Asher glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the expectant army of dwarves. “You might be forgetting something,” he quipped.
“Still sharp as ever then,” Doran replied with his usual dry wit. “The way I see it, Avandriell is still small enough to fit through our passages.”
Avandriell responded with a sudden exhalation from her nostrils.
“She really doesn’t like the S word,” Asher warned.
“It’ll be bit o’ a squeeze in places,” Doran added, hoping to appease the dragon. “But once we get into the city proper, you’ll ’ave enough room to even fly!”
Again, Asher quickly regarded the thousands of dwarven warriors they were leaving behind. “You know, when we agreed to accompany you back to Dhenaheim, I assumed we would be aiding in the effort to rid your cities of monsters. I didn’t realise it was going to be just us.”
Doran laughed as they approached Grimwhal’s entrance. “Jus’ like old times, eh?”
“I’ve faced Clackers before,” the ranger said, “but never a nest the size you described.”
“We’ll be lucky if that’s all we face in there, lad. In The Whisperin’ Mountains, Clackers are way down the old food chain. We might even snag ourselves a Stonemaw!” Doran turned his head to spy Asher’s reaction. Seeing his less-than-impressed expression, the king broke out in a deep belly laugh. “I’m not so daft as to think we can clear out Grimwhal alone. Though I bet Avandriell would give it a good go.”
The dragon shook her whole body, a gesture the dwarf had come to learn was one of pride and confidence.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Asher muttered.
“With a handful o’ words,” Doran continued on a serious note, “I could command every dwarf into this tunnel an’ they wouldn’ come out until the city is ours again. But I wouldn’ throw so many lives away with such a brash plan o’ action. I know Grimwhal. If we’re smart, we can infiltrate the city, set up stagin’ posts an’ clear it out district by district.”
“That makes sense,” Asher replied. “So you need to scout the city first. See what you’re dealing with.”
“Ye know,” Doran remarked, “if ye ever change yer mind abou’ this ranger business, I’d make a good War Mason out o’ ye.”
Journeying through Grimwhal’s outer-most passages, Avandriell kept her head lowered and Asher walked by her side, while Doran remained comfortable astride his trusty Warhog. They stepped over the frozen corpses of both dwarves and Reavers, their bodies undisturbed since the first invasion.
The king guided them one way then the next, his memory recalling every turn in his ancient home. They eventually passed through the grand throne room and then into the cavernous city itself. It should have been a spectacle, a marvel of dwarven architecture and engineering, but it was draped in darkness and the foul odour of decay. Disappointed, Doran raised his torch, hoping the firelight would make a difference. It didn’t. The shadows grew longer and dashed about in the light, tricking his eye into thinking there were creatures lurking.
“We need better light,” he commented.
“I think I can help with that,” Asher said.
Doran raised an eyebrow as the ranger birthed a ball of light from his palm. It flickered for a moment, threatening to extinguish, before floating above them with increasing intensity. It didn’t bring out Grimwhal’s beauty, but it did remind the son of Dorain how much work was needed beyond the slaying of a few monsters.
“So ye’re a mage now,” he whispered, as they pressed on through the streets.
“Gideon and Inara have taught me some spells,” Asher replied modestly. “Nothing I can kill myself with,” he added.
“Or me, I hope,” Doran said with amusement.
As quietly as they could, with dragon claws and Warhog hooves, the group cautiously penetrated the heart of the city. Asher’s orb followed them from overhead and revealed very little but empty streets and skeletons that had been picked clean. When they reached the crossroads at the centre of the city, Doran looked to the east. If he followed that road he would eventually come to the spot where Dakmund had been wounded by Lord Kraiden.
“We should have come across something by now,” Asher reasoned, his voice low. “Light always attracts the dark,” he uttered, with a glance up at his orb.
Doran dismounted from Pig and pulled free a large flask as he did. “I say we take advantage o’ the peace an’ quiet,” he suggested, shaking the flask so Asher could hear the cider within.
Asher looked at his reptilian companion, who lay down in the street, while they found an empty barrel and a bench to sit on. Pig naturally began to investigate every nook and cranny for potential food but, since he was doing it quietly, Doran didn’t disturb the animal.
“I know I’ve said it before,” Doran began, “but I’m glad ye came. It feels like I’ve brought a little bit o’ Illian with me.”
“You think I had a choice?” Asher responded, accepting the flask from the dwarf. “As soon as Avandriell heard the word monster we weren’t going anywhere else.”
Doran flashed a proud smile at the dragon. He had never been particularly fond of any of her kind, though that had never stopped him from respecting them and their inherent wisdom. But he had come to enjoy Avandriell’s company, his fondness growing the more her personality shone through. And, of course, he intended to reward them with coin and more when their campaign was at an end. They were still rangers, after all.
“So what’s next for the pair o’ ye?” Doran asked. “After ye’ve helped me, o’ course. Return to Illian an’ look for a contract? Pocket coin wherever ye can.”
“That’s the plan,” Asher replied. “Though we might not be so desperate for coin.”
Doran eyed him over the flask. “How so?” he enquired.
Asher took a moment to consider his words. “I’m going to reopen The Pick-Axe,” he declared simply.
The king’s
