In the light of the flames, Avandriell asleep beside him, Asher removed his broadsword. He was dismayed by the blood that stained the steel. Russell’s blood. With some water and a rag, he went about cleaning the blade from guard to tip.
His mind wandered, restless.
For every memory he recalled of the old wolf, he was brought back to Adan’Karth and his inescapable revelation. As hard as he had tried, the ranger had become attached to the Drake after so much time together. He owed his life to him more than once.
“I would ask what troubles you,” Nathaniel said, walking into view, “but that would seem in poor taste.”
Asher suppressed the sigh that so desperately wanted to be released. He had left the camp for a reason. “Unless you brought ale, this isn’t the fire for you.”
Nathaniel’s mouth broadened into a smug grin as he held up a pair of dwarven horns. “Thaligg assures me he didn’t brew it himself.”
“That just means it won’t kill us,” Asher quipped, accepting the horn. He gave it a brief sniff, recognising the scent of an established dwarven cider - Thundergrog perhaps.
“I know you wanted to be alone,” Nathaniel commented, taking his seat opposite the ranger, “but you should know those days are behind you now. Even friendships come at a cost,” he added with some amusement.
“It seems everything comes at a cost these days,” Asher muttered, tasting his drink which was sickeningly sweet, just the way dwarves liked their cider.
Nathaniel took a mouthful of his own but his focus remained fixed on the ranger. “You dwell on what was said in the tent.”
“A lot was said in the tent,” Asher pointed out, avoiding the real topic.
“Adan’Karth’s words cut through you,” Nathaniel said, cutting through the ranger in his own way. “Do you reckon there is any weight to his suggestion.”
“If Adan says his people can heal the tree then I believe they can heal the tree,” Asher responded, his tone clipped.
Though the ranger’s mood didn’t deserve it, Nathaniel was patient with him. “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”
Asher brought the rim of his horn to his lips but failed to drink even a drop. He averted his gaze from across the fire and finally exhaled a sigh.
“When I retrieved that relic from Haren Bain,” he began, “I thought it was a weapon. I thought I was going to kill every orc under the sun - genocide. Monsters or not, I knew it would haunt me for the rest of my days. When it… created the Drakes, for the first time in decades of killing, I had been instrumental in the spark of life. It felt good.
“I know everything I did had been manipulated by The Crow; the memories of Haren Bain taken from my bond with Malliath. But I couldn’t hate him for that.”
“And now?” Nathaniel pressed.
“Now I think of everything we have learnt about The Crow,” Asher replied gravely. “We foolishly believed that Alijah was his endgame, but I don’t think we’re there yet. He knew the future, Nathaniel - all of it. He needed the orcs to be decimated and the Drakes to be brought into being, and he used me to accomplish both in one fell swoop. He had me create a whole race just so they could all die.”
Nathaniel absorbed his every word. “Gideon holds a similar theory, one he told in your absence. If The Crow did intend for the Drakes to be created, that means he knew they would save the tree. It means he saw it.”
The quiet rage building in the ranger awakened Avandriell before he threw his horn of cider at the fire. “At what point do we consider the cost and tell The Crow to stick his prophecies?”
“Well,” Nathaniel said with a shrug and a quick sip of his drink, “The Crow is very dead, so there’s no telling him anything. And the cost…” The old knight trailed off as he took a breath and lowered his tone. “The cost is not ours to pay. Only the Drakes can decide their fate; we will not force them.”
“It may not be ours to pay,” Asher countered, “but it will be ours to live with.”
Nathaniel lowered his drink, his expression as serious as Asher’s words. “Aye,” he agreed. “That and so much more.”
34
King to King
Braced against a bitter wind, Doran Heavybelly stood as a sentinel on The Moonlit Plains, his gaze set to the north-east. Out there, beyond land and sight, was The Black Wood. Never had a forest called to the dwarf, yet here he was, drawn to it like some elf. He could feel the sands of time slipping through his fingers, only it wasn’t really his time. With magic fading, how long did Dakmund have before the elven spells’ efficacy dispersed? Without their magic, his wound would surely have claimed his life by now.
A cold wind battered his face and forced a tear from his eye, streaking it back towards his hair. He refused to look away. His heart still grieved for Russell and the numerous dead and dying, yet there was more to come and he could not escape it.
It was all so hopeless and he didn’t dare think about the consequences of his brother’s death; a selfish fear given Dakmund’s fate. He also couldn’t bring himself to turn around, aware that thousands of dwarven eyes were upon him as they went about their day. They were waiting for his command.
“It’s not easy, is it?” came the last voice Doran expected to hear.
“Yer Grace?” he questioned, turning to see Vighon Draqaro walking towards him, draped in a dark cloak and furs.
“Forgive my intrusion,” Vighon continued. “The council is gathering and I thought I would stretch my legs first. I saw you…” The king trailed off, gesturing to the north-east as he came to stand beside the dwarf. “It’s
