Roakore came to a skidding halt beside his son and raised his hands against the expected dragonsbreath.
“Stay behind me!” Roakore yelled.
The dragon belched flame that would have consumed them both, but Roakore growled and lifted his hands to the fire and sent it blowing back the way it had come. The dragon sprayed his acid at them, but again Roakore sent it back at the attacker. He screamed with fury and lashed out with both fists, mentally taking hold of the stones in the ceiling and tearing them down with all the force he could muster. The tunnel caved in, effectively blocking them from the furious beast.
“Get your legs under you, son!”
Roakore lifted Helzendar to his feet and pulled him along at a dead run. Behind them the green dragon roared and thrashed beneath the stone.
They hurried back the way they had come with the roaring voice echoing through the tunnel.
“‘King’ they call you! King of dwarves! I will devour your mountain, dine on the bones of your children!”
Helzendar hurried along quickly, holding his mangled arm tucked close to his body. The acid had cauterized the wound, so there was no danger in him bleeding out, but it hurt like all hells.
Roakore led him past the lake of fire, through the tunnels they had first journeyed through, and out into the dense jungle beyond.
“Silverwind!” he called out, searching the sky.
“You mean to retreat?” Helzendar asked, aghast.
“I came here to get yer fool arse. I done what I set out to do. We be leavin’.”
“I don’t need lookin’ after. Ye hear? I done killed dragons, and destroyed dozens o’ eggs. I be a warrior who can look after himself.”
Roakore laid a hand on his shoulder and offered him a proud smile. “Ye done well, laddie. And ye be livin’ to fight another day.” He looked to the stump of an arm with concern. “We need to get you to a healer, and get this information back to the mountain. That green be like the ancients.”
“The acid?”
“Aye, it be a long lost power o’ the dragons o’ old.”
“What does it mean?”
“Nothin’ good, lad. Nothin’ good.”
A rustle of leaves caused Roakore to spin around with his axe raised high. He relaxed when he saw Silverwind landing upon a stone jutting out from the foliage.
“Come on, lad. We just might make it out o’ here alive yet,” said Roakore. He helped Helzendar into the saddle and strapped them both in and wasted no time in spurring the silverhawk into the air. “To the east, Silverwind. And be swift. There be dragons about.”
Reshikk tore through the tunnel and came out into the bright sunshine and leapt into the air. His powerful wings propelled him high and he scoured the island.
“Ancient One, a silverhawk rides swiftly east. Our brothers are in pursuit,” said a blue who had flown to meet him.
Reshikk looked east but saw nothing except the three dragons giving chase. He growled deep in his throat. “It is no use. The bird will have camouflaged itself already. It matters not. I know where they are going.”
He flew to the mouth of the volcano and ordered reports of the damage. Many dragons had been killed, and nearly a hundred eggs. He wanted nothing more than to descend upon Mountain Ro’Sar with his army of dragons, and devour every last dwarf holed up inside.
Soon, he told himself. Soon will be the time for revenge.
The ocean sped by far below. Helzendar looked back at the mountain, and swore to himself that he would never forget General Orrin Hammerfell and the Five Hundred. They had been the first dwarves to treat him like an adult.
He had words for his father, and he assumed that Roakore had words for him as well. His father remained silent, however. This was neither the place nor the time for such words. Helzendar’s arm hurt terribly, and he felt so very tired. Soon he could no longer hold up his own head, and fell into a fevered sleep, full of dragons and dying dwarf warriors.
Chapter 54
The Summoning
“Avriel.”
She sat up straight in her bed and surveyed the darkness. A quick flash of light caught her eye and she pulled a dagger from the side of the feather mattress.
“Who goes there?”
The speck of light drifted to the foot of her bed and erupted into a multitude of sparks that came together to form an elven woman in a flowing silver dress.
“Kellallea…”
“Greetings, Princess. I come to you with grave tidings.”
“My mother?”
Kellallea offered a sympathetic bow. “No, it is Whill. He needs your help.”
“Whill? What has happened?”
“He has been captured by the necromancer, and is being held at Belldon Castle.”
“Why have you come to me? Why don’t you help him?”
“I am helping him,” said Kellallea. “Go now and be swift. There is precious little time.”
Kellallea broke into a thousand points of light that floated to the open window and disappeared like glowing embers in the wind.
“Wait!” Avriel leaped out of bed and ran to the balcony. “Kellallea! Damn you! Answer me!”
She was shaking. For many long months she had prayed for help from the goddess, only to be ignored. And now she had finally appeared, only to offer warning.
She remembered the goddess’s words. Whill had been captured, he was in trouble. Without a second thought, she went to her wardrobe and quickly put on her armor. After sheathing her sword and grabbing a bow and full quiver, she went to the balcony and called out as loudly as she could to Zorriaz. Within minutes, the white dragon swooped down from her high tower and landed on the balcony.
“Sissster,” she said with a bow.
“I need your help. Whill has been captured. It will be dangerous, and I cannot ensure your safety should you agree to help,” said Avriel.
The dragon’s eyes flashed at the mention of Whill. She growled low in her throat and bent to the side. “Come.”
Avriel climbed on and strapped herself in as Zorriaz leaped from the balcony and swiftly headed north.
Zander placed the final skull on the dais and stepped back to view his work. He took the measurements again, making sure that everything was perfect. Satisfied, he closed Eadon’s Book of the Dead and carefully placed it back in its iron lockbox. He recited the incantation in his mind once more, careful to focus on the inflections. On the table beside the dais, he poured himself the concoction he had been working on—one which would open his mind and increase his power and focus. He drank down the burning liquid and instantly felt its effects. He grinned to himself as his vision shifted. The concoction allowed him to see things that he otherwise could not.
He took the dark lord’s skull from its lockbox and carefully made his way to the center of the dais and sat cross-legged in the middle of the bones he had so carefully placed. Zander tapped into the power of the skull and gasped. The dark lord’s spirit thrashed and cried out with terrible fury, but Zander was in no danger, he had been careful when creating the spirit prison.
Zander began the summoning, calling to him all nearby spirits. He utilized not only the spirit of the dark lord, but also those of his undead hordes at his command. The many skulls lying about began to glow with a pulsing green light. He pierced the veil to the spirit world, and looked out over the misty land before him. With a great force of will, he summoned the lingering spirits of the dead to him.
Soon they began to arrive, screaming and thrashing like banshees. There was nothing they could do to resist him, and one after another he devoured their souls.
Chapter 55
A Prayer in the Dark
Whill hung from biting chains, unable to support his weight with his legs. Zander had ordered his personal healer to tend to him—he didn’t want him to die before the ritual.
He couldn’t believe that he had gotten himself in this position. Why hadn’t he listened to Tyrron? His rage over the man’s death kept him lucid in the d
ark hours. His army had likely already been destroyed. If what Clifton McKinnon had said was true, Merek Carac’s forces had flanked them. If Brinn’s soldiers hit them at the same time, they would be hard-pressed.
Once again, people were dying because of Whill’s ill judgment, and he began to think that he wasn’t fit to be a leader, much less a king.
The more he hung in the dark alone with his thoughts, the more he began to fear what the necromancer had in store for him. Would he be killed and raised from the dead like the others? A shiver passed through him and Kellallea’s words echoed in his mind. A time will come when you will beg for my help.
He gritted his teeth against the pain and impotent rage swelling in him. If Kellallea answered his call and restored the power that he had once possessed, he would be able to deal with the necromancer easily. He would put to rest every last one of the undead and exact his vengeance upon McKinnon and Carac.
It can’t end like this. Whill thought.
The prospect of becoming a mindless lich was much worse than swearing fealty to a goddess he didn’t trust. In his despair, he wondered why he had ever refused her. The loss of power had been nagging at him since the Taking. He had tried to deny how he felt, tried to be happy that he had been victorious, but the need for it only intensified.
Whill bit back his pride and called to her.
“Kellallea…”
Nothing happened.
He felt foolish, like a beggar, too proud to accept offered food, who soon finds himself starving to death and begging at the door of those he has snubbed.
“Kellallea. If ever you meant to help, help me now.”
Still nothing.
The darkness of the small cell caused illusions to dance at the corner of his vision. The scurrying of rats caused him to jerk in his blindness.
He focused his will on his dead legs, straining to make them move. But it was useless. The arrow had severed his spine above the tailbone. He would never walk again.
“Kellallea! Damn you! Answer me!”
He had no way to know how long he waited in the dark cell. Time had no meaning. There was only his despair, and the mounting fear. But Whill had been here before. His torture at the hands of Eadon had caused his mind to split, creating the Other. He had overcome his demons long ago, and now found solace in the teachings of the Watcher. For what else could one do in such a dire situation? He could only try to keep calm, and believe that he wasn’t doomed to die in the darkness of the dungeon. Whill focused on Avriel and their unborn child. If he was going to die or be made into a lich, then he was going to spend his last days imagining a long life with Avriel and the family they would have made together.
A torch lit the darkness and roused him from his slumber some time later. The light burned his eyes and he squinted against it to make out the shapes reaching for him. The biting shackles were unlocked and two figures took him up and carried him out of the cell. He was brought, feet dragging through catacombs and tunnels, to stairs winding up many stories. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he made out the two undead elves carrying him. They seemed single-minded in their task, and the glowing eyes held little sign of intelligence.
They came to a door. Beyond, Zander waited. The necromancer stood beside a raised dais in the shape of a heptagram. Glowing skulls sat at each point, and a green fog churned about the bones.
“Ah, excellent. Put him here.” Zander regarded him with a strange smile. “I must apologize for making you wait so long, but these things take time.”
“What do you want from me?” Whill asked as he was carried to the dais. He eyed a dagger sitting on one of the dark elves’ hips.
“I need you to call upon an old friend.”
As soon as the guards set him on the dais and his arms were free, Whill made his move. He yanked the dagger from its sheath and stabbed the lich across from him in the eye, and then slashed the other elf’s neck. The elves recoiled from the attack, and Whill took the opportunity to throw the dagger at Zander in one last desperate attempt. The dagger hit the necromancer in the chest, but to Whill’s dismay, it seemed to have little effect. The two lichs were on him in a heartbeat, and beat him down swiftly, binding his wrists to the dais.
Zander chuckled and pulled the dagger from his chest. A green glow filled the wound.
“You’ve got a lot of…spirit.” He grinned, entertained by his own cleverness.
“You’re a dead elf,” said Whill calmly. “I’ve faced foes far greater than you. I am Kellallea’s champion.”
“Yes, Kellallea. Precisely why you are here,” said Zander, ignoring the threats. “I know that you share a special bond with the goddess. Pray to her, call her forth.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because if you do not, I will make you my lich king. I will send you against the elves of Elladrindellia. I will force you to kill your precious Avriel, and the child…”
Whill was horrified. How could Zander know such things?
Zander saw the question in his eyes.
“Yes, there is much knowledge to be gained through the spirit world. Do not mistake me for the idiot Eadon. He was a fool, strung along all those centuries by Kellallea. You will not find me such an inept opponent. Already I have conquered Shierdon. Tens of thousands of undead march at my command. My hordes will sweep over this land and turn day into night, dreams into nightmares. You will deliver the goddess to me, or I will force her hand through conquest. Either way, the outcome is the same.”
“What do you want from her?”
A flash of anger shone in Zander’s eyes. “I want what you want, that which was taken.”
Whill wished that he had taken her offer now more than ever. Had he not been so proud, none of this would have ever happened. Once again his own selfishness had cost lives, and would cost many more. If what Zander said was true, what hope was there to stop him? He knew then that he was doomed. Kellallea was truly his only hope.
“She will not answer my call,” said Whill.
“You have already prayed to her…of course,” said Zander. “But I am afraid that my wards might have stopped her from hearing you. Perhaps you should try again.”
Whill watched with growing apprehension as the necromancer turned from him and reached for something on the table. He returned holding a glowing dagger that appeared to be made completely of light.
“Are you familiar with spirit blades?” Zander asked.
Fear washed over Whill.
Zander grinned and brought the glowing blade to his face. “Let me educate you.” He turned the blade and set the tip on Whill’s shoulder. “Unlike physical blades, which cut through flesh and bone, spirit blades have no effect on the physical body, but cut through the very soul”
He sank the blade in slowly, and while it did not tear Whill’s flesh, it felt as though his arm was being torn asunder.
“That feeling is only the projected spirit body,” said Zander, withdrawing the blade and placing it over his heart. “This is the soul.” He pressed the blade until Whill felt the hot point enter his very core, sending blinding pain coursing through his entire being.
“Now,” —Zander twisted the blade slowly— “pray to your goddess.”
Chapter 56
Inner Vision
Zorriaz flew tirelessly through the night over the southern Elgar Mountains. It took the entire next day to cross eastern Uthen-Arden. For a time, Avriel slept against the base of the dragon’s neck. She wanted to be rested, not quite knowing what she was up against. The fact that she had instantly flown off to help him surprised her. Even though she had no memory of their time spent during the Draggard Wars, his quick visit to Elladrindellia had once again sparked the fire inside her heart. Or maybe it was knowing that he was the father of the child growing inside her.
Kellallea had finally shown herself to her, a fact that was perhaps the reason Avriel had so quickly embarked on the dangerous journey. With the goddess watching over them, Avriel felt as though she had
some of the magic of old on her side. Kellallea had yet to answer her summons since she had left Cerushia, but Avriel gave faith that she soon would. Without her help, it would be impossible to free Whill. Avriel was still a skilled warrior, but without Orna Catorna she would be unable to stand up to the necromancer.
She came upon Lake Eardon in the small hours of the second night and found the remnants of a battle near the city of Brinn.
He is in the highest tower.
The voice in her head startled her.
“Goddess?” Avriel asked the wind. For many frustrating moments, there was no response.
And then…
The necromancer is there with him, and many lich guards. You must be swift. Whill cannot walk. You will have to—
“Aren’t you going to help?” Avriel asked.
Again, the long silence, and just when Avriel had accepted that the goddess would speak no more, she answered.
I cannot intervene in the affairs of mortals.
Avriel scoffed at that. “You already have! I cannot free Whill from a castle tower full of undead…If, perhaps, I still possessed the knowledge of Orna Catorna…”
It is not possible.
“Why? Why is it impossible? I do not understand why—”
You are not meant to understand!
“Is your power so precious to you that you cannot offer help to those who need it?”
Fool, you know not of what you speak.
“Then help me to understand.” Avriel waited, but the goddess remained silent.
“I am the princess of Elladrindellia, my brother is king. We have great influence over the elves. You are now a goddess, surely you wish to be worshipped. Will you spend eternity in watching the events of the world from your empyreal throne? You say that you are a goddess. Yet you have performed no miracles, answered no prayers.”
There is a balance that must be maintained. If I meddle in worldly affairs…others might as well.
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