A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “Ye’ve got the advantages o’ age,” Doran remarked, falling into a circling pattern with the wolf. “So ’ave I,” he quipped with a wicked grin.

  Words had no place in the monster’s life and so it reacted with violent action. Doran braced himself, his feet firmly planted. At the last second, in the face of a charging Werewolf, he threw all of his weight to the side and rolled away. The beast came down and skidded across the rock shelf, its claws digging up loose stone to cascade over the edge.

  Back on his feet, Doran pressed his attack. He came at the wolf with hammer and axe swinging, determined to slay the monster that had ruined his friend’s life. Though its actions were erratic, the dwarf felt both of his weapons impact its body multiple times, splashing blood across the ground. Thankfully, he could barely feel the wolf’s claws tearing at his skin when they found the gaps in his armour.

  Inevitably, the son of Dorain was thrown to the ground - and more than once - but his hammer always slammed into the wolf, giving him the opportunity to find his feet again. His heart was pounding in his chest now and his lungs burned from the exhaustion. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the battle and his muscles informed him as much. How long could he keep this up?

  Such thoughts and questions were banished from his mind when the wolf chomped down on one of his pauldrons and swung him around. Dragged by the shoulder, he could only retaliate with his hammer, but the wolf seemed oblivious to the beating he delivered. At last, the beast cast him free, tossing the dwarf towards the edge. The War Mason skidded on his knees and managed to assume his full height before the wolf could take another swipe at him.

  “Come on,” he growled.

  The Werewolf roared and charged at him with no hesitation. Doran had naught but his instincts to call upon, aware that these would either be his last moments or the wolf’s. He threw his axe at the ground, directly in the path of the wolf. The creature altered its assault, adapting quickly, and leapt over the weapon. As it leapt, however, the dwarf stepped forward, placing himself closer to the wolf than it had anticipated when it avoided the axe. Now, when it came down, Doran was perfectly placed to drive the top of his hammer into the beast’s throat, using its own weight against it.

  The son of Dorain was already rolling across the ground, towards his axe, before the wolf could catch its breath. As it choked and gripped at its throat, Doran reclaimed his axe and launched it at his foe in one smooth movement. The steel made a satisfying sound when it dug deep into the creature’s chest. Its eyes bulged in surprise and the monster staggered closer to the lip, barely concerned with its collapsed windpipe anymore.

  With a single glassy eye, Doran adjusted the grip around the haft of his hammer. “Rest, old friend.”

  The dwarf lobbed his hammer underarm, his aim unerring. It crossed the gap like a bolt from a ballista and slammed into the wolf’s face with all the might of his ancestors behind it. Andaljor took the cursed beast from the rocky shelf and cast it into the white mist. Doran moved to the edge and peered over, making certain that the creature had succumbed to the fall.

  There was nothing but fog.

  Asher’s spine cracked in several places as he straightened up, finally back on his feet. His head still didn’t feel right, as if it wasn’t quite connected to the rest of his body. Still, he counted being on his feet as a victory where head injuries were concerned.

  Avandriell weaved between his legs having overcome the assault on her throat. Her claws and horns were stained with the wolf’s blood, but her scales had protected her from serious harm. Asher bent down to stroke her head but stopped himself when a dizzying wave washed over him. Instead, he made for Doran and welcomed the cold breeze that picked up his hair.

  “It is finished?” the ranger asked.

  “Let’s find out,” Doran replied sombrely.

  Retracing their steps, the companions made their way back down to the forest floor and journeyed around the rock face. Asher wasn’t sure exactly what they would find when they came across the wolf; an uncertainty that kept one of his hands resting on the hilt of his broadsword. What they discovered, however, stumped even the experienced ranger.

  The Werewolf that lay sprawled across the hard ground, with an axe in its chest, was completing the slow transformation before their eyes. Its long and broken limbs retracted as the leathery brown hide faded to Russell’s pale complexion. Razor-sharp claws sank back into the fingers that had birthed them while its furry strip of a mane decayed and fell away. Within seconds, Russell Maybury’s naked and battered form lay before them.

  His yellow eyes fluttered open.

  Doran quickly dropped to one knee by his side. “Rus!” he exclaimed, clasping his friend’s hand.

  Asher moved to the other side and crouched down as Russell looked from one to the other. The ranger had encountered the dying often enough to know that his old friend was nearing the end. Asher placed a gentle hand on his bare shoulder, making no attempt to prevent the tears that welled in his eyes.

  “We’re ’ere, Rus,” Doran told him. “It’s goin’ to be alright.”

  Russell struggled to turn his head to look at the dwarf. His lips quivered. “Thank… you,” he breathed.

  Doran couldn’t hold back his tears any longer. “Rus,” he blurted.

  Asher waited for the son of Dorain to find his gaze before shaking his head, discouraging him from holding on to hope. This was the end of Russell Maybury and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Nor should they, Asher thought. The man deserved some rest.

  Russell relaxed and his eyes turned to the mist above. A faint smile curled his lips before his grasp loosened around Doran’s hand. With the final beat of his heart, the dwarf carefully placed Russell’s hand over his still chest and left it there.

  “Grarfath keep ye, old friend,” he whispered, his tears disappearing into his beard.

  Asher ran his hand over Russell’s eyes, closing the lids. He looked to Doran. “A pyre,” he said.

  The dwarf sniffed. “A bloody big pyre,” he specified.

  Asher nodded in agreement. “A bloody big pyre,” he echoed.

  After Doran removed his axe and recovered his hammer, they took it in turns to carry Russell’s body to the edge of the forest, where their mounts awaited them. They spent the rest of the afternoon building their friend the pyre he deserved. The companions did so in silence, their grief realised.

  In the end, the pyre was humble in size, their time limited before nightfall. They carefully placed Russell’s body on top, his arms positioned at his side. A soft sprinkling of snow fell from the dark heavens as Avandriell breathed fire into the pyre. The flames spread steadily across the wood until it was engulfed and Russell with it.

  Asher raised his hood and bowed his head. He knew of no god to offer his prayers to, but he cast quiet words into the ether, hoping his friend had found a peaceful rest. The ranger remembered nothing of death from his own experience, but he knew there had been no pain. What more could men such as them ask for?

  Beside him, his hands resting on the axe planted in the ground, Doran Heavybelly sobbed.

  Eventually, after taking a deep breath and composing himself, he declared, “Never has a ranger - nay a man - possessed the courage, strength, an’ heart that Russell Maybury displayed every day o’ his life. He saved lives, damn it!” the dwarf growled. “An’ he deserved a better end than the one we gave ’im. But, with Grarfath as his witness, he didn’ give up without a fight on that battlefield. He fought to the end.” Doran sighed and blinked a fresh tear from his eye. “Ye will be missed, lad. Every day.”

  With Avandriell curled around his leg, Asher reached out and placed a comforting hand on Doran’s shoulder. After paying their respect for a while longer, they retired to a smaller campfire, not far from the pyre. There they drank to their friend and told stories of his life, recounting his heroic deeds and amusing encounters.

  There, they said their final farewells to Russell Maybury.

  Pa
rt III

  31

  Bending the Knee

  Night and day, The Moonlit Plains were freezing, drawing many to compare them to The White Vale in the north. The winds that howled through The Rebellion’s camp brought misery, robbing the inhabitants of any fight that might have lingered in their bones. And, accompanying the wind, the wounded and dying cried out for mercy from dawn till dusk.

  Despite the icy blasts and calls for help, Galanör Reveeri was sweating through his clothes, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. His hands were overlapped and pressing down on the ribs of a young dwarf. Beneath his hands, a mortal wound threatened to claim the dwarf’s life.

  The wound had begun to smell, a rotten and vile odour, the ragged edges darkened with infection. The elven healer who had asked for Galanör’s aid had informed him that the infection would soon spoil his blood. Death would swiftly follow.

  Galanör drew on his magic and poured his will into the dwarf’s body. A faint light glowed between his fingers and under the skin surrounding the wound. He envisioned the blood running clean, the muscles knitting back together, and new skin to cover the injury. As he did so, the dwarf’s eyes fluttered rapidly and a groan rumbled in his throat.

  A firm hand gripped Galanör’s shoulder - Aenwyn. He had almost forgotten that she had entered the tent with him. Her voice, a tone of caution, sounded in his ear, though he couldn’t hear the shape of the words themselves. Ultimately, he ignored her and renewed his focus. He wasn’t going to let the young dwarf perish.

  Seconds, minutes or perhaps, even hours went by before Galanör finally opened his eyes. He had spent most of his magic on the infection spilling out across the dwarf’s body, coursing through his veins. After ridding him of that, bringing the wound together had felt relatively easy.

  “Thank ye,” the dwarf uttered, shocked by the power of his own breath. “Ye saved me life!” he exclaimed, emboldened by the return of his strength. “I am forever indebted to ye,” he promised.

  Galanör could barely lift his hand to wave the notion away. “There is… no debt. Just help the others,” he managed, gesturing to the row of wounded dwarves and elves outside.

  The dwarf stood up from his cot and marvelled at the healed skin over his ribs. “I will never forget nor sully the power o’ elves. Thank ye.” He patted Galanör on the back as he left, though he might as well have hit the ranger with a shovel.

  “Easy,” Aenwyn said, catching him before he fell into the cot. “You’re done for the day,” she stated.

  Galanör shook his head, though he did accept her help to leave the tent. “There are more,” he croaked.

  “You’ve been healing all morning,” Aenwyn argued. “You need to rest.”

  “Just one more,” Galanör told her.

  Aenwyn sighed. “At least see to one of our kin, a Centaur even. That was the third dwarf this morning - their natural resistance to magic is crippling you.”

  Galanör was more than aware of their stubbornness. “I have a responsibility,” he said, regaining his breath. “My magic remains intact. I need to use it.”

  “It’s use to no one if you can’t even keep your eyes open,” Aenwyn countered. “You have saved lives today, Galanör. Let that ease your burden while you rest.”

  Galanör knew a losing argument when he heard one, and he did feel hollow from head to toe. “Perhaps something warm?”

  Aenwyn smiled, though it was out of relief more than victory. “Rumour has it there is an excellent broth coming out of Sir Ruban’s camp.”

  “The northmen?” Galanör said incredulously.

  Aenwyn guided him away from the wounded and offered a playful shrug. “I was just as surprised as you are.”

  After a few hours of sleep and a steaming hot broth - likely revered for the large quantity of salt the northmen added to it - Galanör was able to meet the rest of the day without feeling as if he was being turned inside out. The cold, however, still crept into his bones, reminding him that he was experiencing the drain that came with healing magic. He wished, now more than ever, that he had devoted more time to study and picked up his scimitars less.

  His blue cloak billowed in the breeze, but his furs kept it weighted down around his shoulders as he slowly walked through the camp. He paused when the wounded came back into view, in the distance. It was tempting to return and give them all he had. Aenwyn, as usual, was right to caution over-use of his magic lest he end up lying amongst the wounded, adding to their number.

  Walking among them was Vighon, easily seen thanks to his entourage and a lumbering Golem. The king was taking time to visit the wounded, offering them words of encouragement no doubt. Galanör held a moment of pride, recalling all too well the young rogue Vighon Draqaro had once been. He really was the king Illian deserved.

  Turning to his right, Galanör discovered another worthy of her title. Reyna was four rows over, directing various captains in the elven army as well as taking in reports from others. Nathaniel was beside her, his elvish tested to its limits in the middle of it all. The old knight was certainly the most unusual king Ayda would ever have. Galanör only hoped his kin accepted the man.

  A shadow swept over the camp, turning the ranger’s eyes to the sky. It was the first break in the clouds he had seen and the light from the waning sun cast strips of orange across the heavens. Passing over that light, in the west, were Athis and Inara. The red dragon glided with all the ease of a blade cutting through air. It was the first time he had seen them take flight since arriving at the battle. It pleased the elf to see them both recovered enough to soar again.

  “Galanör!” The call returned his gaze to Reyna and Nathaniel; the old knight beckoning him to join them. As he approached, Nathaniel asked, “Would you share some food with us?”

  Galanör beamed at the offer. “How could I refuse my king and queen?” His comment gave Reyna pause before she took her seat around the fire.

  Like almost everything else in the camp, their makeshift stools were made from the catapults and ballistas that had been torn down for parts. The larger tent that had been erected for the council certainly had beams and other supporting structures from the catapults.

  Nathaniel glanced at the elves who had taken up positions around them, just beyond their cosy camp. “Reyna,” he said, almost pleading.

  Reyna acknowledged her husband’s discomfort and issued an order in elvish. The servants faded away to give the king and queen some distance while still being attentive. It was enough for Nathaniel.

  “They will obey you too,” Reyna told him quietly. “And your elvish is just as good as mine.”

  Nathaniel shrugged off her suggestion. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

  Galanör was tempted to make a joke about taking the knight’s place, referring to the betrothment that had once existed between Reyna and himself. Deciding it was too awkward a subject, he accepted the food and drink and filled his stomach with both.

  “Aenwyn asked that we keep an eye on you,” Reyna said, changing the subject. “She was worried you might return to the wounded.” Galanör looked up from his food, his eyes naturally scanning the environment for any sign of his love. “She has joined some of the hunters,” the queen went on to explain. “I dare say her skill with a bow surpasses my own.”

  “That’s very kind of you, your Grace,” Galanör replied. “I fear I have aided all I can today,” he added. “My skill with healing magic is lacking.”

  Nathaniel leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You don’t need to use such formal titles with us - we’re old friends.”

  “Yes he does,” Reyna said, her tone clipped and her gaze averted from them both.

  “What?” Nathaniel questioned.

  Reyna took a breath and looked at Galanör with an apology in her eyes. Then she turned to her husband. “He does have to use our titles.” Her gaze flickered to the distant servants and back, drawing a sigh from Nathaniel.

  Galanör waited until the old
knight was looking at him. “It is the way of things… your Grace.”

  Nathaniel’s expression soured with a hint of amusement behind it. “You were supposed to be on my side.”

  The elven ranger raised his hands in mock surrender. “Any elf with half a head of sense knows to always side with their queen.”

  Reyna wore a smug smile before turning serious again. “You speak of lacking skill but I hear there are dwarves and elves walking about the camp who should be walking hand in hand with Death.”

  “I did what I could, your Grace,” Galanör replied, humbly. “The effects aren’t wide spread yet, but every healer is complaining of a… disruption in their magic.”

  The queen made an expression of agreement. “It is among the hardest of spells to weave.”

  Galanör looked to his left, though he couldn’t see the Drake. “How fairs Adan’Karth?” he asked. “Has he spoken yet?”

  Reyna shook her head. “Not yet, I’m afraid. Gideon and Kassian are with him.”

  The elven ranger nodded, disturbed by the lack of news. “And Asher? Has he returned with Doran yet?”

  “No,” Nathaniel answered this time. “Though I am keen to see both again.”

  “There is little in the wilds that could trouble a pair like that,” Galanör reasoned. “Though I do not envy their task. I will count Russell Maybury as one of humanity’s best for all my long days on this earth.”

  “The casualties in this war will live in our hearts for eternity,” Reyna uttered, before sipping her water.

  Galanör shared the shadow that overcame the queen’s face, for he too thought of Adilandra Sevari in that moment and his heart sank all the further. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice on the verge of trembling. “Before you now, I would like to reiterate my condolences and beg not only for your forgiveness, but for the opportunity to serve you and, perhaps, elevate myself in your eyes once more.”