“Make it quick, lad,” he instructed.
The wolf was happy to oblige. Its head dropped down, ready to snap its jaw around his entire head, when the unstoppable arm of a Troll slammed into its side. Doran heard the wolf’s whine, like an injured dog, as it flew into the air and disappeared somewhere inside the fray.
The Troll continued its sweeping attacks, launching every combatant into the air with a roar on its dark lips. Doran managed to stagger out of the way, avoiding one of its lumbering feet, before its leg caught him across his right side and sent him careering into another dwarf.
Slow to recover, it took Doran an extra moment to realise the Troll had stopped its attack. The simple beast looked across the battlefield, its steaming breath spilling into the air. Without explanation, it turned to the west and fled with abandon.
“What now?” the son of Dorain grumbled.
As the Troll fled west, every Reaver on the battlefield was running to the east, breaking away from the battlefield. Exhausted, The Rebellion forces guarded themselves and simply watched as their foe retreated with no apparent cause.
“What’s going on?” the dwarf beside him asked in their native tongue.
Doran couldn’t say and he didn’t dare hope that they had won. If Alijah had been slain the Reavers should have dropped to the ground. To his right, he could see Ilargo and Athis now, both looking weary by their hanging heads. There was no sign of Malliath but the black dragon had always been hard to spot at night.
As the battlefield began to clear of Reavers, the son of Dorain could see further and he was looking for something in particular. To the south, he found it - the Werewolf. The beast was limping away into the night and quickly fading from view.
Doran sighed, too tired to even muster a tear for his broken heart. He let the wolf go with a promise made to himself.
Plodding through the sludge and debris, the War Mason began to make his way towards the dig site. He barely recognised a soul on his way, their faces covered in mud and blood. He didn’t have it in him to even pat the arms of his kin or offer a word to his allies. He just kept seeing Russell’s eyes, warning him.
As he reached the edge of the pit, Galanör and Aenwyn emerged with Inara propped up between them. Not far, and striding towards them all, was Gideon. They converged on each other by one of the few tents to have survived the fighting. Galanör and Aenwyn carefully laid Inara down on the remains of a cot by the side of the tent.
“What happened?” Doran demanded, his throat horribly dry. “Did ye stop ’im?”
Inara could hardly keep her eyes open as she looked from him to Gideon. The old master crouched down and grasped her hand, their eyes locked.
“Well?” Doran pressed, glancing at Galanör and Aenwyn.
“He succeeded,” Gideon announced on Inara’s behalf. “The tree burns.”
24
Aftermath
Soon after the first rays of light, having had no sleep at all, Gideon stepped out of the doorway through which reality had been torn asunder.
Re-emerging onto Verdan soil, he inhaled Illian’s air. Despite being deep beneath the surface, the air was much clearer and easier to breathe than that of the magical realm. Ash and smoke had assaulted his lungs from the moment he had stepped through.
He immediately reconnected with Ilargo, where the two shared equal dismay. They had already absorbed Inara’s memories, thanks to Athis, but Gideon had simply needed to see it for himself. The tree was, indeed, burning and what magic he commanded had done little to help. The flames were too high and the damage too extensive.
Return to me, Ilargo bade.
Gideon happily ascended the shaft, pausing only to inspect the cells where Alijah had been holding the Drakes. He had given it much thought over the years - wondering how the half-elf might coalesce enough magic to open a doorway - but this was beyond his nightmares. It filled the old master with such sorrow to think of so many being trapped in the dark, for years and years.
Rising back to The Moonlit Plains, he closed his eyes and soaked up the morning sun. This should have been a victorious dawn, he lamented.
Every dawn we see in these dark times is a victory, Ilargo commented, drawing Gideon to the south, where the green dragon lay beside a sleeping Athis.
I fear your dawns are numbered, old friend, Gideon replied with glassy eyes.
We have had more than most. Though distant, Ilargo was still able to direct Gideon’s attention to the battlefield that sat between them. It was littered with the bodies of heroes and villains alike, all scattered between the giant carcasses of Trolls and abandoned catapults.
Gideon began to make his way through it, weaving between the dead. Having taken the night to rest, elves, Centaurs, and dwarves had already started to clear through the fallen. They piled the Reavers and set the bodies alight while lining up their kin to prepare for funerals.
Is Inara awake? he asked of Ilargo.
She stirs, though I would say she needs…
Gideon frowned and shook his head. She needs what? he pressed.
Nothing.
There was nothing but his own thoughts inside his mind. Gideon reached out, as he had done countless times over the decades, in search of Ilargo’s feelings. Nothing. The silence was deafening.
Ilargo? He repeated his companion’s name over and over, his speed picking up as he crossed the battlefield.
Between the piles of bodies, he glimpsed Ilargo’s head rising up to find him, similarly concerned. Gideon? Without warning, the dragon’s voice suddenly cried out inside his mind, causing him to stop and wince.
I can hear you, he told him.
And I you, Ilargo replied.
Gideon continued his journey, a quick stride on him now. What was that? The old master already had the answer to his own question but he didn’t want to voice it.
Our bond is that of
