Raising his head, the ranger inhaled a deep breath and orientated himself to reality - no easy task after hours of living in the past. Just having his feet on the ground was a peculiar sensation having soared across the Eradoran skies as a dragon.
“Avandriell,” he called, heading away from his tent.
Navigating the various species and campfires was second nature to Asher. Blending in and flowing through crowds was considered just as important as the art of assassination in the halls of Nightfall. Avandriell appeared to share some of those same skills, though she didn’t exactly blend in. She was nimble and quick enough, however, to weave between broad dwarves, numerous elves, and even under the occasional Centaur. Of course, her keen sense of smell often got in the way of any progress, leading her to every source of food.
Asher sighted one of the carts from Vangarth, the origin of the new food. They had arrived nearly two days ago and been met with cheers from all, including the elves. Vighon had instructed his men to ration it all and share the food and supplies amongst the camp. It had increased their spirits, something which was much needed since news of advancing Reavers had spread three days past.
Making his way towards the council tent, the ranger happily accepted a red apple from one of the Namdhorians and proceeded to eat it as he approached the entrance. The absence of Sir Borin outside the tent immediately informed Asher that Vighon was not inside. A brief glance at the surroundings also informed him that neither Reyna nor Nathaniel were inside the tent, their guards missing from their usual stations.
Wandering a little further down the northern line, Avandriell in tow, he soon discovered Reyna in deep conversation with Faylen. The pair were looking out at the battlefield and the enormous pit, their hands outstretched as they pointed at various places. Following their focus, Asher laid eyes on several ranks of elves taking up positions at specific locations closer to the pit. Further to the east, Captain Dardaris was trotting up and down Namdhorian lines, ordering soldiers into formation. Among them was Vighon, only visible at this distance thanks to Sir Borin’s inescapable size.
Standing just beyond the camp’s northern line now, Asher caught sight of Nathaniel not far away. The knight, as he would always be to the ranger, was overseeing the distribution of food from one of the carts. Still eating his apple, Asher crossed the gap to meet his old friend. Nathaniel’s personal guard of elves noted his approach and responded in kind to the ranger’s nod.
“See that the wounded are tended to first,” the immortal knight commanded. “But make sure some is left for those out on the field… they will need their strength.” His words were met with obedience by humans and elves alike.
“I see preparations are well under way,” Asher remarked, his eyes leading Nathaniel to the battlefield.
“Aye,” he agreed. “We can only hope it’s enough. I don’t need to ask if you’ll be out there with us.”
Asher turned to regard the distant Namdhorians. “I’ll stand beside the northmen,” he declared, confident in his abilities to meet the attacking wave of Reavers. “And you?” he queried.
Nathaniel looked wistfully at the king and his soldiers. “I would fight where I always do; beside you.” His eyes flitted from the guarding elves to his wife before returning to Asher. “Alas, I am expected to fight with… my people, defending the perimeter of the pit should the enemy break through the Namdhorian line. Perhaps you could let just a few through,” he added with a coy smile.
Asher looked down at Nathaniel’s hip. “How long has it been,” he joked, “since his Grace had need of a sword?”
The old knight gripped his hilt. “This sword took Namdhor back,” he said determinedly.
The ranger finished his apple and threw the core away. “I’m sure it helped,” he quipped with a mischievous grin.
Nathaniel’s mouth twisted in amusement. “Avandriell might have made you immortal, old man, but she hasn’t made you any quicker.”
Asher pulled his broadsword a few inches from its scabbard. “Care to test that theory?”
Though he heard four blades of steel leaving their fine elven scabbards, the ranger barely had the time to blink before they were all pointed at him, one even resting on his shoulder. He glanced back to see the elf in a battle stance, prepared to defend his king with bloodshed. The elf, however, did show some unease upon hearing Avandriell’s aggressive hiss beside his leg.
“Stand down!” Nathaniel barked. The elves didn’t hesitate, moving as one to draw back their scimitars and return to a guarding stance. “This man is never to be treated as our enemy.”
“I’m afraid such a man does not exist.” The response led them to Captain Nemir and his small entourage of warriors. “At least, the royal guard cannot afford to believe as such. Your Grace is our king now. You will be defended as such for the rest of your days.” Nemir looked to Asher. “Should you require a sparring partner, I would offer myself in place of the king.”
The ranger opened his mouth to reply with a resounding yes when his gaze found Faylen. Both she and the queen had stopped their conversation to watch the event, though whether they could actually hear what was transpiring from so far away remained to be seen.
He couldn’t say what Faylen was thinking but he had a good idea of how she would feel watching him clash swords with her husband. With that in mind, he lowered his broadsword until the cross-guard met the scabbard.
Nathaniel stepped between them. “As much as I would like to see such a spectacle, there is still much that needs to be
