The red dragon’s huge chest heaved as it choked on the dust. Blood stained the ground as it coughed. It had broken a wing and had many bloody injuries upon its body, including a bone that had broken through the scales of its right front leg.
“Eadon comes,” the red dragon growled. “He will kill us both. I have failed.”
Whill unsheathed his father’s sword. “Let him come.”
The red dragon lifted himself to his hind legs and breathed heavily and roared, belching flame above Whill’s head. “Fool! You face your death and care not. You, the great Whill spoken of in Adimorda’s prophecy! You are a sniveling weakling. Already your emotions consume you; already you walk in the darkness. You are not worthy of the knowledge of the sword of Adrominda. Better it never be found.”
“The sword!” Whill exclaimed. “You know where it is?”
“I know, and no other ever will. The knowledge will go with my death.”
“Tell me where it is! You must, it is the only way I may stop Eadon!”
A puff of smoke issued from the great red dragon. “Stop Eadon, you? You cannot even stop yourself! You are but a child, a mortal child wrapped up too much in your own ego. You think you have seen pain? You think you know suffering? No, child, you know nothing. I had hope for you. I had dreamed.” The dragon lifted its head as Eadon landed less than one hundred yards away. Hundreds of Draggard had come to join their master, and they now circled them.
“I see now my own folly,” the dragon went on. “Adimorda was mistaken. You are not worthy. And now I face my death. I will not live to see the darkness that will spread across this land, but you…”
Eadon approached without sword drawn, a victorious smirk upon his face. Whill did not even bother to take up a battle stance.
“Let us end this,” he said in a resigned voice.
Eadon stopped ten feet from him. The red dragon rose proudly to his full height behind Whill.
Eadon smiled brightly. “End? Now why on earth would I want to kill you, Whill? I have waited so very long to meet you. End? No, I think not, my apprentice. This is but the beginning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Whill’s blood went cold. Everything had gone horribly wrong. He was supposed to be on his way to Elladrindellia to train with the elves. Now his friends were all dead and he was cornered. Apprentice, Eadon had said. Apprentice! Death seemed a sweet refuge to what would await him at the hands of this maniac. How could this be happening? He had to think of something, but there was nothing he could do. No one was coming to his rescue this time. No elf warriors, no burly dwarves, no mysterious dragon. He was alone.
“You are speechless,” Eadon mused. “I understand. It is a great honor I offer you. I will forgive your rude behavior.”
“Honor? You know nothing of honor!” The red dragon let out a roar as he descended upon Whill, huge teeth meant to engulf him. With a quick thrust of his arm Eadon sent a shockwave of energy at the beast, sending it flying backwards more than twenty feet, along with Whill. Before Whill realized what had happened, Eadon stood before them once again.
“No, my old friend, I will not let you kill my young apprentice. He has many great things to do before his life is through.”
The red dragon tried to kill me, Whill realized as he looked into the ancient dragon’s eyes. They were filled with fear, pain, and pity, but not for itself. The dragon had tried to end his life in an attempt to spare him. Now Whill knew fear; now he truly knew despair.
“I will heal you, dragon, and you will accompany me and our young friend here,” said Eadon.
Now the dragon’s look of fear and pity were for he himself. Flames erupted from its maw and deflected harmlessly to each side of Eadon, who looked truly amused. “Kill me and be done with it!” The dragon roared in Elvish
“No, old friend, I know your secret. I know who you are. You alone have knowledge of a certain artifact that I have waited many, many years to acquire. You will come with us.” Eadon raised his palm to the dragon and blue tendrils of healing energy shot out and engulfed it.
The dragon roared as its bone snapped back into place and its wing healed. Just as quickly as it had started, the healing was through, and Eadon showed no sign that it had taxed his power. The dragon roared and thrashed, and flames shot forth from its mouth. They were harmlessly deflected from Whill and Eadon’s path.
“Enough from you, beast! You have lost! You will only achieve greater pain should you choose to defy me!”
Then from behind them came a great explosion as a massive piece of rock smashed through the side of the mountain. The cheers of thousands of dwarves echoed forth.
Rhunis drifted into darkness, sweet, silent, engulfing darkness. His pain and worry were no more; he could rest now. He had been here before, in the cold embrace of this lover, death. From the distance came the sounds of battle, the ocean waves and screams of the dying. No more were these things his concern. No more.
Something slammed into his chest, and again, and a voice. Why couldn’t they leave him in peace? “Rhunis!” Again there came a slam to his chest, the bliss replaced by pain, the silence with screams. “Rhunis!”
Rhunis coughed up seawater as someone turned him onto his side and patted him on the back. The sights and sounds came rushing back to assault his senses. “Rhunis!”
He swatted at his rescuer and struggled to sit up. A strong hand helped him. “Rhunis, my friend, I thought you for dead.”
He caught his breath and spat. Shaking his head he looked towards the voice, the voice of Abram. They were on the beach. Water lapped up at their feet as an army of both elf and human soldiers stormed the beaches around them.
“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.