Inara tried to argue the opposite as he guided her back down onto her cot. “We need…” Her chest heaved with the effort. “We need to…”
Gideon hushed her and draped a blanket up to her shoulders. “Sleep,” he whispered, though she already was.
As he exited the tent, Ilargo’s blue eyes were looking down at him. Defeating Alijah and Malliath will not undo the destruction they have wrought upon the realm of magic. And I’m afraid we no longer have the luxury of dealing with one problem at a time.
I agree, but I have no idea how to fix either problem.
Ilargo’s head perked up and his reptilian eyes cast across the plains. Captain Dardaris and his forces have arrived.
Better late than never I suppose. Gideon turned and walked away to get a better view across the camp. I will greet them, he said, watching the few thousand men as they marched north. Faylen and Galanör need to rest. As do you, he added, looking up at the dragon.
You will hear no arguments from me, Ilargo replied, lowering his wounded head to the ground.
Gideon made to leave, but he allowed himself an extra moment to look upon his companion with adoration. Theirs was a love he could not live without.
25
Survivors
The far-reaching hand of winter travelled with Vighon and his company. However far south they journeyed now, its bitter cold was waiting for them, with the first falls of snow. It was these icy winds that kept most inside their homes. Absent any walls or a roof, the northman adjusted the furs around his collar, sure to keep his dark cloak over his knees.
More than once he had climbed down from his saddle and walked beside his horse to get some warmth into his muscles. He was expecting a fight at the end of their journey and he didn’t want to be stiff entering a battlefield.
He hated to think of the carnage taking place only a few miles south of them. After an agonisingly long three days, they had entered The Moonlit Plains and even passed the ruins of West Fellion, but the ancient land just seemed to roll on, expanding into more open plains. He had hoped to arrive at the dig site that very morning, but that looked to be out of the question.
For most of their trek, the king had comforted himself with the knowledge that every mile they covered was a mile closer to Inara. Now, however, he couldn’t get rid of that itch to simply be there, adding his flaming sword to the fray.
Avandriell had proven to be something of a welcome distraction along the way. Vighon looked up at the dragon now and marvelled at her flight. Her recent growth spurt had been explained to him during their last camp. Since then, he couldn’t recall seeing her anywhere but in the sky. He hoped to live long enough to see her fully grown and Asher mounted on her back. Now that would be a sight, he thought.
Quite the opposite of her majesty, Sir Borin the Dread entered his vision astride the largest horse they could find for him. Thankfully, there had still been an armourer working in Namdhor. Now, the Golem’s gruesome body and face were covered by plate and a flat-topped helmet.
The sound of hooves, moving faster than the others, turned Vighon away from his bodyguard. Kassian Kantaris came up alongside him, his face partially concealed by a scarf and the collar of his long coat. The mage didn’t say anything for a while, content, it appeared, to ride beside the king. He wanted to say something, however - that much the northman could discern.
“Out with it, Keeper,” Vighon urged. “You’ve more than earned the right to speak your mind.”
Kassian licked his lips, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “We’re going to win this,” he said, without context.
Vighon glanced at him, assuming he could only be talking about the war. “Of course we are,” he replied, with as much confidence as he could muster. “Has that only just dawned on you?”
“Until recently, I didn’t really care.” Kassian’s tone spoke of honesty, a refreshing change to his usual sarcasm. “As far as I was concerned, I had already lost and there was nothing to win. There was just pain… and vengeance.”
Vighon was reminded of the vengeance that once drove him. It had been maddening, like an ache in his bones. The pain had demanded that he find and kill his father, the man responsible for his mother’s death. At least he had one or two people to blame and focus his wrath upon. Kassian lived with a burning hatred for the most powerful necromancer and dragon in the realm. Everywhere he went, Alijah’s mark stained the land, reminding him of what he had lost.
“Take it from me,” Vighon said, “there’s no clarity to be found in vengeance. That sweet release it offers is all too brief. In the end, you’re still left with the pain.”
“You’ve walked this path yourself?” Kassian enquired.
“During The Ash War,” the king answered.
“Did you have your vengeance?”
Vighon thought back, recalling with ease the moment he killed Godfrey Cross, the man his father had tasked with murdering his mother. Then, with perfect recall, he saw his father, Arlon Draqaro, walking down the main road of Namdhor, his wrists chained in manacles. The Peoples’ Justice had seen to his end with brutal efficiency. Had he made it to the bottom of the slope, Vighon was still unsure to this day whether he would really have set him free.
“I suppose I did,” he finally replied. “But it changed nothing. Vengeance never does.”
Kassian kept his thoughts to himself for a moment. “So how did you… move on?”
Vighon considered the question. “It’s hard to lose what you love. Your world shrinks. There is no tomorrow, only today.” The king turned to look at the Keeper. “It’s even harder to find a reason to keep going. Something to live for. But once you do, it soothes the soul.
