Champions of the Gods (24 page)

Dirk grinned at the effect his words had on the young king. “What is more, I have found someone who wishes to help. One that you will be eager to meet again.”

“Speak plainly,” said Whill.

“First you must vow to help me, should I succeed.”

Whill wanted to slap the smug look off of Dirk’s face. He fought to forget his prejudices. The truth was that if Dirk could free Teera, he would give him just about anything.

“Return Teera and her daughters to me and I will give you a lordship, and your life.”

“Very well,” said Dirk and nodded to Krentz.

She dismissed him with a word and gave him a moment to summon forth the one who would help to free Teera. She called Dirk back a moment later, and a shimmering spirit came with him.

Whill gasped when he saw the face. “Abram…” he said with a shaking voice.

The spirit of his oldest friend and mentor smiled. “Hello, son.”

Whill couldn’t believe his eyes.

Abram stood before him, tall and strong. His body shimmered, translucent in the bright morning sunlight.

With a quick jerk of his wrist, Whill mentally pulled the trinket from Krentz’s hand and caught it with his own.

“If this is some trickery, speak to it now, or by the gods, I swear that I will destroy the figurine.”

Neither Krentz nor Dirk made a move to stop him.

“This is no trick,” said Abram kindly. “When I was killed by Eadon, he captured my soul. But then you defeated him, as I knew that you would. You set me free. Still I lingered on in this world, trapped behind the veil. I could not move on to the next world. My soul was restless to help. Then I found Dirk, and through him I have been able to pierce the veil.”

Whill addressed the others. “I would speak privately.”

Dirk, Krentz, and Raene gave them their space, heading off to the west.

When they were out of earshot, Whill turned once more to the spirit before him. “How do I know that it is you?”

“What does your heart tell you, Whill?”

That was something that Abram would say. But such things could have been learned from reading his mind. Whill did not doubt that both Zander and Kellallea could produce such a flawless copy. He searched his mind for a way to know for sure, some obscure memory that only Abram would know. But of course, if the doppelganger had been formed from his memories, it would know every answer.

“I will answer any question that you have,” said Abram. “Though it would be no use. You will still have no way of truly knowing. I can only assure you that I am real. I am the Abram that you know, the one who raised you since you were a babe. I have watched you since my death, piercing the veil now and again long enough to catch a glimpse of you. You have become a man beyond my greatest hopes, Whill. Seeing you now, a strong king of men, I am lured by the call of the portal to the next world, yet I cannot go. I must free Teera from the clutches of the necromancer.”

Whill didn’t know what to believe. He had been lied to so many times that he held nothing as the absolute truth. Kellallea told him one thing, Zalenlia told him another. The scoundrel Dirk Blackthorn had suddenly appeared out of nowhere with his wild tale. And now Abram stood before him.

“My mind screams caution, but my heart tells me that it is true,” said Whill.

“Then if you would listen to your heart, we have much to do,” said Abram, extending a hand that slowly solidified.

Whill stared into the spirit’s eyes, wanting it to be true with all his heart and soul. He took the offered hand. It was warm, familiar.

Abram smiled. “I’ve missed you, lad.”

Whill was speechless. His eyes shimmered with tears. Abram pulled him into a hug, and together they wept and they laughed.

Krentz dismissed Abram and Dirk per Whill’s request. He escorted her and Raene into Brinn and sent a guard for Walker and Marshall. When they were behind closed doors, Krentz summoned Dirk and Abram once more. Walker and Marshall were startled by the two spirits, and questioned Whill on the wisdom of allowing them into the city. But Whill assured them that they were of no threat.

The group laid out the best plan for Krentz, Dirk, and Abram’s infiltration of the island. It was agreed upon that a distraction would be needed. One which Raene eagerly stated she and the other dwarves could provide.

“I got five thousand o’ the craziest bearded bastards ye ever done seen marchin’ to Brinn as we speak. Gimme a few ships and competent sailors, and I’ll round up some o’ the stone movers and other blessed. We can move more than stone now, ye be knowin’. It be glorious. A gift from the gods, they be sayin’.”

“I don’t want more blood on my hands,” said Whill. “You and your dwarves get in and get out once the women are free.”

“Don’t be worryin’ ‘bout us. We’ll keep to the water and raise hells. Them undead ain’t fond o’ swimmin’.”

“She’s right,” said Dirk. “To those of the spirit world, water hurts. It is not impossible to move through, but it hurts like hell. Same with blades.”

“Good,” said Whill. “Then we know our course of action.”

“And what o’ you?” asked Raene. “Ain’t ye goin’ to do anythin’?”

Whill laughed. He missed the straight-forwardness that he had come to appreciate and admire in the dwarves. “I have other matters that demand my attention.” He regarded Dirk and Krentz, as well as Raene. “Tell me about this Gretzen Spiritbone.”

The three took turns telling Whill and the two soldiers all that had happened on Volnoss; about the barbarian witch restoring Krentz to her body, and how Raene had met up with Azzeal, whom Whill was pleased to hear was still alive.

“Do you believe that she can stop the necromancer?” he asked them all.

Raene shrugged. “Who’s to say? She freed Azzeal from hundreds o’ miles away and blew holes in dozens o’ liches’ chests. I’d love to see what she could do to the bastard up close.”

“When we left her, she was intent on marching what was left of the tribe south into Shierdon and challenging the necromancer,” said Dirk. “Whether she can do it or not, it seems that she intends to try.”

“Sire,” said General Walker. “Might I point out that with this kind of momentum, it is a perfect time for a concerted effort. With the barbarians marching from the north, and dwarves flanking Shierdon on both sides, along with our forces pressing from the south, there will never be a better time to strike.”

“Let’s not forget that Shierdon is crawling with undead,” said Captain Marshall. “If we defeat the necromancer, what will become of them?”

The group glanced around. No one spoke at first, but then Raene piped in. “I think that be a question for Gretzen.”

“We will worry about that once Zander has been dealt with,” said Whill.

A horn blared in the city, and Whill looked to Raene.

“Yup, me boys be just about on time. Say, I hope ye got rum in and around these parts. They’re sure to be thirsty after that trek.”

Whill could only laugh. He had felt so hopeless only a short time ago, but now it seemed as though his prayers had been answered.

The Ky’Dren dwarves arrived and made camp to the west of Brinn. The city did indeed have whiskey, and two large barrels were given to the dwarves as a sign of gratitude. Golden taps found the barrels quickly, and the dwarves went to feasting and drinking and carrying on. There was song and dance, heartily told jokes, and scuffles that ended in brotherly hugs.

Whill had at first been concerned about the amount of noise the dwarves were making; surely it echoed across the lake and found the ears of the enemy. But then Kelgar, newly appointed king of Ky’Dren, explained that attention was indeed the very point.

“Let the scum-rotten, dog-shite-eatin’ undead bastards hear our merrymaking,” he said to Whill as they walked together through the camp at the edge of the lake. “Why remain silent, eh? Cowerin’ on the other side o’ the lake ain’t no way to intimidate the likes o’ them. Besides. We still be celebratin’ the ascension o’ me father and king.”

Kelgar raised his glass and clanged it against that of a passing dwarf’s. Whill chuckled to himself. It might have been the effects of the strong dwarven whiskey that they had offered him, but he was feeling very well indeed. It was hard not to feel strong and secure in the midst of five thousand aggressive dwarves, each of whom were strong enough to pick you up and throw you a few dozen feet.

“Aye,” said Whill, tapping his glass against Kelgar’s. “To your father’s ascension.”

“Thank ye,” said the dwarf, tipping lids with Whill.

“The first dwarf I ever met was Roakore,” said Whill. “And I thought he was tough. Your father was as steady as the mountain. He had a voice like thunder and a stare that made you rethink your manhood.”

“Bah!” Kelgar spewed whiskey as he laughed.

“I’m sorry, friend,” said Whill. “I think that your whiskey has given me a poet’s tongue, but an idiot’s mind.”

“No, no,” said Kelgar, laughing and choking at the same time. He finally growled down his gorge and squared on Whill with a smile. “Yer words be like…like, like a silver vein at the core o’ the mountain. Pure, shining, and true.”

Whill stared at the dwarf, not wanting to insult him with the bubbling laughter causing his nostrils to betray the seriousness of the moment. To his relief, it was Kelgar who finally doubled over with laughter.

After a time, the two kings settled and stood looking out over the lake at the distance, dots of light coming from the faraway castle of Belldon.

“Come mornin’, them denizens o’ darkness rightly be knowin’ the wrath o’ the dwarves,” said Kelgar with all seriousness. “We got powers bestowed upon us for a reason. If I got it in me, I just might sink that island.”

“Sometimes I feel that way,” said Whill. “You know I once held that very power in my hands? I held the power of the gods. In that moment I knew that I could forge mountains, sink islands if I so pleased. But in the end I knew too little. I had no control. I gave the power to another so that they might save me.”

Kelgar eyed him with compassion lingering behind his bushy eyebrows.

“I will never be that weak again,” Whill vowed to the lapping waves.

The dwarf king raised his tankard. “I’ll drink to that one. When me father fell on the battlefield, I was but a few feet away. A red dragon had descended on him. I pulled the beast from behind with me mind, but its wings were so powerful, they were like a cyclone battering the side o’ the mountain. I couldn’t stop the beast. Because o’ my weakness, me father be gone, and I been named king.”

He slammed his fist to his chest and looked to the heavens. Whill looked to the heavens as well, thinking of his own father. He thought too of Abram and how he might have saved the man from the fate of a lingering ghost.

Kelgar sniffed and coughed and slapped Whill on the back. “Well then, look at us. Two kings standin’ ‘round actin’ like a bunch o’ woeful womenfolk. C’mon, ye ain’t yet tried me father’s ale. It was made by the king himself neigh on a year ago.”

Whill gladly followed the dwarf king through his camp to a wagon that looked to hold nothing but barrels of ale. All around it, dwarfs were singing to the glory of their fallen king. A song had been constructed over more than one pint, and the dwarves were eager to show it off to Kelgar.

A slow drumming began, accompanied by the deep harmonic humming of many dwarves. A long slow note that reminded Whill of dawn sang out from one of the dwarf’s fiddles, followed by the steady rhythm of many strings.

A lone dwarf stepped forth, and from him came a voice so deep, so melodic and pristine, that Whill was helpless to not be caught up in its spell.

Whill left the dwarves and returned to Brinn, eager to speak more with Abram. The hour was late, but a sliver of lamplight shone through the bottom of Krentz’s door. Whill knocked twice and waited. Moments later, footsteps crossed the room and the door opened.

“King Warcrown, please, come in,” said Krentz with some surprise.

“Lady Krentz,” said Whill. He offered her a small nod as he passed through the threshold.

“I was about to summon Dirk and give Chief a rest.”

Chief sat on the carpet in front of the fire wagging his tail lazily.

“Is one of them always guarding you?”

Krentz rolled her eyes and gave a little laugh. “Dirk insists upon it. He is nervous now that I have been returned to my true form. He would never admit it, but he thinks that I am vulnerable now that magic has been taken.”

“His love for you led him to betray me to your father. He must love you very much.”

Krentz’s eyes shifted with guilt but soon found his. “No one understands the power that my father once possessed better than you.”

“I know,” said Whill with a staying hand. “I apologize for my crude accusation.”

“Your animosity for Dirk and me is understandable. He betrayed you, and I am the daughter of your greatest enemy. We have wronged you in the past. Now we seek only to right past wrongs and help Agora to heal.”

“Before we can heal the world, we must heal ourselves. Let us put the past behind us and seek out a brighter future.”

Krentz smiled. “I would like that.”

Soon she summoned Dirk, and along with him came Abram. He and Whill strode through the halls of the castle toward Whill’s chambers. Abram’s presence gave Whill a sense of calm that he had not known since claiming the throne.

In his chamber, Whill moved to the bar and poured himself a whiskey—he nearly asked Abram if he wanted one but caught himself at the last moment.

“This must all be very strange to you,” said Abram, standing with his back to Whill and staring at the fire.

“After the year that I’ve had? No, not really.”

Abram chuckled at that. The sound brought memories and lingering nostalgia. He found himself beaming as he took a seat across from the fire and watched his oldest friend glowing by the hearth.

“Oh but I wish that I could have been there with you for it all,” said Abram.

He moved from the fire and took a seat in a fine sitting chair beside Whill’s plush sofa. When Abram sat, he groaned with the complaints of advanced age, though he had no real body or aches and pains as far as Whill knew.

“What is it like, being a spirit?” Whill had to ask, for the question had been burning in him all day.

“What is it like?” Abram laughed pointedly. “Well, until recently it was like a dream that never ends. It was both bitter and sweet. There were times of such agony and mental pain that I wanted nothing more than to pass on into the ever beckoning light. But then there were times when I experienced pure euphoria. There is peace to be found, if only one would seek to obtain it.”

“I have so many questions,” said Whill.

“I do not doubt that, Whill. But there are things that I must not speak of. It taxes me now just to hold this conversation. The trinket allowed me to pierce the veil into the physical world, but it takes my own effort to continue to affect this world. I fear that our conversation cannot be long.”

Whill blinked. “How long must you rest in the spirit world?”

“I am not as seasoned a spirit as Dirk. I need to spend hours in the spirit world to regain the energy for an hour here. I would conserve my energy for the freeing of Teera.”

“I’m sorry this happened to her, Abram. I should have found her sooner. I should have done more.”

“I’m sure you did all that was in your power to find her and the girls,” said Abram.

Whill shook his head, staring at the fire. “I feel like everyone needs me, Abram. I’m pulled in a dozen different directions, and I know not the right path. I thought that perhaps after I had defeated Eadon, all of this…all of this strife would end.”

“You have always seen your power as a burden, but do not forget that it is a gift.”

Whill gave a reluctant chuckle and drank down his whiskey. His thoughts quickly turned to Avriel and the promise that she had made to Kellallea.

“I fear that I might lose her.”

Abram looked to him, his kind eyes offered sympathy. “There is no fear like that which we harbor for those we love.”

“She has sworn fealty to Kellallea. And…she carries my child.”

Abram nodded, having looked back to the lazy fire. “I know. I learned of it in the spirit world.”

“Is there nothing that cannot be gained from the spirit world?” Whill asked with a scoff.

“Thoughts. They cannot be known by spirits. But all that is said and all that occurs, that can be obtained.”

“Have you been watching?”

“I have watched you periodically over the last few months.” Abram turned and smiled wide at Whill. “You have made me proud, Whill. You have made your ancestors proud.”

Whill took in a long, slow breath. With the exhalation went much of his pent-up anxiety concerning such matters.

Abram flickered and dimmed. He stood from his seat and offered Whill his hand. “I must return to the spirit world. With the dawning sun comes my final quest.”

Whill shook his head, clasping Abram’s ghostly hand with both of his. “What do you mean, ‘final quest’?”

Abram placed his other hand on Whill’s. His eyes reflected the torchlight, like curling morning waves announcing the sun at dawn.

“I spent my life preparing you for all of this. I believe that I did a good job. You do not need me, Whill. I lingered in this world because I thought that you did. Now that the veil has been opened before me, I see you clearly…you are a king if ever I have seen one. You are a warrior of legend, a man with strong morals and good intent. You have remained humble even though you wielded the power of a god.

“Whill…there is nothing more I can give to you.”

Whill let out a heavy sigh that broke at the end. He swallowed hard, wanting so much to say everything on his mind, but his body betrayed him, and he broke down in tears.

Abram took him in a tight hug and kissed one cheek.

“At least we have a chance at a proper goodbye,” said Abram.

Whill clutched the man, not wanting to let go.

They finally parted, and Abram looked on him proudly. “I will save a seat for you in the Mountain of the Gods. I believe that the dwarves at least owe us a beer.”

Whill laughed through his tears. “I’ll see you then, Abram.”

Abram nodded. His eyes told Whill all that needed to be known. Then he turned and walked through the door.