Demoweir's Rise (Great War Chronicles Book 2)

  The giants and ogres went wild with excitement as they cheered for their leader – Blodbarg the terrible was victorious.

  She turned to flee but was stopped by Margoor; his large, leather-like hands grabbed her and jerked her around.

  “Going somewhere?” he said with a snicker. His foul breath was almost enough to make the Demoweir puke, but she managed to keep herself from becoming ill.

  “No. We need to talk. Blodbarg attempted to attack me, and as such, that cyclops had no choice but to intervene. He was not the fighter I chose, but the fighter that stepped in due to your leader’s ignorance!”

  “Hmm…you claim something fascinating.” Margoor released his hold on the Demoweir and signaled for her to follow him. He walked into the middle of the massive beasts as they cheered for their leader, and held up his hand for silence.

  “Blodbarg, the elf challenges that you did not fight her chosen competitor, but instead faced one of her creatures that were merely trying to stop you from harming her.”

  An inquisitive look passed over Blodbarg’s face as he stared down at the woman. His eyes bore into hers for a moment that stood still. At last, he looked away and laughed – all his men began to laugh as well.

  He wiped his mouth and popped his knuckles as he turned his attention to the elf once more:

  “That thing was your biggest beast, and I crushed him like a flower. What chance does another stand against me, hmm?” He laughed again as he stood tall and lifted both arms to the sky. Glancing upward, he yelled, “Blodbarg the terrible cannot be defeated!”

  Roars of support echoed into the air from his men as they raised their arms and stomped their feet repeatedly.

  “You faced only the big beast that interfered. Had you waited, as you were supposed to do, you would have faced a beast like nothing you had ever seen before.”

  Her words were spoken in a matter-of-fact tone, which caused Blodbarg to stop his charade of self-importance and focus on the Demoweir.

  “Shall I face this ‘beast’ of yours now?” he said with utter contempt.

  “Only if our prior arrangement remains in place.”

  Blodbarg nodded and scratched his chin –

  “When I kill this one, you will leave this land forever – but your army stays with me. Those are my terms now; take them, or leave.”

  Rage filled her heart as she felt the vibration of her power reverberating throughout the earth under her feet. This battle would not last long.

  “Fine. I gladly accept your terms, Blodbarg. Now, you may want to step back a few paces. You have no idea who or what you have just agreed to fight.”

  Blodbarg did not move; he was finished running from those who dared challenge his reign.

  The demon woman spoke a few words in her mind – the message was sent, and Metakon received it. He stopped the incoming troops and ordered everyone to stay clear of the area ahead. His master was about to show the giants what kind of power she truly held in this world.

  32

  For days on end, the dwarves sent messages through their own network of spies throughout the kingdom. They watched Blodbarg and his men, waiting for any sign of a forward march against the throne.

  A spry dwarf sat in the forest – hidden by his coat of camouflage, taking notes in a small journal. He witnessed a great battle between Blodbarg and another beast – a beast with only one eye. The other beast was great, but it fell prey to the giant in the end; its neck snapped for its efforts.

  He left his hiding place and ran through the forest. He did not stop until he came upon a tree with a secret compartment hidden within the bark. It was a dwarven door cut out in such fashion that one would never know it existed. He opened the tiny door and laid his journal inside.

  He had no idea who the next dwarf was that would come and take the journal to its next destination. He left it and would return the next morning to find out if there were any news. It was a crude network, but it worked when there were no Storm Riders to keep watch.

  As he returned from delivering the journal, he watched as the odd-looking elf and Blodbarg held some sort of conversation. Moments later, the elf stepped back and closed her eyes.

  “What have we here?” he whispered aloud.

  He inched forward, his eyes full of excitement and intrigue.

  “Could it be? The elf is going to fight Blodbarg? This will be a short battle!” he chuckled to himself. His soft chuckle lasted only a few seconds as events he could not adequately describe began to unfold.

  The elf took a few more paces backward, all while speaking words that he could not hear. He looked at Blodbarg and realized that the giant could not hear the phrase either.

  The ground began to shake – he grabbed hold of a thick branch to steady himself and watched in awe as the desert began to lift itself from the ground and take form as a monster.

  “What kind of sorcery is this?” his voice quivered with fear. He knew right then that there was something more to the elf than what first appeared.

  He turned and ran through the forest – he had to get to his journal and record this incident before it was picked up. There could be no delay. Slipping, falling, and climbing back to his feet, he rushed as fast as his legs would carry him.

  “What kind of elf is that?” he said repeatedly.

  She focused her attention on her immediate surroundings. Grains of sand lifted from the earth and swarmed about her body, engulfing her while forming an impenetrable wall of armor. The sand pushed from under her feet, lifting her into the air as it began to take form and shape itself.

  Rocks piled onto the sand, with fragments of sand filling every crevice as more wind grabbed everything within its path and slung it into the never-ending tornado wall that now swallowed her body.

  Blodbarg watched in horror as the sand grew taller – seven foot, eight foot, and so forth. The sand was not just protecting her, however; it was turning into a monster – her monster.

  The Demoweir looked down and spotted the giant – she opened her mouth to scream but instead of her voice, the sand roared with the voices of a thousand dragons! It continued to take form until at last, standing in the middle of the desert, was a dragon made purely from rock and sand. The beast was gigantic – so enormous that the sun was blotted out and the shadow of the sand dragon fell over everyone within sight.

  Blodbarg staggered backward – there was no way to escape this beast.

  “What is this foul trickery?” one of the ogres screamed.

  “This is magic! This is not a real beast!” another yelled.

  Four or five giants, alongside just as many ogres, rushed forward with weapons in their hands and attacked the sand dragon. One’s spiked club connected with the hind leg of the beast and the sand fell to the ground.

  “Ha! This stupid woman has no power! We will easily defeat her!” he yelled.

  The giant that dared call her a fool had no idea that as soon as his club burst through the leg of sand, it grew back. He pivoted to take another swing at the beast but as his body turned he came face to face with the demon – his head left his body just moments later as the dragon, teeth made from sharp rocks, bit down and dismembered him.

  “Do not attack!” Margoor screamed to no avail as the other few continued to attack the Demoweir.

  “This is not your fight! This is Blodbarg’s fault!” he shouted as loud as he could.

  Blodbarg heard him and decided to kill his would-be predecessor. Spinning around, he charged at Margoor – he never made it to the giant.

  The Demoweir snagged him in her claws and slammed his body into the ground with such force that it caused Metakon and the other skinders to fall as a shockwave burst through the air.

  Blodbarg was dead before the fight ever had a chance to start. The demon woman wasted no time in dispatching his body into pieces and throwing them about the desert. The brief battle over – the sands slowly relinquished their protective hold over her body and laid her down gently in the sand.

>   Metakon and his men rushed forward to ensure her safety. Her power was drained; she was unconscious. The skinder had to make sure that the giants did not realize the toll it took to perform such magic – lest they realize how vulnerable she was and attack her and their men.

  “Who are you, little man?” Margoor said as he approached.

  “Metakon – leader of the Chaotic, and sworn protector of this – our master.” He pointed at the Demoweir.

  “She killed our leader, and now we are at your service. What shall we do? When do we attack the dwarves?”

  Metakon held up his hands and shook his head as he tried to take all the information in.

  “Patience. You must have patience. When she is ready, she will give the orders. What is your name, giant?”

  “Margoor. They call me Margoor, and I am now the leader of these men.” He looked about at the remaining men in the small encampment. “Patience you say? We have patience.” He nodded at Metakon and walked off as he murmured to himself. He gathered his men, and they settled back into their daily routine of preparing for war.

  His chest heaved in and out at an alarming pace for a dwarf. He reached the tree and flung the cubbyhole open – the journal was gone.

  “No!” he cried out.

  His eyes darted about in search of someone, anyone, that may have picked up the journal. Then he saw it: a bit of brush moved from one side to the other, before resting permanently at its original position.

  “Wait! I need that journal!” the dwarf said.

  No response.

  “Oh, damn!” he muttered as his fists clenched into tight balls and he kicked the dirt.

  The event that transpired was too chaotic not to report, and so the dwarf made the decision to chase down whoever had taken the journal. This was not something to take lightly, as keeping the spies appearances and names secret was necessary for the success of the kingdom.

  He took one last deep breath and ran in the direction of the brush, determined to overtake the spy, or spies, who now had the journal.

  As he burst through a small bush in the brush, he heard the faint sounds of giggling. The forest had become notably darker, the only light breaking through the canopy in random places like shards of broken glass.

  “Where are you?” he whispered. “I know we are supposed to remain unseen, but something happened that must be reported to the crown at once!”

  At first, the forest remained the same quiet fortress of solitude it had always been, but then the dwarf saw it – a light, golden in color and no bigger than a marble. Then another, and another, until there were hundreds of the golden orbs dancing in the air.

  “Pixies. Great – just what I needed. I have been chasing pixies.” His sigh was noticeable as he began to think to himself that he took chase after the wrong creatures.

  ‘Tee hee!’ the soft giggle caught his ears once again.

  He scratched his chin and peered around, looking for the source of the laugh. As he turned in a circle, the sound of paper blowing in the wind grabbed his attention. He turned back in the direction of the pixies just as the journal reached his face.

  ‘Thwack!’ the sound was a loud thud as the spine of the book hit him square on the nose, knocking him on his behind.

  ‘Heh heh!’ the giggle grew louder.

  “What in the blazes? Ouch!” he reached up and rubbed his nose gingerly.

  The quill which accompanied the book floated in the air, held by a single pixie. She looked at the dwarf and laughed – her pearl white teeth a stark contrast to her deep royal purple eyes.

  The dwarf reached for the quill, and as his hand neared the writing pen, the pixie released her hold and the utensil fell to the earthen floor. The dwarf looked at her – she shrugged and giggled more.

  Usually, he would try to catch the pixie and thump her as far as possible, but today he was in a hurry. He grabbed the quill and began transcribing the events he witnessed unfold as the desert gave way to something more sinister. He did not know exactly what his eyes witnessed, but he wrote it down as best he could.

  He made sure to sketch a description of the elven woman he saw, just in case she was important. He finished his reports, closed the book, and inserted the quill into a small slot along the spine. He stood and tried to hand the item over to the pixies, but they refused.

  “Come on then!” frustration fueled his voice. “Take the freaking book and deliver it!”

  “The book is not for them to acquaint themselves with, lad.” The voice came from behind a tree where the majority of the pixies were still gathered.

  “Who’s there? Are you the carrier for the book then?” the dwarf asked.

  The anticipation in his eyes turned to a mixture of fear and excitement as the creature slowly stepped out from behind the tree. A twig snapped as a hoof covered in dark gray fur became slightly visible. The hair extended upward until it stopped suddenly and was replaced by dark, tan skin, with a thick fur jacket adorning the body.

  “It cannot be! A faun?” the dwarf was mystified. “Step out from behind the tree completely so that I may see your face.”

  The creature moved slowly; methodically. His hand reached out and hugged the tree – the long fingernails dug into the bark of the tree with ease. The creature continued to come into view until at last his face was revealed.

  The faun looked at the ground – his head tilted at an angle to avoid eye contact with the dwarf.

  “Wow!” the dwarf said as he stood and came forward to get a better look at the faun. “You really do exist!”

  The faun nervously clasped his hands together and lowered his head in an attempt to hide his face entirely from view.

  “Why do you not look at me? You have nothing to be afraid of, faun. I do not wish to harm you or ridicule your appearance.”

  The faun moved his head ever so slightly so his eyes could see the dwarf. Their eyes met, and he knew immediately that the dwarf could see the sadness within him. Sadness, which burdened his heart for well over two millennia’s.

  “The book,” the faun whispered as his hands fidgeted and legs shook with anxiety. “The book please.” He repeated the words again.

  “Oh, umm, yes. Here you are then,” the dwarf said as he stretched out his arm and held the book within reach of the faun.

  He noticed the voice of the faun was full of history. An ancient voice in an otherwise progressing society. The faun made no attempt to take the book from his hands – instead, he continued to rub his hands nervously and stare at the dwarf.

  “You asked for the book? Go ahead then, take it.” The dwarf said in what came out as a whisper.

  “Just…just drop it. I will get it momentarily.” The faun took a step backward – the rays of sunshine landed on the forestation, but his face was hidden once more.

  Curiosity being a dwarven trait, the dwarf refused to drop the book and instead continued to hold it in his outstretched hand.

  “Why are you afraid, faun? You are bigger than I am, and quite intimidating from the looks of yourself. Your horns are calloused – no doubt from years of having to defend yourself. Their roundness suggests if the stories are true that you are well over two thousand years old. You must have seen many things in your lifetime – I would venture lots of them more dangerous than a dwarf.”

  The faun stuck out his tongue and licked his lower lip before biting said lip nervously. His eyes blinked several times as an inward battle raged within him. He wanted to be friendly and kind, yet, his kind was treated with such disdain that even typical pleasantries took a toll on their souls.

  “I am not afraid, dear dwarf. I just – well you see, it is just – I have not seen any living creatures outside of my workers; and the birds as well, of course.”

  As if on cue by some divine providence, a sprite stepped into the open area to the left of the dwarf without noticing that the dwarf was there.

  The dwarf turned and stared at the sprite, quite whimsically. “Are you a sprite?”

&nbs
p; “Ahh!” the little creature screamed as the dwarf’s words startled her. She dropped her paint bucket and brush and ran back into the thick of the wood.

  “It is alright, Madrigal. The dwarf has already seen me, so it shall not hurt if he sees you as well.”

  The sprite, elven-like in appearance, eased her way back into the opening and grabbed the paint can and brush. Her eyes were a reddish-brown, like a warm fires shadow dancing on a tavern’s wall.

  “So, sprites are real, too! Wow!” the dwarf said with excitement. “What is the paint can for?” he asked.

  The faun continued to fidget but stepped back into the light of the forest.

  “Why, it is to paint the trees for the seasons, naturally.”

  The sprite laughed a little in spite of herself as she dipped the brush into the paint and seconds later the nearest tree was no longer a dark mahogany. In its place, a dark brown sat as the sprite dashed up the tree trunk with ease and turned all the green leaves into various shades of orange, red, yellow, and brown.

  “Fall is upon us, dwarf. Trees also like a change of clothing just like any of us. It is my job to see to it that they get the proper dressing they deserve.”

  The faun smiled for the first time since meeting the dwarf. His home was the forest, and staying unseen was while maintaining the vastness of the wilderness was his job. Never had a dwarf laid eyes directly upon him.

  The dwarf continued to watch the sprite as she darted about, dabbing her magical paint on the trees. He was so engrossed in her actions that he did not notice the faun reach out and grab the book in his hand.

  “You can let go of the book now, young master dwarf.” The faun said. His words snapped the dwarf’s attention back to his task.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.” He stammered as his eyes danced with love and wonderment as tree after tree took on a wintry form.

  “Are you the bearer of the book?” the dwarf asked.