The Uthen-Arden forces marched north for three days before coming upon Brinn. Unrelenting rain poured the entire time, turning roads into mud pits and making it almost impossible for the wagons. Whill used the time to practice with his newfound powers. Sometimes he traveled in his royal wagon, but mostly he flew with Zorriaz high over the traveling army and scouted the road ahead.
He had seen a few mounted scouts who, upon spotting the army and dragon, quickly headed north to report what they had seen. Whill let them go, not caring if his appearance in Brinn was a surprise.
They arrived in the morning, having made camp ten miles south of Brinn the night before. The rain finally ceased as they rode to meet the two armies. Whill had seen them from afar—a group of at least fifteen thousand stationed south of the city. They flew the banners of both Brinn and Breggard. He had no intention of sending his own forces against them. They were Uthen-Arden citizens, after all. Whill wanted only the heads of Merek Carac and McKinnon.
Whill ordered his army to halt a few hundred yards from the Brinn and Breggard forces before flying out to the middle of the field on Zorriaz. He scanned the two armies, wondering if McKinnon and Carac had the courage to lead their men personally.
“Brothers of Uthen-Arden!” he called out. “Your leaders are in league with the necromancer of the north! You have been sold out by the false kings McKinnon and Carac. I have not come here as a conqueror, but rather as a liberator. I do not wish to see my countrymen spill each other’s blood. Lay down your arms, hand over the criminals, and you will be taken on as soldiers of the motherland. Together we will defeat the necromancer and push back the hordes at our borders!”
A lone horseman began across the field. Whill instantly saw that something was strange about both the horse and rider. As they drew closer, he saw the telltale green glow in the beast’s eyes. The rider, whose hood covered most of his face and left his eyes in shadow, had a cocky air of power about him.
The horse was unaffected by Zorriaz’s presence as the rider stopped right before Whill and threw back his hood, revealing himself as an undead dark elf. His armor was black and greasy looking, with long pointed pauldrons upon which human skulls had been impaled. Spikes jutted from elbows and knees, and a long black cloak flapped in the blustering wind—a wind which carried his rotten scent.
“Whillhelm Warcrown,” said the death knight in the voice of Zander. “It is good to see you in pain.”
Whill straightened in his saddle, regarding the death knight with disgust.
“You will not win the north, necromancer. I will liberate this city.”
“Of course you will, for you are the great Whill of Agora,” the death knight gave a wet, gravely laugh. “Fool. You do not even know when you are beaten, do you?”
Whill thought of mentally pulling the death knight to him and absorbing his power. He knew from the experience with Roakore that he could gain it through touch. Whill hesitated to do so, for it was a dark power. He knew that with it would come the ability to heal himself, but also to raise the dead and control them with his mind.
“I have nothing to say to you, Zander.”
“Ah, but I have much to say to you.” The death knight reached beneath his robe, and Whill prepared himself to hit the elf with a mental blast. From the inner folds of the billowing cloak came a shining orb, shimmering at its center with the same hellish light that lit the undead horse’s eyes. “Behold, I have found your long lost Teera.”
Dread washed over Whill.
The death knight raised the orb high, and Whill watched, horrified as the swirling light cleared and a figure began to grow from the whirling chaos. Whill saw clearly his aunt Teera, chained to a post at the top of a tower. Behind her, green lightning lit the clouds. In that flash of unholy light, Whill saw her petrified face, the tears streaming her dirty cheeks, and the shadow standing behind her, grinning.
“That isn’t real. It’s just an illusion,” said Whill, unable to keep his voice from shaking.
“I am happy to say that it is
not
an illusion, good king. It is very much real. Teera
and
her daughters are my guests. And they very much wish to see you. Your aunt is a fierce one. Breaking her will be simply delicious.”
Whill ground his teeth, biting back the stream of obscenities burning his tongue.
The death knight grinned as Teera cried out. Her shrill voice was echoed by the crystal ball, lending an icy keen to her pleas for the pain to stop.
“Leave her alone!” Whill snapped. He reached out with a clawed hand and shattered the crystal ball. With the other hand he mentally lifted the death knight by the neck, squeezing so hard that bones crunched beneath the pressure.
The death knight showed no sign of pain as its face swelled, causing dark veins to snake their way across his skin.
“Surrender yourself to me and I shall release them to your men,” the death knight croaked.
“I have heard enough from your lying tongue,” said Whill.
“Please, Whill, help us,” said the death knight in Teera’s voice.
Whill shook with rage. He didn’t want to believe it. Zander was toying with him. He didn’t really have Terra and the girls…
Terror grew in him. For in his heart he knew that the image had been real. His fear became anger, and anger became boiling rage. He closed his clawed hand into a fist and pulled back, tearing the head from the dark elf’s body.
Behind him the soldiers gasped.
Merek and McKinnon’s soldiers stirred.
A horn sounded from behind the walls of Brinn, and its soldiers began to charge. Whill saw the death knights leading the men upon steeds with glowing green eyes and similarly colored flames rising from their hooves.
“Hold!” Whill commanded his army.
General Walker repeated the command as Whill spurred Zorriaz into the air and flew to the west. The dragon turned in the air and belched a long line of flame across the field, effectively blocking the approaching army. Whill then steered the white dragon north.
Zorriaz lit the ground before the charging men, forcing them to rear their horses lest they be consumed by the flames. A death knight shot a glowing green spell from his outstretched hand that came at Whill like a burning arrow. With a force of will, he took control of the spell and redirected it to slam into the chest of another death knight. Whill reached out and closed his fist, crumpling the metal armor around the death knight who had fired upon him. The mass of twisted metal fell from the back of the horse and hit the ground with a dull thud.
Whill continued on past the army toward Brinn’s large wooden gates. “Destroy the door!” he yelled to Zorriaz.
The dragon reared its head as it gathered a great fireball in its gullet. The fireball erupted with a sharp crack, flew through the air like a meteor, and exploded into the door.
Whill flew through the billowing smoke and landed Zorriaz at the center square. Soldiers trained arrows and spears on him, awaiting the command of their general.
“Fire!” yelled a death knight.
The men complied, letting loose a barrage. Whill raised both arms with palms facing outward. The many projectiles slowed in their flight and stopped altogether. He then cupped his hands and brought them both to bear on the death knight commander. As one the arrows and spears turned and suddenly shot forth, riddling the death knight like a pin cushion and pinning him to the stone wall behind him.
“Liberate yourselves from these devils!” Whill told the men.
The soldiers looked to their king and finally found the courage to attack the terrible death knights. Zander’s minions tried to retaliate with glowing spells, but Whill redirected the attacks, sending them back at their wielders. Zorriaz snapped her jaws on more than one of the dark elves as they attempted to flee.
A half dozen winged draquon rose from different parts of the city and headed for the lake and Belldon Island beyond.
“Let them go,” Whill told Zorriaz. “Let them tell Zander what has happened here.”
When the last of the death knights remaining in the city had been killed, the soldiers gathered before Whill. One and all took a knee and bowed before him.
“Sire,” said a well-decorated soldier. “Forgive us for what we have done. Carac and McKinnon are bewitched. They threatened to turn our children into undead. They—”
“Bring them before me,” said Whill.
A group of soldiers ran off to a tower set upon the battlements. The protest of the two men rang out in the square as the false kings were forced out of their hiding places. Carac and McKinnon were brought to Whill and forced to their knees before the looming dragon.
Whill stared at Merek Carac with hate-filled eyes. There was nothing left of Carac’s former snarky air; it had been replaced by unbridled terror.
The soldiers backed to a safe distance, eyeing the dragon as they went.
“Please…King Warcrown…forgive me for my—”
Whill took hold of the men’s necks with his mental grip and lifted them high into the sky. Zorriaz opened her maw then and shot forth a thick stream of fire that consumed them completely. Quick cries of terror escaped the would-be kings for but a moment. When the dragon fire subsided, blackened bones hit the cobblestone street, and ash drifted down like dark snow.
“This city is once again under my control. Bow before your king, repent for your betrayal to your kingdom, else face the same fate as these men,” Whill commanded them all.
Every soldier and citizen within earshot fell to their knees and laid their weapons in front of them.
“Hail King Warcrown,” said one of the soldiers.
The call was quickly taken up by all.
The army outside the city walls surrendered to Whill without incident. They swore fealty to him once more, saying that they had only acted on the bewitched lords’ commands.
Whill pardoned them all and set them to work under General Walker’s command. The soldiers soon began the evacuation of all the elderly, women, and children. By nightfall, a long train of refugees was pouring out to the west, headed for the many barges that would take them to Devandes and beyond.
Whill now had over twenty thousand soldiers at his command. A quarter of them he sent to escort the refugees. He went with them, not wanting to leave them helpless against an attack from the north. Zander still might attack with a fleet from Lake Eardon south into the river. And though Whill wanted nothing more than to fly to the island and destroy the necromancer and save Terra and the girls, he knew that it was a trap. He had acted too hastily before, to the cost of many lives. Now he had to be pragmatic in his actions; escort the refugees to safety and then return to Brinn to decide the next course of action.
Teera’s pleading cries echoed in his mind as he flew over the long line of refugees and soldiers. He had no way to know whether the vision had been an illusion or not. It was possible that Zander had read his mind while Whill was his captive, and therefore might have been able to recreate a perfect likeness.
There was no way to know how Zander’s powers worked, unless of course, Whill absorbed them. Then he would become a master of death. With such power, he might be able to defeat the lich lord. But at what cost?
Would such power corrupt him, taint his very soul? Would he become like Zander?
These disturbing thoughts and others haunted him all day and night as he glided along the currents toward the river.
Whill had told General Walker to signal with smoke rings if an attack came from north of Brinn. He had been watching out for it, looking often to the east. But none had come. So far, Zander remained silent.
For two days he led the people ever westward, flying ahead often to check the river and ensure that Zander hadn’t sent his minions to overtake the northern tributaries. He flew along the border as well. The land was eerily quiet. A thick fog had steadily been drifting south and was so dense in places that he could hardly see where they were flying.
He saw the elders, women, and children off to safety on the many barges waiting for them. The waters to the north remained cold and silent.
Whill wondered the entire time what had become of Teera and his adopted sisters. His anxiety had been growing during the slow, tedious journey. When the last of the boats had left, he steered Zorriaz east and told her to return to Brinn with all haste. His apprehension had been steadily growing over the last few days. He had gotten little sleep and eaten next to nothing. The pain in his back prevented him from finding much rest, and even when sleep found him, it was filled with terrible nightmares of what Zander might be doing to Abram’s kin.
He reached Brinn at nightfall four days after leaving to escort the refugees. Zorriaz landed in the square and guided him gently with her teeth to the wheeled chair waiting for him. Ardthor was there with General Walker and Captain Marshall.
“Sire,” said Walker, bowing his head. “Something arrived while you were gone. A small package dropped from the sky by a winged draquon. We shot at the beast, but to no avail.”
Whill swallowed down his foreboding. “Where is the package?”
“In the tower, sire. It has not been opened. It…it drips with blood, sire.”
Whill took a deep breath and closed his eyes. A hundred terrible thoughts went through his mind.
“Bring it to my quarters.”
He sat at the table, staring at the small bloody box. Marshal and Walker stood to his left and right respectively. The box was intricately carved with swirling lines like rolling clouds and a skull inlaid upon the lid.
Whill wondered of all the things that might be in there. He didn’t want to open it, afraid of what might lie within.
With trembling hands, he unclasped the lid’s small hook. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for anything, and opened the lid.
Something flew out of the box as soon as the lid was cracked an inch. Whill reeled back, instinctively hitting the object with a mental blast. It flew across the room and hit the wall with a wet sound before slowly sliding down, leaving a smeared, bloody handprint on the stone.
“By the gods!” Walker yelled.
The bloody severed hand hit the floor and began weakly crawling its way across, dragging behind it the oozing wrist. The knotted, swollen knuckles and wrinkled skin told Whill that it was an elderly person’s hand.
It was his aunt Teera’s.
Marshall unsheathed a dagger and hurried over to the swollen appendage and stabbed it through the top behind the knuckles. He lifted it up before him, watching, mystified and horrified as it wriggled and flexed, seemingly reaching out for something that wasn’t there.
“Embedded in the palm,” said Walker. “There is a green gem.”
Whill could not speak. He stared at the clawing hand that wriggled upon the tip of the dagger like a struggling crab.
Captain Marshall took his dagger and pried out the gem, dropping it in the box.
The hand moved no more.
“Burn it,” said Whill.
The captain left with the hand and Walker leaned forward to inspect the bloody green gem. “I have seen these before,” he said. “In the chests of the death knights that you killed with the dragon.”
“It is what animates the undead,” said Whill.
“There is no way to know whose hand it was, sire. It might not be—”
“It was hers,” said Whill, bowing his head. “I was soothed by those hands more times than I can remember. Zander has Teera and my sisters.”
“Sire, do you mean to attempt to rescue them?”
“How can I? It is surely a trap. I am not yet strong enough to face the necromancer.”
“But your powers are coming back to you, no?”
“Not the way you think, Walker. I have learned that my power is unique to humans. It is an ancient power that has not been seen for many thousands of years. I doubt that there is anyone who understands it. What power you have seen, I absorbed from King Roakore.”
“Absorbed, sire?”
“Yes. I can attain the abilities of the other races through touch.”
Walker mulled that over for many silent moments. “Then, that means that you could absorb the necromancer’s power. You could defeat him that way.”
“Could I?” Whill looked to the general. “Zander has had how many years to practice his craft? I would be but a novice. That is the downside of this human power, the downside of human existence, too much knowledge and too little wisdom. If I fly across the lake in haste looking for vengeance, I will be walking right into his trap. That is what Zander wants me to do.”
“Then I would council you to do exactly what he
doesn’t
want you to do.”
“And what is that?” Whill asked, intrigued.
“Well, sire, if he wants you to go to him, force him to come to you instead.”
“If I do that, he’ll kill them.”
“I apologize for being crass, sire, but they might already be dead. And you have just stated that you think it is obviously a trap.”
The general was right, though Whill was loath to admit it. It meant that he truly was powerless in helping Teera.
“No, there has to be another way. I cannot abandon the women to that monster.”
“Attacking Belldon Island is out of the question at the moment,” said Walker. “We do not have the ships to carry so many men, and it would take days to weeks for them to arrive from downstream. Even then an attack on the island fortress would be ill-advised. We would be surrounded.”
Whill nodded agreement, puzzling over what the right course of action might be.
A frantic knock came at the door.
“Sire,” said a guard. “There have been dragons spotted in the south.”
“A green dragon?” Whill asked, thinking of Roakore’s nemesis.
“No, sire, a terror of golden dragons.”
Whill had Walker wheel him out to the square, and he mounted Zorriaz as quickly as his malady would allow.
“I strongly advise against this, sire,” said Captain Marshall.
“I know you do, Marshall, but I’ve never been very good at listening to well-advised council,” said Whill. He glanced around at the battlements. Brinn had at least a dozen dragon harpoons and twice as many catapults. The soldiers had hurried to their stations when word came of the coming terror. They appeared to be as ready as they were ever going to be.
A deep silence filled the city—the sound of a thousand held breaths. All eyes watched the southern horizon.
Captain Marshall handed Whill a long, gleaming dragonlance. He then shouldered his bow and began climbing up the side of Zorriaz.
“What are you doing?” Whill asked.
“Many apologies, sire, but I am the captain of your personal guard. I cannot in good conscience allow you to go fly against a terror of dragons alone.”
“Very well,” said Whill. “Strap yourself in and hang on. It might get a little bumpy.”
Zorriaz took to the sky to the cheers of the many soldiers.
They had only climbed a few hundred feet before Whill was able to see the distant dragons against the horizon. They were too far away to get an accurate count, but there was definitely more than one.
“If a necromancer wasn’t enough, we’ve got to deal with a terror of dragons,” said Captain Marshall with a mirthless laugh.
“Welcome to my world,” said Whill.
At this, the captain genuinely laughed. “So what’s the plan?” he asked.
“First we find out if they are hostile,” said Whill.
“You think they might be friendly?” Marshall asked incredulously.
“We could be so lucky. Dragons aren’t all bad.”
Zorriaz hummed her agreement.
“Anything you can tell me about the golds?” Whill asked her.
“They are rare. But my ancestral memory tells me that they are more gentle-natured than most dragons.”
“Well, that’s a plus,” Marshall mumbled.
“As for these dragons,” Zorriaz continued, “they are not flying in an attack formation, and they are too high to be hunting.”
“Alright. Don’t do anything that might set them off. Let’s see what they do first,” said Whill. He turned back to Captain Marshall. “Do not aim a weapon at them unless you plan on using it. But be ready. If they prove to be hostile, I will protect us from dragon fire.”
They flew for miles before they were close enough to make out the terror’s numbers. Whill counted six in all. Zorriaz approached from on high as a precaution, watching the other dragons closely. When they had nearly reached them, one broke from the group and flew up to Zorriaz’s level. The two dragons circled each other, speaking in a guttural language. The gold then swooped down to speak to the others.
“What did he say?”
“
She
said that she and her terror have abandoned the great migration. She has been searching for you.”
“What does she want with me?” Whill asked.
“We shall find out,” said Zorriaz. She banked hard and swooped down to land in the field where the gold dragon now waited.
Zorriaz growled what must have been a greeting and blasted fire into the air in a show of power. The gold responded likewise, and the two bowed their long necks to one another.
“My white sister tells me that you are Whillhelm Warcrown, king of what the humans call Uthen-Arden,” said the gold through thick rows of gleaming white teeth.
“I am Whillhelm Warcrown. Might I know the name of such a magnificent gold?”
The dragon arched her back and puffed out her shiny chest. “I am Zalenlia.”
“Greetings, Zalenlia,” said Whill, bowing as far as he could in his saddle. “Zorriaz says that you have been searching for me. Why?”
“I have heard much about you, Whill of Agora. Long before you were ever born, I spoke of you with Zhola the Red.”
“You knew Zhola?”
Zalenlia purred her agreement. The vibrations shook the ground.
“I knew him well, and I mourned his passing with a heavy heart. I have sought you out so that I might share my gifts with you.”
“Gifts?”
“Yes, the Father of Dragons has blessed many of us with the powers of the ancients.”
Zorriaz blew a puff of black smoke from her snout, surprised. “The power of the ancients, you say?”
“Yes, I possess the magic of the golden line,” said Zalenlia proudly.
Zorriaz bowed once more, lower this time.
The gold dragon nodded appreciation for the gesture and addressed Whill once again. “I have learned that you have been blessed as well.”
“You are familiar with the human powers of old?”
“I am,” Zalenlia hummed.