He suddenly charged Whill with a glowing blue sword that crackled with lightning. Whill raised a hand, taking mental hold of the drekkon king. He then unleashed the power of darkness and death, and the shocked army looked on as Gnawrok grew old before their eyes. “Indeed, you will die of old age,” said Whill.
The drekkon king screamed as his body aged a hundred years in a matter of seconds. He became weak and frail, his muscular body shriveling and his scales cracking like a desert floor starved of rain. Whill continued until Gnawrok fell to dust and bone.
He turned a circle, eyeing the drekkon dangerously. “Your king, the liar, is dead. Go back to your homes, and know that if you ever march on my people again, you all shall die.”
The drekkon said nothing. With their king dead, they seemed not to know what to do. One among them, a robed sorcerer with hard red eyes, said something in their language. At length, the drekkon began to withdraw. The sorcerer remained behind, eyeing Whill with intrigue, but not fear. He did not speak, but rather offered Whill a respectful nod before following the others.
Whill watched them go, knowing that they would soon return.
Chapter 14
The Rise of Vresh’Kon
Vresh’Kon was awakened suddenly by the overwhelming feeling that he was not alone. He spoke a spell word that brought the torches on each side of his tent to life, and when he saw the dark figure standing at the far end, he reeled back, brandishing a long, curved blade.
“Hello, Vresh’Kon,” said the intruder, stepping into the light and causing it to dim, for it seemed that the light fled from his presence.
When Vresh’Kon saw the shadowy elf, he was not afraid, but outraged. “You are a demon born of the dream world! Go back now. I do not fear you!”
“You are brave not to fear me. But that is only because you are ignorant of my power. I am Eldarian, and I have come to make you king.”
“King?” said Vresh’Kon cautiously.
Eldarian smiled, moving deeper into the tent. Vresh’Kon had been Gnawrok’s voice, and his station was reflected in his lodging.
“Gnawrok is dead,” said Eldarian. “Your people need a strong leader, one who can bring them the glory that they deserve. And I believe that leader is you.”
“Who are you to say such things? Be gone, haunter of dreams. For you have seen my heart, and surely you are a demon.”
“I am Eldarian, he who vanquished the god of darkness and death!”
Vresh’Kon knew the legends behind the name. But that had been long ago; surely this was an imposter. But he wasn’t sure, for power emanated from the elf, power nearly as great as he had felt radiating from the human, Whillhelm Warcrown.
“If you are who you say you are, why have you come to me?”
Eldarian stepped closer, and Vresh’Kon saw the glimmer of silver eyes like moonlight glowing through the shadows that clung to him.
“I have come to make you king, as I have said. Your people have been disgraced. You have been defeated by a single human. They laugh at you now, human, elf, and even the burrowing dwarves. I could help you silence them, all of them.”
“What do you want from me?” said Vresh’Kon, trying not to show his intrigue.
“This world’s time has passed. The inevitable end is coming. The world must burn so that it can be built anew. The humans, elves, dwarves, and even the great dragons shall perish. But the drekkon do not have to. Serve me, and not only will you be the king of the drekkon, but the king of the new world as well.”
“Your claims are great. But what proof do you have?”
Eldarian smiled and reached out a hand. “Come with me, and I will show you.”
Vresh’Kon was no coward, but he was no fool either. He was reluctant to take the mysterious elf’s hand. He knew that he could never defeat the elf, for his power was too great. But neither could he deny that he was intrigued. If Eldarian’s claims were true…
At length he nodded and clasped hands with the elf.
Power greater than anything he had felt before washed through him. It was a dark, mysterious power, and it brought with it the promise of doom. Vresh’Kon was humbled in the presence of such ungodly strength, such unbridled force, and he fell to his knees and bowed before Eldarian. Knowledge, forbidden and dark, filled his mind, and he found himself weeping and wanting more. Eldarian showed him the end; the world burned, the moon crashed down into the mountains, the seas boiled, and the sun exploded. Then there was silence, and deep, eternal darkness.
Suddenly a light appeared, glorious and shimmering and full of life. It grew brighter and brighter still as the remnants of the dead world collided into it, fusing the ashes of the past together into this new light. There was another grand explosion, and when Vresh’Kon’s sight returned, he wept to see a new world, a new moon, and a new sun. In the blink of an eye, he was floating with Eldarian above that new world, fresh and green and teeming with strange life. The world was pregnant and bountiful, and held the promise of peace and prosperity.
“Serve me, and you shall be the first king of this new world,” said Eldarian.
Vresh’Kon was speechless.
The vision faded, and the power and knowledge fled from Vresh’Kon, whose sorrow at its passing was like the loss of a loved one.
“I will serve you,” said Vresh’Kon, wanting only to feel that great power once more, to wield it and to shape the world around him as he saw fit. He would lead the drekkon to a new world, a better world, one where they were not the bastard creations of a dark lord, but lords themselves.
The next morning, Vresh’Kon emerged from his tent as the sun began peeking over the horizon. He took in a long, strong breath of fresh air and smiled at the blue sky—a sky that would soon burn. In his left hand he held the scepter that Eldarian had given him. It was black and smooth as dried bone, with a lone ruby adorning the top that was held in place by three curved steel talons.
All his life Vresh’Kon had struggled with magic. He had the inner light, as the drekkon called it, but he had never been very powerful. He had risen to the top through hard work and determination—and by learning how to make himself invaluable to those with power. But now he had a power that seemed endless, burning strong in his core, and the mysteries of magic were mysteries no more.
“Rise, my drekkon. Rise and greet the glorious new day!” Vresh’Kon commanded in a voice that echoed for miles.
Those nearby froze and looked to him, surprised by his might. They were surprised further when he raised the scepter and began to float into the sky.
“Come to me!” he commanded.
The entire camp, consisting of tens of thousands of drekkon, hurried to see who spoke with such authority. Many among them feared that Whill had returned to finish them off, but when they saw that it was not only a drekkon, but also Gnawrok’s second in command, they swarmed to surround him. The robed sorcerers among them came as well, pushing past the others with authority and looking up at the floating Vresh’Kon with disdain, for they knew him to be unskilled in the ways of magic.
When the army had all gathered, Vresh’Kon extended his arms. “Look around you,” he said, turning in a slow circle in the air. “What do you see?”
When no one answered, he shook his head.
“I see my people marching home with heads bowed in disgrace, when they should be crushing the pitiful humans, the whore elves, and the burrowing dwarves. Even the mighty dragons cannot stand up to our might. Yet we retreat when our king is killed rather than avenge him and paint the world red with the blood of our enemies!”
“I feel great power emanating from you,” said one in the crowd with a voice nearly as loud as Vresh’Kon’s. His name was Ark’Fel, and he was highest and eldest among the sorcerers. He strode forward, leaning on a heavily adorned scepter of silver. “Who has gifted you with such power?”
Others among the magic-users nodded agreement, wondering the same thing.
“My power is a gift from the gods,” said Vresh’Kon,
and the drekkon gasped. The creatures had no gods. Indeed, they were the forsaken of the gods.
“We serve no god,” said Ark’Fel, and again others nodded agreement.
“That is true, but this god does not wish to be worshipped. He does not care to be loved. For he is the anti-god, he is the slayer of gods. He has told me what no other god dares to tell their own sycophants—this world, and everyone and everything in it, must soon die.”
“Your god speaks in riddles,” said Ark’Fel, looking frightened and too old to hide it. “The world cannot die.”
“What do we know of the world?” said Vresh’Kon. “Our species has only been alive for two hundred years. Everything that we have learned of the world, its people, and its history, we learned from the father of lies. Our hands wield elven magic, our mouths speak elven words, and our blood hungers for draggard violence. I believe that the world can die, Ark’Fel, and I believe that it will. And what do we care for this world? It is not ours. We have no land to call our own, and we never will. We will forever have to fight for every inch of earth, every scrap of dirt. If not the humans, elves, and dwarves, then the dragons will strive to drive us away and wipe us out. But what if there was another way? What if we could have a different world? What if we could have our own world?”
“Your words stir the heart, this is true,” said Ark’Fel, glancing around warily at the cheering crowd. “But what proof do you have of this…god? And if he does exist, and everything that you have said is true, why should our people follow a being who calls himself the god of darkness and death?”
Vresh’Kon considered this, and he considered frying the elder sorcerer right then and there, but he thought of something better, something more…sophisticated.
“Do not be afraid of darkness,” said Vresh’Kon, reaching out and taking mental hold of the old sorcerer. Ark’Fel gave a start as he began to float toward him. The drekkon looked on, enthralled, and—Vresh’Kon knew—hoping for blood. “For it is in darkness that the act of creating life first begins. And do not be afraid of death, for it comes to us all, mercifully, and takes us away from the pains of existence. Death is both the end and the beginning; it is a part of a cycle, and without it, there would be nothing, for life cannot begin without death.”
Vresh’Kon laid his hand upon Ark’Fel’s forehead and smiled. But Ark’Fel blanched, and, panic-stricken, he suddenly grabbed ahold of the younger drekkon’s hand. As they floated above the army, spinning in a slow circle, the drekkon below began to see what was happening, and they relayed it to those nearby: “Vresh’Kon is making Ark’Fel grow older. He is as powerful as the human sorcerer!”
“You wanted proof of my god and his power,” said Vresh’Kon, as a frail and withering Ark’Fel croaked to speak, reaching out a thin, quivering hand. “Here is your proof.”
Vresh’Kon then reversed the spell, beckoning Ark’Fel’s body to grow younger. The change was instantaneous, and as the drekkon watched on in silent wonderment, Ark’Fel grew into a strong young drekkon in the prime of his life. His scales changed from dusty gray-brown to bright green. They were smooth and strong, like his teeth and claws, which were now gleaming and sharp. The long row of spikes running down his back, webbed together by a kind of fin, stood erect with a snap like a dozen singing blades.
The crowd fell to their knees as Ark’Fel was lowered to the ground by an unseen force. The wind picked up. Females and males alike began to weep. There was a scent in the air, one that had only ever come once a year. It was the sweet yet musty smell of the females on fire. When the males noticed the scent, they reacted like males so often do. They waited all year for the days of fire, and here they had come again.
Seeing his distracted brothers and sisters, Vresh’Kon could only laugh. For he would indeed enjoy his choice of the females, and he had more than a few in mind. This, he decided, was yet another gift from Eldarian, and he knew that the rest of the drekkon would believe the same.
“Yes,” he bellowed as he floated back down to the ground. “Lay together upon the bountiful earth, for the children that we create this night shall be the first to be born in the new world! So say I, King Vresh’Kon!”
“All hail, Vresh’Kon!” many of the males yelled in celebration.
A very young, very strong, and very happy-looking Ark’Fel greeted Vresh’Kon as he would greet a king. He leaned in, his breath heavy on Vresh’Kon’s scales. “You have my allegiance. You have my life. Now and forever, I will be the eyes in the back of your head.”
“Then it will be so,” said Vresh’Kon, grinning.
He then stripped himself of his armor, his sash, and his weapons, and he set his mind and his magic to spreading his seed among the fertile, writhing green landscape before him. This night would bring him many sons, he knew; sons who were princes of the new world, sons who would grow to be warrior kings.
Chapter 15
The Fate of the Father
Roakore wiped his eyes as he looked back once more to the mountain’s western gate. It was the home of Ky’Dren and the first dwarves. It had been taken by the dragons during the great migration, and it had remained theirs for countless millennia. Roakore had taken it back, just as he had his own mountain home, but like his father, he had lost it. For the second time in dwarven history, the dwarves had retreated from their mountain.
“Bah, but what ye doin’?” said Philo, coming to stand beside Roakore and nudging him with his flask.
Roakore took it. “Nothin’.”
“Bull shyte. Feelin’ sorry for yerself ye be, and I be feelin’ sorry for ye.”
Roakore glanced suspiciously at his friend.
“Sometimes it be hard doin’ the right thing,” Philo went on.
Roakore nodded and smiled at his friend. He tossed back a drink, savoring the warmth of the spirits in his numb belly.
They had barely escaped with their lives, but they had all escaped. When the guards had gone around to ask about those who fell, not one dwarf reported anyone missing or dead. It was a miracle, and the dwarves were calling it that. If anyone thought it a disgrace that Roakore had ordered the evacuation, they did not speak it aloud.
“It ain’t that we had to…regroup,” said Roakore. “What makes me ass twitch is that we were forced to regroup by a bunch o’ albino freaks.”
“This be a strange land,” said Philo. He burped, and to Roakore it sounded as though he might puke.
“Dammit, dwarf. Ye got to be drinkin’ so much all the time? Ye know I be tryin’ to cut back.”
“Cut back?” said Philo with a frown.
“Bah,” said Roakore, swiping the flask and emptying it of its contents. He threw it as hard as he could, and then, taking hold of it with innate abilities, he shot it across the expanse from his perch on the neighboring mountain. It hit the mountain door, and a light ding echoed across the expanse.
“That was me father’s, ye be knowin’,” said Philo, sounding miserable.
“Aye,” said Roakore, patting his friend on the back. “And we’ll be retrievin’ it someday. I swear on it by the soul o’ me father.”
“Ye know ye did the right thing,” said Arrianna.
She and Roakore flew over the peaks of the ancient mountains. It was cold up here, cold enough to freeze Roakore’s tears, but he liked it that way. They broke from his cheeks, dislodged from the wind, and fell into the eternal snows of his forefathers. There upon the whitecaps they would remain until the end of time, when the mountains crumbled to the sea.
Roakore steered Silverwind down into more temperate currents to spare his wife the frigid wind. Her hands were about his waist, and she clung to him like he might float away if she let go. Roakore smiled.
“I love ye, Arri, I hope ye be knowin’ that.”
“O’ course I be knowin’ that. I love ye too, and yer people be lovin’ ye. Ye be a hero to a generation, Roakore, and ye’ve even made some old timer’s dreams come true as well. Rest yer mind, me love. What ye be doin’ be right and well.
If it weren’t, trust me, I’d be tellin’ ye. She tugged his ear to accentuate the point, and he laughed.
“What would I be doin’ without ye?” he said.
“Tryin’ to make sense o’ the screechin’ o’ yer other wives,” she said with a laugh.
Roakore chuckled. He steered Silverwind down into the valley leading out of the mountains to the west. Here a road meandered through the foothills beside a busy river, which was bulging and raging with the flows coming down from the mountains. The spring thaw caused many rivers and creeks to surge over their banks, and though Roakore and the dwarves had never been here during the spring, they knew how to read the history of a river; it was in the rings lining the stones that protruded from the river, stubbornly ignoring the impatient water that was always mindlessly hurrying about. It was in the plants that grew at the banks, and in the dirt within the banks. Muskrat holes told their own stories as well, and the story they told the dwarves was that last year the spring waters had been mild.
As he glided over the new land, Roakore became mesmerized by the beauty of the budding trees, the rolling hills of swaying grass, the snaking river and its many tributaries, and the waterfalls that were so prominent here. The roots of the mountain protruded from the land, creating steep cliffs with rock faces that had been carved to depict dwarves whose identities were lost to time. One of Roakore’s favorite waterfalls poured from the carved mouth of a dwarf king. His bust had been chiseled into the stone thousands of years ago, but the craftsmanship had stood the test of time.
Silverwind glided down over a small lake and stopped upon its bank. The dwarves had stopped to take their rest, and the line of them stretched all the way around the lake, trailing away on the other side into the forest path. They gathered around and ate their food without vigor. Silent they were, as though they were mourning the passing of a loved one. The day, though bright and warm and full of pleasant wind, was soured by the heavy mood of the dwarves. Roakore felt that at any moment, dark clouds would blot out the sun and a cold wind would blow. He felt that if he looked back at the mountain, it would crack in half, its top would blow, and out would spew a terror of dragons. This strange land, so familiar, yet so alien, had turned on Roakore. Monsters had emerged from the deep; they had taken his glory, robbed him of his grand achievement. He suddenly felt unwelcome here, as if the old world wanted nothing to do with the new world. He felt an unbearable distance, an endless chasm growing between himself and his ancestors, and he did not know how to bridge that gap.
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