A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Inara sighed, torn between angst and excitement. If I take this path, if I marry Vighon, I will be giving my heart to a mortal. I will have to watch him fade away until death finally claims him. And what of children? They would have some elven blood, but it might not grant them everlasting life. It didn’t for Alijah. I would live on only to watch my entire line eventually die. I would have to say farewell to them all.

  Athis lowered his head, angling it at a slight tilt. Inara, you have already given your heart to Vighon. Even now I can feel it beating for him. I sensed your love for him when we first met and it has never faltered. I simply prevented you from feeling it.

  None of that changes my future, Inara countered. If I say yes, I will know only—

  Love, Athis interjected. You will know the love of a family. The companionship of a husband. The joy of children. They are unique experiences that no Dragorn has ever known. Yes, there will be pain. But there will also be happiness. I know you, Inara. If you deny your feelings now, you will live with regret for the rest of your days. Even if your time with Vighon is a spark in your lifetime, let it be a spark so bright that it lives in you for all time.

  Inara reached up and ran a loving hand along her companion’s jaw. What will it mean for us?

  We will find a way, Athis promised. Though I see children on my back in the future, he quipped.

  Inara smiled, blinked once, and returned to the same moment she had inhabited standing before Vighon. “Yes,” she replied to his question. As she witnessed a wave of joy overcome Vighon, she felt the same thing cross her bond from Athis.

  The northman leapt to his feet and pulled her in to a tight embrace and a passionate kiss. “You have made me the happiest man alive,” he exclaimed before kissing her again.

  “We are such fools,” Inara said through a giddy smile. “Tomorrow, we go into battle.”

  “Now I have something more to fight for,” Vighon uttered, his expression locked in a moment of joy.

  Hand in hand, they made their way back to the camp and returned to the gathered council. A drink was waiting for them both and more than a few questioning faces. The couple, however, offered tight smiles in response and kept their engagement to themselves. The night was about someone else.

  55

  The Valley of Death

  “They’re waiting for you,” Drelda said, her voice hoarse from days of weeping.

  Seated beside his brother’s bed, his elbows resting on his knees, and his head hung low, Doran nodded absently. He had taken note of the quiet beyond the royal tent as the camp’s anticipation reached its apex.

  Doran looked up and cast his eye over the empty bed. Once upon a time, long before he exiled himself to Illian, the son of Dorain had imagined the day he would be crowned the king of Grimwhal. On that day, he had always envisioned his brother standing beside him.

  “Your father would never have stood for this,” the queen mother continued in the absence of a response. “A king should be crowned by the Iron Priest, not some lowly cleric. And it certainly wouldn’t be done in a forest.”

  Doran let her vent it all, aware that she was only trying to busy her mind and keep the grief at bay. “The Iron Priest was killed when the Reavers invaded Grimwhal, Mother. A lowly cleric will do the job just fine - all he has to do is place a damned crown on my head. And we have no mountain to call home right now, so The Black Wood will have to do. Soldiers always do better when they have someone to follow.”

  As he stood up, his mother was right in front of him, a stern look on her face. “That damned crown you’re so loath to wear means something. From King Thorgen’s head to yours it has brought power to our family.” Doran wanted to remind her that it was not the same crown worn by their ancestor - the original lost over two thousand years ago during a clan war - but he didn’t dare interrupt her right now. “Your father didn’t know what to do with that power. He had no ambition for the Heavybellys nor our people as a whole. Your brother…”

  Drelda caught herself before new tears escaped. “Your brother wanted to change everything. He wanted peace across all of Dhenaheim. He wanted prosperity for all dwarves. But for all his wants and desires, such a future was beyond him, beyond any dwarf, even King Uthrad Battleborn.” The queen mother gripped Doran’s arms. “But you, my son, have found yourself at a very precious point in history. What you do here and now will shape the children of the mountain for generations. Only Grarfath and Yamnomora have done more for our people.”

  Doran considered the declaration he was minutes away from making. “It’s bold,” he said. “There will be those who oppose my taking of Grimwhal, let alone Dhenaheim.”

  “They might oppose you, but none can oppose your deeds. Kings are always defined by their actions—”

  “Exactly,” Doran interrupted. “You’re talking to the dwarf who abandoned his post, his family, his home. My actions speak only of—”

  “A hero,” Drelda stated, cutting him short. “You have proven yourself to be worthy of Thorgen’s blood. This was always to be your fate. You have just arrived at it from an unusual place. It only adds to your story and legend.” The queen mother pressed her hands to his chest. “But, if it makes you feel better, you are not elevating yourself. Wearing that crown is a sacrifice, a burden you bear for all. Till the end of your days, you are a servant to our people. You will be judged not only by us but history itself.”

  Doran gave a light chuckle. “You know, that doesn’t make me feel any better, but thank you, Mother.” He took a deep breath and looked to the tent’s entrance. “Let’s be doing this.” He loudly cleared his throat, signalling Thaligg on the other side.

  “Pray silence!” the cleric bellowed in man’s tongue, bringing an end to the quiet conversations still taking place. “We may not be in the shadow o’ the mountains, but we stand on ground as hard as Grarfath’s skin, ground the Father laid ’imself at the dawn o’ time! It is on that ground that we pay homage to Doran Heavybelly, son o’ Dorain Heavybelly, an’ descendant o’ the mighty Thorgen Heavybelly!”

  Taking his cue, Doran emerged from the tent and, with Thaligg and Thraal at his back, walked into the clearing behind the cleric. Just as they had when he announced his brother’s passing, the gathered crowd dropped to one knee and bowed their heads, including the several hundred dwarves who had come with the council. Only Reyna, Nathaniel, and Vighon remained standing, their own stations demanding they bow to no one.

  A subtle flick of his fingers signalled the cleric alone to rise, who motioned for another dwarf to approach from the side, a cushion held out in both hands. Doran watched the cleric remove the crown of his ancestors from the cushion and hold it high.

  “In the eyes o’ the Mother an’ Father, I ask Doran Heavybelly to kneel before his people an’ for his people to rise an’ accept his pledge!”

  On his knees, his head held high, Doran declared, “For as long as Grarfath gives me breath an’ Yamnomora gives me favour, I give me life not only to the Heavybellys o’ Grimwhal, but to every dwarf on this rocky earth! As we lived thousands o’ years ago, in an age o’ heroes, we will live again! As one people under one banner, the children o’ the mountain will rise again! We will take back our homes, our land, an’ our heritage! My every wakin’ moment will be devoted to this cause, our cause! Only death itself will stop me!”

  “I’d like to see it even try!” came a cry from one of the dwarves in the crowd.

  “Pray silence!” the cleric admonished.

  Doran looked down to conceal the brief smile curling at his mouth.

  “It is with the blessin’ o’ Grarfath that I, a cleric o’ the Mountain Order, bestow upon ye, Doran Heavybelly, the crown o’ Grimwhal… an’ the crown o’ Dhenaheim!”

  Doran felt the circlet of silvyr as it came to rest on his head. Light as the metal was, it felt oppressively heavy on his head. Now he knew why Vighon rarely wore his own.

  With nothing to do now but stand up, he rose to his feet and was met with a blasting
roar from the crowd. Due to his lack of peripheral vision, the dwarf had to turn his head left and right to take them all in. The applause continued until he raised his hands to quieten them.

  “Tomorrow we go into battle!” he yelled. “Stand behind me an’ Andaljor an’ victory will be ours! It must be ours, for this is not to be our end! Only when the mountains themselves perish will we perish with them! So tonight, drink to our inevitable victory! Drink to those who ’ave fallen to get us this far! An’ drink to me while ye at it, yer one-eyed king!” The crowd cheered with his laugh, a sound that surely rocked the earth.

  What followed was a haze of congratulations from friends and strangers alike. Drinks and food flowed through the camp, some of which even graced Doran’s lips. Unlike the last time, however, the new king was cautious where the ale was concerned - he wanted a clear head for battle. It was with the battle in mind that the council eventually came together, much later into the night when Doran had lost some of the attention he had garnered. Around a roaring fire, watched over by guards of varying races, they planned The Rebellion’s final assault on the invaders.

  “If he thinks that cold piece o’ stone is goin’ to keep ’im safe he’s got another think comin’,” Doran remarked of The Bastion.

  “The mountain path is treacherous,” Inara put forward. “You could not march an army up there.”

  “Alijah knows this,” Vighon added. “He will have been forced to leave his Reavers in the valley. If they block the path, the only way to The Bastion is by air.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we have dragons,” Kassian commented.

  “Three dragons cannot ferry an army up The Vrost Mountains,” Gideon pointed out, holding his cup at his mouth.

  “They don’t need to,” Asher said. “If Alijah doesn’t have an army up there, we need only face him with a small team of skilled fighters.”

  “It would be foolish to believe he doesn’t have any Reavers up there,” Galanör replied.

  “Then we had better put an emphasis on the skilled part,” Asher responded with a wry smile.

  “He could call on his army with a single thought,” Reyna reminded them. “Treacherous as the mountain path is, Reavers move without fear and without need of rest. If he wanted to, Alijah could have Reavers reinforcing The Bastion before we have time to defeat him.”

  “And defeating Alijah is far from guaranteed,” Nathaniel told them. “Especially since Malliath will be up there with him.”

  “Malliath is not all that stands between us and Alijah,” Gideon addressed. “He still has one Dragon Rider under his thrall. Vilyra of Freygard and heir to Carstane was a fearsome Rider of her time. And Godrad, her dragon, was known for his appetite for Giants.”

  Doran looked to Gideon and Inara. “If ye can handle the dragons an’ whatever else awaits ye in The Bastion, me kin will keep the Reavers in the valley from flankin’ ye.”

  “As will the elves,” Nathaniel proclaimed. “Though I must insist on accompanying you to The Bastion.”

  Inara sat forward. “Father,” she pleaded.

  “I believe we fall within the skilled category that Asher referred to,” Reyna added to her husband’s words. “Faylen is more than capable of leading our forces in battle,” she assured, looking to her old friend across the fire.

  Doran watched Inara, waiting for her to rebuke her parents’ desire and deny them a place on the dragons but, rather surprisingly, the Guardian of the Realm took a breath while she scrutinised them. “We will face him together then,” she said. “You may accompany me on Athis.”

  “Is there room for another king?” Vighon enquired. “And, perhaps, a stubborn Golem?” he added, glancing at Sir Borin over his shoulder.

  “You need to lead your forces against the Reavers,” Inara was quick to tell him, an edge of protectiveness in her voice.

  “Sir Ruban,” Vighon began, gesturing to his captain, “has led my forces across the entire realm and faced all manner of opposition. He has more than proven himself capable. No, I must face Alijah. He took my kingdom. If I am to truly reclaim the throne, I must be seen to challenge my usurper.”

  “And if he kills you in the process?” Inara questioned.

  “That’s what you’re there for,” the northman replied with a confident smile.

  Inara’s next breath came through a clenched jaw. “Very well,” she reluctantly agreed.

  “Your challenge of him is understandable,” Gideon commented to the king. “Though I must insist on taking Galanör,” he stated, glancing at the elven ranger. “He retrieved the Crissalith and he has the Hastion gem. With his skillset, both can be used as a weapon, one our enemy knows nothing about.” Aenwyn cleared her throat beside Galanör. “And Aenwyn, of course,” the old master quickly added.

  Since their number was growing, most eyes naturally turned to Kassian Kantaris. It hadn’t escaped Doran’s notice that the loudmouth mage had been unusually quiet.

  “An’ what o’ ye, young Keeper?” the son of Dorain asked bluntly. “I would ’ave thought that burnin’ hot vengeance o’ yers would ’ave ye jumpin’ at the bit to get up there.”

  Kassian tapped the wand holstered on his leg, his eyes lost to the flames.

  “Kassian?” Vighon prompted.

  The Keeper finally looked up. “I will fight in the valley,” he made known. “We will give you as much time as we can.”

  Doran licked his lips. “Ye know Alijah an’ Malliath will be in The Bastion, don’ ye? For two years I’ve sat through countless meetin’s an’ listened to ye tell us how ye goin’ to kill the necromancer for what he’s done. Are ye tellin’ me now that you won’ take yer wand to that fight?”

  Kassian ran a hand over his beard, contemplating his words. “There have been many sacrifices to get us to this point. More deaths than I can count anymore. I see now that they didn’t die just so we can defeat our enemy. They gave their lives for Illian’s future, for our future. I have glimpsed what that may be. I would not throw my life away fighting a superior foe - I see that now. Instead, I would fight to live so that I might build something new out of the ashes, something worthy of my wife.”

  Doran offered the man an approving grin. “Good on ye, lad. Fightin’ with hatred in yer heart is a path to destruction, take it from me.”

  “Good decision,” Vighon expressed.

  “Then it’s settled!” Doran announced, rising to his feet with a horn of ale in one hand. “Tomorrow we fight! But, tonight, we make what we can o’ the time we ’ave left!”

  The dwarven king knocked the horn back and gulped the ale, his gaze cast to the stars above.

  It felt to Doran as if the next time he was parting the horn from his lips, he was throwing it into the snow and facing The Vrost Mountains. Time had moved so swiftly that he could scarcely recall the latter half of the night nor the journey from The Black Wood to their waiting forces. He did, however, remember cursing the dawn as it pierced the trees and woke him from what had only been a short slumber.

  Now, attired in his black and gold armour, Andaljor strapped to his saddle, and a crown on his head, Doran had nothing but an angry frown for the snow-covered valley. Behind him thousands of dwarves stood in their tight ranks, awaiting his command to advance. To their left, the elves looked to Faylen Haldör for their own orders while, to the right of the dwarves, the human soldiers stood ready for Captain Dardaris’s word. It was among them that Kassian had dispersed his Keepers, having instructed them to add their magic to that of the elves.

  Atop their horses, Faylen and Sir Ruban closed in on the king from each side. “The scouts we sent into the mountains have not returned,” the captain reported. “I fear they never will.”

  “Hmm,” Doran mused with a rough throat. “I believe this valley intends to swallow us whole.”

  “At least we know they’re in there,” Faylen replied.

  “They’re in there waiting for us,” Ruban specified. “The advantage is already theirs.”

  “Tra
p or no trap,” Doran said, looking up at the three dragons circling in the sky, “that’s where we’re goin’. We only ’ave to keep ’em occupied until they defeat Alijah an’ Malliath. Without ’em, the puppets ’ave no strings.” Turning his mouth over his shoulder, the king bellowed, “ADVANCE!” The order was echoed across the numerous ranks and repeated by elves and humans alike.

  As one, The Rebellion entered The Vrost Mountains, prepared to make one final stand in defence of their realm.

  Doran led them astride his loyal Warhog, his first battle as king. It could also be his last battle as king. That was a typical thought before any fight, especially on this scale, and he embraced it as his potential fate. To fear such a fatal outcome would weaken his resolve and, today and every day that followed, his resolve was an example that needed to inspire.

  That in itself was a daunting thought that would see most run away, never to return. Fortunately, the old ranger in him knew exactly how to tackle such a fight: the knights of Erador were just monsters. He had fought and slain more monsters than he had eaten hot meals. That’s all this was. Just another day killing monsters.

  With that thought underlying his determination, he kept Pig on a straight heading and ploughed deeper into the mountains. Overhead, the dragons deliberately double-backed on themselves again and again to stay close to the army until they reached The Bastion. The valley, however, was mile upon mile of mounting snow, so thick in parts that the Warhogs struggled to move through it. Costing them vital energy and resolve, their journey went on and on, hour after hour, until the sun was hidden behind the western mountains.

  “Camping in this is going to be hellish,” Sir Ruban called out against the wind.

  Doran was about to agree when he noticed the dragons fading away into an evening sky. They were angling into the north, to the dwarf’s right, and heading for the top of the nearest mountain.