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.
No, he thought. I will not die today, not until I have passed on the information to Whill. Or Whill shall find it out through Eadon, if he can get the information from me. Zhola shuddered at the thought of the many ways Eadon would try to get the information. He knew that he would soon know pain beyond what he thought possible. He also knew that aside from death, he was equipped to survive such torture. He must surrender to Eadon and let destiny run its course. He truly had no choice.
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.
My grandchildren may not see the end of this war, Roakore thought.
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.
“The battle you wage with me, child, will not be fought with muscle nor blade. You see, your mind is the battlefield. I can take your very sanity if I choose-if you choose. Resist me and I will show you pain beyond measure, beyond reason, beyond sanity. Follow me and you may find enlightenment.”
With Eadon’s last word the pain vanished and was replaced with a mental pleasure just as intense. His body shook with spasms as his very skin, hair, and insides jolted in rapture. His mind was filled with energy, pleasure, hope, and willpower. Then Eadon released him. Whill caught his breath and raised his head. The elf lifted his hand, and in his palm sat a beautiful, swirling ball of light. Whill was mesmerized as he watched.
“Did you think her dead?”
Her? Whom did he speak of, what riddle was this? Then his breath shuddered. “What have you done?”
Eadon pocketed the swirling ball. “I have simply evened the scales. You have something I want, and now I have something-or should I say someone-you want.”
“Avriel? It isn’t possible! What have you done?”
“Her body is alive, though it is but an empty shell. You really should thank me, Whill. She meant to die with that spell. A waste, really. She did have such a way about her walk, did she not?”
Whill seethed, He wanted nothing more than to bathe in the blood of his enemy. His helplessness only fueled his rage. “I don’t believe you!”