When his lungs began to burn, the dwarf pulled his head back. As the water settled, he looked hard at the rippling reflection that greeted him. He didn’t see the War Mason of Grimwhal or the prince of clan Heavybelly looking back at him. Instead, he saw his failures as a brother and a son.
His face and beard dripping, the dwarf hammered his fist into the stream until he struck the bottom. Dakmund, the last king of Dhenaheim, had but one fate and it had been Doran who had sealed it. Lord Kraiden’s sword was gone forever, lost to The Hox, and with it any hope of a cure.
He beat the water again and again as his rage and despair demanded their time. Feral was the cry that burst from his lips and foul were the threats he laid at Grarfath’s feet should Dakmund pass into shadow. Only when his chest was heaving and his tears had run dry did he finally stop.
For the moment his fist was numb, but he knew there was pain to come. He would welcome it, a distraction from the pain that split his heart, for his brother’s inevitable demise was only one of the troubles that plagued him.
He shut his eye tight and relived the tower’s collapse and with it… the death of Adilandra Sevari.
Had the world ever known a better queen? A better ruler? Though her final moments would remain a mystery to all but Alijah, her death had ensured their victory on Qamnaran. All had witnessed the portal from which he fell and all had agreed that one so powerful as the half-elf would never have opened a portal above the crashing waves of The Hox. Had the queen not dealt with him so, he would likely have delivered destruction upon the survivors astride his terrible mount.
If only their demise had been so apparent. Doran could still see the black dragon diving from the heavens to retrieve his wicked companion, saving him from those murky depths. Time would tell of his retaliation, though the dwarf had no doubt that it would be swift and brutal.
“That’s going to hurt.”
Doran didn’t need to turn his head to know that Russell Maybury was standing there. He had been listening to that voice for decades, heeding the counsel that always accompanied it. Like so many times before, the old wolf was right - his knuckles were already beginning to sting.
Russell crunched through the fallen twigs and flattened the small stones into the dirt as he brought his considerable size to its knees. “Let me see,” he bade, his tone softer than normal.
Doran replaced his eye patch before relenting and offering his hand. Blood mixed with the water and ran between his fingers until it dripped onto the soil. Despite the strength in Russell’s meaty hands, he inspected the cuts with a delicate touch.
“How many times have I patched you up?” he asked rhetorically. “Can you close your fist?”
Doran clenched his hand and refrained from wincing at the sting of it.
“Does it hurt?” Russell enquired, while one hand retrieved a roll of bandage from his belt.
“Everythin’ hurts,” Doran croaked, having become well aware of his injuries over their two day trek from The Narrows to the ruins of Ilythyra. He had never been more thankful for Pig than when they had crossed the western lands of The Moonlit Plains.
“Adding to your wounds isn’t going to help,” Russell pointed out.
Doran had a biting response on the end of his tongue but he kept his mouth shut when he realised Russell’s hands were trembling. The old wolf had bandaged him up more times than he could count, his movements fluid with experience. But now, he applied the bandage with all the coordination of a small child.
“I’m sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “It seems my hands aren’t good for much but swinging an axe.”
Doran sighed, expelling some of his grief and anger for the moment. “The apology is mine, old friend. Me mind has been cast adrift an’ me eyes with it. I cannot see what’s right in front o’ me.” The dwarf reached out and gripped Russell’s hand, feeling the tremor through to his bones. “It’s gettin’ harder, isn’ it?”
Russell took his hand back and massaged it in the other. “You carry the troubles of more than yourself these days. You need not take mine.”
Doran craned his neck and looked up at the starry sky that peeked through the canopy. “How long?” he asked.
“She swells every day,” the old wolf replied, glancing up at the night. “She will be full in days.”
Doran could see the despair that gripped his friend and he wanted to dispel it with strong words, but he could see all the signs of a losing battle. The thumb nail on Russell’s left hand was dark and half an inch longer than the rest, its end sharpened to a point. His cheek bones and jaw line were more prominent than ever and his yellow eyes were sunk within dark pits.
“We’ll get through it, lad,” he promised. “We always do.”
A shadow of doubt crossed Russell’s face. “Not this time, Heavybelly.” He examined his hand in the gloom. “It feels different this time. I fear it will never give up its hold on me.”
“I’ll hear none o’ that!” Doran waved the notion away. “The wolf will rear its ugly head an’ then it will be gone again. It…” He nearly choked on his words. “It always goes.”
“We both know that isn’t the truth of it. Willing otherwise isn’t going to change anything, Doran. It’s called a curse for a reason.”
Doran’s jaw quivered as he tried to put his words together and, for once, he didn’t care it was unbecoming of a dwarf. “I’ll not be losin’ ye too,” he uttered. “This damned war has taken too many an’ I know there’s still more to lose before the end.
