Galanör looked to his king with immeasurable anticipation. “Rarely do elven hammersmiths know the name of the steel they work.”
“Quite so,” Nathaniel agreed, marvelling at the scimitar. “Yet we already know this blade is called… Swiftling.”
Galanör’s eyes roamed up the length of the weapon. “Swiftling,” he uttered. Gathering himself, he continued, “Thank you. I don’t know what to say. I haven’t received a gift like this since Queen Adilandra gave me Stormweaver and Guardian.”
“Well, you don’t need to say anything,” Reyna insisted. “I only hope you never have need of it.” The queen turned from Galanör and faced Aenwyn. “For you, I have something a little older.” Having retrieved it from the chest, the queen presented Aenwyn with her own bow. “I claimed this as my own after defeating Adellum Bövö at the battle of West Fellion. I have spent decades trying to rewrite its destiny, to give it a future in the light.”
Aenwyn was shaking her head. “I cannot accept this.”
Reyna thrust the weapon into her hands. “Yes you can. Today is a day of new beginnings,” she continued, with a look at her husband. “And goodness knows we could all do with it. I have given this bow all that I can. Were I to take it to Elandril with me, it would collect dust; a shame when it has the potential - in the right hands - to be a force for good. I want you to have it.”
“You honour me again,” Aenwyn replied with a bow of the head.
Galanör looked from Reyna to Nathaniel. “You are returning to Ayda?”
“Inevitably,” Nathaniel said dryly.
“Elandril is still the heart of our nation,” Reyna interjected with a cutting glance at her husband. “That is where we belong. Though, we will remain in Illian for a while longer, perhaps the year. Our two realms are to be strong allies and there is much work to do here, most of which can’t even be attempted until the spring.”
The king and queen didn’t need it, and so he didn’t say it, but Galanör certainly approved, happy to have them remain in the country for another year.
“Oh,” Reyna added, a thought just occurring to her. “I should say, if the day ever comes that you wish to return to Ayda, you have more than earned a place on my council, Galanör. If you would accept that position, I would happily remove your father in a heartbeat.”
Galanör was tempted to ask for that position right now, if only to watch his father be publicly humiliated. But, for now, he was more than content to pursue his life in Illian, where he finally felt a sense of belonging.
“Perhaps one day,” he replied with a mischievous grin.
“Right then!” Nathaniel clapped a hand on Galanör’s shoulder. “Let us find something good to drink. We have new beginnings to toast!”
60
Through Shadow
In the blistering cold of Dhenaheim’s freezing wastes, Doran Heavybelly at last stood before the entrance of his home.
Grimwhal.
He stared into the main passage, an abyss that did not welcome the light. Both doors, built to withstand any dwarven war machine, still resided on the stone floor, twisted and bent out of shape by the undead dragon, Morgorth. Beyond lay a labyrinth of dwarven design, a place of great halls and cathedral-like temples to the Mother and Father.
It was also home to monsters.
It felt an age to Doran since he had last stepped foot inside the walls of his ancestors but, when he had, the son of Dorain had seen with his own eye the terrible beasts that had claimed Grimwhal as their own.
But it wasn’t theirs. It was his. And now, with the entire dwarven army at his back, he was going to reclaim Grimwhal and declare it the new capital of Dhenaheim. Such a declaration would be better made if there happened to be a Clacker’s head on the end of his axe. Everything sounded better when there was a monster’s severed head on an axe.
“My Lord,” came Thraal’s voice as his Warhog came up alongside the king’s. “We wait only on your word to attack.”
Doran heard every word but he didn’t take his eye from that forbidding tunnel. He chewed over the command to attack. It felt like only yesterday he was in good company, enjoying the finest food and drink Namdhor had to offer. But it had, in fact, been just over two weeks since Vighon and Inara were wed. Now, here he was, on the verge of battle once more, his words destined to send dwarves to their death. For their home, though, for their birthright, they would happily pay the price with blood.
“What would you do, Thraal?” he asked his War Mason.
Thraal didn’t require much time to think it over. “I would flood Grimwhal with the toughest warriors in all of Verda and crush anything foolish enough to challenge us… my Lord.”
“Would you now,” Doran replied lightly, aware that Thraal was still harbouring some violent tendencies since the death of Thaligg. “You know, as my War Mason, you’re going to have to be more than a strong arm on the battlefield. I need you to think before you lift your axe and especially before you command others into the fight.” The king sighed. “Use this before this,” he said, gesturing from his head to his arm, “and you’ll save lives.”
“As you say, my Lord.”
“Well, do you know what I say?” Doran replied. “I say we need eyes and ears in there first. We need to know what we’re dealing with before we go blundering through.”
Thraal clicked his fingers as if an idea had just occurred to him. “I will gather our best scouts!”
“Don’t bother,” the king instructed him, spurring Pig onwards.
“My Lord!” Thraal called after him. “You can’t go in there alone!”
“I’m not!” he yelled back, only a second before Avandriell dropped out of the sky.
The bronze dragon created a cloud of snow as her wings fanned out to slow
