Zhola moved back from Whill and raised his head to his natural height. Looking down at Whill, he spoke, “Perhaps there is something to you after all, Whill of Agora; perhaps you are all a band of fools.
Everyone but Roakore relaxed their grip on their weapons. Whill nodded. “Perhaps.”
Zhola turned his massive head to look to the sun; he then looked to the west. “Where we go, there is no game to be found. There are no plants to eat; there is no water to drink. Where we go, there is only silence and death. Hunt what you will, and bring what you can. We leave at nightfall.
“What is our destination” asked Whill
“Drakkar Island,” said Zhola to them all.
“Drakkar Island!” roared Roakore. “That’ll be the day that I follow a dragon to Drakkar Island!”
“If I wanted you dead, Dwarf, I would kill you now.”
“You could try!”
Whill led his friend away from Zhola, and Roakore grumbled to himself the whole while. Before Whill could speak, Roakore started in. “Follow a dragon to Drakkar? Fight alongside a barbarian? Trust an assassin, who hides behind a hood like a trickster? And how ye be knowin’ that white dragon be Avriel, aye?”
“The red dragon will lead us to the swo—”
“It’ll be leadin’ us to our death!”
Whill sighed, knowing that he would not convince his friend. He knew that for Roakore, to not attack the dragons took every ounce of his self-control. He did not trust them and never would.
“I cannot force you to do anything, King Roakore. You are my friend, and I know that you would come if I asked, but I cannot make that decision for you. You do what you want; I go to find the sword.”
Whill turned from his friend and mounted Avriel. They set off together to hunt for what they could find.
Nearly two hours later, everyone had returned to where Zhola was sleeping with one eye open. The group had collected many roots and a variety of edible plants. Azzeal had changed to wolf form and hunted down a deer, which was quickly skinned and cut into pieces and then charred by Zhola’s dragon breath.
Whill climbed atop Avriel’s back once again, and Roakore mounted Silverwind as Aurora and Dirk mounted Zhola with apprehension. Azzeal, however, changed into a flaming phoenix.
Following Zhola, the group flew west. They flew on for hours and watched as below them the kingdom of Uthen-Arden was replaced by Isladon. As Whill surveyed the ground, he saw firsthand the destruction that had come to the land since his imprisonment. Though they flew high, Whill saw that many villages they passed over were empty. Many of the towns’ buildings had been burned to the ground; others were only the skeletal remains of the main framework, black and charred like the fossils of a colossal beast long dead. Fields, that should by now have been harvested, stood bare or overrun by nature. More than once, Whill spotted huge packs of wolves scavenging through ruined towns, crows joining them in a feast of the dead.
The land was barren; an empty feeling permeated from it and instantly brought sorrow to bear upon the hearts of the onlookers.
Death spreads across the land in our absence, said Whill to Avriel’s mind.
She growled deep in her throat, and the humming caused her entire body to vibrate under Whill. It is indeed a dark time for man; it is a dark time for all the world it seems. It reminds me of…of home.
They flew on into dusk and found more destroyed villages than standing ones. Those that remained had been fortified along their borders with makeshift wooden barricades and trenches.
Whill, what you said to Azzeal, about we Elves…
Whill began to make an apology but was cut off.
No, Whill, you were right. We brought this scourge upon you all; it has been and is our responsibility. We have put too much upon your shoulders. But you do not have to bear this burden alone; I shall see you victorious, or I shall see death.
Whill stroked her neck, glad to have her back with him. I know you will.
I am sorry about Rhunis and Abram, she said with much sorrow. Whill said nothing, but his throat tightened, and pain and sorrow poured through him once more at the thought of it. He was not yet ready to speak of it.
What has become of your brother? He asked.
He was cursed by Eadon with some sort of rotting disease. I know not of his fate. If I were in true form, I could scry him, but I have not been yet able to harness any of my abilities. When I left him, he was in great pain and nearing death. But there is much combined power among those I left him with. Hopefully they were able to carry him to Elladrindellia swiftly; there perhaps the elders will be able to break the curse.
Whill mentally comforted her as she had done for him at mention of Abram. It was not words to the mind in the form of a language; rather, Whill sent her a mental hug of sorts.
After you left, I saw Eadon struggling against affliction. Somehow Zerafin caused the curse to fire back on Eadon as well. Even in the arena, he seemed crippled by it, Whill told her.
Avriel purred at that. Yes, if Eadon heals himself of the curse, I believe Zerafin will be free of it also. We can only hope that Zerafin can hold out long enough for Eadon to let it go.
Whill smiled to himself, glad to know that Eadon was in great pain and that Zerafin had tricked the Dark Elf so. The fact that Eadon had been hurt was a great comfort indeed. Until then, it had seemed that the Dark Elf was impervious to all.
What is it like? Being a dragon?
Avriel thought for a moment and tried to suppress the terror of not being one with her true body. It is strange. I have only just begun to study the ways of the school of Ralliad. Before this, I had only ever changed into wolf form. It is much different than that transmutation. In wolf form, I was still in true Elf form; this is different. My soul possesses this body fully. I find myself affected by its chemistry in ways quite different than my Elven body. It is said that dragons are born with the collective memories and knowledge of their ancestors. I have discovered this to be true. My dragon brain is linked to all those before me. I am aware of the history of my line, dating back eons. It is all quite overwhelming and confusing. Where my Elf memories faded with time, as one would expect after centuries of life, the dragon mind recalls every memory as if it were yesterday. I feel myself slipping more into the mind of the dragon. I can no longer feel the presence of my true form. I fear that my body has died, and I am forever trapped within this one.
Whill remembered Eadon’s words that he and he alone could return her to true form. He told Avriel this to her despair.
He is a master of manipulation and lies. It may be true, it may not; it is to be seen. I will not let it be my focus. There are bigger things at work here than my own fate. And I am guessing there are worse things to become than a dragon.
Hearing her words, he felt ashamed of his own selfishness. He and he alone could stop Eadon it seemed, and rather than focus on the task, he had allowed himself to wallow in self-pity. His own personal pain had become his entire reality. It all seemed so clear at that fleeting moment. He was possessed by pain.
The sun set and the group flew on into the night. When they became tired, Azzeal flew close and touched a wing to that of the dragons. When Azzeal touched Avriel’s wing, Whill felt a warm surge of energy course through him. His aches and pains from riding dissipated, and his vigor returned.
Azzeal flew close to Roakore and Silverwind and bade the Dwarf to allow him to offer energy. Good Dwarf, your mount tires from flying so long and hard. Allow me to restore her energy.
“Do what you be doin’ to help Silverwind, but stay outta me damned head, Elf!”
Very well, said Azzeal in Roakore’s mind once more and touched the tip of his wing to Silverwind’s. The Silverhawk let out a soft coo and a squawk.
Refreshed, the riders doubled their speed and caught a swift air current. The moon was their guide for the remainder of the night. They reached the coast of Isladon and left Agora behind. As the sun rose behind them, they were bathed in welcome warmth.
Whill watched the waters speed by below. His mind drifted to Abram, the man that had been as a father to him all his life. He had thought him dead for so long, only to be reunited and lose him once again. It occurred to him that this could all be fake, just another of Eadon’s elaborate illusions. The Dark Elf had tortured him many times with such false realities. Whill had been convinced many times, only to be violently torn from his delusions. Whill wished that this was just an illusion; he wished that Abram were still alive. He did not know how he could possibly continue without Abram’s wise guidance. But Whill knew that this reality was most likely real, for he had been lucid since being let out of the dungeon. Whill accepted the probability that this was, indeed, real, and his tears fell upon Avriel’s scales and then mingled with the ocean waters below.
His rage should have been spent by now, but it would not abate. He heeded Avriel’s words, but he was unable to feel anything but rage, anger, and sorrow. He knew he should have been happier to see Roakore alive and well and Avriel alike, though she was trapped within the body of a white dragon. But Whill would not allow himself to feel any happiness nor hope. Realizing this, he knew that Avriel was right. To him, hope and joy and happiness had become the tools of his torture. Eadon had seen to that. He knew that the Dark Elf had hoped to inflict him with such a mindset, and, indeed, Eadon had been successful. But this knowledge did nothing to alleviate Whill’s fear. Too many times during his torture he had been shown illusions in which he was free, once again traveling the wide world with his friends. Too many times he had seen his friends die, one after another, during those dark sessions deep within the depths of the dank dungeon. Whill was left a husk of the optimistic boy he had once been. He was the same person now in name only.
Though he wanted to, he could not allow himself to feel too deeply for his living friends, for they, like Abram and Rhunis, would die before his eyes before this dark business was through.
They flew on into the afternoon as the sun crept at their backs. Below them the blue-green waters tediously wore on hour after hour. Unlike the ever-changing landscape of the countryside, the waters offered only the occasional school of fish just below the surface or a flock of seagulls. Behind them, Agora slowly slipped from view, like a dying behemoth sinking into water. They had spent many hours without land in sight in either direction when, finally, before them, land could be seen.
It was not until night had fallen over the world and the stars cast their heavenly light upon the waters, that they finally reached Drakkar Island. The legends Whill had heard saying that Drakkar was a dead island proved true. Not a tree nor plant nor single blade of grass grew upon its steaming land. Instead, it was covered with a strange gray-black rocklike substance. Drakkar’s shores were sharp and jagged; the beaches of rock mingled and curved like a giant’s hair. In the distance to the west loomed a single mountain without a peak.
Though Azzeal had given the mounts his offered energy, the dragons and Silverhawk were exhausted and sore from their long flight. The riders had not fared any better. The dragons landed, and the riders each dismounted stiffly. Roakore even fell to the ground with a groan and was not able to stand for some time. He sat upon the stony beach of the island, rubbing his legs and grumbling. Aurora, too, sat upon the stones next to a panting Avriel. Dirk had fared better than any of them as he had often gotten to his feet atop Zhola and sat on his heels to rest his legs.
“Gather your strength and eat what you will; we make for the volcano at first light,” Zhola told them all.
The group rested but none slept. Many times the silence of the night was disturbed by the roar of a dragon. Some of the eerie cries came from far away, and others seemed much closer. Both Avriel and Zhola sat alert, staring at the volcano and sniffing at the air occasionally. Roakore never loosened his grip on his ax, nor did his eyes leave the sight of the volcano.
The first rays of morning broke through the sky, chasing away the stars. Zhola stood and stretched his muscle-laden hind legs one at a time as a dog might.
“The others of my kind will not be happy to see you all here. Follow my lead, or I cannot ensure your safety.”
“I’ll ensure me own safety dragon,” Roakore mumbled.
“And if they attack?” asked Aurora.
“If they attack, then you will die. This is your last chance to turn back.” No one moved. Zhola nodded and let out a puff of smoke. “So be it. You are all very brave, or stupid.”
“Then let’s get it over with,” Whill told them all. To Zhola, he said, “It was smart to hide the sword within a volcano.”
“The sword of Adimorda is not within the smoking mountain.”
Roakore took up an offensive stance and squared on Zhola. “Then it is a trap! Told ye not to trust the blasted dragon!”
Zhola scowled at Roakore. “The sword is hidden in Drindellia.”
Avriel and Azzeal perked up at the mention of their homeland, and Roakore looked confused.
“In Drindellia?” asked Whill.
“Yes, within the smoking mountain is an ancient doorway built by the Elves long ago and brought here by me.”
Azzeal looked to the volcano with wonder. “The gates of Arkron…” The Elf snapped out of his reverie and saw that the humans and Dwarf were staring at him, waiting for him to elaborate.
“The gates of Arkron were built long ago by one of the same name. Arkron was a very talented Elf, but he was most skilled in creating new spells and using Orna Catorna in ways no one had ever imagined. His greatest achievement was the creation of his gates or portals. One could step into one of his gates and immediately come out of the other, whether it was a few feet or many miles away. This was many centuries ago, long before the fall of Drindellia. Many of our people wished the gates destroyed, deeming them too dangerous due to Arkron’s methods. Somehow, he had discovered how to bend the very fabric of our reality, connecting the gates to one another in a seamless unity. Seven pairs of gates he built, and they were spread to the farthest reaches of our lands.”
“An’ ye’re saying that we’re gonna just go waltzin’ into a portal when we ain’t knowin’ what is on the other side?” asked Roakore.
“It seems that Zhola knows what is on the other side,” said Whill.
Zhola concurred with a low, humming growl. “As I have yet mentioned, death and destruction await us. When I last saw the smoldering ruins of Drindellia, there was not but death to be found there. The cities burned, and the land bled. I ferried the gate here to Drakkar Island by raft across the great ocean. Over calm waters and violent alike, I towed it for many months and finally reached my destination. Once I had buried the gate deep beneath the volcano, I sought out my kin and told them that I had found a home for them, a place free from humans, Elves, and the vicious Dwarves.”
Roakore chuckled.
Ignoring him, Zhola went on. “So now Drakkar is home to dragons and feared by all, and it keeps the secret gate safe from those with ill intent.”
“What happened to the other portals? Are they known?” asked Dirk, who until then had not spoken, only listened.
“No,” answered Azzeal. “Three pairs were destroyed during the fall of Drindellia. One was brought with us on our sojourn to Agora. But many feared that its twin would be discovered and that Eadon would send his army through, so it was tossed overboard and lies on the bottom of the ocean. Three other pairs are unaccounted for; it seems we have discovered one of them. It was guessed that Eadon was in possession of them, but now it appears he may only have two of the seven.”
“And you say that entire armies can travel through these portals?” asked Aurora.
Azzeal nodded. “Yes, and your thoughts have been our own. Eadon could use these portals to march an army of Draggard from Drindellia to Agora instantly.”
“If he ain’t already,” stated Roakore as if coming to an epiphany. “We have always wondered how he did it. How so many Draggard could have kept on pourin’ through our tunnels, though we slew thousands.
It explains why no lookout ever gave warnin’.”
Roakore began to shake, and his face became red with rage. “There was a bloody portal in me mountain!” His eyes went wide as he followed the thought down dark passages. “There could still be!” He began pacing in circles and wringing his hands together. To the ground, he spoke. “I been flyin’ around in the company o’ dragons and barbarians, and there well may be a gut-rotten bloody portal o’ Eadon’s in me mountain! Hand o’ Ky’Dren slap a stupid Dwarf’s arse!”
“You do not know that it remains,” Whill tried to assure him.
“And I don’t be knowin’ that it aint!” Roakore yelled a bit too loudly.
In the distance, there could be heard a growing number of dragon sounds. Growls and shrieks and deep roars echoed across the island. “Now you have awakened my kin. Mount up, and remain close to me.”
As Whill went to mount Avriel, Roakore stopped him with a strong hand on his arm. “What if the portal remains in me mountain?”
“When this business is through, I will return with you to look,” Whill assured him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Scepter of
Krowlen
Tarren began to follow Helzendar into the arena when a hand upon his shoulder stopped him. He turned to see Lunara smiling at him. “I am sorry you were upset earlier. Please take this to aid in your contest.”
She handed him a simple golden ring. He began to shake his head in protest but was cut off. Lunara’s tone became serious and took on a motherly note. “You are an eleven-year-old human boy fighting Dwarves seven times stronger and years older. This will even the odds.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“You are a stubborn boy, Tarren of Fendale.”
“Some things got to be done all by myself, Lunara. This is one of them. If I pass wearing your ring, I will wonder if it was because of the ring.”
Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings Page 21