Champions of the Gods (29 page)

Zorriaz carried Whill and Gretzen south toward the growing storm. Whill watched the horizon, a sense of dread growing with every beat of the dragon’s wings. Now that Whill had gained the mystical powers of
spirit walking
, many new and terrifying senses plagued him. In the howling winds he heard cries of terror, longing, and sorrow. His eyes now showed him the glowing forms of ghosts and spirits moving toward the green glow of the horizon. These spirits, Gretzen explained, where being summoned by Zander.

“What does he want with so many?” Whill asked over the howling wind.

“He devours their souls and grows in power.”

Whill glanced back at the army of barbarian spirits flying through the air behind them.

“Will your souls be able to resist his pull?” Whill asked.

“Yes. Their will is strong. They have bound themselves to me.”

Just then a brilliant flash of light lit the southern horizon.

“Fly swiftly, Zorriaz!” said Whill “That blast came from Brinn!”

The dragon flew high above the clouds and caught a strong current. Soon they were flying over Lake Eardon and coming upon the outer rim of the churning storm. A glowing form floated within the eye of the storm moving south from Brinn. Whill struggled to see the city more clearly through the fog. When finally it lifted, he cursed with anger and fear.

Brinn lay in ruin.

A smoldering hole had been blasted out of what was once the city hall. Outward from the blast sight, everything had been blown backward, creating a ring of destruction that reached all the way to the city walls. On closer inspection, Whill saw the long line of lumbering undead filing out of the city, among them were soldiers wearing the colors of Uthen-Arden, and Ky’Dren dwarves as well.

Whill thought of Raene, Kelgar, Marshall and Walker, of Dirk, Krentz, Abram, and Teera.

“Could anyone have survived that?” Whill asked solemnly.

Gretzen sighed. “I am sorry, Whill. It would be a miracle.”

“You tarried too long,” Whill yelled furiously. “A few minutes sooner, and this could have been avoided.”

“Yes,” said Gretzen. “But then we wouldn’t have had a large enough army of spirits.”

“You let this happen?” Whill asked, horrified.

“I did not have the power to stop it. Now I do.”

Whill set his sights on Zander, riding the storm to the south. Rage built steadily within him as he pictured the victims. He thought of General Walker and Captain Marshall, both brave young men who had died defending their posts, men who now marched south into their homeland, eyes aglow with undead light, souls trapped within reanimated bodies.

“How do we kill this bastard?” Whill asked Gretzen.

“With a level head,” she said behind him.

Whill steered Zorriaz to glide over the smoldering city. His eyes burned with hot tears as he surveyed the damage, thinking that surely no one could have survived the attack.

“Put me down outside the city. I will deal with Zander,” said Gretzen.

“You cannot face him alone.”

“You asked me here for this purpose. Do as I say!” said Gretzen.

Frustrated and furious, Whill did as he was told.

Zorriaz put down outside the southern gate. Whill leapt off and unsheathed his sword, when the undead filing out of the city saw them. They turned and charged, screaming like demons.

“Stand aside!” said Gretzen as she stepped onto the blackened grass.

She leaned on her staff and lifted a hand to the oncoming horde. A single phrase escaped her lips, and the recently turned soldiers stopped suddenly. They thrashed and convulsed, as though they were being held back by some unseen force. Gretzen extended her spell, adding energy and focus. Slowly, the green glowing eyes turned light blue.

The undead stopped fighting and straightened, waiting for her command.

Whill watched in amazement as the old woman walked bravely through the crowd of undead dwarves and men. He had felt the spell that she cast, had sensed the silent struggle with Zander.

As if in answer, the storm dissipated, and the glowing form floated down from its heavenly perch.

“Come with me,” said Gretzen over her shoulder.

Whill hurried through the group and walked at her side.

“This might be hard for you,” said Gretzen with a small laugh. “But I need you to NOT be a hero right now. What I need is for you to extend your consciousness to the soldiers at my command, and help me to sway the others that Zander controls. He is stretched too thin. So far he has held these souls captive because they had no choice. We will give them one. Steer them home, Whill of Agora. That is all I need you to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

In the distance, Zander touched down and called to his legions, gathering them to his sides. Gretzen did the same, summoning the barbarian spirits who had followed her south and those few hundred Uthen-Arden soldiers she had turned. She lifted her arms to the heavens and spoke an incantation.

Whill was suddenly overwhelmed by a connection to Gretzen and her spirts that left him breathless. He felt incredible power hanging in the air like encroaching humidity. The energy pushed on him, pulsed through him.

Stay with me, Whill. He will try to take your soul if he can. Only fear can make you vulnerable.

Whill found strength in her words. He vanquished all fear and gave himself to her power, allowing her to channel more of it through him.

The souls of the barbarians flew above the smoldering city in streaks of blue and disappeared into Gretzen’s chest. She cried out in pain and ecstasy and unleashed her power on the nearby undead. Whill found himself in her mind, or she in his. He echoed her call to the recently deceased allies, beckoning them to fight for their kin and king.

The dwarves broke from Zander’s control first, slamming their fists to their chests and turning back with eyes of glowing blue. The Uthen-Arden soldiers followed soon after. Whill felt Zander struggling to maintain control. The necromancer lashed out through the bond forged by the minds of the undead. With every mental strike, Gretzen was there to block it, keeping Whill safe behind her wall of willpower.

“Whillhelm Warcrown!” Zander stood two hundred yards away with his green-eyed minions at his back.

Whill could feel Zander’s incredible power. Much like Gretzen, who fed off the offered strength of her ancestors, so too did the necromancer have a hidden energy source. Azzeal had told him what it was—the trapped spirit of Whill’s mortal enemy, Eadon.

“I was surprised when you allowed your kin to die. You show promise,” said Zander.

“Do not let his words affect you,” said Gretzen. “Focus.”

“You are too late, Zander,” said Whill. “Your words mean nothing to me. For I have realized my true power. You will not be able to possess me. I have attained the power of the dwarves, dragons, and spirit walkers of Volnoss. Your reign of terror ends now.”

Zander stared furiously, and for a moment Whill felt the necromancer’s resolve waver.

“Now!” cried Gretzen.

Men of Shierdon, men of Uthen-Arden, men of Agora! I beckon you to my call!
To arms!
Whill’s mental command rode upon Gretzen’s stream of consciousness.
Your murderer stands before you, he who trapped your soul and forced you to strike out against your kin.

Many of the distant green eyes began to glow blue.

Gretzen bent at the waist, and Whill bore the sudden pain with grim determination. Zander was lashing out with everything he had, desperately trying to control his turning army.

“You are false!” Gretzen cried out. “You are a scourge upon the earth! You have no power here among the living!”

More eyes turned blue.

“Charge!” Zander cried out desperately.

Thousands of undead humans turned on the necromancer with gleaming blue eyes of hatred. Zander frantically ordered his loyal beasts to create a wall around him, and there he cowered as the cursed men of Uthen-Arden, Shierdon, and the dwarves of Ky’Dren tore through the dark elf and draggard undead. Even the souls swirling overhead turned on their master, for once the tortured souls had been given a chance at revenge, they lashed out with terrible wrath.

Whill stood beside Gretzen and watched as the freed spirits exacted their terrible vengeance on those who remained loyal to the Dark Lord. Zander was torn from limb to limb and devoured by the furious dwarves, elves, and men. When the battle died down, not a green eye was left in the crowd.

Whill felt Zander’s power wane and disappear. He felt also the shadow that had been watching over the battlefield retreat into the darkness. Overhead, the storm clouds disappeared completely, and shimmering stars took their place.

Whill shivered, for he had sensed in that mysterious storm a power akin to that of Kellallea’s.

“We must set them free,” said Gretzen with a look of sorrow.

Whill’s excitement and triumphant joy withered like the lands to the north. He looked out over the thousands of humans, dwarves, and elves, whose blue eyes shimmered.

“But there must be another way. We’re talking about tens of thousands of souls.”

“Yes,” said Gretzen. “Souls that need to be released.”

“But I gained the power to heal from the golden dragon Zalenlia. These people are not yet dead. I can heal them—”

“No. It is forbidden.”

“I have to try.”

“NO!” Gretzen turned on him furiously. “The dead cannot be brought back to life. That is the line that must never be crossed. Do you understand? This is the curse of our power. If you do it, you will be no different than Zander.”

Whill shook his head as he searched the legions of faces. Out of the crowd walked General Walker and Captain Marshall. The men stopped before him and saluted their king. Behind them, twenty thousand others mimicked the gesture.

“Sire, she is right,” said Marshall. “You must let us go.”

“We have done our duty,” said Walker. “Our ancestors await.”

Whill fought back burning tears. He looked out over the crowd of undead and saluted them all. Kelgar was among them, and he slammed his fist to his chest with a wide grin upon his bearded face.

Reluctantly, Whill let them go. “Rest now, champions of Agora. We will never forget what you gave so that we might know peace.”

Beside him, Gretzen spoke the words. One after another the blue eyes winked out, and the armies of men, elves, and dwarves dropped to the ground, dead.

Whill bowed his head and wept.

Whill returned to Brinn to look for survivors.

He felt numb and detached, stumbling amidst the smoldering rubble like a drunken man. There were no bodies. Even the most hideously injured had been raised by Zander’s spell. He thought of Teera, Abram, Dirk, Krentz, Ardthor the healer, Walker, Marshal, Kelgar, and Raene.

A coughing sound caught his attention, and he quickly silenced himself. The sound came from a pile of rubble to the right, near what had once been a fortress.

Again the muffled sound came from the rubble.

“Hello? Where are you?”

“Ere! Get this shite off me!”

Whill perked up. He recognized that sweet yet gruff voice.

“Raene?”

He ran to the pile of rubble and began mentally lifting the wood and stone. Dirty red hair was beneath a splintered beam. Raene peeked her squinting and dirty eyes over it. She looked to be barely clinging to life.

Whill carefully raised the slab from her crushed legs and flung it to the side. He then knelt beside the dying dwarf.

“Where be the others? Where be me brother Kelgar?” she asked through bloody teeth.

“Relax, save your strength. I can heal you,” said Whill, placing his hand on her forehead.

The power of creation surged from him and into Raene. The dwarf’s chest heaved, and her body became rigid. When the glowing blue light subsided, her legs and body had been healed completely.

She jumped up wild-eyed and jerked her head this way and that, surveying the damage.

“No…”

“I’m afraid that you are the only survivor,” said Whill, bowing his head.

“No…”

Raene dropped to her knees and stared, stunned and speechless.

Whill knelt beside her. “They died well,” he said. “In the end the dwarves of Ky’Dren and the men of Agora defeated Zander. They saved us all.”

She cried into his shoulder, and Whill watched the burning embers float away with the morning breeze.

The sun peeked out over the eastern horizon, bringing with it the promise of a better day.

Raene sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “We got them away,” she said, looking to him and trying to muster a smile. “Teera, her daughters, Krentz, Dirk, and Abram. They all made it out. Last I knew, they was headed south to Devandes.”

Whill let out a shuddering breath. He felt guilty to have such a joyous moment in front of Raene.

“Come with Gretzen and me. There is nothing left for you here,” he said.

“I cannot. I must carry the body o’ me brother back to Ky’Dren. Me brother Dwellan now be the rightful king. He need be told. The story o’ what happened here need be told.” She looked to the south beyond the city gate with tears streaming down her face. “So many dead.”

“I will send word to your cousin, Roakore. He and his silver hawk riders can help to ferry the dead. Let me bring you to Ky’Dren with Zorriaz. It is the least I can do.”

Raene gave a mirthless laugh and wiped her eyes. “Me brother the king ferried home by a dragon? Ye be out o’ yer mind? No. Send word to Roakore. I would have the silver wings of the great hawk ferry me brother home.”

“Very well,” said Whill. “I shall travel to the nearest town on my way to Devandes and have the message delivered. But won’t you come with us? You should not be alone, here, in this place of death.”

“I will not be alone. The spirits o’ me kin be watchin’ over me. Go south as ye must, King Warcrown. Do not fret over a dwarf lass. For we be just as strong as the men folk.”

“I do not doubt that, Raene o’ Ky’Dren,” said Whill with a smile. “But tell me, how is it that you survived?”

“Must o’ been Gretzen’s blessing she gave me in Volnoss. Said that it would repel Zander’s attacks.”

“I am glad it worked,” he said. “I will send word to your cousin. Look for him in the southern sky.”

He rose and offered her the dwarven solute. She returned the gesture.