Kingdoms in Chaos (25 page)

He chopped through the breastbone methodically and it snapped apart with the final blow. Helzendar cut his way deeper and deeper still, until finally he found the giant heart. He had thought to tear it out, but it was the size of a keg. Instead, he chopped off a large chunk and dropped his axes and raised his prize high into the air.

When he turned around, he found all the dwarves standing beside the corpse and staring up at him. He squeezed the piece of dragon heart, letting the blood run down his arms and over his body.

“I swear by the gods and Ky’Dren, I’ll kill every last one o’ them!”

The dwarves gave a collective cheer. Helzendar grinned down on them with wild eyes. He lifted the heart to his mouth and tore off a big chunk and swallowed it down. The dwarves howled and cheered their mighty prince.

The ocean raced by below.

Roakore gripped the saddle horn in one hand and the reins in the other. His mind was bent on one thing: finding his son before it was too late. He cursed Helzendar’s stupidity, and at the same time he admired his courage. He was proud—though the lad would get a flogging for it.

If he came out alive…

How long had it been since the five hundred left? More than twenty-four hours? The sun would soon rise and would take away any hope for stealth that he had.

Roakore felt sick, and it had nothing to do with the flying—he had gotten used to that after the first flight. Rarely had he been so worried about one of his children. He had so many, it was hard just keeping their names straight.

When his people were driven out of the Ro’Sar Mountains twenty-one years prior, the surviving males had taken many wives from the neighboring mountains to replenish the clan. Roakore had taken over twenty. In two decades, the women had given him over two hundred children.

Helzendar had always been special to him. Perhaps it was because his mother was his favorite. They had four other children together, all girls, and a son had died before he reached his first year. There were others who might one day make a good fit for the throne, but Helzendar was the brightest, and the most skilled stone mover. He had befriended Tarren quickly, and had seen the wider world; as opposed to his siblings, who hadn’t ventured much outside of Ky’Dren or Ro’Sar. Indeed, many of them had never been to the Elgar Mountains.

I need to spend more time with me family, big as it is. Ain’t no excuse. They need to see their father. Runnin’ around, questin’ with elves and humans, getting’ meself in all kinds o’ trouble. It ain’t no good for me and it ain’t no good for me kingdom. I keep at it drinkin’ and fightin’ like I do, I’ll have one o’ the shortest reigns in dwarf history.

Roakore had a lot of time to think on that long flight, and he listened to his heart. It spoke of family and duty, it also spoke of conquest, of rediscovered mountains… His secret dream was to one day return to Ky’Dren’s home mountain in Drindellia, the one taken by a dragon migration so many millennia ago. If he could rebuild the mountain with a great migration of dwarves, he would be known as the greatest dwarven king save Ky’Dren himself.

Helzendar hacked at the dragon’s horn with one last mighty blow and it finally snapped off and fell to the floor. He climbed down and took up the horn, which was as long as his arm from elbow to fingertip—it would make a fine gift for his mother.

General Hammerfell nodded respectfully at him. “Me prince, scouts return with good tidings. There be a nest down that tunnel. I knew they be guardin’ somethin’ in there. They say there be hundreds o’ dragon eggs inside.”

Helzendar studied the dwarf. Was he looking to him for orders? He glanced around at the others, who waited with the same obedient anticipation. He stuffed the horn under his belt and straightened. “Then let’s have us an egg hunt!”

The dwarves gave a cheer and Helzendar grinned wide.

“To the nest!” the general bellowed.

They charged through the tunnel, following the scout who had found the chamber. He turned back with a wide smile. “It be just around this corner!”

A belch of flame suddenly consumed him, and the dwarves all dropped to the ground as fire filled the tunnel momentarily. One of the two remaining bombers leaped to his feet and charged into the chamber. A loud explosion marked his demise.

“Charge!” cried the general.

Helzendar charged through into the chamber behind the general. The cavern was immense, and filled with stalactites and stalagmites, some of which connected to form large columns. With one quick glance he counted two dragons, and noticed the hundreds of eggs.

The dragons attacked, but the dwarves would not relent. The sight of the eggs had thrown them over the brink. When the fires died down, only two remained besides Helzendar and General Hammerfell.

“Destroy as many eggs as you can!” the general ordered.

The eggs were a multitude of colors, and larger than Helzendar would have guessed. About the size of a keg, the multicolored eggs sparkled like jewels against the glowing moss that lined the walls and ceiling of the cavern.

He took one up, barely able to get his arms around it, and brought it to his shoulder. With all his might, he slammed it down on the rocky floor as hard as he could and was rewarded with a satisfying crack. Thick yellow ooze poured out of it. The others were smashing them with war hammers and axes, but the going was slow; the eggs were too tough. They needed to break them all—and quickly, before more dragons came.

There was no need to hold anything back now. They would likely never make it out alive. Helzendar lifted his hands to the ceiling and began mentally snapping the smaller stalactites. They came crashing down on the eggs with a boom. He ignored his fatigue and continued through the chamber, crashing the formations down on the hideous eggs.

Before he had destroyed half of them, a great many roaring voices shook the cavern. The dragons were coming.

Helzendar braced himself, summoning what he had left for one last stand.

“Helzendar, fall back!” the general yelled, running toward him.

“We kill ‘em all.”

“Aye,” said Orrin. “Which means livin’ to come back. We head for the tunnels and regroup.”

“I ain’t retreatin’,” said Helzendar.

The general’s nostrils flared, and he gave a resigned sigh. “Ye be spent. We all be spent. But ain’t nobody retreatin’.”

Helzendar eyed him. The general was right. He didn’t have much left. His head ached terribly, and every muscle in his body screamed. He looked once more to the far end of the chamber and ground his teeth.

“Fine, lead the way.”

They hurried to the tunnel they had come from. Behind them, the furious cries of those dragons just entering the cavern followed. But they made it without being seen, and ran as fast as their tired bodies would allow.

“Ancient One, dwarves have landed upon our shores!”

Reshikk rose from the nest of the purring female. “Their numbers?”

“Five ships, from all directions,” said the White.

With a growl, Reshikk stormed through the tunnel and flew up to the ridge of the volcano. He looked out over the island, seeing the many dragons already searching the land. The entire island lay before him, and he saw the ships burning on the coast. He gave a great roar that echoed for miles.

To the north, the dragons were converging. He looked closer and thought that he saw the tiny forms of the pitiful dwarves. He leaped from the rim and pumped his great wings, riding the currents. When he got closer, he saw the dragons fighting their way in to a cave.

He dove hard, coming straight at the mouth of the cave. Dwarves stood side by side behind a wall of shields, and behind them dozens of others shot off round after round of large metal arrows from strange weapons. Reshikk timed his landing for the volley that riddled a careless blue dragon. He landed in the midst of the attack, directly in front of the mouth of the cave and covered the shields and dwarves beyond with acid.

The cries of the invaders was glorious to behold. The acid burned through metal and bone, leaving the dwarves screaming in pain and horror. The
twang
of many bows sounded, and the metal bolts hit his thick scales, yet they did not penetrate the armor. He bathed the tunnel entrance in a long breath of flame, leaving the dwarves and their pathetic armor melted into one great smoldering heap of metal and bone.

“I am the end!” He stalked forward and belched flame and acid once more. “I am death, I am destruction. Come to me, dwarves! Taste my acid venom, feel my burning fire. Your spears cannot penetrate my hide! I am death!”

Zerafin watched with mixed emotions as the coast of Elladrindellia disappeared on the western horizon. He turned his attention east toward faraway Drindellia, the homeland. The fleet carried more than a thousand elders and twice as many others who wanted to be a part of the first colony.

He was eager to once again see the homeland, perhaps too eager. He had left his people during a dangerous time. The Old Ardenians were a constant threat. And with word of dragons brewing in the west, and the necromancer wreaking havoc in the north, his people needed him now more than ever. He tried to tell himself that they would be in good hands under the command of Avriel and the council of elders, but still he felt as though he were abandoning them.

Zerafin reminded himself that what he was doing was for the good of all sun elves. He would be remembered for all of elven history as the king who had returned. But what if he came back to Agora to find Elladrindellia in ruin? What if the necromancer’s hordes spread all the way to the elven lands to the south?

He kept faith that Kellallea had not truly abandoned them. In the end, she would watch over her people, and ensure that they thrived.

The fleet disappeared beyond the horizon and Avriel wiped her wet cheeks. She had said goodbye to her mother for the last time. Araveal had seemed content, which had made it easier. Still, Avriel felt as though her heart had been torn out. Her mother had been a constant in her life that she didn’t know how to live without. She had always been so strong, and never one to fall to the whims of despair. When a problem arose, no matter how severe or seemingly impossible, Araveal had always met it with grim determination. Through the darkest of days she remained steadfast and resolute, even at the end. Under her rule, the elves had built a new home for themselves and thrived for hundreds of years. Even through the loss of the homeland and her beloved husband, the queen had been like a rock for the elves.

Avriel hoped that she could be even half the woman her mother was.

The news that she would rule in Zerafin’s stead had shocked her. How could she rule her people when in her heart she wanted to leave Agora and rediscover the homeland with the others? And what would happen when people began to notice her condition?

Never had she been so unsure of the future. The feeling scared her. She had felt so helpless since the Taking. Not only had she lost her ability to perform Orna Catorna, but with it had gone a piece of herself as well. For hundreds of years she had studied the arts. And for what? Now the knowledge was lost to her. Gone like the memories of a love shared with Whill. So much had changed. Avriel no longer knew who she was.

Zander uncovered the large green gem and set his hand upon its chiseled surface. He closed his eyes and focused on the gem’s twin. Within minutes, he felt his servant answer the call. Through the contact, he spoke to the man’s mind.

“My lord,” said Clifton McKinnon.

“Has the king arrived?”

“Yes, my lord. As expected, Whillhelm Warcrown has come to Brinn. I have only just met with him.”

“What does he know?”

“He is aware of your army having taken the north. And believes Travvikonis to still rule Belldon Island. He thinks that he can hold the border.”

“You have done well, Lord McKinnon, deliver him to me and I shall spare your city, and you shall be king of all the north under me.”

There was a pause, and Zander waited patiently. He knew that McKinnon had his reservations, but he was a smart man, and knew that if he did not comply Zander’s undead hordes would destroy Brinn.

“What would you have me do?”

“Sire, Lord McKinnon has summoned you to the castle. He says that it is urgent,” said the messenger.

Whill looked to Tyrron, who seemed troubled.

“What is this regarding?”

“It was not said, sire, only that it is urgent.”

“Very well, have my horse prepared.”

The man left and Tyrron looked to him with concern. “If it is so urgent, why not come to you?”

“You think he’s up to something?”

“I don’t like it.”

Whill waited for an elaboration, but Tyrron only offered him a furled brow.

“Peace has been made with the man. He has accepted my offer. What are you worried about?” Whill asked.

“Just a feeling, sire.”

“Bring as many guards as you see fit, then.”

Tyrron saw fit to have fifty soldiers escort Whill to the fortress. When they arrived, a guard informed them that Lord McKinnon was waiting for him in his highest tower. Whill assumed that the man wanted to show him something of interest that could only be seen from the high perch. As a precaution, Tyrron motioned for half a dozen guards to follow them up the wide, winding stair.

Whill eyed his friend with a small laugh. “When did you become so paranoid?”

“When I swore to protect the most revered man in all of Agora.”

The guard stopped on the landing at the top of the tower and opened the big wooden door. “Lord McKinnon awaits, sire.”

Whill offered the man a nod and strode into the room with Tyrron following close behind. Lord McKinnon was standing at the other end of the wide tower, looking out the window.

“Take them,” he said lazily.

Tyrron’s blade came clean of its sheath and the door slammed shut behind them. Whill turned with a jerk and unsheathed his sword as well. Behind them, on each side of the doorway in recesses built into the alcove, the drapery was thrown aside and six armored guards leveled crossbows on them. From outside, Whill’s guards pounded on the doors and commanded them opened.

“Drop your weapons,” said McKinnon.

Tyrron stood between Whill and the soldiers defensively.

“Are you mad?” Whill asked, noting that there was no one between him and McKinnon.

The lord turned from the window and regarded him with wry grin. “Drop your weapons.”

A storm of heavy boots sounded outside the door. Crossbows twanged, and the cries of Whill’s soldiers rang out as they engaged McKinnon’s men.

Whill’s anger flared and he charged across the room, pulling back his father’s sword with a cry.

Tyrron called out in alarm and rushed the crossbowmen.

One of them fired just before Whill reached the startled lord, and Whill felt a hot pain shoot through his back. He staggered—his legs suddenly useless—and fell to the floor at McKinnon’s feet. He could hear Tyrron battling the guards behind him.

Whill clawed his way toward McKinnon and grabbed ahold of his leg. He lifted his sword from the floor only to have it kicked away by a rushing guard who pinned him down. His head was turned to the door, and he gave a strangled cry when he saw Tyrron lying on the floor in a pool of blood with six darts protruding from his body.

“No!” he cried as the guards stabbed Tyrron repeatedly to ensure he was dead.

“Idiots! I said that the king was not to be harmed!” McKinnon yelled, bending to inspect the arrow in Whill’s back.

“You’re a dead man,” Whill growled from the floor.

McKinnon ignored him. “Bring him to the roof!” he ordered his men.

Whill’s hands were bound behind his back and he was taken up by many hands and carried up a flight of stairs to the right of the door. Fear welled in him. Where were they bringing him? Why the roof? He tried to kick, but his legs refused to answer. The guards held him firm while he thrashed and swore, spitting curses and promises of revenge.

“You’ll never get away with this!” he promised McKinnon. “My army has orders to attack if I do not return.”

“Your army is being flanked by five thousand of Merek Carac’s soldiers from the east. They will surrender or they will die.”

The guards placed him on a stone slab on a dais at the center of the battlements. McKinnon stood near the short wall, looking north into the darkness.

“Leave us,” he said to his guards.

“But sire—”

“NOW!”

The guards did as they had been commanded, and McKinnon strode over to Whill. Behind the man, a dark form could be seen flying toward them against a backdrop of moonlit clouds.

“Who bought your loyalty?” Whill asked.

McKinnon regarded him with sympathy. His grim face told Whill that he found no joy in what he was doing. “The necromancer, Zander. If I give you over to him, he will spare Brinn and Breggard.”

“You would sell out your own people to a dark elf? Are you mad?”

McKinnon turned to regard the growing form descending on the tower. “I have done what was needed to protect my kingdom and my people. You should have done the same.”

He moved out of Whill’s line of sight. From the north a great winged beast drew closer. Whill realized that it was a large draquon. A dark rider rode on its scaly back. As it came for him with claws spread wide, he tried to struggle free, but the arrow had paralyzed him from the waist down.

The undead beast scooped him up in its wicked claws and ascended high into the sky to carry him north across the lake.

The Draquon flew over Lake Eardon and set Whill down in the courtyard of Castle Belldon. As the death knight dismounted, Whill shifted on the ground and saw a tall dark elf walking toward him.

“The king of Uthen-Arden, as you requested,” said the death knight.

“Whillhelm Warcrown. I have waited a long time to meet you,” said Zander, who, upon seeing the arrow in Whill’s back, turned on his minion.

“I said he was not to be harmed!”

The tall knight in black armor removed his helm, revealing a face half eaten by decay, whose teeth showed through rotten cheeks. “He was injured by McKinnon’s men.”

Zander turned from him in disgust. “Idiots.” He pointed at Whill and yelled to the waiting lichs. “Lift him up off the ground. He is a king, after all.”

Whill was lifted easily by the two elves and held by the shoulders to face Zander. He found that he was afraid—not for himself, but for his unborn child. He feared that he would never see Avriel again, and would never see their child grow up. Why hadn’t he listened to Tyrron?

“I am Zander.”

“I know who you are,” said Whill through clenched teeth. The pain in his back was excruciating, and the realization that he was paralyzed only fueled his rage. “Do what you will with me. I was tortured by Eadon and his lap dogs for six months. You will get nothing from me.”

Zander grinned. “A delicious challenge, indeed. But I have no interest in physical torture. So barbaric. No, I have other plans for you.” He turned from Whill and marched toward the archway. “Bring him!”