Champions of the Gods (15 page)

“I am sorry,” said Kellallea.

Avriel shuddered with growing sorrow and rage. “You’ve let her die…”

“All things must die.”

“Except for you,” said Avriel with a sneer. “You preach about the natural order and abuse of power, yet here you are.”

Kellallea turned from the window and regarded her with a dangerous glare. Her hair and robes began to dance with the sudden wind. The goddess began to glow and grew in size until she was looming over Avriel. Her voice became many and was terrible to hear.

“You cannot comprehend my knowledge and power. Do you think that six hundred years of life lends you the wisdom to know my mind? Your lifetime has passed before me like a season. I have seen mountains rise and fall. I have watched the stars change position in the night sky. Kingdoms and empires have risen and fallen around me. I have ushered in two ages of elven history.”

Avriel couldn’t help but cower before Kellallea’s great power.

Finally, candlelight returned to the room and Kellallea receded. She stood before Avriel once more. “You will question me no more. Everything I do is for the good of our people. That should be enough for you.”

“What would you have me do as your champion?” Avriel asked.

“Many things. First, gather the elves to you and show them how I have blessed you. Heal the sick and tend to the dying. Bring hope back to the elves of Elladrindellia.”

The journey across the Strait of Shierdon took Dirk, Krentz, and Raene half a day. By the time they set foot on Agoran soil, the sun had set and the stars twinkled in the moonless sky. To the south, storm clouds were beginning to gather. The distant flash of lightning illuminated a large rolling thunderhead, warning them of the weather to come.

“We should make camp here for the night. That storm looks like it is going to be a wild one,” said Dirk, studying the southern sky.

“Bah,” said Raene. “There ain’t no time to be actin’ like Sally lasses. We need to be gettin’ to me mountain, and right quick. Conjure us up some o’ them ghost mounts o’ yers.”

Dirk glanced to Krentz. She nodded agreement and raised the trinket to dismiss him. When again she called him back, two swirling spirits came with him. One was a tall black stallion, and to Raene’s surprise and delight, the other was a large-horned ram.

“Are these to your liking?” Dirk asked.

“Aye,” said Raene with a wide grin. “She be a beauty.”

“I thought you might like that.” He laid a hand upon both beasts and they took physical form. “They will last a few hours I think. Shall we be off?”

The two women mounted their spirit animals and followed Dirk as he changed form and flew across the beach, heading west.

They traveled west and then south for many days. The women rested for only a few hours each night while Dirk and Chief took turns keeping guard. Dirk summoned Fyrfrost when the horse and ram grew too tired to keep form. The dragon brought them many miles swiftly. He could only keep form for a few hours as well, but he was growing stronger every day.

Their travel was hampered by constant rains and gray skies. And though it impeded the spirit mounts not at all, Krentz and Raene soon found themselves sodden and cold. Raene complained all the while, cursing the wind and the rain and grumbling every time they had to stop to rest. Gretzen had been vague in her claims of a coming dragon attack, which made Raene increasingly nervous that they would be too late.

They came across many deserted towns and villages during their trek westward. Fog hung thick across the land, pooling in those areas that had once been inhabited by the humans. The smell of death rode on the wind wherever they went. Crows sang their ugly songs—the only sound of life to be heard in the land of the dead.

To Raene it felt like the end of the world.

She imagined her mountain home stinking with the stench of death, its halls dark, quiet, and haunted. The thoughts were unshakable, clinging to her like the surrounding green fog upon the land.

Even Dirk was disturbed by the landscape. They had traveled through Shierdon for many days and weeks before going to Volnoss. There had still been people, towns, and villages functioning in Zander’s growing shadow. Now, however, that shadow had conquered the land, leaving it barren and bleak. Dirk knew that the necromancer had moved his forces south and would soon invade Uthen-Arden and the dwarf mountains. He knew that the fierce dwarves would fight bravely. They would take many of the undead with them. But in the end they would fail. They would be overcome by the hordes of undead, who would multiply with every dwarf that fell and was raised by the liches.

Soon he and Krentz shared Raene’s sense of urgency.

They went with less rest, traveling through days and nights upon a variety of spirit mounts. Fyrfrost was lasting longer with every summoning and carried them farther each time. Krentz and Raene found what rest they could upon his scaled back, returning to journeying by foot during those times when Dirk needed rest.

One week after setting out from Volnoss, the northern Ky’Dren Mountains came into view on the eastern horizon.

“Hah! There they be!” Raene cried.

Dirk flew a circle around the dragon, telling him to put them down before they were spotted. There was no point in causing the dwarves alarm. Krentz dismissed Dirk and Fyrfrost after landing and quickly summoned him back along with a horse and ram.

They made for the distant Ky’Dren Mountains with all haste, hoping that it wasn’t too late.

Whill returned to Del’Oradon and informed the council that he would be leaving to join the army at Devandes. He would then lead them north to take back and secure Brinn. He also warned them of the possibility of a dragon attack coming from Drakkar Island.

“Have the catapults and dragon harpoons mounted on the battlements all along the city wall. I want every inch of space taken up by something that might thwart a dragon. The dwarves have recently sent us a shipment of steel nets for this very purpose. Put them to use.”

“But, sire. Shouldn’t you and the dragon remain here if there is a possibility of such an attack?” asked Alrick.

“It is a
possibility
; in the north there lies an immediate threat,” said Whill. He watched the council, recognizing the fear in their eyes. “My powers have begun to return to me,” he said suddenly.

“Sire?” Alrick was shocked. “Is this true?”

“Behold,” said Whill. He extended his hand and lifted the stone figurines that represented the undead army. With a force of will he threw them across the room to smash against the far wall.

The councilmen gasped, some cheered. Alrick made the symbol of his god in the air. “It is a miracle.”

“Indeed,” said Whill, seeing how the words and the display of power affected the men so. They straightened, held their heads higher, become more attentive. “We have been blessed during this dark time. I take that blessing with me north to free our brothers from Zander and his undead legions.”

Later, Captain Marshall found Whill in his chambers being helped into his armor by Avalyn. Whill was to set out immediately.

“Sire,” said Marshall, with a bow that caused his thin red strands to partially cover his face. “I would join you in the north if you would have me.”

Whill regarded his captain and smiled. “I appreciate the sentiment, Marshall, but I travel by dragon.”

“I am aware, sire. I will be of no hindrance. On the contrary, I can help you with…until you have healed yourself.”

Whill considered it. He had committed a great folly in not listening to his last captain of the guard. “Very well. Be prepared to leave within the hour.”

Marshall couldn’t hide his pleasure.

“Thank you, sire. I will await you in the courtyard.”

They set out that afternoon to the fanfare of the entire city. Word of his newfound power had already spread through Del’Oradon as he had intended. People flocked to the streets for a glimpse of their blessed king.

In the morning they stopped so that the dragon could drink from a rushing river and find food in the neighboring fields of central Uthen-Arden without the men on her back.

The captain helped Whill to get comfortable against a wide tree by the river and offered him one of the water skins. From his own pack he retrieved a loaf of thick brown seeded bread.

“My wife made it for me. Said that I was crazy to want to go with you. She calmed though…eventually. Sent me off with a kiss and this here bread. Old family recipe, it is.”

Whill tore off a piece and ate with his captain. His own mind taken up with what he would do once they arrived in the north.

“She sounds like a good woman.”

“She is one of the strongest-minded women I have ever met,” said Marshall, beaming.

It was Whill’s turn to laugh as he thought of Avriel. “Those are the best kind though, aren’t they?” he said.

“I would drink to that,” said Marshall, raising his water skin.

“Aye. Let us have a proper drink though. In that leather pack that I had you take from Zorriaz. Front pocket.”

Captain Marshall retrieved the bottle of dwarven whiskey that Roakore had given to Whill before they parted ways. Whill uncorked it and filled Marshall’s glass. Together they raised them to the heavens.

“To stubborn women who know best!” said Whill.

Marshall cheered the same and tipped back his glass.

Whill poured another, eyeing his captain. “Got any children? You and the missus?”

“Aye. Got two boys. Little scrapping pissers they are.”

“Much like their father, no doubt.”

Marshall laughed at that. “I’ve seen my share of scraps in my day.”

Whill didn’t doubt it. General Walker had told Whill all about Marshall. After the fall of Eadon, the man had shown up with one hundred refugees at the gates of Del’Oradon, having saved them all when the draggard invaded their town. He had rallied the men and planned an effective offensive against the beasts.

Going on thirty years old, Marshall was considered a veteran among the soldiers and greatly respected. The council had approved of the appointment as well.

“I know how you feel, being in that chair,” said Marshall, swirling the last of his drink at the bottom of his glass as he watched. “When I was but a young lad, I came down with a sickness that took my legs for the better part of two years. I was picked on, called names. I felt useless. But my mother, she saved me from my depression. She reminded me that worth was not measured in the apparent strength or health of a person, but in their heart. I eventually beat the disease, as you can see, but I never forgot my mum’s words. I saw what she spoke of in you. When I heard your tale, I was inspired. I said, ‘Here is a man faced with insurmountable odds, yet he rises to the task and wins when no one thinks he will, when all others have lost hope.’ You inspired me, like you have so many others.”

“Thank you, Marshall. That means a lot to me.”

Zorriaz returned from her hunt, and the men set out once more. The weather became worse the farther north they went. Soon rain was pelting them, and wild winds buffeted Zorriaz from every direction.

Shortly after noon, they reached the small city of Devandes, where the might of the Uthen-Arden forces were gathered. To the north and east sat a thick, ancient forest through which Eardon River snaked its way to central Uthen-Arden. To the west the Thendor plains began. Camps dotted the land for miles—an ocean of tents, cook fires, and soldiers in shining armor, some of whom were barely men. When Zorriaz was spotted, a warning horn blared and soldiers began to scramble to their posts. Some of the men recognized Zorriaz the White and called out that the king had returned. A cheer went up, and Whill landed before the gates of the city.

General Justice Walker was quick to ride out to greet his king. He and a group of banner men and knights rode as close to the dragon as the horses would tolerate.

“King Warcrown,” said the general, dismounting and walking the rest of the way. He stopped a safe distance from the dragon and gave a smart solute. “It is good to see you in health.”

Captain Marshall jumped off to stretch his tired legs and greeted the general with a solute.

“General Walker,” said Whill with a nod. “Please inform Ardthar that I will require my wheeled chair. Also, we have had a long journey and would eat and drink. Have the war tent prepared. We have much to discuss.”

Eardon River ran south many hundreds of miles from its namesake lake. Once, not long ago, the fishing and trade along the river had been abundant. Many towns and villages sprouted up and thrived for hundreds of years along the wide river, and it had sustained them well. Now, however, the river was muddy and tinted a dark green. It smelled of death as well, and any who ate or drank from it grew deathly ill. Theories abounded; some said that the river and its people were cursed by the gods, others said that a witch lived upstream and had contaminated the river with dark magic. But Whill knew the truth of it; Zander now controlled Belldon Island, and his dark stain had tainted the river, as it did all things.

Due to the river’s contamination, there was no fish to eat. Likewise, the wildlife had been seriously diminished by the draggard hordes that had invaded the land. Livestock there was, but like all other cities and villages, the demand for food was much greater than supply. The people got by on grain and wheat, oats, and what other crops they could grow. Whill was a king, however, and not subject to the laws of economy. Still, he asked only for a modest meal of pork and hot gruel, warm beer, and bread.

After a thorough looking over by Ardthar—one in which the healer chastised Whill for not taking his pain killers—Whill retired to the war tent to eat with General Walker, Captain Marshall, and other high-ranking members of the Uthen-Arden forces. Whill told them that his powers had begun to return to him, though he did not go into detail about the reason. He had yet to wrap his mind around it himself.

Whill settled in after dinner and drank from his tankard, setting his sights on Brinn and Breggard and the false kings of the north.

“We will take Brinn quickly,” he told the men. “There will be no negotiation this time, no attempts to placate the would-be usurpers. They are in league with the necromancer of the north. We must rescue what people we can and liberate the cities.

“General Walker, is Devandes ready to accept the tens of thousands of refugees who will be sent south?”

“We have prepared as best we can, but no, the city cannot accommodate so many. However, Locknar can help to carry the burden. The river is no good to eat or drink from, but she will still ferry boats. We have a small fleet of barges ready to take people there immediately.”

“Very good,” said Whill. “I want five thousand men ready by morning to march north. The rest will remain here and guard the city. I will deal with McKinnon and Carac personally. We must secure the north once and for all, for what awaits us just on the other side of the border is something born of a nightmare.”

“I will see it done, sire. But, how are we to stop the undead hordes from spreading south?” General Walker asked.

Many in attendance shared the sentiment and looked to Whill for the answer expectantly, as if it had been on all of their minds for a long time.

Whill laughed to himself, for he had been about to tell them to have faith—something that he never possessed for anyone, not even himself, until quite recently. These men did not need faith. They needed a king with a plan.

“
I
will kill Zander, as I did Eadon,” said Whill.

“Our king has been chosen,” said Captain Marshall. “Though it vexes him to hear himself spoken of so, he has been chosen to lead humanity into the new age.”

“Thank you, Marshall. I fear that you are right. Whether by the fates of chance or by divine plan, I have been placed in this position at this time, but so too have you all. Wars are not won by any one man alone, but by men united for a common cause. This burden has fallen upon all of us. And we must each do all that we can to defend the people of this kingdom…of all kingdoms.”