“Asher?” Inara called softly.
He stood up straight with one hand gripped to the strap of his satchel. “I don’t know… I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Gideon sheathed Mournblade on his hip. “I do,” he said, briefly meeting Ilargo’s eyes. He took a step towards Asher, who immediately took a step back before catching himself.
“What’s wrong with me?” Asher muttered.
Inara harboured the same question and looked to Athis. His facial expressions were impossible for all but her to read, and so she followed his subtle cues to the satchel on Asher’s hip. The mystery then unravelled in her mind until the Guardian’s jaw dropped.
“Do you remember what I told you?” Gideon asked. “About the Dragon Riders? They were called to the eggs. Their bond first began with the Rider protecting the youngling. It made them instinctively defensive. Of course, they knew what was happening to them having been brought here for that very reason. Asher,” he said delicately, “you know what you have. But you don’t know why you have it. I can’t imagine what’s going through your mind right now.”
Asher let his vision slowly drop to the satchel. With one hand, he reached in and removed the largest item. A bronze dragon egg, layered in scales. “I need to protect it,” he announced absently.
Inara moved to close the gap but Gideon held out a hand, cautioning her. “Give him space,” he instructed quietly. “Of course you need to protect it,” he continued, his focus returned to the ranger. “You are bound together now. You are beholden to each other… forever.”
Whether Asher registered what Gideon was truly saying or not, he refused to take his eyes off the bronze egg.
“Is this really happening?” Inara asked aloud.
“It makes sense,” Gideon mused. “Those eggs would only respond to one with a dragon’s heart,” he explained gesturing to Asher. “He’s the first warrior to enter that chamber in countless millennia.”
Inara did her best to fight against the surprise of it all, hoping to make some kind of sense of the revelation. “Asher’s a Dragon Rider?” she posed in her need to say it out loud.
“No,” the ranger replied definitively. “I’m done fighting on behalf of some order, whatever their motivations. I’m not a Dragon Rider and I’m not a Dragorn.” He looked back down at the egg. “I don’t know what I am.”
Gideon held both of his hands out to calm the situation. “None of that matters right now. This is… It’s wonderful. That egg has waited for you, Asher. For thousands of years it’s just remained here, dormant, until you found each other.”
Inara agreed with every word, but her sharp eyes had spent the moment inspecting what she could of the egg. “It’s already started to crack,” she observed with a hint of excitement.
It was hard to say what was going through Asher’s mind, but he was clearly uncomfortable with the attention the egg was receiving. He quickly placed it back inside his satchel before taking a breath and facing them all. “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” the ranger said gruffly.
“Your apology is unnecessary in light of Master Thorn’s explanation,” Adan offered, the curl of a smile pulling at his cheeks.
Appearing a little awkward, Asher adjusted his stance. “What do I do now?” he asked, revealing something of a vulnerable side to himself.
Indeed, Inara was unaccustomed to the ranger’s uncertainty. “You do what you’ve always done,” she replied. “Trust your instincts. Whatever the future holds, good or bad, your bond with that dragon will bring a new kind of hope to the world.”
“But trust us, if you can,” Gideon added more practically, ever the master. “The dragon inside that egg is connected to you now. When you feel threatened, so too will it. But it doesn’t have your experience or training, Asher. It doesn’t know how to control its emotions, which will manifest in the form of instincts while it’s so young. You’re going to feel all that and want to act on it.”
Athis moved to the side of them, bringing his bulk into the ranger’s eye line. Where most would tense in the presence of such a predator, Asher visibly relaxed.
“Being around other dragons will help,” Inara relayed straight from Athis. “The hatchling will find their presence soothing.”
Asher considered her words. “I think I can feel that.”
Still maintaining his distance, Gideon jumped back in. “Though the Jainus considered the Dragon Riders to be rivals at best, they documented all they learned about them. I have read much on what to expect next. I will guide as you permit.”
Asher nodded once in acceptance. “Thank you.”
As momentous as the event was, Inara could feel the pressure building inside her, the need to return home before it was too late. “I’m sorry,” she began. “There is so much to discuss and I know you must have a lot of questions. I know I did and I had Athis to help me through it all. But I have spoken with Vighon,” she added, her tone conveying the dire situation.
Asher looked to understand. “There’s always a storm,” he remarked. “Are the rest of the eggs safe?”
“Yes,” Gideon answered. “We’re the only ones who know where the door is. And only those who wield magic can open it; something we don’t need to fear in Erador.”
Again, Asher simply nodded his acceptance of the situation. “Then let’s get in the middle of it,” he said, referring to the brewing storm back east.
“You don’t need to come,” Inara pointed out, sharing some of the concern for the egg’s safety. “It’s going to be hard to protect it in Illian. There’s only war there. You could stay here. Erador is a big place.”
Appearing more himself again, Asher didn’t falter in his response. “The egg didn’t call to me because I walk away from the fight. Besides, if Alijah succeeds in destroying that tree…” The ranger looked down at the egg-shaped bulge in the satchel, unable to say the words.
“That’s what we’re all fighting for now,” Gideon agreed. “Let’s go home.”
4
Heavy is the Head…
Two days had passed since the tower fell. Two days since Grarfath and Yamnomora had welcomed so many more children of the mountain into their halls. Among them was King Gaerhard, ruler of the Brightbeards. He would not be the only king to dine at the Father’s table.
Dakmund…
The name brought Doran Heavybelly to his knees. Surrounded by the trees of Ilythyra, at the foot of a snaking stream, he tore off his eyepatch and lowered his face into the water. His agonised roar barely escaped past the bubbling surface.
When his lungs began to burn, the dwarf pulled his head back. As the water settled, he looked hard at the rippling reflection that greeted him. He didn’t see the War Mason of Grimwhal or the prince of clan Heavybelly looking back at him. Instead, he saw his failures as a brother and a son.
His face and beard dripping, the dwarf hammered his fist into the stream until he struck the bottom. Dakmund, the last king of Dhenaheim, had but one fate and it had been Doran who had sealed it. Lord Kraiden’s sword was gone forever, lost to The Hox, and with it any hope of a cure.
He beat the water again and again as his rage and despair demanded their time. Feral was the cry that burst from his lips and foul were the threats he laid at Grarfath’s feet should Dakmund pass into shadow. Only when his chest was heaving and his tears had run dry did he finally stop.
For the moment his fist was numb, but he knew there was pain to come. He would welcome it, a distraction from the pain that split his heart, for his brother’s inevitable demise was only one of the troubles that plagued him.
He shut his eye tight and relived the tower’s collapse and with it… the death of Adilandra Sevari.
Had the world ever known a better queen? A better ruler? Though her final moments would remain a mystery to all but Alijah, her death had ensured their victory on Qamnaran. All had witnessed the portal from which he fell and all had agreed that one so powerful as the half-elf would never have opened a portal above the crashing waves of T
he Hox. Had the queen not dealt with him so, he would likely have delivered destruction upon the survivors astride his terrible mount.
If only their demise had been so apparent. Doran could still see the black dragon diving from the heavens to retrieve his wicked companion, saving him from those murky depths. Time would tell of his retaliation, though the dwarf had no doubt that it would be swift and brutal.
“That’s going to hurt.”
Doran didn’t need to turn his head to know that Russell Maybury was standing there. He had been listening to that voice for decades, heeding the counsel that always accompanied it. Like so many times before, the old wolf was right - his knuckles were already beginning to sting.
Russell crunched through the fallen twigs and flattened the small stones into the dirt as he brought his considerable size to its knees. “Let me see,” he bade, his tone softer than normal.
Doran replaced his eye patch before relenting and offering his hand. Blood mixed with the water and ran between his fingers until it dripped onto the soil. Despite the strength in Russell’s meaty hands, he inspected the cuts with a delicate touch.
“How many times have I patched you up?” he asked rhetorically. “Can you close your fist?”
Doran clenched his hand and refrained from wincing at the sting of it.
“Does it hurt?” Russell enquired, while one hand retrieved a roll of bandage from his belt.
“Everythin’ hurts,” Doran croaked, having become well aware of his injuries over their two day trek from The Narrows to the ruins of Ilythyra. He had never been more thankful for Pig than when they had crossed the western lands of The Moonlit Plains.
“Adding to your wounds isn’t going to help,” Russell pointed out.
Doran had a biting response on the end of his tongue but he kept his mouth shut when he realised Russell’s hands were trembling. The old wolf had bandaged him up more times than he could count, his movements fluid with experience. But now, he applied the bandage with all the coordination of a small child.
“I’m sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “It seems my hands aren’t good for much but swinging an axe.”
Doran sighed, expelling some of his grief and anger for the moment. “The apology is mine, old friend. Me mind has been cast adrift an’ me eyes with it. I cannot see what’s right in front o’ me.” The dwarf reached out and gripped Russell’s hand, feeling the tremor through to his bones. “It’s gettin’ harder, isn’ it?”
Russell took his hand back and massaged it in the other. “You carry the troubles of more than yourself these days. You need not take mine.”
Doran craned his neck and looked up at the starry sky that peeked through the canopy. “How long?” he asked.
“She swells every day,” the old wolf replied, glancing up at the night. “She will be full in days.”
Doran could see the despair that gripped his friend and he wanted to dispel it with strong words, but he could see all the signs of a losing battle. The thumb nail on Russell’s left hand was dark and half an inch longer than the rest, its end sharpened to a point. His cheek bones and jaw line were more prominent than ever and his yellow eyes were sunk within dark pits.
“We’ll get through it, lad,” he promised. “We always do.”
A shadow of doubt crossed Russell’s face. “Not this time, Heavybelly.” He examined his hand in the gloom. “It feels different this time. I fear it will never give up its hold on me.”
“I’ll hear none o’ that!” Doran waved the notion away. “The wolf will rear its ugly head an’ then it will be gone again. It…” He nearly choked on his words. “It always goes.”
“We both know that isn’t the truth of it. Willing otherwise isn’t going to change anything, Doran. It’s called a curse for a reason.”
Doran’s jaw quivered as he tried to put his words together and, for once, he didn’t care it was unbecoming of a dwarf. “I’ll not be losin’ ye too,” he uttered. “This damned war has taken too many an’ I know there’s still more to lose before the end. Ye’re goin’ to fight that monster, ye hear?”
Russell’s mouth turned up into a sad smile. “I think I’m all out of that fight. What I’ve got left, I’ll give to The Rebellion. After that, when the time comes, I want you to—”
“I know exactly what ye want!” Doran interjected. “I’ll not be hearin’ it! Ye’re jus’ goin’ to ’ave to toughen up an’ that’s the end o’ it!”
“Don’t you get it, you stubborn dwarf? That’s exactly what I want - the end of it! I want to be done with it and there’s only one way!”
“Bah!” Doran snorted.
Russell sat back, his heels touching the edge of the stream. He didn’t say anything, which only aggravated the dwarf all the more.
“Well, aren’ ye goin’ to say anythin’? Ye want me to sully Andaljor’s steel with yer cursed blood don’ ye? Give me a reason!”
The old wolf took a breath, his sight lost to the thick woods beyond the stream. His silence began to infuriate Doran more, but the fool squeezed his injured fist and the fresh cuts made him wince. It took some of the ire out of his thinking and he too remained seated in silence for a time.
“I’m sorry, lad,” he managed. “I’m jus’ an angry old fool lookin’ for a fight.”
“Is that why you were punching the stream?” Russell queried with a look of amusement brightening his features. “You always did pick the losing fight.”
The banter brought some cheer to the son of Dorain, but his heart was too heavy to laugh. Instead, he nodded along and sought to change the subject. “How goes it?” he asked, nodding over his shoulder.
“Everyone’s made camp, though we’re going to have to stick to the fringes. Malliath didn’t leave much of Ilythyra intact. I believe Thaligg has seen to your tent, if it can be called that. Faylen has set her kin to the task of patrolling the perimeter. I’d say we’re safe here… for now.”
A good helping of guilt was added to Doran’s grief. “I should ’ave taken charge when we arrived,” he acknowledged. “There’s too many clans in the same camp, and the Brightbeards among ’em ’ave witnessed their king bein’ cut down. It’ll be chaos.”
Russell looked back at the forest behind them. “That’s not been my observation,” he replied. “There’s a good amount of uncertainty among them but, mostly, they’ve all been brought together by the same thing - loss. There isn’t a dwarf out there who hasn’t lost a loved one, not to mention their home, their country. You should be among them, Doran. Let them pick you up.”
The son of Dorain shook his head. “It’s supposed to be the other way around. I should be the one givin’ ’em hope.”
Russell raised a curious eyebrow. “Is that what War Masons do? Offer hope?”
“Well, no. Not exactly.” In truth, Doran didn’t want to describe the violent role of the War Mason in his culture.
“It seems you can’t get away from who you are,” Russell remarked, though Doran didn’t miss the irony in his words. “A time is coming when you will have to be rid of that title. Are you ready for your next one?”
Doran hadn’t wanted to think about it, for that particular title only came with the death of Dakmund. “I’m just a ranger,” he muttered with little conviction.
“You’re a prince of Grimwhal,” Russell corrected. “That makes you a natural leader to these people.” The old wolf turned to face him, pausing before he spoke. “Let us stay in the here and now. The present is where you find yourself, not the future. And right now, you’re still just a dwarf, flesh and blood like the rest of us. Walk among them. There’s courage in abundance in your kin. Grieve with them. And then rise with them.”
Doran succeeded in breaking a smile, however brief. “Ye’re a good man, Rus, if a little soft in the head.”
Russell mirrored what he could of the smile. “And you’ll always be a stubborn bone-headed ranger to me. Come.”
Together, they walked away from the stream and made their way to the
outskirts of Ilythyra. Even here, the trees were thicker and taller than anywhere else in the realm. There were some that still possessed the spacious bowers in their trunks, places where the elves felt more at home. From the ground, Doran could see the soft glow of their magical orbs and even a few elves crossing the wooden bridges that connected the tree tops.
Numerous as they were, many elves had made camp on the forest floor, side by side with the dwarves. Indeed, there appeared no division between the two races, including those who had recently been freed from Qamnaran. To the west, those who had been injured in the recent battle were being seen to by their respective kin since the children of the mountain were less receptive to the healing touch of magic.
Doran broke away from Russell to visit the wounded. He walked between their cots, offering elf and dwarf alike his prayers as well as his thanks for their bravery. The War Mason took some extra time to sit with the youngest dwarf among them and listen to his story. He wasn’t even a quarter of Doran’s age yet he had displayed the mettle of a hardened warrior and fought with the heart of a lion.
When he grew tired, the son of Dorain left him to rest and drifted back into the main camp. He accepted a pitcher of water from a Hammerkeg and a strip of meat from a Brightbeard, both of whom offered their thanks for his efforts on Qamnaran. Again, he stopped for a while and listened to their dreadful tales of slavery and abuse. Doran gave them his full attention, though he was occasionally distracted by the mere sight of the two dwarves sitting side by side like friends.
Later still, the War Mason gave what comfort he could to a Battleborn mother, who still wept for her two sons, both lost in Alijah’s invasion of Dhenaheim. Doran’s heart broke for all of them as a tapestry of grief was woven between the clans.
He would have spent all night if that’s what it required to speak with everyone, but his duties were ever present. That much was obvious when Faylen herself approached, beckoning the War Mason away from the small group of Heavybellys.
“It’s Galanör,” she said.
A Clash of Fates Page 6