Eadon saw the charge and knew the minds of the dwarves; he turned to his Draggard army. “Kill them all!”
Farandelizon could not understand the strength of this mere dwarf. He could not move the stone. It hung midair even as the crazed dwarves charged his way. He had spent a large amount of stored energy shielding himself from the giant rock that had crashed him through the mountain wall. He had steadily applied pressure to the boulders he sent flying, but the dwarf had met that strength. Indeed, even as the dwarves, the stubborn dwarf king began to win the contest of wills. Farandelizon released a massive surge of energy, and still the rock did not move. Unable to withstand the great force, it exploded into a million pieces in all directions. The Dark elf released his hold on them as he drew his sword to face the onslaught of furious dwarves. Roakore, however, did not release the stones. They changed course, bent by his will alone. As Farandelizon cut through the charging dwarves, he set his sights on the blasted dwarf King. Summoning the energy stored within his heart stone, he began to charge straight at him. Suddenly a shadow covered him. Fighting through the dwarf army, he had not the time to stop the millions of descending stone fragments as they ripped through his body.
Abram saw Zerafin come to his feet shuddering in grief, face twisted in rage. Then he looked at the too-still figure of Avriel—saw her take breath. He rushed to her and lifted her head. “She lives, she breathes! Zerafin!”
The elf did not act as he should have at such news. He simply nodded. “Yes, she breathes, her body is alive, but she is not whole.” He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. Abram feared what he meant. “Eadon, somehow, the monster...”
Rhunis looked on, horrified. “What is wrong with her? What has he done?”
Zerafin looked to his beloved youngest sister through tear-blurred eyes. “He has taken her soul.”
He stood before a group of mounted elves that had just come off their boat. “I am taking this regimen under my command,” Zerafin announced. “I will need three horses.” He grabbed a hold of a nearby elf commander’s armor and pulled him close. “Take my sister to the nearest boat. Keep her safe until I return.”
The two seemed to communicate for a moment silently. Then the commander scooped Avriel up and turned back to the waters.
“What’s your plan?” Abram asked.
He pointed toward the mountain. “Eadon has caught up with Whill.”
Abram could hardly make out movement in the sky. Horses were brought, and they mounted. With more than four dozen mounted elf warriors and twice as many humans following, they headed in the direction of the mountain door.
Roakore’s men poured out of the mountain to meet the charge of the Draggard. Whill watched helplessly, knowing that the dwarf army would cut through the nearby Draggard with ease. They would try to kill the red dragon; they would not understand that he was not an enemy, nor would they ever accept it as truth. He knew also that Eadon would kill every last one of them, of this fact he was sure. The Dark elf’s power was far too great.
He could not let this happen. He thought about the greater good, and realized that the best way to help in this battle would be to get Eadon out of it. And that meant full surrender.
Zerafin led the charge with Abram, Rhunis, and the might of the Eldalonian and elven armies at his back. They rode in a V-formation, creating a wedge that sliced through the Draggard army like a hot blade through butter.
A few miles away, at the door of the reclaimed mountain, Roakore’s army clashed with the Draggard. The war for Isladon had begun.
The red dragon Zhola saw the two armies meet, and he knew that he would die. If Eadon did not kill him, the dwarves certainly would. Because of their insane religious beliefs, dwarves were the only opponents dragons truly feared. The crazy little killers would fight viciously till the death, laughing all the while.
He thought of Adimorda, his old friend, and the many years he had spent with the elf. Adimorda had been a true seer; he had never been wrong. This meant, Zhola knew, that his last prediction would come to pass. Whill would use the sword to defeat the Dark elves and extinguish the Draggard from the face of the world. He believed it; he had to believe. He had lived the last five thousand of his six thousand years waiting to pass on the location of the blade to this mysterious Whill.
No, he thought. I will not die today, not until I have passed on the information to Whill. Zhola shuddered at the thought of the many ways the evil elf would try to get the information. He knew that he would soon know pain beyond what he thought possible. He also knew that aside from death, he was equipped to survive such torture. He must surrender and let destiny run its course. He truly had no choice.
Roakore’s men crashed into the Draggard army, which consisted of legions stretching all the way back to the beaches. The mountain had been emptied. They had been too late, Roakore realized. Hundreds of thousands of Draggard had spread out into the world. Many stayed and fought, but many more had gone off in all directions—a dark plague let loose into the world.
My grandchildren may not see the end of this war, Roakore thought.
Zerafin, Rhunis, and Abram led the charge through the thousands of Draggard. They were less than two miles from the mountain. The elf held his sword high, and from it emanated the purest, brightest light in all directions. The Draggard cringed and yelped as the beams fell upon them. None could withstand the awesome, piercing light.
Eadon strode up to Whill and looked him dead in the eye. Whill saw that around the black pools of his eyes was a brilliant green, as if they were emerald specks. Within those orbs he also saw many millennia of life, knowledge, and power. If Whill could have made a sound he would have whimpered, so humbled was he in the presence of the ancient Dark elf. He felt a searing pain shoot through his head, as if ice-cold fingernails were scratching at his very brain. Depression, despair, and darkness filled his soul. Eadon leaned forward and whispered in his ear.
“The battle you wage with me, child, will not be fought with muscle nor blade. You see, your mind is the battlefield. I can take your very sanity if I choose—if you choose. Resist me and I will show you pain beyond measure, beyond reason, beyond sanity. Follow me and you may find enlightenment.”
With the last word, the pain vanished and was replaced with a mental pleasure just as intense. His body shook with spasms as it jolted in rapture. His mind was filled with pleasure, hope, and willpower. Then Eadon released him. Whill caught his breath and raised his head. The elf lifted his hand, and in his palm sat a beautiful, swirling ball of light. Whill was mesmerized as he watched.
“Did you think her dead?”
Her? Whom does he speak of, what riddle was this? Then his breath shuddered. “What have you done?”
Eadon pocketed the swirling ball. “I have simply evened the scales. You have something I want, and now I have something—or should I say… someone—you want.”
“Avriel? It isn’t possible! What have you done?”
“Her body is alive, though it is but an empty shell. You really should thank me, Whill. She meant to die with that spell. A waste, really. She did have such a way about her walk, did she not?”
Whill seethed, He wanted nothing more than to bathe in the blood of his enemy. His helplessness only fueled his rage. “I don’t believe you!”
Eadon laughed. “You will soon enough—that is, if I allow you to see within the orb. But if you defy me you will see firsthand as I transfer your beloved’s soul into a Draggard, or better yet, a Draggard queen. Tell me, how do you think Avriel would like that existence? She, an elf princess, birthing my army.”
What the Dark elf said was repulsive—unimaginable—but, Whill knew, possible for this sick being to accomplish. Knowing he had to do what he must to save Avriel’s soul, he hung his head in defeat.
“I will do what you ask of me.”
“Fret not, my friend, I repay loyalty and service. I am not such a monster as you think. Say the word and your parents’ murderer will die this day.”
“The boy cannot resist one such as he—few can. He is lost to us.”
Abram’s heart stopped cold as he registered the elf’s words. This was all wrong—this was not part of the plan. Surely, this hadn’t been foreseen by Adimorda.
“I’m sorry” was all he could say and think.
As they came to the mountain they spotted Roakore’s ranks fighting the mass of Draggard. Zerafin steered them towards the dwarves. Whill was gone, Avriel was lost to them, but a war still needed warriors. It was time to fight.
Roakore saw too as Eadon and Whill mounted the dragons and flew off into the morning sky. The old dwarf knew better than to think him a traitor; he knew all too well the great power of the Dark elves, and he knew Whill’s peril.
“May the gods be with you lad,” he said with a tear in his eye.
His heart quickened as he saw the approach of his friends and the many skilled elf warriors. “Allies arrive, elves and men. Treat them as brethren, me boys! They fight with us against the Draggard.”
A cheer erupted around Roakore. This would be a day to remember, he thought.
Whill flew on the back of the red dragon as it followed Eadon and the Dragon-hawk through the sky, to what destination he did not know. Say the word and your parents’ murderer will die by your sword this day. Eadon’s words echoed in Whill’s mind. He was doomed and he knew it. The journey to Elladrindellia had turned into a nightmare. Rather than traveling to the elven land with Avriel and the others, he had been caught, and they killed. He lost a bit of sanity when he thought about it. One good thing would come of this: he would kill his uncle the traitor. That was all that Whill let himself think about, for the other thoughts haunting the dark corners of his mind were much too painful.
They flew well into the afternoon. Whill knew now their destination: they were headed in the direction of his family’s castle, the center of the Uthen-Arden Kingdom. The home he had never seen. Home—that word had little meaning for Whill. His home had been taken from him, his family, his kingdom—all of it taken. Addakon would pay.
The Dragon-hawk led them to the northern tower of a great castle. So immense was it that the dragons themselves were dwarfed in its presence. They landed in the tower with ample room. Eadon dismounted as two robed figures approached.
“See to it that the red dragon—Zhola, is it not?—see to it that Zhola is given proper lodging befitting a guest. Great dragon, I trust that you will find everything as comfortable as can be managed. You shall have a bull to eat; you must be famished after such a long flight.” Zhola growled and Eadon smirked. “I trust that was your stomach, my friend, because you would be ill-advised to refuse my will.”
Whill dismounted, and Zhola and the Dragon-hawk were led down a great winding ramp. Without a word Eadon turned and exited down a hall to his right. Whill followed.
The Dark elf stopped to face him. “You seek the blood of your parents’ murderer, do you not? What have you imagined doing to him?” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Your rage is that which even one as old as I rarely see. It pulses from you. To my mind-sight it is a supernova of energy. Dark energy.” They went on to a torch-lit room.
Whill had barely heard him, so focused was he on the face of his uncle—the face of his father. But he did register the words “dark energy,” and the context thereof.
Into the room he went, as if floating upon a dream cloud. Time slowed as Eadon stepped aside to reveal the figure before them.
Roakore’s dwarves roared triumphantly as the elves’ flaming arrows cut into the backs of the retreating Draggard. To be a Draggard upon that shore that day meant doom. The battle had raged into the afternoon and evening, and the casualties for all armies had been devastating. Of the thousands of dwarves, fewer than five hundred remained, and those were mostly Roakore’s hardiest. Of the Eldalonian army, only five battalions of fifty still breathed. The elves had lost many to the Dark elf force of only seven. Many dwarves wondered at what they had witnessed of the elves, and most shuddered at the memory of the awesome power. Lightning had been pulled from the sky, tornadoes had tossed hundreds of Draggard miles into the air, and the ground itself had pulsed and fought as a mammoth monster of dirt and stone. Trees had been torn from their roots and rained down on the battle. Living flames had devoured hundreds. The dwarves had witnessed the true power of gods that day.
In the end it was Zerafin who had claimed the final Dark elf kill with a stone monster from the very side of the mountain. It pounded the kneeling Dark elf into the ground, its boulder fists hammering the elf’s protective energy shield. With a final ground-shaking blast, the stone behemoth punched through the earth, burying its arm up to the shoulder, and froze. There it stayed, and all knew that the Dark elf was dead.
At the end of it all Roakore stood with Abram, Rhunis, and Zerafin, staring out over the bloody battlefield. They awaited reports from their respective commanders. One such commander, a dwarf, ran up to them and slammed his chest.
“Me king. Our scouts hear tell the beasts that retreated south be hunted down an’ slain.” He paused. “The Draggard queen…”
Roakore and the others looked on expectantly. “Well? Out with it, laddie!”
The dwarf straightened. “We have found her, Sire, in the lowest reaches o’ the mountain.”
“Alive?” The dwarf nodded. “Then together let us end this bloody battle and call the day a victory. If you will, I would have ye accompany us in this last fight. Ye have all earned it.”
Zerafin looked to the mountain. “A Draggard queen is not to be underestimated. They are not the mindless beasts you might think. They are highly intelligent, they speak, and they are skilled in the ways of the Dark arts. You must allow the elves to deal with her, my good dwarf.”
Roakore stumbled over his words. “Let the elves handle it—the elves! If you had a chance to take back yer home land, would ye let the dwarves take care of it? No, my good elf, you would not! Am I to rob me fellows o’ the chance to take back their own mountain with their own might?” He slammed his axe hilt onto a large stone at his feet. It shattered into pieces.
Zerafin did not speak, he simply sighed. Abram, for once, did not offer his thoughts, for they were with Whill. It was Rhunis who spoke.
“Let us fight together in this venture as you said, Roakore. The mountain has been taken back, your father’s soul freed.” Roakore’s eyes lit up at the recognition of the fate of his father’s soul. “Let our three races come together as one, as we done on this battlefield. Together we must stand.”
“Whill would want it that way,” Abram said, head still bent as he stood apart from them.
Zerafin nodded. “As would Avriel.”
Roakore sighed and smiled. “As do I, then, as do I.”
The four clasped shoulders.
“But,” said Roakore. “The killing blows will be dealt by us dwarves.”
“Why? Why did you kill your own brother for this…this...” Whill motioned to Eadon with a weak hand. “This madman!”
Addakon stepped forward into the torchlight, a long red cloak dragging behind him. His face—the face of his twin brother—was revealed. Whill sucked in his breath. This face, those eyes, that brown hair—Whill had seen it all before. He had seen it in a dream when he had been but seven, one of the many dreams of his parents. But his first dream of them had been real. It seemed that his powers had revealed themselves as early as that.
Addakon spoke. “Why do we do anything, ultimately?”
Whill waited. He was not about to participate in some lesson with this man, and Addakon saw it in his face.
“For power!” he said, making a fist. “Everything we do is for power. I have learned that the quest for control—be it over nature, each other, death, or anything else�
�is always fueled by a need for power.”
Whill shook his head. “No, not everything. We do not love for power.”
His uncle smiled, but his voice revealed his malice. “Do we not? Do we not feel power over those we love? Do we not love the powerful?”
“Was it worth it, Addakon? Your betrayal? Your tainted soul? Have you attained the great power you sought?”
“I have attained more power than any human before me.”
“You both know the prophecy, I assume,” Whill said.
Addakon lowered his eyes and quickly raised them again. Whill saw a spark of doubt on his smug face.
“It is written that I will find the sword and destroy you, Eadon. This is written by the greatest seer that ever lived. This you cannot change.” Whill dared to say.
The Dark elf shrugged lazily. “I could kill you with a thought.”
“But you have not, and I know you will not, because you didn’t in Adimorda’s vision.” Whill’s mind raced. He believed he was right; he believed all of it. Somehow in this, his darkest hour, his moment of revenge, he believed for the first time that he really was the chosen one. That meant he would not die here tonight.
Addakon began to pace. “The blade of Adimorda cannot be wielded by an elf. But we can wield it, Whill, and so could your father. And after I kill you, only I will be able to wield the great power within the blade.”
“But you will not kill me. You cannot. For it has been written.”
He unsheathed his sword but did not strike. “You believe it, don’t you?”
Whill only smiled. “So do you.” He eyed him up and down. “You fear me.” His uncle said nothing. Then he looked into Eadon’s unchanging eyes. “But you do not.”
Addakon erupted. “I do not fear you, boy! I will finish this night what I started twenty years ago. You are not the chosen one.”
Eadon smiled. “Yes, he is.”
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 117
