“Thank you,” Russell said quietly.
Galanör glanced up at the sky by way of gesture. “The full moon approaches,” he observed.
Russell nodded at the horse. “It senses the wolf.”
Galanör stroked the horse while shifting his eyes down to Doran. The dwarf could see the caution behind those sharp eyes but he dismissed it.
“Is this the last o’ yer people?” he asked the elf, gesturing to the marching lines.
“There are still a few patrols out there,” Galanör replied, easily looking over the dwarf’s shoulders at the trees. “Another hour and we will all be on the plains.”
Russell tentatively strapped his gear to the horse’s saddle. “Do we have a strategy?”
“Bloody chaos,” Doran quipped, in response to which Russell turned to Galanör.
“He’s right,” the elf sighed. “The Moonlit Plains are full of rolling hills, but the dig site is located on flat land. There will be no surprising them, and splitting our forces to attack from different angles would take days and make little difference.” Galanör looked briefly at the War Mason. “We will meet them head on.”
Doran leaned in. “Wait until they hear the sound o’ dwarven boots - thousands o’ ’em - thunderin’ towards their line. On that day, even the dead will tremble, ye ’ave me word.” The son of Dorain clicked his fingers. “That reminds me!” he exclaimed, looking up at Russell. “Come with me, lad; I’ve somethin’ for ye.” The dwarf paused before leading the way. “We’ll see ye on the plains, Galanör.”
The elven ranger let his gaze linger over Doran for a moment longer than was comfortable. “Good riding, both of you.” With a grace unbefitting of one so ruggedly dressed, Galanör disappeared into the trees.
“Follow me,” Doran instructed.
“Galanör doesn’t think I should accompany you,” Russell said.
“Bah!” Doran snorted. “Don’ try an’ get into the head o’ an elf, Rus! There’s not much in there but foliage an’ hedgerows.”
With so much of the camp packed down, the dwarf was able to reach his intended destination swiftly. The makeshift smithy was in disarray after so many weapons, shields, and pieces of armour had passed through it, and the variety of tools that accompanied every dwarven band were strewn across the benches and ground. Only the smith himself remained, the last to abandon any camp.
“Glain!” Doran hollered, aware that the old smith was partially deaf from centuries of hammering.
“War Mason!” Glain replied with a welcoming smile. “I’d o’ thought ye would be gone by now!”
“Someone’s got to make sure this lot clear out!” The son of Dorain thumbed over his shoulder at the stragglers. “Where we’re goin’ every arm counts!” he stated, before looking up at Russell. “Glain ’ere has been makin’ all manner o’ weapons an’ armour for Grimwhal since he were a pup! Knew me father he did, back when ol’ Dorain had some colour in his hair. An’ some life in his bones,” he added under his breath.
“What can I do ye for?” Glain asked, as he continued to pack up his cart. “I’ve got nothin’ that’ll compare to Andaljor, ye know!”
Doran scowled, his eye shifting from the smith to Russell and back. “Ye know,” he said, gesturing heavily. “The thing I requested o’ ye!”
Glain scratched his balding head and frowned. “I’ve had a lot o’ requests come through here in the last day or so.”
“The request came from me, ye dolt! Yer War Mason! Doran Heavybelly! Me name is the very clan ye belong to! Ringin’ any bells?”
Russell bowed his head. “How old is old Glain exactly?”
Quite exasperated, Doran shrugged and rolled his eye. “Even Grarfath probably doesn’ remember makin’ ’im.”
“I remember!” Glain exclaimed with a stubby finger in the air. “Now where did I put it?” he asked aloud, searching his wares. “I had jus’ the thing I did! Fit yer requirements perfectly!” The ancient-looking dwarf rummaged through the weapons and tools poking out at the end of his cart. “’ere it is!”
A smile of satisfaction spread Doran’s blond beard. “That’ll do,” he said, taking the war hammer from the smith. It was heavy, even to his strong arms. The head of the hammer offered two sides of attack, branching off into a flat piece of steel, ideal for breaking all manner of things, and a thick claw for everything else.
Russell accepted the weapon, taking it in both hands. The way he hefted it suggested the war hammer was just as light as a common sword. He twisted it this way and that, inspecting the head with a critical eye.
“It’s no pick-axe,” Doran remarked, “but it’s a damn sight sharper! An’ with yer strength, lad, ye can crush Reaver skulls with the hammer.”
“Thank you, old friend,” Russell said, his own fears and doubts resting visibly on his large shoulders.
“Ye jus’ keep yer fingers wrapped around that hammer, ye hear. When the wolf comes callin’, ye grip it all the tighter an’ keep swingin’. We’re seein’ this through ye an’ I.”
Russell said nothing, preferring to simply nod his understanding. Doran wished he could rid his friend of the burden that coursed through his veins, just as he wished he could save his brother from the poison that ran through his. But Fate, it seemed, had chosen to render him helpless to both.
“What was that?” Glain called, his pitch suggesting there was considerable distance between them.
Doran turned back to see the smith only a few feet away. “Pack yer tools an’ be on yer way, Glain!” the War Mason told him. “It’s more than likely yer skills are to be needed again before we see real battle!”
“As ye command!” Glain shouted back.
Returning to their mounts, Doran and Russell took to their respective saddles and began making for the northern edge of the forest. “If ye lot don’ get a move on,” the son of Dorain berated the stragglers, “ye’ll be chargin’ into battle from
