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.
The red dragon fell faster than Whill and was soon slightly below him, coming in at him with great speed. Below him the ground rose up to crush him, and from his side the red dragon came to save him. The dragon snatched him up with its claws and pulled him in tight as it spun over and with a great thud crashed to the ground. Dust flew up into the morning sky as the dragon hit like a rock, tumbling for more than three hundred yards before coming to rest in the shadow of the Ebony Mountains.
“I see you have none powerful enough to defeat me. Shall we try the blade, then? It is so much more satisfying.” The Dark elf unsheathed his sword. “And when you reach your beloved halls, tell your gods that your army was laid waste by Farandelizon.”
“Charge!” roared Roakore. The entire army descended upon the Dark elf. In a blur of motion Farandelizon cut through their weapons, their armor, their bodies. Dozens fell in seconds. Roakore’s face hardened. The roar of his army filled his ears, accompanied by the screams of the dying. How could they fight such unnatural power? They were so close; they had reclaimed the halls, and for what? To be done in by a single Dark elf.
No! Thought Roakore. He stopped in his charge and raised his hands above him. Drawing strength from those around him-how he did not know, did not care-he focused his mind on the stalagmite above him. So large was it that forty dwarves could have circled it. With a great scream he watched as it broke from its base and fell. Those closest to Roakore felt their strength drained from them for a moment as he guided the missile towards the elf.
Farandelizon saw it coming, even as he fought the oncoming tide of dwarves, but he did not believe it. Unable to stop in his fight he could only watch as the great rock came hurtling at him, one word filling his mind as it crashed into him: How?
Whill struggled out from under the dragon’s great claws. As the dust settled he looked around, trying to spot the damned Dark elf. He saw thousands of Draggard and knew Roakore and his dwarves had been too late, the mountain had emptied already. From the coast came the blaring of a horn, the war horn of Eldalon. It was followed by the trumpets of the elves. Both were answered by the hisses and growls of the thousands of Draggard.