Inara blinked slowly and flashed her teeth with a bemused smile. “Our exchange was long overdue,” she said cryptically.
“I’ll say,” Nathaniel muttered before Reyna tapped his stomach.
“I always imagined this for you, when you were younger,” her mother began. “My heart swells to see that such a future is still within your grasp. You deserve some happiness.”
“I think happiness is a long way from here,” Inara said dryly. “We all have quite the journey ahead of us.”
Nathaniel broke away from Reyna and wrapped his arms around his daughter. “I hate having a hero for a daughter,” he groaned. The old knight kissed her on the head. “Be as safe as you can. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“And don’t do anything he would do,” Reyna added with a smirk.
Inara was about to make her promises, empty as they would be, when her mother enveloped her in a firm hug. In truth, they were Inara’s favourite and she took joy in the embrace.
“Inara,” Gideon called. “We should be leaving.”
“As should we,” Kassian made known.
Tearing herself away from so many that she cared about, Inara ascended Athis’s back as Gideon mounted Ilargo. They waited for Avandriell to find her way back to Asher before turning to face away from the keep. There was only just enough room for both dragons to safely manoeuvre without damaging anything.
Since Ilargo had already disposed of Karsak’s ravaged corpse, the way was clear, offering them a view of the south. Their destination lay well beyond sight.
We will make it in time, Athis imparted confidently. Magic will endure.
The consequences, should they fail, made Inara feel sick to her stomach. Then fly swiftly, old friend.
With a lasting look at Vighon, Inara braced herself against Athis’s scales. Both dragons, one in front of the other, flapped their wings and battered the city with strong winds. Within seconds they were clearing Namdhor altogether and ascending into the heavens as The Rebellion’s vanguard.
Now for the south. Now for war.
Part II
16
A Night on the Plains
Under a starry night sky, Galanör casually weaved through the camp, his movements appearing effortless, as he offered friendly nods and smiles to both dwarves and elves. For those among his kin who looked in need of courage, where the imminent battle was concerned, he took the time to speak with them. Most had lived in Ilythyra, under Lady Ellöria’s leadership, and had shunned violence where they could.
Alijah had seen to the end of those days.
Where the elves were quiet, contemplating what tomorrow would bring, the dwarves were redefining the height of merriment for the ranger. Whatever their clan or history, the children of the mountain gathered around roaring fires and shared old mead and fresh hunts from the plains. They cheered and hollered, banging their shields and armour with abandon as they told stories from wars past.
Their laughter was infectious and tempted Galanör to join them. More than a few even invited him with an offer of food and drink. The elf always politely declined, more than happy to drift through and soak up the atmosphere. He had charged into several battles in his lifetime, but never had he seen such revelry before dancing with death. Elven as he was, Galanör preferred the quiet before the storm so that he might centre himself and focus.
It was his craving for such peace that cast his eyes out to the plains, searching for a quiet spot. Under a cold moon, the enchanted fields were luminescent and dotted with black silhouettes where the trees stood proud. There was one figure, easily seen as she moved towards the nearest trunk, that caught Galanör’s eye. He knew Aenwyn even in the dark.
After receiving a pat on the arm from a fellow elf, the ranger broke away from the sprawling camp and made for Aenwyn. Sitting cross-legged, her face was illuminated by the glowing grass. Her quiver was on the ground beside her, the arrows spilling out. With barely a sound, Galanör took to the ground in front of her and enjoyed the feel of the supernaturally warm grass. Rather than speak, he watched her carve glyphs into every arrow head.
For a moment, he thought they were magical in nature, lending every projectile a deadly enhancement. He was about to offer caution, aware that using a degree of magic with every arrow was dangerous while simultaneously exerting physical energy on a battlefield. But then he glimpsed the individual characters.
They were names.
Galanör couldn’t even count the number of arrows. “Have we lost so many?” he muttered.
“I don’t have enough arrows for them all,” Aenwyn lamented.
Galanör scrutinised her stoical expression and knew there was more she wasn’t saying. “I know we—”
“Your name could have been on one of these,” Aenwyn interjected, her eyes flashing in the green light.
Galanör held in his sigh, her anger more than justified. In fact, he had wondered when this particular conversation was going to happen. Aenwyn had clearly been showing a great deal of restraint while nursing him back to health.
“I’m sorry,” he said, with as much sincerity as he could intone.
“For what?” Aenwyn countered. “For lying to me? Lying to everyone? Challenging Alijah by yourself? Getting caught in a spell that could have killed you?”
“Gideon has assured me the spell will have no harmful side effects,” he quickly pointed out.
“You didn’t know that!” Aenwyn argued. “You went into that tower to die, if that’s what it took.”
“Isn’t that why we’re all here?” the ranger questioned. “To die for The Rebellion? For the realm?”
“If that is what victory demands of us then we will see it through together. Those were your words the first day we set foot on Qamnaran. And then you left me.”
Galanör deliberately slowed his breathing down in an effort to hold back any tears. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.
“That’s all we have left now,” Aenwyn continued, her shoulders sagging. “Dying together is the best we can hope for.”
It broke Galanör’s heart to think that that was their only future.
