“Do they live?” Dakmund croaked. “The other kings… do they live?”
Doran turned back to his brother. He opened his mouth to explain the circumstances of King Gaerhard’s death, but Dakmund’s time was limited and didn’t require filling up with needless details. “No,” he said instead. “You are the last king of Dhenaheim, Dak.”
There was no change to Dakmund’s expression. “Our clan?” he asked.
“We are strong,” Doran explained. “Unfortunately, there is no other clan who can boast of our numbers anymore. We saved all that we could though, and at the price of Heavybelly lives.”
“Then… you have made… heroes of our people.” Dakmund slowly reached out and attempted to squeeze Doran’s hand. “They will… look to you… now, brother. You must undo… the failures… of our ancestors. Unite Dhenaheim. Make us… whole again. You must… do this… while we are… strong.”
Doran wanted to offer his brother hope and tell him he might still recover, that he might still live to be king of all Dhenaheim. But even now, Dakmund looked to have lost some life since they began their conversation. It wouldn’t be long.
With the crown in one hand and his brother’s in the other, Doran looked Dakmund in the eyes. It saddened him to see so little of the creative dwarf he had always known. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I have the courage, let alone the supporters, to be king. Not without you by my side.”
Dakmund blinked once, and slowly, his eyelids almost sticking together. “You have walked… the lonely road… of a ranger… for over… a century. You know… how to survive the wilds… of the world. You were meant… for this… from birth.”
At the bottom of the bed, a small moan escaped their mother’s lips before she buried her face in a handkerchief. Like Doran, Drelda could see the end was fast approaching.
“I do not deserve this,” Doran continued, holding up the crown. “I cannot be king because I failed to save you.”
“You will be king… because Thorgen’s blood… runs through your veins. And you will be… king… because Grarfath himself… has brought you… to this place in time.” A flicker of the old Dakmund flashed behind his eyes as he added, “Also… you have father’s head.” His subsequent laugh descended into a rough coughing fit that ended with blood running from his mouth.
Doran managed a smile at his bother’s humour, if only for his benefit. “Do you suffer?” he questioned. “We can get you some relief.” He turned to his mother who directed the War Mason to the empty vials on the other side of the bed.
“My pain… is almost over.” Dakmund’s gaze gradually wandered from Doran, to their mother, before finally settling on the tent above. “Unite them… Doran. Be better… than those who… came… before…”
His last word was taken to the great Hall of Grarfath with him.
Tears streamed down one side of Doran’s cheek as he carefully closed his brother’s eyes. Drelda fell to her knees at the base of the bed and wept into the blankets, the light of her youngest son finally extinguished. Doran squeezed Dakmund’s hand before placing it by his side. His fingers hesitated, insistent on maintaining a hold on him. But he was gone, and into better company at that.
“The open arms of Yamnomora await you now, brother. Save me a seat in the Hall.”
Doran picked up his mother and swaddled her in his arms. He held her close and let her weep into his shoulder while they shared in their grief. They remained that way for some time, until the queen mother needed to sit down. Doran offered to call someone and have her taken care of elsewhere, but she insisted on staying by Dakmund’s side for now. Who was he to tell a mother otherwise?
With heavy feet and his father’s crown held in one hand, the only living son of Dorain walked out of the tent to a waiting audience. It seemed every dwarf in the camp had gathered round after he had entered to find his brother. In the middle of them all, Thraal and Thaligg stood side by side with ashen faces. They all knew the truth of the matter.
Doran declared, “King Dakmund, son of Dorain, ruler of Grimwhal… my brother… has ascended to the Hall of Grarfath with all honour. Let it be known that he fell defending our city, our home, and our lives. His last act as king was a heroic one. He will be remembered in our history, his name never forgotten.” The dwarf sighed and dropped his head to his chest. “The king is dead,” he muttered despairingly.
Thaligg and Thraal stepped forward, the first to bend the knee and lower their gaze to the ground. Their response rippled across the gathering with dwarves following their lead by the dozen. Doran cast his eye from right to left, watching them all drop to one knee before him, until he came across a familiar young dwarf. It was Finrig, son of Fearn, the Hammerkeg who had volunteered to join his company. Finrig bowed his head once before taking the knee with the others. He wasn’t the only dwarf of another clan who showed their respect and allegiance, for Doran noted three Goldhorns, a pair of Brightbeards, and even a Battleborn drop down.
The son of Dorain tightened his grip around his father’s crown - his crown - and looked down at it. Everything was going to change now.
49
Palios
The days following the victory on The Moonlit Plains had been bitterly cold, the realm truly within winter’s hold, but those of The Rebellion had found warmth in their daily camps, the fires sustained by magic. Under the shadow of Athis, they had also journeyed across the land with their heads held high, for none dared to challenge them.
On the sixth day, having crossed The Unmar at Barden Bridge and broken away from the road to travel north across the land, Vighon looked upon the high walls of Palios, the city of knowledge. It was the second largest city in the region of Alborn, after Velia and, more significantly, home to the All-Tower.
After getting back onto The Selk Road to approach Palios, the All-Tower grew ever larger as it loomed over the heart of the sandy-coloured city. All four of its walls, which narrowed from bottom to top, were lined in text telling one thousand years of human history in Illian.
Unlike Velia, whose walls were lined with gargantuan statues of the region’s most famous kings, the road to Palios was lined with twenty-foot statues of ancient scholars, the first men to compile the records from across the realm and build a home for the most powerful thing in all of Verda: knowledge.
Like Velia, however, Palios was protected by a forbidding pair of enormous doors. And they were sealed shut. In all his time, not only as king but as a rogue, Vighon had never known the gates of Palios to be locked. A quick word to Sir Ruban had a couple of scouts ride on ahead to inform the city’s guards that they had soon to be open. The northman didn’t want to be seated in his saddle for a moment longer than he needed to.
He looked to his right to ask Inara her opinion on the matter, thankful that she had decided to ride beside him; if only for the day. Seeing her pensive expression though, the king asked her a different question.
“Are you still mad?” He was careful to use an even tone, lest he sound as if he was suggesting she had descended into sulking after six days.
“Perhaps,” she replied, her voice leaving no doubt that she was.
Vighon took a breath while composing a slightly different speech to the one he had heard Reyna give her. “Gideon is only doing what he thinks is right.”
“Gideon’s problem is always thinking he is right,” Inara countered. “I just can’t believe my mother agreed with him. It was a crucial time; The Rebellion was vulnerable. Even if Ilargo hadn’t been able to help, Gideon and Galanör are among the best swordsmen in the realm. And Aenwyn can rival my mother with a bow.”
Vighon glanced over his shoulder to make certain their words could not be overheard. “We still found victory without them,” he pointed out. “The tree was saved. Magic is no longer under threat. And besides, their mission has its own role to play. Alijah and Malliath won’t even have considered Crissalith; that makes it a powerful weapon.”
“You’re assuming
they find any,” Inara responded. “They could be looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“If anyone can, it’s them,” Vighon replied optimistically.
“To what end?” Inara muttered.
Vighon frowned at the Guardian. He couldn’t hide his frustration; especially after six days. “To the end,” he told her. “You heard what your mother said. The Crissalith will separate Alijah from Malliath. Divided, they will be more easily defeated.”
“We both know that is not the reason Gideon has flown all the way to Ayda,” Inara countered. “And it’s the same reason why my mother was happy for them to go.”
Vighon nodded to himself, sure that they were getting to the truth of her ire now. “You do not want redemption for your brother,” he stated.
“Do you?” Inara put back to him.
Vighon didn’t answer right away, his gaze taking a moment to drift across the land. “I want my kingdom back,” he finally said. “I want my people to live without fear. I wouldn’t mind mounting Malliath’s head in the throne room. Do I want you to lose your brother? Your parents to lose their son? Do I want to lose my oldest friend?” That last one brought back so many memories for the northman: experiences by Alijah’s side that clouded his judgment.
“Sometimes I wonder if his would be a death too many,” he continued. “Selfishly, I wonder that because I know his death would affect those closest to me. The realm is filled with people - many of whom are right behind us - who have already suffered the loss of those closest to them. As their king, I know I should avenge those deaths and kill the one responsible. There have certainly been many times when I can think of nothing but running him through with my sword.” Vighon paused to look at Inara. Her features had softened but she maintained an air of resolution where the subject was concerned. “In the moment though,” he added, “I imagine Alijah won’t give us a choice. We will be forced to kill him or be killed ourselves, Crissalith or not.”
“In the moment?” Inara repeated incredulously. “The moment has passed. We are already without a choice.”
Vighon sighed inwardly and nodded in agreement. “Perhaps you are right,” he lamented. “Either way; I believe Gideon’s decision to be the right one. Had I been present, I would have encouraged them to go.”
Inara continued to ride beside him in silence, though her thoughts might as well have been on the outside.
“Just say it,” Vighon urged. “I can see it’s killing you.”
“You would have been wrong,” Inara was quick to say, her tone low enough to reach Vighon alone.
Vighon couldn’t help but smile. “I’m allowed to be wrong. Such are the privileges of being king.”
Inara rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“You know, if you were… queen, we would have to make all of our decisions together. We could be wrong together,” he said, hoping to bring some levity to their conversation.
Inara turned to lay her blue eyes on him. “That, Vighon Draqaro, is not a proposal. Though you would be wrong far less of the time,” she added with a hint of a smile.
Vighon realised it was the first he had seen on her face since Athis had returned with all his considerable strength. Whatever their future, the northman knew there and then that making Inara smile was his reason for living.
“When the time comes,” he said, adopting a serious tone once more, “we will face Alijah and Malliath together. And whatever happens, we will live with the consequences together.”
Inara reached out and squeezed his hand, a genuine look of appreciation on her face. “Together,” she echoed.
“Your Grace!” The call drew their attention to the road ahead, where both scouts were quickly returning on horseback.
Captain Dardaris intercepted them first. “Report!” he commanded.
“They do not answer to our calls, Captain,” one of the Namdhorians replied. “There sounds to be a battle taking place.”
“A battle?” Vighon scowled as he narrowed his vision at the gates. There did, indeed, appear to be people moving frantically atop the walls but the details were still hazy from this distance.
Without a word to Ruban or his men, the king set his mount to a gallop and rushed ahead of The Rebellion. He was quickly followed by Inara and the captain before the bulk of the force caught on and hastened after the northman. Closing the gap, he witnessed a man fall to his death from the top of the wall, shortly followed by a pair of Reavers, one of which had a spear impaled through its chest. The fiends crashed into the ground and struggled to rise with so many broken bones, but rise they did - just in time to glimpse the flaming sword of the north.
From atop his horse, Vighon cut down the closest Reaver with a single strike across the head, before kicking the second back. An arrow whistled past him and took the Reaver in the face. The fact that the Reaver’s head exploded and the arrow continued until it drove into the stone of Palios identified the archer as Reyna. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the elven queen was hanging over the side of her saddle, another arrow already nocked.
Bringing his horse to a halt, he could hear the fighting taking place above - the clash of swords, the screams of men, and the wretched howls of Alijah’s twisted Seekers. “We need to get up there!” Vighon yelled to his arriving forces.
“I can do up,” Inara remarked, jumping down from her horse before it even came to a stop.
Beside the road, Athis thundered to the ground with such might that he rattled Palios’s towering doors. Inara had been running towards the dragon before he landed and was quick to ascend to his back. Not one to miss a good fight, Asher was close on the Guardian’s heels before he too climbed onto Athis’s back. One beat of his wings cleared them from the ground and one more brought them in line with the top of the wall, ideal for Inara and Asher to leap from the dragon’s head to the battlements. Even Avandriell followed them into the action, her bronze scales glimmering in the sunlight.
That was the last Vighon saw of the pair and the young dragon. Athis continued higher into the sky before vanishing somewhere over the city. Behind the king, Reyna shouted something in elvish - reminding the northman that he really must get round to learning the language. The meaning of her foreign words became clear when a contingent of elven archers let loose a salvo of arrows towards the top of the wall. A handful of Reavers subsequently fell from the wall, never to rise.
Feeling rather redundant and wholly useless, Vighon remained astride his horse and simply listened to the violence unfold beyond Palios’s walls. More than once he shared an impatient look with Sir Ruban and he couldn’t help but notice Nathaniel’s proud expression as he watched his daughter dart about the battlements like a Fury of the gods given life.
As time went on, the king finally dismounted, along with many others. He held a few conversations here and there, mostly checking in on the wounded they had transported across the land. The more seriously injured that had been among them were now being taken care of in Vangarth, but there were still men, dwarves, and elves in their great company who suffered.
Of course, their were no longer any Centaurs among them, having declined to leave the plains, their home. With nothing to offer them, Vighon and the others had given their thanks and promised to find some way to repay them in the future. Kelabor had spoken on behalf of his kin and refused any such payment. They had been fighting for their land and freedom, both of which had now been returned to them.
Vighon was left with only the utmost respect for them.
It felt like the Fourth Age had come and gone when, at last, the city’s hulking doors began to open. Vighon hurried back to the front with Sir Borin trailing him like an overly large shadow. Asher was standing in the middle of the entrance, his chest heaving and sword filthy with Reaver debris. Behind him, Inara had her boot resting on the chest of another Reaver as she pulled Firefly cleanly from its head.
Vighon passed through the doors and patted the ranger on the shoulder.
“The people of Pali
os saw the banner of house Draqaro coming,” Asher explained, gesturing to a mob of armed men and women. “They wanted to welcome their king.” Never one to say more than he needed to, the ranger sheathed his broadsword and walked away.
The northman faced the crowd, though their attention had been turned to more Reavers approaching from the side street. “Sir Borin,” Vighon said. “Assist those people.” The Golem strode away with a sword more befitting of a Troll in hand.
Turning to Inara, he saw that the Guardian of the Realm was reaching out towards a lone Reaver emerging from the nearest alley. Her hand snatched at the air as she grasped the fiend within her magic. Its arms and legs bent at awkward angles, its feet taken from the ground, before she swiped her arm and launched the Reaver head first into a stone wall.
Vighon raised an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you you’re something of a brute?”
“It’s the dragon in me,” Inara replied with a wry smile.
Moments later, the entrance to the city was flooded with rebellion forces of all three dominant races. Vighon, Reyna, and Commander Rolgoth issued orders to sweep the streets and buildings and destroy any Reavers and Seekers. It wasn’t long before Sir Borin the Dread was returned to the king’s side, his wide sword coated in bits of Reaver.
Halfway towards the All-Tower, a small crowd approached the king and his much larger entourage. Leading them was the familiar face of Governor Tarlan, a man in his late sixties with a slender build and thinning white hair. Vighon had entertained the governor in The Dragon Keep numerous times during his reign as king and knew the man to be a good supporter of his - at least he hadn’t heard otherwise in the time since.
“Your Grace!” Governor Tarlan gave a deep bow before the crowd behind mirrored his action. “Palios is truly blessed to have you here! I have had men, good men, waiting for the right time to strike. There isn’t a Palosian within these walls that could suffer the rule of any but you. When we saw your banner and, of course…” the governor said, looking from Inara to Athis flying overhead, “we knew the hour was upon us.”
A Clash of Fates: The Echoes Saga: Book Nine Page 54
