Champions of the Gods (33 page)

“Why would you agree to such a thing?” said Avriel when she thought they were alone.

Whill shook his head slowly, and an unspoken acknowledgment passed between them—Kellallea could be listening at any moment.

“I love you,” said Whill. “And therefore I shall fight the Lord of Darkness and Death. It may be true what she says. Perhaps I am the only one who can stop him. Perhaps it is my true destiny.”

She kissed him softly. “My memory returned along with my power. I’m so sorry I treated you the way I did after—”

“Worry of that no more,” said Whill. “It is enough that I finally have you back with me. I have missed you so.”

“And I you. That is why I’m going with you.”

“What?”

“She said the winter solstice. That is over five months from now. I will have had our child by then. I’m going with you to Drindellia.”

“Avriel…”

“I’m not asking, my love.”

“No,” said Whill sternly, moving away from her, but then he turned back suddenly, shaking his head. “You must remain with our child. Avriel, I shall not return from this quest.”

She began to protest, but he held her firmly by the arms. “There is no other way! I have given her my word, and it is that word which protects you.”

“How can you accept this so easily?” she asked, on the verge of breaking down.

“I have had to accept many things. If I can ensure your safety and the safety of our child, and indeed, the entire world, then I will do it gladly. Let us enjoy what time we have. And speak no more of such fantasies.”

Avriel looked into Whill’s eyes, trying to determine his sincerity.

He dared not give her anything. Though it pained him to do so, he remained firm, resolute. He had no intentions of taking up the Dark Lord’s mantle, though he knew not how it might be avoided. He had spoken the truth. If it came to it, he would give himself for Agora, for Avriel and his child, gladly. Still, his mind was already churning, trying to work out the problem at hand. He had nearly six months to do it, and so he took his own advice and sought to enjoy what time he had.

Whill awoke with Avriel in his arms. They lay tangled in a mess of silk sheets on a bed beside the balcony, overlooking the gardens and city beyond. In the east the sun had just peeked out over the sleepy horizon, hazy and scarlet. The remnants of night slowly yielded to the heavenly beacon as it ushered in a new day. Their slow and silent battle played out in streaking hues of pink and gold that pierced the ink-blue night and sent it chasing black shadows to the west. Birds sang and chirruped their gossip, darting past the open way to the balcony, where swaying curtains told of an unsure wind.

The two lovers lingered long in the bed beside the balcony. Whill wanted nothing more than to remain in Avriel’s arms forever. He had been so lost without her the last seven months. Now that she had regained her memory, now that she was truly herself, he never wanted to let her go.

He let go of the thoughts of the terrors that he would surely face in Drindellia, and spent the morning making love and making memories. They laughed together, reminiscing on their previous adventures together. Like a new couple who has just confessed their love, they recited the experience of their first meeting, and how each had been enamored with the other. Long into the afternoon they lay there, foregoing food and drink for the warmth of their naked bodies and the lull of the warm summer breeze.

The afternoon crept by and made way for the night, and still they did not leave the sanctuary of Avriel’s quarters. Maidens in waiting inquired every few hours of their needs, but each time Avriel sent them away with no instructions. Whill and Avriel spent another night together, wanting for nothing more than the present moment.

Whill slept lightly, if at all. His mind brought him back often to that dark place that was his fated future. Every time he thought of it, he held Avriel a little tighter and rubbed her stomach with slow caresses, wondering of the child that she carried. He knew that he would at least see it born. But would he see it grow? Would he leave behind a fatherless child, left to bear the legacy of his father?

It was all too familiar to Whill.

“Let your mind be at ease, my love,” said Avriel, turning in the embrace to kiss his lips.

In her arms, his fears and apprehension melted away to give way for hope and light and love.

Another morning greeted them with brilliant light and birdsong. This time when the maidens inquired, Avriel asked for a large breakfast of quale eggs and rich golden bread, elderberry juice and tea as well.

The maidens brought not only that, but also the first fruits of the season, which had grown fat and ripened since her blessing of the fields.

They ate to their heart’s content and remained in bed until noon, when the bright sun turned the air thick and duty gnawed through Whill’s resolve to hide away from the world.

“There is much work to be done in the north,” he said, finally rising from the comfort of the silk sheets.

Avriel remained in bed, draped with fabric that left enticing gaps and hints of warm flesh beneath. “Must we? So soon? Let the world care for its own problems for a few more hours.”

“Would that I could,” said Whill. “But our allies need us. Agora needs us. Come with me north. There is still much work to do, and I would not see another drop of mortal blood fall to the wretched undead who still roam the land.”

“Very well,” said Avriel. “But when it is through, you are mine.”

“You’ve got a deal, m’lady,” said Whill, smiling.

Whill and Avriel flew north and led the Uthen-Arden and Elladrindellian forces into Shierdon. For three weeks the combined forces of Eldalon, Uthen-Arden, Ky’Dren, Ro’Sar, Elgar, Volnoss, and Elladrindellia fought to take back Shierdon.
The Eldalonian army had had some time to regroup during the seven months since the fall of Eadon, and along with the Ky’Dren dwarves they took western Shierdon. The Uthen-Arden forces, along with the Ro’Sar dwarves and the elves of Elladrindellia, sacked Belldon Island and continued northeast to the center of the kingdom. There they were met by Gretzen and her barbarians. The Elgar dwarves made short work of the undead remaining in eastern Shierdon, and the many armies converged on the last remaining city, Bearadon.

Mist no longer hung thick about the kingdom. Whill and Avriel had used their power to clean the lake and its many tributaries, and now the Eardon River ran clear and clean once more. With Zander went the creeping death that had plagued the land and withered the crops. The land was recovering, helped along by Whill and Avriel where they could. But Shierdon was a large kingdom, and much more work needed to be done. The land would not be the same for years.

The celebration in Bearadon went on for more than a week. In that time, the Treaty of Northern Agora was ratified, and the signatures of King Carlsborough of Eldalon and King Du’Krell of Elgar were added with the others.

Whill watched the merrymaking from the window of a high tower in his temporary chambers at the center of the city. Soon the many armies would part ways, leaving the barbarians to tend to the land. Gretzen had admitted that with the summer already waning, the barbarians would likely return to Volnoss, where they had the necessary provisions to survive the winter. Come spring, however, they would travel south and begin to settle Northern Shierdon.

King Du’Krell of Elgar had been stubborn about signing the treaty and acknowledging the barbarians. Two entire days had been spent negotiating his demands, one being that any barbarian found within ten miles of Elgar could be killed on the spot. Through all of it, Whill remained patient—indeed, he was surprised that Du’Krell had even considered signing the treaty at all.

“Sire, King Roakore wishes to see you—”

“Ye decent, lad?” Roakore yelled as he pushed past the guard.

The man looked angrily at Roakore, but Whill waved him off not unkindly.

“We be settin’ out in the mornin’,” said Roakore, raising a bottle of whiskey. “Thought we’d have a few drinks. Ain’t no tellin’ when we be seein’ each other next.”

“There is still much to do,” said Whill. He found two glasses at the former lord’s bar and laid them down on a small table on the balcony, where Roakore joined him.

“Aye,” said Roakore. “Now the real rebuildin’ can begin. Finally, the threat be over.”

He poured them each a glass and clanged his against Whill’s.

“To peace in Agora…at long last.”

“To peace in Agora,” said Whill.

Roakore sat back and watched the celebration at the center of town. Shierdon had little to offer in the form of food, but that mattered not. The armies were followed by long wagon trains of supplies. Kegs had been tapped in the city square, and long tables had been set out. Recently the weather had been quite agreeable. It had not rained in more than a week, and the nights were warm. Still, a large fire blazed down in the square. Dwarves, humans, elves, and barbarians dined and drank together, sharing songs and tales of glory.

“Even the barbarians be takin’ part,” said Roakore with a snicker.

“Yes. It is good to see. I hope that it lasts.”

“Aye,” said Roakore. “It’ll last ‘till it doesn’t. What you got planned now that it’s all over?”

Whill didn’t want to spoil the mood with the news of his promise to Kellallea and what he had yet to face. He hadn’t told Roakore yet; he hadn’t told anyone for that matter.

“What is it?” Roakore asked, never one to miss a trick.

“I intend to marry Avriel,” said Whill.

Roakore slapped his knee and sat up straight. “Did ye ask her yet?” he asked, wringing his hands.

“Not yet,” Whill admitted. “But I think that she will agree.”

“Ye ain’t worried no more ‘bout what people be sayin’? Ye know that Uthen-Arden ain’t goin’ to be allowin’ a half-elf heir.”

“I do not intend to remain king.”

“Aye? What’s this ye be sayin’? Ain’t gonna be king?”

“No offense, Roakore, and this has nothing to do with your culture, but I think it is time to give the people a choice in the matter. It works well with dwarven culture, but I think the time has come for Uthen-Arden rulers to be chosen by the people.”

“They have chosen ye, and they would again,” said Roakore.

“You may be right, but if I am the only option, what choice do they really have? Human kingdoms are ruled by kings and lords. The common man has no chance to become something more. They are drowned in taxes. They break their backs so that a few families can live like kings. I would see the people liberated. I’m going to change everything, Roakore.”

Roakore shook his head and tipped back his whiskey. “Good luck to ye, lad. I can’t imagine what kind o’ system ye got in mind or how it might work, but if anyone can figure it out, I think it be ye.”

“Thank you.”

“I can see where yer mind might be. It ain’t easy bein’ king. I often find meself wishin’ I didn’t have these responsibilities, and I ain’t been king much longer than ye.”

“It isn’t that, well, not all of it. The people have been through enough. I cannot risk someone like Addakon coming to power in the future simply because he is the heir.”

In the morning the dwarves and elves left Bearadon and began the long trek home. Whill’s army would be departing as well, along with the soldiers of Eldalon. After saying many farewells, he set out with Avriel upon Zorriaz.

The march home would take nearly two weeks, but they were in no hurry. It had been a month since the fall of Zander and Reshikk, and with only four months left before he had to set out, Whill intended on enjoying his time with Avriel.

They stopped at many of the towns and villages along the way to Del’Oradon, healing those who needed healing and helping the crops to grow.

A week from Del’Oradon, Whill finally asked Avriel for her hand in marriage. He had intended on waiting until they had reached the city, but Whill found himself impatient.

Whill sat on a cliff beside the rushing Eardon River a few miles south of Locknar. He and Avriel had bathed together in a shallow pool formed eons ago, which sat in a shadowy edge of the gorge among creeping vines and the reaching roots of tall trees. She stood naked in the sun, her growing belly now beginning to show clearly.

“I love you, Avriel.”

She turned to glance at him mischievously, with mock skepticism. “You love me when I’m naked.”

“This is true,” he said with a laugh and pulled her gently to lie beside him on the quilt spread across the soft moss. “I love you clothed as well…just not as much.”

She laughed and gave him a playful slap.

They made love beside the rushing river as the day slowly waned. When night came, they cooked over fire and enjoyed a meal of fish that had been easily caught from the river with magic. Avriel sang him a song of love as he drank wine and stared at the stars shimmering in the clear night sky. Whill tried to take it all in, tried to be present for every fleeting moment, knowing that soon such memories might be all that he had left.

He thought of the child that she carried, wanting nothing more than to announce it to the world—climb to the rooftops and confess his love to all who would hear. He took her hands and held her in his gaze.

“What is it, Whill?” Avriel asked, meeting his gaze with one that melted his heart.

“Marry me,” he suddenly blurted out. “Marry me in Del’Oradon, the home of my father.”

“Whill…” she began to shake her head.

“Avriel, I might not return from Drindellia. I would spend my last months as your husband.”

“You do not have to face Eldorian alone.”

“Marry me,” he said, clutching her hands. “I do not know what the future brings. All I know is that I love you and our child like I have loved no others. We are meant to be together.”

Avriel smiled as her tears broke. She nodded agreement.

“Yes?” Whill’s heart leapt.

“Yes!” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. “Yes, I will marry you. A thousand times yes!”

He pulled her close and kissed her long. Together they fell back on the warm quilt wrapped in each other’s arms.

Overhead, the moon flirted with the passing clouds.

Soon it would mark the winter solstice.