“But you do walk the road of faith,” Galanör countered. “I beg of you, Doran, turn to your gods and pray. Just until midday,” he added. “If we haven’t heard back from them, and your gods can settle for letting your stubborn head lead the way, I will join you in attacking the dig site.”
The son of Dorain grumbled and muttered under his breath. “Fine,” he snapped. “In the meantime, I’m havin’ me boys prepare to march.”
Galanör bowed his head. “That’s fair.”
Doran stormed off, leaving the elven ranger alone with a stoical Faylen. She had yet to turn her head and visibly acknowledge anyone else since the diviner cut out. Galanör feared losing Reyna and Nathaniel would be enough to break the High Guardian, and at a time when their nation and, indeed, The Rebellion needed her most.
“The Galfreys have survived more than most,” he offered. “Vighon too. Keep the—”
“If you say keep the hope alive I’m going to feed you both of your swords.”
Without speaking a word to each other, a queen, two kings, and a mage strode from the throne room and made for the southern ramparts with a hulking Golem in tow. From there, they could see what felt like the entire world laid out before them. In the streets below, hundreds were racing up the main road to take refuge inside the cathedrals, emptying the city’s nooks and crannies.
In the distance, against a pale sky, a black dragon glided in lazy circles. A cold dread tried to steal Vighon’s spirit and grip his bones in terror - such was the malice that accompanied Malliath the voiceless.
“Why isn’t he just attacking?” Kassian mused.
“I can’t pretend to know him anymore,” Vighon confessed, his knuckles paling around the hilt of his sword.
“Perhaps he is waiting to see who is loyal to him,” Nathaniel opined.
The northman hoped that wasn’t the case, as every person in Namdhor was fleeing the very sight of their immortal king. They would be made to suffer for that betrayal, Vighon was sure. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
“It’s fear,” Reyna specified.
Vighon was inclined to agree. “The catapults?” he questioned, looking to Kassian.
“They’re loaded,” the Keeper replied, “but the men we have manning them aren’t experienced. There’s a good chance we’ll destroy half of the lower town trying to take out those Reavers.”
The king shrugged off the consequences. “Walls can be rebuilt. Those Reavers cannot be allowed to enter the city.”
“He’s landing,” Nathaniel observed.
Vighon cast his gaze back to the view and watched Malliath glide down and disappear behind the furthest buildings of the lower town, where his Reavers were stationed. “What is he doing?” he uttered, mostly to himself.
Kassian was braced against the stone. “My Keepers are still down there. If they were in a fight, we’d see it from here.”
An idea occurred to Vighon. He stepped back from the rampart and directed his voice over the courtyard. “Fetch me a horse!” he bellowed.
“You aren’t going down there,” Nathaniel warned.
“If he wanted blood,” Vighon pointed out, “we’d be fighting already. I’d say he wants to talk first.”
“Yes,” Kassian chipped in. “Talk first, then roast you where you stand!”
The king almost smiled at the thought that came to him. “Alijah enjoys nothing more than the sound of his own voice. I will keep him talking and buy us some time,” he added, his eyes shifting to The Vengoran Mountains in the west.
“We will accompany you,” Reyna insisted.
Vighon halted at the top of the steps that led down to the courtyard. “No,” he said sternly. “I fear just the sight of you both might enrage him. We need him talking for as long as possible.”
“Well I’m going down there,” Kassian said. “Those are my mages holding the line.”
Vighon didn’t argue with the Keeper. “Very well.” He looked up at Sir Borin. “He’s going to need a big horse.”
8
Face to Face
Leaving Reyna and Nathaniel on the ramparts, Vighon set his horse to a gallop down the main road with Kassian and Sir Borin either side. By the time they were halfway down the city, the streets and alleys were clear of people, freeing them of any obstacles.
Charging through the lower town, they soon came upon the Keepers guarding the furthest boundary. Beyond them, the Reavers had ceased their incessant percussion and returned to sentinels once more. Between the two groups, Malliath stood as a colossus, a mass of muscle and scales, even with his wings tucked in. His purple eyes contrasted with the black of his face like jewels on stone. A crown of horns projected back at an angle, each displaying centuries of violence.
Then there was Alijah.
The half-elf maintained a regal stance with his thumbs hooked into his belt and his dark cloak billowing out beside him, revealing flashes of its red interior. His Vi’tari blade hung casually from his hip, its green steel hidden within the scabbard. He stood proud, with his chin up, as if he was simply enjoying the northern air, immune to the cold in his armour of dragon scales.
Vighon dismounted and made his way through the Keepers, sure to instruct Sir Borin to stay among them. He had no idea how the Golem would react to any threats from Alijah or Malliath.
“Vighon,” Kassian hissed, his tone full of warning.
The northman held out a hand to calm the mage. “Stay here.”
His feet crunched in the snow as he put himself between Namdhor and his enemy. Alijah looked him up and down as he approached, though whether assessing him for weaknesses or simply judging his appearance was impossible to tell. Alijah had always been good at cards, his Galant face a shield against any tells. Arrogant as he looked, however, his wounded face and damaged armour spoke of a recent defeat.
Malliath expelled a sharp breath from his nostrils and Vighon
