The Chronicles of Onyx Book Two - Fight of a Hero

Chapter Five

Oldren trudged along, his footsteps fell heavy on the snow. A Dwarven tune escaped his lips, one that was once a song he sang proudly with his brothers. Now it was a weight, a reminder of war that settled upon his broad shoulders. The thought of returning back to battle, without his clan, felt wrong to him, dishonorable even. Still, he knew Rok and Onyx needed him.

Abandoning them would make him no better than a coward.

And he was anything but a coward.

-ooooo-

The relentless sun beat down on him, turning his iron armor into a scalding furnace. The scorching heat made him sweat profusely, droplets trickling down his face and stinging his sea-blue eyes.

He endured the sweltering heat for hours upon hours. His gaze fixed on the horizon before the Orcish kingdom. Even more hours stretched on as he waited patiently for any sign of movement. Any sign that an Orcish soldier may have detected any Dwarven spies on the territory.

Tall grass surrounded him, concealing him from the view of any passing Orcs by simply crouching down onto the dry ground.

"Stupid things" he cursed under his breath.

He stood guard for a little while longer, waiting for his clan to report back to him so that they may return to camp before nightfall. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, a chill in the air became evident.

Suddenly, a faint rustle in the grass behind him caught his attention. He turned to find himself face to face with an older Dwarf, his steel gray hair and long, wiry beard showed age. His eyes were blue, much like Oldren's with one slightly fogged over. Seemingly losing sight in his left.

"Father" Oldren grumbled, recognizing the familiar figure.

"Aye," replied the older dwarf with a slight nod of his head.

"Has the clan seen anything? Any sign of the Queen?" Oldren asked vigorously.

Fengar chuckled softly at his son's prodding, the sound rumbling deep in his throat like distant thunder.

Oldren had grown into the shape of a fine young dwarf, he saw evidence of everything he had hoped to instill in him—strength, resilience, and a fierce loyalty to his kin. The look of determination in Oldren's blue gaze mirrored his own. One that he had gained as Fengar had taught him the ways of the axe; forging him into a fearsome dwarven warrior, one that Fengar was proud to call his son.

"No, boy" he grumbled beneath his breath, "But the clan did stumble upon something... Someone, rather."

Oldren's curiosity grew with his father's words.

"Who?" he pressed on.

"That is not fer me to say, son," Fengar replied solemnly, his gaze drifting towards the horizon where shadows began to dance in the fading light. "Just come"

With that, Fengar turned and began to lead the way, his heavy footsteps crunching through the dry grass as he guided them away from the dangers that lurked within the Orcish kingdom and one steep closer to the safety of their dwarven home, Mithril.

Oh, how he'd missed the welcoming taste of dwarven ale and the warmth of the hearthstone.

Oldren followed close behind the sturdy strides of his father, until reaching camp where his clan awaited them. However as they neared the camp, something else caught his eye—a soft face stood out amidst the familiar faces of his kin. A woman. An elven woman.

She sat on the ground near the fire, she wore a tattered cloak stained with dirt, her slender arms wrapped around her legs as though trying to make herself smaller. Strands of dull auburn hair clung to her face, matted with sweat and grime, while her weary eyes darted around the campsite with desperation. It was evident that she had endured hardships, with her appearance telling the story of an escape from some unseen danger. Yet despite her worn exterior, there was a resilience in her aquamarine gaze, a determination that contradicted her fragile frame.

"Where did ye find her?" Olrend asked his clan with a look in his gaze.

"We saw her sprinting through the woods like a deer," One of the dwarves said.

"We don't know where she came from," Fengar started, "We wanted to wait till ye came before we began asking around"

Oldren nodded as he crouched before the Elf, "Yer a long way from Eselone, aren't you, Elf?" he questioned the woman, gazing deep into her pale blue eyes.

"I'm not from Eselone," she answered with a regalness in her tone.

Oldren's brows furrowed in surprise. "Aye, so where are ye from then?"

"Thimriur," she replied calmly, her gaze unwavering.

Oldren's eyes widened. Thimriur, was the Orcs territory, it was a place known for killing any outsiders they may have been unlucky enough to find themselves crossing their land. The revelation left him momentarily speechless, his mind racing with questions and suspicions.

"There was only one elf that she possibly could be, the old Queen," Oldren thought. "But it couldn't be. She was dead.. was she?"

"Thimriur, ye say?" he finally managed to say, failing to hide the disbelief in his tone. "And what might be yer name, lass?"

"Galihay, but you may know me as Queen Galihay"