“Whill!” one of them screamed.
“Abram? Rhunis?” answered Whill with a joy he dared not indulge in lest this be some kind of trap. Perhaps this was one of Eadon’s tricks; perhaps one of them was Eadon himself. Whill tried to deny what he saw, but he could not convince himself. He recognized their fighting styles and their mannerisms and knew them to be his lost friends thought dead.
Whill fought to get close to them, but dozens of Draggard and Dwargon had poured into the arena. The heat of the flames was becoming intense as the arena blazed and threatened to crumble. People screamed and cried as the flames took many of them; hundreds fell onto the sands and were attacked by the beasts within the arena. The exits were packed with frantic men and women trying to escape the death trap that the great arena had become. Many of the Draggard had leapt up into the stands and were killing spectators at will.
Aurora brought up her shield to the swing of one of the Dwargon’s massive clubs. The blocked blow sent her flying back many feet, but she deftly rolled when she landed and came to her feet quickly. The Dwargon advanced and came down with a blow meant to crush her. She hamstrung the beast and spun around behind it to stab it in the side. It let out a howl and brought its club around. Aurora fell flat on her back to avoid the club and watched as Dirk soared over her and, landing upon the hulk’s shoulders, stabbed it quickly in each eye. Dirk leapt from the dying Dwargon, sending a barrage of poison darts at another one’s face. Aurora got to her feet again and hewed the head off a Draggard, grabbed its tail, and heaved it into its kin. From behind her, she heard a gurgled screech. She turned to find a spear tip inches from her body, held in the dying hands of a Draggard that had been impaled through the neck by a spear. Aurora knew the man holding the spear from Eadon’s mental projection of him; he was the man that she was tasked to kill—Abram.
“There is always one coming from behind, lady,” he said with a wink and entered the fray once more.
Aurora looked to the dead Draggard that would have surely skewered her—dead now because Abram had saved her. She grabbed the spear and aimed it at Abram’s back. Her hand trembled, and her face twisted with a grimace. Abram engaged another beast; he would soon be out of range. She had to kill him; it was the only way to save her people. A part of her mind screamed to do it, and another argued the opposite. She heard her trainer’s words. “There is always a coward coming at your back.”
Aurora was now the coward at someone else’s back. The man had saved her life, but his death would secure a future for her people. She did not have the luxury of honor. She threw the spear with a scream of rage. The spear flew true and found its mark.
Whill fought his way past Roakore as he hacked at a dead Dwargon. Blood and colorful curses flew from the Dwarf king’s mouth. A Draggard lunged at Whill with a spear, which he easily deflected. The glowing sword of his father sliced through the beast’s belly, leaving a mess of entrails to fall upon the sand. Whill reached Abram as he battled a Draggard, and together, they took it down.
“Whill,” said Abram with a smile as a Draggard spear hit him in the back and protruded from his chest. He staggered forward and was caught by Whill as blood poured from his mouth.
“No!” Whill screamed as he caught his oldest friend and lowered him to sit upon the sand.
“Gut-rotten’ dragon scum born sons o’ demons!” screamed Roakore as he saw what had happened to Abram. He ran to Whill and Abram and, together with Rhunis, kept enemies clear. With a grimace, Whill pulled the spear from Abram’s back. Blood spurted from the old man’s chest in gushes. Abram’s eyes rolled, and his face became ashen. Blue tendrils of healing flowed from Whill’s hands and engulfed his friend in light.
Aurora watched as Whill held his friend. To her utter amazement, she saw blue serpentine tendrils snaking their way from Whill’s hand and into his friend’s wound. She had to stop the healing, but the knight and fierce Dwarf had their backs. She thought that she could take the knight and the Dwarf, but seeing the Elf magic performed by Whill, she assumed the legends to be true. Aurora found her resolve and charged across the sand toward Whill and Abram.
A giant shadow fell over the fighters, and the roar of a dragon ripped through the air, deafening them all. Aurora skidded to a halt as a mammoth red dragon, the likes of which she had never seen, landed near Whill and his friends and began to bathe the attacking Draggard in flames. A half-naked Elf, wearing what looked to be leaves, leapt from the top of the red dragon and, to Aurora’s astonishment, changed into a wolf the size of a horse. More flames erupted behind the red dragon as a smaller white dragon landed near Whill. Aurora cursed her luck and stabbed a burning Dwargon in the chest.
As the dragons began to belch flame, the Dark Elf Arkrel landed upon the sands and found his target. Rhunis stood back to back with Roakore as the two guarded Whill and Abram. The Draggard and Dwargon were routed by the dragon flames. Arkrel stopped, strung his bow, took aim, and fired. The red arrow streaked through the smoke and flame and hit Rhunis in the chest. The wolf Azzeal leapt from the red dragon and bore down on the Dark Elf assassin with a growl.
Roakore’s eyes went wide as he regarded the two dragons that had entered the fray. Bloodlust and thoughts of glory intoxicated him as he lifted his ax to strike the closer of the two, the smaller white dragon.
“Roakore, no, she is Avriel!” Whill screamed at his friend.
Roakore stopped short of his strike as the white dragon turned its head and their eyes met. The Dwarf king did not lower his ax, yet he did not strike. There was no anger on the dragon’s face, and it did not attack Roakore.
It is I, good Dwarf. The red and I are not your enemy. Avriel’s voice came to Roakore’s mind. Astonished, he lowered his ax.
“Can ye believe yer eyes, Rhunis?” he asked, turning to his friend as a red streaking arrow ripped through Rhunis’s chest and out his back, leaving a hole the size of a fist. Rhunis was dead before he hit the sand.
Roakore screamed in rage and looked in the direction the arrow had come. Near the edge of the burning arena, he saw the Dark Elf and the wolf that attacked him. Roakore threw his stone bird into the air and charged as the flying weapon began to spin until it blurred.
Whill saw Rhunis fall, and laying down the partially healed Abram, he ran to Rhunis’s side. Whill muttered to himself, “No, no, no, no, no,” as he turned the scarred knight onto his back. Whill looked upon the friend that he had faced in a similar arena in Eldalon, and there was no light in the old knight’s eyes. Whill looked to Avriel hopefully, but the dragon only lowered her head.
He died instantly. He is lost to us. Let us be gone from this place. Tears streaked down Whill’s ash-covered face as he looked to his fallen friend and then to the burning arena. With a determined glare, he lifted Abram and put him over his shoulder. Dirk approached Whill and regarded the dragons with apprehension.
“Are we to be left here to die?” he asked Whill with a glance at Aurora.
Whill looked at the two in turn and then to Zhola. “These two are allies; will you carry them?”
The dragon puffed smoke from his nose and nodded with a growl. Dirk and Aurora climbed onto Zhola’s back, and each found a place between his long, thick spikes. Whill called upon the strength of his father’s blade and climbed onto Avriel, carrying Abram. He seated his old friend before him and tried to hold him as best he could. The two dragons fueled the fires of the arena with their flapping wings as they leapt and began to fly out.
Below them, upon the sands in the ring of fire that the arena had become, Whill saw Roakore and the Elf Azzeal battling a Dark Elf.
“Roakore!” he hollored as Avriel took to the sky and cleared the top of the blazing arena.
Roakore slammed into the energy shield of the Dark Elf as it fought to loosen itself from the roots that Azzeal has caused to tangle him. With his blade, the Dark Elf Arkrel slashed the roots that snaked their way around him. Arkrel’s studies had not yet begun in the art of the Ralliad; therefore, he could not
change his form and free himself from the roots. He became increasingly annoyed with the Dwarf’s bombardment of his energy shield and frantically deflected the blasts that emanated from Azzeal. With a great surge of energy, the Dark Elf ignited the air surrounding him, and the roots disintegrated in flame. A red blast of energy snaked its way through the air and was met by a green blast from Azzeal. The two Elves braced themselves as their powers collided.
Azzeal proved the more powerful as he sent a wave of energy through his energy attack that blasted through the Dark Elf’s attack and his shields. Arkrel was thrown back onto the sand, and fear gripped his cold heart when he realized that his energy stores had been drained in the fight. Roakore kicked the Elf in the side and turned to Azzeal.
“He killed me friend, Elf; he be mine!”
Azzeal looked at the Dwarf curiously and cocked his head to the side. “Be done with it then; his master has taken to the air.”
Arkrel shot to his feet with a snarl and slashed his blade to fend off Roakore. Then he ran for the nearest gate.
“No, ye don’t, ye coward!” yelled Roakore as his stone bird streaked through the air and took the retreating Dark Elf behind the knees. Roakore was on him in a heartbeat and knocked away the Dark Elf’s feeble slash of his sword. Roakore kicked the prone Elf in the face and buried his ax in Arkrel’s head.
With a squawk, Silverwind landed, and Roakore hurried to her and mounted. Azzeal extended a hand and incinerated the body of the dead Elf. He then took three running steps and leapt into the air and changed into a great eagle. Roakore muttered to himself about Elves and their damn magic as Silverwind took to the sky.
Whill held on tight as Avriel followed Zhola over the city and west to the city gates. Glancing behind him, he caught sight of Eadon on his Dragon-Hawk, bearing down on them. Fireballs shot from the Elf and blew up in the sky near the dragons. Avriel veered left suddenly as a spell exploded a few feet from her. Whill and Abram were thrown from where they sat. Whill grabbed a firm hold of one of Avriel’s spikes and caught Abram’s wrist before he fell to the city streets below.
“I got you!” Whill hollered over the wind and exploding spells.
Behind them, Whill saw Eadon, now less than fifty feet from them. Their eyes met, and Eadon grinned wickedly. From his right hand, Eadon shot a small black orb of energy. Whill helplessly watched as the orb hit Abram in the back and dissipated. Whill held Abram’s wrist tightly and watched his friend with wide eyes as the landscape below changed and green grass replaced the city streets.
Abram let out a weary groan of pain and regarded Whill with a small smile. “Promise that you will finish this, Whill. Prom—” Abram’s words ended in a wheeze as his body stiffened and became like stone.
Whill screamed in horror as he watched his friend’s skin begin to flake off like ash until, finally, his body fell apart and was scattered in the wind. Ash fell through the hand that had gripped Abram’s wrist, and the hand became a fist. Whill looked to his fist in tormented anguish and screamed into the wind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Only Human
Tarren played with his food with no appetite. Lunara watched him as she finished her stew. The boy absently touched a hand gingerly to his newest bruise. He would not allow it to be healed. The black eye did not bother her as much as the two broken fingers with which he touched his eye.
“I wish you would let me heal those. What are you trying to prove?”
Tarren looked up from his food as if he had been disturbed from deep thought.
“Huh?” He looked to his fingers. “I am trying to prove that I remember that I am only human and I will not always have a guardian Elf to watch over me.” He went back to playing with his food with his fork.
Lunara sat up in her chair. “Who said you won’t always have me?”
Tarren’s looked up at her, and wisdom and pain beyond his years shone behind them. “Everyone leaves! I know you are young for an Elf, but you better get used to the idea. Everyone leaves—whether they want to or not.”
Lunara did not know what to say to that. She simply listened, knowing that Tarren had more on his chest. Indeed, she could see with her mind sight the knotted flow of energy near the boy’s heart.
“Whill was taken; Abram and Rhunis left.” He stabbed a potato within his stew bowl. “Avriel is lost to us.” Tarren looked to Lunara with tears welling within his eyes. “Roakore left, and my parents left…so quit trying to make me be liking you, ’cause one day, you will leave too.”
He stormed out of the room and shoved past Haldagozz as he was about to knock. Tarren said nothing as he stormed off.
“They be waitin’ for ya in the trainin’ room!” the Dwarf hollered after him. Haldagozz shook his head and walked into the room and addressed Lunara with a smile.
“Lady.” He nodded.
Lunara gave her friend a smile, but her attention wandered after Tarren. Haldagozz shrugged awkwardly upon noticing the Elf maiden’s distress. “Bah. The boy, he’ll be alright, and right so, he be a tough little bugger.”
Lunara smiled at Haldagozz all the more. “Indeed, he is tough, but being tough without knowing how to be gentle makes one rough.”
Haldagozz laughed. “You got a way with words, you do. But wordsmithin’ ain’t good for none but lyin’.”
Lunara was aghast. “Have your people no poetry? No songs? How could you say such a thing?”
Haldagozz stuttered over his words. “S-sorry, miss, I meant no insult to ye. Was just talkin’ without thinkin’ much is all…” He lifted his hands in surrender. “Bah! I ain’t one fer pretty talk and have no need fer it.”
“I noticed,” said Lunara with all seriousness.
Holdagozz mimicked her scowl until finally she laughed, not being able to keep a straight face.
Tarren met up with Helzendar outside the training chamber that would house the tournament. The son of Roakore could hardly hold his excitement for the upcoming games. Tarren, however, was not so keen on the idea.
Helzendar saw the look on Tarren’s face. “Bah, cheer up. You’ll do fine, don’t doubt.”
Tarren looked at him skeptically. “Easy for you to say. You are matched with your kin in strength. Try fighting someone bigger and far stronger than yourself.”
“Got nothin’ to do with it. Dwarves have killed dragons far bigger and stronger, don’t be forgettin’, an’ humans have too. I guess this be your dragon.”
Tarren smiled at the analogy. “I guess.”
Helzendar patted Tarren on the back, almost knocking him over. “C’mon, just focus on your strengths. You be faster than most you will face.”
They walked to the competition area where more than a thousand Dwarves had gathered. The Ro’Sar Games were an annual competition in which the youngest of Dwarves fought for status and manhood. One could not be considered a man among Dwarf society lest he had been victorious in the games. Each participant had to be at least thirteen years old to compete, and so Tarren had lied about his age; being only eleven, he had to. Lunara had seen through this lie but had not told anyone. Tarren was grateful for her discretion, and now he felt bad for his words. He had not meant them; he had just been very nervous and, though he would not admit it, scared of the coming games. But he was determined to prove himself to the Dwarves and to himself. He was impatient with his age and inexperience and inability to aid Whill and the forces of good in the coming war. He wanted so badly to help that he had signed up for the games in haste, knowing that he was in way over his head.
None of that mattered now as he and Helzendar made their way into the large chamber. They were recognized by their trainers and directed to the chambers below the arena, where they would arm up and await their turn. As was custom, teams had been formed. The most proficient of the young Dwarf warriors had been selected as captains, and each of them had chosen four kin. All except in the case of one captain, Helzendar, who had shocked everyone, even Tarren, by choosing the skinny human boy for his team. Hel
zendar insisted it had nothing to do with their friendship and that he saw the warrior within Tarren.
“You survived being killed by pirates; you traveled with me father and his great company before the reclamation. You are the adopted son o’ Whill o’ Agora. You be meant for great things, Tarren o’ Fendale, and I be keen on seein’ ’em be done.” Helzendar had explained.
Tarren followed Helzendar into the arms chamber as they made their way to their team’s room. The other three members of their team were armed, armored, and ready, some sitting, others pacing. One of them pumped out push-ups quickly in the corner. All cheered when their captain entered.
Tarren found his gear and his chest and weapon. He quickly went into the familiar ritual of gearing up for battle. This was the time in which Tarren could leave his troubled mind and go into a state of rhythm. Helzendar called it “the birth o’ the warrior,” the time when one forgot their namesake and became a warrior of the gods. During this ritual of putting on his thick leather padding and his heavy breastplate, shin and thigh guards, and arm and forearm gloves, he found his peace. Forgotten were fear, pain, cowardice, and self. In this time, he gave himself over to the will of the gods, praying that their will was his.
He pulled on his gloves and tucked his helmet under his left arm. With his right hand, he clasped the staff of his newest weapon. Crafted by Lunara, and covered in Elven runes, the staff filled Tarren with all of the courage he would ever need. She had spent days molding the staff upon the side of the mountain, and he had seen all of the work, energy, and magic that had gone into its creation.
He took a deep breath and nodded to Helzendar. He was ready.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings Page 19