He landed on the tip of the spire and tucked his large wings. The new clan consisted of one male, two whelps no larger than horses, and four females. They were being greeted by Reshikk’s clan, who snapped, growled, hissed, and shot fire into the sky above the heads of the newcomers, creating a blazing arch.
A big, black dragon appeared to be their leader. Blacks made up most of the clan, along with a few silvers. He was young and strong, and might have been able to give Reshikk a bit of a challenge, but Reshikk was a true green.
The black dragon gave a deafening roar when a red male got too close to one of the females of his clan. His spiked tail shot out wide, and grazed the shoulder scales of the younger red. The others parted before the new arrivals as they made their way to stand before Reshikk.
“Who has called this gathering? Who has spoken to our minds with the voice of a god?” said the black.
“I, Reshikk, have summoned you here.”
“We have sailed upon many currents to answer the call. The eye of the moon has opened and closed since we left the islands to the west. Why have you called us here?” said the black.
Reshikk unfolded his massive wings and let out a plume of fire twenty feet long. “The father of dragons speaks to me. It is by his will we are gathered here, for the time of the dragons has come again! Kneel before me, follow me to glory and conquest. Together we will take back our ancient mountain homes.”
The black growled low in his throat. He glanced back at his clan and then to the surrounding dragons. His females did not meet his gaze, too busy admiring Reshikk’s majesty.
“You say he speaks to you, but what proof do you have?” he dared.
“I am the last of the ancients! My venom burns through flesh and bone, earth and stone. I will melt the mountain doors of the dwarven halls and feast on their flesh. I will scorch the cities of the humans. The elves shall become my slaves. Bow before me, join the Final Clan, and you, Black…you will know the glory of your ancestors.”
The gathering of dragons stirred; deep, guttural sounds pronounced their excitement. The black knew of what he spoke. Like the rest, he too held the knowledge of every dragon of his line, and he remembered the powers of old.
“You and your Blacks shall breathe death, the Whites will once again spew forth lightning, the Blues will strip flesh with steam, and the flame of the Reds shall become a terrible beam of destruction.” Reshikk stood proudly above his clan, letting his proclamation echo across the valley of lava flows. He saw the recognition in the eyes of the Black and his clan. The ancient memories came back to them, whispers of power nearly forgotten, even by the long-lived dragons. “The war of clans nearly wiped us out, and ended many lines. Untold knowledge was lost. For too long you have flown astray. Soon the men of Agora will remember the terrors of old, soon the dwarves will burn inside their caves…soon the elves shall return to their gods. The time of the dragon is upon us. Rise with me, fly with me, KILL WITH ME! And I shall show you the glory of the ancients!”
The black females gave out yearning groans. They gnashed at the air and blew streaming jets of fire into the sky. Their alpha saw the effect Reshikk had on them, and his snout twisted. He turned to his clan and silenced them with an ear-piercing cry.
“You have a gifted tongue…would the ancient one use so crude a tool as words?” the black asked.
Reshikk leaped from the tall spire and landed before the black dragon. He had hoped the young one would offer him a challenge. When the females saw his power they would fight among themselves to be mounted first.
Reshikk grinned.
The black lunged forward on powerful legs and reaching arms and snapped at Reshikk’s neck. Reshikk met the attack with vicious force, coming under the maw of his opponent and slamming up into his chin with thick horns. Reshikk followed the blow quickly with a whip of his tail that cracked many of the scales upon the black’s leg.
The two dragons lunged into each other and rolled across the glowing gray and red rivers of igneous rock. They thrashed and bit, clawed and roared. The surrounding dragons offered up a chorus of bestial noises and encircled them in a ring of fire.
Reshikk took a blow to the shoulder when the black attacked his right wing with a tail thrash. He took advantage of the twisting motion and pounced on his off-balanced opponent, crashing him to the ground and pinning him beneath powerful arms and legs. Reshikk leaned in close to the struggling black’s face.
“Witness the power of the ancient ones,” he snarled.
The black had a crown of horns about his head three feet long. Reshikk held him firm and opened his maw, letting a long, thick glob of green venom fall slowly onto one of the jutting horns. His opponent thrashed about, staring with terrified eyes at the acid slowly reaching for his head. The venom hit the thick horn with a sizzle and burned through it as though it were candle wax. The black cried out for mercy, offering himself and his clan completely.
Reshikk held him there, watching as the acid completely dissolved the horn. It would melt straight through his brain if he tilted the black’s head a certain way. Instead, he turned it away so that the acid burned partially through the crown and down the side of his snout. It dripped off and hit the black’s leg, boring a four-inch-wide hole through it and into the ground.
Satisfied, Reshikk released him and stood tall above his conquered foe. He turned to the newly arrived females and gave a commanding roar. They bowed their heads before his majesty, extending their wings down to the ground in a show of obedience.
The mating that followed was vigorous. Reshikk had already defeated several challengers, and continued to solidify his position as the head alpha. Females flocked to him in droves, and those he deemed unfit for his seed were sent to breed with the others.
Those females he chose for himself laid their eggs in warm, glowing caverns deep beneath the volcano. When the time came they would be covered in flame and would soon hatch. Like their father, they too would possess the powers of old.
Reshikk’s private birthing chambers already housed dozens of eggs. And while he was eager to attack Agora, he knew that he must be patient. Many more would heed his call.
Chapter 23
The Way of the Watcher
Tarren awoke feeling as though he hadn’t slept a wink. The Watcher’s body ached everywhere, and he had soaked the bed with cold sweats. Hushed voices alerted him that he was not alone in his chambers. He lifted his head shakily and found Lunara speaking to the Watcher. It was so strange to see himself from outside his body. He had always felt so small, but the boy standing by the doorway was tall and lanky. Perhaps his body had grown in the months since the switch.
The Watcher noticed that he had awoken and walked toward him carefully. “Good morning, Tarren. How are you feeling?”
Tarren coaxed his old body to sit up with the help of Lunara. “To be truthful…not good. When I lived with my parents in Fendale, I once got a bad fever that laid me down for two weeks; almost didn’t make it. This feels a lot like that.”
He met his own eyes for only a moment, unable to hold the gaze.
“Do not fret, my young friend,” said the Watcher.
Tarren forced himself to look at him. “How can you say that? I’m…I’m dying.”
“We don’t know that for sure. My body is many millennia old, but it is strong.”
“Do you think Whill can find a way?”
The Watcher laughed. “When his mind is set to a task, he seldom fails. What does your heart tell you?”
Tarren thought about it. “My heart tells me that I’m doomed.”
The Watcher smiled and motioned to a servant standing to the side. “Here, I’ve made you some chipickawa tea. It will help with the fever and night sweats. Drink at least four cups. My body has always reacted well to it.”
Lunara wiped Tarren’s head with a cool cloth and smiled upon him warmly. “Have faith in Whill. When he returns, he will have found an answer.”
Tarren wanted to believe her, but h
e had a nagging suspicion that there was nothing to be done to help him. He thought of Helzendar, and how he would tell him to suck it up and quit being a baby. The dwarf boy had always given him strength. He wished more than anything that he was here with him now.
Lunara and the Watcher left Tarren to his slumber. As soon as the door closed she turned to the old elf with a look of concern. “Do you really believe it? That Whill can yet help him?”
“I believe that all things will be as they are. Whill might find a way. He might not. Kellallea may intervene. She may not.”
“I have never understood the Morenka. How can you be at peace with everything that happens, even the ill fortune of innocents?” Lunara asked.
The Watcher began walking with her through the open-air corridors hung with baskets of flowers and teaming with vines.
“Worry is like prayer. There is a power in prayer that has nothing to do with whether or not a deity is listening. We are creators of reality, Lunara, and sometimes we forget the power of the mind. When one prays with their heart and soul, focuses intently, and gives themselves wholly to a cause, they give it life, help it to become a reality. Worry is very much the same thing. It does no good to focus on what we do not want to happen, for in doing so, we help it to become a reality. Instead, focus on what you wish to come to pass, and perhaps it will.”
They walked in silence for a long time, through the gardens and onto the swan bridge where Lunara had spent many hours worrying over Tarren. She tried to think like the Watcher, tried to focus on what she wanted to happen, rather than her fears.
The Watcher looked to her knowingly. “It takes many years of meditation and study to achieve harmony. And even then it is easy to regress. Do not be too hard on yourself.”
“How long do you think he has?” Lunara asked, unable to help herself.
“I do not know. This has come as a surprise to me as well. Many of the elders have already passed on, some, younger than I.”
“I will pray night and day. I will force worry out of my mind and focus only on what I want, if that will help.”
The Watcher smiled. “It cannot hurt.”
Chapter 24
A Force of Will
Roakore was going over the coming week’s agenda with Nah’Zed when the knock came at the door.
“Me King, Philo has come to your call,” said a guard.
“Ah, good, good, show him in,” said Roakore, turning to Nah’Zed. “This can be waitin’ ‘till later.”
“Aye, me king,” she said, and scooped up her pile of scrolls.
She met Philo at the door, and the dwarf offered her a small bow, and brought his fist to his chest. Nah’Zed gave him a coy smile and hurried out of the room.
“Shut the door behind you,” said Roakore.
Philo obliged and accepted a glass of whiskey from Roakore. He gave it a sniff and smiled wide. “Aged Oak Barrel Baldar Black? What be the occasion?”
Roakore settled into his fur-covered chair beside the fire and motioned to the one across from him. “Have a seat—what I got to show you might just put you on your arse.”
Philo’s face lost all its usual carefree cheer. A brow not meant for furling grew creases, and concerned eyes regarded the king. “What’s this?”
Roakore sighed and shot back his drink. He wrung his hands together and reached out toward the fire. Philo spoke not a word but sat and watched closely, clearly confused. Roakore cleared his mind and focused on a piece of stacked wood, wrapping his will around it, imagining taking full control of the object. He lifted his hand and the log floated two feet above the other pieces and began to float the short distance toward Philo. The dwarf leaped to his feet and slapped the log out of the air, spilling his drink in the process. “By Ky’Dren’s bloody dragon killin’ axe! How the hells did ye do that?”
“That ain’t all, look here.” Roakore reached out a hand and mentally lifted the pieces of smashed glass from the floor and floated them out the window. He then reached for a cloth sitting in a bucket in the corner of the room. It floated across the room and slopped up the spilled whiskey.
“Sit down, yer makin’ me nervous,” said Roakore. “I got more to show ye.”
“More!”
“Watch.” He extended a hand to the fire and pulled. Out of the flame came a long serpent of fire that sent Philo nearly toppling back in his chair. With a flick of the wrist, Roakore sent the flame back to the hearth.
“How can this be? Ye got the power to be movin’ stone ‘cause ye be one o’ Ky’Dren’s descendants,” said Philo.
Roakore shrugged and went to the bar to replace Philo’s glass. He returned with the bottle and sat down in his chair once more. “I think it be the same power I move stone with. The lady elf Avriel once asked me why I couldn’t move nothin’ else with me mind, and I told her it was because I didn’t believe. But during that fight in Drindellia, I done moved a battering ram arm with me mind, thinkin’ it be stone. The sun shone behind it so brightly, I couldn’t see the truth o’ it. But I BELIEVED it be stone, and so I could move it.”
Philo dropped to his knees and slammed his fist to his chest. “Ye be blessed, me king. Like Ky’Dren o’ old. The gods work their glorious magic through ye.”
Roakore impatiently motioned for him to rise. “Me think it be goin’ further than that. Me think…me be thinkin’ ye and the other dwarves be able to do the same thing. If only ye believed ye could.”
“ME? I ain’t no direct descendent o’ Ky’Dren.”
“And I ain’t supposed to be able to move nothin’ but stone. Things be a changin’, Philo. It be a new age, a new dawn. Once I accepted the fact that I could move something other ‘n stone, I understood that I could apply the power to anythin’.”
“Good luck convincin’ other dwarves that they be doin’ what ye be doin’ just by believin’ they can,” Philo huffed.
“I want you to start practicin’.”
“Practicin’ what?”
“Movin’ stone, movin’ wood…anythin’. Just give it a chance. That’s an order from ye king.”
Philo shook his head and laughed. “Ye be right outta yer head, ye be.”
Chapter 25
Of Elves and Wolves
Krentz floated through the misty expanse of glowing light. She was deep in Chief’s dark forest. Tall sequoias loomed in the distance, beyond the long waterfall flowing backward. The sky glowed silver with the rings of a million spinning stars, and the many phases of the moon dotted the heavens. Spirit animals scurried about as she passed, startled by her floating form.
She stopped beside the backward-flowing river, which crashed into the collected rocks at the base of the waterfall and flowed up through the air to the cliff above. This was the glade where she had first met the spirit of Talon and his giant silverhawk.
Krentz called out his name. Her voice didn’t echo here; nothing did. She called out again and waited for a time, watching the water flow up the cliff. Perhaps he would not return, having said all that was needed to say.
There was no indication of the passing of time in the spirit realm. The sun shot across the sky sporadically, but its path never followed the same course, or rose from the same direction. She might have waited for an hour, or a year, there was no way to tell.
“She has returned to the homeland.”
Krentz perked up and glanced around. “Talon?”
The wind stirred the grass, causing it to dance and sway lazily like seaweed. A turtle floated by, swimming through the air. She waited for a time for the voice to return, but he was gone. He had said what she needed to know. The elder he spoke of had returned to her homeland: Volnoss.
“Dirk Blackthorn, come to me!”
A sliver of light opened up before Dirk and pulled him in. He flew through the portal and came out into the gray gloom and found Raene surrounded by dozens of undead. He unsheathed a glowing dagger and sword and flew circles around her, cutting down any who got too close. The fog was thick, but as a wrai
th Dirk was able to see through it to the life forces beyond. The undead had a similar glow about them, but rather than life energy, they were surrounded by a green, unnatural, pulsing fog. He sliced through the neck of an undead soldier and chopped in half a sword that came for his head.
Raene was putting her mace to work and frantically trying to keep the creatures at bay with her shield. Dirk flew a swath around her, slicing through the enemy with ringing metal. She produced the figurine again and called to Chief. He swirled out and came to form in the face of an undead Draggard.
“We could really use Krentz right now!” said Dirk, eyeing the mass of glowing hordes through the fog.
“Just cut me a path through ‘em.”
Dirk cursed under his breath as dozens of resurrected soldiers descended on them from the north. He knew that this many wouldn’t be roaming around on their own. This was the head of a larger force—one fast approaching. He could feel the distant pulsing of power, driving them forward fearlessly, murderously.
“There is a dark elf necromancer leading this herd. We must fall back,” he warned.
Raene slammed an armless lich coming at her and smashed its head with her mace. She then reached back with her shield and gave it a heave. It flew through the air, passing through Dirk, and continued on into the crowd of monsters, bludgeoning heads with its sharp corners. She extended her arms and took mental control of the stone shield and pulled it back to her to claim those who had slipped by. Chief and Dirk worked the edges of the charging fiends as the shield spun back and forth, dropping them by the dozens.
When no more came barreling through the dense fog, the shield dropped to the ground and Raene fell to one knee, panting. Chief gave a fierce howl and looked to Dirk, wagging his tail happily.
“Keep an eye out, boy.” Dirk strode over to Raene. “We need to retreat. There’s a necromancer coming with hundreds more.”
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