“Prepare for battle!” he bellowed over his shoulder.
With his horse spurred into a gallop, the king rode towards that final rise. He did his best to ignore the anticipation that dug deep into his gut and focus on the fight to come. There was only him and his sword.
Trailed by his company of warriors, Vighon drew his sword and pointed it to the south. His confidence, however, was instantly knocked when he realised his enchanted weapon remained dormant. The silvyr, as always, appeared exquisite, but there were no flames.
The northman stared at the blade, his attention stolen by the phenomenon. How could there be no flames? The enchantment had never failed, not once. As the answer struck him, his horse reached the apex of the rise and began the gentle descent towards the dig site. There was no battle, at least not anymore. There were plenty of dead though - proof that one had been fought there.
In the distance, just south of the battlefield, a makeshift camp sprawled across the snowy plains. That appeared to be the source of the smoke, where numerous fires had been lit. The dig site itself was a black void in the middle of the land, a portal that transported one down into the depths of the realm.
Then, without any warning, the sword of the north came alive with blinding flames. Vighon held it away from his cloak before again holding it high into the air, signalling their arrival to the others. He couldn’t acknowledge, even to himself, the obvious conclusion.
Skirting around the edge of the battlefield, the king noticed the largest corpse amongst the debris. He couldn’t identify the dragon, but he knew it to be one of Alijah’s Reavers. By his calculations, the wretched necromancer only possessed one more. It was a small victory if nothing else.
Soon after, they were greeted by a throng of elves, dwarves, and Centaurs, the latter surprising Vighon. Seeing some of the flames dampen on his sword, he returned it to the scabbard on his hip. He offered nods to any and all who met his eyes, but the king was searching for a few among them.
Athis and Ilargo were easily spotted, lying to the east of the camp. Even from this distance, Vighon could see the damage both had taken. Before he could make his way to them, Faylen Haldör emerged weary and exhausted.
“Your Grace,” she greeted with a bow of the head.
“High Guardian.” Vighon offered the same gesture. Faylen, however, was quickly distracted by those behind the king, directing him to Reyna and Nathaniel.
Reyna brought her horse to the front of the company and removed her hood, revealing golden hair and emerald eyes. Faylen shouted something in elvish over her shoulder and every able elf and Centaur stood up before genuflecting with bowed heads. Reyna responded with a gentle word in her native language and Faylen rose from the mud with the others.
“Where is my daughter?” she asked in the common tongue.
Faylen’s expression subtly dropped and her head turned to the east. “She rests, your Grace.”
Vighon felt a distinct lurch inside his gut. “She is injured?”
“Inara is already recovering,” Faylen assured. “Gideon is with her.”
Nathaniel turned his horse to the east and set off at a quick trot. There was no stopping the father, nor Reyna who followed after him.
Vighon was torn between his love and his duty. Were he to take off behind them, he would be revealing priorities unbefitting of a king, especially since he had missed the battle. “What happened here, Faylen?” he asked urgently.
“We lost.” The words sapped Vighon and his company of energy and hope, but the words had not come from Faylen. The king turned with everyone else to see Adan’Karth. The Drake remained astride his horse while his reptilian eyes searched their surroundings. “The two realms have already begun to separate.”
Vighon turned back to Faylen as Galanör arrived by her side. “He’s right,” the elven ranger confirmed. “I have seen the tree with my own eyes. Alijah has taken fire to it.”
The king gripped his hilt, his worst fears laid bare. “And our enemy?” he uttered.
“As soon as his task was completed,” Galanör replied, “Alijah fled with Malliath. The Reavers followed thereafter.”
Faylen opened her mouth to add something when a distant squawk drew her gaze to the sky. There she set eyes on a young Avandriell and was lost to the dragon’s majesty.
Galanör craned his neck and narrowed his vision. “Is that…”
Vighon had waited as long as he could. “I would see Inara,” he insisted. “Then I want a full report.” He didn’t wait for their response, his horse set to a swift trot down the line with a large Golem on his tail. Athis and Ilargo were the perfect markers, directing him to Inara’s position within the encampment.
He was dismounting before the horse came to a complete stop, his attention directed to the tent where Reyna and Nathaniel were crowding. He barked a command at Sir Borin, ordering him to remain where he was. The Galfreys parted as he arrived, giving the king a good view of Gideon Thorn. The man was filthy and marred by a plethora of minor injuries.
“Your Grace,” Gideon greeted with a dip of the head.
Vighon looked through the gap and found Inara lying on a cot. He tried to push past but Gideon placed a firm hand in the centre of his chest, barring the way. The king fought the instinct to slap it away and remind Gideon who he was.
“Forgive me,” the old master began. “Inara used a considerable amount of magic against Alijah. Added to her injuries, it’s imperative that she rests…” Gideon trailed off as he looked up, beyond the northman.
Vighon turned to see Athis’s head looming over them all, his magnificent blue eyes fixed on the king. Vighon had no idea what the dragon was thinking nor his intentions, but he knew they were holding a moment. Athis gave a slow blink
