Champions of the Gods (32 page)

The following morning, a guard informed Roakore that Whill had arrived in Northern Ky’Dren. Roakore leapt out of bed and hurriedly dressed, telling the guard to rouse Helzendar.

They found Whill in the dining room off the king’s chambers with an elderly barbarian woman, Dirk Blackthorn, and his dark elf companion, Krentz. Raene was in attendance as well, as was King Dwellan and the high priest Fior.

“Ah,” said Dwellan. “We all be here. Come in, come in, Roakore, Helzendar.”

Roakore offered Dirk a suspicious glare as he walked into the large stone room.

“I thought ye was dead,” said Roakore.

“It is good to see you as well, Roakore, or should I say, King Roakore?” said Dirk.

“Ye be damn straight ye can call me king.” Roakore looked to Whill. “What be the meaning o’ this?”

“Dirk and Krentz are my guests. It is alright, Roakore. They have fought against Eadon and Zander as much as any of us. They are not our enemies.”

“Be that so?”

“It be,” said Whill.

“And the tall one?” Roakore asked, eyeing Gretzen.

“Good king, I am Gretzen Spiritbone, chieftain of Volnoss and Shierdon.” Gretzen offered him a small bow.

“Chieftain o’ Shierdon? What’s this ye be talkin’ about?”

“Please, join us. All will be explained,” said Whill, extending his hand toward a seat at the long table.

Roakore shook his head in disbelief of the company, but nonetheless sat at the table and accepted a tall tankard of ale. Helzendar sat beside him, knowing that he was not to speak unless spoken to in the midst of such esteemed company.

“First and foremost,” said Dwellan, “Zander be defeated, but there be tens o’ thousands o’ undead still roamin’ the land in Shierdon. We need to hit ‘em swift-like, wipe ‘em out afore another damned necromancer decides to take over the lot o’ ‘em.”

“It is likely that they already have,” said Gretzen.

“Aye,” said Dwellan. “I be sending an army o’ ten thousand into western Shierdon to help the cause. I’ve sent word to Du’Krell, askin’ for as many to push through eastern Shierdon. I expect an answer back soon, and I expect it to be yay.”

“It’ll take a few weeks to get ‘em there, but I can provide five thousand from Ro’Sar,” said Roakore.

“Good,” said Dwellan. “Now, Whill, I be knowin’ ye lost most o’ yer army at Brinn. How many do ye estimate ye got left in the north?”

“I can send a force of at least five thousand within the week. There are nearly that many in Devandes, and the lords will respond to my summons. Chieftain Spiritbone assures us that the barbarians can take the north. The elf Azzeal has also been sent from Northern Shierdon to Elladrindellia to ask for help from the elves.”

“Aye,” said Roakore, eyeing Gretzen. “What’s this about she bein’ the ‘chieftain o’ Shierdon’?”

“King Whillhelm and I came to an agreement, and I held up my end,” said Gretzen. “I was to help defeat Zander. In return, Whill has recognized my people’s claim on Shierdon.”

“Yer people’s…Bah!” said Roakore. “Leave it to a barbarian to withhold help to good folks unless there be somethin’ in it for ‘em!”

“Roakore, please,” Whill began.

“I be sorry, Whill. But ye give her too much. What about the
people
o’ Shierdon?”

“There are few living Shierdonians,” said Whill solemnly. “Zander and his undead swept across the land, killing and turning everyone they encountered. We have been too slow to react to this threat, much to the detriment of the Shierdonian people. They will of course retain some lands, but the kingdom now belongs to the barbarians of Volnoss.”

“Because ye be sayin’ so?” asked Roakore, becoming increasingly agitated.

“Yes,” said Whill. “You know your history as well as I do. What our ancestors did to the barbarians was wrong. Thousands of years have passed since the barbarian wars. I say that we let the grudges of our forefathers die with them. They had their wars, and we have ours. Right now Agora and her people need unified leadership. I don’t know about you all, but I’ve seen enough warring for a lifetime. I would see Agora at peace and thriving once more.”

Roakore glanced at his cousin Dwellan. “You be agreein’ with this?” he asked.

“I be,” said Dwellan. “Like it or not, we owe Chieftain Spiritbone. She killed the dark elf whose minions done in me father and two o’ me brothers.”

Roakore considered the argument and looked to his son, Helzendar. The young dwarf wasn’t yet eighteen and already he had seen more warring than most dwarves did in a lifetime. Roakore imagined an Agora without war, one in which the races, including the barbarians, lived in peace. He laughed to himself, wondering,
is peace even an option with this lot o’ arseholes?

“I agree,” he said finally. “But I’ll tell ye right now, it ain’t goin’ to be an easy sell, not to me dwarves, and not to those o’ Elgar.”

“Then you recognize Shierdon as barbarian territory?” asked Gretzen.

Roakore scratched at his chin, annoyed, wanting to tell her where to shove her haughty attitude. “Shierdon be a wasteland. Ye can have it if ye be wantin’ it,” he told her.

“Then it is agreed by all in attendance. The barbarians shall have the land once known as Shierdon,” said Whill.

“It is agreed,” said Roakore, his eyes suddenly alight with an idea. “Shierdon be barbarian territory. And as such, the problem o’ the undead be their problem as well. I ain’t offerin’ me soldiers’ help for nothin’. What do ye offer in return?” he asked Gretzen.

“Didn’t you just say that it was selfish of me to ask for something in return for helping
good
people?” Gretzen asked.

“Aye,” said Roakore with a laugh. “But that ain’t neither here nor there. What ye offerin’ Ro’Sar for our help?”

“What would you like in return?” Gretzen asked.

“Trade, for one thing, and a treaty. Shierdon, or Volnoss, or whatever you plan on calling it, ain’t to act against any kingdom o’ this country unless they be attacked first. If ye do, the treaty and agreements mentioned heretofore be null and void.”

“Agreed,” said Gretzen.

Roakore was taken aback by her instant acceptance of his terms.

“Well then, let the treaty be drafted, and let everyone in attendance sign it. Then we move on the Shierdon undead.”

Dwellan nodded to Fior, and the dwarf called in the scribes. The drafting of treaties was never easy and sometimes went on for days, even weeks. Breakfast was called for as well, along with a keg of beer and spirits.

The Treaty of Northern Agora, as it came to be called, took a full day and a half to complete. When the last signature had been placed on the document, Whill stood from the table and stretched his tired muscles.

“I must be going now,” he said to the gathering. “There are pressing issues that I must attend to in the south. I have named Dirk Blackthorn my commander in general for this mission. He will see the armies north. I will join back when I can.”

“Thank you for all that you have done,” said Gretzen.

“And you as well,” said Whill.

“Until our roads cross once more,” said Dwellan, offering the dwarven solute.

Whill returned the gesture and shook the dwarf’s hand. He shook Roakore’s as well, though the dwarf followed him out to the hallway.

“What be happenin’ with Avriel?” said Roakore, never one to miss anything.

“Word has come to me that Avriel has sworn fealty to Kellallea. I do not know what drove her to such an action, but it can’t be good. The goddess wishes to control me. Though I have yet to figure out why.”

Roakore thought on that for a moment, stroking his beard absently as they walked down the hall towards Whill’s quarters.

“If ye be needin’ me, I’ll go with ye,” said Roakore.

“I know you will, but I’m afraid that I must face this alone. There is enough work to be done in the north, and I appreciate your help in the matter. Kellallea is my own cross to bear. I made a mistake when I gave her the power of Adromida. I must make it right myself.”

Roakore nodded with respect. “Well, if ye be needin’ me, ye need but send word,” he said and surprised Whill with a hug.

“Thank you, Roakore. You’re a good friend.”

“Go on and take care o’ yer lass. When all this shite is settled, we be havin’ the biggest damn celebration that Agora has ever seen.”

“Deal,” said Whill with a laugh.

“Go well, friend.”

“Go well, Roakore.”

The flight south took longer than Whill would have liked. Every mile seemed to drag as the landscape crept by infuriatingly slow. He had held back his emotions while dealing with Zander, trying to keep a level head. Running blindly into danger had gotten him in enough trouble in the past. He had been patient; he had attended to his duties in the north. Now was the time to deal with Kellallea.

Avriel had sworn featly to the goddess—Whill still couldn’t believe it. The Avriel he knew would have only done that if her own life, or her unborn baby’s life, was threatened. Kellallea had orchestrated it all, Whill knew it.

But why?

By making Avriel swear fealty to her, Kellallea was once again trying to force Whill’s hand, trying to control him.

He tried to clear his mind and set his sights on the southeast as the Elgar Mountains began to creep up from beyond the horizon. South of those peaks was Elladrindellia.

An hour after sunrise, Whill had crossed the Gulf of Arden and was flying over elven soil. He was surprised by the sight of it. The grass was bright green, the crops were tall and full of life. Coming to the city, he discovered that many of the structures had been mended, including the crystal pyramids through which light now flowed.

It was as if Cerushia had been remade.

A shiver passed down his spine, for he knew that only the power of a god could have done so much in so little time. Not only had Avriel sworn fealty to Kellallea, but she had channeled her power as well.

Zorriaz flew to Avriel’s balcony, perched upon a towering spire of the now glimmering palace. Upon landing, Whill leapt off and rushed into the room. He found Avriel waiting for him just inside the lavish chambers.

“Avriel…”

“Whill,” she said, rushing to him with open arms. “You have been healed?”

As soon as he wrapped his arms around her, he felt an incredible jolt, as though he had grabbed ahold of a lightning bolt.

Just as quickly as it happened, it was over, and Whill was left staring at Avriel, his mind racing. All his lost knowledge had come back to him in an instant.

“Why did you do it?” he asked Avriel, trying to ignore the incredible sensation. “Why did you swear fealty to
her
?”

“She was attacked by the avengers of the Taking,” came Kellallea’s voice behind him. “She would have died had I not—”

“LIAR!” Whill screamed, turning on her and unsheathing his sword. “Stay away from me, and stay away from my family.”

“Whill…” Avriel began.

He ignored her and stalked toward Kellallea with murder in his eyes.

She disappeared when he got close and reappeared at the other end of the room. Whill whirled around. When he found her, he lifted his hand and shot a blast of energy at her. She disappeared once more, and the spell hit the wall.

“Why have you done this?” Whill bellowed.

Kellallea appeared on the balcony beside Zorriaz. The white dragon offered a low growl deep in her throat.

“To ensure that you do as I wish,” said Kellallea. “This could have all been avoided had you simply given yourself to me. You have forced my hand.”

“I have forced nothing! I gave you the power that you now possess, and this is how you repay me?”

“You would have done the same as I,” said Kellallea. She walked across the balcony into the room and stood before Whill, unafraid. “Imagine if you will that Avriel bravely defeated the God of Darkness and Death…only to become him. Imagine that you had to seal Avriel in a prison for all of eternity. How long could you bear to leave her there in that horrible place? I dare say not as long as I have. You would tear the world apart in an attempt to free her. I have waited tens of thousands of years for this opportunity, and I will do whatever it takes.”

Whill watched her and looked to Avriel, trying to determine the truth. “You are a liar,” he said finally.

“It is no lie. I have waited all these years for you, Whill of Agora, the first human to be blessed with the ancient powers since the end of the first age. Everything that has occurred has been of my design. For Eldorian and I have held back the shadows long enough. It is time for someone else to wear the mantle.”

“You wish…for me to
become
the Dark Lord?” Whill asked.

Kellallea only nodded.

“I have been chosen by the god of man,” said Whill, mentally grasping at straws. “He will not allow this to happen.”

“You do not understand. He has given you this power for this very reason. In the moments after you assume the mantle of the Dark Lord, you must return the power to the prison, and the gods will sleep once more. You must do this. It is the only way.”

Avriel tried to cry out, tried to curse the goddess, but her voice was lost, and she could not move her own body.

Whill saw her struggle and shook with controlled rage.

“Why does he not speak for himself? If the god of man has given me this power, why does he not show himself?”

“He, like the others, does not yet walk the earth. When the dark god is finally freed from his prison, you will hear the voice of the god of man. But then it will be too late. For if the gods fight the dark one here in our realm, they will tear the world asunder.”

“But was it not your meddling that caused all of this?” said Whill. “You let all of this happen so that you might free your beloved Eldorian. The more you affect this world, the weaker the prison becomes.” Whill had slowly made his way to stand between Kellallea and Avriel. He now faced the goddess. “Without you, the prison will hold.”

Whill lashed out with a spell that he had used before, long ago. It was a spell that was shunned by the elves of the sun, but one that the dark elves favored—a spell of taking. Black tendrils snaked their way across the room in a flash and would have found Kellallea, had she not countered with a spell of her own. The two powers collided and exploded violently. Whill was forced to bring up an energy shield to protect himself and Avriel.

“You are a fool, Whillhelm Warcrown. Try as you might, you cannot absorb my power.”

Kellallea disappeared, and Whill ran to Avriel, holding her back behind him and searching the room.

“Do what I have asked, or I will tear your child from its mother’s womb!”

Avriel suddenly dropped to her knees, clutching her stomach. Her face was twisted in sorrow, and her worried eyes broke his heart as he bent beside her.

“Leave them alone!” he cried out, voice tormented with fear and anger.

“Swear fealty to me or they will die,” came Kellallea’s echoed voice.

Avriel cried out in pain and shuddered, hunched on the floor and clawing at the tiles.

“NO!” she cried.

Whill saw the blood on her hand.

And the blood on the floor beneath her dress.

He instinctively moved to touch Avriel, to heal her and the child. His hand hit a buzzing wall of energy which shocked him. He stared at Avriel, horrified—he could no longer hear her cries. Kellallea had somehow encased her in some sort of energy shield.

“You wretched beast! If they die I’ll—”

“Enough!” Kellallea’s voice boomed. “Kneel before me now or watch them die.”

Whill glanced helplessly at Avriel, who through her agony managed to shake her head before submitting to torment once more.

“No,” said Whill. Tears blurred his vision, though he had stopped searching for Kellallea. “I will help you to defeat the god of death, but I do so of my own free will.”

“Kneel before me,” came her voice once more.

“You would be wise to take this offer,” said Whill, staring at his beloved with shimmering eyes. “I give you my word that I will help you. But if you kill them, you will get nothing from me.”

Silence filled the chamber. For a moment Whill thought that perhaps he had made a terrible mistake. Kellallea would indeed let them both die.

“Very well,” came the voice of the goddess.

The energy shield holding Avriel disappeared, and Whill hurried to her side. There was still blood, but it no longer flowed freely.

“Are you all right?” Whill asked. He remembered his mind sight and looked at her stomach even as she answered.

“Yes.”

He gasped when he saw the tiny shimmering lifeform within Avriel—their child. Both mother and child now appeared unharmed.

Whill rose slowly and glanced around the room. He could not see Kellallea, neither with his eyes nor mind sight, but he knew she was still watching. “Release Avriel from her pact,” he said.

“Not until you have assumed the mantle.”

“I have given you my word, yet you give me nothing.”

“Fool,” said Kellallea. “I have given you everything. You will do as you have promised, else your child will be mine.”

Whill struggled to control himself, knowing now that there was no winning against her…not now.

“How long do we have before the prison fails?” he asked.

“The prison will not hold beyond the winter solstice. The defeat of both Reshikk and Zander have weakened Eldorian considerably. He was using what power he had to force the others gods’ hands, knowing that the more they interfered with this realm, the weaker his prison would become. Now that he has withdrawn, the gods have become quiet. I will no longer interfere, for fear of weakening the prison further. You must travel to Drindellia, to the place where king Aramonis fell. There you will find Zerafin waiting for you. He will guide you to the mountain that holds the dark one’s prison.”

“Zerafin?” said Avriel. “You are in contact with him?”

“He has been given his instructions.”

“I will do as you wish,” said Whill grudgingly. “But I must put things in order here before I go.”

“Very well,” said Kellallea. “Do what you must. When you have found the mountain I shall join you once more.”

“Agreed,” said Whill.