They left the clearing to the sound of dwarves clumsily falling over each other to catch up. Weaving through the forest, they easily followed the trail left by the thousands that had preceded them, though Doran struggled to spot the tracks left by the elves. The forest obviously favoured the woodland folk - another reason to prefer mountains.
Under a clear blue sky and battered by winter’s cold winds, the old rangers left the forest behind and rode out onto the plains. Thaligg and Thraal were charging up and down on their Warhogs bellowing orders. They were attempting to organise the dwarves into companies and battalions that suited their choice of weapons and expertise. Judging by the chaos, they were struggling.
To Doran’s eye, the problem was simple: too many clans. Thaligg and Thraal were trying to coordinate Heavybellys with the remains of Battleborns, Hammerkegs, Goldhorns, and Brightbeards, all of whom had spent centuries fighting each other rather than side by side.
“Grarfath’s beard, this is maddenin’,” he cursed.
The sound of thundering hooves turned the son of Dorain to the west. Faylen brought her horse alongside him, though he didn’t miss her eyes moving to compare the ranked elves to the rabble of dwarves.
“We will need to camp one more time before we can attack the dig site,” she informed him needlessly. “We need to get moving, Doran.”
“I hear ye,” he grumbled. “I’ll have ’em organised before we attack.”
Riding away from Russell and the High Guardian, he charged Pig up and down the front line of dwarves and barked orders to get marching. He instructed his captains to keep the horde moving and begin to consider who should go where for the final attack.
“For now,” he finished, “jus’ get ’em north!”
A great clatter accompanied the progression of the dwarves. It reminded Doran of his days in Dhenaheim, leading his army across the icy plains to meet another clan. That Doran would never have believed the sight before him now. It almost made the son of Dorain believe that anything was possible.
Watching them advance from the east, Russell rode up to meet him again. “Doran,” he warned, his yellow eyes flashing further east still.
The War Mason followed his friend’s direction and cast his only eye over the distant hills. They were small given the gap between them, but Doran knew Centaurs when he saw them. They were a distinctive shape among the creatures that lived outside of civilisation.
“How many do ye count?”
Russell narrowed his eyes. “At least a dozen,” he observed.
Doran’s face screwed up as he tried to recall the name of any one of the Centaurs he had met, but it had been nearly fifty years since he had been welcomed into their home. The memory itself was fond, filled with merriment and old friends, but the individual names escaped him. He was sure the leader’s name had an exotic sound to it.
Then again, he realised, the Centaurs watching them could be from any number of tribes that called The Moonlit Plains their home.
“What do you think they want?” Russell pondered.
“They’re likely jus’ watchin’ us,” Doran assumed. “Makin’ sure we aren’ ’ere to cause trouble for ’em. They’re no threat to our numbers.”
Russell raised an eyebrow. “It’s been years since any Centaur posed a threat. The elves of Ilythyra saw to that.”
“That were before a half-elf an’ his dragon took over the realm. Now we’re all a little wild.”
Content to leave the Centaurs to their hill, Doran turned Pig to the north… and to war.
12
Introductions
Asher waited for Adan’s magic to extinguish the flames before he tore down what remained of the burnt curtains. He coughed through the smoke and added them to the pile of charred sheets, blankets, and even a broken chair.
“Your cloak!” the Drake warned, pointing at one corner of the fabric.
Asher quickly lifted the right side of his cloak and began roughly patting it down until the small flame was reduced to sparks, leaving the material singed. The most recent fire dealt with, the ranger turned back to finally greet his friends.
None of them had noticed a thing.
All three of the Galfreys, along with Gideon and the king himself, were staring in wonderment at a bronze dragon chasing her own tail. Asher couldn’t blame them - she was beautiful. Every time her scales caught the afternoon light, she sparkled with silver and gold. The little noises she made didn’t compare to that of a fully grown dragon yet, which only endeared her to them all the more.
Just looking at the hatchling, already running, jumping, and setting fire to things, brought up a sense of pride in the ranger. It was all dizzyingly new for him. Right now, he imagined his feelings for her were comparable to that of a parent, though he couldn’t say for sure having never sired a child.
“Ilargo is already jealous of her beauty,” Gideon declared with a beaming smile.
Reyna crouched down and offered a hand out to the hatchling. “Hello,” she crooned.
Asher took a cautioning step towards her. “I wouldn’t,” he advised, concerned for her fingers.
Quite surprisingly, Reyna was able to run her hand over the dragon’s scales. In fact, the hatchling leaned in to her palm and rubbed her horned head against the elf’s skin.
“Dragons are notoriously good judges of character,” Gideon informed.
“But she will also have your memories and feelings,” Inara added.
Reyna smiled up at the ranger. “It’s good to know how you feel about me.”
There was barely a tap of claws on stone as the hatchling dashed across the chamber and ascended Asher’s leg and chest. Coming to rest, the dragon perched comfortably in the crook of his arm with her head pressed to his leathers.
All eyes fell on the ranger and the dragon.
“Have you given her a name?” Vighon asked, perhaps the only one among them unaccustomed to the way of dragons.
“Hatchlings are given their name by their mother,” Inara explained for him. “They
