His yellow eyes fluttered open.
Doran quickly dropped to one knee by his side. “Rus!” he exclaimed, clasping his friend’s hand.
Asher moved to the other side and crouched down as Russell looked from one to the other. The ranger had encountered the dying often enough to know that his old friend was nearing the end. Asher placed a gentle hand on his bare shoulder, making no attempt to prevent the tears that welled in his eyes.
“We’re ’ere, Rus,” Doran told him. “It’s goin’ to be alright.”
Russell struggled to turn his head to look at the dwarf. His lips quivered. “Thank… you,” he breathed.
Doran couldn’t hold back his tears any longer. “Rus,” he blurted.
Asher waited for the son of Dorain to find his gaze before shaking his head, discouraging him from holding on to hope. This was the end of Russell Maybury and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Nor should they, Asher thought. The man deserved some rest.
Russell relaxed and his eyes turned to the mist above. A faint smile curled his lips before his grasp loosened around Doran’s hand. With the final beat of his heart, the dwarf carefully placed Russell’s hand over his still chest and left it there.
“Grarfath keep ye, old friend,” he whispered, his tears disappearing into his beard.
Asher ran his hand over Russell’s eyes, closing the lids. He looked to Doran. “A pyre,” he said.
The dwarf sniffed. “A bloody big pyre,” he specified.
Asher nodded in agreement. “A bloody big pyre,” he echoed.
After Doran removed his axe and recovered his hammer, they took it in turns to carry Russell’s body to the edge of the forest, where their mounts awaited them. They spent the rest of the afternoon building their friend the pyre he deserved. The companions did so in silence, their grief realised.
In the end, the pyre was humble in size, their time limited before nightfall. They carefully placed Russell’s body on top, his arms positioned at his side. A soft sprinkling of snow fell from the dark heavens as Avandriell breathed fire into the pyre. The flames spread steadily across the wood until it was engulfed and Russell with it.
Asher raised his hood and bowed his head. He knew of no god to offer his prayers to, but he cast quiet words into the ether, hoping his friend had found a peaceful rest. The ranger remembered nothing of death from his own experience, but he knew there had been no pain. What more could men such as them ask for?
Beside him, his hands resting on the axe planted in the ground, Doran Heavybelly sobbed.
Eventually, after taking a deep breath and composing himself, he declared, “Never has a ranger - nay a man - possessed the courage, strength, an’ heart that Russell Maybury displayed every day o’ his life. He saved lives, damn it!” the dwarf growled. “An’ he deserved a better end than the one we gave ’im. But, with Grarfath as his witness, he didn’ give up without a fight on that battlefield. He fought to the end.” Doran sighed and blinked a fresh tear from his eye. “Ye will be missed, lad. Every day.”
With Avandriell curled around his leg, Asher reached out and placed a comforting hand on Doran’s shoulder. After paying their respect for a while longer, they retired to a smaller campfire, not far from the pyre. There they drank to their friend and told stories of his life, recounting his heroic deeds and amusing encounters.
There, they said their final farewells to Russell Maybury.
Part III
31
Bending the Knee
Night and day, The Moonlit Plains were freezing, drawing many to compare them to The White Vale in the north. The winds that howled through The Rebellion’s camp brought misery, robbing the inhabitants of any fight that might have lingered in their bones. And, accompanying the wind, the wounded and dying cried out for mercy from dawn till dusk.
Despite the icy blasts and calls for help, Galanör Reveeri was sweating through his clothes, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. His hands were overlapped and pressing down on the ribs of a young dwarf. Beneath his hands, a mortal wound threatened to claim the dwarf’s life.
The wound had begun to smell, a rotten and vile odour, the ragged edges darkened with infection. The elven healer who had asked for Galanör’s aid had informed him that the infection would soon spoil his blood. Death would swiftly follow.
Galanör drew on his magic and poured his will into the dwarf’s body. A faint light glowed between his fingers and under the skin surrounding the wound. He envisioned the blood running clean, the muscles knitting back together, and new skin to cover the injury. As he did so, the dwarf’s eyes fluttered rapidly and a groan rumbled in his throat.
A firm hand gripped Galanör’s shoulder - Aenwyn. He had almost forgotten that she had entered the tent with him. Her voice, a tone of caution, sounded in his ear, though he couldn’t hear the shape of the words themselves. Ultimately, he ignored her and renewed his focus. He wasn’t going to let the young dwarf perish.
Seconds, minutes or perhaps, even hours went by before Galanör finally opened his eyes. He had spent most of his magic on the infection spilling out across the dwarf’s body, coursing through his veins. After ridding him of that, bringing the wound together had felt relatively easy.
“Thank ye,” the dwarf uttered, shocked by the power of his own breath. “Ye saved me life!” he exclaimed, emboldened by the return of his strength. “I am forever indebted to ye,” he promised.
Galanör could barely lift his hand to wave the notion away. “There is… no debt. Just
