A Clash of Fates

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Galanör was tempted to ask for that position right now, if only to watch his father be publicly humiliated. But, for now, he was more than content to pursue his life in Illian, where he finally felt a sense of belonging.

  “Perhaps one day,” he replied with a mischievous grin.

  “Right then!” Nathaniel clapped a hand on Galanör’s shoulder. “Let us find something good to drink. We have new beginnings to toast!”

  60

  Through Shadow

  In the blistering cold of Dhenaheim’s freezing wastes, Doran Heavybelly at last stood before the entrance of his home.

  Grimwhal.

  He stared into the main passage, an abyss that did not welcome the light. Both doors, built to withstand any dwarven war machine, still resided on the stone floor, twisted and bent out of shape by the undead dragon, Morgorth. Beyond lay a labyrinth of dwarven design, a place of great halls and cathedral-like temples to the Mother and Father.

  It was also home to monsters.

  It felt an age to Doran since he had last stepped foot inside the walls of his ancestors but, when he had, the son of Dorain had seen with his own eye the terrible beasts that had claimed Grimwhal as their own.

  But it wasn’t theirs. It was his. And now, with the entire dwarven army at his back, he was going to reclaim Grimwhal and declare it the new capital of Dhenaheim. Such a declaration would be better made if there happened to be a Clacker’s head on the end of his axe. Everything sounded better when there was a monster’s severed head on an axe.

  “My Lord,” came Thraal’s voice as his Warhog came up alongside the king’s. “We wait only on your word to attack.”

  Doran heard every word but he didn’t take his eye from that forbidding tunnel. He chewed over the command to attack. It felt like only yesterday he was in good company, enjoying the finest food and drink Namdhor had to offer. But it had, in fact, been just over two weeks since Vighon and Inara were wed. Now, here he was, on the verge of battle once more, his words destined to send dwarves to their death. For their home, though, for their birthright, they would happily pay the price with blood.

  “What would you do, Thraal?” he asked his War Mason.

  Thraal didn’t require much time to think it over. “I would flood Grimwhal with the toughest warriors in all of Verda and crush anything foolish enough to challenge us… my Lord.”

  “Would you now,” Doran replied lightly, aware that Thraal was still harbouring some violent tendencies since the death of Thaligg. “You know, as my War Mason, you’re going to have to be more than a strong arm on the battlefield. I need you to think before you lift your axe and especially before you command others into the fight.” The king sighed. “Use this before this,” he said, gesturing from his head to his arm, “and you’ll save lives.”

  “As you say, my Lord.”

  “Well, do you know what I say?” Doran replied. “I say we need eyes and ears in there first. We need to know what we’re dealing with before we go blundering through.”

  Thraal clicked his fingers as if an idea had just occurred to him. “I will gather our best scouts!”

  “Don’t bother,” the king instructed him, spurring Pig onwards.

  “My Lord!” Thraal called after him. “You can’t go in there alone!”

  “I’m not!” he yelled back, only a second before Avandriell dropped out of the sky.

  The bronze dragon created a cloud of snow as her wings fanned out to slow her descent. Astride her back, seated in his saddle, was Doran’s oldest friend, the first human he had ever come to trust with his life.

  Asher glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the expectant army of dwarves. “You might be forgetting something,” he quipped.

  “Still sharp as ever then,” Doran replied with his usual dry wit. “The way I see it, Avandriell is still small enough to fit through our passages.”

  Avandriell responded with a sudden exhalation from her nostrils.

  “She really doesn’t like the S word,” Asher warned.

  “It’ll be bit o’ a squeeze in places,” Doran added, hoping to appease the dragon. “But once we get into the city proper, you’ll ’ave enough room to even fly!”

  Again, Asher quickly regarded the thousands of dwarven warriors they were leaving behind. “You know, when we agreed to accompany you back to Dhenaheim, I assumed we would be aiding in the effort to rid your cities of monsters. I didn’t realise it was going to be just us.”

  Doran laughed as they approached Grimwhal’s entrance. “Jus’ like old times, eh?”

  “I’ve faced Clackers before,” the ranger said, “but never a nest the size you described.”

  “We’ll be lucky if that’s all we face in there, lad. In The Whisperin’ Mountains, Clackers are way down the old food chain. We might even snag ourselves a Stonemaw!” Doran turned his head to spy Asher’s reaction. Seeing his less-than-impressed expression, the king broke out in a deep belly laugh. “I’m not so daft as to think we can clear out Grimwhal alone. Though I bet Avandriell would give it a good go.”

  The dragon shook her whole body, a gesture the dwarf had come to learn was one of pride and confidence.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Asher muttered.

  “With a handful o’ words,” Doran continued on a serious note, “I could command every dwarf into this tunnel an’ they wouldn’ come out until the city is ours again. But I wouldn’ throw so many lives away with such a brash plan o’ action. I know Grimwhal. If we’re smart, we can infiltrate the city, set up stagin’ posts an’ clear it out district by district.”

  “That makes sense,” Asher replied. “So you need to scout the city first. See what you’re dealing with.”

  “Ye know,” Doran remarked, “if ye ever change yer mind abou’ this ranger business, I’d make a good War Mason out o’ ye.”

  Journeying through Grimwhal’s outer-most passages, Avandriell kept her head lowered and Asher walked by her side, while Doran remained comfortable astride his trusty Warhog. They stepped over the frozen corpses of both dwarves and Reavers, their bodies undisturbed since the first invasion.

  The king guided them one way then the next, his memory recalling every turn in his ancient home. They eventually passed through the grand throne room and then into the cavernous city itself. It should have been a spectacle, a marvel of dwarven architecture and engineering, but it was draped in darkness and the foul odour of decay. Disappointed, Doran raised his torch, hoping the firelight would make a difference. It didn’t. The shadows grew longer and dashed about in the light, tricking his eye into thinking there were creatures lurking.

  “We need better light,” he commented.

  “I think I can help with that,” Asher said.

  Doran raised an eyebrow as the ranger birthed a ball of light from his palm. It flickered for a moment, threatening to extinguish, before floating above them with increasing intensity. It didn’t bring out Grimwhal’s beauty, but it did remind the son of Dorain how much work was needed beyond the slaying of a few monsters.

  “So ye’re a mage now,” he whispered, as they pressed on through the streets.

  “Gideon and Inara have taught me some spells,” Asher replied modestly. “Nothing I can kill myself with,” he added.

  “Or me, I hope,” Doran said with amusement.

  As quietly as they could, with dragon claws and Warhog hooves, the group cautiously penetrated the heart of the city. Asher’s orb followed them from overhead and revealed very little but empty streets and skeletons that had been picked clean. When they reached the crossroads at the centre of the city, Doran looked to the east. If he followed that road he would eventually come to the spot where Dakmund had been wounded by Lord Kraiden.

  “We should have come across something by now,” Asher reasoned, his voice low. “Light always attracts the dark,” he uttered, with a glance up at his orb.

  Doran dismounted from Pig and pulled free a large flask as he did. “I say we take advantage o’ the
peace an’ quiet,” he suggested, shaking the flask so Asher could hear the cider within.

  Asher looked at his reptilian companion, who lay down in the street, while they found an empty barrel and a bench to sit on. Pig naturally began to investigate every nook and cranny for potential food but, since he was doing it quietly, Doran didn’t disturb the animal.

  “I know I’ve said it before,” Doran began, “but I’m glad ye came. It feels like I’ve brought a little bit o’ Illian with me.”

  “You think I had a choice?” Asher responded, accepting the flask from the dwarf. “As soon as Avandriell heard the word monster we weren’t going anywhere else.”

  Doran flashed a proud smile at the dragon. He had never been particularly fond of any of her kind, though that had never stopped him from respecting them and their inherent wisdom. But he had come to enjoy Avandriell’s company, his fondness growing the more her personality shone through. And, of course, he intended to reward them with coin and more when their campaign was at an end. They were still rangers, after all.

  “So what’s next for the pair o’ ye?” Doran asked. “After ye’ve helped me, o’ course. Return to Illian an’ look for a contract? Pocket coin wherever ye can.”

  “That’s the plan,” Asher replied. “Though we might not be so desperate for coin.”

  Doran eyed him over the flask. “How so?” he enquired.

  Asher took a moment to consider his words. “I’m going to reopen The Pick-Axe,” he declared simply.

  The king’s face froze in confusion. “How’s that?”

  “Russell loved that bar,” Asher explained “He’s in its bones. I couldn’t leave it to sit idle and rot in his absence. And it always made good coin—”

  Doran held up a hand, his confusion lingering. “I wholly agree with yer, lad,” he began earnestly. “But how is it that ye are openin’ The Axe? Rus left ye the deed?”

  “The deed was always mine,” Asher told him, rocking the dwarf back in surprise.

  “It was always yers?”

  “I had no real use for the place,” Asher said casually, “and Russell saw its potential. I gave it to him in all but deed.”

  The dwarf quickly shook his head. “How did I never know this? An’ how did ye come to own The Axe in the first place?”

  “It wasn’t always a tavern,” Asher replied cryptically.

  “Ah,” the king said with some understanding. “Would this ’ave somethin’ to do with ’em mysterious lot that brought ye into the life o’ the ranger?”

  “Perhaps,” Asher said.

  Doran waited a moment longer but it appeared the ranger had nothing to add. “Fine,” he huffed. “Keep yer secrets. Givin’ The Axe some new life is a damn good idea,” he added, content to leave Asher’s past where it belonged.

  “I noticed you still have his pick-axe.” Asher glanced briefly at Pig’s saddle.

  “Aye. It’s broken, but it was his. I ’aven’ found meself able to part with it yet.” The dwarf gave the old weapon a moment’s thought. “I know where it belongs though,” he continued. “If ye puttin’ The Axe back into business, it’s only right that its namesake hangs over the bar.” He licked his lips, still unsure, even in the moment, if he could really give it up. “Ye should take it,” he finally said.

  “Only if you promise to meet me there for a drink one day,” Asher countered.

  Doran smiled at the thought. “Ye try an’ stop me.”

  After an exchange of light-hearted banter, Asher’s tone turned serious. “Will you send for your mother once Grimwhal is liberated?” he asked.

  Doran nodded. “Aye. Once I know this place is safe, I’ll ’ave word sent back to Namdhor. I don’ want her campin’ on the wastes while she waits for her home to be cleared out. I’d never hear the end o’ that one.”

  “She seemed in good spirits before we left,” Asher observed.

  “She has her good days,” the king told him. “She also has her bad days. On the worst o’ those days, I think she blames me for Dak’s death.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t,” Asher offered, his gruff voice the softest it had ever been. “You did everything you could to save him.”

  Doran nodded absently, as if he couldn’t wholly agree with the ranger’s statement. “I’ll always be tormented by things I could ’ave done differently, but that’s my burden to live with. Me mother jus’ needs time. That’s all I can give her.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, your brother would be proud of what you’re doing here.”

  Doran managed a brief smile while the ranger took a big swig of cider. “Ye’re a good friend, Asher. It’s a comfort to know that it’ll be ye who attends my funeral an’ not the other way around, as I long feared.”

  “We have centuries of getting it all wrong before that fateful day, my friend.” Asher raised the flask. “To getting it all wrong.” He took a swig and passed it to the dwarf.

  Doran mimicked the ranger and his toast before tasting the drink. “Do ye think I’m doin’ the right thing?” The son of Dorain had wanted to ask that question since setting off from Namdhor, but he dared not voice it to any other.

  “You are the king of Dhenaheim now,” Asher replied. “Everything you do is the right thing.”

  Doran chuckled to himself. “If only that were true.”

  Asher held his hand out for the flask. “You’re referring to your decision to rule from Grimwhal in place of Silvyr Hall.”

  The dwarf eyed the ranger. “Ye’ve heard the grumblin’s then, among me kin.”

  “There will always be grumblings,” Asher told him. “There will always be those who wish for things to return to the way they were. Some will want their clan identity back. Others will want a clear hierarchy so they know who their lessers are. And then there will be a few who believe their bloodline belongs on a throne. It’s been thousands of years since the children of the mountain knew a reign like yours.”

  Doran sighed. “Reclaimin’ the cities o’ Dhenaheim will put more supporters in me camp,” he reasoned. “But rulin’ from Grimwhal has the potential to make me look weak. Silvyr Hall has stood tall over the clans since we abandoned Vengora. Not to mention the silvyr mine it overlooks.”

  “Could you not claim Silvyr Hall as your own?”

  The king shrugged. “I’ve considered it… a lot. But it wouldn’ feel like mine. It wouldn’ feel like home. Silvyr Hall has ever been in the Battleborn bloodline. If I moved in there an’ took that as me throne, I’d be makin’ more enemies than allies, an’ I need allies everywhere if I’m goin’ to figure out how I rule Dhenaheim. I’m thinkin’ o’ appointin’ marshals to oversee each city.”

  “Like lords,” Asher compared.

  “Aye. Only without such a grand title. Don’ want ’em gettin’ too big for their boots.”

  “How would you choose them?” the ranger enquired.

  “I’d be foolish to appoint anyone without the appropriate bloodline. I’ll need a Battleborn for Silvyr Hall, that’s for sure. Commander Rolgoth would do fine. Then I jus’ need to find the highest rankin’ Goldhorn, Hammerkeg…” Doran waved it all away. “Bah! Listen to me! Talkin’ about kingly politics. It’s a web I tell ye. I’m already missin’ the simplicity o’ a full saddlebag, an open road, an’ naught but a big beastie on the other end.”

  “If you could,” Asher posed, “would you give all this up for that life?”

  Doran didn’t answer straight away, yet he had given the question as much thought as his Silvyr Hall conundrum. “No,” he finally answered, and honestly. “I ran away from all this once before. They deserve better o’ me. An’ I only ran away because I didn’ like what we were becomin’. Now I ’ave a real opportunity to change things for the better. The clans get to remain, their heritage intact, but the feudin’ will never return. Our cultures can mix an’ learn from each other. An’,” he added with emphasis, “we can stop wettin’ our blades with the blood o’ our kin.” Doran slowly shook his head and took a long brea
th. “I can’ walk away from that. Not for anythin’.”

  “Has that crown actually made a good dwarf of you?” Asher jested.

  Doran looked up, though he couldn’t see it resting on his head. “Somethin’ had to, I suppose,” he agreed with a laugh.

  Asher’s head turned to his left as Avandriell slowly rose from the street with a low growl in her throat. “I think that did it.”

  “Finally,” Doran grumbled, rising to his feet beside the ranger. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if all this talkin’ was for nothin’.”

  Asher drew his broadsword, the rising steel enough to home the Clackers in on his location. “Perhaps now would be a good time to retreat and plan our infiltration.”

  Doran looked up at the ranger’s face and discovered the same hungry expression that ruled his own. They shared a hearty laugh before the dwarf separated Andaljor, taking axe and hammer in hand.

  “Ye take the hundred on the left. I’ll take the hundred on the right.”

  Asher raised his sword in both hands while Avandriell bared her fangs. “Seems fair,” he remarked.

  “Aye!” King Doran hefted his legendary weapons and braced himself. “May the best dwarf win!”

  61

  Legacy

  Seated comfortably on a smooth rock, his wand spinning endlessly between his fingers, Kassian Kantaris let his head loll back while he basked in the summer sun. South of The Evermoore, the Keeper had found the climate he felt suited to. He had longed for it after a freezing winter in the north and a spring that still felt like an extension of winter to him.

  But it wasn’t the climate that had brought him to The Moonlit Plains. Ever since he had passed through the region on the way to the battle, Kassian had come across something he hadn’t been able to get off his mind.

  Returning to a level gaze, he narrowed his eyes through the light and looked upon West Fellion. It was a ramshackle of a ruin. Long abandoned, its upkeep had been neglected and none had tried to piece it all back together. The stone was crumbling in places and utterly shattered in others. Anything made from wood was in the process of rotting and the surrounding moat was better described as a swamp.