He went down hard but staggered to his feet as the fist returned to Helzendar’s wrist. With it, his son grabbed ahold of his throat and lifted him into the air. His grip was that of iron, and Roakore was forced to box his ears lest his neck be snapped like a dry twig. But Helzendar did not relent. Roakore reached out with his mind for the stone wall, pulling himself to it. Both he and Helzendar shot across the chamber and crashed into the wall with a clang and a clamor of armor. Helzendar took the worst of it, but the stone fist rocketed from his arm even as Roakore was bouncing back from the wall. He threw out a hand, stopping the iron fist halfway between them.
Kill! Kill! Kill!
Roakore barely registered the fights going on all around them, but he saw the blood on the floor. He saw the blood dripping from his fellow dwarves’ hatchets, battle hammers, and axes. He saw the horror in Du’Krell’s eyes as he hacked at the lifeless body of a dwarf. It could have been Dwellan, it could have been Raene; it could have been any of them, for there was no way to tell. All that was left of the poor dwarf was twisted armor and gore.
“Fight it!” he managed to say, but his small victory was short lived. He felt the anger of the albino surge, and his will was extinguished like a dying candle.
Roakore shot back at Helzendar with everything he had, twisting the iron fist around and sending it flying toward his son. To his horror, the heavy weapon hit Helzendar in the chest, slamming him into the wall and denting his armor.
Helzendar slumped to the floor, blood pouring from his mouth.
Roakore stalked forward.
He raised his axe.
Ky’Dren! King of Kings. He who resided in the Mountain o’ the Gods. GIVE ME STRENGTH!
KILL! KILL! KILL!
Glorious light did not erupt in the cavern. No godly power filled him. No divine intervention followed his plea.
The gods were silent.
Roakore wept as he lifted the axe. Helzendar put out his stump defensively. Blood filled his beard, fear filled his eyes.
“I love ye, Pa…” Helzendar managed to utter.
Roakore turned his eyes to the albino, not wanting to see it happen, not wanting to see the axe fall. The axe reached its apex and time seemed to slow. Through blurred vision, Roakore saw Philo rush at the albino’s back. Roakore and the others froze as the startled albino spun around and raised a hand in Philo’s direction. But Philo kept coming.
“Now ye done pissed me off,” said Philo, stalking the creature.
The albino looked around frantically, and Roakore felt the creature take over his mind once more, telling him to kill Philo. Against their will, he and the other dwarves charged Philo.
“Do it now, Philo!” Roakore managed to scream.
But Philo needed no coaxing. He reached out a hand of his own, and the albino shot through the air toward him. Philo cocked back his huge axe, and as the shrieking albino flew toward him, he chopped it in half.
Roakore skidded to a halt, his axe inches away from Philo’s head.
“Ye all lost yer damn minds?” Philo asked, and then shot back a large rum bottle.
“Ye did it,” said Roakore. He turned and, finding the albino’s upper half twitching and convulsing on the ground, he buried his axe in its head.
He rushed to Helzendar, who was still coughing up blood. “Oh, by the mercy o’ Ky’Dren, forgive me!” He dropped to the floor, taking up Helzendar in his arms.
Helzendar smiled weakly. “It weren’t yer fault…” He coughed, speckling Roakore’s armor with blood.
Roakore fumbled through his pockets and produced the vial of golden dragon blood. “Here, drink this.”
Helzendar knew what it was, for it had been used in the healing of his silver hawk. He drank eagerly as Roakore tipped the last of it into his mouth. Instantly, the light of life began to return to Helzendar’s eyes.
“Ye alright, lad?”
“I am now,” said his son, and Roakore pulled him up into a hug.
Somewhere deep in the cavern, the clicking of a thousand scorpions’ feet on stone began to echo.
“Let’s get the hells out o’ here!” Roakore commanded the dwarves.
Chapter 14
The flight from New Cerushia to the Drogan Mountains took Zorriaz three full days, and as the mountains finally came into view on the eastern horizon, she swooped down to land on the bank of a large river.
“I must rest before I meet with my kin,” she said as Azzeal awoke in the saddle.
“Of course, of course,” he said with joviality.
He yawned and stretched and leapt from the saddle as she drank from the river.
“How do you feel about seeing them again?” Azzeal asked.
“I have mixed feelings. How do you feel about seeing them again?”
“I feel hopeful that they will assist us in our endeavor.”
“I believe that they will as well.” She sniffed at the air. The scent of bear rode on the wind. “I am hungry. I must hunt.”
“Ah, then let me come with you. I have a variety of animal forms that I can take. Perhaps the mighty eagle?”
“I wish to hunt alone,” she said, and she took to the sky before he could reply.
She was indeed hungry, but more so, she was nervous. The Drogan Mountains loomed to the east. She turned south, following the scent of bear. Zorriaz remembered the looks that the other dragons had given her. She remembered the disdain in their eyes. Zalenlia the Gold had offered her a place in their world, it was true, but Zorriaz thought that she was just been being polite. Did the golden goddess of dragons see through her? Did she know as the others knew, that Zorriaz was not a true dragon, that she had been born with the spirit of an elf inside her?
The bear was walking along the shore a mile south of Azzeal.
Zorriaz circled.
She thought about what she might say to them, what she might do to gain their approval. And in her mind, she heard the names that they would call her—Whill of Agora’s pet, tainted soul. Of course, she had never actually been called those names before, but she thought them, and there were many more. What she had said to Whill was true. She did have the memories of emerging from an egg, of first flight, and of many first hunts, but none of them were hers. She had never known a mother or a father. She had never known a clan and had never flown with a terror. Zorriaz didn’t feel as though she were a true dragon. She felt more at home with the elves, and with Whill…
The bear saw or smelled her, for it reared up on its hind legs and gave a roar. Zorriaz answered the call with a cry that sent birds fleeing from trees. As she descended on the tall brown bear, it smartly dropped to all fours and darted for the underbrush.
Zorriaz bathed the bank of the river in fire, consuming the underbrush and setting alight many trees. As she coasted over the canopy, she caught sight of the bear fleeing back toward the river.
Smart.
She banked right, bringing herself around to intercept the bear on the shore. Seeing that it was caught, it reared once again and gave a roar. Zorriaz landed and stamped toward the bear, drowning out its roar with flames. Fire consumed the bank, and when the smoke cleared, Zorriaz spotted the smoldering bear in the river, swimming with the current. She leapt into the air, beat her massive wings, and stalked her prey as it made its desperate swim. The river was wide and strong, but it did not move as fast as a dragon. Zorriaz swooped down and snapped her jaws, catching the bear by the scruff of the neck. With a jerk, she tossed it to the far bank, one hundred feet away.
The bear sailed through the air and landed with a thick thud in the mud.
Zorriaz beat her wings, flying over the river. She circled once, twice, before landing high up on the bank wall. The bear, smoldering and sodden, clawed its way out of the mud it had been dumped in. It was pathetic, and Zorriaz thought to put it out of its misery; cook her dinner and be done with it. But then suddenly, a golden-skinned giant appeared across the river.
Zorriaz held her dragon breath and fell back, for she felt
embarrassed suddenly, even ashamed.
The golden giant, a woman nude as the newborn moon, walked across the river as though it were nothing more than an azure street to be trod. The bear called out miserably, clinging to the roots of a dying tree as the mud began winning the war of endurance. Zorriaz found herself taking slow steps backward. She was mesmerized by this golden goddess, this giant with glowing skin and eyes like starlight. The golden woman, an elf perhaps, was well over twelve feet tall, and her hair was like a field of wheat at sunset.
Zorriaz found herself bowing before the woman.
The bear looked to her as well, calling out desperately as it struggled. Patches of its fur were burnt and gone, and the wounds were bright red beneath the clay-brown mire. One eye was white and milky, and a froth gathered around its well-worn teeth.
“I am sorry, golden lady,” said Zorriaz pleadingly. “I did not know he was your friend.”
The woman ignored her, stopped beside the bear, and lifted him up. The mud did not touch her golden, glowing skin as she ferried the bear to the bank. The bear dropped, exhausted, and let out a mewling groan, a plea for mercy, for the end of misery.
What the golden lady gave him was life.
It poured from her outstretched hand, golden and beautiful and radiant as the winter star. The ragged tufts of fur filled in. The sore red wounds healed, and the mud and filth fell from the bear as he rose to all fours, and then stood like a man.
“There you are, Grarn. I’m sorry that my friend did not know that you were my friend as well.”
The bear, Grarn, looked to Zorriaz and huffed angrily. He swiped at a tuft of weeds and growled before turning and, backside swaying, left them by the river.
The golden lady regarded Zorriaz. “Why do you kneel?”
“Your beauty…your magic…are you a goddess come to earth?”
The golden lady glanced down at her own body. “Ah, yes. Perhaps in my true form, you will know me.”
Zorriaz watched in wonderment as the golden lady grew larger. Her body began to change as well. Her smooth skin became scaly. Her lithe arms and legs became thick and strong, and wings sprouted from her back. Soon, Zalenlia the Gold stood before her.
“My queen!” said Zorriaz, bowing.
“Welcome, my sister. Welcome home,” said Zalenlia.
Azzeal rode upon Zorriaz’s back as they flew over the mountain range. He was beside himself with excitement as he spied the giants below, for Zorriaz had told him that they were indeed dragons.
“Amazing, simply amazing,” he said over and over as he scratched down notes in his small book.
Zalenlia led them to the flat peak of a tall mountain, where an ancient city stood tall among the clouds. Giants and dragons of all colors congregated on balconies along the edges of the city, overlooking the mountain range. Hanging gardens and waterfalls spilled out from between great pillars and palaces. Sculptures of dragons and giants alike stood one hundred feet tall, some broken by time, others standing defiant and whole. The city was a mile long and half as wide. Its towers reached to the heavens, and at the tops there were dragon nests full of gold and jewels, gems, rubies and diamonds. The riches caught the sun, shimmering like beacons of starlight from above. Every surface looked to have been melted by dragon fire, leaving them smooth and shiny.
“Amazing, simply amazing,” said Azzeal.
“It is beautiful,” said Zorriaz.
Zalenlia glided down to a tower with a silver, domed roof at the center of the city. She changed to her giant form as she landed, and with an encouraging smile and wave toward them both, she walked through the arched threshold.
Zorriaz and Azzeal followed close behind. The elf looked to be in a trance, for he held his book and quill out before him, but he wrote down nothing. Zorriaz was more interested in the dragons in giant form, and she imagined what it must be like to walk in a humanoid body. The giants embodied beauty and grace. Their skin, while no longer scaly but smooth and glowing, still held the color of their dragon form. There were blues, reds, greens, and even other whites, like her. A male white watched her closely as she followed the queen deeper into the tower, and she found herself staring, mesmerized by his naked form.
Azzeal stopped abruptly, causing Zorriaz to bump him with her chest. She bent her neck toward him, and she followed his wide eyes. Zorriaz gasped. At the center of the tower, set upon a large round platform, sat the most beautiful stone that she had ever seen.
Zalenlia turned and offered them an enchanted smile. “This is the dragonstone,” she said proudly.
“Dragonstone…” said Azzeal dreamily.
“Is this…is this how you can change into a giant?” Zorriaz asked.
“It is,” said Zalenlia. “The memory of its magic was lost to us somehow, for even the oldest of us and those with the longest lines cannot remember a time when we walked the land like humans, elves, and dwarves.” She looked to Zorriaz. “You need only touch it, and you will be able to transform.”
Zorriaz took a step back, shaking her head.
“I understand. There are many who still refuse. Not everyone trusts such strange magic.”
“Who created it?” Azzeal asked. “Was it the elves?”
“We do not know. No writings were found here or in any of the other cities in this mountain range. There are only the statues, the sculptures, and the art.”
“How do you know that you can trust the magic?” Zorriaz asked.
“Because it was here in our forgotten city. There are murals and artwork depicting the stone. We do not think that it was created by our enemies.”
“Surely it is elf magic,” said Zorriaz. “Or perhaps the gods themselves.”
“I am afraid that the answer is lost to history,” said Zalenlia. “But I invite you to investigate the matter, Azzeal.”
“I would be honored.”
“Walk with me,” she bade them both. “And tell me what has brought you here.”
Azzeal told her that Zerafin requested the assistance of the dragons in vanquishing the drekkon, and Zalenlia looked saddened by the news of yet more warring.
“Can’t there be peace?” she asked.
“I am afraid not,” said Azzeal. “Zerafin sees the drekkon as Eadon’s abominations. He was hoping that the dragons would feel the same way.”
“Many of us do, but the drekkon are still intelligent lifeforms, and they have the same right to existence as the rest of us. What they are is no fault of their own.”
“You possess great wisdom, and I hear truth in your words,” said Azzeal. “But they have attacked the human and elven settlements, and they are in league with Eldarian. They have branded us all as enemies, even the dragons.”
“If there was a chance for peace, I would be willing to help. But I cannot condone or take part in the extinction of an entire species.”
“But how can we allow Eadon’s creations to live?” said Zorriaz.
“My dear, many would argue that you are a creation of Eadon,” said Zalenlia.
Zorriaz bowed her head in shame. “It is true, but I have not attacked and killed the innocent.”
“My friend, the bear, was innocent.”
Zorriaz was mortified, and she bowed her head before her queen. “I am sorry…I…”
“I have no hard feelings for you, my sister,” said Zalenlia. “I am just showing you that there are other ways of looking at things.”
“What about Eldarian?” said Azzeal. “He is bent on freeing the power of the mantle. He would see the world burn.”
“Yes,” said the golden queen. “The world is old, and I fear that its time is past due. I can hear it in the wind. I can feel it in the ground beneath my feet. I can see it in the stars. I believe that no matter what I do, twilight has come to the world as we know it. If not Eldarian, it will be someone else. For the power of the mantle cannot be contained forever.”
“Then there is no hope?” said Zorriaz. “There is nothing worth fighting for?”
�
�It is not a fight, but a balance. Darkness and light have danced together for eternity. We of the light do what we must to protect life, and those of dark do what they can to promote death. In not helping to wipe out the drekkon, I am fighting for life.”
“Even if you are saving the lives of those who would see others die?” said Zorriaz.
“Zerafin would see others die. Indeed, that is his wish. But I would gladly save him as well.”
Zorriaz looked to Azzeal, but he seemed to have no argument.
“Come,” said Zalenlia. “Let me show you our glorious city, and we shall speak of other things.”
Chapter 15
“The elven army has begun their march,” said Eldarian.
“Let them come and feel the power of the drekkon,” Vresh’Kon said with a sneer.
“Do not underestimate the power of the elves of the sun. They have survived in this world for eons, long before your race was even created. If they were to attack now, I do not think that you would like the outcome.”
“My lord…you sound as though to do not have faith in—”
“I have faith in nothing,” said Eldarian. “Faith is for the weak, the unprepared. But you are not weak, are you, Vresh’Kon?”
“No, my lord.”
“But you are indeed unprepared.” Eldarian strode to the edge of the balcony and gazed upon the drekkon city. “How long until the other tribes join you?”
“They march here from every corner of the land as we speak, my lord. We will be ready for the elves.” Vresh’Kon walked onto the balcony and stood beside the intimidating elf. The drekkon chieftain didn’t fear much, but he feared Eldarian.
Just then, movement caught his eye far out upon the eastern horizon.
“Look, my lord, a tribe approaches from the east as we speak.”
The Warcrown Legacy Page 6