A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Those of an ethereal nature bowed their heads to the various royals and faded from view.

  “I’ll prepare my Keepers for the journey,” Kassian said, making to leave the throne room.

  “I’ll rouse every fighter we have,” Nathaniel added. “We should be able to leave within a few hours.”

  Vighon looked down at Inara, but the Guardian was holding the gaze of her mother. “I will accompany you,” he offered Nathaniel. “When will you leave?” he asked Gideon.

  The old master, however, found his mind wandering back to the morning’s events. Had he really seen it? Or was his mind playing tricks on him, giving him false hope. Impossible - Ilargo had noticed the same thing.

  “Gideon?” Vighon prompted, drawing his attention. “When will you be leaving?”

  “Ideally now,” he replied, “but when we reach the plains we will face Malliath and, I suspect, Alijah’s Dragon Riders. Ilargo and Athis need to rest before we enter that fight. I would leave them to eat and sleep for a few hours before we go.”

  “What of Asher?” Nathaniel enquired.

  “Yes,” Gideon acknowledged, “I would also like to be here when the hatchling arrives. Asher is going to need some guidance.”

  “Perhaps you should go to him now,” Nathaniel suggested, his eyes shifting between his wife and daughter.

  Gideon could see no part for him in the conversation to come. “That’s an excellent idea.”

  Inara waited for the doors to close. “You can’t do that,” she instructed firmly.

  “Do what?” Reyna asked with little curiosity in her voice.

  “I know the circumstances of becoming an elven sovereign are always painful - I share some of that pain with you. But you are the queen of Ayda now. You cannot let your concern for me interfere with the decisions you make. You have responsibilities.”

  “I have responsibilities as a mother,” Reyna interrupted.

  Inara was shaking her head. “They cannot supersede your responsibilities as queen!”

  “You’re all I have left!” Reyna snapped, her tears on the verge of spilling out. “Whatever Alijah’s fate, we both know he will not find redemption now. Ask Asher. Redemption takes time: time no one is willing to give him. I have already lost my son. Now I have to watch my daughter fly off into battle against the same enemy that just took my mother. This war is pulling us apart.”

  Seeing her mother sob, Inara rose from the chair and moved to crouch down beside her. She offered comfort with an embrace as she rested her head against Reyna’s arm. She didn’t know what to say. Their world had unravelled and there were no words that could put it back together.

  “If there’s any part of our Alijah left in there,” Inara said, “he wouldn’t want to live with the memories of what he’s done.”

  Reyna looked down at her daughter. “If there is, if you see it in him - would you spare him?”

  Inara felt her mother’s tears splash across her hand. She turned her head to let Reyna see the sincerity behind her eyes. “No,” she whispered.

  Reyna scrunched her eyes tight and nodded some semblance of understanding.

  “I would give him rest,” Inara continued. “And then I would cling to those memories of golden days on the beaches of Alborn. I would remember him as he was.”

  Reyna cupped Inara’s face. “I don’t want to lose you too.”

  “You won’t,” Inara promised.

  A smile broke through her mother’s grief. “Oh to have your courage and strength,” she praised.

  “Gifts from you,” Inara pointed out.

  Reyna spilled more tears and brought their heads together. “Not from me,” she wept softly. “I never got to say goodbye to her.”

  Inara recalled her last words with Adilandra, before she flew to Erador. “I parted ways with her in The Black Wood. She was so strong. She told me there would be victory for us both. And then, together, we would come here and take you away. She was so sure.”

  Reyna pulled back. “Adilandra Sevari was nothing if not sure of her path. Who else would leave Elandril and trek south to Darkakin lands in search of dragons? Her legacy will always be the courage and strength that lives within you.”

  “Within us both,” Inara corrected.

  Reyna took a steadying breath. “Within us both,” she echoed.

  “When this is all over,” Inara promised, “we will make sense of all this together. We’ll forge what future we can.”

  Reyna shrugged helplessly. “I don’t even know where to begin making sense of being queen.”

  Inara appeared to ponder over that. “Perhaps I should start calling you, your Grace.”

  Her mother waved the notion away. “Come then,” she bade. “I would like to spend some time with you before you leave again. I would know all about this alteration to your bond with Athis. Your father was telling me but I would much rather hear it from you.”

  “There will be time for that,” Inara reassured. “Have you ever seen a dragon hatchling?” she enquired instead, guiding her mother with a hooked arm.

  “I can’t say I have,” Reyna replied.

  “They’re adorable,” Inara remarked. “If a little dangerous,” she added, thinking of Athis’s excited descriptions.

  11

  The March to War

  Doran Heavybelly strode through the camp with purpose, clapping his meaty hands together. “Get yer arses movin’!” he bellowed at the laziest of his kin. “Get yer tents down, pack up yer gear, an’ make sure yer bellies are full. We’re goin’ to war!”

  He spotted Aenwyn in the distance, reassuring those that cared for the wounded they would be staying in the camp. The War Mason was glad Aenwyn and her bow would be counted among their army. He had never been envious of an elf before - and he told himself he still wasn’t - but watching her navigate a battle and fire an arrow into Morgorth’s eye at a hundred paces put her skill on a par with Reyna’s.

  Killing from a distance, however, was not the dwarven way. He was reminded of this when he finally arrived at the remnants of his tent, where Pig snuffled at the ground. His saddle was already laden with gear and supplies, seen to by Thaligg or Thraal no doubt. Lying on the ground, however, tethered to the back of the saddle, was Lord Kraiden’s head - right where he had promised it would be. Since lopping it off, he had bolted the spiked crown to the wretch’s skull so all would recognise it.

  The sight of it tempted the dwarf’s mind to spiral into dark places. Busying himself, Doran spat on the skull and stepped over the tether to inspect his gear. Andaljor was strapped horizontally across the back, both hammer and axe in need of a good clean. He had full water skins and even a skin of what smelled like Hobgobbers Ale. He reminded himself to thank the brothers when he could.

  The sound of dwarven war songs carried on the breeze, drifting between the trees of Ilythyra. There were already hundreds of his kin making their way to the edge of the forest, where the northern tip met the green pastures of The Moonlit Plains. Most of them, he knew, were simply eager to put the trees behind them and see mountains again.

  Lighter on their feet and swifter of action, the elves marched out of Ilythyra in neat rows of two abreast. Though many had taken what time they had to clean their armour, every one of them showed evidence of recent battle.

  “They’re quite the sight, aren’t they?”

  Doran turned to see Russell who was struggling to tow a horse. “They’re good at walkin’, I’ll give ’em that.”

  The old wolf chuckled to himself. “Still can’t bring yourself to compliment them, I see.” His smile disappeared when the horse tried to get away from him again.

  Doran shrugged. “It’s in me blood. Are ye ready to go?” he asked with one bushy eyebrow rising into his head.

  Russell applied both hands to the reins and tried to calm the horse, though what came out of his mouth was closer to a growl. “I’m ready,” he answered through gritted teeth.

  The horse finally lost its nerve and reared back
on its hind legs. Russell lost his grip on the reins and staggered back, his arms out ready to tackle the distressed mount. Doran sidestepped and took a hold of Pig’s reins, hoping to restrain the Warhog from responding with his tusks.

  Like an angel descending from the heavens, Galanör dropped from the nearest tree and came down on the horse’s saddle. It naturally bucked back and forth but the elven ranger could not be dismounted, his muscles adjusting constantly to maintain his balance. With some physical negotiation, he succeeded in placing his head beside the horse’s, where he could whisper sweet elvish words.

  Doran watched in amazement as the mount began to calm down. It wasn’t long before Galanör was seated comfortably in the saddle, patting the animal’s neck. After climbing down, he whispered something further into its ear and handed the reins over to Russell. Though somewhat skittish, it didn’t lash out or try to flee.

  “Thank you,” Russell said quietly.

  Galanör glanced up at the sky by way of gesture. “The full moon approaches,” he observed.

  Russell nodded at the horse. “It senses the wolf.”

  Galanör stroked the horse while shifting his eyes down to Doran. The dwarf could see the caution behind those sharp eyes but he dismissed it.

  “Is this the last o’ yer people?” he asked the elf, gesturing to the marching lines.

  “There are still a few patrols out there,” Galanör replied, easily looking over the dwarf’s shoulders at the trees. “Another hour and we will all be on the plains.”

  Russell tentatively strapped his gear to the horse’s saddle. “Do we have a strategy?”

  “Bloody chaos,” Doran quipped, in response to which Russell turned to Galanör.

  “He’s right,” the elf sighed. “The Moonlit Plains are full of rolling hills, but the dig site is located on flat land. There will be no surprising them, and splitting our forces to attack from different angles would take days and make little difference.” Galanör looked briefly at the War Mason. “We will meet them head on.”

  Doran leaned in. “Wait until they hear the sound o’ dwarven boots - thousands o’ ’em - thunderin’ towards their line. On that day, even the dead will tremble, ye ’ave me word.” The son of Dorain clicked his fingers. “That reminds me!” he exclaimed, looking up at Russell. “Come with me, lad; I’ve somethin’ for ye.” The dwarf paused before leading the way. “We’ll see ye on the plains, Galanör.”

  The elven ranger let his gaze linger over Doran for a moment longer than was comfortable. “Good riding, both of you.” With a grace unbefitting of one so ruggedly dressed, Galanör disappeared into the trees.

  “Follow me,” Doran instructed.

  “Galanör doesn’t think I should accompany you,” Russell said.

  “Bah!” Doran snorted. “Don’ try an’ get into the head o’ an elf, Rus! There’s not much in there but foliage an’ hedgerows.”

  With so much of the camp packed down, the dwarf was able to reach his intended destination swiftly. The makeshift smithy was in disarray after so many weapons, shields, and pieces of armour had passed through it, and the variety of tools that accompanied every dwarven band were strewn across the benches and ground. Only the smith himself remained, the last to abandon any camp.

  “Glain!” Doran hollered, aware that the old smith was partially deaf from centuries of hammering.

  “War Mason!” Glain replied with a welcoming smile. “I’d o’ thought ye would be gone by now!”

  “Someone’s got to make sure this lot clear out!” The son of Dorain thumbed over his shoulder at the stragglers. “Where we’re goin’ every arm counts!” he stated, before looking up at Russell. “Glain ’ere has been makin’ all manner o’ weapons an’ armour for Grimwhal since he were a pup! Knew me father he did, back when ol’ Dorain had some colour in his hair. An’ some life in his bones,” he added under his breath.

  “What can I do ye for?” Glain asked, as he continued to pack up his cart. “I’ve got nothin’ that’ll compare to Andaljor, ye know!”

  Doran scowled, his eye shifting from the smith to Russell and back. “Ye know,” he said, gesturing heavily. “The thing I requested o’ ye!”

  Glain scratched his balding head and frowned. “I’ve had a lot o’ requests come through here in the last day or so.”

  “The request came from me, ye dolt! Yer War Mason! Doran Heavybelly! Me name is the very clan ye belong to! Ringin’ any bells?”

  Russell bowed his head. “How old is old Glain exactly?”

  Quite exasperated, Doran shrugged and rolled his eye. “Even Grarfath probably doesn’ remember makin’ ’im.”

  “I remember!” Glain exclaimed with a stubby finger in the air. “Now where did I put it?” he asked aloud, searching his wares. “I had jus’ the thing I did! Fit yer requirements perfectly!” The ancient-looking dwarf rummaged through the weapons and tools poking out at the end of his cart. “’ere it is!”

  A smile of satisfaction spread Doran’s blond beard. “That’ll do,” he said, taking the war hammer from the smith. It was heavy, even to his strong arms. The head of the hammer offered two sides of attack, branching off into a flat piece of steel, ideal for breaking all manner of things, and a thick claw for everything else.

  Russell accepted the weapon, taking it in both hands. The way he hefted it suggested the war hammer was just as light as a common sword. He twisted it this way and that, inspecting the head with a critical eye.

  “It’s no pick-axe,” Doran remarked, “but it’s a damn sight sharper! An’ with yer strength, lad, ye can crush Reaver skulls with the hammer.”

  “Thank you, old friend,” Russell said, his own fears and doubts resting visibly on his large shoulders.

  “Ye jus’ keep yer fingers wrapped around that hammer, ye hear. When the wolf comes callin’, ye grip it all the tighter an’ keep swingin’. We’re seein’ this through ye an’ I.”

  Russell said nothing, preferring to simply nod his understanding. Doran wished he could rid his friend of the burden that coursed through his veins, just as he wished he could save his brother from the poison that ran through his. But Fate, it seemed, had chosen to render him helpless to both.

  “What was that?” Glain called, his pitch suggesting there was considerable distance between them.

  Doran turned back to see the smith only a few feet away. “Pack yer tools an’ be on yer way, Glain!” the War Mason told him. “It’s more than likely yer skills are to be needed again before we see real battle!”

  “As ye command!” Glain shouted back.

  Returning to their mounts, Doran and Russell took to their respective saddles and began making for the northern edge of the forest. “If ye lot don’ get a move on,” the son of Dorain berated the stragglers, “ye’ll be chargin’ into battle from the back an’ Grarfath won’ even see ye! Ye’ll be sleepin’ in the Father’s stables for all eternity!”

  They left the clearing to the sound of dwarves clumsily falling over each other to catch up. Weaving through the forest, they easily followed the trail left by the thousands that had preceded them, though Doran struggled to spot the tracks left by the elves. The forest obviously favoured the woodland folk - another reason to prefer mountains.

  Under a clear blue sky and battered by winter’s cold winds, the old rangers left the forest behind and rode out onto the plains. Thaligg and Thraal were charging up and down on their Warhogs bellowing orders. They were attempting to organise the dwarves into companies and battalions that suited their choice of weapons and expertise. Judging by the chaos, they were struggling.

  To Doran’s eye, the problem was simple: too many clans. Thaligg and Thraal were trying to coordinate Heavybellys with the remains of Battleborns, Hammerkegs, Goldhorns, and Brightbeards, all of whom had spent centuries fighting each other rather than side by side.

  “Grarfath’s beard, this is maddenin’,” he cursed.

  The sound of thundering hooves turned the son of Dorain to the west. Faylen brought her
horse alongside him, though he didn’t miss her eyes moving to compare the ranked elves to the rabble of dwarves.

  “We will need to camp one more time before we can attack the dig site,” she informed him needlessly. “We need to get moving, Doran.”

  “I hear ye,” he grumbled. “I’ll have ’em organised before we attack.”

  Riding away from Russell and the High Guardian, he charged Pig up and down the front line of dwarves and barked orders to get marching. He instructed his captains to keep the horde moving and begin to consider who should go where for the final attack.

  “For now,” he finished, “jus’ get ’em north!”

  A great clatter accompanied the progression of the dwarves. It reminded Doran of his days in Dhenaheim, leading his army across the icy plains to meet another clan. That Doran would never have believed the sight before him now. It almost made the son of Dorain believe that anything was possible.

  Watching them advance from the east, Russell rode up to meet him again. “Doran,” he warned, his yellow eyes flashing further east still.

  The War Mason followed his friend’s direction and cast his only eye over the distant hills. They were small given the gap between them, but Doran knew Centaurs when he saw them. They were a distinctive shape among the creatures that lived outside of civilisation.

  “How many do ye count?”

  Russell narrowed his eyes. “At least a dozen,” he observed.

  Doran’s face screwed up as he tried to recall the name of any one of the Centaurs he had met, but it had been nearly fifty years since he had been welcomed into their home. The memory itself was fond, filled with merriment and old friends, but the individual names escaped him. He was sure the leader’s name had an exotic sound to it.

  Then again, he realised, the Centaurs watching them could be from any number of tribes that called The Moonlit Plains their home.

  “What do you think they want?” Russell pondered.