The Dark elf fell quiet as Zerafin mentally pulled his sword from the Dark elf’s throat, took hold of it in his remaining hand, and hewed the Dark elf’s head, all in an instant. Whill fell to the ground in a heap next to a dying Avriel. Zerafin quickly extended his hand toward the elf’s body. It erupted into flames so white-hot that had Whill not shielded his face, it would have blistered his skin. The pyre burned on as Zerafin poured forth great amounts of energy to incinerate the Dark elf until not even ashes remained.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The sight was a bloody one. More than twenty dead Draggard littered the ground, along with nearly a dozen Draquon. Roakore was still out cold, though Whill could see his chest heave slightly as he breathed. Rhunis coughed violently, his throat having been nearly crushed. Zerafin bled profusely from his severed hand, and Avriel lay upon the ground, close to death.
Whill’s pain had subsided as soon as the Dark elf had died. Now he looked upon the elf maiden whom he now knew he had grown to love in such a short time. Abram was already tending to Roakore, who had awakened and was trying to stand.
Whill took Avriel in his arms and looked into her beautiful eyes. She coughed and blood flew from her lips. He felt something inside him tear at the sight of the dying elf. Rage welled within him as he watched her slowly slipping away. Tears welled in his eyes.
“Give me….” Her voice was so soft that Whill hardly heard her.
“What?” he asked. “Give you what.?”
“My sword,” she whispered.
Whill moved to find it, but then he saw Zerafin standing next to them, Avriel’s sword in hand. Whill took it from him and placed it in Avriel’s bloody hand. Zerafin placed his hand on his shoulder.
“You should step back.”
Avriel took the blade in both hands and placed it upon her chest. Instantly she seemed more aware as she closed her eyes and wrapped herself in bright blue tendrils of healing energy.
“The wounds are grave,” Zerafin said. “It shall take a moment. But she will be alright.”
Whill looked at Zerafin’s bloody stump. “And you-can you heal such a wound?”
Zerafin laughed. If he felt any pain he did not show it. “I could actually grow another if I needed. But simply reconnecting the original will take far less energy.”
Whill could not shake the feeling that he was caught up in a strange dream as he helped Zerafin wash dirt from his dismembered hand. He watched the elf press it to his bloody wrist. The same blue tendrils encircled it.
Whill left the elves to their healing and rushed over to check on Roakore. Abram was trying to keep the stubborn dwarf from trying to get up.
“Let me up, ye damned fool, I don’t need no healing! I don’t need no help!”
Abram cursed the dwarf. “Every rib on his left side is broken, and one must have punctured his lung, for he is coughing blood. Still the fool refuses the elves’ help and insists he is alright.”
Roakore lay growling under Abram’s restraining arms. Whill shrugged. “Let him up, then. He says he is alright, and so he must be.” He winked to Abram on the sly. “Give the good dwarf his dignity.”
Abram let go and Roakore got to his feet with much effort but not a sign of discomfort. He shoved Abram weakly. “At least the lad has some sense!”
The three walked back to the fire and were shocked to see Zerafin and Avriel waking a sleepy-eyed Tarren. Roakore addressed Abram out of the side of his mouth. “I thought ye said they was both badly wounded.”
Abram looked down at the dwarf’s left side. “They are excellent healers, as you know.”
“I’ll ready the damned horses,” Roakore huffed, and stormed off.
Abram looked on, worried, as Whill watched Avriel’s every move. His visual scrutiny was cut short as Tarren woke and gave a shout upon seeing the many dead Draggard.
“Shh, it’s alright, Tarren. They are all dead.” Avriel stroked his head.
Tarren pushed her hand aside and made a disappointed face. “Aw, you let me sleep through it! I wish I could have seen it-what happened? Did they breathe fire like dragons, did those other ones really fly, did-?”
“There will be time for questions on the road,” said Whill. “We still have a long ride, and we must leave now.”
“Not until we have destroyed the remains,” Zerafin said. The elves went to work incinerating the corpses with a word and a raised hand.
The others broke down camp quickly and doused the fire. As they walked the horses to the road, Avriel came up next to Whill, who was ahead of the others.
“I am alright,” she said. “Thank you for your help.”
“I did nothing.”
Avriel raised an eyebrow. “Really? Did you not care?”
“Yes, of course I did! I-”
“You did care-you cared enough to cry, and for that I thank you. You are a good friend, Whill of Agora.”
He was at a loss for words. He was not embarrassed that she had seen him cry, but rather overjoyed that she had called him friend. He said the only thing that came to his mind.
“As are you, Avriel of Elladrindellia.”
She smiled brightly at him and slowed to walk alongside her brother, who now had the overexcited Tarren as a passenger. Whill guided the group the rest of the way to the road with the widest smile he had ever known.
Soon the sun began to rise in the east, sending red, orange, and purple light dancing through the thin clouds. The group had more than two days to Kell-Torey, but they traveled now at a much faster pace than previously. They knew now that they were being followed, and an attack from behind could come at any time, or an ambush from ahead. That being so Zerafin rode a quarter-mile ahead of the group, and Rhunis a quarter-mile behind.
They traveled in this manner for seven hours, keeping the horses at a steady trot. Finally Zerafin stopped and let the others catch up to him.
“The horses need a rest, as do we all, short one though it will be.”
Abram dismounted with a groan and walked over to Roakore’s pony. The dwarf was taking long, labored breaths and sat slumped against his pony’s mane.
“How is he?” asked Whill.
Abram gave Roakore a small shove, but the dwarf did not move. “He is asleep.”
“He is badly hurt?”
“Yes, but the fool will not ask for help. If he were on his deathbed he would not ask for healing. Not from the elves.”
Whill lit up. “Not from the elves, aye.” He walked over to Zerafin but found him busy answering Tarren’s many questions of the battle. He searched for Avriel and found her not far away, kneeling by a small brook, filling her water pouch. He kneeled down next to her and dipped his own empty pouch in the cold water.
“I ask a favor.”
Avriel tied off her pouch. “And what would that be?”
Roakore is badly hurt. But he is very stubborn. For whatever reason, he will not ask or consciously accept you or your brother’s help. Stupid, I know,” he added, worried that she might take offense.
Avriel laughed. “No, no, not stupid. The dwarves are a stubborn bunch, that much is true. But it serves them well. Without such will, they could not have achieved all that they have. They are tough as stone, as they say.” She leaned in closer, as if divulging a secret. Whill’s throat went dry. “But deep, deep inside, they are like any of us. They feel love, pain, and fear.”
They stood. “So,” Avriel said. “You want me to help you heal Roakore?”
Whill was once again amazed by the elves’ perception. “Yes. I mean, I healed Tarren on my own, but of course in my own healing I needed your help. What I mean is I think that I can do this. I need to do this.”