Asher rubbed his chest where the wolf had struck him. “These are not hunting conditions.”
“Oh, but they were good enough for settin’ a trap!” Doran countered. “An’ with me as the bait no less!”
The ranger shrugged. “You make good bait.” He took a seat by the fire and drove the end of his silvyr blade into the ground beside him.
His heart still pounding like a hammer on an anvil, Doran fumed. “Rus didn’ ask ye to do this. So ye stay ’ere an’ get cosy if that’s what ye fancy, lad! But every second that goes by, that beast’s existence makes a mockery o’ his life!” His voice broke towards the end and he had to pause to collect himself. “I’m goin’ out there to hunt that wolf with or without ye!”
“Doran,” Asher called before he could set foot beyond the trees. “Russell wanted you to slay the wolf. He didn’t want you to die trying.”
“Ye doubt the strength o’ me swing?” Doran spat, itching for a fight.
“I doubt the strength of your eye,” Asher said bluntly, stoking the fire. “Even bleeding, the wolf won’t be easy to track at night.”
“Bah!” Doran waved the ranger’s comment away and turned back to the darkness.
“Doran.” Asher said his name sternly this time, adding the hint of a growl to his voice. “You cannot be this foolish.”
“Don’ lecture me abou’ such things!” Doran barked. “Ye throw yerself into every hair brain situation without so much as a thought!”
Asher stood up. “You are to be king,” he declared as a matter of fact.
Doran was stumped, his mind and mouth disconnected.
“And not just any king,” Asher continued. “All of Dhenaheim will fall under your rule.”
“I don’ need ye to babysit me! An’ don’ talk abou’ things ye don’ understand,” Doran warned.
“I understand well enough,” the ranger argued. “I fear it is Doran, son of Dorain, who is burying his head.”
The dwarf threw his axe into the ground and pointed a stubby finger at Asher. “Ye’d do well to shut yer mouth before I shut it for ye!”
“You can’t ignore what’s right in front of you. I know Kraiden’s blade is lost to The Hox. It isn’t the end any of us would want for Dakmund, but his fate is just as sealed as yours, Doran.”
Hearing his brother’s name took some of the fire out of his veins. “Stop,” he pleaded.
“Would Russell have stopped?” Asher questioned. “He was practically the voice of your conscience.”
“Ye’re not him,” Doran pointed out.
“No,” the ranger agreed. “And he didn’t charge me with killing the wolf either. But, many years ago, he did give me another task; one far more difficult than slaying any beast.”
Doran raised a bushy eyebrow at the ranger, though he suspected he knew what Russell would have asked of him. Still, he remained quiet and allowed Asher to finish.
“He told me to watch out for you when he couldn’t. He wouldn’t let you ignore your destiny.”
The son of Dorain wasn’t ashamed of the tear that escaped his eye, nor the heartbreak he wore on his sleeve. “An’ what is that?” he asked.
“You’re not a ranger anymore,” Asher answered simply. “Your kin are depending on you now - every one of them. If you go out there, you put them all at risk.”
Doran’s shoulders sagged and his hammer slowly slipped down his grip. “I feel like I’m losin’ everythin’,” he grieved. “To put me friend to rest means drivin’ me axe through his chest. To rise up an’ lead me people means standin’ on the bones o’ me brother. Hells, to even win this war we’ve got to kill the son o’ dear friends. I’m tired, Asher. Me bones are weary, me muscles ache, an’ me mind can’ make sense o’ the world we’re tryin’ to save.”
Asher closed the gap between them and placed a hand on Doran’s shoulder. “Everything that’s happened to you. Everything you’ve done. Everything you’re going to do. It hasn’t just been for a crown on your head. It’s all for what you will do with that crown. Be the king Dhenaheim deserves. Be the dwarf Russell knew you to be.”
Doran blinked hard and squeezed Asher’s hand. “Ye’re a good friend, lad. Even if there’s naught but hammers bangin’ around in that skull o’ yers.” He gave a short laugh, shared by the ranger. “Come then. Let’s lick our wounds. Tomorrow, we finish this.”
29
Inside the Cage
Alijah’s eyes opened to the familiar black stone above his bed. He remained still for a while, staring at the dark blocks. The longer and harder he gazed at them, the easier it became to imagine there was nothing but that peaceful abyss. It always pulled him in and emptied him out, freeing the half-elf of his burdens. But he was to enjoy no such peace this night.
He had awoken in pain. Again.
A groan pushed through his lips as he forced himself to sit on the edge of his bed. Everything hurt, especially the wound beneath his shoulder. Rising to his feet, he could feel that every previous injury had been replaced by another.
“Why do I suffer?” he growled. His words may have pierced the air, but his thoughts conveyed that very same question to his eternal companion.
Malliath moved through the shadows of his mind, as if the dragon possessed a physical presence inside. We are at war - pain is to be expected. Malliath’s voice expressed irritation and impatience.
I recall every blow, Alijah said, his pain adding venom to his reply. Yet my skin burns, my muscles ache, and my bones feel hollow. Inara did not inflict such wounds.
You were struck by an elven arrow, the dragon pointed out. Had it been an inch lower you would have bled into your lungs and died.
It is not just the sting of the arrow that ails me, he complained, sure that he
