Galanör would have loved to have taken some of the burden from Doran’s shoulders and even counselled him on the dire situation surrounding his brother. But, in some ways, the dwarf was right - they might not live long enough to be troubled by such things. The battle they were heading into could easily be their last. Their numbers, after all, wouldn’t begin to be bolstered for at least a day and a night of fighting.
With that in mind, Galanör let his focus wander for a time. He reminisced with Doran and the pair swapped stories of old contracts that involved the most terrible of fiends. It wasn’t lost on either of them that many of their tales ended with a drink and a hot meal in The Pick-Axe.
“So Aenwyn’s not murdered ye yet then?” Doran slurred.
Having only sipped his own drink, Galanör’s response retained its clarity. “Her arrows could still find me from afar.”
The son of Dorain chortled. “She swore all manner o’ oaths to kill ye should ye ever wake.”
Galanör gave a light shrug. “No more than I deserve.”
“Ye came closer than the rest o’ us to endin’ this damned war,” Doran praised. “Though ye went abou’ it with all the finesse o’ a bag o’ hammers!”
“A fair assessment,” Galanör agreed.
Doran took another swig of his drink, though most of it appeared to make its way down his beard. “An’ now yer magic’s yer own! Not bad! Better than bein’ tied to some tree I suppose.”
Galanör had spent some time trying to wrap his mind around Inara’s revelation. The realm of magic had long been a highly regarded theory among his people, but actually knowing the source of all magic came from a mountainous tree, in a dimension that sat directly on top of Verda, left the elf bewildered.
“I feel no different. And it will make no difference. We will stop Alijah from destroying the tree and magic will continue to flow as it ever has.”
“I like yer conviction, lad.” Doran raised his cup to the notion.
Galanör was on the verge of responding when he noticed a buzz of activity along the edge of the camp. He shielded his eyes from the fire and sharpened his gaze to make sense of the hubbub. Dwarves and elves alike were rising from their places of rest and arming themselves, their attention turned to the east.
“Doran,” the ranger warned, abandoning his drink.
“What are ye abou’?”
Galanör ignored the question when he saw Faylen striding past. Unlike many others, the High Guardian kept her scimitar in its scabbard, though her hand noticeably rested on the hilt.
“What is it?” Galanör called.
Faylen didn’t halt as she replied, “We are not alone.”
The elven ranger stepped out of Doran’s personal camp, navigating his tent, and looked out into the dark. There, standing tall on a shallow rise, were a team of Centaurs. While the silhouettes of some blocked out the stars beyond, there were several standing in the light of torches held in their hands.
Galanör turned back to Doran. “Centaurs!”
The son of Dorain spat his current mouthful of ale, spraying the air with a wet fog. “Centaurs?” he echoed.
The dwarf heaved himself up from his log with a dazed expression as he searched the ground. When, at last, he found the bowl of water, he tipped the contents onto his face and shook his wild beard. He elicited a feral growl as he tried to take command of his dulled senses.
“I’m right behind ye,” he promised, taking in hand the axe half of Andaljor.
Galanör left the inebriated dwarf behind and jogged to catch up with Faylen. As he arrived at her side, so too did Aenwyn, her bow slung over her back.
“What do you think they want?” Aenwyn pondered with just a hint of concern in her voice.
“I have no idea,” Galanör admitted. “From what I know of them, they do not require fire to see in the dark.”
“Then they are announcing themselves,” Aenwyn concluded.
“Most likely,” the ranger replied, “though I have no experience with their kind.”
“I do,” Faylen informed. The High Guardian half turned and gestured at the armed contingent to hold back. Only Doran continued, though his was not quite a straight line.
Approaching the Centaurs, Galanör began to realise there were a lot more than he had first believed. After counting two dozen, and rising up the hill to meet them, the ranger discovered scores more of them on the other side and decided to stop counting.
They came to a halt not far from the Centaurs. Galanör had used their last few steps to scrutinise the wild folk of the plains. Everything below the navel was that of a horse, well-muscled and strong. Everything above was the perfect combination of man and elf with, perhaps, a little bit of dwarf thrown in. They all possessed long matted hair that reached down the length of their human backs. The males looked down at them with braided beards and bushy eyebrows while the females of their species displayed their chiselled jaws and high cheek bones.
All appeared quite fierce. The armour they wore was clearly stolen for Galanör recognised pieces of iron and pads of leather from various groups, including the Reavers. It was worn sparingly, however, allowing the Centaurs to present their tribal tattoos; thick lines of varying colours.
In their hands, and slung over their backs, they wielded spears, bows, and axes, all of which were too big for any man or elf to master.
A dark male Centaur, situated in the very centre of their line, stepped forward and bowed his head. “El’shenae,” he said respectfully in his native language. “I am Kelabor,” he greeted in his deep voice in the common language.
Faylen bowed her head. “I
