“You woke me from the most wonderful dream,” grumbled Rhunis as he strove to stand. Abram helped him to his feet.
“You will find it again someday, but perhaps not this day.” Abram did not smile as he looked out at the ocean. And then Rhunis remembered.
“Whill, Avriel, Zerafin-where are they? I remember being blasted into the ocean and then…and then a great explosion.”
“Yes, an explosion,” Abram repeated solemnly. “And the end of the maiden of Elladrindellia. She did what she had to do, the only thing she could to give Whill a chance at escape, like Whill’s father so many years ago.”
“What of Whill, of Zerafin?”
Just then a figure emerged from the sea, his armor blackened, his cloak in pieces. Yet he walked with strength, purpose. Abram had never seen such pain, such sorrow etched into the face of any elf in all of his days. Zerafin’s usual stoic expression had been replaced by one of misery and rage. In his strong arms lay the limp and lifeless body of his sister.
He did not speak, he did not even regard the two. He simply stopped upon the sand, dropped to his knees, and laid her down. A cry of anguish and tortured anger erupted from him, and anyone nearby would have stopped cold at the sound. One name escaped his lips, one name rang out into the heavens, a name embedded in the memory of every man and elf who lived to recall that dark day upon the beaches of Isladon. One name: Avriel, his fallen sister.
As the dust cleared and the cheers of the many dwarves transformed into a battle charge, a lone figure stood among the rubble. Farandelizon raised his arms, and with them dozens of boulders and broken rock rose into the air. With a flick he sent the boulders flying into the charging crowd of dwarves. Roakore was at the head of the charge. Seeing the stone flying towards him and his men, he raised his hands and summoned the strength of his fellows. The boulders stopped in their flight, suspended in midair.
Beyond the Dark elf the dwarves saw the great red dragon and the eagle dragon. Rage filled every last one of the battle-crazed dwarves. Here at the door of their mountain home stood not one but two dragons, and between the mighty warriors and their quarry stood one obstacle, the Dark elf. With a renewed battle cry they charged him, each one bent on killing the dragons. A seat among the gods was the reward, they knew; to die even fighting a dragon without killing it meant the gods’ favor.
Eadon saw the charge and knew the minds of the dwarves; he turned to his Draggard army. “Kill them all!”
Farandelizon could not understand the strength of this mere dwarf. He could not move the stone. It hung midair even as the crazed dwarves charged his way. He had spent a large amount of stored energy shielding himself from the giant rock that had crashed him through the mountain wall. He had steadily applied pressure to the boulders he sent flying, but the dwarf had met that strength. Indeed, even as the dwarves charged him, the stubborn dwarf king began to win the contest of wills. Farandelizon released a massive surge of energy, and still the stones did not move. Unable to withstand the great force they were under, the stones exploded into a million pieces in all directions. The Dark elf released his hold on them as he drew his sword to face the onslaught of furious dwarves. Roakore, however, did not release the stones. They changed course, bent by his will alone. As Farandelizon cut through the charging dwarves, he set his sights on the blasted dwarf King. Summoning the energy stored within his heartstone, he began to charge the dwarf. Suddenly a shadow covered him. Fighting through the dwarf army, he had not the time to stop the millions of descending stone fragments as they ripped through his body.
Abram saw Zerafin come to his feet shuddering in grief, face twisted in rage. Then he looked at the too-still figure of Avriel-saw her take breath. He rushed to her and lifted her head. “She lives, she breathes! Zerafin!”
Zerafin did not act as he should have at such news. He simply nodded. “Yes, she breathes, her body is alive, but she is not whole.” He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. Abram feared what he meant. “Eadon, somehow, the monster…”
Rhunis looked on, horrified. “What is wrong with her? What has he done?”
Zerafin looked to his beloved youngest sister through tear-blurred eyes. “He has taken her soul.”
He stood before a group of mounted elves that had just come off their boat. “I am taking this regimen under my command,” Zerafin announced. “I will need three horses.” He grabbed a hold of a nearby elf commander’s armor and pulled him close. “Take my sister to the nearest boat. Keep her safe until I return.”
The two seemed to communicate for a moment silently. Then the commander scooped Avriel up and turned back to the waters.
“What’s your plan?” Abram asked.
Zerafin pointed towards the mountain. “Eadon has caught up with Whill.”
Abram could hardly make out movement in the sky. Horses were brought, and Zerafin, Rhunis, and Abram mounted. With more than four dozen mounted elf warriors and twice as many humans following, they headed in the direction of the mountain door.
Roakore’s men poured out of the mountain to meet the charge of the Draggard. Whill watched helplessly, knowing that the dwarf army would cut through the nearby Draggard with ease. They would try to kill the red dragon; they would not understand that he was not an enemy, nor would they ever accept it anyway. He knew also that Eadon would kill every last one of them, of this fact he was sure. Eadon’s power was far too great.
He could not let this happen. For once he thought about the greater good, and realized that the best way to help in this battle would be to get Eadon out of it. And that meant full surrender.
Zerafin led the charge with Abram, Rhunis, and the might of the Eldalonian and elven armies at his back. They rode in a V-formation, creating a wedge that sliced through the Draggard army like a hot blade through butter.
A few miles away, at the door of the reclaimed mountain, Roakore’s army clashed with the Draggard. The war for Isladon had begun.
The red dragon Zhola saw the two armies meet, and he knew that he would die. If Eadon did not kill him, the dwarves certainly would. Because of their insane religious beliefs, dwarves were the only opponents dragons truly feared. The crazy little killers would fight viciously till the death, laughing all the while.
Zhola thought of Adimorda, his old friend, and the many years he had spent with the elf. Adimorda had been a true seer; he had never been wrong. This meant, Zhola knew, that his last prediction would come to pass. Whill would use the sword to defeat the Dark elves and extinguish the Draggard from the face of the world. Zhola believed it, he had to believe. He had lived the last five thousand of his six thousand years waiting to pass on the location of the blade to this mysterious Whill.
Roakore’s men crashed into the Draggard army, which consisted of legions stretching all the way back to the beaches. The mountain had been emptied. They had been too late, Roakore realized. Hundreds of thousands of Draggard had spread out into the world. Many stayed and fought, but many more had gone in all directions, a dark scaled plague let loose into the world.
Zerafin, Rhunis, and Abram led the charge through the thousands of Draggard. They were less than two miles from the mountain. Zerafin held his sword high, and from it in all directions emanated the purest, brightest light. The Draggard cringed and yelped as the beams fell upon them. None could withstand the awesome, piercing light.
Eadon strode up to Whill and looked him dead in the eye. Whill saw that around the black pools of Eadon’s eyes was a brilliant green, as if they were emerald specks. Within those orbs he also saw many millenia of life, knowledge, power. If Whill could have made a sound he would have whimpered, so humbled was he in the presence of the ancient Eadon. He felt a searing pain shoot through his head, as if ice-cold fingernails were scratching at his very brain. Depression, despair, and darkness filled his soul. Eadon leaned forward and whispered in his ear.
