Trailing Asher, Doran soon heard Avandriell as her claws danced across the forest floor. It was only after the ranger directed his horse round to the left that the dwarf got a good look at the scene. It was certainly gruesome and Doran could see why the dragon had been attracted to it.
“Is that a bear?” As he asked the question, his eye wandered up a nearby tree, following the blood and gore that splattered half the trunk.
Asher climbed down from his horse. “It was.”
The son of Dorain dismounted and joined the investigation. “Eviscerated,” he quickly surmised after inspecting the ghastly state of the bear’s midriff. He pulled a dagger from his belt and raised one of the rib bones to better see it in the gloom of the forest. “Large teeth marks on the bone,” he reported. Moving on to a furry patch, just below the bear’s savaged head, the dwarf examined a raking wound that had cut through to the muscle. “There’s not much round these parts that could do this to a bear. An’ these definitely look like the claws o’ a Lycan to me.”
Asher had already moved on from the frozen carcass. He was further into the forest and crouched with one hand supporting himself against a small rock.
Doran shook his head and looked across at Avandriell, who was studying him intently. “He always did prefer to work alone. Perhaps ye’ll ’ave better luck.” The young dragon made a series of clicking noises in her throat and leapt over the bear, towards her companion. “Or maybe it’s jus’ me,” the dwarf pondered aloud.
Making his way around the dead bear, the War Mason came up on Asher’s side. The old ranger was running his fingers over an impression that had barely dug into the snowy ground. Most would have missed it, but never Asher.
“This is a big print,” the ranger commented.
“Aye,” Doran agreed. “When was the last time ye saw the wolf?”
Asher resumed his full height, his eyes narrowed in recall. “Before The War for the Realm,” he said.
“I’d say it’s grown since then,” the dwarf voiced. “I saw it on the battlefield. It tore through elves, dwarves, an’ Reavers like butter.”
Asher glanced back at the unfortunate bear. “At least we know we’re in the right place.”
Doran looked from the bear to Avandriell before finally settling on the ranger. “Are ye sure this is the right place for her? I know they’re tough but we’re talkin’ about a fully-grown Werewolf. Even ye an’ I will be lucky to get out o’ this place alive.”
Asher gave his companion a long hard look. “Avandriell stays with me. I can’t protect her from everything and she needs to learn.”
Doran nodded his understanding. “As ye say.” He returned his attention to the print at their feet. “Shall we get to trackin’ it then?”
Asher crouched down again and gave the paw impression another look. “These won’t be easy to follow. Werewolves are light on their feet and very fast.”
The son of Dorain twisted his mouth as he considered their options. As he did, his eye took note of the broken twigs and branches further along the trail. The bear’s impressions were much easier to see.
“Maybe we should think like the wolf,” the dwarf suggested, drawing a curious expression out of Asher. “It’s feelin’ vulnerable. It’s lookin’ for territory.” He looked back at the carcass. “An’ we know it’s fed. I’d say it’s likely our prey has followed the bear prints back to its dwellin’.”
“A cave perhaps,” Asher interpreted.
“Aye. To the victor go the spoils an’ all.”
Before going any further, they trekked back to the edge of the forest and tied their mounts to the trees. Tracking a Werewolf was hard enough without the noise and smell that accompanied a horse and Warhog. Doran only prayed that his mount would still be there upon his return.
With Avandriell stalking beside them, the three companions cautiously journeyed deeper into the trees. Over the next couple of hours, Doran came to realise how rusty his ranger skills had become. He sighed and chastised himself every time his boot snapped a twig or crushed fallen leaves. His armour brushed against the environment, the clatter disturbing the birds. Asher shot the dwarf a look over his shoulder more than once.
As the shadows grew long, it became apparent to the rangers that the bear hadn’t come directly from its lair. Its recent travels even took them as far as the western edge of the forest before the tracks curled back into the thick of the trees.
Only when dusk settled on the land did Asher come to a halt on the trail. “We can’t track it in the dark. We should make camp while we still have some light.”
Doran agreed, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. “If we stop now there’s a good chance the hunters will become the hunted. The wolf will surely see our fire.”
“We would need fire to follow the tracks,” Asher countered. “We have little choice in the matter.”
Doran grumbled but made no further protest. They found a small clearing and went about starting a decent fire that would stop winter from claiming their lives while they slept. The son of Dorain chopped up some extra logs for the pair to sit on and share some rations. By then they were steeped in the darkness of night.
The wood fell silent. Doran didn’t like it. The fire was the brightest and loudest thing for miles around - the wolf had to know they were there. Still, the War Mason could not deny the fatigue that bit into his muscles and bones. He was still recovering from two days of non-stop fighting and a severe lack of sleep. Whether this was obvious or not, Asher offered to take first watch while he got his head down.
Despite the unnerving surroundings, it was only seconds after shutting his eyes that sleep robbed the dwarf of conscious thought.
A noise beyond the crackling fire awoke Doran with a start. Years of experience, however, prevented him from jumping up. Instead, his eye snapped open and he remained perfectly still, lying on the forest floor. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping for and, right now, he didn’t care. He couldn’t say what the noise had been and, worse still, he couldn’t discern the direction from which it had originated.
Carefully, he adjusted his position to try and see Asher on the other side of the fire. An alarm sounded in his mind when he failed to spot the man. It shouldn’t have been that hard since there were only three of them around the fire and one was a dragon no bigger than a dog. Yet, the ranger was missing. Doran slowly pushed up from the ground and cursed when he noticed Avandriell was gone too.
“Typical Outlander…” the dwarf mumbled, rising to his feet. “Don’ ye ’ave any new tricks up yer sleeve?” he asked the shadows in frustration.
Another noise pierced the sound of the crackling fire, turning Doran to his right. There was nothing but trees and darkness. He didn’t want to take his eyes away from the gaps between the trees, but he needed to get his hands around Andaljor. The cold steel felt reassuring in his grip and even better after separating it into axe and hammer.
A rustling followed by rapid steps turned the dwarf on his heel. Nothing. Doran widened his gait and braced himself, his knuckles cracking around the hafts of his weapons.
“I know ye’re out there, beastie,” he called.
Claws raking down a tree spun the dwarf around but he caught only a glimpse of something darting through the shadows.
“Me friend sent me for ye!” Doran yelled, working himself up. “Ye might know ’im! He went by the name Russell Maybury!” A low growl rumbled from the darkness, turning the War Mason in another direction. A wicked smile broke across Doran’s face. “I thought ye might know ’im. He sends his regards!”
A pair of eyes shone in the pitch black beyond the firelight and slowly rose up until the Werewolf was standing on its back legs. The son of Dorain spat on the ground and bashed his hammer and axe together.
“Come an’ get it!” he provoked.
The Werewolf exploded from between the trees and crossed most of their camp in a single bound. Its claws were outstretched and its jaws of razor-sharp fangs ready to clamp aroun
d Doran’s neck. It was damn fast, faster than the dwarf remembered. He swung his axe and hammer simultaneously but, even as he raised his arms, he knew he had mistimed it.
That was the moment when a two-handed broadsword plunged down through the monster’s back. It also had Asher’s weight behind it. The ranger had dropped down from the surrounding trees with, thankfully, perfect timing. The wolf was brought down by the piercing steel and most of Asher, bringing it to a stop at Doran’s feet.
A sword through its ribs, however, was not enough to finish the Werewolf. It roared with rage and thrashed about, knocking Asher clear with a backhand across his face. With the sword still impaled, the beast tried to rise, only to discover an ancient hammer slamming onto its head. Some of the roar was taken out of the wolf as its jaws were driven into the ground. Doran meant to follow up his attack with a swing of the axe, but the monster found a burst of energy and barrelled into the dwarf, hurling him into a tree trunk.
Falling onto his hands and knees, it took every bit of Doran’s iron will to keep his weapons in his hands. As it had been for Thorgen, his great ancestor, Andaljor was an extension of his arms and he refused to give it up. Instead, he offered the wolf a roar of his own and threw himself into the beast. The axe took a chunk out of its right leg and the hammer impacted the side of its head as it crouched down to bite him. Neither attack was strong enough to deliver a final blow, but they were enough to turn the wolf away and into the waiting claws of a dragon.
Avandriell swooped down from the canopy, her movements far more gracious than that of her companion. All four of her claws sank into the Werewolf’s back while she snapped at its neck and face. The monster staggered back and howled in pain, but even that wasn’t enough to quash the wolf’s rage. The young dragon was gripped by the neck and thrown to the ground.
A primal roar tore through the still air as Asher leapt over the fire, his silvyr short-sword raised over his head. The ranger collided with the wolf, his blade flashing high and low as he scored red lines up and down the beast. It swiped at him with enough strength to break his neck, but Asher ducked under the claws and spun on his heel. Returning to his full height in one smooth motion, he pulled free his broadsword and swung it at his enemy’s head.
The wolf caught the blade in its meaty hand.
Blood trickled down its dark hide, running the length of its arm. As it lowered its head towards the ranger, its teeth already stained red, Doran brought his axe to bear. The steel was embedded in the creature’s leg, drawing a pain-filled howl from its lips. Asher didn’t hesitate to drive his short-sword into the wolf’s hip, their combined attacks dropping it to one knee.
The intelligence of Werewolves had been debated by many a ranger over the centuries but, judging by the look in its eyes right now, Doran could see this beast knew its time was up. And, like all animals, the instinct to survive kicked in. The wolf forced Asher’s broadsword aside and directly into Doran’s face. The dwarf stumbled backwards and took his axe with him. Using its free hand, the beast shoved Asher away, launching him clear from the ground.
With hands not dissimilar to a human’s, the wolf gripped the hilt of the silvyr blade and removed it from its hip. By the time the short-sword could be heard clattering on the ground, the beast was gone, vanishing into the night.
Doran shook his head and blinked hard. The broadsword had left a dark line across his forehead. Asher was already picking himself up, coaxed by Avandriell beside him. The dragon appeared to have gained a limp but, like the rangers, she had emerged from the fight intact. Asher ran a hand over her head and under her jaw before returning his broadsword to its scabbard.
“What are ye doin’?” Doran demanded. “We didn’ kill it.”
Asher bent down and retrieved his silvyr short-sword. “The wolf won’t be coming back tonight,” he replied boldly. “We might not have killed it, but we definitely wounded it. If it has claimed that bear’s lair for its own, we’ll follow the blood until we find it.”
“Well let’s be gettin’ on with it then!” Doran huffed, making for the gap in the trees.
“At first light,” Asher stated.
Doran gave the ranger a double look. “At first… Are ye mad? It’s injured an’ badly so. We should hunt it down an’ finish the job before it heals.”
Asher rubbed his chest where the wolf had struck him. “These are not hunting conditions.”
“Oh, but they were good enough for settin’ a trap!” Doran countered. “An’ with me as the bait no less!”
The ranger shrugged. “You make good bait.” He took a seat by the fire and drove the end of his silvyr blade into the ground beside him.
His heart still pounding like a hammer on an anvil, Doran fumed. “Rus didn’ ask ye to do this. So ye stay ’ere an’ get cosy if that’s what ye fancy, lad! But every second that goes by, that beast’s existence makes a mockery o’ his life!” His voice broke towards the end and he had to pause to collect himself. “I’m goin’ out there to hunt that wolf with or without ye!”
“Doran,” Asher called before he could set foot beyond the trees. “Russell wanted you to slay the wolf. He didn’t want you to die trying.”
“Ye doubt the strength o’ me swing?” Doran spat, itching for a fight.
“I doubt the strength of your eye,” Asher said bluntly, stoking the fire. “Even bleeding, the wolf won’t be easy to track at night.”
“Bah!” Doran waved the ranger’s comment away and turned back to the darkness.
“Doran.” Asher said his name sternly this time, adding the hint of a growl to his voice. “You cannot be this foolish.”
“Don’ lecture me abou’ such things!” Doran barked. “Ye throw yerself into every hair brain situation without so much as a thought!”
Asher stood up. “You are to be king,” he declared as a matter of fact.
Doran was stumped, his mind and mouth disconnected.
“And not just any king,” Asher continued. “All of Dhenaheim will fall under your rule.”
“I don’ need ye to babysit me! An’ don’ talk abou’ things ye don’ understand,” Doran warned.
“I understand well enough,” the ranger argued. “I fear it is Doran, son of Dorain, who is burying his head.”
The dwarf threw his axe into the ground and pointed a stubby finger at Asher. “Ye’d do well to shut yer mouth before I shut it for ye!”
“You can’t ignore what’s right in front of you. I know Kraiden’s blade is lost to The Hox. It isn’t the end any of us would want for Dakmund, but his fate is just as sealed as yours, Doran.”
Hearing his brother’s name took some of the fire out of his veins. “Stop,” he pleaded.
“Would Russell have stopped?” Asher questioned. “He was practically the voice of your conscience.”
“Ye’re not him,” Doran pointed out.
“No,” the ranger agreed. “And he didn’t charge me with killing the wolf either. But, many years ago, he did give me another task; one far more difficult than slaying any beast.”
Doran raised a bushy eyebrow at the ranger, though he suspected he knew what Russell would have asked of him. Still, he remained quiet and allowed Asher to finish.
“He told me to watch out for you when he couldn’t. He wouldn’t let you ignore your destiny.”
The son of Dorain wasn’t ashamed of the tear that escaped his eye, nor the heartbreak he wore on his sleeve. “An’ what is that?” he asked.
“You’re not a ranger anymore,” Asher answered simply. “Your kin are depending on you now - every one of them. If you go out there, you put them all at risk.”
Doran’s shoulders sagged and his hammer slowly slipped down his grip. “I feel like I’m losin’ everythin’,” he grieved. “To put me friend to rest means drivin’ me axe through his chest. To rise up an’ lead me people means standin’ on the bones o’ me brother. Hells, to even win this war we’ve got to kill the son o’ dear friends. I’m tired, Asher. Me bones are weary, me muscles
ache, an’ me mind can’ make sense o’ the world we’re tryin’ to save.”
Asher closed the gap between them and placed a hand on Doran’s shoulder. “Everything that’s happened to you. Everything you’ve done. Everything you’re going to do. It hasn’t just been for a crown on your head. It’s all for what you will do with that crown. Be the king Dhenaheim deserves. Be the dwarf Russell knew you to be.”
Doran blinked hard and squeezed Asher’s hand. “Ye’re a good friend, lad. Even if there’s naught but hammers bangin’ around in that skull o’ yers.” He gave a short laugh, shared by the ranger. “Come then. Let’s lick our wounds. Tomorrow, we finish this.”
29
Inside the Cage
Alijah’s eyes opened to the familiar black stone above his bed. He remained still for a while, staring at the dark blocks. The longer and harder he gazed at them, the easier it became to imagine there was nothing but that peaceful abyss. It always pulled him in and emptied him out, freeing the half-elf of his burdens. But he was to enjoy no such peace this night.
He had awoken in pain. Again.
A groan pushed through his lips as he forced himself to sit on the edge of his bed. Everything hurt, especially the wound beneath his shoulder. Rising to his feet, he could feel that every previous injury had been replaced by another.
“Why do I suffer?” he growled. His words may have pierced the air, but his thoughts conveyed that very same question to his eternal companion.
Malliath moved through the shadows of his mind, as if the dragon possessed a physical presence inside. We are at war - pain is to be expected. Malliath’s voice expressed irritation and impatience.
I recall every blow, Alijah said, his pain adding venom to his reply. Yet my skin burns, my muscles ache, and my bones feel hollow. Inara did not inflict such wounds.
You were struck by an elven arrow, the dragon pointed out. Had it been an inch lower you would have bled into your lungs and died.
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