Alijah stopped rubbing his neck as the last of the dragon’s words sank in. Yes, he agreed. With fire and steel we will bring the world to heel… for its own good.
The dragon cast his eyes over Vilyra, who was patrolling the mountain pass astride her dragon, Godrad. This victory will make them bold, Malliath remarked. And we shall let them be bold. Let them gather their meagre forces. The Rebellion will wash over The Vrost Mountains like water on rock: they will make no difference. The Bastion has stood for thousands of years and it is our territory. We control it. He finally looked down at the king. Let us prepare.
48
Thorgen’s Blood
After a long and tiring nine days on the road, Doran Heavybelly finally looked upon the trees of The Black Wood. The journey had been arduous and longer in places where a degree of stealth had been required - no easy task for a dwarf and even harder for Warhogs. But, at last, there he was, standing before the forest that concealed so many of his people, families mostly.
His family.
Despite the chill that surrounded him, the dwarf could feel the palms of his hands becoming clammy. He wasn’t sure what he would find in there and a part of him didn’t want to discover the truth. But he hadn’t come this far to sit idly in his saddle. In fact, he had a feeling his days of sitting idle were long past him now.
A tap of his heels set Pig to a trot, closing the gap between them and the wood. Behind him, a modest escort of a hundred and twelve dwarves trailed diligently. There had been a few among them who had complained about their journey, but Doran had heard the whispers that silenced them, whispers of what they would witness in The Black Wood. It seemed the entire company wished to be present to see history unfold before their eyes. All but Doran.
Finishing the last leg of their great trek, the dwarven company finally emerged from the trees and entered one of the vast clearings where the heart of the rebellion had long camped - a hub of advanced civilisation compared to what they had left on The Moonlit Plains. Dwarves, humans, and even a few elves ceased their roaming to pay homage to the battle-weary dwarves. Doran lowered his hood and bowed his head at those they passed, appreciating the respect he thought he would never again receive from his kin.
As they progressed through the camp, people of every race approached the riders and offered them fresh food and water. Unlike those behind him, Doran declined them all, his appetite having dwindled from the moment they passed into the northern realm. Instead, his eye was on the largest tent in the middle of the sprawling camp. There, either side of the entrance, he could see the banners of his clan flapping in the wind.
Before reaching it, the War Mason was impressed to see that several forges and sturdy workstations had been erected, the heat from which washed over the side of his face. Wherever they were in the world, the children of the mountain could not be stopped from reshaping the natural gifts of Grarfath and Yamnomora. It almost brought a smile to Doran’s face. Almost.
The son of Dorain was soon dismounting Pig and standing before the royal tent, his journey at an end. He dismissed Thraal and Thaligg with a look and the pair dispersed his unspoken orders to seek shelter and rest while they could. Doran had to face this next part on his own.
The guarding Heavybellys bowed their heads as he passed them by and entered the deep blue tent. There was little light inside, the flaps closed to keep in the heat. Torches and a hearth in the centre brought firelight to the environment, though Doran almost missed the sight of his mother altogether, her black dress absorbing the light.
His lips moved to call her name but the word got stuck in his mouth when he looked beyond her, to the single bed that occupied the tent. Dakmund lay upon it, his skin still a sickly pale colour and exaggerated all the more by the dark veins. Worse still, there was no sign of the encapsulating spell that had been keeping him suspended. He was so still that Doran feared the worst had already happened in his absence. The War Mason took his first breath, however, when he witnessed his younger brother utter something, drawing their mother’s ear to his face. Whatever Dakmund said, it turned the queen mother to her oldest son.
“Doran,” she croaked, moving to greet him. Before taking him into her embrace, Drelda paused to look her son up and down. The spark of hope she had expressed slowly died away, leaving a lump in her throat. “You do not have it,” she observed in their native tongue. “You do not have the blade. We cannot discover the truth of the spells that spur on the poison…” The lump got the better of her, stealing her words.
Doran reached out and pulled his mother in as she began to sob. He muttered his apology over and over again but nothing he said was enough to make the queen mother embrace him back; she simply rested her head on his shoulder and quietly wept.
“When did the spell fade?” he asked, breaking his mother’s grief.
“Yesterday morning,” she replied, stepping away from him. “The elves in the camp know nothing of the
