Doran was easy to find, sitting on a lone boulder with a cloud of smoke rising from his mouth. He was still wearing all of his armour, though Asher and Avandriell could have discerned that by smell alone. Andaljor rested upright against the boulder, its steel stained with detritus. Also resting beside the weary dwarf was his trusted mount, Pig. The animal snored into the night, weary itself judging by the injuries crossing its hide.
“That Warhog is as stubborn as you,” Asher remarked. “I’m starting to wonder if it will outlive us all.”
The dwarf glanced to his left, taking in the pair. “I’m happy for ye, lad,” he said, oblivious to the ranger’s comments. “Ye deserve a companion as fierce as yerself,” he muttered.
Asher remained beside the boulder as Avandriell pounced on some insect in front of the dwarf. Doran got a better view of her now and allowed his eye to wander over her rather than scout the southern plains. He didn’t display the look of wonder and amazement as everyone else did when seeing the young dragon, but dwarves weren’t known for their appreciation of the natural world.
“Her name is Avandriell,” Asher told him.
“A fine name,” Doran complimented. “A fine dragon too. Me kin could work steel an’ silvyr for centuries an’ never make anythin’ so exquisite as her scales. Ye’re a lucky Rider,” he added, before exhaling another cloud of smoke.
Asher puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I’m still a ranger,” he replied adamantly.
The son of Dorain gripped his pipe between his teeth. “A ranger with a dragon? Ye’ll be puttin’ the rest o’ us out o’ business then.”
Asher couldn’t see many more days ahead of Doran as a ranger, but he kept that opinion to himself. “The battle was unforgiving,” he said, instead.
“The battle was hell,” Doran corrected. “But aren’ they all?” he muttered with a heavy heart.
Asher took a breath, his eyes still roaming the darkness. “He’s out there somewhere.”
The dwarf removed the pipe from his mouth and sighed. “Aye,” he drawled.
Asher finally looked down at his old friend. The weight of the world was upon him. The ranger placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing Doran’s eye towards him. “Russell should not be left to torment. Inside the beast he is a prisoner.”
“He charged me with killin’ ’im should it come to this,” Doran blurted, averting his sight. “I know I should already be out there, huntin’ the wolf down. But when I swing me axe that’s it. Russell will be gone… forever.”
“He will rest forever,” Asher said softly. “But only after we have slain the wolf.”
Doran looked at him again. “Ye don’ ’ave to do this, lad. Rus charged me, not ye.”
“I brought him into this world of monsters,” Asher maintained, recalling the moment he had introduced Russell to the life of a ranger. “I will make sure he does not remain as one.”
Doran nodded once. “Ye’d ’ave made a good dwarf, ye know.”
“And had naught but rocks between my ears?” the ranger quipped.
The son of Dorain chuckled half-heartedly. “I can’ argue with that.”
“Come,” Asher bade, turning back to the camp. “Eat, drink, and find some rest. We hunt in the morning.”
Doran frowned. “We should leave now!”
“Trust me,” Asher said. “Hunting Werewolves at night is a mistake; especially when the wolf in question knows our scent. It will likely be sleeping in the day - that’s when we hunt.” The ranger gestured to the camp. “Now rest or you will be useless to me.”
Doran huffed. “Are ye sure ye’re not half dwarf?” he asked, rising begrudgingly from the boulder.
With Avandriell bounding beside them and Pig sniffing every inch of ground behind them, they returned to the camp and found somewhere to rest. Asher was unaccustomed to seeing Doran attended to by others, but his station as War Mason made him important now. They were brought what food could be spared and settled for water instead of ale.
His mind allowed to stray from Russell’s fate for a while, the son of Dorain asked many questions concerning Avandriell and what events had led to their pairing. Asher was more than happy to talk about her, though he struggled to contemplate the future right now. It wasn’t long, however, before the dwarf gave in to his exhaustion and fell asleep. Asher draped a cloak over him and sat back against the wheel of a cart. He raised his arm to let Avandriell nestle in beside him.
The ranger let his thoughts drift rather than dwell on the pain the morrow would bring.
27
First Contact
A new dawn greeted the world from the east, though it failed to bring with it a clarity to match its light. Kassian looked out on the camp feeling just as lost as he had the previous day. They had arrived to a field of bodies and defeat, both of which had stolen the hope from many a heart. Every one of his Keepers had come to him at some point with their fears. None could imagine a realm without magic in it.
Nor could Kassian.
After taking Aphira’s advice and speaking to Vighon about the future, Kassian had finally begun to envision his place in a world without Clara. In fact, the world he now dreamt of was so perfect because of Clara.
And now it was in jeopardy, hanging on a knife’s edge. The Keeper was eager to enter the realm of magic and see the damage for himself. With that in mind, he strode across the camp to join Gideon, Vighon, and Adan’Karth by the northern edge. They were easy to find since Sir Borin the Dread was standing beside the king and the Golem could be seen from almost anywhere.
Not far away, nearer to the large dragons, Reyna and Nathaniel were sharing some food and water with Inara. The Guardian of the Realm appeared in better health today, which was more than could be said for everyone else in the camp.
Rounding a pair of Centaurs, Kassian discovered Asher talking to Vighon, the ranger previously hidden by Sir Borin’s frame. Once the Keeper was within a few feet of them, their conversation could be heard over the general hubbub.
“How long will you be gone?” the king was asking, some concern in his voice.
“I cannot say,” Asher replied honestly. “This land is unknown to the wolf. It has likely found refuge nearby and is seeking to carve out territory.”
“I understand what lies ahead of you,” Vighon said, sympathy lacing his tone. “Russell’s fate pains us all. He was a good man. I hope you bring him rest and soon.”
Asher bowed his head. “Your Grace.” The ranger gave Kassian a passing nod as he walked away but the king’s call gave him pause.
“Do not linger in the wilds any longer than you need to,” Vighon pleaded. “The Rebellion needs you in the fight and the dwarves need Doran now more than ever.”
“You have my word,” Asher replied.
Kassian watched the ranger disappear into the camp before returning his attention to the group. “Shall we?” he asked, looking to the dig site beyond. “Time is ever against us.”
They crossed the battlefield on foot, navigating around the heaps of burnt bodies and discarded weapons. The dead Trolls and dragon carcass required the most forethought, their girth considerable. Most of the fallen dwarves, elves, and Centaurs had already been collected from the field and lined up beyond the camp, ready to be identified before any funeral.
Arriving at the edge of the enormous pit, the companions peered over the edge. Kassian examined the wooden walkways and bridges before looking back at Sir Borin.
“Is it going to take his weight?” he questioned.
Gideon stepped onto the first boards that curved round the outer wall. “It’s dwarven engineering,” he remarked, as if that was answer enough.
“Let’s not take the chance,” Vighon replied, before turning to his bodyguard. “Sir Borin, you will remain up here.”
The Golem groaned from within its iron helmet.
“The battle is over,” Vighon told him. “I will be safe down there. You will remain here.”
The king d
idn’t wait. He stepped onto the wooden boards and strode down the ramp until his head disappeared below the lip of the pit.
As was his humour, Kassian had a sharp quip for the Golem but, upon meeting his unnatural eyes - seen through narrow slits - the Keeper held on to his words and trailed after his companions.
Down into the pit they descended. After the fight between Inara and Alijah, there were few lifts still in service and those that had remained intact looked too precarious. Following the walkway around the wall, they continued until the dirt became stone.
Adan’Karth slowly wrapped his fingers around one of the bars to a cell and opened it wide. The Drake scrutinised the disgusting dungeon Alijah had forced his kin to endure. If the numbers Galanör and Aenwyn had reported were accurate, these cells were far too cramped.
The king stopped beside the Drake. “I understand that your people abhor violence, Adan, but there must be a limit. Any one of them could have broken free.”
“My people remember little to none of our existence as orcs, your Grace. But what we do remember is their hunger for violence and death. It’s naught but a leaf carried in the wind for us now, a thought whispered in the back of our minds. But it lingers. And so we walk a different path, one that will never breed violence.”
“And a noble path it is,” Gideon encouraged. “Orcs believe that everything can be solved with violence, and if violence isn’t solving the problem, you’re not using enough of it.”
“Quite,” Adan’Karth agreed.
“Well,” Vighon said, “I am thankful we can count you as our friend, Adan.
As the Drake tilted his head in thanks, Kassian’s gaze wandered up to the glyphs etched into the stone around the pit.
“I know pieces of this spell,” he announced, a little dumbfounded by the intricacy of the extensive glyphs. “I can slow a person down, for a short while at least. But this… This magic would have been beyond even the masters of Valatos.”
“As is that.” Gideon looked down at the pit floor, directing the Keeper to the doorway.
Kassian pressed himself up to the railing, his eyes wide in fascination. Without waiting for the others, he rushed down the remaining steps to better see it. The mage in him wanted to investigate every facet of the gateway, but the sands of time were pouring inside the hourglass and, with every grain, they lost more magic.
“Will it hurt?” Vighon asked, eyeing the ragged edges of the doorway.
“No,” Gideon reassured. “Just be sure to duck your head. I can’t say for certain what would happen if you touched the edges.”
“Let’s go,” Kassian said, eagerly.
He was the first to pass from one realm to the other. His eyes naturally tracked up the mountainous tree, its branches extending to a sky of glimmering stalactites. It would all have been so much more beautiful if it wasn’t for the black smoke and ash billowing into the air. There was still a considerable amount of the tree’s white bark left, and thousands of red leaves, but the flames that fought for domination were enough to engulf several towns if not a city.
“I would get closer,” Adan told them, breaking the daze that held Kassian.
“We will have to climb the roots,” Gideon said. “This way.”
Kassian was happy to be led, allowing him more opportunity to take in the foreign land. Climbing over one of the snake-like roots, the Keeper noted its warmth and smoothness. It was almost comforting, as if he had known its touch all his life.
They journeyed to the base of the trunk in silent awe, though a glimpse at Adan showed the Drake to be in pain. Kassian was often envious of his connection to magic, but, right now, he was thankful to be no more than an ordinary mage.
“Can you hear it?” the king enquired of the Drake.
Adan’Karth pulled back his hood to fully reveal his pained expression and shaven horns. “It is deafening,” he informed them, his voice a little louder than necessary. “But it cannot hear me,” he added.
The Drake moved to the trunk, its bark a glorious white that even snow could not boast. Dropping to his knees, Adan placed the flat of one hand to the tree and bowed his head. A moment later, his muscles stiffened and he gasped.
“Adan?” Gideon stepped forward.
The Drake could not answer and, it seemed, he could not remove his hand from the trunk. His free hand, resting by his side, began to tremble uncontrollably.
“Adan!” Gideon’s alarm was shared by them all.
“Help him!” Vighon shouted.
Kassian dashed, as they all did, and gripped some part of the Drake’s body. The Keeper paused, astonished and utterly perplexed by the phenomenon taking place before his eyes.
“What is that?” he uttered.
Gideon and Vighon hesitated. They watched as Adan’s hand began to blend into the tree, his skin transforming into bark. Without words, they all agreed the Drake needed to be ripped from the tree. It took the combined weight of three men, but they managed to yank Adan away, his hand included. He screamed in agony as flakes of bark broke away from the trunk and his individual fingers.
“Adan?” Kassian tried to get through to him, but he had clenched his fist and curled up into a ball at their feet.
A distant sound, similar to that of a tree being felled, reached them all, turning three pairs of eyes to the stalactite sky. A burning branch was snapping and tumbling through the canopy.
“We need to go!” Gideon warned.
“Agreed!” Vighon replied, bending down to pick up Adan.
“Leave him to me.” Kassian retrieved his wand from its holster and pointed it at the Drake. A simple levitation spell raised Adan from the ground and gave the Keeper complete control over his direction. Navigating the large roots was trickier on their return journey, but it wasn’t long before they were passing through to a familiar reality.
In the gloom of the pit, Gideon crouched down beside the injured Drake. “Adan?” At some point on their journey, he had passed out. As he lay limp in the dirt, the old master gripped the wrist of his wounded hand and held it up for them to see.
The king narrowed his eyes. “What do you make of it?”
Kassian took in the detail with grave concern. Every inch of Adan’s hand resembled the bark of the white tree.
“I don’t know,” Gideon voiced. “But it’s not good.”
28
On the Hunt
In the wake of mid-afternoon, after winter’s snowfall had further graced the plains, Doran and Asher had put enough distance between them and The Rebellion that the sprawling camp was long lost to sight. Journeying south, astride horse and Warhog, they were the only ones to have made tracks in the snow. Thick clouds had rolled in and fresh powder had wiped away any trace of the wolf.
The rangers had only their instincts where the monsters of the world were concerned.
Agreeing that the Werewolf would feel vulnerable in unknown land, and wish to get as far away from the ruckus of The Rebellion as possible, Asher and Doran had cut a straight line south of the battlefield. Added to a sense of vulnerability, the beast’s injuries would only spur it on to seek shelter in the wooded land south of The Moonlit Plains.
This land was blemished with rocky outcroppings and forests that had taken root centuries past. Weaving between them all was The Selk Road, a path that would take any traveller to the major cities and towns of Illian. Finding it in the plains, between the dotted forests, was unlikely in winter and following it was even harder as the snows took hold. Such had been the tale of one unlucky merchant who had brought his cart to a halt on the road and tried to make camp.
Doran took it all in from left to right, his imagination putting the scene together in all its violent detail. The cart was beyond repair, the crusted wood splintered from one end to the other where something large had assaulted it. Just off from the road, the merchant himself lay strewn across the ground, half buried in snow. At least part of him was. There were other parts of him further away.
“Well, it wasn’
t the cold that killed him,” Doran remarked.
“Nor his horse,” Asher said gruffly.
The son of Dorain followed his companion’s gaze to the south-west. There he saw a larger lump on the ground, though he could only assume it had been the merchant’s horse given the state it was left in.
“It ain’ fresh,” Doran stated. “Two days I reckon. Probably the first thing the wolf came across.”
Asher didn’t disagree which, in Doran’s experience, meant he agreed.
“Speak yer mind, old man.”
Asher drew a line with his hand from the cart to the dead horse. “The wolf dragged it away, likely until it got tired.” The ranger pointed to the tree line of a dense forest south-west of their position. “From here, that’s the closest source of shelter, and the wolf would have had no problem seeing it in the dark.”
It was a reasonable assessment of the situation. “Let’s go then.” Doran pulled on his reins and guided Pig towards the wall of trees. They left the remains behind and crossed the land until they were confronted by the towering pines.
Doran scrutinised the trees, catching sight of a rocky peak somewhere in the heart of the forest. “What are ye thinkin’?” he asked of his companion.
Asher adjusted himself in his saddle and looked up. It wasn’t the darkening clouds, however, that drew his focus. Avandriell was gliding around in a large circle, her wings fanned out beside her. The young dragon let out a single squawk before tucking her wings in and diving down towards the trees.
“What is it?” Doran enquired.
“Blood.”
Asher’s response pushed Doran’s eyebrow into his forehead. “She told ye that? I thought ye weren’, ye know, speakin’.”
“Trust me. She’s found blood.” Without further explanation, Asher guided his horse between the trees and into the forest.
“I never thought I’d see the day ye got more mysterious,” Doran chuntered to himself.
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