Turning away from those ominous mountains, Athis began a slow glide towards The Black Wood in the north-east. The red dragon inevitably caught sight of Ilargo and Gideon, for there was only so much sky to share. Curiously, Athis closed a portion of his mind to Inara, keeping his immediate thoughts to himself.
As they had previously established, it was perfectly alright for them to close off and have more private thoughts and feelings, but the timing of it stood out to Inara. She spared a moment to look at Gideon and Ilargo, to her right and slightly lower.
Do you agree with them? she asked a little too bluntly.
Athis held on to his thoughts a while longer. I share your passion for justice, he began, but I have been speaking with Ilargo. That surprised Inara and she couldn’t hide it. Athis acknowledged the feeling, noting the hint of a sting among her emotions, and continued. What if Alijah is just another victim in Malliath’s war on magic?
You do agree with them, Inara concluded.
No, Athis countered with irritation. But I am willing to listen and consider. Our duty requires more than our ability to swing a sword and breathe fire. Listening is a powerful tool. It can elevate you in the eyes of your allies and grant you knowledge where your enemies are concerned. And, the dragon added, his tone growing more serious, if we are to make judgement on another, should we not seek the counsel of others to ensure we are informed? Anything else would be an abuse of our power.
Inara was on the precipice of replying, but there was something about the poignant words of wisdom, words only a dragon could spout, that stopped her in her tracks.
I don’t want to talk about this, she finally said.
Athis made no comment. Instead, he maintained his course and flew through the onset of night and over Dunwich, the only town to border The Black Wood. He continued to circle the wood until the council and dwarves were among the others.
Inara hardly waited for his claws to touch down before she was preparing to jump. Walking past her companion’s head, the dragon simply said, We will speak later.
Inara didn’t correct him. She, instead, gave a short nod of the head and let her true emotions wash across their bond. Athis, however, already knew the truth of her emotions. He knew she wasn’t really angry with him; she just wanted to run away from it all. It was an ugly task that the realm required of her and she would see it done. That’s all there was. Athis wholeheartedly disagreed with her approach to it, but Inara severed their bond before he could voice as much.
All she had to offer her companion was a look of apology. She just couldn’t face it right now.
A quiet and aching sorrow had beset the atmosphere of The Black Wood, a contrast to the mesmerising sky above, bejewelled with an ocean of stars. The council’s exchange with Doran and his mother had been brief. Like the others, Inara had offered her condolences, though the queen mother looked to be in a permanent daze while Doran appeared to have the weight of the world on his shoulders.
For all the pressures and grief that plagued him, the dwarf still made time to enquire about recent events. Though short-lived, Doran’s spirits looked to be lifted upon hearing news of their victory.
“I knew ye’d do it,” he had said, sparing an extra second to comment on Avandriell’s increased size. “She looks like a weapon with wings.” His remark had even come with a genuine smile.
There had been no time for anything else after that - there was a king to bury.
Amassed in the largest area, the camp of dwarves, humans, and elves stood silent with either a candle or a torch in hand. For the humans and elves, it was a moment to pay their respect to the dead liege but, for the children of the mountain, it was a time to grieve.
Those of clan Heavybelly felt it the worst, their king of many years finally lost to them. But there was grief also among the dwarves of other clans for they had all lost someone like Dakmund, be it their king, brother, father or son. Here, with Doran and his clan, they shared it together.
Emerging from the royal tent, Doran and three of his kin carried Dakmund’s body on a simple bier. Drelda would have fallen to her knees and sobbed were it not for her maids catching her by the arms. Doran had no tears to speak of, though the red skin around his only eye suggested he had already wept for his brother. With a set jaw, white knuckles, and steady gaze that never wandered from his destination, the son of Dorain put one foot in front of the other.
Leading them was a bald dwarf whose beard nearly dragged on the ground. His voluminous robe and plethora of necklaces indicated he was some kind of priest or cleric of the dwarven faith.
After a short walk to parade the king, Doran and the others placed his body down and took the bier away, leaving Dakmund to rest on the cold ground. Only Doran remained by his brother.
“Here lies King Dakmund, son of Dorain!” he called out. “This is…” Doran faltered and swallowed before continuing. “This is no place to bury a king. Me kin, be it me father Dorain or me ancestor Thorgen, ’ave been given back to the mountain stone. This is not Vengora an’ nor is it The Whisperin’ Mountains. But, since it would be disrespectful to send a king on such a journey, we ’ave brought the mountain to ’im.”
Inara followed Doran’s gesture to the pile of large rocks resting on the back of a cart. Given the
