Champions of the Gods (18 page)

Roakore scrambled over the pile of rubble and found Goldenwing lying on his side. He found Helzendar wrapped in the bird’s long silver wings. Helzendar was battered and bloody, but he was alive.

“Wake up lad, wake up,” said Roakore, gently shaking him.

Helzendar groggily opened his eyes and instantly tried to sit up. “What happened?”

“The coward green retreated. The other dragons have gone off to wreak havoc elsewhere.”

“Reshikk lives?” Helzendar asked angrily.

“Aye, for now, I be thinkin’. But we gave him a smart what for, aye lad?”

A rumbling began at the mouth of the mountain. Roakore glanced west. The surviving hawk riders were battling with the draquon in the skies above the battlefield, but not a dragon was to be seen. Through the mouth of the mountain, hundreds of dwarves charged out over the rubble to meet the attack.

“Come on, lad. We’ve got to get you to a healer. That bump on yer head ain’t nothin’ to scoff at.”

Helzendar wasn’t listening. He had noticed the state that Goldenwing was in. Tears filled his eyes, and he crawled over to lift the bird’s head onto his lap. Goldenwing stirred and tried to right himself.

“Shh, boy. Ye got a broken wing, there,” said Helzendar as he stroked the smooth neck. His eyes found the broken wooden beam of a catapult protruding from Goldenwing’s side.

Roakore saw the injury as well and knew that there was nothing that could be one. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Best give him a swift end and be done with it. He ain’t goin’ to live through that one,” said Roakore.

The soft coo from Goldenwing seemed to speak agreement.

“No,” Helzendar said with authority. “Help me get him to safety. I will not leave him to be pecked by crow or draquon.”

“Alright lad, alright.”

Roakore guided his son back with a gentle hand and then reached out with both, imagining that his hands were giant, and gently lifting the bird as carefully as he could. Together Helzendar and Roakore walked toward the destroyed mountain door with Goldenwing floating above them as hundreds of Ro’Sar warriors poured out.

They found a wide alcove off from the main tunnel leading to the deeper chambers, and Roakore set down the silver hawk. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder as Helzendar wiped tears from his eyes.

“At least ye’ll be with him at the end,” said Roakore, patting him and turning to leave and rejoin the battle.

“I’m coming with you. Goldenwing will understand,” said Helzendar.

“Son, ye be too hurt—”

“You there!” Helzendar pointed to a dwarf warrior as he ran by. “Find three others and bring my silver hawk to the healers. Tell them to get to work on her immediately.”

“Yes, me prince,” said the soldier.

“Helzendar…” Roakore began to say.

“I be fit to fight and you can see that,” said Helzendar. “Now, please, Father. Quit treating me like a son and treat me like the soldier I be.”

Roakore straightened and regarded his son. He nodded. “Very well, dwarf. Get yer arse back to the fray if ye got it in ye!”

“Yes, me king.”

Returning to the surface world, they found twilight quickly dominating the landscape. Battle raged a few hundred yards to the west, and Roakore was proud to see the silver hawks still fighting for supremacy of the skies.

Silverwind was there waiting for Roakore off to the side of the ruined door. She had a few ruffled feathers and a bloody beak. The right foot was being favored, Roakore noticed, but aside from that, she seemed fit to fly.

“See you at the victory table,” he said to his son, clasping his hand and pulling him in for a firm hug.

“Save me a seat,” said Helzendar. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy, but there was an awareness too, a grim determination and simmering rage.

He turned and joined the dwarves still marching out of the mountain to join their brethren.

Roakore mounted Silverwind and spurred her into the air and set his sights on what draquon remained. He found his stone bird strapped to the saddle and took it up to set it a whirlin’.

Helzendar ignored the throbbing pain in his head and the rest of his many aches. He limped along with the others, eager to release the pent-up rage boiling in his veins.

The landscape was scorched and steaming. The draggard horde was five hundred yards wide and twice as deep. Helzendar guessed that there must be thousands. It mattered not, for he marched with thousands of dwarves, many of whom had proven to be blessed by the gods, and who were eager to show off their newfound power.

The front lines were thick with dwarves, and he found himself having to push them to the sides to get by. When it became too much of a task, he cupped his hands to his mouth and hollered, “Make way for yer prince!”

The command was repeated by those around and Helzendar took up his twin axes. He charged through the opening and ran toward the writhing horde of undead draggard.

“Launcher!” he called out.

One of the soldiers only three dwarves from the front line dropped to his hands and knees. Helzendar took three long strides and stepped onto the dwarf’s back and leapt up over the heads of the others. He soared through the air, over the front line, coming down hard on a draggard with both blades.

Pulling his axes free, he extended a hand and pushed on all nearby draggard. Five of the beasts flew back into their kin. Helzendar threw the axe in his steel hand, burying it in the back of one of the draggard. He then extended the long spike in his steel arm and rushed the surprised undead monsters, hacking, stabbing, and slicing his way through the ranks as he sang to the glory of the gods. His rally gave those who bore witness to it newfound strength. They rallied to his call, taking up the song and pushing the demonic beasts back.

The black dragon sat perched before the gaping hole that Aerra’s lava had burned in the side of the mountain. He had been filling the chambers with his breath of death when the voice came.

“Father…is that you?”

Reshikk has fallen. The gold dragons have betrayed me. You are my champion now. Do not fail me as he has done.

Ez’Rah looked around at the other blessed dragons—none seemed to hear the voice that he did. But they looked to him curiously.

“What would you have me do, Father of Dragons?” he said, to let them know with whom he spoke.

The dragons shared glances.

Continue east. Destroy the elven lands.

“Yes, my lord. I will not fail you.”

There was silence in Ez’Rah’s mind. The Father was gone, but he had bestowed a gift upon Ez’Rah. He could feel the change within him, suddenly he
felt
all of the other dragons nearby. He could faintly hear their thoughts and knew that he could speak to their minds as Reshikk had done.

Reshikk has fallen to the betrayal of our golden kin. They are lost to us now. I have been named the champion of the Father of Dragons. It is I who now leads you. Kneel before me now and show your lord that you still follow his word.

Those dragons nearby bent their front legs and lowered their horned heads to their new king. Ez’Rah was pleased. He knew that there would be challengers. He knew also that none could stand up to his breath of death.

To the east!
He said to his followers’ minds.
To Elladrindellia!

The dragons—those both near and far—followed his lead. They abandoned their attack on the Ro’Sar Mountains and flew eastward, leaving the range burnt and smoldering in their wake.

The battle for Roakore’s door came to an end in the small hours of the night. With dawn came the counting of the dead and the burning of the unholy corpses. All told more than a thousand dwarves had perished. Thirty-three dragons had been killed, as well as thousands of undead draggard, dwargon, and draquon. The dwarves had won the day, though they had paid a heavy toll.

It was reported to Roakore that the dragons had flown away from the Ro’Sar Mountain, flying east early in the night. They had wreaked havoc over half of the mountain range. With their newfound powers they had burrowed deep, even getting as far as the city of Gor’Thar.

Roakore looked out over the battlefield and sighed at the thought of such a loss of life. News had come that two of his sons had died in the attack. He wiped away his tears for the dead and lifted Philo’s ever present flask. Philo had been the one to relay the news to his king about his sons and now stood beside Roakore, forlorn and teary-eyed as well. He nursed a broken arm, thinking of his silver hawk who had fallen during the battle.

Silverwind sat perched beside Roakore, cooing mournfully in response to his anguish.

“Me king!”

The call came from the sky. Roakore and Philo looked up to see a silver hawk swooping down from on high. Its rider pointed east beyond the peak of the mountain housing the destroyed door.

“Scouts found the bloody remains o’ a green dragon. They think it be
the
green dragon.”

Roakore hurriedly mounted Silverwind, nodding for Philo to do the same. “Take me to it!”

Nearly a half hour later they came to the scene of Zalenlia’s betrayal. Roakore was pleased to see that the dragon was indeed Reshikk, though he was angered to not have been the one to kill him. He dismounted and circled the giant body. The cause of death was clearly multiple dragon bites. The green dragon’s neck was completely severed from the body, and the head lay a hundred feet away. It would make an impressive display in his throne room, Roakore thought. He reminded himself to see it done.

“What’s this o’ reports o’ a fight between the green and a terror o’ gold dragons?” Roakore asked one of the standing guards.

“Sire,” said the guard, quickly eyeing one of the other guards. “Helventhar there seen it. He’d be the one to be tellin’ ye.”

Roakore eyed the guard called Helventhar and walked to stand before him. “Well, out with it then. What’d ye see?”

Helventhar licked his lips and looked with darting eyes at Reshikk’s corpse. “Well, I seen that there dragon all beaten and bloody like. I was gonna sneak up on it silent like and try me hand at killin’ it meself. But then a golden landed. They argued about somethin’, then the green there slashed the gold dragon’s throat. The beast bled like any other, but then it glowed gold. It was bright, sire, so much so that I had to look away for a moment.” He gulped, nervously wringing his hands. “Then when I looked again, the golden beast was healed. Other golds descended on the green and tore it apart. Then the golds flew away north.”

“North you say?” Roakore asked, looking in that direction.

“Aye, sire…an…there be another thing,” said Helventhar staring down shamefully.

“Somethin’ else? Well, what is it?”

Helventhar went white. His quick eyes darted from Roakore to Philo and to the other guards in turn. “Didn’t mean to do it, sire. I was just curious is all. I didn’t mean to taint me flesh!” He dropped to his knees before Roakore and begged at his feet. “Please, sire, please understand. I didn’t know it would happen…I—”

“What in the blazes ye talkin’ ‘bout? On yer feet, soldier. Look me in the eye and speak plainly!”

A sniffling Helventhar slowly stood up and pointed at something behind Roakore. “I think it be the blood o’ the golden dragons. Ye see…before I was here, I helped take down a blue dragon that was attackin’ the tower I be stationed on. During the fight, a piece o’ splintered wood from a blast hit me in the arm. Went straight through. I pulled it out meself and had it bandaged up so I could keep on a fightin’. Well, when I arrived here I seen what you seen, and I found the pools of golden blood. I swear I didn’t know what it would do. I just thought it pretty, golden as it is.”

Roakore had been around enough strange magic to know what the dwarf was going to tell him. “Then ye touched it with your finger and ye tasted it, didn’t ye?”

Helventhar nodded shamefully.

“Aye,” said Roakore. “Then ye found that yer arm was healed, didn’t ye?”

“How…how did ye know?”

“Cause I be the king o’ Ro’Sar. I be knowin’ everything.”

“Am I cursed, sire? Have I angered the gods?”

“Ye ain’t cursed,” said Roakore. “Ye be stupid to go drinkin’ magic dragon blood, but ye ain’t cursed.” He regarded the pool of golden blood and inspected it closer. It was no wonder the dwarf couldn’t help but touch it, for it looked like liquid gold that had just come out of a crucible. Strangely, it didn’t absorb the snow around it, neither did it mingle with the dirt in the low spots nor run down cracks in the stone. Instead it had pooled into swollen globes.

Roakore knelt beside the largest of the golden pools and saw himself and the landscape in the shining surface. From his pocket he took a flask and uncorked it. He drank the contents of the container and shook out what remained. Slowly, carefully, he broke the surface tension on the side of the pool, causing it to pour into the flask. When it was full, he corked it and stashed it away in his pocket.

“I want all the rest o’ it collected and brought to me chambers,” he said to the guards.

“Aye, sire,” they said with a bow.

Roakore mounted Silverwind and flew with Philo back to the destroyed door. He asked of Helzendar and was told that the prince sat by his silver hawk’s side in one of the infirmaries.

A half an hour later he stood before his son, who sat beside Goldenwing, rubbing his feathered neck and murmuring comforting words to the bird. The shaft had been pulled from her side and the wound bandaged.

“How she holdin’ up, son?” Roakore asked quietly.

Helzendar raised his head as though he had been on the verge of sleep. His eyes were puffy and heavy, and his voice had a tell-tale rasp to it. “She’s a strong one.” He pet the bird twice more and stood to solute his king. “They say that Reshikk was killed.”

“Aye,” said Roakore. “Saw the body with me own eyes. He was killed by other dragons, but I think he was already dying from the beatin’ you and me gave him. Ye did well, son.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, I found somethin’ up there on the mountain peak. Somethin’ that I think might help Goldenwing.”

“What it is? What did you find?” Helzendar was suddenly bright-eyed and eager.

“Hold on now, ye might not like the idea.” Roakore told him what had happened to Helventhar when he put the blood to his lips. “I got some o’ it in me flask. It be up to you, lad. But I think it’ll save him.”

Helzendar sat on a chair beside the door to the large room and mulled over the decision. “You think that…I don’t know. It be dragon blood, for Ky’Dren’s sake.” He lowered his voice and glanced out into the corridor. “It sounds like blasphemy, usin’ the blood o’ those devils.”

“I know it does. But…but them golden dragons seem different from their kin. They killed Reshikk when they could have saved him. Remember how the other dragons attacked the door with strange, never-before-seen powers? Well I think that the golden dragon’s power is the ability to heal. The beast must have refused to heal Reshikk. And they didn’t go off east like the others.” Roakore gave a long sigh, unbelieving of the words he was about to speak. “I think…I think maybe they be
good
dragons.”

“Good dragons!”

“Shh, keep it down, lad!”

“Good dragons?” Helzendar hissed in a whisper. “Ye out yer head?”

“Aye, I may be. But I been around long enough to know that every race got its good and its bad. No reason some o’ the dragons can’t be good.”

“There ain’t any
bad
dwarves,” Helzendar retorted matter-of-factly.

“Sure there be. They just ain’t talked about.”

Helzendar looked to Goldenwing, who lay on his side, chest barely moving with his weak breath. The silver hawk looked as though he would soon pass on.

“Where is it?” Helzendar finally asked.

Roakore handed him the flask and watched intently as his son brought it over to the bird.

“Me father says that this will heal yer wounds, bring ye back to life. It be the blood o’ a golden dragon, a magic dragon. I won’t take it upon meself to make the decision for ye. Ye’re a smart bird. Ye decide. Do ye want the magic blood?”

Goldenwing opened the eye closest to Helzendar and regarded him sleepily. The eye then fell upon the flask in his hand. He gave a weak coo and blinked.

“You want to try and see if it works?” Helzendar asked, wanting to be sure.

Another coo. Another blink.

“Alright, boy. Alright.” Helzendar uncorked the flask and gingerly placed it in the corner of Goldenwing’s sideways beak. Three thick drops dripped onto the bird’s tongue, and Helzendar pulled it back and corked it. He watched, as did Roakore, for some sign that it had worked.

They watched her for many tense minutes, and just when Helzendar had accepted that it wouldn’t work, the bird suddenly opened its eyes wide and began to stir. Helzendar gave a laugh and rose to his feet. Goldenwing cooed and chirruped, ruffling his feathers and spinning in a small circle.

“By the gods, it worked!” Helzendar said with a laugh. He turned to his father with shimmering eyes. “Thank ye, me king. Thank ye.”

Roakore nodded with a smile and left his son to his celebration with Goldenwing. He thought of Whill then, and his ailment. A few drops of the magic dragon blood would fix him up quick. He kept it in mind and left the infirmary, heading off to prepare his dead sons’ bodies for burial.