Twenty-seventh of Harbinger

There was something comforting about the whistle of an arrow and the thwock of it ramming home into its target, though Loranna supposed that only really applied when they weren’t directed at you. Certainly she never wanted to be on the receiving end of the arrows that the elves had developed. Each arrowhead was barbed, designed to stay in whatever beast they pierced. Removing one meant ripping yourself apart and causing more damage. Loranna straightened against the tree that she was sitting against and studied the form of the nearest elf. She nodded as he released his shot, which hit home half an inch from the centre of the target. Not half bad. But then, Davos had always been a good teacher.

“Do you ever miss the old days?”

Loranna stretched as she asked the question, feeling her back begin to tighten. They were only a mile from the dwarven ruin that now occupied their thoughts. We really ought to give that place a name, she thought. Beside her, Davos stopped silently critiquing the elves’ form and grunted. Both were taking a well earned break from teaching the elves the art of war.

“Which part?” he asked drily. “Being cursed as Lowborn? Having to sniff out drunks – literally, I might remind you. It wasn’t the most glamorous life. So which part, exactly?”

Loranna laughed. “Give it a rest. You sound like an old man. You were happy, you know. For all that, you loved your work.”

“I did, when I was actually helping people,” Davos admitted. He sighed. “That was a lifetime ago.”

“Four months?” Loranna shrugged. “Time flies when you’re changing the world.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Loranna looked over to him. “Did you ever realise that we are the only two people who supported Belkai who are still alive?”

“Sashai is here,” Davos pointed out.

“She didn’t march into Narandir,” Loranna said, waving a hand dismissively. “All of those soldiers are dead – one of them died trying to get to you in that desert. Roulson’s dead. We’re all that’s left.”

“You’re feeling morbid.” Davos arched an eyebrow. “Did you have a fight with Lithmae this morning?”

“I’m just thinking. I know the concept is difficult for a scout.”

“We’re not all she has,” Davos assured her. “And we won’t leave her alone.”

“I was scared when the wolves took you, Davos,” Loranna admitted. “Of course, I was worried for you. But I was scared about what would happen to Belkai if she lost you. When the Temple was attacked, she was ready to burn the world done to get to you. If they’d killed you...you are the reason she’s alive, Davos. Not the Forest, not me, not her magic. It’s you. If she loses you, then she loses most of what is good in her. And the devastation that would unleash would be unspeakable.”

“Do you think I’m going to die here?” Davos whispered.

“I’m just afraid of what would happen if you did,” Loranna replied. “I’m afraid of a lot of outcomes. Gods, I miss fighting my way through King’s Crossing. I didn’t have to care about anything.”

“You were never heartless, Loranna,” Davos assured her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Do you think Svaleta will come?”

“Sashai should be there now. When they hear about what’s happening, they won’t hesitate. We will win this. The dwarves stand alone.”

“They have the Arcane on their side.”

Davos grinned. “And we have a god-killer. I never imagined my wife would be called that.”

“You’re really not afraid, are you?”

“I’m always afraid,” Davos admitted. “But you can’t let fear win. Belkai taught me that. Just take one step at a time and try to find peace.”

“She found it in you,” Loranna said again. Davos smiled.

“And I found it in her.” He nodded towards Lithmae, who was now approaching them. “And you have your own chance.”

Loranna pulled herself to her feet and flashed Lithmae a smile. She gave Davos one more glance.

“Make the most of it,” he told her. “Who knows what tomorrow will bring.”

He smiled as he watched the two embrace, then turned his gaze back to the archers. They were good, but they were hunters. Soon they wouldn’t be facing trolls or wolves or even Mishtar’s beasts. Would they hold up against a real enemy intent on killing them? Only time could tell.

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***

Nizali had sat on the slopes of Mirzali for close to three days now. As Belkai had promised, the Blackwings had brought him in low and fast, ensuring that the local towns and dwarven scouts had recognised him despite his newly clean-shaven appearance. He’d been dropped roughly onto a patch of rocks, breaking his leg, and the Blackwings had circled him for close to two hours before returning to Narandir. No one came for him. He was, as predicted, thrice cursed. Regardless of the king’s true intentions, Nizali had failed to fulfil his stated duties. His blatant delivery to Mirzali had further damned him, as did his lack of beard. Three days on and he hadn’t a single piece of stubble. That southern magic had gone deep.

Nizali now sat under a grove of trees, his jerkin wrapped around the branch that served as a makeshift splint for his leg. He grimaced at the continued pain and whispered a curse at the hot sun. Every year had been getting warmer as the southern desert slowly crept closer. The ancient Svaletans had come from that desert millennia ago when their sorcerers had cursed their land and unleashed strange monsters from another world. Now it was steadily expanding, and if no one found a solution, there would come a day when it covered the whole continent. It wouldn’t be in Nizali’s lifetime, or even his grandchildren’s, but it was almost inevitable. That desert had claimed thousands of lives over the years, but not Belkai’s. Nizali had played his role, baiting the trap that the Sons of Retribution had set in the ancient ruins. He had been shocked when Belkai was carried out, broken but breathing. Still the Arcane weren’t satisfied in their bloodlust. He didn’t know how the war would end, but he knew that Belkai wouldn’t go without a fight, and he wasn’t sure that they could win.

He cleared his mind as he heard heavy footsteps approaching. Sitting up straight, he watched as two bronze-armoured dwarves made their way up the slope towards him. His eyes narrowed as they drew near and stood at attention without giving the bow that was customary in his presence. Damn you, Belkai. He scowled, and one of them at least had the courtesy to shift nervously.

“What is it?” Nizali growled.

“The King requests your presence,” the more confident guard announced. “He desires no delay.”

Nizali snatched up a thick branch laying beside him and used it to push himself to his feet.

“I will, of course, obey my king’s summons,” he said, venom dripping from his voice. The soldiers turned without a word and led the way down the mountain towards the hidden tunnel that served as Mirzali’s entrance. Neither offered help to Nizali, even as they made their way through the tunnel towards the hidden entranceway.

“Could I have a change of clothes, perhaps?” he asked as the senior soldier began the incantation to open the mountain. The younger dwarf shrugged.

“None were provided,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Milord.”

“King’s choice.” Nizali smiled grimly. “Pardon the smell.”

The senior guard glanced at them as a section of the wall swung back and they moved inside the mountain. As they moved through the golden halls, Nizali could feel the stares of the other dwarves. Prince or not, he bore the marks of shame that could not be erased. In a small act of mercy, he was not led straight to the king, but instead to a small room near the Steward’s chambers. The king’s senior advisor, Desuri, was waiting inside. He grimaced when he saw Nizali, but handed him a fresh cloak.

“You smell like horse,” he said, crinkling his nose.

“Worse. Damnable Blackwings,” Nazali growled. He stripped bare and threw on the fresh cloak, covering his head with the hood. It didn’t remove his shame, but it was an act of penitence for the king. “The witch knew we were coming. She was ready for us.”

Desuri nodded. “I’d imagined as such. Why are you alive?”

“I am both the messenger and the message,” Nazali told him. “But this should wait for the king.”

“Is it that bad?”

Nazali didn’t reply, though he nodded at the guards. Desuri grunted.

“Very well. He is waiting.”

“Is he angry?”

“He left his son on the mountain for three days. What do you think?” Desuri snatched away the branch and threw it to the side. Without a word, he took down a ceremonial spear from the wall and handed it to Nazali in its place. One of the guards made to protest but Desuri stopped him with a glare. “The king’s son does not approach the throne with a stick.”

Nizali was surprised. “He will acknowledge me?”

“Blood is thicker than hair. Though not all will agree with that.”

With that, Desuri led the way down the hall to the throne room. The pike-wielding guards let the two of them through with a harsh stare at Nizali. He ignored them and stood tall as he and Desuri approached the throne. They both bowed until Zimari motioned with his sceptre, rising to see him leaning back in the throne, a dour look on his face.

“Remove your hood,” he ordered. Nizali glanced at Desuri, then did so. Zimari leaned forward and shook his head. “Complete removal. Who did this?”

“A southern sorcerer, of the Correlate,” Nizali told him. “Representatives of most of the Orders were assembled there.”

Zimari’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you should start from the beginning.”

For the next hour, Nizali did so. To his surprise, Zimari did not ask many questions about the shades and their failure, making him wonder what the true strategy was. He described his captivity, and gave the full details about the dwarven ruin and the chamber that they had found within. Here Zimari asked the most questions, wanting to know everything about the precise location, layout, and best angles of approach. Nizali’s information about the defences was outdated, but he told what he knew. When he was finished, Zimari was quiet as he mulled over the information. Nizali cleared his throat nervously, then summoned his courage to speak openly.

“I am concerned about the presence of the mages,” he confessed. “She is not as isolated as we thought. Even the Svaletan Temple is aligned with her. The Ikari are present in Narandir.”

“But not the other kingdoms,” Desuri pointed out. “Either they have yet to be informed, or they do not wish to support her.”

“Time has been limited,” Nizali told them. “Even so, the Wexton Spellcasters would not be present without the Monarchy’s approval. The same applies to the Svaletans.”

“Falkar has a plan for the other kingdoms,” Zimari said, waving a hand dismissively. “They will not be our concern.”

“What do you feel towards Belkai, my friend?” Desuri asked.

Nizali looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You first went to her under the guise of friendship. She trusted you.” Desuri shrugged. “Do you feel remorse for betraying her? Sympathy for her?”

“You have asked me this before,” Nizali growled. “My answer is the same. All of my loyalty is to my people. I feel no sympathy for those who stand between us and our rightful glory.”

“Well said, Nizali.” Zimari smiled. “You have done well. You will lead our forces into battle.”

Nizali’s eyes widened in surprise, but he bowed low before his king. “When?”

“We have already begun.”