That magic wasn’t keeping him alive, Doran thought. It was just prolonging the inevitable. “Queen Adilandra perished on Qamnaran,” he told his mother. “She and many more have died since last we saw each other,” he added, unable to say Russell’s name. “I came back to… to…” The dwarf couldn’t find the words now that he stood before his family.
“You came back,” Dakmund breathed, “to say… goodbye… brother.”
Doran glanced at his mother, who ushered him on with a short nod. Moving to his brother’s side, he perched on the edge of the bed and cast his eye over him. Dakmund had always been broad in the shoulders, his build larger than Doran’s. The War Mason had always thought it ironic given his preference for the arts over war, but he had always loved his brother for being the dwarf he was. Now, sadly, he appeared frail, his size diminished by the poison that had spread throughout his once strong body.
Tentatively, he took Dakmund’s hand in his own. Doran’s brow twitched as he failed to conceal his surprise at how cold his brother’s fingers were. He couldn’t help but think of Russell’s hand, at the end.
Dakmund slowly turned his eyes on Doran. “Grarfath has… walked with you… I see.” His every word was a labour, draining him of what precious life he had left.
A lone tear instantly broke free of Doran’s eye. “I don’t know how you can say that. I have failed you, brother. I could not retrieve the blade.”
Dakmund gave the subtlest shake of his head. “You… are here,” he managed. “How else… could you have… crossed all the hells… if the Father was… not walking with you?”
The oldest son of Dorain nodded along, unable to argue. “I can’t decide if I am blessed or cursed,” he confessed. “I do not want to live only to say farewell to those around me.”
With his free hand, Dakmund called on all his strength and pointed at a small chest beside his bed. “Open it,” he whispered.
Doran let go of his brother’s hand and retrieved the small chest, easily carried in two hands. Returning to his perch beside Dakmund, the War Mason rested the chest on his lap and unlocked the latches on the lid. It creaked as he opened it and an old musty smell found his nose.
“Take it,” Dakmund insisted.
Doran put the chest aside. When his hands returned, they brought with them the crown of Grimwhal. He was very familiar with it having seen it atop his father’s head all his life. He realised then that this was the first time he had ever held the crown. Thinking back, it was easy to believe that it had been a part of his father’s skull, permanently attached.
He turned it over and over in his hands, feeling the cool silvyr between his fingers. It was jewelled in places though not overly so - the sapphires and rubies small enough to almost blend in with the crown’s intersecting pattern of lines. The silvyr rose up at four different points around the circlet, their harsh lines removing any possibility that it could ever be described as delicate.
“Do they live?” Dakmund croaked. “The other kings… do they live?”
Doran turned back to his brother. He opened his mouth to explain the circumstances of King Gaerhard’s death, but Dakmund’s time was limited and didn’t require filling up with needless details. “No,” he said instead. “You are the last king of Dhenaheim, Dak.”
There was no change to Dakmund’s expression. “Our clan?” he asked.
“We are strong,” Doran explained. “Unfortunately, there is no other clan who can boast of our numbers anymore. We saved all that we could though, and at the price of Heavybelly lives.”
“Then… you have made… heroes of our people.” Dakmund slowly reached out and attempted to squeeze Doran’s hand. “They will… look to you… now, brother. You must undo… the failures… of our ancestors. Unite Dhenaheim. Make us… whole again. You must… do this… while we are… strong.”
Doran wanted to offer his brother hope and tell him he might still recover, that he might still live to be king of all Dhenaheim. But even now, Dakmund looked to have lost some life since they began their conversation. It wouldn’t be long.
With the crown in one hand and his brother’s in the other, Doran looked Dakmund in the eyes. It saddened him to see so little of the creative dwarf he had always known. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I have the courage, let alone the supporters, to be king. Not without you by my side.”
Dakmund blinked once, and slowly, his eyelids almost sticking together. “You have walked… the lonely road… of a ranger… for over… a century. You know… how to survive the wilds… of the world. You were meant… for this… from birth.”
At the bottom of the bed, a small moan escaped their mother’s lips before she buried her face in a handkerchief. Like Doran, Drelda could see the end was fast approaching.
“I do not deserve this,” Doran continued, holding up the crown. “I cannot be king because I failed to save you.”
“You will be king… because Thorgen’s blood… runs through your veins. And you will be… king… because Grarfath himself… has brought you… to this place in time.” A flicker of the old Dakmund flashed behind his eyes as he added, “Also… you have father’s head.” His subsequent laugh descended into a rough coughing fit that ended with blood running from his mouth.
Doran managed a smile at his bother’s humour, if only for his benefit. “Do you suffer?” he questioned. “We can get you some relief.” He turned to his mother who directed the War Mason to the empty vials on the other side of the bed.
“My pain… is almost over.” Dakmund’s gaze gradually wandered from Doran, to their mother, before finally settling on the tent above. “Unite them… Doran. Be better… than those who… came… before…”
His
