Kingdoms in Chaos (28 page)

Zorriaz flew them across the lake and over the border to Uthen-Arden. During the flight, Whill was overcome by the exertion of the torture and his sudden show of power.

He awoke, lying on the grass below a clear sky of twinkling stars. Avriel came into view above him, her beautiful smile welcoming him back to the world.

“What happened?” she asked, and helped him to sit up.

The mention of the injury stole his own smile. “An arrow found my back…that bastard, McKinnon. How did you know where to find me?”

“Kellallea came to me and said that you were in trouble. She said that she couldn’t intervene, that if she did, other gods might do the same.”

Whill considered that, not knowing what to believe. “But in the end, she
did
intervene.”

“Yes, and she blessed me with a spirit blade. Without it, I doubt I would have been able to defeat the undead.”

Whill remembered seeing the glowing blade. He had thought that perhaps Avriel had found her lost power. It seemed that in a way, Kellallea had answered his prayer.

He glanced around, wondering how long he had been out.

“Where are we?”

“A few miles south of the lake.”

“Near Brinn? Could you see my army from the sky?”

She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, but I flew over Brinn not an hour ago. There looks to have been a great battle. The remnants of your army march south with much haste, a few miles behind them another, larger army pursues them.”

“Show me.”

It wasn’t long before they came upon an army marching south as she had mentioned. He recognized his banner men instantly.

“Put us down at the head of the army!”

Zorriaz understood his words, and glided down to land before the startled and battle-worn soldiers who had been marching with great haste.

“Dragon!”

“To arms!”

“It is I, your king!” Whill yelled over the startled exclamations.

“Hold!” a familiar voice rang out.

His general, Justice Walker, rode through the ranks and leaped off his frightened horse. He looked closely, approaching carefully, until he recognized Whill atop the dragon. “By the gods! Sire, is that you?”

Zorriaz dropped down on her belly and Whill greeted the man. “Walker! What has happened?”

“Forgive me, sire, but we were overwhelmed. When you didn’t return, McKinnon’s said that you had been taken. Then a force hit us from behind—Carac’s soldiers. At the same time, Brinn emptied, some ten-thousand strong. When the truth of defeat became evident, I ordered the retreat.” He bowed his head low. “Forgive me, sire, I have failed you.”

Whill ignored his self-pity. “And they now give pursuit from the north?” he asked.

“Aye, McKinnon’s dogs, come to finish us off.”

Whill looked out over the small army. Less than a thousand of his original Ten thousand remained. “Continue south into the forest. I will deal with our hunters.”

“Yes, sir.” Walker turned around and began barking orders, and Avriel spurred Zorriaz into the air.

“What do you mean to do?” Avriel asked over her shoulder as they flied to meet the advancing army.

“Stop their pursuit by any means necessary.”

“Zorriaz is not a mindless beast,” said Avriel. “I will not allow Zorriaz to be used in such a manner.”

Whill ignored her and stroked Zorriaz’s neck. “Would you offer your power to help save my men?” he asked the dragon.

She gave a long rumble. “My flame is yours.”

“The sight of a dragon will be enough,” said Avriel. “There is no need for more killing.”

“Damn it, Avriel, those are my men out there! You saw them, they will soon be overrun and killed one-by-one.”

“There are other ways to stop their advance.”

“Those men have turned on their own people. They nearly slaughtered my entire army.”

“And you would do the same?”

Whill bit back an angry retort. “I will do what must be done. For too long I have held to naïve ideals.”

She offered him a worried glance. “Whill, do not let this one mistake—”

“There!” he said, pointing.

Mounted horsemen were charging down the road followed half a mile behind by men on foot.

Whill put a hand on her shoulder. “Do what you will, but you would be wise to send them a message. They think that I am weak, they think the elves are weak. We have overcome so much, but our greatest battle hasn’t even begun. We have many enemies. If our child is to be safe, we must send them a strong message.”

Avriel offered him a solemn nod and bent to whisper to Zorriaz. The dragon gave a roar and dove straight at the horsemen. She bent her long neck down as she passed over the road, and bathed the riders in flame. Dragonsbreath raged from her open maw, and in one great breath she left a quarter-mile stretch of road ablaze in her wake.

Whill looked back on the carnage with grim satisfaction. He wanted nothing more than to fly on to Brinn and take the head of McKinnon and all of his followers.

Avriel steered Zorriaz up and out of reach of the volley of arrows that erupted from the foot soldiers. Zorriaz circled around and lit the fields on fire. Soon, the army began to retreat to the north.

“That is enough,” said Avriel.

“If you wish,” Whill replied, watching the men scurry away like the cowards they were.

She regarded him over her shoulder with a troubled gaze but spoke no more of it, and led them south to the waiting army.

They landed ahead of the army at a crossroads beside a thick stone bridge that spanned a narrow passage of Eardon River. Whill found that it was all he could do just to stay lucid. The last few days had taken a toll on him: the imprisonment, torture, and strange show of magic left him feeling spent.

“Are you all right?” Avriel asked.

He waved her off, unable to speak, and passed out in the saddle.

When he awoke, he found himself on his stomach. He looked left and right, and found that he was inside a two-post tent.

“Settle down, there you go. This is delicate work. Try not to move.”

Whill recognized the voice of his personal physician, Ardthor. Looking over the pillow, he saw Justice Walker standing with slumped shoulders. His armor was scorched and scored with many scars of battle, and he looked as though he needed tending to, himself.

“Sire, I’m sorry for leaving you—”

“Report!” Whill yelled. His mood was soured by the terrible pain in his back, and the man’s apologetic tone.

General Walker straightened smartly. “Sire, the northern forces have retreated. We have made camp to tend to the injured. Princess Avriel and her dragon are patrolling the perimeter. We have suffered terrible casualties. Only nine hundred men remain.”

“I want to hear everything,” said Whill.

Walker filled him in on the rest of it, but Whill’s head spun, and he began to feel as though he were quite drunk.

“What have you given me?” he asked Ardthor.

“Just something for the pain.”

“I need a clear head.”

“As you wish, sire. But whoever did this to you did a terrible job trying to treat the wound. I’m afraid it might fester.”

“Do what you wish, but give me no more. I’ve endured far worse pain in my life.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Sire,” said Walker, “I have already laid out the route of the retreat. If we—”

“We’re not going anywhere.”

“Sire?”

“Send out messengers to every lord loyal to me within a hundred miles. I need every able-bodied man here by tomorrow night.”

“That’s a bad idea.”

Whill turned to regard Avriel standing in the doorway. She let the tent flap fall and strode forth. “You should fall back and regroup. You have less than a thousand men.”

“More will come.”

“Perhaps, but how many? A thousand? Five?”

“We have a dragon,” said Whill, grimacing against the pain.

“I will not send Zorriaz against a fortified city. Besides, I am her rider. Would you send your unborn child into battle?”

“You did,” said Whill.

Her expression soured. “That was to save you. Not only do they have their city walls, but McKinnon is in league with Zander. The undead could attack from the north at any moment.”

“All the more reason to take Brinn now!”

“I will not allow Zorriaz to be used in that manner,” said Avriel, crossing her arms.

Ardthor and General Walker eyed her, no doubt surprised to hear one speak to their king in such a way.

Whill mulled it over, and finally regarded General Walker. “Fall back to the nearest fortifiable location.”

“Yes, sire,” said Justice, and quickly left.

“You’re doing the right thing,” said Avriel.

“I will return, and I will exact my vengeance on the traitors,” said Whill.

“Yes, of course,” said Avriel. “When you have regained your strength.”

Ardthor proceeded to treat the wound with alcohol and fire, and burning ointments that tested Whill’s resolve. Through it all, he endured with steely determination. He preoccupied himself with thoughts of vengeance. For too long he had played the part of the peaceful warrior. People like Carac and McKinnon responded to force and power. The people needed him to be strong. If he was going to continue with the charade that was his kingship, he was going to have to start acting like one. Never again would he be taken for the fool. Never again would he be overcome by weaker men.

Ardthor did what he could, but a terrible fever overcame Whill late that afternoon. His memories of the following events were hazy, but he remembered once again flying on the back of the great white dragon, and Avriel’s soothing words in his ear through two long days and nights of flight.

When he finally came out of his fight with the infection, he blinked to find Lunara and Tarren watching him from both sides of his bed. “What is this?” he asked, shakily trying to sit up.

“Shh, now. Don’t try to move. You’ve been through a terrible trauma,” said Lunara.

Tarren regarded him with teary eyes, eyes that belonged to a boy of twelve.

“Tarren, is that really you?”

The boy burst with emotion and wiped his nose with a crooked smile. “Aye, it’s me.” A shadow crossed his face. “The Watcher is gone. He switched places with me again somehow at the end.”

Whill didn’t know whether to be depressed or overjoyed. “He was a good elf, that one,” he said.

Tarren laughed and sniffled.

“Yes, he was.”

Lunara wiped Whill’s brow lovingly and began to say something, but then her head jerked toward the door and a look crossed her face, as though she had been caught at something.

“Princess…” She gave a bow and retreated from the bedside.

Whill raised his head enough to see Avriel approaching. She offered Lunara a friendly little nod and sat on the bedside and smiled on Whill.

“It appears that you’ve made it through the worst of it.”

Behind her, Lunara gave another small bow and left quickly.

“Avriel told me what happened,” said Tarren. “Did you really use magic again?”

Whill scowled at the boy and searched his mind, finding it hard to remember exactly what he had done. He looked to Avriel, who only smiled.

“We will ponder on that later,” she said. “For now you must get some rest. There is still a chance the infection remains.”

He didn’t argue, he could not. His eyes became heavy once again, and sleep threatened to take him. Closing his eyes against Avriel and Tarren’s smiling faces, he felt a joy like none he had ever known. He might never walk again, but Tarren was all right, Avriel was with him, he had a child on the way, and he had somehow used magic again. At the moment, he wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

It is in you, Whill. It was in you all along…
The Watcher’s words came back to him, and he smiled to himself as he slipped into slumber.

Roakore felt Helzendar slump against his back and called the lad’s name. When he didn’t answer, Roakore shifted in the saddle and found his son sleeping. He touched the back of his hand to his forehead and, to his dismay, felt that he had a burning fever. He shifted his unconscious son and inspected the severed arm. The acid had melted flesh and bone, and fused his metal forearm guard to the stump. Though it did not bleed, Roakore could tell that it was already festering. What poison did the dragon’s venom carry? He wondered. Only time would tell.

He spurred Silverwind on as swiftly as she could fly. If they hurried, they might reach the mountain in time to stop the infection from spreading.

After many worry-filled hours in which Helzendar would not wake up, they reached the mountain. As soon as Silverwind had glided into her nesting chambers, Roakore began screaming orders. The silverhawk’s keeper jumped from the hay bale he had been sleeping on and scrambled to fetch a healer as fast as his stout legs would allow.

Roakore guided his fevered son from the saddle carefully, and laid him on the cold stone floor with shaking hands. Silverwind craned her head back and nudged the sleeping prince and gave a lamenting croon.

“Helzendar, ye stubborn bastard…” Roakore lost his voice to despair and called out at the top of his lungs for the healer. Guards came hurrying into the chamber and skidded to a stop before their king.

“WHERE SHE BE?” Roakore demanded.

“She be right behind us, me king,” said one of the guards.

“Ye hear that, laddie? Me best healer be comin’. Ye’ll make it outta this. Ye be the strongest and bravest dwarf I ever laid eyes upon.”

The guards shifted uncomfortably in the presence of their crying king. He eyed them with a murderous scowl. “If she be right behind ye, then where she be? Go find out. Carry her if need be, for Ky’Dren’s sake!”

They scrambled out of the chamber and left Roakore to his lamentations. He cursed the guards and the healer, too. Time had never passed so slowly in his life. The stump was swollen and raw. Green ooze had begun to seep out where metal melded with flesh. Roakore found his courage and pulled a hatchet from his leg strap—he knew what the healer would do.

Fire, he would need fire.

He ran to the nearest torch, pulled it off the wall and set it down on the stone beside Helzendar. He then laid a hatchet in the flame and waited until it was glowing red. Carefully he laid the stump across the stone.

“Forgive me, laddie,” he said, and before he lost his gumption, he came down swift and true and chopped off the end of the stump. Blood poured and spurted weakly with the labored heart, and he let it, hoping that some of the poison would go with it. Before too much blood could be lost, he pressed the glowing hatchet hard against the wound, stifling the flow and cauterizing it.

Just then the guards rushed in with the healer. She dropped down next to the boy and pushed her king aside. “Did he stir when ye severed the rot?”

“Not at all,” said Roakore, closely watching her face for a reaction.

She let out an angry sigh. “That’s not good. Here, hold this.”

Roakore took the torch and watched with worry as the healer went to work applying salves and ointments.

“What happened to him? Why’s the bit ye cut off look like it’s been melted like that? That ain’t from fire.”

“No fire did that. It was the acid spit o’ a green dragon.”

Everyone in the room turned to regard their king with shock and awe.

The healer blanched. “Call the holy dwarves. Call every healer within a day’s march. This be beyond me skill.”

For seven long days and nights, Helzendar fought the dragon’s venom. The healers did what they could, but none had seen such a thing in their lifetimes. The ancient dragons, those of the time of Ky’Dren, were said to possess such terrible abilities. The old tomes spoke of ways to cure such maladies. They were left to trust the words of their ancestors, and pray to the gods that Helzendar was not meant for the great mountain in the sky just yet.

Roakore rested little throughout the entire ordeal, only sleeping when the bottle knocked him out. Arrianna, was stronger than he in those dark hours. She left her son’s bedside not at all, and even called together all of her sister-wives and Roakore’s children to pray over the brave prince.

When Helzendar’s sickness began to take a turn for the worse, Roakore went to his private chapel and fell to his knees before the tall statue of Ky’Dren.

“Please, me king, if ye be havin’ the power, please extend yer grace to me son. I ain’t fearin’ for his soul. I know he has earned his place. But I ask that his life be spared for now. I see great things for the lad. He shall be a king of kings, a warrior so fierce that all dwarven foes will cower at his name. Please, if it be in ye power, help me boy.”

He got up and began to leave, but then stopped suddenly and whirled around to face the statue with burning eyes. “Ye owe me one for takin’ Nah’Zed the way ye did.”

The eighth day came and went without any improvement; on the contrary, Helzendar’s fever only worsened, and the veins beneath his pale skin shone dark green. It was feared that the dragon’s venom would cause something unnatural to occur in the young dwarf, and mercy might be needed—mercy in the form of an overdose of poppy milk. But Roakore adamantly refused and cursed those who suggested it.

On the morning of the ninth day, Roakore awoke beside his son’s bed. His wife lay beside him, and both of their hands held Helzendar’s. Roakore’s eyes shot open… He didn’t feel the burning heat he had the night before. He roused his wife and got out of bed in such a hurry he nearly tripped over the fur blanket someone had covered them with.

When he regarded his son, he blanched. Helzendar smiled blearily at him from the bed.

“By Ky’Dren’s glory, he be alive!”

Arrianna shrieked with glee and threw herself on her son, bathing him in teary-eyed kisses. Through it all, Helzendar smiled brightly at his father, who couldn’t help but laugh and cry all at the same time.

“I been to the mountain o’ the gods,” said Helzendar. “An’ I been sent back with a message.”