Kelabor’s face remained firm. “I am afraid Xastus fell to the orc invasion, sixteen cycles ago. Though it will please you to know that many of his tribe survived.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Faylen replied thoughtfully. “Xastus was most welcoming to me and my companions.”
Kelabor looked beyond the trio, clearly done with any talk of Xastus. “I did not think I would ever see El’shenae and stone dwellers together.”
“I’m afraid allies are few and far between in these dark times,” the High Guardian explained. “Thankfully, our people have a better history of fighting together than we have of fighting each other.”
“Your enemy is worthy of such an alliance,” Kelabor noted. “That black scourge has blanketed our lands. They attack us day and night without cause and without mercy.”
“The Reavers,” Faylen nodded. “They have a stronghold north of here.”
“They guard it fiercely,” Kelabor warned. “They forced out every tribe for miles in every direction.”
“I apologise for our presence here,” Faylen continued. “We would respect your lands in better times, but we are here to attack that stronghold and free The Moonlit Plains.”
Kelabor scanned the distant camp. “There will be much blood on the ground.” The Centaur puffed out the slab-like muscles in his chest. “We would spill our own blood for these lands. There are none among the tribes who would see others die for it. It would be our honour to accompany you into battle.”
Galanör’s broad smile was a reflex of the hope that sparked in his heart.
“The honour would be ours,” Faylen replied. “You have our gratitude, Kelabor. Your numbers and strength will go a long way to helping us turn the tide.”
Kelabor gestured to the Centaurs behind him. “These are but a few of my people. There are more across the plains waiting for my word. We will send messengers to the other tribes and they will join us.”
Galanör’s grin widened and then faltered as Doran finally caught them up. “What did I miss?” he panted.
The elven ranger half turned. “Kelabor, this is Doran son of Dorain, War Mason to Clan Heavybelly and a renowned ranger in these wilds.”
Doran looked up at the Centaur and belched.
Kelabor looked less than impressed. “Stone dwellers,” he muttered.
“Doran,” Galanör continued, “the Centaurs have chosen to fight with us.”
Surprise stretched the dwarf’s dazed and haggard features. “Oh,” he said pleasantly. “Would ye care for a drink?”
17
A Rogue Memory
All too vivid were the dreams that haunted Alijah Galfrey. He was pleased to finally open his eyes to that first glimmer of dawn. It was quiet in his chamber, the finest suite in Lirian’s palace, and a stark contrast to the screams and clashing steel trapped inside his mind.
He wasn’t even sure if they were his memories or Malliath’s.
Soaked in sweat, the half-elf rose from the bed, curious as to why he had been asleep in it at all. The king had intended to meditate until first light, preparing himself to complete his task. His need for rest too great, he had clearly fallen asleep and in his scale mail at that.
Disappointed in himself, Alijah looked across the chamber and out of the oriel window. He couldn’t see his companion out there, but he could sense his presence somewhere inside the palace grounds. The lightest of probes, across their bond, informed Alijah that Malliath was still sleeping. While he had fallen into The Hox, his companion had dived into it at some speed; it was no surprise they both needed rest.
Acknowledging the dragon’s need to sleep, Alijah left him to it and tested the strength in his leg. There was still pain. He made for the window, dismayed to see that it still affected his walk a little. The pain in his back and shoulders was healing at a better rate, but it still made him doubt his ability to swing his sword with any accuracy or strength.
He cursed his grandmother.
Had they both faced the events on Qamnaran better, they could have torn right through Athis and Ilargo and taken Namdhor back in an afternoon. He could have faced Gideon and Inara and proven himself the better warrior, a fact that Gideon should know by now. And it would have been so satisfying to put Asher down for good. How many assassins had tried and failed over the decades? How many Darkakin and orcs? Perhaps he was the only one capable of killing the ranger. He would have the answer soon, he was sure.
Peering out of the window, he could see the palace servants going about their earliest jobs. Lord Starg was likely still panicking after Malliath had dropped unannounced into the courtyard last night.
Clipping his sword and scabbard to his belt, Alijah left his chamber and was immediately met by a dozen servants. For just a moment, he was taken back to his years in Erador where his reign had been more readily accepted. He took the offered food and water but consumed both while making his way to the grand balcony that looked out over Lirian. From there, he could now see Malliath, curled up below. In front of the dragon’s maw was the remains of a horse, though it required some scrutiny to be identified as such.
Lirian itself was already a buzz of activity. Smoke rose from numerous chimneys, carts were driven up and down the streets, and even the market traders had already begun selling their wares. It never failed to surprise Alijah how the world kept turning when so much of it was on fire. For two years, Illian had been ravaged by The Rebellion’s efforts to overthrow the peace yet here it was, going about its day as if it were any other. He commended them for that.
“Your Grace!” came Lord Starg’s high born voice.
Alijah didn’t turn to greet the man, content to observe his people for a time. “This is
