Demoweir's Rise (Great War Chronicles Book 2)

by Michael Benningfield

  Fogrolir insisted Skalmaena take his bed and that he would sleep on the cot in the corner. She refused – and despite his pleas, she won out in the end as she wrapped her arms around him and fell asleep with her head on his chest. Fogrolir knew they were only friends, but he sensed a growing love for the woman, a love that he was willing to welcome into his life.

  39

  The climb up the mountainside was arduous. Mange was out of breath but refused to stop – he wanted to get to his house – the only place of solitude which could possibly contain the rage within his soul.

  He topped the peak of the mountainside and began his descent to his home. He had only taken a few steps when he heard the noise: it was faint, but he knew what it was – the sound of a lycan breathing as it hunted its prey.

  He reached into his belt and grabbed his dagger so he would have it ready if the beast attacked. He took a few more steps and stopped: the lycan’s breathing was louder.

  “Beast, I am warning you now – I am not the dwarf to fool with on this night. Go elsewhere, hunt elsewhere, kill elsewhere, or you will die here.”

  The beast responded with what sounded like a chuckle. Mange continued to walk down the mountainside at a slow but steady pace.

  “We should have just stayed home, Barth. We did not need this shit – not every war was ours to fight!” Mange began to cry. He dropped to his knees and laid his brother’s body in the snow. That is when the lycan attacked.

  The beast came from seemingly out of nowhere and dove for Mange. Mange dodged the attack and jumped to his feet. It was dark outside – the only light coming from the moon and stars above, but it was more than enough to see the beast.

  The beast circled around Mange, but then it stopped as a strange look flashed through its eyes. It turned and dove for the body of Barth.

  “No!” Mange screamed. He charged the beast with his dagger in hand.

  The lycan spun around and snapped at Mange. Mange dodged his jowls and slid under him. He jammed the blade into the beast’s stomach repeatedly. His rage took over as he held onto the lycan and continued to stab the beast. The lycan grabbed him and yanked him into the air. As he looked down at Mange, he felt the burning sensation of the dagger as Mange rammed it through the beast’s lower jaw. The lycan dropped him.

  “I” he stabbed the beast in the leg, “told,” he stabbed him again, “you” he ripped the dagger through the beast’s flesh, “not” the lycan dropped to one knee and cried out in pain, “to” he rammed the blade into the lycan’s neck, “fuck” he did it again, “with” and again, “me!” he screamed.

  The lycan fell forward. Mange climbed onto his backside and stabbed him more.

  “This one” he jammed the blade into the back of the lycan’s neck, “is for my” he yelled at the top of his lungs, “brother!” he yanked the werewolf’s head back and severed it from the rest of the body.

  Mange stood slowly – the lycan’s severed head in one hand – the dagger in the other. He took a deep breath and spit out blood from the lycan that squirted into his mouth during their brief battle.

  “Home – this is home.” He said with a smile. “It is good to be home.”

  He tossed the werewolf’s head into the snow, picked up his brother’s body, and finished his trek to their home.

  Once inside his home, he placed Barth’s body in their cold washing tub. He would bury his brother the next morning. He made his way to the main room and laid down on his bed. His rage was drained and try as he may, he eventually gave in to his emotions and cried himself to sleep. He missed his brother.

  Mange awoke the next morning and prepared his brother for burial. He removed Barth’s armor and laid it on the floor. He looked at his brother’s torn and tattered clothing and wept.

  “Barth – I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I never should have left your side to help Lundy. Please forgive me, dear brother. Wherever you are, please forgive me.” He cradled Barth’s head in his arm as he wiped his brother’s face with a wet rag.

  Mange removed a small, half-moon shaped gemstone from around his brother’s neck. It was a necklace their father gave to Barth. Mange had one as well – the ornaments were made by their mother while they were mere infants.

  He brushed his brother’s beard and combed his thinning hair. After a few more tears had been shed, he stripped his brother's body, washed him, and placed fresh clothes on him. He tried to ignore the gaping holes in Barth – made by the contraption they worked on together.

  “Right then,” Mange said to himself with a huff, “time to give you a proper burial.” He picked his brothers body off the floor and walked to the door.

  He opened the door and walked outside with Barth over his shoulder. He closed the door behind him and walked the length of the front porch. As he stepped off the third and final step, he looked up and could not believe his eyes.

  “What are all of you doing here?” he asked as he stared at beasts with a look of utter shock.

  Fogrolir heard dragon’s bawling as he awoke from his slumber. He gently removed Skalmaena’s arm and head from his body and slid out of bed.

  “They remembered!” he exclaimed with excitement as he looked out his window and saw the dragons’ exiting the stables one after another.

  “After all this time, they still remember!” he exclaimed again.

  “Hmm…remember what?” a groggy Skalmaena inquired as she raised herself up on her elbows.

  “They remembered the one rule of Storm Riders that so many tend to forget. I cannot explain right now, but I must leave. You cannot go with me; this is Storm Rider business, and I must attend to it.” Fogrolir was practically giddy with excitement as he opened the front door to his home and ran out into the street.

  He closed the door behind himself and ran up the icy street. He slipped and almost fell more than once, but he did not care. He did not stop running until he reached the stables.

  “Kragjaw! Kragjaw where are you?” he called out.

  “Over here grandfather.” Kragjaw was in the smallest stable. Next to him sat Little Blue. The dragon was growing quite fast.

  “Come, boy. We have business to attend.” Fogrolir said as he tossed Kragjaw’s long coat to him.

  “What kind of business?” Kragjaw said while putting on the jacket.

  “The most honorable kind! Hurry now, we cannot be late!” Fogrolir exited the stable, and as he turned around, he was greeted by the only remaining Storm Riders.

  “Are we going to do this?” one of the men asked.

  “Yes, we are,” Fogrolir replied with a smile.

  “Are you sure about this, Fogrolir?” another asked.

  “As sure as I am that he would do it for us,” Fogrolir replied.

  Kragjaw stepped out of the stable and closed the door behind himself. This one bin did not have an opening to exit from, as it was made to keep baby dragons from flying off.

  “Open the gate, Kragjaw. Little Blue is coming with us today.”

  Kragjaw did not argue with his grandfather. He opened the gate, and Little Blue ran out, excited to see different faces.

  “Today is special, Little Blue. Today, you will find out who you are to become.” Fogrolir said as he motioned for the dragon to follow him.

  Kragjaw was not sure what was happening, but he kept his mouth shut and followed the men as they climbed the mountains and made their way down the opposite side. As they descended, Kragjaw noticed all the grown dragons were gathered together in a semi-circle.

  Much to his surprise, even Kemoth the Great, alongside the others that left with him, stood in the clearing as snow fell from the sky.

  Kragjaw noticed the small house just a bit further down the hill but thought nothing of it. Fogrolir and the others were quiet as they made their way down the side of the mountains. When the group reached the dragons, they stopped and nodded. The dragons made no sounds but returned the bows as a pleasantry.

  Kragjaw was busy looking at the dragons and trying to fig
ure out what was about to happen when he heard a familiar voice.

  “What are all of you doing here?” it was Mange, and he sounded surprised.

  Kragjaw turned around saw the dwarf – Barth over his shoulders, standing at the end of his home.

  “We would never miss the funeral of a Storm Rider, Mange. You know this. It is our creed, our duty, and our promise to always honor those that have died to keep this kingdom honorable.”

  Mange stared at Mersoth as she spoke. She lowered her head and moved toward the dwarf.

  “If you wish to be left alone, we will leave – after the ceremony has finished. Barth was one of us, as are you. You are never alone, Mange. We are always one with the wind, defenders of creation.”

  “One with the wind, defenders of creation!” the dwarves and other dragons all repeated the phrase. Kragjaw was still confused, but he managed to say the words even though his words were a bit behind the others.

  “We stopped being Storm Riders over a hundred years ago, Mersoth. I cannot believe you, or any of the other dragons for that matter, remember us at all.” Mange sat his brother's body on the ground, picked up a shovel, and began digging.

  Fogrolir motioned for the others to join in, and soon the dwarves had a hole big enough to properly fit Barth’s body. Mange stood back and watched as they lowered his brother into the grave.

  “Mange, our traditions still hold true if you wish to participate.”

  Mange looked at Fogrolir quizzically and gave a subtle nod.

  “In the tradition of the Storm Rider brigade, when a rider whose actions were noble and just passes away, the traits of said rider is bestowed upon a young dragon. Bartheleth Tiberius Taberlim, the brother of Mangeleth Marrok Taberlim, died in such a manner. Before we may bestow the traits of this Storm Rider to a dragon, there must be a vote.” Mange looked at the dragons and dwarves as Fogrolir spoke.

  “Are there any Storm Riders among us here today that are against Bartheleth being honored in such a rich tradition?”

  The dwarves remained silent.

  “Are there any dragons among us who have a case against the Storm Rider which should prevent him from being honored in such a tradition?”

  The dragons made no noise. They stood stark still with stoic looks on their faces.

  “Very well then – Mangeleth Marrok Taberlim, the honor to describe your brother’s traits is yours if you wish to do so, but first, let us show you the dragon to be named for your brother.”

  Mange called forth the dragon affectionately known as Little Blue. The dragon was already too big to hold and would grow larger by the day.

  Mange stared at the dragon as tears welled up and began to drip down his face. He shook his head and held up his hands.

  “I…I cannot, Foggy boy. I…you do it please.” He choked out the words as emotion overcame him at the thought of his brother being remembered in hallowed halls of Thirndor.

  “Dragons,” Fogrolir began, “they are temperamental, wild-spirited, and unbridled in their passion. They are short-tempered, vengeful, and yet loving. They are our companions, our friends, and most of all – our protectors.”

  Yells of ‘here here’ and ‘yeah’ echoed in the mountains as the Storm Riders loudly and affectionately agreed.

  “Little Blue, please step forward.” Fogrolir motioned to the small dragon.

  Little Blue stepped up to the edge of the grave and stretched her neck across the gap. Fogrolir reached out and scratched her under the chin.

  “Little Blue, today you will inherit the traits of Bartheleth Tiberius Taberlim. If you are to become a dragon of the Storm Rider brigade, you will strive to attain the qualities of our fallen brother. Do you understand?”

  Little Blue gave a playful chirp, reminiscent of the sound a dolphin makes. Fogrolir smiled.

  “Listen carefully – all of you, that you may learn who and what Barth Taberlim was. He was unorthodox, cunning, spirited, comical, a prankster, and a master of thinking outside the realm of the norm.”

  Fogrolir looked at Mange, “Not only are those traits that Barth possessed but on top of those, he was also loving, kind, and compassionate.” Fogrolir looked at Mange and then other Storm Riders, “most of all, he was always there when Umuosmar needed his service, even if his repayment was to be ridiculed by those who did not understand him.”

  Several dwarves shifted about nervously. They knew over the years that Barth and Mange had become outcasts. It made their guilt all the heavier.

  “Little Blue, from this day forward those are the traits you shall strive to showcase. Those are the traits that shall honor the memory of this fine warrior – may he sleep in peace.”

  The dragons bawled loudly, their voices bounced off the mountainsides and resonated through the snow-covered hills.

  “You know, lads, I find it a bit funny that Barth’s favorite color sash to wear was blue, and the young dragon given his traits is also blue, and aptly called Little Blue.”

  Fogrolir turned and embraced Mange. Mange did not push back but welcomed his fellow Storm Rider.

  “It is time for us to return home. Mange, if you need anything from us, you know not to hesitate to ask.”

  The dwarves began to gather their things for the journey back over the mountains when an echo of thunder filled the air. The sound was so loud it rattled the trees.

  “No one leaves. Not until I have spoken.” A booming voice rang out amongst the group.

  Fogrolir turned back and was met with a blinding light. A figure stepped out of the light, and as it approached, the dwarves and dragons alike all felt compelled to kneel. The only one not surprised or shocked by the feeling was Kemoth – he knew who the figure was.

  “We have business to attend to, Storm Riders. First things first, Kragjaw Tuminar, come forth and meet your master, that you may know who you serve.”

  Kragjaw felt his legs release. He stood effortlessly and walked over to the figure. He stared at him and noticed immediately that all his fears and troubles were gone.

  “Who…who are you?” Kragjaw asked.

  “I am the maker of your world, Kragjaw. I am the creator of all worlds. In some worlds, they know me by my real name, but in others, such as this one, I am known simply as the White King. If you are looking for a more definitive answer, it is simply this: I am God.”

  Kragjaw was confused. He thought there were many gods and goddesses in the world, but he did not feel led to question the figure.

  “Now, before the Storm Riders and their dragons leave, there is something that must be done.” The White King looked in the direction of Kemoth.

  “Kemoth the Great and Powerful, take your place in front of me.” Kemoth obeyed without hesitation.

  “Kragjaw, I have a question for you, and though I know your heart, it is imperative that you answer honestly for all of the others that are present. If you made something for someone, something that was vital to their feeling whole and rational – and that person disobeyed their orders to perform their duties – failed to protect those they were sworn to protect – would you allow that person to keep the item that makes them useful?”

  Kragjaw was unsure of what exactly was going on, but the question was simple enough to answer.

  “If I made something and gave it to someone, then it is theirs to do whatever they wish. There is nothing attached to the gift. I would hope the person would do what they should with it, but it is not up to me to decide.”

  The White King nodded. His inviting blue eyes made his skin tone appear richer than it was. His white hair, long and straight, ran down to his shoulders. His beard was thick and regal and matched the color of his hair. A crown with seven points sat atop his head, holding his hair down perfectly. A white robe with gold trim adorned his body and ran from his neck down to his feet.

  “Are you an honorable dwarf, Kragjaw Tuminar. Much like your father – and at one time, your mother.”

  Kragjaw stared at the White King; he wanted to speak but could fath
om no words.

  “Kemoth – when you died, and I brought you back to life, I did so at a cost. Those who are here today do not know that you have died once before, but they will learn the truth on this day. I brought you back and made you a guardian to this world. One of my twelve guardians, to live under the rule of my curator. In this endeavor, you had one order: protect the dwarven people with your life. Am I to now understand that you no longer wish to carry that mantle?”

  Kemoth stared at his master: “What you say is true, my lord.”

  “Am I to also understand that not only have you disobeyed the only order I gave you, but in doing so you have convinced others to follow your lead?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And under what obligation did you decide to abandon your post?”

  “The duty to my kind, my lord. The preservation of the dragons.”

  The White King nodded and said something under his breath.

  “Kemoth the Great and Powerful – you left the dwarves in their time of absolute need. In doing so, more dwarves died than should have. You did so to protect the race of dragons. A race which has agreed by their own volition to serve and protect the dwarves. So not only were your actions in direct disobedience to my command, but they were an act of open tyranny against the long-standing oath to the dwarves.”

  Kemoth was angry. He took a step forward, but as he did so, he noticed the dragons around him also stepped forward – in his direction.

  “My race is dying! They are being thinned out by their agreements with such beings as the dwarves. Every time there is a problem, they turn to us. Every war that has landed on these shores has been met with the blood of my race. I cannot protect them anymore. They are undeserving of the protection of a dragon such as me!”

  Kemoth roared with the last few words. He knew speaking to the one true God of the realm in such a manner would not end well, but he no longer cared.

  “The protection of the dragons is not up to you, Kemoth. It never was. Theirs is a story that includes your name, but my hands carve out the details. Kemoth, you are at this moment relieved of your duty as a guardian of this realm. You are no longer required to serve the dwarves or anyone else for that matter. However, with your release from service comes something different.” He stared at Kemoth as he said the words: “You are once again mortal. Though you could be killed when you were a guardian, you would only die if another slew you. Now, however, you will age like everyone around you, and eventually, you will pass away. Now, go from here and do whatever it is that your heart is set on doing. Consider the wings that will remain on your backside, a gift from the very dwarves you think are beneath you.”