His own words stayed with him for a time. He already knew someone with a big axe and no end of courage and strength. It was just too heartbreaking to consider.
Aenwyn was waiting for his eyes to find hers. “Go,” she advised. “You know where to find me. But don’t keep me waiting too long,” she added. “My forgiveness has its limits, Ranger.”
Galanör planted one final kiss on her lips before crossing to the tents once more. By the edge of the camp, there was nothing between him and Doran Heavybelly. The War Mason was accompanied by Thaligg and Thraal, his trusted generals. Galanör entered the light of their fire and looked directly at Doran, who carefully assessed the elf standing before him.
“Give us a minute, lads,” he commanded, sending the brothers away.
Galanör nodded his appreciation and assumed the log they had been using. He picked up the wine skin at the end and sniffed the contents. That was enough to put him off ingesting a single drop.
Doran chuckled. “Thraal’s home brew. It’s not got the kick me own does but it’ll get ye there.”
“I can’t believe you can drink that stuff and still walk,” Galanör groaned.
“There’s no ale out there that can stop me from walkin’… though there is a quantity,” he added with a shrug.
Galanör found an easy laugh and he enjoyed it. “How are the clans holding up?” he finally asked, stalling the inevitable.
Doran held out his tankard towards the camp. “The answer lies before ye, good elf. Since I know ye’re not blind, say what ye’ve really come to say an’ unburden yerself.”
The elf looked out at the camp, though he failed to see Russell anywhere.
“He’s taken ’imself away,” Doran interpreted. “He doesn’ trust ’imself at night. He says the wolf never sleeps.”
“And he is right,” Galanör agreed. “The curse is consuming him. The wolf within is waiting for its moment to emerge. It’s waiting for Russell to give in and—”
“Ye think I don’ know that?” Doran spat. “For years I’ve watched as that monster eats me friend from the inside out. An’ ye’re daft if ye think he doesn’ know it as well.”
“He’s a good man,” Galanör asserted, hoping to calm the dwarf. “And he’s a damn good fighter.” The ranger let his words hang while he ordered his thoughts.
“Jus’ say it, lad,” Doran insisted.
“Tomorrow we fight,” Galanör began. “The scouts have already reported a great number of Reavers guarding the dig site. There’s a good chance we’ll be fighting for days, Doran. Days,” he repeated.
“Then it’s a good thing we’re all dwarves an’ elves,” the War Mason replied. “There’s no human in the realm that could fight for so long.”
“That wasn’t what I was getting at,” Galanör said.
Quite exasperated, Doran waved his words away. “I know exactly what ye’re gettin’ at.”
“Then you know I am referring to the full moon two days from now,” the elf continued. “You must know what will happen if he transforms during the battle. We’ll be exhausted if we’re still alive. And then what? A Werewolf to contend with? The monster won’t choose sides; it’ll just kill anything in sight.”
Doran threw his tankard into the fire and sent sparks and rogue flames into the air. “He’s fightin’ with us, ye hear! I don’ know how many more moons he’s got in ’im, but if Russell Maybury is leavin’ this world ye can bet he’s doin’ it with a bloody big pile o’ monsters under his feet!”
Galanör spared a glance at the onlookers who’d witnessed the son of Dorain’s outburst. “I know the two of you have a lot of history, but you’re not thinking about Russell. If he transforms and kills even one of us he won’t be able to live with himself.”
Doran’s frown creased all the more. “I won’ let that happen,” he declared earnestly, his tone lowered to that of a grave intensity.
“You can’t take responsibility for him, Doran. You’ve seen more battlefields than I have. How many times has it gone sideways? How many times have you felt in control? The plains are sprawling, as will be the battle. You could be half a mile away from him when he turns.”
The dwarf set Galanör in his gaze, his dark eye reflecting the flames. “In all the time ye’ve known me, elf, ’ave ye ever known me to say one thing an’ do another?”
Galanör didn’t need to mull it over. “No,” he said, for there was no other answer.
“I won’ let it happen,” he repeated, only slower this time.
The elven ranger briefly closed his eyes and nodded solemnly. “I do not envy the task ahead of you. You have but to ask, Doran, and I would help.”
The dwarf’s chest puffed out as he took a long breath. “I would not ask another. The real burden has been Rus’s. If… when the time comes, I will relieve ’im o’ it.”
Galanör had more to say on the matter, but he could see that he had pushed Doran as far as the dwarf could go. Instead, he promised himself that he too would keep an eye on Russell during the battle. If it came to it, he would end Russell’s suffering himself.
“I wouldn’ spend too much time worryin’ about it, lad,” Doran offered, his tone perking up. “The chances o’ us still breathin’ come the full moon are damned slim. We’ll all be dinin’ in Grarfath’s Hall together before that monster rears its ugly head.”
“Speak for yourself, dwarf,” Galanör replied with a cocky grin. “I haven’t faced Darkakin and orcs to be brought down by the wretched corpse of some Reaver.”
Doran laughed deep in his chest. “O’ course not! Ye’re Galanör Reveeri, greatest sword dandy in all the realm!”
Now Galanör shared his laugh. “You know of my reputation then!”
As the evening stretched on, the elf finally picked up a drink, having chosen something less potent than Thraal’s home brew, and poured Doran another cup. They
