Silence filled the tent like a thick mist.
“You are sure, Adan?” Inara questioned, her soft tone breaking the tension.
“You have all given or lost something for the realm,” the Drake replied. “My people and I could never fight for this land as you do but, perhaps, we can still serve it in a way that matters. My mind is settled.”
Inara nodded once. “Then Athis and I will hasten your journey,” she offered. “You will reach The Evermoore by air.”
“I would like to accompany you,” Kassian told them, with a quick look at his king.
Inara made no protest, though she did turn to Vighon.
“Adan carries a precious message,” the king said. “The more to protect him the better.”
“While we’re there,” Inara added, “I will seek an audience with the governor of Vangarth. It’s the closest town. Perhaps I can convince him to send supplies to aid us.”
“Do what you can,” Vighon replied.
There were no further objections, the decision Adan’s alone. Doran could see, however, the way it tore through Asher. He felt for the ranger, trapped between a rock and hard place.
“We should leave immediately,” Inara suggested. “Athis cannot fly every Drake back to the plains; they will have to make the journey on foot.”
“I’m ready,” Kassian agreed, in time with Adan bowing his head.
Doran cleared his throat, giving them pause while simultaneously drawing everyone’s attention. “Ye’re not the only ones to be leavin’ this day,” he announced. “An’ before ye start worryin’, I’m not talkin’ abou’ marchin’ every dwarf off the plains.” The War Mason stopped and sighed. “I ’ave to return to The Black Wood,” he said, catching Vighon’s eyes.
“There’s unrest brewin’ between me kin. I’m hearin’ talk o’ new kings an’ challenges risin’ up amongst ’em every day. With the clans leaderless an’ broken, chaos an’ violence will break out an’ consume ’em. Right now, while they’re all lookin’ to me, there’s an opportunity to unite ’em all that I cannot ignore. But, to do that, I ’ave to be there for me brother before he meets the Mother an’ Father. I would not ’ave ’im slink into death, his passin’ unnoticed. Dakmund is the last an’ rightful king o’ Dhenaheim - he deserves to be recognised as such.”
Reyna reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry, Doran.”
“Will you travel alone?” Nathaniel asked, concern in his voice.
Doran harrumphed. “Those days are behind me whether I like it or not. As War Mason - the only War Mason - I won’ be allowed to travel across country without at least a hundred dwarves at me back. Don’ worry though, I won’ be takin’ me best. We will help ye defend the plains.”
Reyna lowered her head and planted a kiss on the dwarf’s cheek. “You are the best of your kin, Doran, son of Dorain. Return to your brother and do what you must, for his sake as well as for your people.” The elven queen paused to hold a brief, yet silent, conversation with Vighon. “We will return your forces to you in The Black Wood when our victory here is secured.”
Doran was still trying not to blush at the kiss while he nodded his head in agreement. “I’ll make sure Thraal introduces ye to me replacement before we depart. An’ I have no doubt ye will succeed here,” he declared with confidence. “Some in this tent are already heralded as heroes, others legends. Mark me words, the deeds o’ ye all will be recounted in the history o’ every race from east to west for all time. An’… I am proud to call ye all me friends.”
All but Gideon Thorn had some form of farewell to offer the dwarf. The old master looked lost to his thoughts and Doran left him, eager to be getting on his way. A handful of words, and stern ones at that, were all Thaligg and Thraal required to begin preparing for his journey. They had argued, initially, that he should be accompanied by their best warriors, but Doran had put them to the task with naught but a look in the end.
He also made certain that enough of his kin learned the reason for his departure to ensure that word travelled across the camp. The last thing he wanted now was for them to believe he was abandoning them, especially with the number of would-be kings amongst them. If there were any who did seek to challenge his claim to rule, he would meet them in The Black Wood, after he had seen Dakmund into the waiting arms of Yamnomora.
He soon came across Pig, the Warhog’s frame hard to miss. He patted the beast on the head before inspecting its damaged tusks. “Ye gave ’em Reavers what for,” he commented mostly to himself. “Good Pig.”
Working his way around the Warhog, he came to the broken pick-axe strapped to the saddle. He had kept it since Qamnaran, hoping to repair it and give it back to Russell. He ran his fingers over the notches carved into the haft, each a monster Russell had sent to the next life. The son of Dorain had no idea what to do with it now. He only knew that he didn’t want to discard it. Leaving it where it was, he moved round to see Lord Kraiden’s head, his crown of spikes still bolted to his skull. The wretch’s head could remain tethered to Pig a while longer, he decided.
His inspection completed, the son of Dorain mounted his Warhog and guided it by the reins. Thinking like a ranger rather than a War Mason, he envisioned a journey that would cut across the land until they came to Barden Bridge, outside of Whistle Town. From there, they could take The Selk Road north. He was done hiding. If any Reaver or bandit fancied their luck challenging a company of dwarves, a hundred strong, then
