The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 35
“’ere ye go,” he said softly, placing her on the ground with all the gentleness he was capable of.
Pig’s exploration was cut short when Doran forced the Warhog into the pantry as well, hoping to capitalise on body heat if not smell. Over the next couple of hours, he scavenged the nearby halls and rooms for any supplies he could use and started a small fire inside the pantry. His first instinct was to keep the door closed and trap as much heat as possible, but the smoke needed somewhere to go other than his lungs.
The next hour was spent trying to rouse Inara. Only when her eyes flickered open did he attempt to get some water down her. He pressed the cup to her dry lips, happy to see that not all of it ran down her chin. He spoke to her often, hoping to get something back or at least remind the Dragorn that she wasn’t dead.
Eventually, after many hours of trying, Doran sat back on the floor and let her rest without interruption. “What do ye reckon that is then?” he asked Pig, gesturing to the cocoon.
The Warhog snorted.
“Aye, ye right,” Doran replied. “It’s likely some kind o’ Dragorn magic.” The dwarf continued to talk aloud for some time before his eye finally shut and his jaw hung open.
He belonged to a world of dreams now. Given all that he had seen, those dreams couldn’t help but morph into nightmares. Restless was his slumber. It was his own words that roused him, spoken against his will into a small room.
When he opened his eye, an ancient part of his dwarven mind told him the night had passed outside the mountain. His face possessed a sheen of sweat and his hand felt numb from gripping the haft of his axe so tightly.
“I have to admit,” said a croaky voice, “yours was the last face… I expected to see… If any.”
At last, a smile cracked across Doran’s face. “Inara!”
The Dragorn looked from the Warhog to the dwarf. “Where are we?” she asked wearily.
Doran crawled forwards and rested on his knees. “Grimwhal,” he answered. “This is where I found ye.” The ranger handed her some bread and a water-skin. “’ere, ye need to get yer strength up.”
Inara accepted the water alone. “I don’t… I don’t remember…”
“Athis is outside,” Doran explained. “He looks pretty banged up, like yerself. I came lookin’ for ye.”
Again, Inara could only offer a quizzical expression as she sipped at the water. Doran settled himself down again and took the Dragorn through recent events, detailing his battle in these very halls and their miraculous escape.
One detail had stood out to Inara. “They’re still moving,” she groaned.
“Aye, they are. Headin’ for Illian I’d say.”
Inara made to move but something painful in her midriff stopped her. “We need… to go.” Her words broke through the obvious pain, but her body was less enthusiastic.
“Easy, easy,” Doran bade. “I don’ think ye’re gonna jump’ to ye feet right now. Ye need more rest.”
Inara tried to stand again but succeeded only in wobbling and sliding back down the wall, her face white as a sheet. “We need to help,” she continued.
Doran helped her into a more comfortable position. “Ye’re as stubborn as yer mother,” he observed. “Ye’ve been seriously injured!”
“I heal quickly,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“Not that quickly,” the dwarf quipped.
Inara examined her hand. “My spell… It’s faded.”
“Aye, ye were nice an’ toastie in there.”
“It wasn’t just keeping me warm.” Inara let her head slump back. “It was a very old… healing spell. You broke it.”
Doran stopped stoking the fire. “I broke it? How’s that?”
“You disturbed me,” she said flatly.
The dwarf huffed. “Well excuse me for tryin’ to save yer life!”
Inara brought her head back and blinked hard to focus on Doran. “I’m sorry. I’m just…” Her words died away.
“It’s a’right, lass,” Doran reassured. “There’s no offence ’ere. Ye’re hurtin’ I can see.”
The Dragorn took a breath. “I can handle the pain. That’s not what hurts…”
The ranger took an extra moment to consider her words and scrutinise the pain on her face. “Who did this to ye?” he asked softly. “From what I saw, those fiends don’ take no prisoners.”
Inara swallowed before resting her gaze on Doran. “Alijah,” she uttered.
Hearing that one name robbed Doran of all speech. His insides felt cold, a result of the bottomless void that opened up inside his gut. Alijah’s reappearance in Illian had been quite the surprise to the dwarf, but this was a revelation that tied his mind into knots.
“Yer brother?” he finally managed, his expression as startled as his tone. “I don’ understand…”
“Neither do I,” Inara admitted. “It was as if…” She stared at the wall, seeing something that escaped Doran. “It was like a mask. He just took it off and…” Her words trailed off and she closed her eyes.
“Alijah, he’s in league with these monsters?”
“Reavers,” she breathed, a hint of disgust on her face. “He’s not in league with them. He commands them.”
Again, Doran was speechless, though his face begged for answers. Through the pain, Inara unravelled events for the dwarf, detailing everything from Lord Thedomir’s betrayal in Grey Stone to Alijah’s wicked magic. It was quite the tale and it took a lot out of the Dragorn to do it justice. By the time she was finished, her breathing sounded laboured and her eyes appeared heavy.
“Rest,” Doran urged, helping her to lie down. Alijah’s betrayal stung the dwarf, and not just because of the price his people had paid for it, but for Inara the betrayal was much deeper.
“My sword,” she groaned, fighting sleep.
Doran hovered over her, thinking back to the passage in which he had found her. “It wasn’ with ye. Don’ fret, lass, we’ll get it back.”
Inara’s blue eyes finally disappeared behind swollen lids and her breathing slowly returned to normal. Doran walked around the fire, cupping his mouth in distress. It was all just so… unthinkable. If he had been given another two centuries he would still never have guessed Alijah Galfrey to be at the heart of it all.
Inara’s last concern turned Doran’s mind to another weapon of great renown. Andaljor was still in Grimwhal’s halls, dropped by Dakmund during his fight with the crowned knight. It had been such a pity to have lost the legendary weapon, the emblem of their clan. But what if he could reclaim it? It would certainly give him something to do while Inara recovered. If he remained by the fire he would likely stew over Alijah, an all-round miserable affair.
“Right,” he declared to Pig, “I’m off. I won’ be back for a little while, so ye’re in charge. Got it?”
The Warhog continued to snore.
“Good.” Doran slung his axe over his back, grabbed a water-skin, and lifted a torch from the fire.
Beyond the pantry, the dwarf paused, wondering if leaving the Dragorn unguarded by himself was so wise. Looking left and right, however, the passage was devoid of life, as was, unfortunately, the rest of Grimwhal. They were like ghosts, haunting an empty city.
Walking through the streets of his old home, without manacles to bind his wrists, was both a nostalgic experience as well as melancholic. He knew the roads and alleys like the back of his hand, even recalling the construction of certain areas. But it was filled with death in many places and evidence of total abandonment in others. It was a shell of its former self, stained by evil.
Everywhere he went, the buildings were very much intact and the supporting pillars stretched high into the mountain roof without any sign of damage. The Reavers had simply swept through and cleared the inhabitants out, as if their main goal had been to herd the dwarves.
Crossing the heart of the city, Doran found himself standing in the middle of one of the central squares. So busy had it always been that only now did he realise there were rectangular patterns on the ground. He crouched down and placed the palm of his hand against the cold stone, feeling for the pulse of the mountain. His hand should have reported a hum of activity from all around.
There was nothing.
Grimwhal was still, reflecting the silence of a tomb rather than a city. Doran’s heartbreak and rage began to stir once more, threatening to rise to the surface and explode forth.
A subtle vibration rippled through his hand, detectable only to a dwarf. He looked one way, then the other. There was nothing but dead bodies, scattered debris, and empty buildings. But something had just moved.
“Who’s there?” he asked, surprised by the sound of his own voice.
There was no reply so he repeated his question in dwarvish. After hearing his own voice echo through the streets, the dwarf rested one hand on the haft of his axe. He couldn’t deny the hope that now sparked in his chest - he could do with burying his axe into something big and nasty. To his dismay, there was naught but the sound of his own breathing to answer his question.
In a huff, the son of Dorain continued his trek through the city. There were less and less bodies the closer he approached to the tunnels. Many of the warriors fighting to hold the line had lowered their weapons and run for the tunnels. This turned the Reavers’ intended victims into survivors - a fact Doran was all too happy to acknowledge, regardless of any images he might conjure of dwarves fleeing their enemies.
At last, he was standing before the ancient tunnels. Using his torch, Doran lowered the flames to the floor and searched for the double-sided weapon amongst the bodies. The Reaver bodies were in pieces - the quickest way to put them down for good.
To assist his memory, Doran stood with his back to the tunnel entrance and recalled his position from the fight. In his mind, he could see where Dakmund and Russell had been, as well as the crowned knight. He used this knowledge to narrow down the area where the weapon had been dropped.
A broad grin revealed every one of Doran’s teeth. “Andaljor!” he exclaimed.
The weapon demanded a wielder of great strength. At one end was a rectangular slab of iron, engraved with the most ancient of dwarven script. The other end possessed a double-headed axe of biting steel. It was as legendary to the dwarves as Mournblade was to the elves, only prettier in Doran’s eye.
The moment of reclamation was ruined by the sharp scraping of armour over the ground. Doran’s head whipped around and his jaw clamped together in a growl. It took his eye a few seconds to adjust to the gloom beyond his torch and discover the Reaver, clawing its way over the dead. Its head was hanging on by a few strands of gore, its only lifeline. With one arm and no legs, however, the monster was slow.
Doran smirked and dropped his torch. He was going to enjoy this. Hefting Andaljor in both hands now, he toyed with which end to bring down on the Reaver’s body. Either way, he was going to pummel it for a while before he finally ended its miserable existence.
The hammer came up first, but its bloody end never fell. Instead, Doran jumped back with his heart pounding in his chest from the surprise that leaped out of the shadows.
A Clacker…
The monster’s hooked claw came down on the Reaver’s head, ridding the creature of whatever spell had given it purpose. All six of the Clacker’s legs danced on the floor with excitement, its meal an easy catch. Doran remained perfectly still with Andaljor still raised over his head. If he made any sound, the Clacker would know he was there and leap on him with several rows of sharp teeth and four front claws that had been known to pierce steel.
Two flat nostrils inhaled the Reaver’s scent as the Clacker’s bald head twitched from side to side. Small holes opened and closed across that grotesque head, all of which were highly sensitive to sound. It was their unique ears that normally kept them away from Grimwhal, for the city’s constant din was too painful to bear.
Doran scanned the streets for more of its ilk. Where there was one Clacker, more always followed. Its head shot up in the dwarf’s direction, but with no eyes to speak of it could do nothing but wait and listen. Andaljor’s weight brought a sting to Doran’s muscles, though he dared not lower the weapon. There was a chance his armour would scrape together or the axe on the bottom would catch his belt.
It wasn’t the first time he had seen a Clacker up close, but he had forgotten the stench that accompanied their hideous form. To any surface-dweller, a Clacker would be described as having its insides on its outside, revealing the monster’s tendons and muscles.
Shaped in the manner of a centipede, the monster’s clawed feet stepped forwards, placing its head only inches from Doran’s chestplate. Killing the beast would be as easy as letting Andaljor drop onto its head, crushing whatever brain it claimed to possess. Slaying the Clacker, however, would be a noisy affair and killing one of them by surprise was very different to facing a swarm of them.
Proving its name to be apt, the monster lifted its head and made a clacking sound from within its shuddering throat. As one, more Clackers slunk out of the dark, their claws tapping against the floor. Doran stopped counting after he reached ten. There wasn’t much calculation required to inform the dwarf that he was too far away from the pantry to seek help from Pig. Of course, returning to their makeshift camp would bring the monsters down on Inara. That wasn’t an option.
That only left him with one path to take…
Andaljor came down with the might of Doran’s arms behind it. The hammer didn’t stop until it was buried in the Clacker’s skull and its jaw was shattered against the floor. The rest of them had a variety of sounds to home in on, but Doran gave them something extra.
“This is my home,” he fumed.
The Clackers rushed in, scurrying towards the dwarf on their many legs. Doran swung Andaljor at the first to reach him and sliced its head in half. Then he ran. His immediate dash saw him take the nearest alleyway. The Clackers crashed into the wall behind him, climbing over each other to be the first to claim their meal. He could hear them rising up the side of the building, aiming to come down on him from all sides.
His legs ran as fast as they could, but the Clackers were naturally faster, forcing Doran to barrel into the first door he came across. The narrow spaces inside would make their hunt a lot harder and give the dwarf an opportunity to face them one at a time. The door splintered under his weight and the hinges were wrenched from the frame on his way down to the floor. He scrambled to his feet just in time to turn and challenge the Clacker behind him. Its legs encroached at different angles to ensure it fitted through the door, but its gnashing jaws came directly for Doran’s face.
Five rows of teeth clamped down on the end of Andaljor’s waiting hammer. Doran drove his fist into the haft between the axe blades and pushed the hammer farther still, dislocating the monster’s jaw before finally breaking it. Using both hands, he yanked the weapon back and finished the job with another blow to its head.
Unfortunately, there were at least four more of the fiends waiting to replace it. One of them forced its head through the adjacent window while two others tried to scale the Clacker lying dead in the doorway. Once again, Doran ran for it. He kicked in the back door and started up the next street in search of another place to dig in.
Then he caught sight of more, rising over the top of distant buildings and crawling around thick pillars. Running and fighting wasn’t going to work. The dwarf changed his direction while simultaneously throwing his sword across the street and through a tanner’s window. He deliberately slowed down, taking lighter steps, before coming to a complete stop in the narrow avenue. The Clackers descended on the tanner’s shop, following the sound of the shattered glass and loud clatter from his sword. They mauled at the door until it was in pieces.
Doran held his breath.
Sweat matted his hair and dripped off the end of his nose. He watched as the Clackers tore the tanner’s shop apart, hunting their prey. And so he remained, rooted to that spot for what felt like hours. His hands ached from holding Andaljor and his arms told him many times that they were ready to detach and leave him forever. But he was damned if he was going to fill the belly of some beast. He imagined those teeth biting into him and it kept his grip firm and his legs strong.
But there was only so long he could remain there. The Clackers stalked the area for much of his time in that alleyway, only leaving when their hungry stomachs demanded they hunt elsewhere for their elusive prey. Doran took his most cautious footstep and looked out on the empty street. Every little noise his attire made felt magnified to him.
Giving his hands and arms a break, he very carefully entered the tanner’s shop and found a strap of leather for Andaljor. It weighed on his back, beside his silvyr axe, but it was better than holding onto it for a moment longer.
His trek back to the pantry was slow and arduous. He often paused mid-stride, sure that he had heard something. The abandoned city provided the Clackers with no end of hiding places.
Drenched in sweat, the pantry door, still half open, was at last in sight. He could see the smoke drifting out but he began to fear that the noise created by the crackling fire would attract the Clackers. It was tempting to rush those remaining steps and reach Inara and Pig as quickly as possible. But he continued to imagine those teeth plunging through his armour and reducing him to food.
After an agonising last stretch, the son of Dorain eased the door further open. Inara was still asleep, right where he had left her. Pig was missing. Doran cursed the stupid animal, wandering off at the fancy of its nose.
The dwarf took a step inside only to hear the door creak. He winced at the sound as it echoed through the stony halls. It wasn’t particularly loud but, after moving in near-silence for several hours, it might as well have been a dinner-bell for the Clackers.
He waited, listening for any sign of them.
