The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 52
Inara gave the ranger a sideways look. “You want me and Athis to lure them away? What were you saying about reduced odds?”
“The numbers are against you, but I only need enough time to get in and find Alijah. There won’t be a fight this time…”
Inara stopped at an intersection to allow a small cart to wheel by. “Let’s skip to the part where you’ve heard my answer and suggest something else.”
Asher groaned. “We need to—”
“We?” Inara echoed. “I thought there was no we.”
Asher gripped her arm and pulled her to the side. “You’re supposed to be a Dragorn. That means you have to make the hard decisions. That means you have to plan for everything. Gideon isn’t here, the rest of your order isn’t here - there’s just you, and these people are relying on you. The king needs freeing and your brother needs to be stopped. Neither of us can do both.”
Inara listened to every word and then waited for Athis to add his agreement, but the dragon remained silent. “You’re right; I am a Dragorn, the only Dragorn. That’s why it’s up to me to carry what the order stands for. It’s my duty to give the people—”
“If you say hope,” Asher interjected, “I promise I’m going to—”
“Hope!” Inara boldly declared. “It is the current of life itself. For five thousand years, my order has kept the realm up on its shoulders. I won’t abandon that ideal.”
The ranger sighed. “Hope isn’t going to change a damn thing. You’re the only Dragorn - you need to give more than hope. You need to fight and you need to make a difference. With words or sword, Vighon Draqaro isn’t going to change what’s happened here. But you can. You want people to have hope, give them a future without Reavers for guardians.”
Inara turned her head to look at anything other than Asher. The ranger had struck a chord that the Dragorn couldn’t ignore.
“Fine. I will help you get inside the keep. I won’t stop you from challenging my brother, but I won’t help you either. And you’re wrong about Vighon. He’s the king; he might be the only one who can make a difference. Once we’re inside, we go our separate ways.”
Asher narrowed his eyes, assessing the Dragorn. “You know of a way inside,” he stated.
“I might have thought of something while you’ve been making your speeches…” Inara subconsciously felt the outline of a pouch on her belt. “But not here. Come.”
With Asher by her side, Inara led them out of the camp and north, towards the shore of The King’s Lake. They followed the shoreline farther still until Namdhor was no bigger than a hand and the moon had replaced the sun. It was here that the base of the mountains stretched around the lake in a jagged wave, offering a multitude of hiding places out of the city’s eye line.
Perfect for a large red dragon.
Athis was snuggled round the curve of a rock face with his wings tucked in and his tail curled. Despite the current state of their relationship, Inara found the sight of her companion to be a joyous one - it always would be. Dragons were magnificent by nature and Inara had a biased opinion when it came to Athis’s specific shade of red scales. Also, she loved him with all her heart…
Inara had to believe they were her feelings, free of influence.
Adan’Karth emerged from the other side of Athis’s claw. The Drake appeared happy to see them, though he clearly carried a great deal of sorrow about him. So far, his people had endured a short existence dogged by prejudice and unwarranted violence.
“We’re here,” Asher announced impatiently. “What’s your idea?”
Inara reached around her belt and removed the only item inside that particular pouch. It was no bigger than her thumb nail and it shone with the magic that had formed it.
“You have a crystal!” Asher strode towards her, examining the powerful artefact. “Why have we been considering infiltration when you had a crystal all this time?”
“It takes many hours of meditation to produce one of these,” Inara explained. “And even that isn’t half as draining as actually using one to open a portal. If I use this to get us inside, I’m going to have to fight my way out. Given the presence of the Dragon Riders, I would rather be at full strength.” She threw the crystal up and caught it again. “I had planned on using it to get Vighon out of the keep…”
Asher, quick as ever, looked from Inara to Adan’Karth and back. “You want him to open it.”
The Drake looked confused. “I do not know… all words,” he said.
“She wants you to—”
Inara held up her hand, cutting the ranger’s elvish off mid-flow. “Adan’Karth,” she began in a gentle elvish tone. “We need to free the king. He’s imprisoned inside the keep, a dark and horrible place. Those that guard him are naught but monsters, as you’ve seen. I have a crystal.” The Dragorn opened her hand to bask the Drake’s face in its glow. “We need you to use it and open a portal inside the keep. Can you do that?”
Adan’Karth’s reptilian eyes blinked once. “There will be violence. You may come to harm.”
“We just want to—”
Asher pulled her away from the Drake and quickly returned to man’s tongue. “This is against his nature,” he warned.
Inara frowned. “I thought you wanted to get inside the keep.”
“He might as well be a child, Inara. You’re asking him to do something he believes is wrong. Neither of us know what will happen to a Drake if you set them on a path separate to their beliefs.”
“You wanted more than hope,” Inara reminded him. “You wanted me to make the hard choices.” The Dragorn stared at the ranger until he conceded and stepped back.
“I can have no part in violence,” Adan’Karth said, drawing Inara back.
She glanced at Athis before starting her argument. “You are part elf and part dragon - an enviable bloodline. For thousands of years, both races have strived for peace in their lives and that of others. Like your ancestors, you have the power to reshape the realm. It is noble that you would shape it with peace. But neither elf nor dragon have ever changed the world for the better by doing nothing. Sometimes, you have to fight for good, and those who can’t fight for themselves.”
The Drake looked at the ground before walking away to take in the stars. His kind were too young and new for Inara to understand his expressions and body language. Inara watched him closely, wondering if she had chosen the right narrative to persuade him.
Adan’Karth finally turned back to speak, his mouth partly ajar. Then he closed his mouth and looked out at the lake, contemplating. Inara shared a brief glance with Asher, the pair equally curious and anxious for the Drake’s response.
If he declines, Athis said, we should not push him.
Reluctantly, Inara agreed.
At last, Adan’Karth turned to face them and spoke in man’s tongue. “I… will help you.”
The Dragorn smiled. “Thank you, Adan’Karth.”
“Though,” he added in elvish, “I have never seen inside the keep. I cannot open a portal to the unknown…”
“I can show you,” Asher replied, touching the side of his head. “I’ve had the pleasure of spending some time inside those cells myself.”
“I do not possess Abun’Sun’s skill,” Adan’Karth confessed to the ranger. “It will take me some time to find the memory you speak of.”
“How much time?” Inara asked.
The Drake scrutinised the night’s sky. “I will have it before the stars pass,” he answered unhelpfully.
Asher cracked his neck. “Better get started then…”
45
Full Circle
Using the firelight from his torch, Doran crouched down to examine The Black Wood’s forest floor. A ranger’s skills were not required to find the tracks left by so many of his people. The dwarf shook his head in disbelief.
“What in the name o’ Grarfath are they doin’ ’ere?” he muttered to himself.
From the darkness ahead, Russell Maybury emerged, his unnatural eyes shining in the light. Those same eyes were shifting in every direction, ignoring the son of Dorain altogether.
Doran pulled Pig’s reins, bringing the Warhog a little closer. “What’s got up ye nose?” he asked, searching the darkness himself now.
“Dwarves,” the old wolf warned him. He turned his head sharply to the right. “We’re being surrounded.”
“Good,” Doran concluded. “This should speed things up…”
The stout ranger placed his torch firmly in the ground before removing Andaljor from Pig’s saddle. He reattached both ends of the legendary weapon and stepped away from the Warhog in the manner of an actor preparing to address his audience.
“Let’s be gettin’ on with it then!” he said at the top of his voice. “We are friend not foe!” Doran declared in dwarvish. “You know us both! We fought in the halls of Grimwhal! I am Doran, son of Dorain! This is Russell Maybury! I come bearing Andaljor!”
There was no response from the forest, surprising Doran. His people were better at navigating the realm of trees than he would have given them credit for.
Impatient, Doran looked at Russell. “What are they doin’?”
The old wolf narrowed his eyes, turning his head left and right. “Whispering…”
Doran rolled his eye. “We haven’t got time for this!” he shouted. “I need to speak with the king!”
Finally. A twig snapped and a branch of leaves rustled to their left. The edge of the firelight gave way to the broad outline of a Heavybelly wrapped in the forest itself. Then the rest emerged, closing in on them from all sides.
Doran hefted Andaljor. “I return this to my brother, the king.”
The first to have arrived said nothing, though Doran could hear the whispers that passed between a few of the others. One or two recognised Russell as helping them when the Reavers invaded Grimwhal. A couple of others called Doran a traitor and toyed with the idea of leaving him naked in the forest. He did, on the other hand, hear one of his kin speak of the heroism he had displayed in holding the line. It was refreshing to hear one of his own speak so highly of him.
“Come,” the burly Heavybelly said.
Doran offered Russell a shrug and fell in behind those of his clan. They journeyed deeper into The Black Wood under a canopy of stars and tall trees. Eventually, they caught the flicker of torchlight between the trunks. A series of makeshift camps had been set up across a number of clearings dotted between the trees. Here and there, Doran made out the silhouettes of more dwarves stationed on the edge of the light, keeping their eyes from the torches.
They passed through two of these clearings before they were brought before a large tent surrounded by guards. The Heavybellys stepped aside, seeing Andaljor in Doran’s hand, but the stout ranger received a tap on the shoulder, turning him to Russell. The old wolf purposely sniffed the air and nodded his head to the right, directing the dwarf to another cluster of young-looking Heavybellys. They were sitting around a small ditch lined with torches - an unusual sight made all the more unusual by the seven men partially visible above the top of the ditch.
Doran squinted his good eye. “Is that…”
“It’s Nathaniel Galfrey,” Russell confirmed.
The son of Dorain scowled. “Bah! What are ye fools doin’?” he barked in man’s tongue. Seeing the confused faces of their escort, he said in dwarvish, “Why have you got Nathaniel Galfrey in a bloody ditch?”
The leading Heavybelly frowned. “Who?”
“Who?” Doran repeated incredulously. “He’s only a hero of the sodding realm, an ambassador of King Vighon, married to the princess of Elandril, and a knight of the old Graycoats to boot!”
Again, the Heavybelly frowned. “Who?”
Exasperated already, Doran sighed and broke away, making for his imprisoned friend. Those of his clan shouted out, ordering him to halt. The dwarves guarding the humans took note of the argument and jumped to their feet, ready to stop the stout ranger in his tracks.
“Nathaniel!” he called, drawing the knight to his voice.
“Doran?” Nathaniel tilted his head to see past the guards. “Is that you, Doran?”
“Aye. Don’ worry, lad, I’ll ’ave ye—” Doran was cut short when the shaft of a spear was shoved into his chest by one of the guards. “Best be moving now, boy,” the ranger warned.
The young dwarf hesitated for just a moment before finding his resolve. “They’re prisoners of the king,” he told Doran, standing his ground.
By now, their escort had caught up with him placing Heavybellys on all sides, cutting him off from Russell. He couldn’t count their number, but there were enough to call it more than a brawl should it come to violence.
“I’ve taken an oath, fellas,” Doran said, tightening his grip around Andaljor. “Not a drop of dwarven blood will be spilled by these hands. But,” he articulated, “if you don’t release my friend here, I will shatter that oath in much the same manner I’m going to shatter your skulls with this here hammer. Take heed and step aside.”
There were more than a few of them taking his warning seriously, their feet shuffling away. Those who didn’t get out of his way were likely too young to have witnessed his brutality on the battlefield. That was about to change…
“Have it your way,” he grumbled. His knuckles whitened around Andaljor, a weapon his grip had become accustomed to since retrieving it in Grimwhal.
“Enough of this!” came a familiar voice.
The dwarves surrounding Doran slowly backed off, their attention turned to the large tent. The son of Dorain, however, remained exactly where he stood, frozen by the same voice that had snared him in its grip as a child. Footsteps preceded his mother’s arrival and the surrounding dwarves dispersed all the more to give the queen-mother room.
It appeared their long journey had taken its toll on Drelda Heavybelly. Her eyes were sunken and her skin pale. Every item of her clothing was frayed or muddied, a change to the pristine clothes befitting of a queen. There was something in her eyes that Doran had never seen before and he required an extra moment to learn the truth of it.
She was defeated…
All his life, his mother had been the epitome of victory. She had ruled his earlier years and even continued to shape him long after the battle masters had delivered his training. But, now, Drelda looked to be carrying a burden that weighed her down further with every breath.
“You know these men?” she enquired bluntly.
Doran cleared his throat. “I know that one. He’s something of a hero in these parts. If he vouches for the rest, they’re to be trusted.”
“Very well,” his mother replied, absent her usual words of argument or caution. “Release them,” she commanded, already turning away.
Doran held the same expression of surprise as the dwarves guarding them. One by one, the humans were freed of their bonds and allowed to climb out of the ditch.
“Our weapons?” one of the men questioned with a demanding tone.
Doran threw a questioning look at Nathaniel who replied, “He’s a Keeper, from Valatos. Long story.”
The stout ranger turned to the Keeper. “One thing at a time, mage. For now, enjoy the use o’ yer hands.”
Nathaniel nodded at the royal tent. “What’s going on?”
Doran eyed his retreating mother with an icy pit in his stomach. “I’m not entirely sure, lad. I’ll find out.” He turned to Russell. “Stay with ’em for now.”
“Doran,” Nathaniel called before he could pursue his mother. “We really need to get out of here. We were heading to Namdhor when they ambushed us.”
Doran narrowed his eyes as he cast them over the men in Nathaniel’s company. He recognised none of them, but it was Reyna’s absence that caught his attention. Connecting that to Nathaniel’s urgency didn’t do wonders for that icy pit in his stomach.
“They won’ let ye leave yet,” he told the old knight. “They look to be hidin’ an’ as far as they’re concerned: humans aren’ to be trusted. Leave it with me, lad. I’ll get ye out in no time, I swear.” Nathaniel didn’t look pleased with Doran’s response, but he was powerless to do anything else.
As he approached the entrance to the royal tent, a couple of things dawned on the son of Dorain. He had yet to see his brother, the king, despite causing trouble since entering the camp. Dakmund had been injured during the battle in Grimwhal, but the crowned knight had only wounded his leg and shoulder - Doran would barely have called it a wound were he the one to have been struck. Then there was his mother’s flat demeanour to consider.
He couldn’t help but put it all together and fear for his brother’s life…
No one stopped him from entering the tent, though the smell therein was nearly enough to see him turn away. Inside were a variety of dwarves, sullen one and all. He recognised the healers by their robes and belts, laden with medicines. Three priests of Grarfath and two priestesses of Yamnomora were also present and all deep in prayer to the Mother and Father.
Standing apart from them all was the cleric of clan Heavybelly. He was the only dwarf permitted to practise magic and even then it was very limited in comparison to that of a human or an elf. It was a statement in itself though that the cleric had been invited into the royal tent.
There was no missing the two generals who commanded the Heavybelly forces. Somewhere between Doran’s age and that of his late father, they were white of beard and hair. Encased in their fine armour, the pair looked upon Doran with stoical expressions.
The stout ranger followed his mother until she led his gaze to a low bed at one end of the tent. Dakmund was lying very still on that bed.
“No…” Doran rushed past the healers and his mother to reach his brother’s side.
“He yet lives,” Drelda told him in the same tone she had greeted him with.
Doran watched carefully to see his brother’s chest slowly rise and fall with each laboured breath. “What’s happened to him?” he demanded.
The queen-mother crouched down and peeled back a portion of the king’s cover to reveal the source of his ailment and, indeed, the smell that permeated the tent. His leg was wrapped in a bloody bandage and smeared with green paste, likely applied by one of the healers. His shoulder was similarly dressed and appeared just as bad. Dakmund himself was sweating and horribly pale.
