“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ until I see the dragons leave as promised,” said Roakore, folding his thick arms across his chest. Beside him, Raene did the same.
Zalenlia turned to the gathered dragon and gave a roar. Dozens took up the call, and soon the ledge began to shake and rumble. Everyone but Roakore and Raene moved to the sides, and out of the wide mouth of the mountain came hundreds of dragons, like a swarm of bats from a cave. Roakore and Raene were forced to drop to the stone lest they be thrown from the ledge by dragon wings. When the mountain had emptied, they rose proudly.
Only Zalenlia remained. She spoke to her kind in the language of the dragons, and they answered with plumes of fire. As one they turned to the east and flew away, never to return to Velk’Har.
The golden dragon stood silently, watching them as they glided toward the horizon. Roakore and Raene, however, wasted no time and ran to the mouth of the cave to explore.
“We set out in the morning!” Whill yelled after them. “See that you return by then.”
Chapter 38
A Dwarf yet Breathes in Velk’Har!
The mouth of the mountain opened to a large chamber, the walls of which looked to have been molded by dragon fire long ago. The walls were smooth, black and reflective, soaking up the sunlight outdoors and illuminating the chamber with a hazy glow that added to its mystery.
“It smells like dragon shite in here,” said Raene with disgust.
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Roakore, and he spit on the floor. “Well, not for long I say!”
He journeyed farther into the chamber, all the way to the back wall, two hundred yards from the entrance. A large tunnel, one big enough to admit the largest of dragons, branched off from the chamber to the right. Roakore took it, though there were many other such tunnels that he might have ventured down.
They came to what looked to have been a birthing chamber, for nearly a dozen broken dragon eggs littered the floor, and there were scorch marks where dragon’s breath had been used to induce hatching.
“These don’t look like dwarven chambers,” Raene noted.
“Aye, they must be deeper in the mountain. Likely the dragons used these natural caverns, bein’ that they be so high up. That ledge be perfect for ‘em to land on. Well, when I be king o’ this mountain, that ledge’ll be for silver hawks. Come on, the others be restin’ anyway. Let’s see where this one leads us.”
They traveled for nearly an hour through numerous tunnels and chambers, but nowhere did they find signs of dwarven craftsmanship. It wasn’t until Roakore stumbled upon an old rusty helmet that they found any sign of their ancient kin.
“Look here,” said Roakore, bringing his torch to bear on the relic.
“A helmet. Looks old as dirt,” said Raene.
“Aye,” said Roakore, his voice trailing as the torchlight illuminated a den full of bones—dwarven bones.
“Damn the bastards to the hells,” he said, raising his torch and shining the light on the vast chamber.
“They took ‘em up here to feed the young, I recon,” said Raene.
“Aye, we can’t be far from the dwarven city. Come.”
They took a tunnel to the left that looked promising. It spiraled downward for many hundreds of feet before opening to yet another chamber. This one, however, had not been altered by dragon’s breath. Stalactites and stalagmites filled the chamber, which would have made the going slow had a path through them not been made long ago.
Roakore and Raene followed the path and found that it led to a doorway that had been partially destroyed. One side of the door was melted, and rusted metal could be seen mingled with natural stone. On the other side, however, much of the arch had been spared. Roakore dropped to his knees before it, gazing in amazement at the ancient runes carved into it.
“Thank ye, Ky’Dren, thank ye for bringin’ me here do discover yer wonders.”
He got up and trudged forward, excited and apprehensive about what he might find. Through the archway they went, and they stopped dead when they saw what lay beyond. An ancient dwarven city frozen in time stood before them, one that had surely been ravaged by dragons.
Roakore took off his helmet and clutched it to his chest, tears welling in his eyes. He had known what to expect, for Ky’Dren had spoken of the destruction wrought by the dragons, but he had not anticipated that even crumbled and broken, the city would be so beautiful. It stretched on for what must have been miles in all directions. Many buildings carved into the rock had been destroyed, but many more were intact, standing tall and proud even after thousands of years, a testament to the craftsmanship of the dwarves of Velk’Har.
“Ky’Dren!” Roakore yelled, his voice echoing far and wide. “A dwarf again breathes in Velk’Har! I be Roakore, son o’ Ro’Din. Me fathers before me be Ro’Rynar, Ro’Krenda, Ro’Sak, Ro’Drennen, Ro’Zarrekk, Araknar, and Ro’Sar, the first king o’ the Ro’Sar mountains, and twenty-third king o’ Ky’Dren. I ask for yer blessin’ this day. As be me right as yer descendent and tenth king o’ Ro’Sar, I claim meself king o’ Velk’Har!”
Raene slammed her fist to her chest and bowed before her cousin and king. Roakore stood overlooking his city, the city of Ky’Dren, and he smiled wide.
A rumbling began far in the distance as his last echoed word faded. Raene stood, ready with mace in hand for whatever abomination might spring up to challenge Roakore’s claim. Roakore too tensed and unlatched his stone bird from his thick belt. The rumbling grew deeper, vibrating the stone beneath their feet. The sound was like the growl of a god, deep and terrible.
“Ky’Dren! Be that ye?” Roakore called against the thunderous sound.
A wave crashed over the faraway buildings, and water pure and blue rushed through the city streets, washing away the bones and debris and continuing on to crash against the ledge that he and Raene stood upon.
“It be Ky’Dren, me king,” said Raene with reverence. “He be cleansin’ the city for ye.”
Roakore looked to her, amazed, and his back straightened. He puffed out his chest, raised his arms, and sang to the glory of the gods as the cleansing water crashed over the balcony and sprayed them both. He laughed through it all, watching as the water filled the chamber and slowly withdrew, leaving the streets sparkling and cleansed.
Roakore and Raene returned to the surface and found that it was already dawn. The others had camped just inside the mouth of the mountain and were now packing up for flight.
“Roakore!” said Lunara, throwing down her pack and rushing to him and Raene. “Where have you been?”
“Thought you might have gotten lost,” Zerafin added. “We almost went looking for you, but Whill said that you were alright and were deep inside the mountain. What did you find?”
“The lost city o’ me ancestors,” said Roakore proudly.
“Me cousin claimed himself king o’ Velk’Har, and Ky’Dren blessed him with cleansing water,” Raene added, beaming.
“Congratulations, Roakore,” said Whill. The others offered congratulations as well, and a top was swiftly popped on a bottle of rum. They all cheered to the new king of Velk’Har, slamming their fists to their chests in respect.
“Roakore,” said Whill, when the merriment had died down. “I will understand if you wish to remain here, or return for your people so that you might begin rebuilding.”
“Bah! Ye ain’t getting’ rid o’ me that easily. First there be Eldarian to deal with, then be the great reclamation.”
“As you wish,” said Whill.
Chapter 39
The Forest of Spears
They left shortly after Roakore returned and found the morning mild and welcoming, with no sign of the storm that had plagued them previously. Whill was beginning to hope that Eldarian had expended too much energy in his attempts to stop them, and thought that perhaps they might be in time after all. He was surprised to have not seen or heard from Kellallea thus far. The goddess had told him that she would see him inside the mountain prison, still, he had expecte
d her to contact him. He reached out with his mind often during the long flight, but she never answered his summons.
Whill soon forgot Kellallea and focused on the coming battle. He knew that his friends could do nothing against Eldarian, except perhaps Gretzen, and he didn’t want to risk their lives. He would have to slip away somehow, perhaps during the night while they were sleeping.
“What are you thinking about?” Lunara asked, leaning forward in the saddle and putting her chin on his shoulder.
“Eldarian.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Of course I am,” said Whill, glancing over to meet her eyes.
She offered him a smile. “Everything will work out, you’ll see.”
“I’m glad that you are so confident.”
She only smiled.
He tried to return the smile, but found that he could not. He was afraid, very afraid. He still had no clear plan to defeat Eldarian and then resist the mantle of darkness, all the while ensuring that Kellallea did not make good on her promise to kill Avriel and his children at the first sign of deception. He had considered threatening her with her beloved Eldarian once he had defeated the elf, perhaps force her to take up the mantle in his place, but that would risk her retaliation, and even if she complied, the power of the mantle would be loosened upon the world, for Kellallea was to be the one to imprison Whill once he took up the mantle.
He sighed. “I don’t see a clear way to win this one, Lunara. I have to take up the mantle and allow myself to be imprisoned; it is the only way to ensure their safety, not to mention the safety of the entire world.” He laughed then, and Lunara glanced at him curiously.
“What is funny?” she asked.
“It isn’t as funny as it is scary, I suppose. I mean, me being the only thing standing between this world and oblivion.”
“Why is that funny?”
Whill shrugged. “Why isn’t it? I’m…I’m just me. This entire affair is beyond me. Where are the gods? Why have I not heard a word from the god of men? Do they want the world destroyed just so that it can be rebuilt? Is this how it has gone since the beginning of time, just a cycle of birth and death and rebirth?”
“That is what life is, Whill. But we must still fight to survive. That is what life does.”
“But in the end death wins. Death always wins.”
“But does it?” Lunara asked. “Every time we laugh we gain a victory. Every time we love, we gain a victory. Living life to the fullest despite the fact that it ends in death is the true victory. For to succumb to despair is the true defeat.”
“Perhaps you are right. But if I win, if I stop this, then I will become death.” A chill ran down his spine at the thought.
“You will control the power of death and darkness, but that does not mean that it must control you.”
“Lunara, I will be in a prison for the rest of eternity, unable to break free, unable to live, unable to die.”
“And what is the alternative? If you do not succeed, then we will all die anyway. Everyone dies in the end, but you have a chance to save so many. Take heart in that and be proud.”
They flew in silence for a time, and Whill considered her words. He knew that she was right, but the stubborn side of him kept nagging at his resolve, telling him that there had to be another way.
As they flew north, the weather became chill and the landscape changed drastically. Gone were the forests of twisted, knotted trees, to be replaced by jutting spires of stone that stuck up from the ground at odd angles. As far as the eye could see, the land rose up gradually, as though the pointed spires had broken through the skin of the earth like the scales of some mammoth beast lurking just below the surface. The ground smoked, and red fog gathered in between the spires, lending a surreal mood to the world below.
“This is Fyrdon de Morgaz, the Forest of Spears,” said Zerafin from the back of Raene’s saddle. “It is said that there was once a great battle here, and despite the efforts of our greatest masters of the arts, we were never able to give this land life. It is said to be a cursed land.”
“Well then, we ain’t goin’ to be makin’ camp down there,” said Roakore.
“How far?” Whill asked Zalenlia over the wind.
“Two days if we do not stop.”
If we do not stop, thought Whill, realizing that he would not get a chance to sneak away after all.
Night fell and the group flew on. Whill watched the sky closely, worried that another storm would crop up that would again force them to land. The sky had become violently overcast as soon as they flew into the forest of needles, but it hadn’t yet broken. It swirled above them slowly, and the farther north they went, the more Whill began to realize that the clouds were indeed churning. They moved slowly, almost unnoticeably counter clockwise. He imagined the enormous circle of cloud, at the middle would undoubtedly be the mountain prison of Eldarian.
Whill cursed to himself that they had no hope of making camp. He didn’t need the rest; it had been his only chance to shake the others for their own sakes.
After many hours of travel, Whill realized that daytime might have come to Drindellia, but no sign of it could be seen through the thick red-hued clouds spinning overhead, faster now. Even mind sight could not penetrate the clouds, which glowed with a strange power all their own. Zalenlia had warned against them flying into those ominous clouds, saying that they would surely lose their way or worse. And so they traveled on beneath the canopy of strange clouds.
When Zalenlia sensed that the mounts or riders were growing weary, she sang her beautiful song of healing. Whill thought the song strange indeed in this eerie wasteland. Whenever she sang, the clouds began to churn faster above them, as though agitated by the beautiful song.
Whill had no idea how long they had flown, it might have been hours or even days, but eventually they came upon a mammoth collection of spires. They rested upon each other, looking as though they might have been stacked there by a god, until they created a mountain whose peak touched the eye of the spinning red clouds. At the foot of the mountain came a bright glow of hellish green light.
“That must be it!” Whill cried, pointing at the mouth of the mountain.
Just then, a deep rumbling arose from the mountain, reverberating the thousands of shards below, some no larger than a knight’s lance, and others wider than the pyramids of the elves of the sun.
One of the spires suddenly exploded from the ground, flying through the air like a gargantuan arrow, barely missing Zorriaz and forcing the group to maneuver out of the way.
“To the mouth of the cave, hurry!” Whill warned them all.
Another spire surged into the air, followed by another and yet another. Soon the dragons and silver hawks were frantically dodging the projectiles. A spire shot through the air directly at Silverwind even as she banked to avoid another. Seeing the imminent collision, Roakore reached out with everything he had and mentally deflected the projectile. Whill found himself doing the same as he followed Zalenlia, but the stone spires were too many, and they would never make it all the way to the door before being hit.
“Follow me!” Whill cried, and spurred Zorriaz into a climb. When the group had gathered around him in flight, he unleashed a glowing spell shield around them in the form of a large dome.
“Dive!” he told them all. Zorriaz complied, leading the group through the onslaught. The spires hit the energy shield and disintegrated on contact. The effort to hold the shield in place taxed Whill quickly, and he grit his teeth against the pain as they swooped down low and shot across the forest of needles. Whill growled against the effort, knowing that his strength would falter soon. The sword of his father held little power as it was, and it was near depletion.
To his relief, the mouth of the mountain suddenly came into view, and Zorriaz dove. She and the other mounts landed at a run and hurried for the mouth as the shards that had previously flown high into the sky finally came down before them, blocking the entrance. Whill pulled on the rei
ns, and Zorriaz and the others came to a skidding stop. Tons of stone crashed down on the energy shield, and the weight was too much for Whill to handle. The shield faltered and he cringed, thinking that surely this was it.
Then he heard the cry of the dwarves.
The stones stopped dead above them and floated just above their heads. Roakore and Raene stood up in their saddles, arms raised to the heavens, with grimaces of pain and concentration on their faces. As one, they heaved the stones to the side and sent them crashing into other spires. Roakore then turned to the rubble blocking the mouth of the mountain and gave a roar. He shot his arms out furiously and pulled back, and with a mental command, forced the stone to fly through the air to land behind them.
“Hurry to the door!” yelled Zerafin even as other falling stones began to crash all around them.
Zorriaz rushed forward and dove through the threshold with Zalenlia and the two silver hawks close behind. They skidded into the chamber as the falling stone crashed to the ground, sealing the mouth of the mountain.
Chapter 40
Into the Lair of the Dark One
Whill spoke a spell word and his father’s sword blazed to life. The glow of the sword cast white light on the dark chamber, revealing a multitude of bones. Animal skeletons there were, as well as elf, dwarf, dragon, and even human. At the center of the chamber sat a small lake of lava. Its rancid steam filled the cavern and burned his eyes.
“Is everyone alright?” Whill asked.
“Aye, we be alright,” said Roakore, sparking a striking stone and lighting a short torch from his pack.
The others answered in kind, and Whill breathed a sigh of relief. He surveyed the room further, searching with mind sight for any spells that might be guarding the chamber and tunnel beyond. Satisfied that there was none, he turned on the group.
“Ready?”
They nodded.
The Mantle of Darkness: Whill of Agora Book 7: Legends of Agora Page 19