The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 46
“Were there any to keep,” Gaerhard remarked. “And the Battleborns sit beneath us now, as do all the clans.” He added the latter with an air of superiority to him.
Time for another gamble. “With all respect,” Doran said, “you’re the king of nothing.”
Gaerhard scowled at the stout ranger and his grip tightened around Andaljor. “Not too fond of your tongue, are you, boy?”
Doran ignored the threat. “The dirt beneath us belongs to King Vighon - you’ve neither the claim nor the numbers to say otherwise. Bhan Doral, like every other kingdom in Dhenaheim, has become a tomb in your absence. What’s left of our people, all of our people, are huddled on The White Vale, surrounded by thousands of enemies.”
King Gaerhard leaned forward in his throne. “Come to point out the obvious, have you? Typical Heavybelly!”
“I’ve come to speak to the only dwarf who can do something,” Doran countered, weighing his words with a compliment fit for an egotistical king. “With Uthrad dining in Grarfath’s Hall, you’re the only one left with any claim to authority.”
Gaerhard eyed him suspiciously. “And what would you have me do with said authority, lowly prince?”
Doran thanked the Mother and Father - so far, every response from the king of Bhan Doral had been just as the dwarf had planned with Asher and Inara. “I would have you free our people,” he said boldly, inflating Gaerhard’s ego all the more. “Nobody knows why we’re being kept here, but we can all agree it isn’t going to be for anything good. If we don’t fight back and get out of the north soon, every child of the mountain may suffer.”
The king placed Andaljor vertically between his legs. “We’ve tried fighting back, several times. If we gather in too great a number the black knights draw their swords. If a few of us make a run for it, they hunt us down on horseback. We are outnumbered five to one at every turn.”
“There are others,” Doran insisted. “Those who would rally to the call of a king such as yourself. If you could unite what’s left of the clans, there’s a chance we might all see home.”
King Gaerhard sat back with a frown that brought his red eyebrows together. “You’re talking about Heavybellys,” he deduced.
“They aren’t among us,” Doran said, ready to take his argument to the next stage.
“That’s because they don’t belong among us!” the Brightbeard snapped with a hammering fist. “Exiles, the lot of them! They turned their backs on the hierarchy, on King Uthrad himself!”
“To fight orcs!” Doran contested. “They did what no other clan dared. And in doing so, they claimed another victory against our most ancient enemy. We’re warriors, King Gaerhard. Right now, you are sorely in need of warriors…”
The king tilted his head, taking the measure of the stout ranger. “Thorgen’s blood certainly flows through your veins, Doran, son of Dorain. But you speak of the Heavybellys as if you are one of them. You are a rogue. In fact, Illian has long been your home. What do you have to gain from all this?”
It was hard to explain to a fellow dwarf that he had nothing to gain but the saving of lives - a ranger’s calling. In many ways, it would be less suspicious to claim that his brother would reward him with coin and title or simply ask Gaerhard himself for reward. But, as he had for so long, Doran could rely on naught but his words alone. At least that’s what Inara had told him, should the argument escalate as it was.
“I just want…” Doran caught himself. Right here, in the moment, he could see that telling Gaerhard the truth regarding his virtuous cause would increase the risk that his plan would fail. He needed to say something convincing, something that would sway the king to trust him. He also just needed to say anything before the king had him thrown out of his tent.
“What I propose, good king, is simple. You create a distraction - draw as many of the black knights as you can to the west. I will then escape to the east and find clan Heavybelly. Once I’ve reunited with them, I’ll lead the charge myself if I have to and see every dwarf in this camp set free.”
King Gaerhard narrowed his eyes. “My question still stands, exile.”
“What do I have to gain?” Doran repeated the question, giving him a few extra seconds to think. “Let them back in,” he blurted. “Open trade with them again, acknowledge their existence. Things will be different after this. The Brightbeards will emerge the most powerful clan. I would ask that the Heavybellys be given the second seat, just as the Stormshields were to the Battleborns.”
The king of Bhan Doral remained quiet, his free hand combing through his beard. “An interesting proposal,” he replied at last. “And I suppose they would welcome you back with open arms to have brokered such an arrangement. Though your plan would rest a lot on the Heavybellys responding to my call to war. Why would they listen to you? Why would they risk their lives to save ours? I can see my people dying in this distraction, all so that you might run away, never to be seen again…”
Doran had asked himself that same question and found the answer to be somewhat vague. Even Inara and Asher had seemed sceptical about his ability to convince the Heavybellys - should he even find them - to aid the clans that had shunned them for more than a decade now.
That was, however, a problem for another time. Right now, he just needed to convince King Gaerhard that he was the dwarf for the job. Luckily, he had been convincing people he was the dwarf for the job for nearly a century now.
“They’ll listen to me because I have that,” he said, pointing to Andaljor. “I retrieved it from Grimwhal, after the invasion. It will be seen as a loyal feat for the clan. And they would risk their lives because of your generous offer, good king. To not only be welcomed back into the fold, but to also be appointed the second seat… What dwarf wouldn’t risk everything for such an honour?”
The red-bearded king looked from Doran to his closest advisors who shared his tent. They discussed nothing openly, but their silence spoke of no protest. The son of Dorain dared to hope…
“I find your terms agreeable,” Gaerhard announced. “But I tell you, prince; them Heavybellys had better crash into these black knights with the fury of Grarfath Himself. Anything else will see us all at the Father’s door.”
“You have my word, King Gaerhard.”
“Your word means next to nothing,” the king replied casually. “I am entertaining this risk because we have nothing left to give… and yet still so much to fight for.”
The sun was firmly situated in the western sky when it came time to say farewell. Doran was close to the eastern edge of the camp, but not too far out from the camp that he might be spotted by any patrols. Asher and Inara were hooded and seated on a couple of crates, concealing their height and identities.
“What exactly are they going to do?” Inara enquired.
Doran looked to the west, where Namdhor rose high above the ground. “Gaerhard’s War Mason, Gimmel, is handlin’ it apparently. From what I could gather, he’s amassin’ a pretty decent force to push the camp’s border closer to the lower town.”
“That should do it,” Asher commented.
“Where will you go?” Inara was looking out across the vale’s flat horizon.
Doran had given this some thought already. “They ’ave to ’ave taken The Iron Valley,” he reasoned. “There were more than a few among ’em who knew Namdhor was west out o’ the valley, so somethin’ must ’ave driven ’em away.”
“That still leaves you with west or south,” Asher observed.
“Or north even,” Inara pointed out. “They could have followed The Guardian Cliffs to the west before turning back on themselves, towards Longdale.”
“The cliffs are exactly where I’m goin’,” Doran replied, checking over Pig’s saddle. “They’re pocketed like a giant slice o’ Calmardran cheese. In trouble or not, me clan will naturally look to put some stone over their heads.”
Asher nodded in agreement. “It’s as good a place as any to start.”
Doran eyed the ranger, scrutinising him. “Aye, but I bet ye won’ be missin’ me, will ye? I suppose there’s not much room for a dwarf when it comes to killin’ from the shadows…” The son of Dorain was sure to let the old assassin hear his disappointment.
Ashamed of his decision or not, Asher still averted his eyes, focusing on the ground instead. Taking that dark path was the last thing Doran wanted for his oldest friend, even if he agreed it was likely to yield the result they wanted.
“We’ll find a way,” Inara reassured. “Just as you must find a way to free these dwarves.”
It was the first time in several days that Doran had heard any positivity in the Dragorn’s voice. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say he knew her well enough to know how forced her tone was. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt; she was the Guardian of the Realm after all.
“I hope ye free the lad - the king that is!” he quickly corrected. “Come find us when ye do. Together, we’ll find a way to undo all o’ this.”
“I see you’re both still assuming I’m going to fail,” Asher said from within his hood.
“I’m hoping you will,” Inara replied.
“I’m assumin’,” Doran nodded.
“Though, I hope you won’t die in the process,” Inara added.
Asher nodded some semblance of a thank you for the afterthought.
“Look on the bright side, lad. If ye die up there, ye finally get to ’ave a little break.” Doran couldn’t help but laugh to himself.
A distant chorus found them from the west, an uproar that was unmistakably dwarven in origin. It grew louder by the second until the sound of ringing steel caught up to them. Doran moved closer to the eastern edge and looked both ways, searching for the patrols. The Reavers were mobilising around the circumference and heading towards the ruckus.
“Are you ready?” Asher checked.
“As I’ll ever be, old man.” Doran held out his hand and the two rangers clasped forearms. “If ye die up there, I’ll ’ave someone bring ye back again an’ then I’ll kill ye meself.”
Asher smiled. “Understood.” Before he let go of the dwarf’s arm, he added, “With or without your clan, make sure you come back to us, you stubborn fool.”
Doran gave a sharp laugh. “Ye don’ think I’d let ye fight a war without me, do ye?”
Inara waited for a patrol of knights to rush past before standing up. “When Athis and I were heading into certain danger, you came after us, master dwarf, regardless of your own life. For that, you will always have a Dragorn in your debt.”
Doran sniffed hard and loud in an attempt to keep his only eye free of tears. “Don’ mention it, lass. The realm needs its Guardian. Besides, neither yerself nor that fierce dragon o’ yers needs the likes o’ my help.”
Inara gave him a warm smile. “I hope you find your clan.”
“I hope ye can put yers back together…” With that, Doran mounted Pig, adjusted Andaljor on the saddle, and guided the Warhog towards the farthest edge of the camp.
There was no sign of any patrols to the north since all of the Reavers had moved around the southern curve of the camp, to his right. There were still a pair on horseback south-east of his position, a little farther out across the vale, though their attention seemed to be on the growing tension in the west. They didn’t look to be moving and his window of opportunity was slipping away with every second, not to mention the casualties the Brightbeards were potentially suffering.
“Right, Pig,” he whispered in the Warhog’s ear. “Ye need to get us over that horizon an’ fast, ye hear. Don’ stop for nothin’ an’ there’ll be a big fat juicy steak in it for ye,” he lied.
Though Pig’s intelligence and understanding were often under scrutiny, there was no question as to whether the Warhog understood the word steak. Its slimy tongue ran over its top lip and snout in anticipation of the meal to come. Doran knew he would have little choice but to ply it with his Strider Cider in order to calm the disgruntled Warhog, cheated of its meal.
“Doran,” Asher called. “Ride hard…”
The son of Dorain grinned. “Is there any other way to ride?”
Seeing that it was now or never, Doran knocked his heels into Pig and set the animal at an immediate sprint. Within seconds they were putting a good amount of distance between themselves and Namdhor and Pig didn’t look to be slowing down any time soon. The son of Dorain felt the pull of his friends all the more. He wanted to stay and help them both, despite the stark differences between their errands.
But his clan were out there somewhere. And if the dwarves behind him stood any chance of surviving Alijah’s machinations, they would need the Heavybellys to come to their aid. The stout ranger questioned how he had ended up, once again, in the middle of dwarven affairs. He had walked away from that life and been shunned by his kin ever since, yet here he was, working to unite the clans and save as many of them as he could.
He decided this must be how Asher felt all the time…
There was movement to his right, from the south-east. Doran cursed. The two outriders he had seen earlier were galloping towards him. He began assessing his options and came to the conclusion that their horses’ stamina would see them ultimately gain on him when Pig lost some of his energy. His next conclusion was simple: he could take two of them. His Warhog made him nimble and hard to catch in mounted combat.
Then there was movement from the north, to his left. Another pair of outriders were emerging from the trees at Vengora’s base and cutting a diagonal line across the snows to reach him. Damn - they clearly wanted all the dwarves confined to the camp! What could they possibly want from his kind that they would hunt a single fleeing dwarf down?
Doran ducked his body down and hastened Pig with some encouraging words, promising the Warhog all the meat and mead in Illian. And so their escape continued with all the speed his mount could muster. Stealing regular glances over his shoulders, however, the dwarf could see that a fight was inevitable - they were getting closer.
It wasn’t long before he could hear the sound of thundering hooves behind him. The dark rider on his left had drawn its sword and was lining up its approach to swing down on the Warhog. To his right, the second rider was braced in its stirrups with two hands gripping the reins and closing fast.
It was the horse that caught Doran’s eye.
The mount was haggard with strips of flesh hanging from visible ribs and its coat was a ghastly colour - more Reavers.
The revelation that the knights of Erador were riding undead horses made Doran’s decisions much easier. From his hip, he pulled free his one-handed sword - gifted to him on King Gaerhard’s command. It was a length of steel far wider than any human would choose to wield and certainly of superior crafting.
Without warning to his enemies, the dwarf brought his Warhog to a sudden stop, yanking hard on Pig’s reins. The rider to his left shot past, hurtling into Doran’s outstretched blade, positioned to take out the horse’s legs.
At such speed, it was a spectacular crash. The knight from Erador collided with the ground at an angle that would have guaranteed death for any ordinary person, its body bending backwards over itself again and again before the weight of its undead horse skidded into it.
Doran laughed heartily.
The rider to his right continued past him unharmed before quickly turning around. The dwarf sneered and set his Warhog to the task of meeting the Reaver head on. Both at full speed, they were on a collision course that would certainly be the end of Doran, if not the knight. Unlike the undead horse, fortunately, Pig was able to change direction in the blink of an eye with barely any loss in speed. At the last moment, Doran directed the Warhog to the right, crossing in front of the horse’s path to take them over to the other side.
Then his sword lashed out again. The sound of both rider and mount violently meeting the unforgiving ground was both satisfying and amusing to the ranger. Laughing some more, he turned to admire the devastation and saw the other two riders. They each stopped, surprisingly, to assist the fallen Reavers from under their horses. The fact that there was anything to recover sent shivers up Doran’s spine.
Still, their decision to take on an extra rider each only slowed them down, allowing Doran to gain a great advantage. And so he rode east with fire in his veins, all too aware that thousands of dwarves were relying on him.
He just had to stay ahead of his hunters…
Part IV
38
Regression
Meticulous. Methodical. Controlled. These were the traits typical of an Arakesh in the midst of their work. To be an assassin of Nightfall was to be a servant of death, a being of singular purpose. Planning the final moments of any man required studious preparations and forethought, always designed to leverage the target into a position of inferiority. Such a thing was all the more difficult when the target was, perhaps, the most powerful man in the realm…
Inside the privacy of his dwarven tent, Asher embraced his work. It had been two days since Doran’s departure from the camp and the ranger had only fallen deeper into his old ways.
Planning his breach of the keep had taken some time, given that the Reavers never had the need to patrol in shifts or even take a break to relieve themselves. Then there was the layout of the keep to consider: which passages to take, what shadows to utilise, and which room he would take advantage of to kill Alijah in.
Though an unlikely scenario, he had also taken some time to figure out an escape route should it become clear that he wasn’t going to win the fight. The assassin in him was ever practical, forcing him to accept that he might be better escaping and returning at another time to try again. It would be foolhardy to believe he had but one attempt and that he should give his all or die.
Nightfall had expected results, not heroes. The Mother or Father didn’t care if an Arakesh made more than one attempt to take a designated life, only that they succeeded in the end and in a timely manner suiting the client. In this case, Asher was both the client and the assassin - the target one of his own choosing.
