn’ say weapon made o’ magic, but magic wrought o’ unity? A Moonblade can only be made by an elf an’ a dwarf.”
Inara was speechless. She looked from the line to Doran and back several times before staring blankly at the wall. Of course it was the Moonblade! But why was it the Moonblade?
She mumbled, “Break the chains…”
Doran shook his head. “I don’ know what that means. Is there somethin’ chained up that ye need to get at?”
Inara heard every one of the dwarf’s words, but she didn’t take any of them in. Her mind was racing now, so much so that Athis couldn’t ignore it. Through their bond, she shared everything that had just transpired at the speed of thought.
Inara, Athis began with a tone of revelation, the spell that ensnared your father, the one Doran spoke of…
Inara looked down at the Moonblade. She knew exactly what it was for.
“This is how…” The young Dragorn looked up from the dagger, her thoughts stolen by the ringing bells.
They’re here, Athis confirmed.
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