Zorriaz led Whill across the dead north in half a day. They reached the Strait of Shierdon shortly before nightfall and crossed the twenty-mile expanse swiftly. Krentz had told Whill that he would find Gretzen in the southern most village at the center of the island. He spotted it easily, seated just beyond the shore, past a long field and small pine forest.
Whill had never been to Volnoss. He marveled at how much it resembled Eldon Island. Of course, given what Whill knew of the history of Agora, he was not surprised by the resemblance. The people of Eldon Island were, after all, descendants of the mighty barbarians of Volnoss. Teepees dotted the village, hundreds of them both large and small, along with long wooden lodges with many chimneys. The barbarians pointed up at Whill and Zorriaz as the two flew overhead. Some brave young men even chased after the dragon, carrying bows and shaking their fists.
“They are a brave people,” Zorriaz noted. She was not used to humans standing their ground easily in her presence.
“They are indeed brave,” said Whill, thinking of Aurora. “Theirs is a tragic story. I find myself quite torn in this regard. The dwarves and even my ancestors drove them from their lands to live exiled on this icy island.”
“Yes,” said Zorriaz with a rumble. “My racial memory tells me as much. One of my ancestors fought in the battle for Northern Shierdon.”
“For which side?”
“She fought alongside the barbarians.”
“Well then,” said Whill. “You are in good company. Be sure to impart that knowledge to them when we land.”
Zorriaz banked a hard right toward the center of the village. A large fire burned there, and hundreds of villagers had gathered. Looking beyond the village square, Whill could see thousands of smaller tents in fields and forest clearings stretching for miles. It was as if the entire population had converged on Fox Tribe.
As soon as Whill laid eyes on Gretzen Spiritbone, he knew who she was. She radiated power like the elven lords of old. Like a queen she stood, chin raised, eyes hard and unyielding, and hair like a silver lining. Her face was weathered and cracked like the bark of an old tree, but likewise it was beautiful. Whill had never seen a human so old.
Zorriaz put down, stoking the fire with her large wings as she slowed. Whill climbed down and regarded the gathering. They eyed him with a mix of trepidation and malice. It was not uncommon for the barbarians to try and intimidate their enemies by making grotesque faces, and Whill was not surprised to see many of them sticking their tongues out and crossing their eyes, scowling and peeling back their lips to show teeth like predators. He noticed too that the crowd consisted of only the very old or the very young. This gave him pause, for he remembered that it had been he who had destroyed the barbarian army at the Battle for the Ky’Dren Pass.
Whill took a few steps toward Gretzen and stopped. “Gretzen Spiritbone?”
The old woman took small steps until she was standing directly in front of him at eye level. She was now old and hunched, but Gretzen had once stood a proud seven feet.
“I am she. Greetings, Whill of Agora.” She bowed slightly to Zorriaz. “And Zorriaz the White.”
“You know our names,” said Whill.
“I know many things, King Warcrown, and I have forgotten ten times as much, unfortunately.”
“Then it is an honor to be remembered by one so long-lived. You are truly blessed.”
“Yes,” she said with a raised brow. “I seem to have been blessed…and cursed by the gods.”
Whill would have extended his hand in greeting long ago, but he knew what would happen if he touched her. She noticed his apprehension and grinned.
Turning with a flourish of robes, she extended her hand to the long table set between two large fires. “Dine with me and tell us of the wider world. You are my guest here,” she said, eyeing the others.
A white buffalo was brought before Zorriaz and staked to the ground with a heavy chain. The young barbarian men hurried out of the way when the task was done, but Zorriaz did not at once devour the beast as they thought she might, but rather waited by the table, watching the frightened animal with mild interest.
“Thank you,” she said to Gretzen in the ancient Vald language.
The entire tribe perked up.
“My ancestors fought alongside your people in the battle for Northern Shierdon long ago. It seems that we are brought together once more.”
“We are honored by your presence, Zorriaz,” said Gretzen. “The chieftains of the seven tribes will join us shortly.”
“Good. For what I have to say concerns them as well,” said Whill.
“You speak of Zander and the undead hordes.”
“It is true, there is little that you do not know,” said Whill with a grin. He liked the old woman. She reminded him much of his own aunt Teera.
Just then someone stepped from the surrounding crowd and walked into the firelight. Whill looked to the newcomer and couldn’t help a fool’s smile.
“Azzeal?”
“A little less furry than you might remember, but yes, it is me,” said the elf, smiling wide.
Whill and the elf hugged like brothers. “It is good to see that you survived the Draggard Wars,” said Whill when they parted.
“And you, Whillhelm Warcrown. I was not surprised to hear that you had defeated Eadon.” Azzeal said it loud and for all to hear. The barbarians responded well to such bluster.
Drums sounded in the distance, and Whill looked to Gretzen.
“The others have arrived,” said the old woman, rolling her eyes. “They always make such a fuss about it.”
The first chieftain to arrive was Gray Oak. She walked between the parted crowds, led by an entourage of tattooed young warriors who wore the hides of the snow cat. Gray Oak and her daughter, Aewinn Icefang, both wore a snow cat head as their mantle, with the long white fur trailing behind.
“Welcome, Gray Oak,” said Gretzen. “Please, sit and dine with us.”
The chieftain of Snow Cat Tribe eyed Whill and his dragon and took a seat at the table. Swiftly drinks were poured for her and her warriors.
The next to arrive was Agrock Silverscale of Dragon Tribe. When he and his warriors stepped into the village square, they dropped to their knees and bowed before Zorriaz.
Whill looked to her quickly, noting how much she enjoyed the attention and respect.
Gretzen introduced them all to each other and asked the chief to sit with them as well. And so it went with the others: Goreng the Mighty of Bear Tribe, Heidir Hauknefr of Hawk Tribe, and Vardveizla Soaringsong of Eagle Tribe each took a seat at the long table.
Fish soup was served to all in attendance, along with seaweed bread and mussels. The chieftains ate little, looking anxious to get on with the meeting. One which Whill still marveled at.
How,
he wondered,
did Gretzen know to call them here now?
Gretzen ate her food as though she were alone in her hut. She sipped her soup loudly and slurped down her mussels, even scooping up the last of her food with bread. Everyone waited patiently, drinking from their clay tankards to relieve the mounting tension.
Whill liked her style. Finding himself hungry anyway, he mimicked her relaxed and leisurely dining ritual. Seeing this, the other chiefs began to eat more heartily.
Gretzen lifted her tankard of mead and smiled upon the gathering. Those barbarians standing around the table had access to the same kegs, and raised their glasses as well. “To new horizons, and wonders yet undiscovered!”
“Veizla!” cried the barbarians, which Whill at least knew meant “feast” or “cheers.”
“Veizla!” he said as well and clanged glasses with Gretzen.
She tipped back her pint of mead and didn’t put it down until it was empty. Whill found himself guzzling to keep up. The barbarians watched him over tipped rims, gauging his strength partially in how he drank.
He made sure to turn over an empty tankard like the rest of them.
Zorriaz in turn bit into the keg laid before her. Foam sprayed from the puncture wounds as she tilted her large head and drank the contents in a few long gulps. She then tossed the keg to the side and swiped up the white buffalo and bit it in half.
The barbarians of Dragon Tribe cheered.
“I’ll give you my seven daughters for that dragon!” said Agrock Silverscale, pounding the table, eyes alight with wonder and dreams of glory.
“I am afraid that she is not mine to sell,” said Whill.
Gretzen swatted her hand in Agrock’s direction. “You of all people should know that the dragon cannot be tamed. She goes where she pleases, and where she pleases is where she goes.”
Agrock ignored her, standing from his seat and walking around the table to stand before Zorriaz.
She cocked her head back and eyed him sidelong, all the while crunching on bones.
“I saw you in a dream,” said Agrock in nearly a whisper. He reached a trembling hand to touch her scaled chest.
She only watched.
“This is a sign from Thodin. A sign from the gods!”
“Lightning striking your hut,” said Zorriaz. “Water flooding your tower, crops withering beneath the midday sun. These might be signs from your gods. But I can assure you, my presence here is by my choice.”
Agrock bowed before her repeatedly. “I do not mean to anger you, oh great white. But it is true. I saw you in a dream. I rode you during a great battle. Together we took Shierdon.”
Zorriaz looked to Whill. “Perhaps your dream spoke some truth. I come here with Whillhelm Warcrown to ask your help in Shierdon.”
All eyes went to Whill. He in turn addressed Gretzen.
“It is true. I need your help. It is said that only you can stop the necromancer.”
Gretzen took a drink from her refilled cup and set it down slowly. “I may be able to stop him. This is true.”
“Will you help?” Whill asked. “Will you march south with me and fight alongside men, elves and dwarves, to defeat this terrible foe?”
“I may,” said Gretzen, eyeing him carefully. “What do you offer in return for my help?”
Whill studied her, learning nothing from her steely eyes. “What do you want? You need but name it.”
Gretzen looked to the other chieftains with a sly grin. “I wish for Uthen-Arden to recognize Shierdon as barbarian territory. Now and forever.”
Whill thought about that. On one hand it was a lot to ask for an entire country, on the other hand, Whill remembered that Shierdon had originally belonged to the barbarians. Considering that Shierdon’s human population had been all but wiped out, it seemed a good deal; he could worry about the dwarves’ reaction later.
Whill stood. “I have all my life been a student of history,” he said to the chiefs and villagers alike. “It is said that you barbarians are a reckless lot. Violent to a fault, they say. Why, up until a few hundred years ago, you killed your weak and cast aside the young who did not meet the measure. But I see that you have grown wiser. You are a changed people. And so are we. If you help us to defeat the necromancer and his undead hordes, I shall recognize Shierdon as barbarian land. Now and forever.”
The gathered barbarians and chieftains looked to Gretzen, wide-eyed. The old woman only smiled pleasantly. “Then let us set out in the morning. Tomorrow, we return to the homeland!”
The gathering dispersed as the chieftains went to tell their people of the news. Gretzen asked Whill to follow her and led him to a tent on the outskirts of the village to the south.
He followed her inside, careful not to touch her.
“Please, have a seat by the fire,” said Gretzen, walking to the other side of the tent and putting a kettle over the small fire.
Whill sat silently, watching her add wood to the fire.
When she had it blazing, she shuffled to her chair and covered herself with the blanket that had been draped over the back.
“I know why you fear to touch me,” said Gretzen.
“Your knowledge and perception continue to amaze me. I have never met a human like you. Do you have power like mine?”
She shook her head. “No, our powers are nothing alike.”
Whill had thought that perhaps Gretzen was a mimic as well, and had picked up her abilities from some dark elf necromancer.
“What then is the origin of your power? It is said that you can conjure spirits and control the undead like Zander. Are you a necromancer as well?”
Gretzen spat on the floor. “I am nothing like them. I speak with the dead, help them. I do not trap them and command them. Through me they are able to pierce the veil between worlds.”
“What is your power called?” Whill asked.
“There is no mane for it in your tongue.”
Whill watched the old woman as she warmed her hands by the fire. It was only mild outside, but she acted as though she were cold.
“What will happen to me if I gain your power? Will it be hard to control?”
“You do not want my power. I am used to the visions and the voices. I can resist the stronger spirits.”