Gideon paused on his journey and looked back at the pit. The realms are separating.
Returning to the dragon, Ilargo dipped his head and the two stood together, skin to scales. As they parted, he got a good look at his companion, wounds and all. Malliath and Godrad had dealt out a good deal of punishment. Large claw marks cut red lines through Ilargo’s majestic scales and Gideon could sense, if not feel, deep bruises beneath those that remained intact. Spikes were missing up and down the length of his body and the knot of bone at the end of his tail had been worn down and chipped.
Malliath evaded us for most of the battle, Ilargo explained, looking down at Gideon with bloodshot eyes.
Evaded? Gideon repeated,
Yes. He only revealed his aggression after Alijah descended into the pit.
Gideon met Ilargo’s gaze as the companions put more pieces of the puzzle together. Try to rest, he said, rather than attempt to unravel the growing mystery surrounding their enemy. I’m going to check on Inara.
Leaving Ilargo to rest, the old master made his way around Athis, on the other side, until he could see the makeshift tent that had been moved over Inara. Faylen herself had seen to watching over the Guardian, no thought given to her own injuries and fatigue. She was seated on a small barrel, her elbows resting on her knees, and her head hanging over her chest.
“Faylen,” Gideon greeted softly. The High Guardian of Elandril tried to stand in his presence but Gideon kept her down with a hand on the shoulder. “You need not stand for me,” he told her. “You need rest.”
Faylen looked into the tent at Inara, who appeared restless on her cot. “She is many things to many people, but she is the princess of Elandril to me. I will protect her to my end.”
“The Galfreys have ever counted themselves fortunate to have you as their friend,” Gideon offered. “Just as Ayda is fortunate to have you as its High Guardian.”
Faylen managed a faint smile. “It is good to see you in the flesh again, Master Thorn.”
There was too much dirt and blood on Gideon’s face to reveal his flushing cheeks. “I’m afraid that title no longer applies to me. I’m just Gideon.”
“There’s no just about you, Gideon Thorn. Here you are again, putting yourself between the light and the dark. I see why Adilandra liked you so much.”
Though he didn’t think it was possible, Gideon felt new depths of sorrow upon hearing the late queen’s name. “I will miss her all my days,” he promised.
“As will we all,” Galanör chimed in, approaching from behind.
His blue cloak flowed out, picked up by the winter breeze, and flecks of dried mud took off into the wind. His bronze-coloured chestplate was dented in parts and marred by scratches, the causes of which would have spelled his doom were he not wearing it. Since the battle had ended, the elf had tied his long chestnut hair into a knot, but his face was just as filthy as everyone else’s. The most notable aspect of the elven ranger was the single scimitar sheathed on his hip. There would be no recovering its twin.
“How fairs Inara?” Galanör continued, peering into the tent.
“Better than others,” Faylen answered, cocking her head towards the pain-filled cries of the wounded.
Galanör acknowledged the gesture. “Aenwyn is helping to organise the injured so that we might heal those most in need first. There are many.”
“The dwarves will prove more difficult,” Faylen commented. “Their natural resistance to magic won’t help them.”
“Where is Doran?” Gideon asked.
Galanör stepped to the side and set his gaze to a specific spot, searching between the foot traffic. “He’s still out there,” he said gravely.
Gideon moved to find the dwarf himself, following Galanör’s direction. Doran was just standing there with his back to them, removed from the camp. He was facing south, away from the battlefield, as if held by some trance.
“The dead weigh on him,” Gideon assumed.
Galanör folded his arms. “The earliest reports actually suggest that the number of dwarves saved has increased their numbers. Doran has been told as much.”
“Then why does he stand apart?” Gideon enquired.
Galanör glanced at Faylen, who appeared to understand whatever wasn’t being said. “It’s Russell.”
The old master turned from Doran to look at the elf. “Russell Maybury? The owner of The Pick-Axe?”
“The ranger,” Galanör added. “Russell has been fighting with us since Alijah invaded.”
“What happened?”
“You know of Russell’s affliction?” the elf questioned.
“I only met him a handful of times,” Gideon recalled, “but I believe he was a Werewolf.”
“An old one at that,” Galanör said. “His curse finally ran its course. He had been struggling for weeks, months even. On the battlefield, he turned for the last time.”
Faylen nodded her head in the War Mason’s direction. “Doran said the beast ran south.”
Gideon watched the dwarf for a time, wondering what was going through his head. “They were close?”
“Very,” Galanör confirmed.
“Are you concerned?” the old master asked pointedly.
“His grief is a burden only his shoulders can bear,” Galanör replied. “But bear it they will. I am more concerned that he will go after the wolf alone, to end Russell’s torment.”
“Whatever Doran decides,” Gideon replied, “he needs rest first. You all do. You’ve been fighting for days without sleep or food. Go,” he bade. “I will see to Inara.”
Faylen nodded, if somewhat reluctantly. “I will find my husband first. I left him counting our fallen.” The High Guardian made to move, pausing only to pat Galanör on the shoulder. “You fought well,” she complimented.
The ranger found an amused smile. “Did you even see me out there?”
“No,” Faylen admitted, as she walked away from the tent. “But you’re still here, so you must have fought well.”
Gideon couldn’t argue with her logic and by the look on Galanör’s face, neither could he. “Rest,” the old master urged the ranger in Faylen’s absence.
