Doran gave a light chuckle. “You know, that doesn’t make me feel any better, but thank you, Mother.” He took a deep breath and looked to the tent’s entrance. “Let’s be doing this.” He loudly cleared his throat, signalling Thaligg on the other side.
“Pray silence!” the cleric bellowed in man’s tongue, bringing an end to the quiet conversations still taking place. “We may not be in the shadow o’ the mountains, but we stand on ground as hard as Grarfath’s skin, ground the Father laid ’imself at the dawn o’ time! It is on that ground that we pay homage to Doran Heavybelly, son o’ Dorain Heavybelly, an’ descendant o’ the mighty Thorgen Heavybelly!”
Taking his cue, Doran emerged from the tent and, with Thaligg and Thraal at his back, walked into the clearing behind the cleric. Just as they had when he announced his brother’s passing, the gathered crowd dropped to one knee and bowed their heads, including the several hundred dwarves who had come with the council. Only Reyna, Nathaniel, and Vighon remained standing, their own stations demanding they bow to no one.
A subtle flick of his fingers signalled the cleric alone to rise, who motioned for another dwarf to approach from the side, a cushion held out in both hands. Doran watched the cleric remove the crown of his ancestors from the cushion and hold it high.
“In the eyes o’ the Mother an’ Father, I ask Doran Heavybelly to kneel before his people an’ for his people to rise an’ accept his pledge!”
On his knees, his head held high, Doran declared, “For as long as Grarfath gives me breath an’ Yamnomora gives me favour, I give me life not only to the Heavybellys o’ Grimwhal, but to every dwarf on this rocky earth! As we lived thousands o’ years ago, in an age o’ heroes, we will live again! As one people under one banner, the children o’ the mountain will rise again! We will take back our homes, our land, an’ our heritage! My every wakin’ moment will be devoted to this cause, our cause! Only death itself will stop me!”
“I’d like to see it even try!” came a cry from one of the dwarves in the crowd.
“Pray silence!” the cleric admonished.
Doran looked down to conceal the brief smile curling at his mouth.
“It is with the blessin’ o’ Grarfath that I, a cleric o’ the Mountain Order, bestow upon ye, Doran Heavybelly, the crown o’ Grimwhal… an’ the crown o’ Dhenaheim!”
Doran felt the circlet of silvyr as it came to rest on his head. Light as the metal was, it felt oppressively heavy on his head. Now he knew why Vighon rarely wore his own.
With nothing to do now but stand up, he rose to his feet and was met with a blasting roar from the crowd. Due to his lack of peripheral vision, the dwarf had to turn his head left and right to take them all in. The applause continued until he raised his hands to quieten them.
“Tomorrow we go into battle!” he yelled. “Stand behind me an’ Andaljor an’ victory will be ours! It must be ours, for this is not to be our end! Only when the mountains themselves perish will we perish with them! So tonight, drink to our inevitable victory! Drink to those who ’ave fallen to get us this far! An’ drink to me while ye at it, yer one-eyed king!” The crowd cheered with his laugh, a sound that surely rocked the earth.
What followed was a haze of congratulations from friends and strangers alike. Drinks and food flowed through the camp, some of which even graced Doran’s lips. Unlike the last time, however, the new king was cautious where the ale was concerned - he wanted a clear head for battle. It was with the battle in mind that the council eventually came together, much later into the night when Doran had lost some of the attention he had garnered. Around a roaring fire, watched over by guards of varying races, they planned The Rebellion’s final assault on the invaders.
“If he thinks that cold piece o’ stone is goin’ to keep ’im safe he’s got another think comin’,” Doran remarked of The Bastion.
“The mountain path is treacherous,” Inara put forward. “You could not march an army up there.”
“Alijah knows this,” Vighon added. “He will have been forced to leave his Reavers in the valley. If they block the path, the only way to The Bastion is by air.”
“Then it’s a good thing we have dragons,” Kassian commented.
“Three dragons cannot ferry an army up The Vrost Mountains,” Gideon pointed out, holding his cup at his mouth.
“They don’t need to,” Asher said. “If Alijah doesn’t have an army up there, we need only face him with a small team of skilled fighters.”
“It would be foolish to believe he doesn’t have any Reavers up there,” Galanör replied.
“Then we had better put an emphasis on the skilled part,” Asher responded with a wry smile.
“He could call on his army with a single thought,” Reyna reminded them. “Treacherous as the mountain path is, Reavers move without fear and without need of rest. If he wanted to, Alijah could have Reavers reinforcing The Bastion before we have time to defeat him.”
“And defeating Alijah is far from guaranteed,” Nathaniel told them. “Especially since Malliath will be up there with him.”
“Malliath is not all that stands between us and Alijah,” Gideon addressed. “He still has one Dragon Rider under his thrall. Vilyra of Freygard and heir to
