Raene looked around frantically and found a large jagged stone, roughly the size of a man’s head. She tossed it up onto the raft, and together with Azzeal, pushed the raft into the water. The waves were high, and were soon crashing over Raene’s head. She spat out the salty seawater with disgust. Another wave hit and nearly flipped the raft. They didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Behind them, the high-pitched shrieking of the undead ripped through the night. Raene glanced behind her and cursed under her breath when she saw the gigantic undead dwargon charging onto the beach, followed by humans and draggard alike.
“Push!” Azzeal cried through the crashing of the waves.
Raene redoubled her efforts and pushed as hard as she could. She was glad that she had heeded the elf’s warning about not wearing her heavy armor in the water. It sat in a sack tied to the raft. With it, she would have sunk fast, but without it she would be defenseless against the coming hordes.
When the water became too deep, Raene climbed up onto the raft and focused on the undead charging into the water. She started to paddle frantically as Azzeal did what he could to push beyond the breakers. The dwargon behind them was fast approaching, easily traversing through the waves with its powerful fifteen-foot frame.
Azzeal gave a final shove and his head disappeared under the water and then finally broke through the waves. Raene helped him up and took up her shield. The dwargon was almost upon them.
Raene took mental control of the large stone and guided it out wide with her hands. The dwargon lumbered through the water and raised a large club, only to have the flying stone smash into the side of its head. The beast reeled and gave an angry cry as Raene brought the stone around again to slam into its chest.
In the chaos, an undead human began clawing its way onto the raft. Azzeal abandoned his rowing and took up his sword. He came down with two swift blows that severed the clawing creature’s hands at the wrist. A swift kick to the face sent the undead back into the water.
The deepening water was beginning to slow the lumbering dwargon, and when the raft finally reached the breakers it was pulled away swiftly. Nevertheless, Raene kept up with her attack, slamming the dwargon repeatedly with her flying stone.
The dwargon finally sank below the water, and Raene released her mental hold on the stone and slumped down on the raft.
“You did well,” said Azzeal.
She offered him a grin and passed out.
Chapter 37
Elgar Mountain
As Tyrron had promised, the trade winds flowing north took them swiftly to their destination, and on the seventh day away from Elladrindellia, the Elgar Mountains came into view beyond the coast. The ship turned west along the northern coast that housed the mountain harbor.
The dwarven gods had been chiseled into the side of the steep cliffs and mountainside, and loomed hundreds of feet above, watching over the waters. The coastline continued west beyond the mountains for many leagues and then continued on north along the lowlands. Many human villages were speckled along that rocky terrain, and farther north, the Shierdon border met the water.
Whill’s ship sailed into the harbor and through a cavern built into the side of the mountain. He had once been awestruck by Fendale’s cavern harbor; however, compared to this immense natural wonder, it seemed small indeed.
They were met by an army of no less than five hundred armored dwarven soldiers. When Whill stepped onto the stone landing, he was greeted by a tall decorated dwarf with a diamond-encrusted eye patch over his left eye.
“Greetings, King Warcrown,” he said in a voice deep even for a dwarf, and slammed his fist to his chest, giving a great bow. “I be Elgen Stonefist, commander o’ northern Elgar.”
“Well met, Elgen Stonefist,” said Whill, returning the greeting in kind.
“The king be eager to speak with ye. If ye would follow me I’ll lead ye to the railway that’ll bring ye into the city right quick. Yer army can march on through the northern pass. There’r caverns to make camp in along the way, and the entire march should only take a few days.”
“Very well,” said Whill, and then turned to Greyson. “I would have you accompany me to the city to speak with the king.”
“Yes, my liege,” said Tyrron with a smile.
The army was given their instructions, and Whill, along with Greyson and a dozen soldiers, followed Commander Stonefist up an impossibly long stair built into the side of the cavern wall. Whill felt slightly apprehensive about the dwarven ‘rail,’ as he had nearly gotten himself killed riding on one with Roakore and Abram. But it was just about the fastest way to travel through the mountains.
They finally reached the top and walked deeper into the mountain, through halls of white marble and wide tunnels of sparkling, chiseled stone. Another, shorter, stair brought them to the loading dock for the rail.
“Now this here’s the fastest way to the city,” said Elgen with a look of pride.
A wood and metal monstrosity of engineering genius clanked and clattered its way through a dark tunnel and stopped at the landing with a groan. Unlike the simple bucket with brake lever that he had previously ventured in, this was much more elaborate. Two dozen dwarves sat in uniform seats, each holding the bar to a metal crank.
Elgen glanced at Whill and grinned widely.
“That there be dwarf-powered!” He chuckled and slapped General Greyson on the back.
Behind the dwarves was a long carriage of wood with a cloth cover. The inside was empty but for the benches running along the sides and down the center. When everyone was inside, the machine lurched and soon sped up to a brisk pace.
They traveled through dark tunnels and over long bridges spanning great caverns. It took less than an hour for them to reach the city, and when they did, the king of Elgar was waiting.
Whill exited the carriage first and greeted the king in the dwarven fashion. “Well met, King Du’Krell of Elgar.”
The red-bearded dwarf king returned the gesture and bowed. “Well met, King Warcrown o’ Uthen-Arden. I’ve heard much o’ ye from me cousin Roakore.”
“A good dwarf, that one,” said Whill.
“Indeed, indeed. Well, then, welcome to me mountain home.” He opened his arms wide to the city beyond. “O’ course, this ain’t Ry’Del, which I wish ye had time to see. The inner sanctum spans for three leagues in each direction, and oh how it shimmers. Was built in the middle of a quartz deposit, it was.”
“I would love to see it someday,” said Whill.
“Well, then, ye be hungry, I be sure. We all been tightenin’ our belts these days, but I’ve been able to rustle up food fit for a king” —he nudged Whill in the side— “and a few barrels o’ ale to boot.”
They traveled through the city and up a long flight of stairs cut into the stone. It was a long walk, but Whill welcomed it after being stuck on a ship for a week.
The dining hall was ready for their arrival, and, as they were seated, dwarf maidens were swift to get the beer flowing. The long table could seat nearly fifty, but only three places were set on one end.
Immense chandeliers hung from a vast, arched ceiling. The walls were smooth and polished, with immense circular pillars bordering large murals.
The king raised his mug to Whill and Tyrron in cheer. “To the fall o’ the bastard, Eadon!”
“Hear, hear,” said the men.
“We been watching over the human villages to the northwest, and they raise some o’ the best beef this side o’ the Ky’Dren mountains,” said Du’Krell as the maidens brought out a heaping plate of rare steaks.
Whill laughed. “That was Abram’s favorite saying when I was growing up, everything was, ‘the best such and such this side of so and so’.”
“Aye, Abram was a good man. I knew him well, and mourned the news of his passing.”
“That he was,” said Whill raising his mug once more.
They dined and drank and shared stories of the winter since the fall of Eadon. Like everyone else, the Elgar dwarves
had been forced to make sacrifices. Food rations had been cut in half, and dinners overflowing with ale were a thing of the past—aside from the table of the king, of course.
Trade for the dwarves had been significantly slowed due to the war, and the invasion of the Draggard had claimed many lives. Eadon had somehow placed portals inside of all of the major mountain kingdoms as part of his ultimate plan. Whill had managed to destroy all of the portals on the Drindellian side, therefore allowing the dwarves to subdue the attackers. The humans hadn’t been so lucky. It was estimated that over one hundred thousand Agorans had lost their lives in the invasion, and dozens of cities had been destroyed.
“How has your kingdom faired since the fall o’ Eadon?” Du’Krell asked.
“The winter was a rough one. We’ve refugees pouring in from Isladon and surrounding cities and villages steadily. The crops are taking longer than usual to come in, due to the drought in the south. We’re doing the best we can. It will take decades to rebuild, and I doubt that anything will ever be the same. But we survived.”
“And now we’ve got this necromancer to deal with,” said Du’Krell with disgust.
“Necromancer?” said Whill.
“Aye, the tales you’ve heard be true. Me scouts on the northern border seen the undead hordes with their own eyes. The dark-elf necromancer be destroyin’ the land. They say a darkness plagues all o’Shierdon. The dead walk in the daylight. Men, women, even children and babes.”
Whill was unsettled by the news. He had thought to make quick work of the northern stabilization, but now, it seemed, that he had a much bigger problem brewing in the north.
“I share your sentiment,” he said, “and propose that it be a joint venture. I have to bring stability to the north, and I think that in light of the situation, the three lords will be more than willing to compromise.”
Du’Krell scoffed. “Ye be meanin’ the three lords who done named themselves kings o’ your lands? I’d kill ‘em all. You can’t be givin’ people the impression that they’ll gain a higher title by goin’ against their king. Givin’ weeds a place o’ their own to grow ain’t no solution, ye got to pull them out by the root and burn em to a crisp.”
Whill glanced at General Greyson and saw that the man liked Du’Krell’s way of thinking.
The general noticed his attention and offered a shrug. “He’s got a point.”
“They have the backing of many lords,” said Whill.
Du’Krell threw up his arms in frustration. “All the more reason to stomp out their rise now, before ye lose control o’ yer damned realm.”
“I’ve never had control of my realm. I inherited a kingdom in chaos.”
“All the more reason to act with force. Show ‘em yer brass.”
“Me king!” A dwarf came running into the dining hall holding a small leather pouch. “I’m sorry to be interruptin’ but this just came from King Roakore o’ Ro’Sar by way o’ pigeon.”
“Give it here,” said Du’Krell.
Whill perked up. He hadn’t heard from Roakore in some time.
The dwarf king opened the pouch and took out a small scroll and unrolled it. He inspected the message and flipped the paper over with a scowl. “Bad tidings from the west,” said the king, handing the paper over to Whill.
King Du’Krell,
Greetings, me cousin. Word has come to me from many a reliable source that there be a great storm o’ dragons gathering on Drakkar Island. Some estimates be saying over a hundred o’ the beasts. It be me mind that they plan to attack. Mayhap they be thinking we be weak, I ain’t for knowing. I be sending a regiment o’ five hundred to hit ‘em where they breed. They be heading out within the week. I be offering human refuge within a hundred miles o’ the mountain, and preparing defenses. I be asking ye and Ky’Ell o’ Ky’Dren for reinforcements, a thousand each, or whatever ye be able to send. Ky’Ell’s lot be getting here sooner, but any help ye can offer would be appreciated. If the dragons be thinking they’re going to catch us unprepared they got another thing coming.
Glory be to Ky’Dren!
Roakore
Whill read the letter twice and handed it back to Du’Krell, who was watching him closely.
“A gathering of dragons on Drakkar?” said Whill, realizing the many implications.
“Aye, this be changin’ everythin’. I ain’t for havin’ me soldiers spread across the north if’n them beasts plan on attackin’. They can cover the distance from Drakkar to here in a half a week at the least.”
“Are you sending reinforcements to Roakore?”
“Aye, that I be, and more than he asked for. Two thousand at least. That be a small mountain range, and it’ll be the first that the devil dragons attack.”
“And if they plan to strike Uthen-Arden, Del’Oradon isn’t far east,” said Tyrron.
Whill agreed, but there was little they could do about that now aside from sending a warning. Without the help of the dwarves in securing the north, it was going to take that much longer.
“This be all the more reason to hit them three false kings and hit ‘em hard,” said Du’Krell.
“Yes, but there is still the dark-elf necromancer to deal with. If they move south into Uthen-Arden, it will not only be a threat to us, but to the Dwarven Mountains as well. We must secure the north, no matter if there is the threat of dragons or not. You cannot afford to lose trade routes with northeast Uthen-Arden any more than the Ky’Dren dwarves can lose the east. We cannot allow the necromancer to drive a wedge down the middle of Agora,” said Whill.
Du’Krell regarded Whill with a firm scowl and lit the pipe he had been preparing. “Want a smoke?”
“No thank you,” said Whill.
The king offered a pipe to Tyrron, who accepted. He then finished off his beer and poured them all another.
“Ye be speakin’ the truth. But I can’t be affordin’ the numbers I had planned on sendin’. I can offer up a thousand dwarves to hold the borders and another thousand to defend the northeastern-most towns and villages.”
“Thank you, Du’Krell.” said Whill. “It is greatly appreciated.”
Chapter 38
The Five Hun’red
Helzendar snuck out of the foundry when no one was looking. This was the day that the five-hundred were leaving for Drakkar, and he planned on going with them. He wouldn’t be missed for a few hours, and by then he would already be far out to sea with the other volunteers.
He knew that Roakore likely wouldn’t notice his absence at all, preoccupied as he was due to Nah’Zed’s death.
He hurried to his quarters and grabbed the twin axes he had lifted from his father’s chambers. Covering them in cloth, as not to rouse suspicion, he made his way to the armory, hoping that he wasn’t too late.
When he arrived he heard many voices coming from the chambers. The five-hundred were suiting up for battle. After a few tense minutes the dwarves finally left, and Helzendar quickly slipped into the empty room housing the armor. He quickly found a suit that would fit and dressed as fast as he could. Once properly attired, he attached his twin axes, grabbed a fierce-looking dragon lance, and a shield, and sped off down the hall to catch up with the others.
He caught up to the group just as they were ordered to a halt, causing him to bump into a wide dwarf with a long, white beard. The dwarf eyed him suspiciously, but with the helm covering Helzendar’s face the old dwarf could not tell who he was. Soon he was forgotten; just another brave dwarf.
Helzendar tried to peer over the heads of the others and see why they had been ordered to stop. He spied General Hammerfell speaking with Agnar the Holy.
“Before we set out, High Priest Agnar would like to bless us. Take a knee,” said the general.
The dwarves did as they were told, and Agnar raised a long scepter set with a brilliant red ruby.
“Ky’Dren, bless these brave dwarves as they set out to challenge the devil dragons. In yer name their lances shall strike, and for yer glory their blood will spil
l. Guide their weapons true, and give ‘em the strength to defeat their foes. Glory be to Ky’Dren!”
“Glory be to Ky’Dren!” the dwarves cheered, and as one, they slammed their fists to their chests.
Helzendar breathed a little easier when Agnar left, and the march began anew.
The trek took two hours, and by the time they got to the harbor Helzendar was starving. He told himself to suck it up. For too long he had been living too much like the son of a king. He didn’t like that he was already becoming quite round in the belly. Though it was not uncommon for a dwarf to have what his father called ‘a bit o’ extra cushion for the pushin’,’ there were plenty of dwarves that looked like they were cut from chiseled stone. Helzendar wanted to look like one of them.
When the dwarves came to the harbor, they found Roakore waiting for them. Helzendar cursed under his breath at the sight of his father.
“Formations!” General Hammerfell yelled.
The dwarves split into five regiments and stood before their king. Helzendar lined up with the white-bearded dwarf’s group, hoping that no one would notice that this regiment now had not one-hundred dwarves in it, but one-hundred and one.
“Salute!” Hammerfell commanded.
As one, the many dwarves slammed their chests and said, “Hail Roakore, King o’ Ro’Sar!”
Helzendar hoped that Roakore would not walk the line—at the moment he felt quite exposed.
“First I would commend each and every one o’ ye for volunteerin’ for this dangerous mission. Would that I could be goin’ with ye to share in the glory. Know that Ky’Dren himself be watching over ye, and if ye fall in battle, ye be awakenin’ in the mountain o’ the gods.”
Roakore slammed his chest and bowed low—a sign of great respect.
“Go with Ky’Dren lads, and give the devils hell!”
The soldiers cheered, and Helzendar among them. But then, to his dismay, his father began walking the line and shaking hands with the dwarves—all of them.
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