Whill of Agora

the battle below. He could feel a strong pressure on his entire body and feared he would be crushed. Zerafin pushed while Eadon pulled, each getting progressively stronger as they battled over him.

Whill was on the verge of passing out when finally he felt a release. One of them had ceased; only one now held him. Zerafin lunged forward in a flash, his sword cutting through the air as Avriel screamed a spell and white light jumped from her hand and was absorbed by Zerafin’s passing blade. The glowing blade of Nifarez came straight down at Eadon’s head; in an instant Eadon produced his twin blades in a crossed block. His blades glowed black against Zerafin’s white-hot sword. Then Rhunis foolishly lunged forward with his blade. Eadon did not make a move, but yelled so loudly that it was deafening to Whill, who remained in the invisible grasp. The power of that yell was like an explosion in the air around him. Rhunis was blown off his feet and over the side of the ship, as was Abram. Avriel held strong her white energy that flowed into her brother’s blade, Zerafin held fast his sword, and Eadon held Whill in place, keeping the force of the two elves at bay.

Avriel’s and Zerafin’s faces were twisted in concentration. Eadon wore a grin, the look of a predator. Then he closed his eyes and began to shudder. Avriel screamed. The white light that emanated from her and into Zerafin’s blade grew brighter and more intense. Zerafin growled as he tried to pull his blade away from Eadon. Whill did not want to believe what he was seeing, but he knew that Eadon was somehow absorbing all of their power.

I love you, Whill. The words came into his mind as the tears came to his eyes.

The deafening spell that ripped through the night and through Whill’s very being was the same spell his father had used to save him nineteen years before. Avriel brought down her blade into Whill’s ship, and the resounding explosion was blinding. A flash of the purest white light was followed by a fireball of flame that had been the Celestra, followed by a wave as the ocean quickly refilled the hole that had been made.

Throughout the destruction, Whill was untouched by the fire, but he felt a shift in the energy that gripped him. The Celestra exploded around him and the flames and debris shot toward him, but he was unscathed. As the flames receded and the waters took their place, whatever held him let go. He fell through the air, screaming in despair not at his own fate, but of Avriel’s.

Suddenly he was caught by a huge claw.

The rumbling that shook the mountain subsided and every dwarf stood at attention. A horn blew from within the old ghost city of the dwarves and the great doors opened. Before them waited a group of no more than ten thousand, when they had expected ten times that many. No one waited for an explanation. As one they charged into the ranks of the Draggard army. Axes met spears, hammers met scales. The two armies came together, but the dwarves would not be slowed. The front line did not falter. A dwarf force the likes of which no army had ever seen plowed through the Draggard like a scythe through wheat. The Draggard lost their momentum altogether as their forces began to unravel. Those close to the back caves tried to run in retreat, while those unfortunate beasts at the front fell one after another. Hatchets rained down into the ranks, four for every dwarf not in direct battle. Draggard groans and screams of anguish echoed sickeningly throughout the cavern. Within a half an hour the army had been routed, and dwarf troops had already begun flushing the tunnels.

Roakore raised his arm and with a triumphant roar shouted the name of his father. The victory cry was taken up by the thousands of dwarves around him. He yelled the name again, his arm pumping the air.

“Hail, King Roakore!” shouted someone from the crowd, and the cry was taken up by all.

Roakore waited until the cheering had subsided, and then lifted his hands. “My good dwarves, the fight has just begun. He who brings me the head of the Draggard queen will be a dwarf of legend.”

A cheer rose up in response. But it died and all heads turned as a slow but powerful clapping echoed throughout the chamber. Roakore turned with the others towards the destroyed mountain door. There, sitting upon a boulder, was a smiling, clapping, armor-clad Dark elf.

Whill let out a scream of anguish as he was carried into the dawn sky. The red dragon’s grip was firm, but not crushing. He looked down upon the sight of his destroyed ship and the dark waters, now home to his dead friends. He screamed in anguish once again, his outstretched hand clawing at the air.

“Let me down, damn you, I have to go back! They need me!” Whill beat pointlessly upon the thick scales. “Goddamn you, beast, let me go!”

The dragon responded with a growl, low and guttural, and continued to fly higher.

Below him Whill could see that both the human and elven armies had begun storming the beaches, and beyond them, shadowed by the Ebony Mountains, burned the town of Drindale. The landscape was that of his dream, in vivid, terrifying clarity. What remained of the Isladon army fought hopelessly against the tides of Draggard that had emptied from the mountain. Thousands upon thousands stormed the beaches, but thousands more Draggard waited, a black army in the morning sunrise.

“Roakore, is it not?” the Dark elf inquired as his clapping ended and echoed throughout the great chamber. “This is the part where I tell you to surrender peacefully, you spit in my face and say something valiant, and then we fight. Am I right?”

Roakore remembered the Dark elf they had encountered in the forest, how he had sent his own weapon flying back at him with only a thought. Many o’ me men’ll fall to this one.

“I am Roakore, son o’ the fallen king o’ the Ro’Sar mountains. I reclaim these halls, as is my birthright. And you, Dark elf, are trespassing.”

“Ha! You do not-”

“I ain’t done speaking, boy! Yer people have brought this scourge upon me doors, murdered our families, taken our home. I wage war this day, and I speak fer every dwarf who ever lived when I say that from this day forth ye shall be hunted, and ye shall be exterminated from this world. The Dark elves have wronged the wrong people. And it starts with yer death!”

With these last words a dwarf broke from the ranks and charged the Dark elf. Raising his war hammer with a great howl he charged in, only to be lifted by an invisible force and slammed into the ceiling with a loud thud. As he fell, many more charged at once. The elf did not flinch, he did not move. Still they came, barreling at him, weapons held high, more than thirty dwarves. They were not more than ten feet away and still the Dark elf did not move, not until the last second. Then Roakore watched in horror as the elf brought back his hand as if to punch someone in the stomach and punched at the air before him with an open palm. A wave of energy blasted from him, engulfing the charging dwarves and sending them flying backwards. Roakore’s army watched in awestruck horror as the bodies of the dwarves disintegrated into dust before their eyes, their very life force ripped from their bodies and mingling with the light of the force field. The Dark elf dropped his hand and the energy field retracted into it. He bent in ecstasy, his eyes rolled back, and his body shuddered as he gave out the kind of moan usually only heard by a lover. The armor and weapons of thirty dwarves fell to the floor.

Whill was overcome with grief. He pounded the dragon’s leg in a rage. Then behind him he glimpsed a flash of silver. It was Eadon and his eagle dragon. His mind filled with rage; he saw the faces of the many dead who had fallen because of this Dark elf-his parents, the dwarves of the Ebony Mountain, the people of Sherna, men, women, children, Abram, Rhunis, Zerafin…and Avriel. He thought his head might explode from the pressure, the agony, the torment. Pain wracked his mind, his body; his very soul was aflame. All sense left his mind and only one thought remained within that ocean of misery it had become. Revenge.

The red dragon had noticed Eadon and dove swiftly as a ball of fire flew past, barely missing them. Eadon’s mount easily maneuvered to keep up, even gain on them. There was a terrible shout that cracked the sky like thunder, and the red dragon was hit with a shockwave of energy that blew it with great force to the side, causing it to roll and tumble through the air and drop Whill. As Whill fell, he did not feel fear, only rage that he would die this way, without a chance to exact his revenge. But no, his chance came. Eadon’s mount dove after his, its great silver wings tucked in tightly. It ripped through the air unnaturally fast-or was Whill being pulled up towards it? He reached for his father’s sword. The red dragon, apparently forgotten, slammed into Eadon and his mount. The two great beasts tumbled through the air, claws ripping, teeth biting as they tried to get a hold of the other’s neck.

A sudden blast of fire separated the two. The ground was almost upon him as Whill watched the battle above. The red dragon fell like a rock, smoke and blood trailing behind him like a comet’s tail as he descended with extended wings. As Whill rocketed towards the ground, he knew he had only seconds to live. In his mind burned the faces of the dead, and he gave in to the darkness, sweet, silent, endless darkness.