Krentz pushed her away weakly, but the stubborn dwarf was undeterred. She helped her to sit up and fussed over her like an older sister. Krentz tried to speak but choked on the words. Her lungs burned and her body ached. But the feeling was a welcome one, for only the living feel physical pain.
Gretzen bent forward and placed the timber-wolf figurine in Krentz’s hand and squeezed gently. “You have done well, brave elf. Now you must rest.”
Tears pooled in Krentz’s eyes and she held out a shaking hand. “Come to me, Dirk Blackthorn!”
Out of the mist came Dirk, and his smile was wider than she had ever seen. She reached out for her lover and he took her up in ghostly arms. “Rest, my love. I will watch over you this night, and every night.”
“Come to me, Aurora Snowfell!”
Aurora stood on the edge of the high cliff and cocked her head to the wind. The misty ocean flowed backward, and the rocky cliff side offered no answers. The voice came once more, and a sliver of brilliant light suddenly split the air before her. She looked down at her pale hands and gave a startled cry when her skin began to fleck off like ash being pulled into the light. Her body fell apart and the light engulfed her, blinding her to the world beyond. She came out into the darkness and instinctively tried to run away. To her shock and amazement, she had no body. Yet she flew through the air like a bird.
Soon she realized that she was in a village much like the one she had grown up in. Then she remembered…she had died…again.
“Aurora! Do not be frightened!”
She turned to find Azzeal moving toward her, holding up defensive hands meant to calm her. Aurora tried to speak but was scared to hear her own voice. It was like a moaning wind through the bare trees.
Gretzen erupted from the tent and shuffled toward her with a limp. One wide eye regarded her sideways like a crow. She stopped between tents. “Aurora Snowfell. Come to me!”
Aurora felt herself pulled against her will, and soon floated before the old witch. “Do not panic. Remember who you are, what you were. Envision the body that you once possessed.”
Aurora fought back her disillusionment and fear. Gretzen’s voice soothed her, allowed her to think. She looked down and thought of her hand—and before her eyes, it materialized. The other swirled out of the blue mist as well. And then she was looking down at her body. Seeing that she was quite natural, she imagined her gleaming armor, and so it too came to be.
“What am I?” Sparkling tears fell from her eyes when she heard her voice as it should be.
“You have given yourself wholly to me. I have made you like the wolf, Chief.” Gretzen held up a figurine that looked remarkably like her. “You have been cursed with the protection of this land and this people for all time; until the oceans swallow up the world, and the fires of the deep clash with the waters of heaven. Then, you shall have earned a place in Val’Kharae.”
Aurora regarded herself once more, and the memories returned. She looked to Azzeal, whose bright eyes shone upon her with reverent awe. The realization of her power caused her to gasp, and then laugh merrily. She raised a hand before her and willed it to turn to mist. It complied, and she laughed all the more. She was free. For the first time since her great betrayal against Azzeal, she was free!
She bowed before Gretzen. “Thank you, oh great one. Matriarch of all of Volnoss. Queen of the barbarian lands. I shall be your weapon. Speak the words, and I shall do your bidding.”
Gretzen leveled a dangerous one-eyed glare on her. “You’ve been given your command. Now swear to it with your very soul.”
Aurora noticed then all the children and elders watching her from the edge of the firelight. “I swear to you. Like the spirits of old who have watched over the tribes since the dawn of time, I shall watch over you until the end of time.”
Gretzen gave a satisfied nod and turned from her.
“But who will be my keeper?” Aurora asked, eyeing the figurine.
“For now it will be me,” said Gretzen. “Come, there is much to do.”
The drum stopped beating.
Helzendar’s heart fluttered—they had arrived. He wished that he could see above deck. Knowing that they were stealthily rowing toward a dragon island in the dead of night, and not being able to see if they were coming, was maddening. At any moment one of them might rain fire down upon the small fleet. Helzendar would burn alive below deck without so much as drawing his father’s axes.
Du’Ren sat next to him, eyes gleaming with the anticipation for battle. Helzendar took strength in the old dwarf’s bravery, and rowed with renewed vigor. They had been at it so long that the dwarves could continue to row in unison without the drummer if need be.
General Hammerfell strode behind the drummer, looking each dwarf in the eye in turn. “We be landin’ on the southern coast o’ Drakkar. The other ships have gone in their respective directions, Ky’Dren bless ‘em. This be it, me dwarves—this be the hour. Soon we storm the beaches o’ Drakkar and take as many o’ the hell born bastards with us as we can.” He stopped before Helzendar and offered a wry grin. “Know that yer ancestors smile down on ye this night. Soon…we shall dine with the gods.”
The rowing was ordered to a stop shortly after, and the rowers scrambled to the bunks to put on their armor and gear up. The excitement was palpable. Helzendar’s hands shook too much for his liking. He muttered a prayer to Ky’Dren and the gods of silver and gold. Du’Ren slapped him on the back and spat.
“Ye ready to bloody them axes o’ yers?”
“I be born ready.”
“Ha! The lad’s got his father’s blood, all right—all piss and whiskey,” said Du’Ren to those nearby.
“Shut yer bloody yapper, Du’Ren,” the dwarf beside Helzendar hissed. “There be damned dragons about. And I for one ain’t wantin’ to go up in dragonsbreath in this tinder box.”
“Bah.” Du’Ren waved him off, yet he spoke lower this time.
General Hammerfell walked into the bunk room holding the biggest crossbow Helzendar had ever seen. The arrows were at least four feet long, with wicked barbed ends and thick steel shafts. The ship suddenly lurched as it landed, forcing everyone to take hold of something solid.
“It be time for war,” said the general.
Helzendar took a steadying breath and mustered his inner strength. He followed close behind Du’Ren up to the deck. “Ain’t ye got weapons?” he asked, noticing that the old dwarf carried none.
Du’Ren grinned over his shoulder. “Ye be seein’ soon enough.”
When they got on deck, Du’Ren and a few of the others went to the room below the quarter deck where a wide double door stood open. Helzendar watched the darkness curiously, and moved through the crowd of unloading dwarves to get a closer look. A heavy stomping came from the dark, and Du’Ren walked out strapped in the largest suit of armor Helzendar had ever seen. It was steel, and engraved with hundreds of holy runes. It gave off no reflection in the moonlight, but rather shined like black ice. About the joints were circular discs on either side, and they appeared to be well oiled. Du’Ren, who was no more than five feet tall, now towered over him at least two feet taller than he had been. His armored arms ended in long pointed blades of a similar dark that appeared to be permanently attached. Spikes protruded from the shoulders, elbows, knees, and even down the spine. He stomped over to Helzendar and peered at him through the small slit in the horned helm. “Let’s give ‘em bloody hells.”
“Grease up!” General Hammerfell ordered.
“What’s that mean?” Helzendar asked.
A dwarf next to him slapped his chest, leaving a slimy goo behind.
“It’s fire bane oil. For the dragonsbreath. Smells like shyte, but it’ll do the job.”
Helzendar and the others covered themselves and each other in the fire bane, and checked their gear once more. Those dwarves who had volunteered to be ‘bombers’ shouldered their packs full of dragonsbreath bombs, which consisted of a large tube of the volatile liquid surrounded by hundreds of steel balls. When the time came, the brave dwarves would get as close to the beasts as possible and then blow themselves sky-high. Helzendar nodded at one of them as the young-looking dwarf pulled the straps tight. The nod was returned with a chest slam.
The small army unloaded quickly and hurried across the open expanse of black beach to take cover behind the many porous boulders and towering rock formations strewn about. Far inland, a forest of strange-looking trees with long, wide leaves dotted the land. Wide rivers of indigenous rock branched out of the trees and met the ocean.
Orrin grabbed Helzendar’s helm and pulled him close. “Ye be with me. Ye hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The general eyed him for a moment and finally nodded, releasing him. He motioned the group forward, and the dwarves all hurried along the lava flow through the forest of palm.
“What in the blazes ye be doin’?” Roakore’s twelfth wife asked, sitting up in bed.
He pulled on his wool socks and then stood and snapped his suspenders in place. “Go back to sleep.”
“Ye be makin’ yerself sick ye keep drinkin’ in the middle o’ the night.”
“I ain’t drinkin’…bah! Do as yer king be tellin’.”
He left the sleeping quarters and went to his study muttering to himself about women and their meddling in his affairs. On his desk, he spotted the whiskey bottle from the night before and stopped to finish it off. He raised it toward the bedroom and gave a stern “harrumph!” before tossing it back.
Across from the fire, he stopped at the wall and pulled on the two brass handles. The doors swung back soundlessly to reveal a wide alcove in the stone. His dented and battered armor sat on display, along with his great axe and stone bird, which sat on a red velvet cushion.
He put on the armor, all the while singing the ode to the god of war. His father had taught it to him when he was only four, and how his eyes had sparkled with the light of glory. Roakore smiled at the recollection. When he had finished, he looked at himself in the foggy metal sheet on the wall that acted as a mirror. The armor fit tighter than he remembered, and he looked to the whiskey bottle with much suspicion.
Properly suited, he took up his great axe and went through the secret passage to the hall containing the many doors to his wives’ rooms. He stopped before the door of Helzendar’s mother and slowly pushed it open.
“Who’s that?” came a strong female voice.
Roakore smiled to himself—there was no sneaking up on that one. “It be me.”
“Me king?”
Roakore pushed into the room and closed the stone door behind him. Arrianna was sitting up in bed, looking curiously at him through a thick shock of hair cascading over strong shoulders.
He went to the edge of her bed and took her hand in his gloveless one. “I be goin’ after our boy. I’m bringin’ him back.”
“Would you steal his glory from him?”
The question shocked him. “What’s this?”
She gave a long, pensive sigh that ended with a quiver. “He’s no longer a young’un. I be knowin’ that now. His road be no longer ours to determine.”
Roakore shot off the bed and began to pace. “He ain’t but sixteen… His beard don’t even come to his chest.”
“And how old were ye when ye first went in search o’ adventure and glory?”
Roakore regarded her with wild, desperate eyes. “A right damn lot older than he be!”
“Dragonshyte! Ye done told me ‘bout sneakin’ out with yer brothers when ye was just fourteen,” she retorted with a stern crossing of the arms. The look she gave made him feel as though he were a lad in trouble.
“Bah! But I shouldn’t be tellin’ ye lasses such pillow secrets.”
“Lovers share pillow secrets, and children. He be his father’s son and ain’t no doubt.”
Roakore threw up his hands. “All we did is camp out on the side o’ the mountain for a few days, playin’ like we was on watch.”
“And did ye not hope to the gods ye would find a draggard or dragon snoopin’ around? Say ye was Helzendar. Would ye have volunteered for the five hun’red?”
He huffed, yet he had no argument for that. He sat on the edge of the bed once more, defeated.
“Aye, but I love the boy like I be lovin’ his mother.”
Her face softened and tears pooled in her fierce green eyes. She touched a soft hand to his face, one etched with lines of worry. “And he loves ye. He looks up to ye like a god. To him, ye be greater than Ky’Dren himself. He only be wantin’ to walk in yer footsteps.”
“Aye,” said Roakore. “Then he can walk in me kingly boots. He ain’t just another soldier, he be me son, and a right fit heir for the throne. I done me duty to the gods ten times over. I ain’t given ‘em Helzendar, not just yet.”
“What’ll it be, then? Don’t get a mother’s heart all a flutterin’ that she might be seein’ her boy again. Ye says yer goin’ to get him back, then by the gods ye better.”
Roakore ran up the hundreds of stairs to Silverwind’s nest and found that she had already been saddled as he had requested.
“She’s eaten her fill,” said her handler, helping Roakore into the long coat covered in silverhawk feathers. “And she drank herself near four gallons o’ water. She be ready.”
“Aye,” said Roakore. He climbed into the stirrups, attached his axe to the side of the saddle and similarly secured his stone bird and shield.
“May Ky’Dren watch over ye, me king.”
“Aye. Keep a light burning in the mouth o’ the cavern. Look for me morrow’s night forth.”
He snapped the reins and Silverwind opened her wings with a squawk. Three swift steps brought them to the edge and beyond.
“West, Silverwind. West, I say! We be battlin’ dragons and gettin’ back me boy!”