Alijah guided his horse into the centre of Lirian’s eastern district. He unthinkingly jumped down from his horse and concealed his face behind the animal’s neck. The pain in his leg contorted his expression and he didn’t want any of Lirian’s inhabitants to see him suffering. It didn’t take long to subside, allowing him to turn and look upon the tired tavern that had drawn him from the palace.
The Pick-Axe.
This was where it had all begun for the half-elf. After exiling himself from the Galfrey home, destiny had guided him here, to the same decrepit green door that stood before him now. It had been over twenty years since then. He could still remember feeling like he didn’t belong in there, among rangers and hardy patrons. Then an old mage had brought him a drink, a hot meal, and a welcoming smile.
Hadavad.
If only the mage could have seen him now, Alijah thought. Even Hadavad, a mage of great vision and wisdom, could never have dreamt such a fate as this. It still saddened him to know that his old mentor had been destined to die so that he might break free of any and all who would lead him astray.
As he approached the steps up to the porch, Alijah asked himself what he was really doing there. There were pressing matters that warranted waking Malliath and continuing their journey but, instead, he was reaching out for the door handle. He just needed to see it again, to take in the tavern’s musty aroma, and wander back through the halls of his memories to a different time. The king had believed he was above such trivialities as nostalgia but, here he was, aggravated by the lock that barred his way.
There were many ways he could remove the obstacle from his path, but he wanted to enter the Pick-Axe as he had so long ago. Alijah waved his hand over the lock and used a simple spell to pull it out of place. The door creaked on his way inside. He was immediately assaulted by the musty smell of the place, only it was far more pronounced than on his last visit. It reminded the king that Russell Maybury had sided with The Rebellion, leaving the tavern empty for nearly two years.
Still, the scent brought back numerous memories for the half-elf. He remembered the first time he returned with Vighon by his side. The northman had been sheepish, accustomed to the harsh ways of The Ironsworn, until Russell’s dog, Nelly, had bounded up to him.
Walking up to the bar, from where Russell’s pick-axe was clearly missing, he turned to the right, an area where the band had always set up when there wasn’t a ranger telling a tale or two. He had enjoyed many of Doran’s tales during his time with Hadavad. Those memories, however, felt spoiled now by the son of Dorain’s actions against him.
With quiet contemplation, he slid his hands over the wood of the bar. How many times had he leaned over it and flirted with barmaids? It had all been so easy back then. He would cheat his way through a game of Gallant and use the coin for food, drink, and a warm bed.
Looking through the gloom, he picked out the booth where Galanör Reveeri had been sitting. The elven ranger had been watching him and Vighon on behalf of Hadavad and Gideon. From there, everything had changed, their courses altered forever. That led him to the door on the far left of the bar. Well and truly a victim of his own nostalgia now, he made for that door and descended the immediate steps.
The rangers’ bar opened up around him with a small collection of tables and chairs and half a bar in the corner. He was drawn to the old armchairs, a little worse for wear, in front of the fireplace. He had spent many an evening sharing a drink with Vighon while staring into the flames. For all the venom he held for the northman, he couldn’t help but recall those times fondly.
His hand ran along the top of the armchair as he left the common area. With what light there was, streaming through the high windows that revealed the street above, he navigated the only passage under the tavern. Ignoring the doors on his left and right, Alijah made for the door at the very end. Like the others, it creaked as he passed through to the next chamber. It was just as large as the common area, but it was devoid of furniture. The space had always been used for training and practising with new weapons.
Looking around, there were hardly any left on the walls anymore. Stepping onto the training mats, the king examined the long coat, belt, and sword that remained fixed to the far wall. It took him a moment to recall the ranger’s name as Jonus Glaide, an old friend of Asher’s and Doran’s. Alijah had never met the man, but he had heard of his heroics during the Battle of Velia, in The War for the Realm.
Turning on his heel, the half-elf faced the small alcove built into the wall. A dusty curtain, poked with ragged holes, partially concealed the contents. With one hand, he drew the curtain back, his mind envisioning the row of identical swords and green cloaks. This had been Asher’s personal locker. Now it was bare but for a single two-handed broadsword.
Alijah removed it from the rack and held it in both hands. The spiked pommel felt solid and heavy, but the blade evened the weight distribution to make it a finely balanced weapon. After so many years of disuse, however, it was in much need of care to make it battle worthy again. Not that its wielder would ever return to claim it, nor the tavern’s owner for that matter.
The king sighed. “What am I doing here?” he asked himself.
The question evaporated from Alijah’s mind when the tip of a stranger’s sword came to rest on his shoulder. He chastised himself for being so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had stopped listening to his senses. Now, a cursory glance to the side revealed four men had entered the chamber, one of whom had succeeded in getting so close that his blade now touched his very person.
“I wouldn’t mind an answer to your question as well,” came a gruff voice from behind.
Alijah held out Asher’s sword with just his finger and thumb and slowly returned it to the rack before turning to face his attackers. They dressed like ordinary men, but the way they displayed their weapons and the formation they assumed to block his way, screamed their true identity: rebels. They were likely ex-soldiers from various places around Illian.
Though he now faced the man pointing a sword in his face, Alijah’s attention was quickly drawn to the man on his right. Judging by the fear in his eyes, the rebel had recognised the person before them was the king of Verda, the most powerful and dangerous man in the world. And they were trapped down here with him.
“It’s him,” he said in a quiet voice.
“What are you talking about, Bervard?” the gruff voice demanded, his eyes never straying from Alijah.
Trembling now, the man uttered, “It’s him… the usurper.”
That word got stuck in Alijah’s head, striking him like a physical blow. “Usurper?” he echoed acidly. “I am your king.”
One of the four desperately shouted, “Kill him!” But it was too late.
Alijah had but to flick his wrist and the man pointing the sword in his face was hit by a wall of compressed air. The magic picked him off his feet and launched him into the back wall with enough force to spill some of the contents of his head across the stone. He didn’t get back up.
The trembling fool who had recognised the king staggered backwards, his fear taking a hold of him. The remaining two rebels advanced from different angles, accustomed to fighting side by side. As they came at Alijah, he felt Malliath waking from his slumber with a start.
I’m coming! he growled across their bond.
The half-elf had no time to reply. He shifted his body one way to evade a thrusting sword before pivoting to avoid an incoming axe. A pained wince flashed across his face as his injured leg protested at the quick movement. The rebels turned around, ready to spring again. Alijah stood his ground, considering which destructive spell would be the most spectacular.
Then he thought about the battles to come. He would be the fool to believe that Inara and Gideon weren’t on his tail. Clashing with them both was inevitable and, right now, he didn’t know if he could even swing his sword without the pain getting in the way.
Using speed any human would find unattainable, the king freed his Vi’ta
ri blade from its scabbard. His shoulder cried out but the pain only served to anger him which, in turn, led Alijah to lash out with his green scimitar. He batted his foe’s sword aside and, in the same blow, sliced across his eyes, blinding him. The rebel fell away, wailing in agony.
The axeman hesitated, giving Alijah enough time to face him properly. When, at last, he attacked, the king snatched the haft of his weapon mid-strike and held it high. Again, the pain in his back was akin to a lashing whip, but he adopted some of Malliath’s rage and pushed through, just as he slowly pushed his Vi’tari blade through the rebel’s chest. Shock ripped through the axeman’s expression. What pain there was didn’t last long before Death claimed him and he slipped from Alijah’s scimitar.
Keeping hold of the axe, the king twisted the weapon in his hand. He turned to face the trembling sop who was trying to disappear into the corner. Wherever he had seen Alijah before, he had obviously borne witness to his terrible might. He approached the man with deadly intent, a predator closing in on its prey. To silence the blind rebel’s constant whimpering, he threw the axe into the side of his head, adding a third corpse to the training room. This made the survivor tremble all the more.
“Please!” he begged. “Please! Your Grace!” Pushing away from the corner, the man prostrated himself before the king. “I am your humble servant! I will do anything you ask! Please, your Grace!”
Alijah loomed over him. “What was your name?” he asked softly. “Bervard?”
“Yes, your Grace,” he stuttered.
“Bervard, you have committed grievous crimes against the realm. Treason is punishable by death.”
The man sobbed some more. “Please, your Grace! I’m begging you! I will do anything!”
Alijah sighed and sheathed his blade. “I am merciful,” he said, giving the man hope. “Go,” he instructed, nodding at the door.
Fearing a trick, Bervard hesitated. Then, he swallowed hard and rose to his feet, nervously looking from the king to the door.
“Do you wish to die down here?” Alijah questioned.
“No, your Grace!” Bervard blurted.
“Then why am I still looking at you?”
The fool bolted for the door and swiftly disappeared from Alijah’s sight… but not Malliath’s. The king heard the tavern’s front door burst open as Bervard darted for the street. Then he heard the flames that engulfed the rebel and half the road.
All four of them were dead the moment they entered the chamber. Alijah had known that, just as he knew his own fate was sealed by his actions.
With a lasting look at the interior, the king made his way back to the street, ready to leave The Pick-Axe behind forever. It had served its purpose in his life.
Outside, the smell of charred flesh stung Alijah’s nostrils, but he was sure not to display any discomfort. Instead, he took a moment to examine what remained of Bervard. That didn’t take very long. Small flames licked at the street here and there but Malliath had kept the damage to a minimum, a stark difference to the devastation he unleashed upon the city during The Ash War.
With a force of their own, the dragon’s purple eyes pulled Alijah in. Why did you come here? Malliath asked bluntly.
Alijah regarded the old tavern. I don’t know, he confessed.
Malliath huffed, expelling a blast of hot air from his nostrils. It has passed the time we were leaving. We have work to finish.
Alijah could feel his companion’s need to be in the sky again, to fill his wings with air, and soar with the kind of freedom that only a dragon could know.
“Your Grace!” Lord Starg called from astride his horse. Accompanied by a handful of his own men, the steward rode down the street but was sure to dismount before getting anywhere near Malliath’s tail.
“Lord Starg!” the king called back. “Inside you will find the bodies of three dead rebels to add to this one,” he said, pointing at Bervard’s burning husk. “Upon my return, I expect you to have found the people aiding them and made arrests!”
The steward stumbled over his own words. “It will be done, your Grace!” he promised.
Alijah didn’t much care for his promises. Instead, he ascended Malliath’s back, his pained climb hidden by the dragon’s wing, and readied himself for flight. It took only seconds to put all of Verda behind as they rocketed into the heavens.
With every beat of Malliath’s wings, Alijah found his memories of The Pick-Axe fading away. It was, in fact, Malliath’s words that echoed in his mind.
The past must die, so that the future may live.
18
Battle of The Moonlit Plains
A dwarven horn cut through the cold morning air just as it cut through Doran Heavybelly’s head. He shot the blower a look so fierce it moved him on, deeper into their ranks and away from the War Mason’s sensitive ears. It wasn’t the first horn that had bombarded his sore head - the morning’s march had been filled with them. Every time a new tribe of Centaurs joined their forces, both elven and dwarven horns would celebrate.
Doran hated them all just as much as he hated the one that had pierced his tent and roused him, hours earlier.
He had quickly come to regret joining in the evening’s intemperance his people always enjoyed before a battle. He wasn’t the young warrior he liked to think he was anymore. But now, astride Pig, as he looked out from the small rise in the plains, the most sobering of sights banished any and all ailments from Thraal’s home brew.
Gone was the lush green of the everlasting Moonlit Plains. Instead, there was an ocean of black steel. Reavers, amassed from every corner of the realm, surrounded the enormous dig site. The inner-most ring, by the edge of the hole, was occupied by a camp of enslaved dwarves.
If only that was all the son of Dorain could see. He cursed under his breath upon sighting the lumbering Trolls. They easily stood out against the smaller Reavers, who controlled them with chains and spears. Indeed, Doran spotted two of the wretched beasts lying still in the western flanks, their jagged hides like hills on the flat land. They had clearly proven unruly and been slain by their undead masters.
Good, he thought. That was two less monsters to deal with. Of course, the remaining dozen or so, dragged from their dark dwellings, would create quite the problem when the real fighting began. That’s if the real fighting ever began, for the Reavers and the Trolls were not their only foe. Scattered throughout were numerous ballistas and catapults, some of which were still in the process of being constructed.
They were dwarven in design.
That fact broke Doran’s heart. Was there any greater humiliation for a dwarf than to be forced to build your enemy’s weapons, weapons that would be used against your kin? He could only hope that some had been sabotaged.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he was pleased to see that his army - a collection of clans - had remained in formation. They would be relying heavily on their ancient battle strategies if they were to beat a superior foe. That all began with rigid formation. Of course, the elves made the whole affair seem effortless in their shining armour and with their stoical expressions. Even the Centaurs, who stood above them all, had found some kind of organisation that worked for them.
“I don’t see him,” Faylen stated from atop her horse.
Doran looked up at her and followed the elf’s sight to the sky. “Well there’s nowhere else for a big black dragon to hide out ’ere,” he remarked, turning left and right. “Grarfath must be hurlin’ a strong wind in his direction.”
“If you are correct,” Faylen went on, “then the same thing delaying Alijah and Malliath is also delaying Inara and Gideon.”
That didn’t sound right to the dwarf. “Perhaps it’s jus’ as Gideon said: Malliath’s injured.”
Galanör jumped down from his horse and walked a few steps ahead. “Dragons or not, this battle possesses challenges all of its own. Catapults, ballistas, Trolls. Add them to the Reavers and who knows what else awaits us out there.”
Watching the Reavers rally o
n the southern side of the dig site, spreading their line out to meet the rebels, was more than enough to give Doran doubts about any victory. “We ain’ ’ere to win, remember. We jus’ need to keep ’em busy until we ’ave the numbers to defeat Alijah. Bring ’im down an’ they all follow.”
“Sounds gruelling,” Aenwyn commented.
“Aye,” Doran agreed. “An’ that’s before we face the damned Trolls.”
“Leave them to us,” Kelabor asserted, trotting over to their small group ahead of the army. “My people have experience with their kind.”
Doran cast his only eye over the Centaur and decided, rather quickly, that he wouldn’t disagree. Like many who had emerged from the plains to join them, Kelabor wore an armoured coat over his horse body, similar to the battle-wear of iron plates and chainmail the dwarves clad their Warhogs in. It all lent to the already menacing appearance of his kind, given their significant tattoos and large weapons.
“If ye can bring ’em down then ye’re welcome to ’em.”
“We need to rethink our strategy here,” Faylen suggested. “Charging at them, flat out, will see many of us perish by those catapults. And if they unleash the Trolls before we reach their front line, our formation will be compromised.”
“Is there time for that now?” Aenwyn posed, her sharp eyes fixed on the Reavers.
“They’re not advancing,” Faylen replied. “And since surprise was never an option, I suggest we take the moment to decide our best course of action.”
“Ye’re not wrong,” Doran added, before turning to look up at Kelabor. “It’s great that ye’ve got experience bringin’ down Trolls, but how do we get close enough before their catapults an’ ballistas…” The dwarf tailed off, his mind falling back to his days in Dhenaheim.
“Doran?” Galanör cajoled. “What are you thinking?”
He was thinking war strategies, schemes designed to ensure death on a grand scale. He hated that his mind could so easily fall back on that way of thinking, though he had to wonder if it had served him during his years slaying the realm’s worst beasts.
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