Demoweir's Rise (Great War Chronicles Book 2)

by Michael Benningfield

  “Do not make any sudden movements, Sateet.” Taran’s voice trembled as he began to edge his way around the tower, toward the Keep’s gate.

  “Do not fear!” a voice called out from atop the tower. “We mean you no harm, elves of Faswary. It is just me, Fogrolir. I come with my steed, Mersoth, to beg your indulgence for a few minutes if you would be so kind as to hold counsel with me.”

  Taran did not know Fogrolir personally, but he knew who the Storm Rider was by name.

  “Why are you atop our Keep, dragon rider?”

  “Because approaching you on the ground would have risked the life of my dragon. I do not wish for her to have any undue harm befall her at the hands of a couple scared elves.”

  Taran settled his mind before replying. He and his sister agreed to meet with Fogrolir, and so Mersoth stepped off the tower and in one short motion landed on the ground. Fogrolir unhinged himself from the saddle and hopped to the soft earth below with a thud.

  “Forgive our intrusion, watchers of L’Alari Keep, but I need your help. I am on my way to the Shimmering Tide to gather a particular type of sand. My dragon, Mersoth, must venture under the surface of the water for a time and as such, I will be left alone on the shores. Given the recent rise in activity from a race of dark elves, I do not wish to be alone. I would very much appreciate it if one, or both of you, would accompany us on our journey. Your eyesight could keep me safe while I wait for Mersoth to return.”

  Taran pondered over the request for a moment but ultimately decided it was not worth risking his or his sister’s life just to help the dwarf.

  “I am sorry, Fogrolir. We cannot assist you. I understand the threat that a dark elf presents, but I cannot, in good conscious, allow my sister or myself to be put amid danger for a few handfuls of sand.”

  Fogrolir nodded and reached into his tunic and retrieved a piece of parchment bearing the royal seal of King Vulred Helethorn.

  “I wanted to ask you to go voluntarily, but I am afraid that you do not have any choice in the matter. Here,” he handed the parchment to Taran, “this is a signed declaration from Vulred Helethorn, giving direct orders for you and your sister to aid me in any form that I see fit. I am sorry that I have to do this in such a manner – but it is, unfortunately, what must be done.”

  The look on the Storm Rider’s face was solemn. Fogrolir hated to force anyone to do something against their will, but he knew that the elves would be needed to keep him safe while on the shores of the Shimmering Tide.

  Taran snared the parchment from Fogrolir’s grasp; his hazel eyes reflected his current demeanor – anger.

  “Well, well, look at this, sister.” He said as he held the parchment at arm’s length and looked at Sateet. “It really is an order from Vulred Helethorn. First, he sends us out here to this godforsaken keep, to watch over absolutely nothing – and now he is ordering us to accompany a dwarf on what may be a dangerous mission!”

  Taran’s narrow jaw-line became pronounced as he clenched his teeth together. His normally tan skin began to turn a dark red color, though no one could see it in the darkness. In his anger, he tossed the parchment aside and spat toward it.

  “This is just an abuse of his power and nothing more!” he cried out.

  Fogrolir shifted from one foot to the other as he contemplated revealing the reason for the elves much-needed assistance; in the end, he chose to stay quiet.

  “Taran, stop fussing. It does you no good and only makes you a pain to deal with.” Sateet bent over and plucked the parchment from the ground and looked it over – her face showed no expression as she read the words to herself.

  Fogrolir noticed a brooch about her neck. It was beautifully made – by whose hands he had no idea. The workmanship, however, was undeniably done by a skilled worker.

  “Pearls of Omabanise,” Fogrolir said.

  “Excuse me?” Sateet said as she looked over the parchments edge at Fogrolir.

  “Your brooch. Those pearls. They look like jewels from Omabanise. No doubt made by a very talented artisan. The placement of the beads is fantastic, and the sliver of gold cascading between each pearl is an elegant accent.”

  Sateet smiled. Her mother’s brooch – she reached for it now, involuntarily. It was a gift, given to her when she turned the proper age to date. She always wore the brooch, even when she bathed. It was her one and only possession from her mother, and she cherished it.

  “Forgive my brother. His anger of late has been harsh and not warranted.”

  “Unabashedly so, I see.” Fogrolir smiled.

  Taran said nothing but crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. His dark blue robe gave off a slight purple hue as the torches, mounted on the tower wall near the doorway, cast their eerie light.

  “What do we need to bring with us on this journey, Fogrolir?”

  Sateet handed the parchment back to Fogrolir and waited for a reply.

  “Whatever you deem necessary. This is merely an expedition in which I need elven eyes to ensure that no one sneaks up on me. The last time I was on the shores, Kelethoryn and myself had a bit of a tussle. I wish to avoid any confrontation if possible – nothing more.”

  The answer satisfied Sateet, though Taran was still steadfast in his notion that the entire ordeal was just King Vulred, throwing his weight around as a reminder that no matter how far they were from the elven lands, they were still under his control.

  “Give me a moment, please,” Sateet said before hurrying out of sight and into the keep.

  She returned a few minutes later with a long, hooded black cloak. She unclasped the small chain and slung the cloak about her shoulders. It was a stark contrast to her traditional elven dress, which she wore beneath the thick cloak.

  As she fastened the clasp, Fogrolir noticed its intricate design. The holder was a small elven bow; attached to the chain was an arrow, which slipped through what appeared to be a tiny golden tree. In the middle of the tree trunk sat a slit that the arrow fed through and locked into place.

  Even beneath the cloak, Sateet’s white dress stood out as the wind blew a bit and pushed the garment aside. It was a beautiful dress – no doubt, hand weaved, with golden frills running the length of the seams.

  “What? It is cold near the shores at night. You do not want a young lady to get cold, do you?” her voice interrupted Fogrolir’s thoughts as he admired her looks.

  “Not at all, lass.” He replied.

  Fogrolir had already seated himself in the saddle on Mersoth’s backside, and now he reached out – his arm fully extended, to help Sateet climb aboard.

  ‘Even in the moonlight her pale skin is alluring’ he thought to himself as she took his hand with a smile. Her hazel eyes danced with mischief as he helped her into the second seat in the saddle.

  “I have always wondered what being on the backside of a dragon is like!” she whispered with excitement.

  ‘Beautiful and fearless!’ his mind sang to him.

  “Well you will find out soon enough!” he quipped.

  He turned his gaze to Taran and once more offered his hand. Taran did not move.

  “Oh, come now, Taran!” Fogrolir said in a voice that showed he was becoming annoyed by such petulance. “We do not have all night, young lad.”

  Taran stared at Fogrolir but did not budge.

  “Taran!” Sateet said in feigned exasperation. “Stop being a netty and climb on. I do not wish to make this journey alone!”

  Taran, like most elves, was afraid of dragon’s and his fear refused to let go of its stranglehold on him.

  “I…I am sorry, Fogrolir. I know you have orders to follow, and I am supposed to follow them as well, but I cannot. I cannot get on the backside of this dragon. Forgive me, please. I do not wish to incur the wrath of Vulred, but I simply cannot bring myself to climb into the saddle.”

  Fogrolir pursed his lips – his beard flitted in the wind as the breeze caught a few of the loose hairs. He turned his attention to Taran and nodded:

 
; “I understand. It seems your sister is more adventurous when it comes to these beasts.” He patted Mersoth’s neck. “If you are simply afraid of flying on the backside of a dragon, I believe I have an alternative. Will you operate the top of the tower and watch over us from afar? You have your elven magic, and if you see something amiss, just, I do not know – make a fireball or something that will capture our attention, so we know trouble is coming. Can you do that?”

  Fogrolir’s eyes plead with Taran and after a moment of silence, the elf, his chin set – nodded his agreement.

  “I can do that.” He said. He did not wait for a further reply, but instead turned and entered the keep. The portcullis lowered a few seconds later, and Taran made his way to the top of the keep’s tower.

  “Sateet, I do hope you will forgive me for what I am about to do. Mersoth, we already discussed this with King Vulred. Make your circle and do what we must, quickly.”

  Sateet did not have time to ask what was about to happen, as Mersoth bounded into the air and made a tight circle over the water before heading back to the tower. Just as Taran stepped onto the rooftop, Mersoth swooped down and grabbed the elf within her grasp.

  “What the…” he began to say as he squirmed and fought to get loose. His efforts were futile, for Mersoth made sure he was secure within her grasp.

  “I apologize, young Taran, but I need your eyes as well. You do not have to ride on the backside of a dragon, but you do have to make the journey.”

  Sateet, though alarmed initially by the sly rouse used to divert Taran’s attention, began to laugh.

  “Oh, I wish I could see his face right now!” she said through tears of laughter. So enthralled by the exhilaration of the wind rushing through her hair, she did not realize she had reached around the small saddlebacking and now held her arms about Fogrolir’s waist.

  “No doubt, he will not be happy!” Fogrolir laughed in spite of himself.

  The journey took no longer than a few minutes to reach the water, and shortly thereafter they crossed the dangerous tides and made their way to dry land.

  Mersoth lowered herself to the shoreline, her back feet touching down first. Her bare front leg moved the dirt softly as she lowered her other leg and released her grip on Taran. The elf was beside himself – furious and ready for a fight.

  “How dare you!” he shouted. He pointed at Fogrolir as the dwarf slipped out of his harness and onto the muddy shores.

  “Careful, lad. The last man to look at me like that was King Kulok Greybrew, and it did not end well for him.”

  “Oh? What did you do – have him lifted into the air by your dragon? You do not scare me, Fogrolir!”

  “Actually,” Mersoth spoke, “Fogrolir ran him through with a sword. He died in Fogrolir’s arms.”

  Taran became quiet. He was still furious but realized he was at a disadvantage to start a fight with the dwarf – if his beast was around.

  “Mersoth – waste no time. Be quick about your endeavor, and meet us back here just as soon as you are finished with your task.”

  Mersoth nodded, turned, and slid into the Shimmering Tide. Her midnight blue skin tone was hardly noticeable in the nighttime, as the party had not yet lit a light source. The water shimmered and made slight popping noises as she sank lower into its depths. In mere seconds, the beast so big that she covered the top of a medium-sized mountain peak had disappeared into the darkness below.

  “You are crazy! You and your dragon!” Taran spoke, the shock in his voice evident.

  “Fogrolir, you do know that a beast lives in those waters and devours all who fall into them. Do you not?” Sateet saddled up next to Fogrolir as she spoke the words in what can only be described as a desperate whisper.

  “Yes. I know that a beast resides in those waters. That beast is an old friend to Mersoth, and he has someone that we need to accompany us back to Thirndor.”

  Sateet was practically giddy with excitement. She clasped her small hands together bounced on the tips of her toes.

  “Does this mean we will get to meet the beast?” she asked.

  “I certainly hope not!” Taran shot back. “Having to deal with these dwarves is hard enough. I do not think I can fathom dealing with another beast as well.”

  Fogrolir just shook his head and tried his best to ignore the remarks made by Taran. Instead, he turned his attention to the shores and the sands therein.

  “I need dry sand. Enough to fill our saddlebags for the journey back to the keep. Once we are back, I will leave you two to do whatever it is that you do, and I shall return to Thirndor to prepare for the coming war.”

  Fogrolir pulled two empty sandbags from the inside of his tunic and began walking along the shores in search of dry sand. He focused on the sand closest to the grass, in hopes that it would be dryer than the sands closer to the water. As he walked along, he could hear Sateet and Taran arguing.

  “Oncoming war? What does he mean? What war? He is crazy, Sateet!”

  “He is no such thing! He is revered as the greatest Storm Rider to have ever flown in these skies. Think about that, dear brother. There have been Storm Rider’s for over two millennia’s, and he is regarded as the finest of them all.”

  “Being a great dragon rider does not make one the epitome of intelligence.”

  The bickering continued – so engrossed in their argument were the two, that they did not realize Fogrolir when he returned. He stood well within view of the two but said nothing for a minute.

  “If I were a dark elf, you would both be dead right now.” Fogrolir’s voice was so sudden – and his words spoken with such power, that the two elves jumped.

  “We would be no such thing, dwarf. We are elves. We can handle a couple of dark elves if they happen to wander out this far.” Taran – his pride evident as his eyes challenged Fogrolir, refused to admit when someone else was correct.

  “Taran, you are as inelegant as you are unintelligent. Do you think a couple of dark elves would come to investigate the shores if they saw movement? No real leader sends only a couple of elves to investigate something when the threat of danger is very high. Neigh – an entire brigade is likely to rain down upon us if we are spotted, and here you are, bickering with your sister just because you refuse to take direction from someone that is not the same race as you. You are, and I really do not like to say this – uncouth, and lacking in serious manners.”

  Taran, enraged by the bravado that Fogrolir showed, drew a small rapier from his belt and charged the dwarf. He had no idea what he was stepping into, however, and soon found that arrogance and pride will embarrass even the biggest of men. Fogrolir stepped to the side and tripped the elf – the rapier left Taran’s hand and spiraled into the air before landing right on the embankment near the water’s edge. Taran’s arms and legs sprawled out in shock as he took flight before slamming into the wet sand. His mouth wide open, sand poured into the opening before he had a chance to close his mouth. He stood, spitting dirt everywhere, and turned his attention to Fogrolir.

  Humiliated, Taran wiped his mouth with his sleeve. In a trice, he realized his lip was bleeding as blood adorned his sleeve. It was still dark, but the moonlight shone bright enough for the three to make out their immediate surroundings, and in the starlight, the blood shone a bright red.

  The water pushed its way onto the shores, refusing to be denied a path, before receding back into the tide much like the Reophuse that slips beneath the mushy marsh of the swamps. Taran’s rapier was being pulled closer to the water’s edge with each passing, and yet Taran did not attempt to gather the weapon.

  “What is it, Taran? You afraid of the beast in the tide?” Fogrolir asked, sarcastically.

  The Storm Rider waltzed over to the dagger-like blade and plucked it from the shore just as the next wave of water crashed into his ankles. The sudden coldness against the dwarf’s legs made him shiver. He turned back, and as he passed Taran, he tossed the rapier into the air for the elf to catch.

  “There is your
sword, elf. Use caution before attacking someone next time. Just because I am smaller than you, that does not mean that you are quicker than I am. Nor does it mean that my experience does not outweigh yours.”

  Sateet stood the entire time quietly, unable to fathom why her brother was suddenly so angry at the dwarf – who had done nothing but be kind to the two elves.

  “What is this war you were speaking of earlier, Storm Rider.” Taran grabbed his rapier and returned it to its sleeve.

  “Taran, Sateet – you two have been out of the operations of what is taking place in the world around you. The Demoweir, it appears, is loose. Not only has she escaped her tomb, but also her warriors – a group of Skinder called Chaotic, have landed upon the shores of Umuosmar. With them, they bring a new breed of dark elves, as well as a beast called cyclops. They are by far the worst monsters I have ever had the misfortune of encountering.”

  “What do you mean, the Demoweir is loose!” Sateet cried out. The fear in her eyes spoke volumes. The last time the demon woman was free to roam the world she all but obliterated the elven kingdom of Faswary. Omabanise had to be rebuilt, stone by stone, tree branch by tree branch; it took decades to accomplish.

  “I mean exactly that – she is loose. We do not know how, but she took control of a dwarf named Praghock, and through him, she managed to escape. Praghock lost his life in this endeavor, as did King Kulok when her magic overtook him. Before dying, Praghock warned that the ogres and giants of Zowgant Kregork were marching into dwarven lands to conquer our kingdom. They have already overtaken one of the bastilles on the outer edges of the southern hemisphere. King Vulred agreed to help squash their rebellion, but once we landed in Thirndor and began scanning the cities from the backsides of our dragons, we realized the new threat on the shores of Megh Borim. It is far too much to tell in such a short time – suffice to say this: the entirety of both our kingdoms is in danger.”