“Brilliant!” he said and rubbed his own hands together.
Raene smiled proudly, but seeing that he was about to attempt to mimic the feat, she scowled at him and scooped up a tin cup of the muddy water.
“Very clever,” said Gretzen. “In my day we used two sticks and searched for miles before coming across underground deposits. This is much better.”
Roakore returned and gave the all clear before taking a seat between Whill and Zerafin. He pulled a flask from his pocket and began to unscrew the cap when Whill stopped him.
“Save it for later. I’ve brought something along that I think you will enjoy.”
Roakore looked intrigued, and slowly stashed his flask. “What ye got then?” he asked, licking his lips.
“Ten-year Arden whiskey. Found it in the wine cellar below the castle and thought of you,” said Whill.
“Ten-year, eh? My mouth already be waterin’.”
Whill passed the bottle around, and soon after Raene pronounced the mussels done. Others took rations from their pack, and together the companions ate and shared stories. Whill found that he had missed being on the road. Though it was often perilous, he felt more at home on the go than he did staying in one place for too long. He thought of Abram at such times as this, and smiled to himself, remembering the many years of adventure the old man had given him.
“This reminds me o’ the trek from Sherna to Kell-Torey,” said Roakore. “Back before the world up and went crazy.”
“Those were good times,” said Whill, and Zerafin agreed.
Roakore laughed. “That be why I always liked ye, lad. Ye be thinkin’ sleepin’ on the ground, eatin’ rations, and bein’ hunted by draggard be good times.”
Whill grinned and raised his bottle. “To perilous quests, and the open road!” He felt safe among his old companions, and indeed, among the new as well. He had been so adamant about going it alone, but now he realized that without them, the journey would have been a dire, solemn affair. But here he was, about to seek out the Lord of Darkness and Death, and yet he was smiling and laughing with his friends.
Chapter 35
The Ruins of Thyn’Lorallon
The mountain stood before him, its peak reaching to the clouds, impaling them, and brightening the heavens beyond with brilliant blue flame.
“Whillhelm Warcrown!”
The voice seemed to come from the mountain itself, for it rumbled like an avalanche, vibrating the ground under his feet and sending birds flying from trees.
“Eldarian,” Whill whispered.
The rumbling began again, and the mountain door before him exploded outward. The voice of the Lord of Darkness and Death boomed, sending stone and debris crashing down the mountainside. Whill instinctively brought up an energy globe around him and crouched low as the avalanche decimated the forest beyond.
When the dust settled, he emerged from the rubble and stood atop a shorn boulder. He looked to the west in the direction of Agora, thinking of Avriel and their children. The thought of never seeing them again froze him in place. He shuddered, and hot tears welled in his eyes. He wanted to run back to them, fly if he could. He wanted to smell Avriel’s hair one last time as he held her tight, wanted to see the twins smile at him.
“You could go to them, but you will not.”
Whill turned toward the mountain. There, floating above the crumbled stone and piles of gravel, was Kellallea.
A laugh escaped Whill, one that was mirthless and slightly maniacal. He knew that this was more than a dream. “It is wise of you to come to me in my dreams. It is good to know that you fear me,” he told her.
“Do you know why you will not return to them?” Kellallea asked, ignoring his taunting.
Whill waited in silence.
“Because you are a good man.”
“And you are an evil elf.”
Again she ignored him. She turned to regard the mountain, which smoldered and rumbled, the blue light of those hellish flames pulsing from the deep.
“Go now, Whill of Agora. Go now and save the world,” she said with a grin.
Whill opened his eyes. Overhead, the sky was murky and gray. Mind sight and a glance around told him that the sun was rising. He rose and stretched, trying to shake off the dread that had filled him in the dream. He wondered if Kellallea was watching him even now and scanned the surroundings with mind sight, though he didn’t know if he would be able to detect her that way.
“Morning me king,” said Ragnar, who was sitting by the smoldering fire and smoking a pipe.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather you call me Whill.”
Ragnar appeared at first hurt, but then nodded. “Alright then…Whill,” he said with some effort.
Roakore was just rousing from his tent. He came out sniffing at the air and looking around. “That be some sweet smellin’ pipe weed.” When he saw the smoker to be Ragnar, his face soured.
“Have a pinch,” said Ragnar, holding out his pouch.
Roakore glanced at Whill, brow furled. His taste for pipe smoke won over, however, and he walked over to Ragnar and packed his pipe, offering the man a grunt.
Whill shook his head, glad that the two had taken his mind off the dream.
They set out shortly after and continued eastward. Zerafin was familiar with the location of the revered mountain and said that it would take perhaps four days to fly there.
The day went by slowly, for the constant, lethargic overcast sky hid any passage of time, lulling Whill into a dark depression that left him hunched in his saddle. Lunara tried to engage him more than once, but he gave only short responses, not wanting to speak lest he infect her with the dour mood plaguing his mind.
When darkness fell, the soft glow of the spirits of the dead illuminated the ground below him like candles floating aimlessly in a calm sea. He wondered about the ghosts; who they were in life, who they loved, who loved them. He wondered how many of them were remembered by story and song, and how many had simply been lost to time.
What is it to be remembered anyway, if those who remember are some day forgotten as well? Whill wondered.
He knew that he would be remembered for generations to come, but none of that mattered anymore. There were people who spent their lifetimes neglecting family and friends in pursuit of greatness, thinking that their name would live on long after they were dead. Perhaps it would, but to Whill, that mattered little when faced with the price. For what was it to be remembered by the masses, and never truly be known by those you loved? He had never wanted to be king. He had never wanted to be a savior. Up until recently he hadn’t known what he wanted, but now the answer to that mystery was painfully clear.
“I know you miss them, but take heart that you are still among those who love you,” said Lunara. She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tightly from behind.
Whill’s tears broke and spilled down his cheeks, swiftly taken by the rushing wind.
The dark clouds overhead suddenly burst, and fat rain drops began to fall. Lightning flashed nearby, and Roakore steered Silverwind closer, hollering over the wind. “We should put down for the night!” He pointed to a location ahead and Whill nodded.
They followed Roakore and Ragnar as Silverwind descended toward an old ruin that looked to have once been a small fortress. The remnants of a surrounding town were evident among the creeping vines and gnarled trees surrounding the ruins, and a high concentration of ghosts loitered around, heads cocked back and blank eyes staring at the crackling sky.
“I don’t know if this is a good place to make camp,” Whill told Lunara over his shoulder.
Gretzen had heard him. “Remember what I said about acknowledging the dead. If they give us trouble, I will handle it,” she said.
Whill glanced up at the raging storm. It was growing fiercer by the second, which was forcing them to land amidst the lingering dead. He wondered if this was Eldarian’s doing. The Dark Lord had attacked them on the open sea, many hundreds of leagues from this
place; surely his power would be greater here.
Ahead, Roakore and Ragnar landed, followed soon by Raene and Zerafin. They didn’t seem to see the ghosts, for they landed among them at the center of what must have once been a courtyard. Now it was a small jungle of vines and twisted trees.
Zorriaz landed, and Whill quickly leapt off and helped Lunara and Gretzen down from the dragon’s back.
“Do you know this place?” Whill asked Zerafin, who stood staring at the old ruins.
The elf nodded. “This is Thyn’Lorallon. It fell many hundreds of years ago during the first Draggard Wars. Many elves died here.”
Whill glanced around at the many ghosts standing about the ruins. “Indeed,” he said under his breath.
“There be a dry place over here!” Roakore yelled over the thunder and lightning, which was now constant and lit the ruins like mid-day in quick flashes.
“This is Eldarian’s work,” Whill told them all. “We should leave.”
Gretzen glanced at the raging sky. “Where would we go? That lightning would be deadly.”
“She’s right,” said Zorriaz. “I cannot fly in a storm like that. I might be able to get us above it, but the danger would be great.”
Whill ground his teeth and nodded. “Come on then.”
Gretzen and Lunara followed him swiftly through the downpour and into the ruins. Roakore had led the others to the least decrepit wing of the ancient fortress. The roof had not survived the centuries, but vines and trees had grown in and around the high-walled building to create a canopy that kept out the worst of the rain.
Whill tried hard not to look directly at the dozens of ghosts lingering about. They seemed uninterested in the group, which he took as a good sign.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid, Whill thought. The storm seemed irregular, but then again, he didn’t know what was regular for this foreign land. Perhaps storms like this happened all the time. And the ghosts were those of sun elves, he saw that clearly now. Surely they held no animosity for the group.
“As good a place as any to ride out the storm, eh?” said Roakore. The chamber that they were in might have once been a greeting hall, for a broken stairway lay by the north wall, and large metal doors long fallen from their rusty hinges sat on the floor near the entrance.
Zorriaz was too big to enter and took up a place by the open doorway.
“Will you be alright?” Whill asked.
“It is only rain. I have always enjoyed lightning. I will be fine,” she said in her melodic voice.
“There might be enough dry stuff around to make a fire,” said Raene as she went about searching. “I still got me some mussels left.”
“What’s on your mind, Whill?” Zerafin asked as he came to stand beside him near the entrance.
“Aye, what be with ye. Ye look like ye done seen a ghost,” Roakore noted.
Whill glanced at Gretzen, who’s eyes widened before setting into a scowl directed at the loud dwarf.
Roakore looked from one to the other, offering his own scowl, that of confusion. “Well then, what be it? There be gho—”
Zerafin, who stood directly to Roakore’s right, elbowed him in the ribs and gave him a big-eyed look that said “shut your fool mouth.”
“Ah,” said Roakore, suspiciously glancing around the chamber.
“Right then,” said Whill, ignoring the ghost standing right in front of him. “Let’s set up camp. It doesn’t look like this storm is ending anytime soon.”
A crackle of lightning erupted just outside the chamber, close enough that Whill felt the buzzing of electricity in the floor. Another strike hit the canopy above their heads, ripping through the feeble vines and striking right next to Ragnar. He cried out and staggered back, cursing.
“That was a bit too close for comfort,” said Zerafin.
Whill looked to Gretzen, who was scanning the canopy and listening intently.
“I don’t think this is a regular storm,” said Whill.
“Shh!” Gretzen hissed, and they all stopped and listened.
A slow rumbling, one that at first sounded like thunder but carried a high-pitched keening, was slowly building in volume. Suddenly the sound boomed, and Whill realized that indeed, it was not thunder, but a voice. He instantly recognized it from his dreams.
“Awaken, my children. Dine on the flesh of the living!”
The ghosts, which numbered nearly twenty now, all came alive at the same time. Their bodies began to glow brightly, and as one they took a step forward and entered the material plain.
“Undead!” Raene cried from the other end of the chamber. She dropped her bundle of wood and pulled her shield from her back.
The ghosts, having been acknowledged, seemed to suddenly see the group, for they turned milky white eyes on them and surged forward.
“To me!” Gretzen cried out. She drew a circle in the stone around her with her walking stick and spoke a word, causing the circle to glow brightly.
Raene, whose mace had been to the spirit world and back again, attacked the closest spirit with reckless abandon. The weapon went through the chest of the dead elf, and the creature suddenly exploded.
“Stay away from me damned bird!” Roakore cried out, rushing to intercept a pair of ghosts charging his mount.
“Roakore!” Whill yelled, knowing that his axe would not kill such a foe. The fearless dwarf king swung wildly, the blade whooshing through the bodies of both attackers. They seemed more annoyed than hurt by the metal, and one of them stabbed his short sword through a parry and into Roakore’s stomach.
Gretzen cried out in the old Vald language, and from her palm went a writhing green serpent of light that wrapped itself around the two ghosts, binding them.
Roakore fell to the ground, holding his gut and growling against the pain of the spirit blade. Whill scooped him up with the help of Ragnar, and together they dragged him back to Gretzen’s circle of protection.
Raene kept at it, ignoring all calls to get her in the circle. Whill rushed out, unsheathing his father’s blade in the process, and cut through the horde of spirits that had begun to gather around Gretzen’s ring of protective energy. His was no spirit blade, but it contained enough energy to sever the ghosts’ corporal forms. He fought his way to Raene, who was bashing the ghosts and singing to the glory of the gods.
Outside, Zorriaz gave a pained roar and lit the world beyond with flame.
“Come on!” Whill yelled to Raene, grabbing her arm and yanking her toward the protective circle.
Once they were safely inside, she turned on him, seething. “What’s the big idea, pullin’ me out o’ battle like that?”
“There are too many, look,” said Whill, pointing at the entrance.
Lightning struck outside, and when its light receded, the glow of a hundred eyes lit the darkness.
“Where be Silverwind?” said Roakore, getting to his feet and shoving Ragnar’s hand from his shoulder.
Whill searched the chamber but saw nothing. “They must have gone outside to help Zorriaz.”
“Or they took to the sky. Better to risk the lightning than the spirits,” said Zerafin.
“I be goin’ after her,” said Roakore.
“Your weapons are no good against them,” said Whill.
“So what ye be proposin’? We sit in here like a bunch o’ quiverin’ jellyfishes?”
Whill looked to Gretzen, but she was caught up in her spell casting. The spirits pounded on the energy shield around them, stabbing blades at it and throwing themselves against the shimmering globe of light with murder in their eyes.
“This is the work of Eldarian,” said Whill. “He created the storm that led us here. That was his voice that you heard.”
“Then we been led into a trap. Why the hells would we remain?” Roakore asked. He pushed through them and took up his axe. “Step aside and let me through. I ain’t for lettin’ Silverwind be killed by the bastards.”
“I’m with ye, cuz!” said Raene.
&n
bsp; Before Whill could stop them, they had rushed out through the shimmering globe.
“Save your strength, Gretzen. It looks like it is going to be a fight after all,” Whill told her.
She opened her eyes. “Then prepare yourselves,” she said and dropped the energy ward of protection.
Whill released a pulse of energy out before him that sent spirits flying into the far wall and through the entrance. “Go!” he yelled to the others, and as Gretzen, Lunara, Zerafin, and Ragnar rushed through the threshold, he unleashed a similar burst of energy in all directions. As the spirits slammed into the walls of the chamber, he hurried out of the ruins and into the pouring rain.
Zorriaz stood atop a crumbled tower, spewing great plumes of fire down on the surging spirits. There were over a hundred of them now, swarming the ruins from all directions.
Roakore and Raene stood beside their mounts, and to Whill’s dismay, he noticed that Silverwind was badly injured and lying on the ground. Whill pulled up the knowledge of Orna Catorna that he had committed to memory with magic and found the spell he was looking for. He unleashed it in Roakore’s direction, hitting the double-headed axe and causing it to glow with power. The dwarf’s next strike turned a spirit into glowing mist, and he redoubled his efforts, rejuvenated by the gifted power.
Ragnar led the charge to the two dwarfs, using his innate ability to send spirits flying. Zerafin and Lunara followed close at his heals, all but powerless in this fight. Lightning hit the ground beside them and they staggered, but quickly recovered and kept on toward the fearless dwarves.
Gretzen bellowed spells and unleashed her power through the end of her gnarled walking stick. Those spirits who came in her sights were soon disintegrated by the spells, which sent them swiftly back to the spirit world.
Whill took up the rear, slicing, hacking and stabbing through any who got in his way. Soon they had all made it to the pile of rubble that Roakore and Raene had made their stand upon. High above, Zorriaz burned a swath around the group, giving them a temporary reprieve from the onslaught.
The Mantle of Darkness: Whill of Agora Book 7: Legends of Agora Page 17