Russell’s mouth turned up into a sad smile. “I think I’m all out of that fight. What I’ve got left, I’ll give to The Rebellion. After that, when the time comes, I want you to—”
“I know exactly what ye want!” Doran interjected. “I’ll not be hearin’ it! Ye’re jus’ goin’ to ’ave to toughen up an’ that’s the end o’ it!”
“Don’t you get it, you stubborn dwarf? That’s exactly what I want - the end of it! I want to be done with it and there’s only one way!”
“Bah!” Doran snorted.
Russell sat back, his heels touching the edge of the stream. He didn’t say anything, which only aggravated the dwarf all the more.
“Well, aren’ ye goin’ to say anythin’? Ye want me to sully Andaljor’s steel with yer cursed blood don’ ye? Give me a reason!”
The old wolf took a breath, his sight lost to the thick woods beyond the stream. His silence began to infuriate Doran more, but the fool squeezed his injured fist and the fresh cuts made him wince. It took some of the ire out of his thinking and he too remained seated in silence for a time.
“I’m sorry, lad,” he managed. “I’m jus’ an angry old fool lookin’ for a fight.”
“Is that why you were punching the stream?” Russell queried with a look of amusement brightening his features. “You always did pick the losing fight.”
The banter brought some cheer to the son of Dorain, but his heart was too heavy to laugh. Instead, he nodded along and sought to change the subject. “How goes it?” he asked, nodding over his shoulder.
“Everyone’s made camp, though we’re going to have to stick to the fringes. Malliath didn’t leave much of Ilythyra intact. I believe Thaligg has seen to your tent, if it can be called that. Faylen has set her kin to the task of patrolling the perimeter. I’d say we’re safe here… for now.”
A good helping of guilt was added to Doran’s grief. “I should ’ave taken charge when we arrived,” he acknowledged. “There’s too many clans in the same camp, and the Brightbeards among ’em ’ave witnessed their king bein’ cut down. It’ll be chaos.”
Russell looked back at the forest behind them. “That’s not been my observation,” he replied. “There’s a good amount of uncertainty among them but, mostly, they’ve all been brought together by the same thing - loss. There isn’t a dwarf out there who hasn’t lost a loved one, not to mention their home, their country. You should be among them, Doran. Let them pick you up.”
The son of Dorain shook his head. “It’s supposed to be the other way around. I should be the one givin’ ’em hope.”
Russell raised a curious eyebrow. “Is that what War Masons do? Offer hope?”
“Well, no. Not exactly.” In truth, Doran didn’t want to describe the violent role of the War Mason in his culture.
“It seems you can’t get away from who you are,” Russell remarked, though Doran didn’t miss the irony in his words. “A time is coming when you will have to be rid of that title. Are you ready for your next one?”
Doran hadn’t wanted to think about it, for that particular title only came with the death of Dakmund. “I’m just a ranger,” he muttered with little conviction.
“You’re a prince of Grimwhal,” Russell corrected. “That makes you a natural leader to these people.” The old wolf turned to face him, pausing before he spoke. “Let us stay in the here and now. The present is where you find yourself, not the future. And right now, you’re still just a dwarf, flesh and blood like the rest of us. Walk among them. There’s courage in abundance in your kin. Grieve with them. And then rise with them.”
Doran succeeded in breaking a smile, however brief. “Ye’re a good man, Rus, if a little soft in the head.”
Russell mirrored what he could of the smile. “And you’ll always be a stubborn bone-headed ranger to me. Come.”
Together, they walked away from the stream and made their way to the outskirts of Ilythyra. Even here, the trees were thicker and taller than anywhere else in the realm. There were some that still possessed the spacious bowers in their trunks, places where the elves felt more at home. From the ground, Doran could see the soft glow of their magical orbs and even a few elves crossing the wooden bridges that connected the tree tops.
Numerous as they were, many elves had made camp on the forest floor, side by side with the dwarves. Indeed, there appeared no division between the two races, including those who had recently been freed from Qamnaran. To the west, those who had been injured in the recent battle were being seen to by their respective kin since the children of the mountain were less receptive to the healing touch of magic.
Doran broke away from Russell to visit the wounded. He walked between their cots, offering elf and dwarf alike his prayers as well as his thanks for their bravery. The War Mason took some extra time to sit with the youngest dwarf among them and listen to his story. He wasn’t even a quarter of Doran’s age yet he had displayed the mettle of a hardened warrior and fought with the heart of a lion.
When he grew tired, the son of Dorain left him to rest and drifted back into the main camp. He accepted a pitcher of water from a Hammerkeg and a strip of meat from a Brightbeard, both of whom offered their thanks for his efforts on Qamnaran. Again, he stopped for a while and listened to their dreadful tales of slavery and abuse. Doran gave them his full attention, though he was occasionally distracted by the mere sight of the two dwarves sitting side by side like friends.
Later still, the War Mason gave what comfort he could to a Battleborn mother, who still wept for her two sons, both lost in Alijah’s
