Gretzen gave a satisfied nod and turned from her.
“But who will be my keeper?” Aurora asked, eyeing the figurine.
“For now it will be me,” said Gretzen. “Come, there is much to do.”
Chapter 45
Drakkar Island
The drum stopped beating.
Helzendar’s heart fluttered—they had arrived. He wished that he could see above deck. Knowing that they were stealthily rowing toward a dragon island in the dead of night, and not being able to see if they were coming, was maddening. At any moment one of them might rain fire down upon the small fleet. Helzendar would burn alive below deck without so much as drawing his father’s axes.
Du’Ren sat next to him, eyes gleaming with the anticipation for battle. Helzendar took strength in the old dwarf’s bravery, and rowed with renewed vigor. They had been at it so long that the dwarves could continue to row in unison without the drummer if need be.
General Hammerfell strode behind the drummer, looking each dwarf in the eye in turn. “We be landin’ on the southern coast o’ Drakkar. The other ships have gone in their respective directions, Ky’Dren bless ‘em. This be it, me dwarves—this be the hour. Soon we storm the beaches o’ Drakkar and take as many o’ the hell born bastards with us as we can.” He stopped before Helzendar and offered a wry grin. “Know that yer ancestors smile down on ye this night. Soon…we shall dine with the gods.”
The rowing was ordered to a stop shortly after, and the rowers scrambled to the bunks to put on their armor and gear up. The excitement was palpable. Helzendar’s hands shook too much for his liking. He muttered a prayer to Ky’Dren and the gods of silver and gold. Du’Ren slapped him on the back and spat.
“Ye ready to bloody them axes o’ yers?”
“I be born ready.”
“Ha! The lad’s got his father’s blood, all right—all piss and whiskey,” said Du’Ren to those nearby.
“Shut yer bloody yapper, Du’Ren,” the dwarf beside Helzendar hissed. “There be damned dragons about. And I for one ain’t wantin’ to go up in dragonsbreath in this tinder box.”
“Bah.” Du’Ren waved him off, yet he spoke lower this time.
General Hammerfell walked into the bunk room holding the biggest crossbow Helzendar had ever seen. The arrows were at least four feet long, with wicked barbed ends and thick steel shafts. The ship suddenly lurched as it landed, forcing everyone to take hold of something solid.
“It be time for war,” said the general.
Helzendar took a steadying breath and mustered his inner strength. He followed close behind Du’Ren up to the deck. “Ain’t ye got weapons?” he asked, noticing that the old dwarf carried none.
Du’Ren grinned over his shoulder. “Ye be seein’ soon enough.”
When they got on deck, Du’Ren and a few of the others went to the room below the quarter deck where a wide double door stood open. Helzendar watched the darkness curiously, and moved through the crowd of unloading dwarves to get a closer look. A heavy stomping came from the dark, and Du’Ren walked out strapped in the largest suit of armor Helzendar had ever seen. It was steel, and engraved with hundreds of holy runes. It gave off no reflection in the moonlight, but rather shined like black ice. About the joints were circular discs on either side, and they appeared to be well oiled. Du’Ren, who was no more than five feet tall, now towered over him at least two feet taller than he had been. His armored arms ended in long pointed blades of a similar dark that appeared to be permanently attached. Spikes protruded from the shoulders, elbows, knees, and even down the spine. He stomped over to Helzendar and peered at him through the small slit in the horned helm. “Let’s give ‘em bloody hells.”
“Grease up!” General Hammerfell ordered.
“What’s that mean?” Helzendar asked.
A dwarf next to him slapped his chest, leaving a slimy goo behind.
“It’s fire bane oil. For the dragonsbreath. Smells like shyte, but it’ll do the job.”
Helzendar and the others covered themselves and each other in the fire bane, and checked their gear once more. Those dwarves who had volunteered to be ‘bombers’ shouldered their packs full of dragonsbreath bombs, which consisted of a large tube of the volatile liquid surrounded by hundreds of steel balls. When the time came, the brave dwarves would get as close to the beasts as possible and then blow themselves sky-high. Helzendar nodded at one of them as the young-looking dwarf pulled the straps tight. The nod was returned with a chest slam.
The small army unloaded quickly and hurried across the open expanse of black beach to take cover behind the many porous boulders and towering rock formations strewn about. Far inland, a forest of strange-looking trees with long, wide leaves dotted the land. Wide rivers of indigenous rock branched out of the trees and met the ocean.
Orrin grabbed Helzendar’s helm and pulled him close. “Ye be with me. Ye hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The general eyed him for a moment and finally nodded, releasing him. He motioned the group forward, and the dwarves all hurried along the lava flow through the forest of palm.
“What in the blazes ye be doin’?” Roakore’s twelfth wife asked, sitting up in bed.
He pulled on his wool socks and then stood and snapped his suspenders in place. “Go back to sleep.”
“Ye be makin’ yerself sick ye keep drinkin’ in the middle o’ the night.”
“I ain’t drinkin’…bah! Do as yer king be tellin’.”
He left the sleeping quarters and went to his study muttering to himself about women and their meddling in his affairs. On his desk, he spotted the whiskey bottle from the night before and stopped to finish it off. He raised it toward the bedroom and gave a stern “harrumph!” before tossing it back.
Across from the fire, he stopped at the wall and pulled on the two brass handles. The doors swung back soundlessly to reveal a wide alcove in the stone. His dented and battered armor sat on display, along with his great axe and stone bird, which sat on a red velvet cushion.
He put on the armor, all the while singing the ode to the god of war. His father had taught it to him when he was only four, and how his eyes had sparkled with the light of glory. Roakore smiled at the recollection. When he had finished, he looked at himself in the foggy metal sheet on the wall that acted as a mirror. The armor fit tighter than he remembered, and he looked to the whiskey bottle with much suspicion.
Properly suited, he took up his great axe and went through the secret passage to the hall containing the many doors to his wives’ rooms. He stopped before the door of Helzendar’s mother and slowly pushed it open.
“Who’s that?” came a strong female voice.
Roakore smiled to himself—there was no sneaking up on that one. “It be me.”
“Me king?”
Roakore pushed into the room and closed the stone door behind him. Arrianna was sitting up in bed, looking curiously at him through a thick shock of hair cascading over strong shoulders.
He went to the edge of her bed and took her hand in his gloveless one. “I be goin’ after our boy. I’m bringin’ him back.”
“Would you steal his glory from him?”
The question shocked him. “What’s this?”
She gave a long, pensive sigh that ended with a quiver. “He’s no longer a young’un. I be knowin’ that now. His road be no longer ours to determine.”
Roakore shot off the bed and began to pace. “He ain’t but sixteen… His beard don’t even come to his chest.”
“And how old were ye when ye first went in search o’ adventure and glory?”
Roakore regarded her with wild, desperate eyes. “A right damn lot older than he be!”
“Dragonshyte! Ye done told me ‘bout sneakin’ out with yer brothers when ye was just fourteen,” she retorted with a stern crossing of the arms. The look she gave made him feel as though he were a lad in trouble.
“Bah! But I shouldn’t be tellin’ ye lasses such pillow secrets.”
> “Lovers share pillow secrets, and children. He be his father’s son and ain’t no doubt.”
Roakore threw up his hands. “All we did is camp out on the side o’ the mountain for a few days, playin’ like we was on watch.”
“And did ye not hope to the gods ye would find a draggard or dragon snoopin’ around? Say ye was Helzendar. Would ye have volunteered for the five hun’red?”
He huffed, yet he had no argument for that. He sat on the edge of the bed once more, defeated.
“Aye, but I love the boy like I be lovin’ his mother.”
Her face softened and tears pooled in her fierce green eyes. She touched a soft hand to his face, one etched with lines of worry. “And he loves ye. He looks up to ye like a god. To him, ye be greater than Ky’Dren himself. He only be wantin’ to walk in yer footsteps.”
“Aye,” said Roakore. “Then he can walk in me kingly boots. He ain’t just another soldier, he be me son, and a right fit heir for the throne. I done me duty to the gods ten times over. I ain’t given ‘em Helzendar, not just yet.”
“What’ll it be, then? Don’t get a mother’s heart all a flutterin’ that she might be seein’ her boy again. Ye says yer goin’ to get him back, then by the gods ye better.”
Roakore ran up the hundreds of stairs to Silverwind’s nest and found that she had already been saddled as he had requested.
“She’s eaten her fill,” said her handler, helping Roakore into the long coat covered in silverhawk feathers. “And she drank herself near four gallons o’ water. She be ready.”
“Aye,” said Roakore. He climbed into the stirrups, attached his axe to the side of the saddle and similarly secured his stone bird and shield.
“May Ky’Dren watch over ye, me king.”
“Aye. Keep a light burning in the mouth o’ the cavern. Look for me morrow’s night forth.”
He snapped the reins and Silverwind opened her wings with a squawk. Three swift steps brought them to the edge and beyond.
“West, Silverwind. West, I say! We be battlin’ dragons and gettin’ back me boy!”
Chapter 46
Kneel before Your New God
Zander reined in his undead steed and sent out a mental impulse telling his army to stop. Lake Eardon lay before them, and beyond, Belldon Island could be seen like a speck on the horizon. The city of Orenden waited for his hordes at the foot of the rolling foothills.
The day was bright and sunny, with not a cloud in the sky. However, the swirling mists that followed Zander and his army would soon change that. Already, they were snaking their way down through the foothills to choke the city below.
With a mental impulse, he ordered his hordes to spread out and take the city from all directions. The undead humans, vicious green-eyed draggard, and gargantuan, lumbering dwargon raged and howled, and charged down from the foothills like an avalanche.
The warning bells sounded in the city. Men scrambled up to the battlements and took their positions. Zander grinned. His conquest of Shierdon was almost complete.
Within hours, the city had been taken. He had ordered the undead to kill only the soldiers. Everyone else was to be brought to the city square so that he might address them as their king. He rode through the streets with his escort of death knights and personal guards, and smiled down on the petrified faces of those humans still being ushered to the city square. The undead created a path for him through the huddled masses and he rode through to the high podium at the center.
The crowd was a mass of mewling women and stone-faced men staring at him with eyes of hatred. Terrified children clung to their mothers like driftwood in stormy seas, their faces buried and bodies shuddering with the remnants of terror.
Zander took the steps to the high podium with his death knight Rezzar and mentally commanded the lich to speak his words. The people had not earned the right to be addressed directly by their new king.
“People of Orenden!” said Rezzar in two voices, one his own, the other a hissing, metallic grating. “Bow before your new king and swear fealty to him now and forever.”
The crowd fell deathly silent, and soon people began to fall to their knees. Of course, there were a few brave souls who stood defiantly, jaws set firm, and hate-filled eyes resolute in their determination.
Zander grinned wide.
He mentally commanded his undead soldiers to weed out the malcontents. Cries rose up in the crowd as the undead soldiers dispatched of the rebels swiftly and brutally. People cried to the heavens, begging their gods to intervene—none of the gods answered their pleas.
The bodies of the dead were dragged before Zander and laid at his feet. The lich extended a hand to the crowd. “Behold, your new king. Your new god. He shall answer your prayers.”
Zander summoned the power of the dark lord’s spirit and raised the dead as one. Forty corpses rose to their feet and looked upon the crowd with eyes of brilliant green.
“Our lord can save you from death. While your gods are silent, he speaks with not only words but actions as well. Behold your new god!”
The people cowered and quivered on the ground. Heads bowed one and all. Children were covered by their parents, nearly suffocated to keep them quiet for fear of what they might be made into should they gain any attention.
Zander looked out over his new followers and opened his arms wide. “Follow me, and you shall have no reason to fear death. For I shall sweep across this land and liberate all the world. None shall stand before me. I am the father of death, and there is no god but me!”
The people were ordered to ready the fleet of fishing vessels, and by nightfall the boats full of undead descended on Belldon Island. The battle for Belldon was a sorry affair. The humans were hopelessly outnumbered. Within an hour of landing, the undead had torn through the castle gates.
Zander walked with his escort of death knights through the great room and straight to the king’s audience chamber. The dark elf Travvikonis who had been impersonating King Ainamaf, sat upon the throne waiting patiently. He had no guards near. Indeed, he was the only one in the chamber.
“King Ainamaf. Or should I call you Travvikonis?” Zander asked as he stopped to stand before the throne.
“Zander, it has been a long time…”
“Indeed.”
Travvikonis rose from his throne and walked down the steps to stand before the necromancer. He eyed the lichs with curiosity. “Orna Catorna is lost to us…yet…you retain the power of necromancy.”
“My power grows with every passing moment. With every soul I obtain, I become stronger. Soon I will challenge the goddess.”
“Kellallea,” Travvikonis whispered. “The Mother of Taking.”
“Call her what you will. I will see her pay for what she has done to our people. I will defeat her, and return to the dark elves that which was stolen.”
Travvikonis looked to Zander with eyes of longing—for the power that he had once had, for a chance to once again take his true form. He dropped to his knees and bowed before the necromancer. “I am your humble servant. Do with me as you will.”
Zander grabbed him by the hair and yanked it back. He unsheathed a thin dagger and slit his neck in one fluid motion. Travvikonis gasped and tried to stifle the flow as his life blood poured freely, turning his once brilliant white robes scarlet.
Zander held him firm as he bled out. “Tonight you shall be reborn.”
Chapter 47
Brinn
On the third day of the march toward Brinn, while the army was camped for the night in a large field, Kellallea appeared to Whill once more.
“Hello, my champion,” she said.
He jumped in his seat when she spoke, trying to contain his surprise. Her smiling eyes told him that he was failing.
“Lady Kellallea…”
“You call me ‘lady’, but I am now a goddess.”
Whill waited.
She eyed him with amusement, and he did his best to give her nothing.
“Might I offer
my deepest congratulations on the news of Avriel’s pregnancy?” she said.
Whill flexed his jaw and felt his face flush. Still he waited.
“Unless I am mistaken, the child will be the first of its kind...”
“Whatever interest you have in me, leave the child out of it,” said Whill, finally unable to contain himself.
She looked hurt. “You think that I would threaten your child? Why do you have such a lowly opinion of me?”
“Because you allowed the near genocide of your entire people in order to attain your station. Please, I tire of your games. Be blunt or be gone. I have a country to put back together.”
Anger flashed in her eyes for a fleeting moment and was gone. “You needn’t do it alone.”
“Nothing is stopping you from helping. Your people are dying. The elders…some thousands of years old. The queen herself. And you are doing nothing to stop it.”
“It is the price of life. Everyone dies. Should a parent guide their children through all the obstacles of life? What, then, would they learn for themselves?”
“There is a difference between nurturing and abandonment,” said Whill.
“Yes, there is.” She strode around the desk and moved behind him.
Whill felt her soothing hands on his shoulders. “I am prepared to nurture.”
“What do you want from me?”
Her soft breath brushed the nape of his neck. “I would see you become what you truly are. You could become the greatest king who ever lived. You could usher in a new age for the people of Agora. I said that I would bestow my gifts upon those who had proven themselves. You ask me why you must swear fealty to me, and I answer thusly: I will never again leave unchecked such great power. A rise like Eadon’s must never happen. IF you are to usher in a new age, then I must have your utter loyalty.”
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