He waited nervously as his father slowly made his way down the line. His mind raced. He’ll recognize me eyes for sure. Thought Helzendar. He stood with the center regiment as his dread mounted. There was no way that he could avoid shaking his father’s hand, and without a chance distraction, Roakore would undoubtedly recognize his son through the eye slits in the face plate.
The king moved closer by the second. From the corner of his eye Helzendar saw that he was now only three dwarves away. Then he spotted a large stone sitting on a shelf in the cavern’s ceiling.
Roakore shook hands with the dwarf in front of him and moved to the next.
Helzendar took mental control of the faraway stone and carefully dragged it closer to the edge.
The dwarf beside him reached out his hand and gladly shook that of the king.
With much mental effort Helzendar pulled the stone just as his father moved to stand before him. The stone hit the rocks below, creating a loud bang, before splashing into the harbor. When Roakore turned to look in the direction Helzendar quickly shook his father’s absently outstretched hand. To his relief, Roakore didn’t look at him. But gave a laugh and said. “It be a sign from the gods! Ky’Dren be impatient!”
The group laughed, and Roakore moved on down the line.
Helzendar save a sigh of relief and smiled to himself—he was almost home free.
Soon the dwarves began boarding five large ships. The dwarves didn’t use sailing ships, but depended on their great strength to power the dozens of long oars sticking out the sides.
General Hammerfell boarded Helzendar’s ship with them, and walked the line of dwarves and eyed them each in turn. “I hope ye done kissed yer wives and daughters, I hope ye done told yer sons ye be proud o’ ‘em. It might be that none o’ us return from this mission. But let it be known, on the word o’ Roakore, bringer o’ the reclamation, slayer o’ dragons, king o’ Ro’Sar, every one o’ ye be earnin’ a place at the table o’ the gods!”
The gathered dwarves gave a hearty cheer, and Helzendar found himself one of them. He had no fear of death.
The commander split them into three groups and told them to remember their number. Helzendar and the white-beard were part of group one, and therefore ordered to take the first shift at the oars. Each group would row for an hour and then take a two-hour rest.
When the orders were given, the dwarves scrambled to obey. Helzendar followed his group down below deck. He took off his armor and placed his axes with the other weapons in storage and then was promptly ushered to the oars.
They got settled in their wooden chairs and a dwarf at the head began pounding out a slow rhythm with his drum. Helzendar suspected that the others had done this before, as they were quite smooth in their strokes. He clumsily tried to keep up, and more than once lost the rhythm, or buried his oar too deep. Eventually he got the hang of it and found the pace. Soon the ship was moving, and he watched through the port holes as the dark cavern gave way to waters lit by the dawn.
He grinned to himself as he rowed. Soon he would kill his first dragon, and he would return a hero. Songs would be sung of his glory, ale would flow, and females would beg to have his young’uns.
Chapter 39
Good Tidings from the East
Zerafin stood on the battlements of Queen’s Watch and gazed down at the moonlit ships. The scouts had returned from Drindellia with good tidings. They had landed on the western coast and searched twenty leagues in every direction without finding any sign of the draggard. An outpost had been erected and the flag of Drindellia driven far into the ground.
They were going home.
He didn’t know how he should feel about the revelation. They had been away for so long that the first few hundred years of his life there now seemed like a dream. He had lived in Elladrindellia far longer than he ever had in his homeland. What would it be like to go back…back to the ruined cities and overgrown temples? True, he had returned for a time when he and the others went through the portals, but he hadn’t had the time to truly take it in. Azzeal had been quite moved, he remembered.
Zerafin thought of his old friend often, wondering what had become of him. He had sent Azzeal to Volnoss with Aurora, and by all reports it had not ended well. There was word of his death, but word of his survival as well. Some said that he was now a lich, beholden to the necromancer of the north, and others said that he was hunting down the last remnants of draggard across the land.
He hoped the latter were true.
“You must be excited to see the homeland.”
Zerafin turned to regard his sister walking up to him. “I am.” He gave a laugh and turned back to the sea. “And I am nervous as well.”
“As you should be. It is a dangerous journey you undertake.”
He offered her a knowing grin. “Do not think to dissuade me, sister.”
“You are too much like our mother; stubborn as the rising sun,” she said, shaking her head.
“This, coming from you?”
She gave a small laugh but soon lost her humor. “I’m scared, brother.”
Zerafin noticed how she touched her stomach when she said it, and he offered her the warmth of his embrace. “Everything will be fine until it is not. That is the way of life.”
“Is that supposed to be helpful?”
“It is supposed to be a reminder. You have not been given a dilemma, but a gift.” He held her at arm’s length and then kissed her forehead. “I am sorry for my harsh words the other day. The child will be loved by many. Do not fret.”
They watched the ocean for a time, both enjoying simply being with the other, and both of them knowing that their paths were about to part for the first time in centuries.
“Have you spoken to Mother?” he asked gently.
“I just came from her chamber. She is in good spirits.”
“She keeps speaking of Father. She says that soon they will meet again.”
Avriel looked to her brother. His eyes shone with a light she recognized. “You mean to search him out? Zerafin…”
“I know what you would say. And I understand the unlikelihood of his survival.”
“You cannot spend the rest of your days searching for a ghost. You have a kingdom to rule, a nation to rebuild.”
“Indeed, and that nation is Drindellia. Are you prepared to head the council in my stead?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You will do fine. The people love you, and the council respects you. I will return soon enough. Then the exodus shall begin.”
“What am I going to do?” she asked, unconsciously rubbing her stomach. “I cannot take the child away from Whill, and I cannot remain.”
“There are many elves who do not intend on returning. Thousands have been born here and consider Elladrindellia their home. They will need a leader.”
She looked to him, shocked. “You would have me remain in Agora?”
“I would have you do what you think is right. You said yourself that you cannot take the child away,” said Zerafin. “Whill loves you deeply. He’s willing to give up everything for you.”
She gave a long sigh. “I know. It frustrates me to no end that I have no memory of him.”
“Trust in Kellallea. Surely she will bless the offspring of the one who allowed her ascension.”
She regarded him wearily. “I do not hold the same faith in her as you do. And whether or not I ever regain my memories does not change the fact that I am an elf, and he is a human.”
“You will find a way,” said Zerafin. “Come, we leave soon. You should spend what time you can with Mother.”
Zerafin left Avriel with their mother and ventured down to the dungeons. The general was there waiting for him, along with two guards standing on either side of the cell door.
“Greetings, my king,” said General Thryn.
Zerafin greeted him with a nod and regarded the closed-off cell. “Has he given us anything?”
The general shook his head, raising h
is brow as though it were a rhetorical question. “No, sire. No matter how nicely we ask him.”
Zerafin knew his mind; the general wanted to torture him for the information. And while he had always disagreed with the technique, now he was beset by a sense of urgency that weakened his resolve. Avriel’s pregnancy pushed him toward the decision as well. He wanted to leave with a sense of security.
“Thryn…I have thought long hours about our dilemma. This elf attacked a visiting king, as well as myself, my sister, and the elder council. The Avengers of the Taking must not be allowed to sow dissidence in the hearts of the people. My sister rules in my stead, and I would see her come to no harm.”
“Whatever I can do, my king, I will do it gladly.”
“Appoint your seven best warriors to her personal guard.” He turned to the door and peered through the slat. Valorron Arken sat slumped in his chair, facing the door. He appeared to be sleeping. “As for him, find out as much as you can. Bombard him with questions every minute, every hour, of every day. Once he has reached the breaking point, I want you to feed him blood mushroom and use the Derveron method.”
The general’s eyes gleamed and a slow grin crept across his face.
Zerafin leveled him with a sobering gaze. “I find no pleasure in doing this.”
The general straightened and put on a somber expression. “Of course not, sire.”
“The hallucinations will break him, eventually. When you have learned what you can, give him a swift end. Do it in the cell. I do not agree with a public execution.”
“As you wish. Would you like the princess to be informed of our progress in your stead?”
“Yes, she has already been informed of the situation. I want you to find these elves. Send out skilled spies to infiltrate their ranks. Dispose of the most extreme.”
The general bowed low. “By my life, I will see it done.”
Chapter 40
The Mending
Gretzen stood on the beach, facing south. Azzeal was drawing closer. She could feel him out there on the waters. Many of the villagers had come to join the vigil, and others, too, from neighboring tribes. Word of Gretzen’s victory over the undead horde had spread fast, and the barbarians were flocking to her in droves.
Soon a raft and two figures came into view.
An elf and a dwarf rode the small waves toward the beach as a few barbarian elders hurried to guide them in and steady the craft. Azzeal jumped down into the shallow water and approached Gretzen with a wide smile.
“Azzeal, my friend, it is good to see you!” said Gretzen, hugging him.
A gruff-looking female dwarf walked onto the sand and eyed the barbarians dangerously.
“Gretzen, it has been too long,” said Azzeal.
He glanced around at the gathering, searching for something. “Where is Aurora? Didn’t she come this way?”
Gretzen nodded. “It was through her gem that I was able to reach you.”
“Were you able to free her from Zander’s control as well?”
“She is no longer under Zander’s control,” said Gretzen. “Much like Chief, I’ve given her a new home.” She held up the new figurine.
Azzeal regarded it with wonder.
“Sorry to be interruptin’ yer reunion,” Raene said, stomping over to them. “But I got a problem needs addressin’.”
Gretzen seemed to notice her for the first time.
Raene held out the broken figurine of Chief and Gretzen took it with shaking hands.
“It was broken by Zander,” said Azzeal. “Is there anything you can do?”
Gretzen took it from Raene and inspected the two pieces with concern. “What has become of Chief?”
Raene fidgeted nervously. “When the figurine got broke he was pulled back into it with the others.”
“Others?” Gretzen asked.
“A human, and an elf. They be beholden to the figurine like Chief.”
“How can this be?”
Raene gave a shrug. “Azzeal says ye created it. Yer guess be better than mine. All I be knowin’ is that Dirk, that’s the human, he was dyin’, and Krentz pulled him in with her.”
Gretzen stared at her, looking quite intrigued. “How did she get in the figurine?”
“I ain’t for knowin’,” said Raene.
“Come,” said Gretzen. “There isn’t much time. We must begin the ceremony immediately.”
Raene and Azzeal followed her across the field to the large stone. A fire was built by the elders, and Gretzen sent many of them back to the village to gather the ingredients she would need for the mending.
Raene watched with growing apprehension as the old barbarian-witch worked her strange magic. It didn’t seem like it would work. How was magic supposed to be performed with roots and spices, and by tossing bones and animal pelts into a fire? The old woman stood upon her rock, calling out to the spirit of the timber wolf and the god, Thodin.
The louder Gretzen and the other women chanted, the harder the wind blew, until the fire reached up twenty feet. She held the two pieces to the heavens, bellowing her plea. Slowly the pieces began to glow and Raene’s heart leaped. She watched anxiously as the wind sent the old woman’s silver hair flying about her face like flame and the figurine glowed brightly. She slammed the two pieces together and there was a blinding flash of light.
The wind died down, and the figurine lost its glow. Raene waited expectantly as the old woman climbed down from her high perch.
“Well…be it fixed? Where be Dirk and Krentz?”
Gretzen waved her off and allowed herself to be helped back toward the village by Azzeal. “The figurine is made of bone. The ritual I used is old blood magic, a mending spell. We must give it time to mend itself. For now, I must rest.”
Raene stared expectantly after them and then rushed to catch up. “It either worked or it didn’t. How can ye not be knowin’?”
Gretzen stopped abruptly and scowled down on her. She was old, but she was a Vald, and tall despite her arched back. “You are an impatient one, aren’t you?”
“I am the bearer of the figurine.”
“Are you?” Gretzen asked with an arched brow. “You rushed into battle against the necromancer without heeding the words of your friends. You are not worthy of such a gift. Go on, go back to your people.”
“I brought it to ye so that ye could fix it, not steal it. Give it back!” said Raene.
“You have abused the power of the figurine.”
“I was tryin’ to stop the damned necromancer!” Raene screamed.
The barbarian women tensed, and looked to Gretzen for guidance.
“Please,” said Azzeal, getting between them, “there are enough forces working against us without fighting among ourselves. You both want the same thing—the downfall of the necromancer. You should work together. I am familiar with the figurine as well, I have known Chief for many years. I say that you let him decide who the bearer should be.”
Raene and Gretzen stood glaring at each other.
“I be likin’ the elf’s idea,” said Raene.
Gretzen glanced from her to Azzeal, and finally threw up her hands. “I grow tired. We will speak of this later.”
Raene waited outside the old woman’s tent by the small fire the entire day. Azzeal offered that she sleep in the tent provided for her, but she refused, not wanting to miss it if the old witch emerged—or tried to slip away unnoticed.
She fell asleep sitting up at some point in her vigil. When she awoke, the sky was clear. The summer had been a warm one, but Raene found that it was quite chilly this far north. The wind blew in from the ocean incessantly, and no matter how close Raene got to the fire, she couldn’t seem to get warm. Her stomach growled for hot food, anything but the dried meat and stale bread that she had been pinching from for the last week.
When the smell of stew came to her, the hunger pangs became unbearable. She got up with a huff and drank the last of her water, hoping that it would sate her hunger; it did not.
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Azzeal came to her then, wearing that same placid smile he always wore. “Would you like some stew?” he asked, offering her a steaming bowl.
Raene turned her nose up at it, but her façade was made quite apparent by her rumbling stomach, which Azzeal no doubt heard. “Thank ye,” she finally said, taking it from him.
She scooped up a big portion and ate greedily, spoon after steaming spoon. It burned her mouth, but she cared not. In no time she was scraping the bottom of the wooden bowl.
“Would you like some more?” Azzeal asked, his grin wide.
She considered him for a time. “What’s with ye, always smilin’? Ye be eatin’ them magic mushrooms or somethin’?”
Azzeal howled with laughter at that. “Would that I could find any! No, no, the answer is quite simple. I have been under the control of the necromancer for some time now. I am grateful for my freedom. That is all.”
A barbarian woman came around with a big pot and a ladle and nodded at Raene. The stubborn dwarf hated taking anything from the barbarians, but she was starving, and had to admit the food was delicious. The woman eyed her as she filled the bowl.
“Thanks,” Raene forced herself to say.
“I do what I’m told. It is not always what I would like,” the barbarian droned and walked away.
“What the hells that supposed to mean?” Raene shot to her feet, red-faced.
“You are an angry little dwarf, aren’t you?” Azzeal observed.
Raene watched the woman go. Finally, she set down to her bowl of stew. She ate slower this time, knowing that it was likely the last food she would get from the barbarians. Azzeal just sat there smiling at her, waiting for her to answer.
“Why’re ye so damned nosey?” said Raene.
“I find you interesting. You remind me much of King Roakore.”
She eyed him sidelong. “Ye be knowin’ Roakore? Bah!”
“It’s true. We have fought together many times, alongside Whill of Agora, Aurora, and your friend Dirk.”
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