When the last of them was out, there was a massive explosion in the tunnel. Stalactites teetered, stalagmites crumbled, and the ceiling broke loose with a heavy groan.
Zerafin created a shield of energy around himself, Zilena, and Ninarra as tons of stone, dirt, and debris crashed down on top of them. The shield held, but it began to quickly diminish Zerafin’s power. Ninarra and Zilena each grabbed onto him then, and together the three shot out of the crumbling cavern like an arrow and burst through the falling rubble and into the light of day.
They landed on a ridge overlooking the pit that was being created by the implosion, and soon dirt and debris rose into the air in such a wide plume that it blotted the sun and cast a deep shadow upon the battlefield. All around the rim of the sinkhole, the elves and drekkon fought to the death. Hundreds of stray spells streaked through the air in all directions, some fizzling off into the air while others tore chunks out of surrounding earthen mounds or blasted Ralliad elves and bat riders out of the sky.
Zerafin, my friend, my king, I have returned as you asked. It was Azzeal, and upon hearing the voice in his mind, Zerafin turned to the south.
The terror of dragons swooped down from the clouds, parting the gloom as they descended upon the drekkon hordes. As soon as they were spotted by the drekkon, hundreds of bat riders veered away from the battle to intercept. But the mighty dragons tore through them as though their enemies were merely a murder of crows, and soon it was raining broken drekkon and giant bats.
The battlefield was a bleeding mass of bodies, severed limbs, charred remains, and smoldering craters. Zerafin beheld the destruction and saw too the drekkon females and children fleeing for the frigid mountains to the north. Memories of a similar escape flashed through his mind. In it, elves fled from Eadon’s hordes of draggard as their cities fell burning to the ground.
In that moment, he realized why Whill had decided to stay out of the fight, and why he had urged peace. Zerafin realized that to the drekkon children, he was no better than the dark elf Eadon, and the elves were no better than the draggard.
The dragons didn’t seem to share Zerafin’s sentiment, and he watched with mixed emotions as they chased down the fleeing drekkon and reduced them to ash.
A large explosion suddenly shook the earth, and Zerafin turned back to the battle. From his perch, he could barely make out a lone figure on the other side of the giant sinkhole. He switched to mind sight and let out a shocked breath; the man had an aura of energy around him like Zerafin had only ever seen in Whill.
“It is Orrian,” said Zilena, and before Zerafin could stop her, she leapt into the air and grabbed ahold of a passing dragon’s talon. It whisked her away toward the human sorcerer, and Zerafin searched the sky for his friend.
Azzeal! he called to his friend’s mind.
Zerafin saw Zorriaz and Azzeal coming his way. He timed the jump perfectly and leapt into the air as the dragon passed. Ninarra leapt with him, and together they grabbed ahold of a talon and glided across the battlefield after Zilena.
Orrian unleashed a writhing green spell at Zorriaz, and she banked hard to avoid the blast. Zerafin let go and landed on the side of Orrian opposite Zilena. A moment later, Ninarra landed beside him.
The three elves faced the magical man, and Orrian grinned at them all, his eyes alight with dark power and the sword at his side burning with green flames.
“He’s mine!” Zerafin bellowed before charging Orrian and engaging him in mortal combat.
Their swords connected with a thunderous boom, and the ground shook beneath them. Orrian blasted Zerafin with spells with his free hand, but the elf king was no novice, and he easily deflected the incantations and pressed his sword attack. Zerafin felt that victory was close at hand as he pushed the human back with his fierce attack, but Orrian’s sudden grin told him that the apparent weakness was a ruse. With a deafening war cry, Orrian reversed his momentum and brought his sword around in a blur of motion. Zerafin barely blocked the blow, and when the weapons connected, the elf king was blown back fifty feet by Orrian’s incredible power.
“Zerafin!” Ninarra cried, and together with Zilena, she charged Orrian.
Zerafin rose to his feet weakly and glanced at his sword, which was now charred black at the center. He turned his attention back toward the fight when he heard Ninarra scream, and to his horror, he saw her smoldering body sailing limply to the ground. She landed in a heap on the other side of Orrian, who was now locked in combat with Zilena.
Zorriaz suddenly swooped down, bathed a group of advancing drekkon with dragon fire, and landed among the beasts. She kept the drekkon at bay as Azzeal leapt off the dragon and raced to join the fight.
Zerafin, Azzeal, and Zilena attacked Orrian with everything they had, but the man produced a shield of energy that repelled their greatest attacks. To make matters worse, Vresh’Kon, King of the Drekkon, suddenly appeared at Zilena’s back.
“Behind you!” Zerafin bellowed.
Zilena turned just in time to deflect the screaming drekkon’s sword strike, and she flipped backwards through the air to get away from the spell that followed. The explosion shook the earth, but Zerafin saw that Zilena had survived the attack.
He redoubled his efforts, putting everything he had into an attack meant to reduce Orrian to ash, but before he could release the spell, he was suddenly hit by Orrian’s pulsing beam of magical power.
Zerafin screamed as he felt his power being syphoned from his body. Azzeal tried to distract Orrian, but he only became the man’s victim, and like Zerafin, was lifted into the air as his power was pulled from his body and the crystals embedded in his flesh. Zerafin watched, horrified, as Vresh’Kon stalked toward a prone Zilena. He fought against the power that gripped him, but he might as well have been a bug beneath the boot of a dwarf.
Vresh’Kon stood over Zilena with a wide grin and murder in his eyes. Then he glanced at Zerafin as he raised his sword. Zerafin tried to cry out; he tried to free himself from Orrian’s powerful spell, but was helpless against the incredible power.
Vresh’Kon’s sword came down and impaled Zilena in the stomach, pinning her to the ground. His grin spread as he yanked back the blade. He raised it again, but then suddenly disappeared beneath a mass of writhing white scales.
Zorriaz was on top of him, tearing at the drekkon with her razor-sharp teeth. But Vresh’Kon suddenly hit her with a blast of power that lifted the dragon into the air and engulfed her in a ball of lightning. The Drekkon king rose to his feet, hand outstretched and eyes gleaming.
It was then that Zerafin saw Zilena struggling to her feet. The hole in her stomach was spreading despite the writhing blue tendrils of healing energy trying to repair the damage.
In a matter of seconds, the spell would destroy her completely.
Zerafin watched helplessly as Zilena took her blade in both hands, brought it up to her chest, and unleashed the most powerful spell in the elven arsenal: the Oranna Dekarra.
The blast that followed tore through Vresh’Kon’s body, melting skin, muscle, bone, and reducing the drekkon king to ash. The shockwave hit Orrian, instantly releasing Zerafin and Azzeal, and sending the human crashing into a nearby earthen mound.
Zerafin dropped to the ground as the shockwave tore through the drekkon ranks, killing hundreds, yet leaving the elves and dragons untouched. He felt his sister’s power wash through him, and he cried out in anguish.
Azzeal rushed to Zilena’s side and cradled her head. He glanced over at Zerafin with tear-filled eyes and shook his head.
Zerafin’s mind spun. The effects of Orrian’s spell lingered, leaving him weak, and the loss of his sister filled him with crushing grief. Then he saw Ninarra lying prone on the ground a hundred feet away, and he rushed to her side. He skidded to a stop beside her and dropped to his knees.
“Ninarra, my love,” he said, and relief washed through him when he saw her blink up at him.
“Orrian…” she whispered.
Zerafin glanced a
t the hole in the mount left behind by the magical human. Then he saw the man floating in the air above the mound. Zerafin scooped up his wife, afraid that the man might attack again, but then a wave of elves surged by, chasing the last of the drekkon toward the frigid mountains to the north.
Orrian floated into the air, eyes locked on Zerafin’s, and then he disappeared.
Zerafin scanned the battlefield, and his heart sunk when he saw the hundreds of dead elves among the thousands of drekkon corpses.
“Orrian is gone,” he told his wife.
Ninarra relaxed in his arms, but then she saw Azzeal holding Zilena, and she scrambled out of Zerafin’s grip and ran toward her friend. Zerafin’s heart broke as he watched Azzeal and Ninarra cry over Zilena’s lifeless body.
“What have I done?” he asked the wind.
Chapter 27
Raene woke up in the driver’s seat with a blanket draped over her. She groggily looked to her right and found a pale and tired-looking Ragnar holding the reins. It was nighttime, and they were speeding through the mountain pass.
“Ye look like shit,” she said with a halfhearted laugh.
Ragnar glanced over at her, his head lolling weakly. He smiled, but then began coughing violently. Blood speckled the wood in front of him, and he slumped into Raene.
“Ragnar!” She took the reins and inspected his wound. He had broken off the shaft of the arrow and stuffed fabric in the hole in his armor, but he was bleeding badly. It had begun to pool on the floor around his boots.
Raene tied the reins around the short stub of a post on her side and hurriedly began unstrapping Ragnar’s breastplate.
“You stay with me, Ragnar!” she urged as her fingers, slick with his blood, fumbled with the leather straps. She cursed and complained as she unbuckled the armor, frightened further by her trembling voice.
Ragnar had closed his eyes and, putting an ear to his mouth, Raene heard only a faint rattle. She pulled off his front plate, careful not to jostle the shaft protruding from his upper chest. She set the armor aside and fretted over the wound, not knowing what to do. She should have known; in fact, she did know, but she couldn’t think. Her eyes filled with tears and pain seared her heart.
“You stay with me godsdammit!” she said, shaking him and slapping his face.
Raene struggled to get herself together. The medical kit that all hawk riders carried was tucked inside Prince’s saddlebags. She looked to the sky and whistled through her fingers.
“Prince!” she yelled repeatedly, but the silver hawk was nowhere to be seen. Raene tore a piece of Ragnar’s shirt and carefully wrapped it around the shaft of the crossbow bolt, pressing it tight and holding it there firmly. With the other hand she snapped the reins, urging the horses through the mountain pass as fast as she dared. She needed to get Ragnar back to camp as fast as possible, but she needed to be mindful of her cargo. Already dozens of barrels had fallen off the wagons, and others leaked slowly, having been punctured by the highwaymen’s crossbow bolts.
She whistled for Prince repeatedly, and after a half hour, the silver hawk finally appeared. He flew over the wagon, and Raene screamed for him to stop. When he landed on the road ahead of her, she brought the team of horses to a stop and leapt off the side of the wagon.
“Where the hells ye been! Ragnar’s dying, and I need ye to get him to the camp as soon as possible.”
But then she reconsidered; Ragnar was dying, and there was likely little that the dwarven doctors could do for him. No, Ragnar needed the magic of the elves. She grabbed her medical kit and returned to Ragnar to better staunch the flow of blood. Then she carefully pulled him out and carried him to Prince. It was some work to get him in the saddle without jostling him too much, and strapping him in proved arduous as well.
When she had finally secured him in the saddle, she kissed his forehead, sniffling. “You stay with us, Ragnar, just a bit longer.”
He said something in his sleep, and Raene was overcome with emotion. She kissed his head again and leapt from Prince.
“Ye fly like the wind, Prince. Get Ragnar to Riverfork, ye understand? Get him to an elf healer.”
The bird cocked his head at her and studied her with one large orb.
“Ye understand what I be sayin’? GO! Get Ragnar to Riverfork. GO!”
She slapped the bird in the leg and gave him a push. Prince gave a squawk and took to the air, and to Raene’s relief, he turned north toward Riverfork. She watched Prince fly until he disappeared beyond the horizon, and with a long sigh, she turned her attention back on the road. With a snap of the reins she got the team going again and headed toward Velk’Har, leaving Ragnar’s fate with the gods.
The hours passed by slowly, and Raene’s anxiety grew. Ragnar had been so pale that he looked gray. Dark rings had formed around his eyes, and his skin had been wet with feverish sweat. He had been unconscious when she strapped him to Prince’s saddle, and Raene was fearing the worst. Her emotions surprised her, for she was no stranger to death, and she hadn’t known Ragnar very long.
When Raene finally emerged from the mountain pass, the dwarven guards situated up in the hills and upon the ridges cheered for their princess. Word spread quickly through the camp, and as Raene raced the horses through the streets, the dwarves began to run behind her, whooping and cheering. She pulled up to Roakore’s tent and finally released the reins that she had been squeezing for so many hours.
“Three cheers for Raene the Goldenheart!” one of the dwarves cried, and the dwarves cheered boisterously.
“Raene!” Roakore called out happily as she jumped down from the wagon.
He noticed the look on her face and frowned, glancing at the wagon.
“What be wrong, Raene? Where be Ragnar?”
“There were highwaymen on the road. They tried to stop us. Ragnar was shot in the chest by a crossbow. I strapped him to Prince and sent him back to Riverfork.”
“Awe, Eeney, I be sorry to hear that. With any luck, Prince got him there in time.”
She nodded, trying to be brave, but feeling as though she were slowly unraveling. She turned and tapped one of the kegs before putting her head right under the stream and guzzling the beer until she felt like she might throw up.
The dwarves cheered and followed her lead, pulling the barrels and dusty bottles from the wagon and popping the tops.
“Hold on, ye bunch o’ lushes!” said Roakore, trying to organize the unloading.
As the dwarves squabbled over the spirits, Raene stole herself away to her tent. She needed to get ahold of herself and prepare for the battle to come. Worrying over Ragnar wasn’t going to do him any good.
His life was now in the hands of the gods.
Chapter 28
Larson Donarron strode into the room, looking as smug as ever. He lazily glanced out the window as Dirk approached, his fingers laced over a bulbous belly. He wore a frown that weighed down his usually bright round face.
“What took you so long?” said Dirk.
Larson had been unreachable for the last three days, though he had never left the city.
“Oh, just preventing a guild revolution. The workers are up in arms over the new taxes that you have levied.”
“Yes, well, the people will always bitch about taxes, and in the same breath they will demand more public works. But this is not so important as the task at hand. Have you found another?”
“The wind has brought word to me of several of your magic humans. Seven, in fact.”
“Seven?” Dirk shook his head and moved to the window. Rain fell outside and dripped heavily from the tower eaves, creating a swift little river in the gutters on the roof below.
“I am afraid that it is so. And that is just those I have heard of.”
“How far away is the closest?”
“There is reportedly one in the city, sir, if the words of street urchins can be trusted.”
“I was once a street urchin, Larson.”
The Magister of Secrets bowed slight
ly. “My apologies, sir.”
“None needed. Most of them can’t be trusted.”
“Of course not, sir.”
Dirk turned from the window and moved to the large table, the top of which held an elaborate map of Agora.
“Show me were they are.”
“Sir,” said Larson, floating more than walking over to stand opposite Dirk. “I am curious…What is the point of this?”
“The point of what?”
“Seeking out these humans. Risking your life, the life of Krentz, and your unborn child to do Whillhelm Warcrown’s bidding.”
“How did you know that Krentz was pregnant?” said Dirk.
“The wind told me,” Larson said with a grin.
Dirk conceded the point with a curt nod.
“My reasons are my own. Tell me about this magical human in our city.”
Dirk told Krentz what Larson had said about the mysterious human who had been performing miracles in one of the slums in western Del’Oradon. The girl, whom many had dubbed the Healer of Larkin Street, was said to have elf magic. Dirk hoped that the search wouldn’t take as long as the failure in Pearlton. He was nervous that the girl might attract Eldarian, who had nearly gotten the best of them in the doomed human city. Dirk had watched Pearlton burn to the ground, and he was sure that Eldarian had taken Nathaniel with him. That meant that the ancient elf lord had gathered at least three magical humans.
Dirk had secured none.
As the wagon stopped deep in the western slums, Dirk told the driver to wait and moved with Krentz into the alleys, where rats and street urchins alike gathered in the shadows. These haunts reminded Dirk of the dozens of cities that he and his father had lived in during Dirk’s youth. And though every city had its own quirks, and every street had its own rules and rulers, in the end they were all the same. If you were quick on your feet—or quick with a blade—you could survive, perhaps even thrive in the streets.
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