Champions of the Gods (16 page)

Elves had begun to pour into Cerushia from all over Elladrindellia. Word of Kellallea’s blessing traveled far and wide, and thousands of elves came to get a glimpse of her.

Avriel spent the days after the blessing healing the sick and dying. Thousands flocked to her, offering their energy in return for healing. But Avriel needed no such offering, for her power came directly from Kellallea.

With the blessed power, Avriel also helped the crops to grow. She passed through gardens and fields. The fruit trees bloomed, and their fruit grew fat in her wake. She led the elves through the city, mending bridges and buildings with her power over earth.

Finally, she stopped before the large temple of Kellallea and floated up onto the highest balcony to look out over her gathered elves. Thousands of smiling faces and shimmering eyes stared up at her.

“Elves of Elladrindellia! There are those among you who have taken to violence against your own kind.”

The crowd stirred. Many suspicious glances passed among them.

“I know who you are,” she said, eyeing the crowd. “Come, stand before your queen and receive your judgement.”

The crowd began to move slowly back, making way for any who might confess their guilt. A few of the elves strode forth boldly with heads held high. As they stopped before the towering temple, Avriel saw a small group hurrying to retreat deeper. She extended her will and spoke to their minds, forcing them to turn and join their brethren who stood before her.

All told, more than fifty elves gathered before the temple. Many of their heads were bowed in shame. Others stood proudly with raised chins, defiantly glaring at Avriel.

“You have plotted against my house. You have invaded my palace and attempted to take my life. But what is worse…you have lost faith. Kellallea took from us all knowledge of Orna Catorna because she believed it would destroy us in the end. In your attempt to avenge the Taking, you have committed horrible crimes against your fellow elves. Have you learned nothing? Do you not see what your want for power has done to your souls?”

The shamed bowed their heads even lower. Some dropped to their knees and begged for forgiveness. Still, many of the accused stood in defiance.

Kill the malcontents,
said Kellallea in her mind.

Avriel looked upon them with pity. She knew what she had to do, but she was loath to do it.

These elves have conspired to kill you and your unborn child. They need to be made an example of.

She offered them one final chance at redemption. “Kneel before me. Confess your sins against your kin, and you shall be forgiven. If you do not, I must enforce Kellallea’s judgement.”

Many of the rebels broke and dropped to their knees. They cried and pleaded their apologies. Still, dozens stood proudly.

“Kellallea is no god of mine,” said one. “And you are no queen of mine.”

Kill them,
said Kellallea.

The urge to comply was so strong that Avriel found herself unable to fight it. She raised her hand, and the dozens of defiant elves were lifted high into the air. She pulled them to her to float before the balcony.

You are my champion. You will exert my will.

Avriel was shaking. Unable to resist Kellallea, she raised the other hand and spoke a single word. “Fire.”

The avengers of the taking burst into flames so white-hot that not a cry escaped them. In a flash it was over, and the ashes of the dead elves were floating high above the city.

The crowd gasped.

Avriel bowed her head.

Kellallea’s words echoed in her head, and she found herself speaking them to her people.

“The rest of you are forgiven. Use the time that has been given to you to repent for your sins. Serve your kin as you once did. Forget the bitterness in your hearts. Kellallea said that she would bless those whom she deemed worthy. I stand before you now as proof. Seek ever to become worthy of her blessing, and perhaps she will grant it.”

The young shepherd boy looked out over the rolling fields of green grass swaying in the midday breeze. A hot wind blew in from the western coast of Isladon. And while it had been warm the past few days, it had not been like this. He felt as though he were getting dangerously close to an oven, its heat warming him back. Only this heat followed him even as he fled from it, suddenly startled and overcome with an unease he could not put his finger on.

The boy called to his sheep dog and ran hard back toward the village. He had ventured far this day, farther than he usually led the herd. The coast always held a tantalizing allure. All his life he had wanted to sail the great blue expanse rather than become a simple sheep herder like his father. But now he could not even look to the west. Something was following him. Something too great and terrible for words. The heat bristled his back, suffocating him. Terror caused him to abandon his herd. The thirty sheep were all that his family had left, yet he ran for his life, knowing that they were doomed, knowing that he was doomed.

He fled across the long green field, down the rocky ridge lined with nettles and wildflowers, rock crawlers, and thimbleweed. He could hear the terrible sounds growing behind him, still he dared not look back. Head down, he continued on. He was crying now. The tears blurred his vision and caused him to trip and fall more than once. The heat was growing with the rising tumult—a chorus of terrible growls and roars stalking him. The world suddenly became brighter, and he knew that the fields and trees behind him were on fire. Flames licked the corners of his vision, filling the sky above him with fire.

The village was only a few hundred yards away.

He ran. If only he could reach it in time—run all the way home and jump in bed. His mother would be there to sooth him. His father would grab his axe and investigate. Surely it would be nothing. The herd would return and all would be well. He would be given warm milk and hushed to bed with a soft song from his mother.

The boy tripped only a dozen feet from the gates. Men were up on the wooden battlements, pointing at the sky behind him and screaming words of warning. Their faces were twisted with terror.

And then the boy looked back.

The sky was eclipsed by dragon wings. Flames consumed the land all the way to the coast. He lay there paralyzed by fear even as a large green dragon descended upon him, talons outstretched and gleaming, and hatred burning in its emerald eyes.

Roakore was just sitting down to lunch with his hawk riders when the warning horn blared deep in the heart of the mountain. It was followed by another, this one closer, and then another still.

The dwarves froze. All conversation died in an instant. Food half chewed sat in still mouths, drinks half full vibrated in their chalices with the echo of the horn.

It was Roakore who first leapt to his feet.

“To arms, to arms!” he cried.

The room erupted then as the eager dwarves overturned tables and chairs in an attempt to heed the order. They ran up the stairs from the training rooms led by Helzendar, who raised his steel fist in the air and cried to the glory of the gods.

“Sire!”

Roakore stopped long enough for Philo to catch up. The stout dwarf was obviously drunk, but he was armored and armed and ready for battle.

“What ye be knowin’!” Roakore demanded as he hurried along up the stairs.

“A terror o’ dragons. Hun’reds o’ ‘em, they be sayin’. Comin’ from the west.”

“Hundreds you say?”

“Aye, hun’reds,” said Philo with a gleam in his eye. He reached in his pocket and handed the king a flask.

Without hesitation Roakore took it and drank half. Philo took it back and finished it off. They crested a flight of stairs that opened up into a large dwarf-made cavern whose ceiling seemed to be the heavens. Dozens of lifts full of soldiers lined the walls of the cavern. Pulled by weighed stones and controlled by dwarven operators, the lifts moved quickly up and down, bringing the many warriors to their stations.

Roakore and Philo ran to catch one that was just beginning to climb. Upon seeing his king, the operator stopped the large crank and waited as they leapt on. The lift began to move once more, and the many warriors beamed at the presence of their fearless king and his most trusted warrior.

Philo shouldered himself room and placed his shield on the floor of the lift. He then retrieved a small vial from a pocket and uncorked it. Carefully he emptied out its contents in a long line on the shield.

“Care for a toot?” he asked his king.

Roakore chuckled to himself and shook his head.

Philo shrugged and fished a reed tube from his pocket and placed one end in his nose and the other at the head of the line of yellow powder. With a long and loud snort he took it all up his nose. He shook his head and gave a triumphant “Whoa!”

“Mind ye don’t be overdoin’ it with that there Lumbia pollen. Stuff’ll give ye a heart attack soon as it makes ye feel invincible.”

“Bah!” said Philo, snorting and rubbing his face to loosen what granules might have collected on his mustache.

The lift came to a halt, and Roakore led the charge up the stairs that would eventually bring them to the perch.

They found their mounts being saddled and the other hawk riders standing beside their birds, chins raised proudly, not a sign of fear in their eyes.

“Hawk riders o’ Ro’Sar, hear me now!” said Roakore, moving to stand before the opening in the mountain. “This be the moment ye been trainin’ for these last weeks. This be why the gods done blessed many o’ ye. Listen closely. Look around ye. See yer fearless brothers and sisters standing at yer sides. This be a moment ye ain’t soon to forget.

“They say there be a hundred dragons descendin’ upon our mountain as I speak. They mean to light the caverns with fire. They mean to devour everythin’ ye ever loved. What’d’ya say to that?”

The dwarves spat and booed, banged shields and clanged axes.

“Shall we send these demon bastards back to the hells where they belong?”

“Yeah!” the riders cried.

“Fly straight, and fly true. May yer dragon lances find their demon hearts. May Ky’Dren protect ye and yer hawks. May ye find yer way safely back, else save me a seat in the Mountain o’ the Gods.”

The dwarves stomped and cheered, howled and hooted. They slammed their chests repeatedly, voices so loud as to be deafening in the rounded stone perch. Roakore mounted Silverwind and raised his axe high. The others followed suit. One after another they steered their silver hawks out into the midday sun.

The fifty hawks and riders broke into ten groups of five, each with at least one of the blessed dwarves among them. Roakore had made many of his sons flock leaders, including Helzendar. Philo too had been bestowed with the great honor. He was not only fearless and slightly insane, but he had taken quickly to both flying and dwarven magic.

Roakore gave the signal for a formation, and the leaders spurred their hawks to comply. The ten flocks formed a diamond pattern in the sky, their feathers blue as the heavens. The silver hawks soared over the mountain range strewn with towers and battlements, each with a variety of aerial assault weapons of steel, wood, and stone. Teams of Blessed waited at their posts along the mountain range, ready to send a barrage of dragon spears, stones, burning wooden shafts, and cauldrons of bubbling tar, cheering the defenders of the skies as the hawks sailed overhead.

The hawk riders crested the final peak and flew out into the open expanse of eastern Isladon. There in the distance they saw the terror of dragons come to destroy their world. Hundreds of the beasts flew toward Ro’Sar.

Roakore took in the terrible sight, and for a moment a sense of doom overcame him. The moment was fleeting, for he soon found his resolve and shook off the effects of the dragon fear.

“Ye ready, Silverwind? This be bound to be the fight o’ our lives.”

She replied with a soft coo and a chirrup.

“Let’s find that devil who done mangled me boy!”

The dragons continued toward the mountain range like a dark cloud spewing fire rather than rain. Reshikk sniffed at the air. The familiar scent of dirty dwarves rode on the wind. He scoured the countryside and the long slopes, the stones and boulders, waterfalls and tall pines. Even from miles off he could make out the scurrying dwarves climbing tall towers and spreading out across ridges and battlements built into the mountain. The smell did not come from them, however, it was closer. Another scent came with it, faint and drowned out by the dwarves. Silver hawk, Reshikk realized.

Now that he knew what to look for, he thought that he saw strange flickers in the sky ahead. He knew that the silver hawks could change the color of their wings to match their surroundings, and also that in such a camouflaged state, the hawks could sometimes be detected. They blended in nearly flawlessly, but if one looked closely enough, they might make out small disturbances in color and contrast—like heat waves dancing above the surface of a desert.

Looking closely, he saw the telltale shimmering outlines of a great many silver hawks.

There are dwarven silver hawk riders between us and the mountain,
said Reshikk to his dragons.
Look closely, they are like heat waves against the distant clouds. Others fly low and have taken on the appearance of the land beneath us. Do not give away that they have been detected. Let them think that they have the element of surprise.

Helzendar flew behind and twenty feet above his father. Behind him, his group followed silently, barely visible to him. The dragons were getting closer with every beat of his heart. The anticipation of the battle to come electrified him.

At the very front of the group he saw the green dragon—Reshikk, the one who had taken his arm.

“Ye see that there giant green?” he said to Goldenwing. “Keep yer eyes on that one. I mean to kill him.”

The silver hawk gave a humming coo that Helzendar could feel through the saddle.

The dragons were only a few hundred yards away now. Up ahead, Silverwind changed to her natural color, suddenly shimmering silver in the sunlight—that was the sign. Without hesitation, Helzendar and the others climbed high into the sky while Roakore and five other groups became visible and dove low. From his pack, Helzendar withdrew his dragon’s breath bomb and watched with growing anticipation as the dragons began to fly beneath them. It became apparent that Helzendar and the other climbers had been seen somehow, for dozens of dragons climbed the currents to head them off. It mattered not. The groups were now directly over the terror of dragons. On Helzendar’s command, they dropped their bombs and climbed higher still.

There was no way to ignite the bombs against the rushing wind, but Roakore had guessed that the stupid dragons would blast them with fire and do the job for them.

He was right.

The first of the bombs went off when a red dragon attacked it with fire. It in turn ignited the others. The blast went off right at the center of the terror of dragons. Flames exploded in all directions, engulfing many of the winged beasts.

Most came out unscathed, but the attack had not been meant to kill, it had been meant to disorient and surprise, and it had worked. The dragons flew in every direction. Some mortally wounded, others smoldering and trailing long streaks of black smoke behind them.

Helzendar steered Goldenwing into a dive and headed for Reshikk the Green. Dragons and silver hawks flew in every direction as they engaged in aerial combat. Fire erupted from all directions as the beasts tried to fry the passing dwarves. But the silver hawks were smaller by half and much faster. They zigged and zagged and flew circles around the large, lumbering dragons.

A long and thin blue dragon dove to intercept Goldenwing, and Helzendar pushed the button on the handle of his retractable dragonlance. Three clicks later it was extended to full length, barbed tip gleaming in the sunlight. Fire erupted behind him, but Helzendar and Goldenwing were too fast and too far away for the flames to inflict damage. With a smart jerk of the reins, Helzendar commanded his bird to level out and climb, spinning as he went, until he was coming at the trailing dragon from the left. The beast headed straight for him, long plume of fire leading the way. Helzendar cocked back the lance and let it fly, mentally taking control of it as he did. The projectile sliced through the air, slid through the flames, and hit the beast in the chest. As Helzendar passed, he pulled hard on the dragonlance with his mind, and it tore free of the dying dragon.

“Ha ha!” he cried triumphantly.

The lance came spinning at him, and he slowed it down with a force of will, causing it to instead follow him in his flight.

All around him, dragons and hawks fell from the sky. Some were tangled in mortal combat, wings broken and bodies bloody. Silver hawks clawed at the eyes of the dragons, whose tails felled many and whose teeth snapped bone and armor alike.

Helzendar searched the battle for Reshikk and finally found him. But it seemed that Roakore had found him first, for he rode upon the green dragon’s back, hacking and slicing at the left wing with his great axe. Reshikk craned his long neck to snap at Roakore, but the dwarf remained just out of reach. Silverwind paced Reshikk from on high, ready to swoop down and catch Roakore should he fall off.

Not to be outdone, Helzendar urged Goldenwing through the chaotic aerial battlefield, diving under lunging dragons and banking hard to avoid the fire of others. The dragonlance followed behind at his mental command. He caught up to Reshikk and banked a hard left, spurring the dragonlance forward with all his might, aiming for the thick neck. The lance found its mark, striking deep and true and impaling the green dragon. It had little effect, however, being that the lance was like a needle to the giant. Still, it drew blood, and Helzendar cherished that small victory.

Reshikk suddenly folded his wings and dropped from the sky, down, down, down toward the side of the mountain range. Helzendar followed, ready to aid his father in a glorious defeat of the hated wyrm. The dragon pulled up and aimed for the side of a rocky cliff, turning his body and slamming his back against the side of the mountain.

Philo came out of nowhere then quite suddenly. His silver hawk dropped from the sky in a speeding blur. As it did, Philo leapt off his mount and came down lance first onto Reshikk’s snout, burying his weapon deep. Reshikk gave a quick jerk like a sneeze that sent Philo sailing through the air end over end. Helzendar lost sight of him, so concerned was he that Roakore had been crushed against the cliff. Reshikk gave a roar and slammed into the mountainside once more as Helzendar finally reached him and leapt from Goldenwing’s saddle. The brave dwarf prince flew through the air and landed between the wings of the furious dragon. With a force of will, Helzendar extended the long spike in his steel arm and stabbed between Reshikk’s thick scales. The dragon twisted and beat his wings to slam into the stone wall once more, forcing Helzendar to leap off.

Goldenwing was there to catch him.