“Nothin’ is going to stop us now, Ragnar. We’re going to take back that mountain, and we’re going to free Roakore from damnation.”
“You are fond of Roakore,” said Ragnar, handing back the pipe.
“Aye, he be me favorite cousin, to be sure. But he be more than that. He be a great dwarf, the most famous of our time. Was him who helped to unite us with the elves and yer kind. I believe he’ll go down in history as the greatest dwarf since Ky’Dren, perhaps even greater.”
“Isn’t that…I don’t know, sacrilege?” Ragnar asked cautiously.
Raene shrugged. “Mayhaps. But I ain’t never censored me words for the living, so ain’t much point censorin’ ‘em for fear o’ eavesdroppin’ gods.”
“They say that the dwarven gods always hear their names spoken aloud.”
“Ye know yer stuff, don’t ye. About our religion, I be meanin’.”
“One of my family’s most prized possessions is a three-hundred-year-old dwarven bible, er, sorry, Gaedsward.”
“Why do ye think the gods chose ye to be a blessed, to move more than just earth?” Raene asked.
Ragnar didn’t immediately answer. He puffed the pipe, handed it back, and blew out an ever-widening ring of smoke. He looked off into the distance, where the Velk’Har Mountains loomed beyond the forest of pine.
“I don’t know. But I like to think that they saw something in me; a destiny perhaps. I am honored to have been chosen, and I will not squander my great gift. Why do you think they chose you?”
Raene didn’t remember ever having been asked that. She thought, like him, that perhaps they had seen something in her. But he was mostly human, and his being chosen was much more interesting than her.
“The same as you, I be guessin’.” She shrugged, tapping the spent pipe on her knee. “But Roakore warned me never to think that just because ye seem to be havin’ the blessin’ o’ the gods, that don’t mean ye be immortal or all-powerful. Only the gods live forever, and a smart mortal lives to a ripe old age.”
“That be good advice,” he said, but then smiled as coyly as a burly human warrior could. “Sorry, I guess I’ve been around dwarves too long. I’ve started talking like one.”
“It suits ye.”
They rode in comfortable silence for a time, and before Raene knew what had happened, she was waking up nestled against Ragnar’s big arm and drooling.
She shot straight up and wiped her sleeve against her mouth, eyeing Ragnar awkwardly. “Sorry.”
He grinned and uncorked a bottle that he must have grabbed from the stack behind them. It was elven, and like elves, it was tall and slim and fair.
“Elven spirits?” she said with a scoff—happy for the distraction from her closeness. How long had she been snoring against his arm?
She sucked down a long pull of the elven spirits, and instantly she regretted it. Not only was the elven wine strong, but it had a fire to it, like fifty-year dwarven whiskey.
“You alright?” Ragnar asked, looking concerned, and a bit amused.
“That’ll straighten yer curlies right quick, that will!” she managed to utter as she handed it off, feeling as though dragon’s breath was coming out of her nostrils.
“Damn, I guess so.” He capped the bottle and grabbed a round silver gallon of dwarven mead and handed it to her.
She took a drink, glad for the sweet taste that washed away the fire.
“Thanks.”
The road leading from Riverfork split the forest of evergreens and continued for ten miles before moving downward into a valley littered with chunks of broken rock. Like the discarded shards of the statues of gods long forgotten, the jagged boulders sat in the mist, waiting.
The morning fog still clung to the valley floor, and the horses descended into a world of gray and swirling mist.
“I hope the horses be knowin’ the way through,” said Raene. She was not afraid for herself, but afraid that they might get lost, and thus delay the attack.
“I’m sure it will part soon. The sun is out, and—”
An arrow took Ragnar’s words, and he clasped two hands on the shaft suddenly protruding from his chest. Raene pushed him down to the floor, instinctively bringing her shield to bear. She couldn’t see anything, and stood with her mace cocked back, ready to crush the skull of the first thing that moved.
But nothing moved.
The mist swirled, gray on white. It exaggerated forms, turning a bush on the side of the road into a crouching highwayman. She threw her mace, smashing it into the phantom image before pulling it back into her hand. There was no blood, only dirt on the wide end.
“Show yerselves, ye bastards!” Raene screamed as the horses continued through the gloom at a pace too slow for Raene’s liking.
A barrage of arrows struck the wagon, twanging into the driver’s bench and hitting Raene in the exposed left calf. Furious and in terrible pain, Raene threw aside her weapons and PULLED.
She pulled stones. She pulled dirt and shrubs. But she also pulled to her the three highwaymen who had ambushed her. They spun through the air toward her, their bows and arrows flying free and cracking against the wagon and the barrels stacked high in the back. Raene ducked as the men flew into the load and fell behind the driver’s seat.
She pulled out a hatchet and dispatched them mercilessly before tossing their bloody bodies off the side of the wagon.
“Anyone else?” she screamed at the fog. “I be bringin’ this load to the dwarf kings, and if ye try and stop me again, ye’ll wish ye was never born!”
No arrows answered her call, and she spurred the horses on through the fog.
“Ye alright?” she asked Ragnar.
“No,” he said with a groan.
“Hang tight and let me get out o’ this blasted valley.”
Raene slapped the reins repeatedly, spurring the elven horses on as fast as they could go. The road was bumpy, and the wagons behind them teetered back and forth. Several barrels got loose and smashed on the ground, but Raene had no time to worry.
Suddenly they shot out of the fog, and straight into another ambush. The highwaymen had put two wagons back to back on the road, and at least six archers took aim from behind the low wagon walls.
Raene’s rage surged. Nothing was going to stop her from getting the precious liquor to the dwarves. She spurred the horses straight at the center of the two wagons as the archers let loose their arrows. Raene shot out both hands, pushing with all her mental might at the wagons in front of her.
The wagons exploded as if a bomb had gone off below them. Debris shot into the air, taking with it the mangled archers and other hiding highwaymen. The horses surged through the destruction as lumber and torn fabric and broken men rained down on them.
Raene smiled to herself, but the excursion soon took its toll. She had used too much energy destroying the wagons, and her vision was quickly fading.
Chapter 21
Azzeal walked through the white halls of the dragon stronghold, marveling at the unique architecture. It was late at night, and most of the dragons of the city were sleeping in their dens, but Azzeal hadn’t been able to sleep a wink and decided to make the most of his time. He sketched what he saw in his small book, drawing the dragons, giants, and the mammoth towers that reached to the heavens. Many of the statues and murals had strange words written beneath them, and Azzeal went about tracing them as best he could. He couldn’t wait to return to New Cerushia and share his findings with the elders. There were a few elder elves who might know the language, and if they could not figure it out, there might be something in the history books or the learning crystals that had been retrieved from other ancient cities.
The dragonstone was another marvel that he was intent on sketching and documenting fully, so he eventually made his way to the room that housed it. He found Zorriaz standing over the dragonstone. She looked to be considering touching it, and he held his breath and waited. She must have smelled him, however, for she suddenly jerked her long dr
agon head to the side and pulled her clawed hand back.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you enter,” she said sheepishly.
“I came to sketch the stone. Can you imagine what Roakore would think of it?”
“He would be quite enamored, I am sure.”
Azzeal walked into the room and joined her by the stone.
“Have you decided to try it?” he asked.
“I don’t know…”
“If you do, I would like to see it. It would be a rare chance to see exactly how the stone works,” said Azzeal.
She stared at the dragonstone for many long moments. “Would you do it if you were me?” she asked at length.
“I daresay that I would. It isn’t every day that you get a chance like this. Haven’t you always imagined being…humanoid?”
“I have dreamed of being an elf, yes.” She glanced sheepishly at him, looking embarrassed.
“But that is only so that Whill could love you like a woman,” he said knowingly. She was taken aback, but Azzeal grinned at her. “I do not think it strange.”
“I grew to love him through Avriel. But no, I do not imagine such silly things. But the idea of becoming a giant, to change my form…it is most alluring.”
“But?” said Azzeal.
“Well, what if I get trapped in that form?”
“I do not think you need to worry about that. As I understand it, you touch it as a giant and it turns you back into a dragon.”
Zorriaz raised her noble dragon head and blinked heavily. She let out a sigh and glanced at Azzeal.
“You will stay? In case anything happens?”
“Of course,” he said, and he watched on with growing anticipation.
The white dragon nodded and gazed into the dragonstone, which swirled and pulsed hypnotically. It seemed that sunlight and clouds were trapped in the multi-colored orb, and as Zorriaz reached her clawed hand toward it, small sparks of electricity began to dance within the stone. She hesitated for but a moment, and finally set her hand upon the stone.
Azzeal jotted down everything he saw, noting how Zorriaz gasped and suddenly stiffened. She began to glow a heartbeat later. Bright white she shone, like the brightest of winter stars come to earth. Through the brilliance and humming power, Azzeal watched as her form shifted and began to change. Her wings receded, her snout shortened, and powerful dragon legs became the sleek, angular legs of a human or elf.
When the glow died out, she stood there in her giant form, staring at her white hands. In her humanoid form, she was no less beautiful than she had been as a dragon. Her long silver hair was wavy and spilled over her snow-white shoulders to cover her pert breasts. Her facial features were strikingly beautiful and reminded Azzeal of a fair elf maiden.
“How do you feel?” said Azzeal.
Zorriaz stared at her hands, and her winter-blue eyes turned to Azzeal with slight confusion, as though she had forgotten that he was there.
“I feel…” She trailed off and raised her hands to the moonlight. “I feel strange, but good. I feel at home in this body. When I shared my dragon form with Avriel’s soul, I explored memories of living in this type of form. It is familiar to me.”
“It suits you,” said Azzeal.
“I almost feel like an elf,” she said. “A ten-foot-tall elf, anyway.”
Azzeal shared in her mirth as he scribbled the rest of his report of the transformation in his little book. His eyes were drawn to the dragonstone in time, however, and he found himself wondering what would happen if he touched the orb.
Would he grow into a dragon, would he change into a giant, or would it kill him?
Azzeal closed his book and followed Zorriaz out of the room and onto a long spiraling ramp that led down to the ground.
“I intend to speak with Zalenlia at first light,” he told her. “For we have tarried too long as it is.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?” Zorriaz asked.
“I think it better if you speak with the other dragons. See what their opinion is. Zalenlia will not stop them from coming with us. Of course, I would rather have her approval in the matter. Therefore, I will speak with her while you…mingle with the dragons.”
A few hours later, he found Zalenlia in her giant golden form bathing beneath a waterfall cast from the high ridges of the surrounding mountains. She was nude, but that didn’t bother Azzeal. He found himself in need of a cleansing as well, and when he walked out into the pool as naked as the day he was born, the golden giant regarded him with mild amusement.
“If you have come to seduce me into agreeing to help, you should know that I have already decided to do so,” she told him.
“What? Seduce?” He glanced down at his naked form and laughed. “No, no, of course not. I daresay that I do not think that I am your type. But I am glad to hear that you have decided to help.”
She turned from him and let the water wash over her golden locks. Azzeal dove into the cold water, enjoying the invigorating chill and the clarity of mind that it brought him. When he came up, Zalenlia was sunning herself on a long smooth slab of stone. “I will not be joining the fight, but I give my blessing to those who do,” she said as he swam to the rock that she was sunning on.
“How many have decided to help?” he asked.
“Two dozen or so. They believe that it is their duty to help our friends.”
“Zerafin will be very glad to hear it. Thank you, Zalenlia. You are doing the right thing,” said Azzeal.
“War is never the right thing, my friend.”
“No,” said Azzeal. “It is not. But with your power to heal, you could save countless lives. You could bless the elves, make them invulnerable to attack.”
“Yes, and while I would be saving the lives of the elves, I would also be dooming their enemies. You see, it is possible to help one, and in doing so, harm another. I think that it would be most amusing if I blessed the entire battlefield so that no one could kill anyone else. Then perhaps when they all grew tired of fighting, they could sit down like civilized creatures and find common ground.”
“That would indeed be funny,” said Azzeal. “I would very much like to see that. I have tried to convince Zerafin to try and work with the drekkon, but his mind has been made, and he is quite stubborn.”
“He fears for his people,” said Zorriaz. “For it is fear that most often causes violence.”
“You sound like a Morenka master,” Azzeal noted. “You would have liked the one called the Watcher.”
“And what of Whill of Agora?” said Zorriaz. “How is the young man?”
“Whill is…well, he’s Whill. The young man continues to amaze me, not only with his incredible power, but also the way that he deals with it. I believe that I can count on one hand the people I know who might be able to remain themselves given such godly power. But Whill somehow resists the urge to dominate. He has now absorbed the power of the Lord of Light, and he could decimate the drekkon horde with but a thought, but he refuses.”
“He is afraid of what he would become,” Zorriaz noted.
“And rightly so,” said Azzeal. “I often wonder what he is becoming. How much power can one man possess before he is no longer a man?”
Zorriaz had no answer for him, and they sat together in silence for a time, watching the water pour down from the high cliffs. The day was bright and warm, and Azzeal felt that he could have stayed there all day, but he had gotten his answer, and it was time to return to his king.
Chapter 22
Night fell on Pearlton, and with it a haunting wind came from the east, howling through the tall pines as Dirk and Krentz spied the city. Chief had been away for nearly a half hour, and Dirk was beginning to get worried. If there was a necromancer about, then Chief would find it, Dirk had no doubt about that. What worried him was that perhaps Chief already had. In the past, the spirit wolf hadn’t fared well against necromancers, for they were spirit lords, the masters of the undead, and Chief was often helpless against their power.
“The city’s not that large. He should have been back by now.”
“Alright,” she said. “Come on.”
Dirk followed close behind as she slipped through the shadows, avoiding the moonlight. The number of guards patrolling the ramparts had doubled since they left the city, and more were at the gate. Others patrolled the perimeter outside the city walls, their eyes alert and their posture rigid. They acted not like men on just another night of patrol, but rather like desperate men scared for loved ones.
“They look like they are expecting an army,” he noted as Krentz ducked down behind a felled tree.
“Something’s terrifying them,” she said. “But it isn’t us.”
A pair of guards walked by silently, their eyes searching the tree line carefully. When they had passed, Krentz gestured to Dirk. She led him to the coast and away from the wide-open space between the tree line and city walls. They slipped into the water a few hundred yards up the bay and stealthily swam to the sitting ships anchored there. The docks were heavily guarded, but they were not as well lit.
Dirk and Krentz waited at the edge of the boardwalk that swung around from the city to the docks and back again. When two guards came along, Dirk hit them each with a poisoned dart that would incapacitate but not kill them. Then he pulled their unconscious bodies into a rickety boathouse. After stripping the men and dressing in their armor, Dirk and Krentz stepped out of the boathouse and marched into the city.
If my nose is correct, whatever we’re looking for is this way, said Krentz as she turned down a quiet street.
Dirk had not the keen nose of an elf, but he could smell it all the same. It was faint, but it was there—the rancid stench of death. They passed other guards, some offering a downward nod, others too busy with their worries to notice. One thing Dirk noticed about the city, aside from the wary guards, was the lack of light coming from the surrounding buildings.
“This way,” said Krentz, and she slipped through a church gate.
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