Roakore gave a sigh. For all his bluster and positive talk, he had no real solution for Whill; no one did.
Whill returned to his ship that night feeling more tired than he had been in a long while. His belly full, he retired to his quarters and found the much needed sleep that had been eluding him for days.
Chapter 31
Council o’ Dwarves
“We might be havin’ more problems than we intended when we get to Velk’Har,” said Roakore.
He had gathered Philo, Raene, Arrianna, and Agnar the Holy to his quarters shortly after Whill left.
“What kind o’ trouble ye mean, cousin?” said Raene.
“The worst kind o’ trouble.”
“Dragons?”
Roakore nodded gravely.
“Well then, that be a bonus,” said Philo with a chuckle.
“This ain’t no laughin’ matter,” said Roakore, eyeing his ever-jolly friend. “Them dragons we sent away from Drakkar be headed to the home mountain o’ Ky’Dren.”
“Godsdammit!” said Arrianna, slamming the short table between them all. “We shoulda rid the world o’ them beasts when we had the chance.”
“Perhaps,” said Roakore. “The golden dragon, Zalenlia, she told Whill that they intended on returning to the old breeding ground. And I be knowin’ from the book O’ Ky’Dren that it be our mountain, Velk’Har.”
“And Whill told ye this?” said Raene.
“Aye. He said also that he would have a talk with ‘em. See if they might just move on and give us the mountain.”
“Bah!” said Philo before spitting on the floor. “We ain’t needin’ the dragons to be givin’ us shyte. We’ll take it by Ky’Dren’s sake!”
“Indeed. But if they want to fight over it, we’ll have to return to Agora and come back with reinforcements. We got us only a hundred dwarves, and only half o’ them be warriors, what with the farmers, miners, cooks, and females.”
“Why ye be countin’ the females along with the others who ain’t fit to fight, eh?” said Raene with a scowl.
Roakore had known as soon as the words left his mouth that it had been the wrong thing to say in the midst of present company. His wife scowled at him as well.
“Ye be knowin’ what I be meanin’.”
They both stared, Raene cocking an eyebrow.
“They ain’t trained for battle, hardly none o’ ‘em.”
“How many dragons ye reckon flew from Drakkar?” Philo asked, completely ignoring the tension in the room.
“Near on a thousand.”
“And eggs?”
“Who knows. Twice that.”
“Ky’Dren’s bloody axe, me king! Why the hells ye let ‘em go from Drakkar?”
Roakore sighed, rubbing his weary eyes. “Hells, Philo, I ain’t for knowin’. Thought it was the right thing to do, I did. Whill made a pact with Zalenlia. She…she ain’t like the others.”
“Ain’t like the others?” said Philo, shooting up from his chair and pacing the room. “Ain’t like the others? Who ever heard o’ a dragon who ain’t like the others? Eh?”
“You are aware of Zorriaz the White. Zalenlia be like that.”
“Zorriaz be different. She be bonded to Queen Avriel, has been since her birth.”
“It be true. They ain’t all like the dragons o’ old who stole the treasures o’ the gods and hid ‘em away in the mountains out o’ jealousy,” said Raene.
Philo regarded her with wide eyes, as though she too were infected by whatever madness befell his king.
“It ain’t for matterin’,” said Roakore sternly, in an attempt to take back control of the conversation. “The dragons surrendered. They left Drakkar. That was the deal. Zalenlia says that she wants peace for her kind.”
“And you believe her?” said Philo.
“Ky’Dren help me…I do. But that ain’t meanin’ that she’ll remain in power. If another dragon deposes her, and they got it in their heads that they want war, then we’ll give it to ‘em. But for now, Agora is safe from their kind. For the first time in the history o’ Agora, we don’t have to worry about that threat.”
Philo looked to be trying to calm himself down. At length he sat down and let out a long sigh. “Alright, me king. I be trustin’ yer wisdom as I always been doin’.”
Roakore nodded, looking to the others for objection. Raene was on his side, he knew, and Arrianna gave a stubborn grunt and a nod. Agnar, however, looked concerned still.
“Ye got somethin’ to be sayin’? Say it now,” Roakore told the holy dwarf.
“This be unprecedented, me king. It be the word o’ Ky’Dren that every dragon is to be killed if we be gettin’ the chance.”
“I’ll deal with the judgement o’ the gods when I meet ‘em,” said Roakore.
Agnar gave a nod and left it at that.
“I ain’t for knowin’ why Zalenlia be different,” Roakore went on. “But she understands the danger that we all face with this mantle o’ darkness business. She has asked Whill to seek her out in Velk’Har. She be wantin’ to help, and with her power o’ healin’, I believe she can. For if we don’t defeat the Dark Lord o’ old, then there ain’t goin’ to be no mountains to fight over anyway.”
Chapter 32
Violent Seas
As Whill had expected, the long journey to Drindellia was fraught with danger. Two weeks into the voyage, the eastern sky began to darken, blotting out the sun and the stars, and giving them nothing to navigate by for the rest of the journey. Compasses began to spin erratically, and all other tools of navigation proved useless. Luckily, Whill could still see the heavenly orbs using mind sight, and he guided them ever eastward with the knowledge that Abram had imparted on him at a young age.
The sky broke three weeks into the journey, pelting them with hard rain and hail. Still they continued eastward. When the clouds and the rain did not stop them, crushing waves began to rise up, and wind battered the ships, ripping sails and sending rigging crashing to the decks. Whill used his power to repair the damage as it came, and still they sailed eastward.
At dusk, a month into the voyage, a storm began in the east and quickly moved across the ocean toward them, bringing mammoth tidal waves and biting hail. Knowing that Eldarian was behind the attacks, Whill climbed the tallest mast and shook his fist at the heavens, which churned and rippled, crackling and raging with thunder and lightning.
“Come then, Eldarian, it is me that you want! Strike me down now and be done with it! Strike me down, and I will rise from the ocean stronger than ever before!”
The wind howled, and the ocean rose up a hundred feet before them. Whill pulled all the energy from his blade and shot out a hand; from it came a bright spell that disappeared into the center of the oncoming wave. There was a loud boom and a cracking noise, like two icebergs colliding, and suddenly the wave froze solid. Whill unleashed another spell, this one a shockwave that hit the frozen wave and broke it into a million pieces.
Gretzen’s voice suddenly drowned out the tumult, and she bellowed spell words in the ancient Vald language. Whill dropped to his knees, spent, as the shadow of a face formed in the dark, churning clouds. Fear gripped him as he stared into eyes glowing bright with blue-green lightning.
“You have no power here!” Gretzen declared in elvish. “Back to your eternal prison!” She shot out her hands, and from them erupted bright white light that shot into the heavens and exploded in the face of the dark one.
A cry echoed across the ocean. It was a guttural, tortured cry, but also one laced with hatred and malice. Whill watched, mystified, as the dark clouds dissipated, and bright sunlight spilled through. The winds died down and the waters calmed.
Below him the elves cheered, and the dwarves took up the celebration as well. Whill hurried down the rigging and rushed to Gretzen’s side, who was being helped up by Azzeal.
“Is she alright?” Whill asked Azzeal, but Gretzen smiled on him and nodded.
“I am fine, tired is all. Help me to
my quarters,” she said wearily.
Whill and Azzeal helped her below deck and sat her down on the edge of the long bed. “Thank you for your help,” said Whill, handing her a mug of water. “But how is it that Eldarian was able to reach us here? Has he broken free?”
“No, no,” said Gretzen. “Not yet. His prison weakens as we speak, however, and he has begun to test its limits. He weakens himself to do so, but he will stop at nothing to ensure that you do not make your journey.”
“Then…he fears me?” said Whill.
“Indeed, as he should. I was able to push him back this time, but I fear that the closer we get, the harder he will try. You must find your strength, Whill. And use it wisely.”
During the remainder of the journey, Whill meditated often, pouring his energy into his father’s blade and preparing his mind for the coming battle. Eldarian did not attempt to slow their progress for the remainder of the journey, which Whill didn’t know whether to take as a good omen or ill. The Dark Lord’s ability to affect the mortal world was unsettling, and it reminded Whill of the urgency of their quest.
Two months after leaving Agora, while Whill and Roakore where flying high above the fleet, they spotted land.
“Land ho!” Roakore bellowed, steering Silverwind into a dive and flying over the ships. “Land ho! Look alive, lads, there be land on the horizon.”
Whill too swooped down and landed. Ragnar was there to greet him with a look of excitement on his usually stoic and slightly gloomy face. “Is it Drindellia?”
Behind Ragnar stood Azzeal. The elf walked between the men as though he did not see them. His eyes were locked on the distant speck of greenish brown. Both Whill and Ragnar waited anxiously for the elf’s deduction, and when none came, Ragnar touched him on the shoulder.
Azzeal jumped and turned his head, surprised, but seeing Ragnar’s hand, he turned back to the ocean. “It is the homeland,” he said with joy in his voice.
“Prepare for anything!” said Whill, turning to the elves, who stood in reverie as well.
Whill remembered the dead land that they had seen after going through the portal. It had been a country covered in twisted, gnarled trees that looked to have caught a sort of blight. The forests had seemed dead, and the water tainted. He whispered a spell, and his visual focus doubled, and then tripled. He looked closely at the rocky cliffs, but was unable to see the land beyond them.
“Zorriaz!” he yelled, racing to the upper deck and looking for her in the sky.
Roakore too called to his mount, and soon he and Raene had taken to the air. Zorriaz flew low across the ocean, the tips of her wings drawing straight lines on the surface. Whill leapt from the deck and landed in the saddle as she glided by. He spurred her high into the sky, and she steered east toward land.
“Bring me higher, Zorriaz. I would see the color of the land.”
They flew higher than the clouds, until the air became hard to breath, and Whill scoured the land. Disappointment washed through him. Kellallea had done nothing to heal the land. Using mind sight, he focused in on the dark forests, green-hued waters, and fields of what should have been grass. Instead, long fern-like vines of dark red weaved throughout, growing up the sides of trees and hanging like tattered shrouds from their barren branches.
“She has done nothing,” said Whill.
Zorriaz gave a baleful cry and shot fire into the air. Whill knew that given her melding with Avriel’s soul, she had memories and strong emotions tied to Drindellia.
Whill searched the coast north and south, but found no place where they might land. Kellallea had told him that Zerafin would be waiting where King Verelas had fallen, but he had no way to know if he was north or south of that location. He would need the elves.
He returned to his ship and conferred with the elves, and after a long debate, they agreed that Verelas’s beach was likely north of their position. They sailed in the direction for two days, and ever the tall wall of stone was on their right, looming high above the masts of the ships. On the morning of the third day, while he flew with Roakore and Raene, Whill spotted a long beach, and farther still, he saw the telltale makings of a settlement. He reported this to Roakore, and they decided to scout it out together before the ships arrived.
They flew high above the cliffs along the coastline, until the rocks and crashing waves gave way to a wide cove that could have held fifty sailing ships; instead, it held one. Whill immediately recognized it as a sun elf vessel. There was also a small village of huts higher up the beach , beyond the small fishing boats that had been pulled up and secured with stakes. A wide path led to the village, lines on both sides with those strange red crawling vines.
Whill flew toward the village, motioning for Roakore and Raene to follow. A call went up from the first elf to spot them, and soon others were coming out of their huts to point up at the sky with reverence.
“Whill of Agora!” he heard more than one elf call out.
Zorriaz gave a triumphant roar and blasted fire up into the sky. She circled once, then twice, before landing at the center of the small village beside a pyramid whose base had just been laid, and whose walls were yet only ten feet high.
Whill leapt down and greeted the elves as he searched the crowd for Zerafin. He spotted the elf, approaching from between two huts. Zerafin smiled wide and strode over to Whill with the grace of a king.
“Whill, my friend. It is good to see you after these long months. Welcome to my homeland.”
Chapter 33
Many Reunions
Roakore landed and sauntered over to Whill and Zerafin. Raene came with him and eyed the elves suspiciously.
“Well then, if ye ain’t a sight for sore eyes!” said Roakore to Zerafin, using one of his favorite human sayings.
“It is good to see you in health, Roakore my friend.”
“It be good to see ye as well. We’ve had far too many adventures without you in Agora.”
“Yes,” said Zerafin, seeming pained. “It was a hard choice to make, leaving Agora, that is. But I believe it was the right one.”
“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” said Whill.
“Thank you. She went well.” Zerafin’s eyes brightened, and he smiled at his friend. “Near the end she said that she saw Father. She died smiling.”
“’Tis good to hear, that is,” said Roakore.
“How did Avriel take the news? I suspect it was Kellallea who told her, for I have not sent anyone back with correspondence.”
“Avriel took it hard,” said Whill. “Especially when it was told to her right after Kellallea restored her power to her.”
Zerafin jerked. “Restored her power? We must speak of this…” he said, glancing around at the gathered elves, “in my abode.”
“Of course,” said Whill. “But first we must inform the ships that it is safe to land in the cove.”
“Ships?”
“Like you said, there is much to discuss.”
Raene landed, and upon request, agreed to send word to the elves and dwarves. As she flew away, Zerafin led the group to his wide hut. It was not made of animal hide, but rather had a frame of gnarled wood and walls of interwoven vine with an outer shell of the red, fern-like leaves that grew so prominently in this location.
“Might I offer you a drink?” Zerafin asked, indicating the table and chairs off to the side.
“Wouldn’t happen to have any o’ that dry elven red, would ye?” Roakore asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” said Zerafin. “We had to pack only those supplies necessary for survival.”
Roakore glanced around, looking baffled. “If spirits ain’t needed for survival, I ain’t for knowin’ what is.”
Zerafin laughed heartily, offering Roakore a dwarven salute. “I have missed your humor, friend.”
“I’m not sure that he was joking,” said Whill with a chuckle.
“Bah, well good thing we dwarves packed smart-like. Got us over a hun’red kegs o’ ale, spirits, and wine on our s
hip.” He proceeded to produce a long flask from the folds of his cloak and raised it into the air with a smile.
“Very well,” said Zerafin. “I would be honored to partake with you.” He found three glasses and joined them at the table, pulling up a trunk to sit on.
Roakore quickly poured them each three fingers of rum in the wooden cups and raised his own. “To new lands, and new beginnings.”
“Here here,” said Whill.
Together they emptied their glasses. Whill and Zerafin knew well enough that a dwarf never toasted only once, and held their cups with knowing glances as Roakore poured them another.
When they all had made their own cheer, Roakore topped them off and finally sat back in his chair, eyeing the interior of the hut.
Whill glanced around as well, noting the quality of the furnishings that the elves had no doubt built only recently from local forests. He was surprised that the dead, gnarled wood could be made into something beautiful. There were clay pots as well about the cooking area, which had likely been made since arriving. Despite the harsh conditions of the land, the elves had done well for themselves so far. He was impressed that Zerafin lived so plainly. There was no pomp to the hut, but rather a feeling of simplistic practicality.
“How is my sister?” Zerafin asked. Whill had been aching to tell Zerafin of the children, but hadn’t found it suitable to include in a toast.
“She is well. We were married only a few months ago. She has recently given birth to two healthy babies.”
“Two?” said Zerafin, sounding to Whill like an owl in his surprise.
“Yes,” said Whill, beaming. “Abe and Arra.”
“Arra for our mother I presume, and Abe for Abram. This is good news indeed,” said Zerafin, raising his glass and toasting the children.
“What time I spent with them was the best of my life. Gods willing, I’ll return to them soon.”
The Mantle of Darkness: Whill of Agora Book 7: Legends of Agora Page 15