Demoweir's Rise (Great War Chronicles Book 2)

  “Hmm,” he muttered aloud.

  “It looks like you may have chosen the wrong skinder for the task, Metakon.” The sly smile on Tross’ face made Metakon want to smash the elf’s nose to smithereens.

  “You are mistaken, Tross. I have chosen the perfect skinder for the task. He will do one of two things – he will either disappear once he reaches the top of the mountain, or he will be killed, and his body tossed down to the beach below. That is more than sufficient to tell us what we need to know – and I get rid of a thorn in my side.”

  The wind blew softly across the beach, lifting flicks of sand and tossing them about like feathers. Metakon realized that his hands were wet as a light mist began to fall from the fog-inducing clouds above. He did not mind it so much, though it would make walking on the sand a more arduous task.

  “What if he is killed and his body is not thrown over the cliff side, Metakon? What if they keep his body in the hopes that we traverse those rocky walls and come face-to-face with those dragon riders?”

  Metakon hated being questioned – especially by a dark elf. He felt they were beneath him, much as the ogres were beneath the giants – though you would never hear a giant say as much.

  “They will throw the body over the edge, Tross. It does them no good to have us climb up there and kill a few of our men. It would only warn those of us below, and we would leave and form a counter attack. If they toss the body over the ledge, they are sending a message – the message that they are willing to fight.”

  Tross looked skyward as the sun sank below the shoreline. The faint green hue was now easily visible to the naked eye. Metakon followed Tross’ gaze and let out a grunt. His fists clenched together in anger.

  “That traitor! He stole my emerald of life! We must get it back!” Metakon cried out.

  He stormed off to his quarters on the ship. A few minutes later, he returned with a few cyclopses.

  “Tear down that ship and start making a ladder!” he commanded. “We shall not wait for him to reach the top! He has stolen something valuable, and I must have it back!”

  “Wait! You cannot be serious, Metakon. We cannot tear down our ships before we know if we will need them to evacuate!”

  Metakon was tired of talking with Tross. It was about time he learned his proper place among the ranks.

  “I am in charge here! Not you, Tross! You are here at my behest, and you and those rejects you call dark elves are at my disposal! That is the agreement that we signed in blood, and you had better not forget it! Now – tear down half of our ships and start building ladders and towers to reach the top! NOW!” he shouted.

  Tross stared at the skinder, unimpressed by his yelling.

  “We have signed an agreement to help you in this endeavor, Metakon; but mark my words on this day – when we are finished helping you, we will make you bow at our feet for insulting our race. Not you, nor any other will stop us from doing this. The time will come when you will rue the day that you decided to insult and mock my men and me.”

  Tross did not wait for a reply. He turned and stormed off for his tent.

  “That day will come, Tross! When it does, I will make sure you understand the full power of the Chaotic! Until then, you are here to help me! Now get your men and start building!”

  Tross turned and stormed back toward Metakon. He bent down and got nose-to-nose with the skinder leader:

  “We signed an agreement to help you battle the dwarves and anyone else who have kept your goddess trapped. We did not sign a deal to be your builders. Build your ladders your own damn selves, you arrogant fool!”

  Metakon, enraged by Tross’ defiance, stepped back and began to concentrate. A ball of red energy began to form between his hands as he held them out in front of his body.

  ‘I will put an end to this right now!’ he thought to himself. He had every intention of doing just that – until his eyes caught the sight of the dark elves as they all stood on the beaches – their arrows trained on him. He relaxed and put his arms back down at his side.

  “In due time, Tross. In due time.” He muttered.

  The skinder wandered off to the ship to get some rest. Metakon realized he had inadvertently given away his intentions to deal with the elves and not keep the proposed alliance with Tross. ‘There is no doubt about what happened here today – Tross will not forget this atrocity, and he will be out for blood as soon as the time is right.’ Metakon thought to himself as he stormed off to give the orders for the ships to be dismantled.

  Tross signaled for his men to stand guard and keep a watchful eye on the others. He needed time to think – time to plan his attack – both against the dwarves in the land of Umuosmar and eventually against Metakon.

  22

  The red and white banners fluttered in the wind as the dwarves from Gornfurum arrived in Thirndor to lend their assistance to Fogrolir and the others. They were welcomed with open arms and tiresome smiles as the elves and dwarves continued making contraptions.

  “Who among you is the best trap maker?” Fogrolir asked.

  “That would be me.” A voice called out as a dwarf stepped forward.

  The dwarf’s bald head stood out easily among a myriad of dwarves with long hair. His fiery red beard, braided from his chin to the belt that adorned his waist, showed the skill in which his hands worked.

  “No offense, sir, but I asked for the best trap maker, and I am quite confident that Kragjaw Tuminar or his father would be the ones who fit that description.”

  The dwarf stepped forward without hesitation and spoke in a deep, raspy voice:

  “Normally, Fogrolir, you would be correct. However, we have not seen Kragjaw nor his father, Kurikjaw, since the day the young dwarf killed Firehock! They left the town immediately, alongside the former royal guard. I believe her name is Skalmaena. Since that day, we have not seen nor heard a word from the Tuminar family. In their absence, I assure you that I am the most skilled among all of these men and women – in fact, I am the most proficient even when a Tuminar stands in the ranks.”

  There were a few chuckles from the dwarves as it was widely accepted that the Tuminar family were too staunch a bunch to adapt to the new ways of trap making. They resorted to pure skill and intricate technique, as opposed to using magic.

  “Tell me,” Fogrolir began, “who among you is the best trap maker that does not incorporate magic into the mix?”

  The dwarves stopped their giggles and mindless tomfoolery and became quiet. If Fogrolir wanted a trap maker that did not use magic, he would certainly need the skills of the Tuminar family, for they were the only family in Gornfurum known to make traps the old-fashioned way.

  “Any one of us can make your traps, Fogrolir. Just because we can use magic does not mean that we have to resort to it. We are still skilled dwarves, you know.”

  “What you are – …” Mange called out from behind Fogrolir, “is traitors to the crown. The entire lot of you!”

  Chaos erupted as dwarves began to shove their way toward Mange. The men and women from Gornfurum did not anger easily, but being called traitors was the one way to start a fight.

  “Peace! Peace!” Fogrolir yelled as he held his hands out in an attempt to appease the angry crowd – it did not work.

  “Hang him!” one dwarf shouted.

  “Cut out his tongue for such treasonous words!” another said.

  Mange stepped forward, pulled his axe from its sheath, and smiled at the crowd as they continued their push toward him. The dwarves of Thirndor stepped in front of those from Gornfurum and refused to budge.

  “Let em’ through! Their magic and treason is no match for my skill!” Mange yelled.

  Barth ran to his brother’s side and produced a javelin – if anyone were to dare attack his brother, he would be there to fight alongside him.

  “Enough!” the thunderous roar echoed through the town. Everyone turned in the direction of the sound – Mersoth stood tall, the frills along the top of her head stood straight up
– the slant of her eyelids showed her anger as her eyes were barely visible – making her appearance even more menacing.

  “We are here to save this kingdom, and we need one another to do it! Enough of this bickering and bantering. Get to work so we can save this country, and let me make this clear – the next person that calls another a ‘traitor’ will fall prey to me.”

  The stare-down between the two groups of men continued for a few minutes more, though no one dared utter the word ‘traitor’ to another. The crowd began to disperse and Mange, alongside his brother Barth, returned to the forge to continue their metal working.

  Fogrolir made his rounds, looking in on the various sets of dwarves as they worked in their respective areas. The trap makers of Gornfurum, though still upset with Mange, were working tirelessly to make a contraption that looked like a ball, but swiveled in every direction from a fixed point. It was not an easy task, and they bickered and fussed at one another about which way was the best to make such a device.

  As Fogrolir made his way over to the forging area, Mange lifted his head and signaled for the Storm Rider to come over for a chat. Fogrolir walked over as Mange removed the odd-looking goggles from his face, allowing the sweat the to run freely down his cheeks and disappear into his beard.

  “Foggy boy,” Mange called to the dwarf as he approached, “I need sand!”

  Fogrolir looked around him and pointed at the ground.

  “No, Foggy boy! Not dirt! I need sand! I need the sand from the beaches of the Shimmering Tide. It is rich in iron minerals, and I need it to mix with the melted wax and metal brought in from Megh Borim.”

  Fogrolir shook his head and sighed.

  “I suppose you want me to send someone to get the iron?”

  “Not just anyone, Foggy boy. You. I want you to go and gather it before the inhabitants of Megh Borim make it here. Once they get here, if they see us mixing sand with their iron, they will, I fear, become very upset. They are stubborn and refuse to admit that sand, forged with the wax and iron we already have, makes the iron even stronger. If they see us bring in sand, they may refuse to help at all.”

  Fogrolir did not like the idea of leaving Mange and Barth in Thirndor without him being there to quell any usurping that may arise because of the brother’s tendency to run their mouths. He did, however, know that despite their quirks, the brothers were masters at crafting things. That meant if Mange wanted sand from the Shimmering Tide, then that is what he would bring the dwarf.

  “Very well, Mange. I will see to it that it is done in quick fashion. Mersoth and I will fly out to the Shimmering Tide after we eat. We should not be gone more than an hour or two.”

  “One more thing, Foggy boy.” The dwarf said.

  Fogrolir stopped in his tracks but did not look back at the dwarf.

  “Yes, Mange?”

  “Say hello to Kemoth for me, and bring your grandson Kragjaw back with you upon your return.”

  The statement blindsided Fogrolir. Kemoth was a name that Fogrolir had not heard in a hundred years. Even more, to hear Mange mention the name of the magnificent beast alongside his grandson’s name was a genuine shock.

  “Did you just say for me to say hello to Kemoth – and to bring my grandson back with me? How? How do you know where they are?”

  Mange watched as Fogrolir slowly turned to face him – a look of consternation drawn across his face.

  “Foggy boy, I am not stupid. The magic of old gives my brother and me many visions. I saw you on the shores with Mersoth. I saw you kill Kulok Greybrew. I know that you saw Kemoth as he broke the water’s surface. I also know that you have no idea that your son-in-law, alongside his son, are residing in the water with that beast. That is why you must go to gather the sand, Fogrolir. Kemoth knows who you are and he will not harm you. You send anyone but you, and they will die.”

  The fire burned within Fogrolir at the revelation that Mange and Barth knew more than they spoke about. Though upset at first by the revelation, Fogrolir settled the matter in his mind with a new resolution to keep the peace between the dwarves.

  ‘If the Taberlim brothers’ know what happened on the shores of Kiets Keep, and they are here to help with our cause, then they must know victory is in our future!’ he surmised in his mind.

  “How do you suggest I find my family, Mange? You need sand from the shores, and you need my grandson – all before the inhabitants from Megh Borim arrive. That is a tall order.”

  “Yes – a tall order for a short dwarf, ha!” Mange laughed at his quip.

  “Foggy boy, Mersoth knows where Kemoth resides. She can take you to the right place. Who knows, maybe the sand we need is hidden in whatever lair the beast is living in.”

  Mange glanced up and smiled at the Storm Rider. Though he was harsh, uncouth, and very often misunderstood – as was his brother, Barth – the men had a very high respect for Fogrolir. He had lived and seen things that would make others pray for death, and yet he kept going. His faith was unshakable; his loyalty, unquestionable.

  The cold air descended upon the town as the last rays of sunlight disappeared from the skies. The lanterns flickered as their encasements rocked slightly in the breeze, performing a small dance for the wind. Fogrolir ate quickly and excused himself to go speak with Mersoth, but before he did so, he stopped and had a short conversation with Vulred. Vulred listened and nodded his approval, and handed Fogrolir a parchment, signed with his insignia.

  Mersoth stood guard along the pathway which separated the dragon stables from the quaint homes of the dwarves in Thirndor. Even in the darkness, it was easy to make out her figure. Her large, muscular legs were unmistakable in the bleak light that reached out but never touched her – as if the very light itself were afraid of her.

  Fogrolir came alongside her on the left of her body and patted her back leg. She turned her head slightly and looked him over with a smile. There was something about Fogrolir that all dragon’s felt. It was not easy to explain, not even amongst themselves when the dragons spoke to one another, but it was there. An inkling, as though Fogrolir understood them more than they understood themselves. It was a feeling of warmth – of understanding and contentment. The dragon’s trusted Fogrolir, and Fogrolir trusted them in return.

  “Mersoth, I have a task from Mange that must be carried out tonight if possible. He wants sand from the shores of the Shimmering Tide, or from the cavern in which Kemoth resides. He has also asked that I bring my grandson with me when we return. Kragjaw is by far the best trap maker in all our kingdom. Mange would not ask for him if it were not important. I have to ask you – are you willing to take me to the place where Kemoth resides?”

  Mersoth turned her face from Fogrolir. The Shimmering Tide was no place of joy for her. She watched her master, Kulok Greybrew, be struck down by Fogrolir just outside the waters. It was the place where Praghock Yulgrunli launched his attack against Kulok, which started the mess the dwarves were currently in. Kemoth, though friendly, had nearly killed her when they first met, and though he was now regarded as an ally, he was indifferent in his initial thoughts of Fogrolir. He knew the Storm Rider was seen as the best in the land and that the dragons themselves revered Fogrolir as a part of their family. That did not stop him from asking whether trusting Fogrolir was a good idea, however, when Mersoth spoke with him just before leaving the Shimmering Tides.

  “Fogrolir, you know that I will do anything that must be done to help save our kingdom. Kemoth, however, can be very fickle about who he trusts. He witnessed your actions when you slew my master – our King, on the land where Kiets Keep sits. He did not see the look that overtook King Kulok Greybrew, nor did he see the evil that flashed in my master’s eyes before he was felled.”

  Fogrolir nodded.

  “What are you trying to say, Mersoth. You have no reason to not be straight with me, and you know I will not be offended by anything you say.”

  Mersoth grunted as she nodded her head in agreement.

  “What I am sayin
g is that I know Kemoth means well, but he can be quite capricious. I would not want to tangle with him beneath the water’s surface. He is an honest dragon, even if he no longer flies, and he will not hesitate to attack me – or you, if he feels as though his feelings are warranted.”

  “I see,” Fogrolir said as he mulled over Mersoth’s words.

  “Tell me, Mersoth – would you be more welcomed if you left me on the shores of the island while you ventured off to speak with him? I can wait on the coasts and gather sand while you talk with him and my grandson. Speaking of – does he know that Kragjaw and Kurikjaw are related to me?”

  Mersoth did not answer the question. Instead, she motioned for Fogrolir to climb onto her backside and into the harness.

  “I will leave you on the shores. Try not to get into any trouble, Fogrolir.”

  Fogrolir locked his feet into the straps and leaned back in the small chair.

  “I would never dream of it, Mersoth.” He said with a smile as they lifted gracefully into the nighttime sky.

  “I would never dream of it at all.” He reiterated.

  23

  Laaena Alari Keep – home of Sateet and her brother, Taran. They were the only keepers of the Keep in the northwest region of the Shimmering Tide, and though it was lonely at times – they loved the freedom of not being constantly watched.

  The two siblings were just finishing their last rounds of patrol around the Keep when they heard a familiar sound – the wings of a dragon, pushing against the wind.

  “Be wary sister,” Taran said as he scanned the sky, “that is definitely the sound of dragons’ wings.”

  Sateet nodded and clung to her brother’s side.

  “Those beasts never come this close to the Keep after dark, Taran. There must be a reason for such an animal to fly near this place when they know we have better eyesight than they do at night.”

  Taran was just about to answer when the ground began to shake, and small rocks started to fall from the top of the Keep. The two siblings turned and looked upward and noticed a dragon peering at them over the edge of the tower wall.