A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Kassian’s head dropped to his chest. “This is folly.”

  “Perhaps we should consider findin’ Alijah,” Doran suggested carefully. “If we are to fight ’im, we should do it now, while we ’ave the firepower,” he added, thumbing at Inara and Gideon.

  “We could track the Reavers,” Nathaniel mused, his tone suggesting he had little fight in him. “Their numbers should leave quite the trail - we just have to hope they return to Alijah.”

  When Asher finally turned back, he could see the heartache experienced by both Inara and Gideon. They would lose companions they had been bonded with for decades, a pain magnitudes beyond his own.

  “Keep the hope alive,” Adan’Karth asserted, glancing at Inara. “All is not lost.”

  “Not yet,” Kassian reminded him, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

  “I will speak to my people,” Adan continued. “I believe their choices to be simple: give up this life and save magic or do nothing and die with it.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Kassian told him. “You could very well survive it.”

  “Even if we survive,” Adan countered gently, “half of what makes us who we are is certain to die. I would not know how to live without magic.”

  Asher consciously relaxed the tension in his jaw. “There must be some other way,” he appealed. “The price is too high.”

  Adan gave the ranger a warm smile. “There is no death in the realm of magic. Only an outpouring of life.”

  “Tell that to yer hand, laddy,” Doran remarked.

  “It would not be the life you know,” Adan went on. “We would be in the very currents of magic that we see around us.”

  “That’s not life,” Asher countered. “This is life. I will not let you give it up - magic or no magic.”

  Adan reached out and put one hand to Asher’s chest. “Perhaps this is why we are here.”

  Heated debates, long discussions, and deep conversations dominated the rest of the day. The council had gone round in circles, off on tangents, and struck dead ends that threatened to raise tempers again.

  The council had finally parted ways after nightfall, each seeking refuge from the end of the world. Asher was exhausted, a state brought on by frustration and hopelessness. With Avandriell by his side, the ranger had taken himself off and started his own fire to the north.

  In the light of the flames, Avandriell asleep beside him, Asher removed his broadsword. He was dismayed by the blood that stained the steel. Russell’s blood. With some water and a rag, he went about cleaning the blade from guard to tip.

  His mind wandered, restless.

  For every memory he recalled of the old wolf, he was brought back to Adan’Karth and his inescapable revelation. As hard as he had tried, the ranger had become attached to the Drake after so much time together. He owed his life to him more than once.

  “I would ask what troubles you,” Nathaniel said, walking into view, “but that would seem in poor taste.”

  Asher suppressed the sigh that so desperately wanted to be released. He had left the camp for a reason. “Unless you brought ale, this isn’t the fire for you.”

  Nathaniel’s mouth broadened into a smug grin as he held up a pair of dwarven horns. “Thaligg assures me he didn’t brew it himself.”

  “That just means it won’t kill us,” Asher quipped, accepting the horn. He gave it a brief sniff, recognising the scent of an established dwarven cider - Thundergrog perhaps.

  “I know you wanted to be alone,” Nathaniel commented, taking his seat opposite the ranger, “but you should know those days are behind you now. Even friendships come at a cost,” he added with some amusement.

  “It seems everything comes at a cost these days,” Asher muttered, tasting his drink which was sickeningly sweet, just the way dwarves liked their cider.

  Nathaniel took a mouthful of his own but his focus remained fixed on the ranger. “You dwell on what was said in the tent.”

  “A lot was said in the tent,” Asher pointed out, avoiding the real topic.

  “Adan’Karth’s words cut through you,” Nathaniel said, cutting through the ranger in his own way. “Do you reckon there is any weight to his suggestion.”

  “If Adan says his people can heal the tree then I believe they can heal the tree,” Asher responded, his tone clipped.

  Though the ranger’s mood didn’t deserve it, Nathaniel was patient with him. “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

  Asher brought the rim of his horn to his lips but failed to drink even a drop. He averted his gaze from across the fire and finally exhaled a sigh.

  “When I retrieved that relic from Haren Bain,” he began, “I thought it was a weapon. I thought I was going to kill every orc under the sun - genocide. Monsters or not, I knew it would haunt me for the rest of my days. When it… created the Drakes, for the first time in decades of killing, I had been instrumental in the spark of life. It felt good.

  “I know everything I did had been manipulated by The Crow; the memories of Haren Bain taken from my bond with Malliath. But I couldn’t hate him for that.”

  “And now?” Nathaniel pressed.

  “Now I think of everything we have learnt about The Crow,” Asher replied gravely. “We foolishly believed that Alijah was his endgame, but I don’t think we’re there yet. He knew the future, Nathaniel - all of it. He needed the orcs to be decimated and the Drakes to be brought into being, and he used me to accomplish both in one fell swoop. He had me create a whole race just so they could all die.”

  Nathaniel absorbed his every word. “Gideon holds a similar theory, one he told in your absence. If The Crow did intend for the Drakes to be created, that means he knew they would save the tree. It means he saw it.”

  The quiet rage building in the ranger awakened Avandriell before he threw his horn of cider at the fire. “At what point do we consider the cost and tell The Crow to stick his prophecies?”

  “Well,” Nathaniel said with a shrug and a quick sip of his drink, “The Crow is very dead, so there’s no telling him anything. And the cost…” The old knight trailed off as he took a breath and lowered his tone. “The cost is not ours to pay. Only the Drakes can decide their fate; we will not force them.”

  “It may not be ours to pay,” Asher countered, “but it will be ours to live with.”

  Nathaniel lowered his drink, his expression as serious as Asher’s words. “Aye,” he agreed. “That and so much more.”

  34

  King to King

  Braced against a bitter wind, Doran Heavybelly stood as a sentinel on The Moonlit Plains, his gaze set to the north-east. Out there, beyond land and sight, was The Black Wood. Never had a forest called to the dwarf, yet here he was, drawn to it like some elf. He could feel the sands of time slipping through his fingers, only it wasn’t really his time. With magic fading, how long did Dakmund have before the elven spells’ efficacy dispersed? Without their magic, his wound would surely have claimed his life by now.

  A cold wind battered his face and forced a tear from his eye, streaking it back towards his hair. He refused to look away. His heart still grieved for Russell and the numerous dead and dying, yet there was more to come and he could not escape it.

  It was all so hopeless and he didn’t dare think about the consequences of his brother’s death; a selfish fear given Dakmund’s fate. He also couldn’t bring himself to turn around, aware that thousands of dwarven eyes were upon him as they went about their day. They were waiting for his command.

  “It’s not easy, is it?” came the last voice Doran expected to hear.

  “Yer Grace?” he questioned, turning to see Vighon Draqaro walking towards him, draped in a dark cloak and furs.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” Vighon continued. “The council is gathering and I thought I would stretch my legs first. I saw you…” The king trailed off, gesturing to the north-east as he came to stand beside the dwarf. “It’s not easy, is it?” he said again. “They all loo
k to you. Your every word carries weight. They get etched into history and judged long after we’re gone.”

  Doran nodded along, noting the small group of king’s guard that held back, closer to the main camp. “Ye’ve worn yer crown well, yer Grace,” he replied, his tone as low as his spirits.

  “Crowns don’t make kings,” Vighon said reflectively, his own gaze set to the horizon now. “Nor do words, no matter how heroic they sound. We’re all forged by our actions, regardless of whether we succeed or not.”

  Doran glanced up at the king, wondering if the latter was specifically directed at him. “How did ye do it?” he asked quietly, his words barely reaching Vighon. “How did ye come back an’… face it all?”

  Vighon took a breath, a hint of shame and guilt still lingering in his demeanour. “Leaders, whatever their role, don’t set an example by being perfect. They set an example by getting back up. My judgment faltered and I made a mistake. In the end, I had to accept that and rise above it, whatever the punishment. And, like you, it helps that I have loyal supporters who believe in me.”

  Doran half chuckled to himself when considering his own loyal supporters. “Ye’re well loved an’ yer past deeds well remembered. I wouldn’ put me in yer camp, yer Grace.”

  “You sell yourself short,” Vighon argued, before noticing the dwarf’s raised eyebrow. “I meant no offence,” he quickly added with some amusement.

  “Hmm. I’d say ye’ve spent too much time around Asher,” Doran remarked, his skin far too thick to take any real offence.

  Vighon stifled his laugh. “What I meant to say is: you have plenty of supporters here, and back in The Black Wood. You haven’t just been fighting for The Rebellion all this time, Doran; you’ve been liberating your people. In just a couple of years you’ve broken down clan lines that have separated dwarves for thousands of years.”

  The son of Dorain looked down at his boots, his mouth contorted to match the turmoil within. “When I left for Qamnaran, I made a promise to return with that wretch’s blade. Without it, I’ve done nothin’ to change Dakmund’s fate. An’ what o’ me Ma? How will I look her in the eye after he’s gone? I’ve failed to save the last king o’ Dhenaheim. How am I to return? Ye say I ’ave supporters, but who could support me when I can’ even protect me own brother?”

  “I spent a year with questions like those,” the northman began. “They preyed on me every time I strayed too far from a bottle. They kept me prisoner, trapped in a cycle of fear. They held me back and stopped me from doing the one thing I should have been doing.”

  Doran furrowed his brow and looked up at the king. “An’ what was that?”

  Vighon smiled to himself and turned his head to look back down at the dwarf. “Fighting for what’s in my heart instead of what’s on my shoulders. But the questions that haunted me are not those that haunt you. Only you know what you must face to put them to rest. There can be no peace for you until you do.”

  Doran absorbed every word; no easy task for a stubborn dwarf. And, right at that moment, he knew what he needed to face if he was ever to move forward, along with his kin.

  A light chortle escaped his lips. “Ye’re nothin’ like the young pup I remember,” he shared. “I used to see ye in The Pick-Axe, when ye weren’ out runnin’ around with Alijah that is. The two o’ ye would come in, young, dumb, an’ full o’ yerselves. Nothin’ could bring ye down; ye were invincible.” The son of Dorain laughed again before growing serious. “Now look at ye. Ye’ve got the wisdom o’ an elf, the strength o’ a dwarf, an’ the heart o’ a good man.”

  Vighon bowed his head by way of thanks. “I hope you remember me that way five hundred years from now.”

  “I’ll be lucky if I remember me own name five hundred years from now,” Doran quipped.

  “Your Grace!” one of the knights called, after dismissing a messenger. “The council is ready.”

  Vighon stepped aside and gestured at the camp. “There can be no council without Doran Heavybelly.”

  The dwarf grinned. “Too right.”

  Unlike the rest of his kin, Doran was more attuned to humans and elves after so much time living amongst them. He picked up on their subtle cues, be it in their facial expressions or body language. Elves, naturally still and poised creatures, were often more animated when irritated. And, it seemed, they could say a lot more with their eyes than their mouth. Humans, on the other hand, went rigid and cold, usually a precursor to an explosion of energy. Looking around the tent now, Doran’s experience informed him that calmer heads had prevailed after a night’s sleep.

  Naturally, all eyes fell on Vighon as he invariably led these kinds of meetings. The king, however, directed them to Adan’Karth at the other end of the table. “It was Adan who requested we meet again,” he explained.

  The Drake bowed his head in thanks before addressing the council. “Thank you for gathering again; I know there are many out there who look to you all for guidance now. We discussed many things yesterday. We disagreed on many things yesterday,” he added, clearly uncomfortable with any kind of conflict. “You are all within your rights to remain here and continue discussing your next steps, but I have already decided on mine.”

  “Adan…” Asher’s tone had just an edge of pleading to it.

  “I have accompanied you across the sea and back,” Adan replied, meeting the ranger’s blue eyes. “I made your path my own.” The Drake glanced down at Avandriell. “But I cannot follow you - you belong in the sky now. It is time I walked my own path. I will journey to The Evermoore and seek out my people. If I can, I will convince them to join me in bonding with the tree.”

  Silence filled the tent like a thick mist.

  “You are sure, Adan?” Inara questioned, her soft tone breaking the tension.

  “You have all given or lost something for the realm,” the Drake replied. “My people and I could never fight for this land as you do but, perhaps, we can still serve it in a way that matters. My mind is settled.”

  Inara nodded once. “Then Athis and I will hasten your journey,” she offered. “You will reach The Evermoore by air.”

  “I would like to accompany you,” Kassian told them, with a quick look at his king.

  Inara made no protest, though she did turn to Vighon.

  “Adan carries a precious message,” the king said. “The more to protect him the better.”

  “While we’re there,” Inara added, “I will seek an audience with the governor of Vangarth. It’s the closest town. Perhaps I can convince him to send supplies to aid us.”

  “Do what you can,” Vighon replied.

  There were no further objections, the decision Adan’s alone. Doran could see, however, the way it tore through Asher. He felt for the ranger, trapped between a rock and hard place.

  “We should leave immediately,” Inara suggested. “Athis cannot fly every Drake back to the plains; they will have to make the journey on foot.”

  “I’m ready,” Kassian agreed, in time with Adan bowing his head.

  Doran cleared his throat, giving them pause while simultaneously drawing everyone’s attention. “Ye’re not the only ones to be leavin’ this day,” he announced. “An’ before ye start worryin’, I’m not talkin’ abou’ marchin’ every dwarf off the plains.” The War Mason stopped and sighed. “I ’ave to return to The Black Wood,” he said, catching Vighon’s eyes.

  “There’s unrest brewin’ between me kin. I’m hearin’ talk o’ new kings an’ challenges risin’ up amongst ’em every day. With the clans leaderless an’ broken, chaos an’ violence will break out an’ consume ’em. Right now, while they’re all lookin’ to me, there’s an opportunity to unite ’em all that I cannot ignore. But, to do that, I ’ave to be there for me brother before he meets the Mother an’ Father. I would not ’ave ’im slink into death, his passin’ unnoticed. Dakmund is the last an’ rightful king o’ Dhenaheim - he deserves to be recognised as such.”

  Reyna reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I
am so sorry, Doran.”

  “Will you travel alone?” Nathaniel asked, concern in his voice.

  Doran harrumphed. “Those days are behind me whether I like it or not. As War Mason - the only War Mason - I won’ be allowed to travel across country without at least a hundred dwarves at me back. Don’ worry though, I won’ be takin’ me best. We will help ye defend the plains.”

  Reyna lowered her head and planted a kiss on the dwarf’s cheek. “You are the best of your kin, Doran, son of Dorain. Return to your brother and do what you must, for his sake as well as for your people.” The elven queen paused to hold a brief, yet silent, conversation with Vighon. “We will return your forces to you in The Black Wood when our victory here is secured.”

  Doran was still trying not to blush at the kiss while he nodded his head in agreement. “I’ll make sure Thraal introduces ye to me replacement before we depart. An’ I have no doubt ye will succeed here,” he declared with confidence. “Some in this tent are already heralded as heroes, others legends. Mark me words, the deeds o’ ye all will be recounted in the history o’ every race from east to west for all time. An’… I am proud to call ye all me friends.”

  All but Gideon Thorn had some form of farewell to offer the dwarf. The old master looked lost to his thoughts and Doran left him, eager to be getting on his way. A handful of words, and stern ones at that, were all Thaligg and Thraal required to begin preparing for his journey. They had argued, initially, that he should be accompanied by their best warriors, but Doran had put them to the task with naught but a look in the end.

  He also made certain that enough of his kin learned the reason for his departure to ensure that word travelled across the camp. The last thing he wanted now was for them to believe he was abandoning them, especially with the number of would-be kings amongst them. If there were any who did seek to challenge his claim to rule, he would meet them in The Black Wood, after he had seen Dakmund into the waiting arms of Yamnomora.