The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 18
To the east of the city, The White Vale still bore the scars of war fifteen years on. Giant holes, partially filled with snow, potted the land where the orcs and their terrifying stonemaw had breached the surface. Doran could still remember charging out of the ground himself, backed by his clan and his brother.
“Why can’t we ever go anywhere that’s warm?” Russell grumbled.
Doran also remembered a time when his supernatural friend barely noticed a change in the temperature. He had opened his mouth to state as much when he closed it again. They all knew Russell’s curse was waning and his life with it - there was no need to bring it up.
“Come on then,” he said instead, spurring Pig on. “Let’s find me kin.”
The closer they rode to the city the more defined the barracks became. The army of Namdhor was situated farther north, closer to the Vengoran mountains. Within those mountains were the remnants of the orc horde and beyond them the dwarves of Dhenaheim. Doran could see the sense in their position…
Passing through the lower town that sprawled across Namdhor’s base, the presence of dwarves was evident. Though neither companion had yet to see a dwarf, shops, trading posts, and taverns had been established with the sigil of clan Heavybelly printed on their signs. By the look of the shops, his kin were primarily dealing with metal works and stonemasonry - their speciality.
“I never thought I’d see the likes o’ this,” the stout ranger observed. “Dwarves livin’ amongst humans, tradin’ with ’em, drinkin’ with ’em... The price it’s cost the clan is a shame,” he added offhandedly. “But livin’ under the shadow o’ Silvyr Hall couldn’ ’ave gone on for ever.”
Russell peered down at him from his horse. “There’s no chance the Heavybellys will be invited back into the hierarchy?”
Doran waved such a notion away. “King Uthrad’s every word might as well be etched into stone. Once he’s made a decree, that’s that.”
The son of Dorain hopped off his Warhog and made for the nearest window that apparently belonged to a dwarven locksmith. After wiping the glass, he cupped his eyes and searched inside for any sign of life. The sun was up, after all; there should be dwarves making coin somewhere.
“Must be out,” he muttered.
Russell crossed the street and checked a small tavern - the door was locked and the windows boarded. “No one here either,” he called.
Perplexed, Doran shook his head. “That ain’ right…”
The companions met back up and pulled their mounts along behind them. Now that Doran thought about it, he hadn’t actually seen any dwarves since they had arrived.
“Me kin live for the trade,” he commented without taking his eyes off the streets and buildings. “If they’re ’ere, we should be seein’ ’em everywhere!”
As they approached the rise in Namdhor’s slope, Russell reached out to get the attention of a young man walking past them. “Excuse me,” he said politely.
“Morning,” the Namdhorian replied, his attention narrowing on Russell’s unusual yellow eyes.
“Where are all the dwarves of clan Heavybelly?” the old wolf enquired.
The man licked his lips, clearly unsure who or what he was talking to. “There looks to be one right beside you, sir.”
Russell glanced at Doran and flashed a smile. “Any others?”
The Namdhorian shook his head. “No dwarves round these parts for months now. One day they was here, selling their wares, then they were gone.” He stepped forward to make his leave before turning back. “Oh, there’s still old Thaggadar, just up the road.”
“Thaggadar?” Doran echoed, the name unknown to him.
“He runs the bounty hunters,” the young man answered. “There’s usually someone shouting about it outside his shop.”
Russell thanked the man with a smile, but his eyes were enough to keep any smile from the Namdhorian’s face. “Let’s see what’s going on around here,” he suggested.
Together, they ascended the rise, taking the main road that ran straight up to The Dragon Keep. Again, Doran had memories of fighting where he now journeyed. He could still see in his mind where the rows of spikes had been dug into the road and the city separated into tiers. There was no better feeling than wading into a horde of orcs with Pig beneath him and a hefty piece of steel in his hand.
“That must be it,” Russell announced, bringing his horse to a stop beside him. “A little on the nose, isn’t it?”
Doran looked up at the sign above the door: Bounty Hunters. “The children of Grarfath aren’ exactly known for their creativity when it comes to words an’ such. We do our best talkin’ with our hands!”
Russell stepped back to take the shop front in. “It doesn’t appear to be open. Maybe this Thaggadar has disappeared with the others.”
Doran walked a little farther up the rise to see the building from the alley. “There’s smoke comin’ out o’ the chimney,” he pointed out. “I’d say old Thaggadar is still around…”
Russell tethered his horse to a post and walked up the steps to investigate. The rounded doorknob rattled in his grip but the door refused to budge.
“We’re closed!” came a barking reprimand from inside.
“Is that right,” Doran mumbled, nodding at the doorknob in Russell’s hand.
The old wolf grinned and increased his grip around the bronze doorknob. A quick twist of his wrist and the lock succumbed to his supernatural strength.
“Oi!” the voice cried, but Doran and Russell made their way inside all the same.
It was musty and glum inside, the air filled with dust and the windows streaked with grime. The furniture was made with dwarves in mind, lending more height to Russell’s broad stature. The wall on the right was covered with wanted posters and descriptions of criminals who had evaded the law. There weren’t many with a red X painted over the parchment.
“What’s yer game?” The gruff voice and pointed question preceded the appearance of a legless dwarf on a chariot of wheels. It was quite the ingenious design, with smaller wheels at the front and larger wheels at the back for the hands to guide.
“Thaggadar, I take it,” Doran concluded.
“Ye’ll be payin’ for a new lock, ye will!” Thaggadar argued.
Russell put his hands up to calm the air. “Sorry about the door. We’re here looking for—”
“We’re closed!” Thaggadar repeated, spitting through his scraggy white beard. “There ain’ no hunters to be doin’ any lookin’, so ye wastin’ yer time!”
“That’s why we’re ’ere!” Doran countered.
“Ye want work?” Thaggadar replied, arching half of the only eyebrow he possessed. “We ain’ never employed a human before but…” The old dwarf shrugged at Russell. “Now, we ain’ no Blood Boys, but we’re still damn good hunters I’ll ’ave ye know—”
“We’re not at yer door lookin’ for work,” Doran complained, already exhausted with the old fool. “We’re ’ere because…” The son of Dorain reconsidered his angle. “Where are all the dwarves?” he asked instead. “I thought Namdhor was home to more than a few these days.”
Thaggadar narrowed his eyes at the stout ranger, scrutinising his features. “Do I know yer face?”
Doran sighed. “I doubt it.”
“Wait a minute.” Thaggadar leaned forward in his wheelchair. “Who are ye? All Heavybellys ’ave been recalled, so ye’re either not o’ me clan or ye’re a coward! Which is it?”
Doran frowned, bringing his bushy blond brow into his eyepatch. “Recalled? What are ye on abou’? Why would Dak recall ’em all?”
Thaggadar scowled as the words reached his ears. “Why would…” Revelation appeared to strike the old dwarf. “Ye’re Doran, son o’ Dorain! Ye’re the exile!” he accused.
“Aye, that be meself. Now what in all the hells are ye talkin’ abou’, old dwarf?”
Thaggadar folded his arms and sneered. “I neither see nor hear the likes o’ an exile.”
The stout ranger wanted to shake the answers out of him. “We’re all exiles now,” he stated bluntly. “So jus’ tell me why me brother would recall every dwarf in Illian?”
Thaggadar remained stubbornly quiet, his dry lips tight together. The son of Dorain growled and started forward, only to find Russell’s hands holding him back. Shrugging his friend away, Doran rooted around inside his shirt and brought out the note his brother had sent.
“Has it got anythin’ to do with this?” he blurted, shoving the bloody parchment into Thaggadar’s face. “King Dakmund sent this to me. This is his blood! I’ve come a long way to discover the truth, ye old goat, so ye’d better believe I’m goin’ to get it!”
Thaggadar cleared his throat and drew his head back to better see the note. There were only two words to read so it didn’t take him very long to understand the message.
“Aye,” he finally said after much deliberation, “King Dorain passed away a couple o’ months ago.”
Doran had come to terms with that fact, but it still hurt to hear it from someone who knew for certain. “Did they ’ave a funeral?”
“Aye, ye missed it. They buried ’im in the stone, where we all belong…”
Doran nodded along as his gaze shifted to the side and pierced time and space.
“Why is King Dakmund’s blood on the note then?” Russell asked for him, bringing him back to the present.
“That’s the king’s business,” Thaggadar protested. “How am I to know?”
Doran scowled at the old dwarf as he picked apart every twitch of his face. “Ye’re lyin’!” he glowered. “Ye know exactly why me brother’s blood might be on his note an’ ye know why he’s recalled everyone!”
Thaggadar rose to the ire. “Why do ye care, exile? Business o’ the clan is no longer yers to be concerned with!”
Doran was faster this time and managed to snatch Thaggadar’s collar with both hands before Russell could grab his shoulders. “He’s me blood, ye dolt! I need to know that he’s a’right. I need to know that the clan is…” The ranger stopped himself before he sounded any more like a hypocrite.
Thaggadar’s eyes roamed over Doran’s desperate features as he considered his next words. “Grimwhal is at war,” he hissed.
Doran released him and stepped back. “War? With who?” Geographically, he knew that Grimwhal was situated between Bhan Doral and Khaldarim, meaning it could easily be attacked by either the Brightbeards or the Goldhorns.
“I don’ know,” Thaggadar answered far too quickly. Doran advanced again, forcing the old dwarf to raise his hands. “I told ye, I don’ know! I wasn’ recalled,” he added bitterly. “I gave me legs fightin’ the orcs. Now they jus’ leave me ’ere…”
Doran allowed some of his anger to fade away. He didn’t know Thaggadar, but he had potentially fought shoulder to shoulder with him at the end of The Ash War. In a way, Doran was partly responsible, since he had set events in motion that saw Grimwhal’s army march south to face the orcs in the first place.
“What happened?” he asked with a softer tone.
Thaggadar brushed away some dust from his sleeve. “Official messengers were sent from home. The orders were quite clear: return home to fight. The missives they carried said little more than that, but…”
Doran tilted his head to meet Thaggadar’s eyes. “But what?”
“The messengers said…” Thaggadar swallowed. “They said death had come.”
Doran glanced at Russell, his concern growing. “Death has come? What does that mean?”
Thaggadar looked nervously from one shadowed corner to the next. “A black army, birthed by The Dread Wood itself. They told us the Stormshields were all but gone, the Hammerkegs too.”
“Bah!” Doran refused to believe it. “There’s no army in all o’ Verda capable o’ bringin’ down the Stormshields! Hyndaern has stood for thousands o’ years against more sieges than ye’ve had hot meals. An’ the Hammerkegs? In all me time as War Mason, we never even touched the stone o’ Nimdhun - that city is encased by the mountains!”
Thaggadar shrugged and wrinkled his face in offence. “I ain’ no liar! An’ I won’ be called one by no exile either! That’s what they told us an’ that’s all I know!”
Doran huffed and walked away until he was facing the grimy windows. Thaggadar was either wrong or the tale he had been fed was long indeed. This still left the son of Dorain with only one option if he was to discover the truth.
“What’s the fastest way to Grimwhal?” he asked, partly to himself.
“That depends on yer definition o’ fast,” Thaggadar replied. “Go east an’ take The Iron Valley. It’s a long way round, but it’s a clear route so long as ye don’ trespass on barbarian territory.”
“An’ the other route?”
“There’s a big hole out there.” The old dwarf threw his head back, towards The White Vale. “Same one we travelled through fifteen years ago. If ye can find a way down, the tunnels will take ye straight to Dhenaheim. From there, it’s a straight shot to Grimwhal… an’ death.” Thaggadar rolled his wheelchair forward. “Whatever’s goin’ on back home, ye won’ find a parade waitin’ for ye, son o’ Dorain.”
This wasn’t news to Doran and, by the look on Russell’s face, it wasn’t a surprise to him either. But there was no other way.
“We’re going to Dhenaheim, aren’t we?” The old wolf puffed out his chest, resigned to accompanying his friend wherever he might go.
“There’s no need for ye to get yerself caught up any more in this. Ye’ve got a life an’ a business waitin’ for ye, Rus.”
“I’d listen to ’im if I were ye,” Thaggadar chipped in without invitation. “They’ll kill ye jus’ for bein’ with ’im.”
Russell simply looked from Doran to the door rather than reply. The son of Dorain agreed; he had heard about as much as he could stomach from Thaggadar.
“Ye ’ave me thanks for the information,” he offered on his way to the door.
“I care nothin’ for ye thanks, exile. As far as I’m concerned, I spoke to a man an’ a ghost today…”
Doran paused as Russell pulled the shop door open. The stout ranger removed a few coins from his pouch and left them on the windowsill as payment for the broken lock. Outside, they were both able to breathe in the clear northern air, though it would take a lot more than that to rid themselves of the musty scent that now clung to them. Not to mention the memory of Thaggadar himself.
“Seriously, Rus,” Doran continued, “we’ve been through a lot, but that bitter old fool was right. There’s a good chance that goin’ to Dhenaheim will be the end o’ ye, maybe both o’ us. I don’ want what’s left o’ yer life to be cut short because o’ me.”
Russell collected his horse’s reins with a quizzical expression for the dwarf. “If you get any softer, Heavybelly, you’re going to be good for nothing but dough.”
Doran’s smile was slow to reach his face but it eventually left its mark there. “So be it. But don’ come cryin’ to me when ye’re too cold.”
Russell laughed to himself as he climbed into the saddle. “So, what’s this Dread Wood he mentioned? I’ve never heard of such a place.”
The son of Dorain found his comfy spot on Pig’s saddle. “Aye, ye won’ be findin’ it on any map o’ Illian. It’s a forest, an’ a damned big one too, much bigger than any forest in this country, maybe Ayda too. It lies on the other side o’ The Whisperin’ Mountains. No dwarf has ever passed through it to see what’s beyond, nor ’ave they gone around it. There’s not a tale abou’ the place that ends well.”
Russell absorbed the dwarf’s description. “What’s he talking about then? A black army?”
Doran shrugged. “I’d say old Thaggadar lost more than his legs in the war. The Dread Wood is jus’ that, a wood. There ain’ no army inside o’ it.” A troubled look crossed the son of Dorain’s face. “It’s likely jus’ another war between the clans that’s got out o’ control. Not that such a thing would see Dhenaheim fare any better. It’s been millennia since all-out war between the clans.”
The old wolf guided his horse up the rise. “We can set off at dawn and take the tunnels under Vengora.”
“No,” Doran disagreed. “The tunnels under Vengora might be quicker, but the journey would be too risky - I ’ave to reach Grimwhal, Rus. We take The Iron Valley.”
“Are you certain? It will take longer.”
Doran shrugged hopelessly. “It’s more than likely that we’ll run into trouble under Vengora; if it’s not monsters o’ the deep it could be orcs - both will slow us down more than any terrain. We take the pass.”
“Well,” Russell concluded, “if we’re to be journeying even farther north, we’d better purchase fresh supplies and find somewhere to put our heads down for the night.”
Doran looked up the rise and back to Russell with a mischievous grin. “The Raucously Ruckus,” they both said.
“I’m pretty sure that pig of yours is still barred,” Russell quipped.
“That’s likely so,” Doran replied, patting the Warhog’s hide. “Not everyone can love him like you do, Rus…”
Doran’s hearty laughter filled the streets of Namdhor, defying the concern that continued to grow in his heart. It was this concern that warned the stout ranger of one thing.
A storm was coming…
16
Duty-Bound
The rousing light of dawn shone through the curtains, only this morning Clara Kantaris was cast in the shadow of her husband. Kassian was seated on the edge of the bed with his back to his wife. He had been positioned like this for many hours, soaked in sweat from the terrors that had haunted his sleep.
His heart pounded in his chest, a rapid drumbeat that filled his ears. The Archon’s secret conversation played over and over in his mind. He had been hand-picked by the masters to escort the Galfreys - an honour given the couple’s status and celebrated achievements.
Murder…
