The Knights of Erador (The Echoes Saga: Book 7), page 53
“The wretch!” Doran cursed. “The blade must have been soaked in some kind of poison.”
“Whatever it is,” his mother said, “the healers have never seen anything like it. When the poison is unknown, so too is the cure, but we have to assume it’s deadly. And unfortunately,” she added with a hint of anger creeping into her tone, “Grarfath and Yamnomora are taking their time deliberating over my son’s life.” One of the priests attempted to soothe her but the queen-mother silenced him with a wave of the hand.
“Why are you in The Black Wood?” Doran asked, changing the subject.
“Is that what this place is called?” his mother replied with apathy.
“I thought you would be hiding in The Guardian Cliffs.”
Continuing in her apathetic vein, she replied, “We were heading south in The Iron Valley when our rear scouts saw the fiends on the horizon - they need nothing of rest it seems. We assumed they would go west, to the capital, so we went east instead. We decided to take refuge in the last place any would seek to find a dwarf.”
Doran was impressed. “Good thinking,” he complimented.
Drelda looked back at her younger son, lying on the bed. “The woods is the last place a dwarven king should meet his end…”
Doran squeezed his mother’s hand. “He’s not going anywhere,” he promised.
The queen-mother met his eye. “How did you find us?”
Doran stopped himself from saying anything about a werewolf. “I’m a good tracker, Russell too. This is what I’ve been doing since I left Dhenaheim.”
Drelda squeezed his hand in return. “I am glad you are here.”
“Brother,” Dakmund croaked, surprising them all. “Is that… you?”
Doran crouched to the king’s eye line. “I’m here, Dak. Everything’s going to be alright, you hear.” He brought Andaljor to bear and placed it in Dakmund’s weakened grip. “Can you feel that, brother? You wield Thorgen’s weapon once more. Feel its power.”
Dakmund’s fingers investigated the haft. “I feel… nothing.”
Doran arched back, wondering if his brother could even feel the weapon in his hand. “It’s alright. Give it time.” He took Andaljor back and laid it down beside the bed.
“Why is the exile here?” one of the generals asked.
The queen-mother looked to reprimand the old dwarf but Doran answered for himself. “You’re in my land now,” he said fiercely. “Don’t be forgetting that here is Illian. I’ve journeyed its length and breadth more times than you’ve found occasion to lift your sword.”
The general took offence and gripped the sword on his hip. “I might just find the occasion right now,” he growled.
“Silence,” Dakmund rasped from behind Doran. “You will listen to my brother… He gave blood to ensure the clan’s survival… He has earned your time…”
Drelda placed a gentle hand on Dakmund’s chest. “You should rest—”
“A king does not… rest,” Dakmund insisted. “Speak, brother.”
“I have come from Namdhor,” Doran began. “There, the unspeakable has happened. The dark army fell upon our people there with dragon fire. King Uthrad is dead.” He let that hang between them for a moment, and it was a moment they all needed.
“Dead?” his mother echoed.
“Impossible,” one of the priests uttered.
“King Gaerhard of the Brightbeards is all that remains of their hierarchy,” Doran continued. “Our kin are in disarray. Our numbers diminished. Now, they remain in the capture of this dark army, as does all of Illian.”
“Then perhaps this is our time,” one of the priests spoke up. “We should return to our home.”
“I agree with the priest,” the general said. “If this dark army is occupied in the west, we should take the opportunity to return to Grimwhal. We can go back through The Iron Valley and—”
“We can’t retreat!” Doran admonished.
“Who said anything about we?” the general retorted. “There is still no place for you in Grimwhal, exile.”
“Don’t let your fear take a hold,” Doran argued. “There’s a fight to be had and there’s no running away from it.”
The general gripped his sword again. “How dare you—”
“Silence!” the king choked before falling into a coughing fit.
Doran took the advantage. “I have spoken directly with King Gaerhard.” This seemed enough to quieten the tent’s occupants. “I have come to an agreement with him on behalf of clan Heavybelly.”
“With what authority do you speak for us?” the second general bellowed, to which he received a wicked glare from the queen-mother.
“The dwarves in Namdhor are in peril. We don’t know what this dark army intends to do with them, but it will not end well for our kind. We all know the Brightbeards lack the gumption to get themselves, and what’s left of the clans, out of this trouble - they’ve been on the bottom rung for millennia.
“But they aren’t just Brightbeards or Goldhorns or Battleborns. They’re dwarves, children of the mountain. Even the Hammerkegs are of our blood. They cannot be left to this fate.”
“Why not?” one of the generals asked in a calmer tone. “They banished our clan and left us to trade with the humans.”
“King Gaerhard is willing to let go of our old feuds and embrace a new future,” Doran explained. “A future that sees Brightbeards and Heavybellys at the top of a new hierarchy.” This caused more than a few looks to pass between them all.
“But… we must fight,” Dakmund concluded from his bed.
“Yes,” Doran confirmed. “We must free them, the humans too if we can.”
“Humans?” a priestess scowled.
“We allied with them for trade alone,” the general told him. “Human lives are not our concern.”
“This scourge won’t be satisfied until it’s consumed us all,” Doran persisted. “They will keep coming for us. Our only hope is to ally with the humans and beat this dark army. Only then will we be free to return to our lives.”
“My brother speaks the truth,” Dakmund managed. “It was only together… that we defeated the orcs, be it five thousand years ago… or this very century.”
“My king,” the general pleaded. “Even our attempt to free the other clans comes with great risk, but to continue fighting for the humans is—”
“My decree,” the king finished. “I want the monsters… who ran us from our home… to hurt. I want them to find defeat… at every turn. I want them to fear dwarven steel… before we grant them their end. I don’t care… if we have to fight side by side… with the elves to accomplish that end.”
Despite his brother’s illness, Doran couldn’t help but smile at him.
“My king.” The other general lowered his head. “I fear your fever has taken your senses.”
Dakmund attempted to laugh but fell into another coughing fit. “If you disagree with me already… General, you’re going to loathe… my next command.”
The king exerted what energy he had left and sat up to perch on the edge of his bed. Servants dashed to his side, helping to steady him, before Dakmund ushered them away. He picked up Andaljor, groaning as he did.
“I, Dakmund, second son of Dorain… King of Grimwhal… Battle Lord of Dhenaheim… hereby decree that Doran, son of Dorain, be raised to the title of prince… an exile no more.” The king flicked his head at his older brother and let Andaljor fall from his grasp. Doran caught it before the mighty weapon created an ear-splitting clamour.
“My king!” the generals protested as one.
Dakmund held up his hand, silencing them. “What’s more,” he added, “I grant him the title of War Mason.” He looked directly at Doran. “You will… wield Andaljor in my stead. And you will lead my army into battle… in my stead. Do you accept this duty?”
Doran was stunned, speechless, and from one ear to the other, utterly numb. His brother had positioned him perfectly to force him back into the fold. If he refused, a great insult, they would likely side with the generals’ view and retreat to Dhenaheim. If he accepted, they stood a chance of repelling Alijah’s invasion and creating a brand new hierarchy that could unite thousands of dwarves.
But it would come at a price for the son of Dorain…
The title of War Mason would once again belong to him, as it had during his father’s reign. Under this title, he had committed terrible acts against his own kind, all in the name of war and advancement. It placed certain expectations on his shoulders that the rest of his clan would enforce. There would be blood on his hands before too long.
“We have no War Mason!” the general spat. “The title was stained by this very dwarf!”
“I accept,” Doran announced.
On the verge of collapse, Dakmund nodded. “Very good…” His closest servants caught the king before his body could slump off the bed and onto the hard ground.
The queen-mother barked orders to fetch fresh water and new towels, all between urging the priests to do better.
One of the generals stepped closer to Doran. “The king is suffering, delusional even. I see no reason why I should accept his command.”
Drelda whirled on the old dwarf before Doran had a chance to defend himself. “The king spoke, did he not? Words poured out of his mouth and found your thick heads.” She clipped the general around the head, embarrassing him. “Prince Doran is clan Heavybelly’s War Mason, second only to the king himself. He has done what no other has and found a way to bring us back into the hierarchy. You will inform the soldiers as much and you will have them prepare to march on Namdhor. After that, return here so that the War Mason can help you strategise.”
The generals simply nodded their heads and shuffled out of the royal tent. The queen-mother thumbed over her shoulder and the cleric followed them out without a word. After he left, she turned to her son and began straightening him out.
“Try not to look like you’ve stumbled across a Dweller,” she advised, forcing Doran to take some control of his features. “You’re one of us again. Our War Mason…”
Doran took a breath. “I have sworn to never again command dwarves to kill dwarves. Whatever comes of this, I will uphold that oath.”
Drelda held his gaze. “Good,” she said. “Now, I suggest you find your friends…”
He watched his mother return to Dakmund’s side, leaving him with Andaljor in hand. For all the good he was trying to accomplish - and he had succeeded this day - he still found himself in the same position he had been in before he exiled himself. Somewhere in the Great Hall, Grarfath was laughing at Doran.
After leaving the royal tent, the stout ranger rallied his friends and their companions. His newly reinstated title spread quickly among his kin, whether they liked it or not, and he was given one of the tents.
Doran managed to convince them to stay awhile and eat something, though they were clearly eager to move on. The dwarf took the opportunity to tell them of his journey thus far, including his interactions with Inara and Asher.
Nathaniel had listened intently upon hearing his daughter’s name, Asher’s too. Apparently they hadn’t seen the old ranger for several years. The king’s guard almost dropped their cups when they heard of Vighon’s imprisonment. Sir Ruban looked ready there and then to draw his sword and sprint to Namdhor.
In turn, they each filled Doran and Russell in on their own exploits, all quite the tale when put together. The son of Dorain could imagine all too easily the sight of Valatos burning in the heart of Velia’s walls. Ultimately, they were left in a dejected mood thanks to Alijah’s betrayal, a sting felt more so by Nathaniel than any other. Reyna’s absence was also a worry for them all, including Doran who had always thought fondly of the princess.
“I don’ understand,” the dwarf began. “Why would she jus’ leave like that? An’ without yerself!”
Nathaniel was twisting the ring on his finger. “She thinks she’s doing the right thing.”
Doran shrugged in an agreeable manner. “If there’s anyone he’s gonna listen to I suppose it’s gonna be his mother. But she’s still walkin’ into trouble. There’s a lot o’ danger between Dunwich an’ Namdhor, not to mention the monsters Alijah’s surroundin’ ’imself with these days.”
“I know how she’s feeling,” Nathaniel replied. “Reyna needs to confront him before…”
Doran tilted his head to try and catch the knight’s eyes. “Before what?”
“Before everyone else does,” the Keeper spoke up for the first time. He had remained quiet throughout everyone’s recounting, even the parts where he was mentioned, if briefly. Doran could see there was a lot going on inside the man - he looked capable of exploding at any moment.
Doran looked back at his old friend. “Oh aye,” he said quietly. “That I understand…”
If there was a chance Alijah could be stopped without force, there was likely less than a handful of people who could talk sense to him. But their window of opportunity was closing fast.
“So what’s yer story, lad?” Doran asked eventually.
Kassian kept his eyes on the bowl of broth in his hands. “My story has already ended,” he answered miserably. “I’m part of Alijah’s story now. Specifically the end of his story.”
Doran glanced at Nathaniel, who had no reaction to the Keeper’s obvious threat. Theirs was a complicated relationship that the dwarf decided he would keep his nose out of. He couldn’t, however, stop himself from taking advantage of the man’s magical knowledge.
“Ye any good with that thing?” he asked, nodding at the Keeper’s wand.
“When we reach Namdhor, I will show you, master dwarf.”
“You will journey with the clan?” Nathaniel spoke up, preventing Doran from continuing his intended proposal. “They will be slower,” he continued, “given their numbers.”
Kassian shrugged. “It’s like you said: I need swords at my back. The dwarves of clan Heavybelly will create quite the chaos upon their arrival, I’m sure.”
“You’ve never seen two armies collide in battle before,” Nathaniel pointed out. “You’ll quickly discover the chaos consumes you.”
“I’ll find a way,” Kassian assured. “If it takes me years, I will find a way.”
“Years?” the old Graycoat questioned. “No man should let his rage burn so bright for so long.”
Kassian half-dropped his bowl of broth onto the ground. “It’ll burn until I’m dead or he’s dead.” He stood up to leave.
“Wait,” Doran bade. “I need ye help.”
Kassian frowned. “My help?”
“It’s me brother, the king. His wound ain’ healin’ - there’s somethin’ foul abou’ it. Perhaps magic can change that…”
The Keeper was clearly torn, his internal debate likely one of energy reserves. Doran had never used magic, but he wasn’t uneducated on the subject; he knew that certain types of magic or spells drained the user more than others.
“Ye want to fight with us, eh? Help the king an’ ye’ll get all the aid ye need.” Doran caught Nathaniel’s eyes flicker over him, but the knight said nothing.
“I promise to try,” Kassian replied. “My magic has always been used for quite the opposite.”
“I appreciate it, lad.” Doran stood up and straightened his shoulders. “It’ll take some convincin’ to let ye at him, but I can get ye in.” He looked at Nathaniel and the king’s guard. “I know ye’re all eager to reach the capital, for Reyna an’ Vighon. Me advice would be to travel with us - the land between here and Namdhor is crawlin’ with Reavers.”
“We are eager,” Nathaniel agreed, twisting his wedding ring, “but getting killed on the way isn’t an option. It would be an honour to join the Heavybellys.”
A smile tried to creep up one side of Doran’s face but failed to settle. “Ye an’ I both know there ain’ no honour to be found on a battlefield. Just blood.” He clapped the old knight on the shoulder and left to convince his mother of Kassian’s potential aid.
The night, it seemed, would have no end…
46
Whole again
Inara was seated cross-legged on a small boulder within the shelter of a mountain inlet. The lapping water of The King’s Lake found her ears and the cold air washed over her skin. The Dragorn, however, could neither hear nor feel the environment around her.
Instead, she was standing in a yellow pasture under the rich blue sky of her sanctuary. As before, Inara was confronted by the cave. It was still very odd to see something new in their private space and it only reminded her of Athis’s deceit.
I know you are deeply upset with me, he said, towering over her. Just as you are angry that such a lie has stretched from the time of Elandril to Gideon. But I can also sense your understanding. There is a part of you that agrees with this state of being.
“I am not naive enough to believe that we don’t pose a threat to the realm. Alijah is proof enough of that. Though this lie has existed between Dragorn and dragon for five thousand years, it has kept the order a noble one, a force for good. And I do not wish to become something even close to my brother, just as I do not wish to stain your own thoughts.”
Athis’s hot breath came down on her. There is more, he reasoned.
Inara turned from the cave. “Regardless of the good that has come from this, I want to be…”
Whole, Athis finished.
The Dragorn looked up at her companion. “Yes,” she agreed. “I have no idea how the Dragon Riders existed alongside their dragons, but I know that they did. If they can, then so can we.” She could sense the dragon’s agreement despite his lack of words.
Inara returned her attention to the cave and began to walk towards it. Her hands felt hot and her stomach felt bottomless. Both excitement and fear collided in a maelstrom inside her mind.
