Doran looked to Gideon and Inara. “If ye can handle the dragons an’ whatever else awaits ye in The Bastion, me kin will keep the Reavers in the valley from flankin’ ye.”
“As will the elves,” Nathaniel proclaimed. “Though I must insist on accompanying you to The Bastion.”
Inara sat forward. “Father,” she pleaded.
“I believe we fall within the skilled category that Asher referred to,” Reyna added to her husband’s words. “Faylen is more than capable of leading our forces in battle,” she assured, looking to her old friend across the fire.
Doran watched Inara, waiting for her to rebuke her parents’ desire and deny them a place on the dragons but, rather surprisingly, the Guardian of the Realm took a breath while she scrutinised them. “We will face him together then,” she said. “You may accompany me on Athis.”
“Is there room for another king?” Vighon enquired. “And, perhaps, a stubborn Golem?” he added, glancing at Sir Borin over his shoulder.
“You need to lead your forces against the Reavers,” Inara was quick to tell him, an edge of protectiveness in her voice.
“Sir Ruban,” Vighon began, gesturing to his captain, “has led my forces across the entire realm and faced all manner of opposition. He has more than proven himself capable. No, I must face Alijah. He took my kingdom. If I am to truly reclaim the throne, I must be seen to challenge my usurper.”
“And if he kills you in the process?” Inara questioned.
“That’s what you’re there for,” the northman replied with a confident smile.
Inara’s next breath came through a clenched jaw. “Very well,” she reluctantly agreed.
“Your challenge of him is understandable,” Gideon commented to the king. “Though I must insist on taking Galanör,” he stated, glancing at the elven ranger. “He retrieved the Crissalith and he has the Hastion gem. With his skillset, both can be used as a weapon, one our enemy knows nothing about.” Aenwyn cleared her throat beside Galanör. “And Aenwyn, of course,” the old master quickly added.
Since their number was growing, most eyes naturally turned to Kassian Kantaris. It hadn’t escaped Doran’s notice that the loudmouth mage had been unusually quiet.
“An’ what o’ ye, young Keeper?” the son of Dorain asked bluntly. “I would ’ave thought that burnin’ hot vengeance o’ yers would ’ave ye jumpin’ at the bit to get up there.”
Kassian tapped the wand holstered on his leg, his eyes lost to the flames.
“Kassian?” Vighon prompted.
The Keeper finally looked up. “I will fight in the valley,” he made known. “We will give you as much time as we can.”
Doran licked his lips. “Ye know Alijah an’ Malliath will be in The Bastion, don’ ye? For two years I’ve sat through countless meetin’s an’ listened to ye tell us how ye goin’ to kill the necromancer for what he’s done. Are ye tellin’ me now that you won’ take yer wand to that fight?”
Kassian ran a hand over his beard, contemplating his words. “There have been many sacrifices to get us to this point. More deaths than I can count anymore. I see now that they didn’t die just so we can defeat our enemy. They gave their lives for Illian’s future, for our future. I have glimpsed what that may be. I would not throw my life away fighting a superior foe - I see that now. Instead, I would fight to live so that I might build something new out of the ashes, something worthy of my wife.”
Doran offered the man an approving grin. “Good on ye, lad. Fightin’ with hatred in yer heart is a path to destruction, take it from me.”
“Good decision,” Vighon expressed.
“Then it’s settled!” Doran announced, rising to his feet with a horn of ale in one hand. “Tomorrow we fight! But, tonight, we make what we can o’ the time we ’ave left!”
The dwarven king knocked the horn back and gulped the ale, his gaze cast to the stars above.
It felt to Doran as if the next time he was parting the horn from his lips, he was throwing it into the snow and facing The Vrost Mountains. Time had moved so swiftly that he could scarcely recall the latter half of the night nor the journey from The Black Wood to their waiting forces. He did, however, remember cursing the dawn as it pierced the trees and woke him from what had only been a short slumber.
Now, attired in his black and gold armour, Andaljor strapped to his saddle, and a crown on his head, Doran had nothing but an angry frown for the snow-covered valley. Behind him thousands of dwarves stood in their tight ranks, awaiting his command to advance. To their left, the elves looked to Faylen Haldör for their own orders while, to the right of the dwarves, the human soldiers stood ready for Captain Dardaris’s word. It was among them that Kassian had dispersed his Keepers, having instructed them to add their magic to that of the elves.
Atop their horses, Faylen and Sir Ruban closed in on the king from each side. “The scouts we sent into the mountains have not returned,” the captain reported. “I fear they never will.”
“Hmm,” Doran mused with a rough throat. “I believe this valley intends to swallow us whole.”
“At least we know they’re in there,” Faylen replied.
“They’re in there waiting for us,” Ruban specified. “The advantage is already theirs.”
“Trap or no trap,” Doran said, looking up at the three dragons circling in the sky, “that’s where we’re goin’. We only ’ave to keep ’em occupied until they defeat Alijah an’ Malliath. Without ’em, the puppets ’ave no strings.” Turning his mouth over his shoulder, the king bellowed, “ADVANCE!” The order was echoed across the numerous ranks and repeated by elves and humans alike.
As one, The Rebellion entered The Vrost Mountains, prepared to make one final stand in defence of their realm.
Doran led them astride his loyal Warhog, his first battle as
