The four clasped shoulders.
“But,” said Roakore, “the killing blows will be dealt by dwarves.”
“Why? Why did you kill your own brother for this…this….” Whill motioned to Eadon with a weak hand. “This madman!”
Addakon stepped forward into the torchlight, a long red cloak dragging behind him. His face, the face of his twin brother, was revealed. Whill sucked in his breath. This face, those eyes, that brown hair-Whill had seen it all before. He had seen it in a dream when he had been but seven, one of the many dreams of his parents. But his first dream of them had been real. It seemed that his powers had revealed themselves as early as that.
Addakon spoke. “Why do we do anything, ultimately?”
Whill waited. He was not about to participate in some lesson with this man. Addakon saw this in Whill’s face.
“For power!” Addakon made a fist. “Everything we do is for power. I have learned that the quest for control, be it over nature, each other, death, or others, is always fueled by a need for power.”
Whill shook his head. “No, not everything.” This time Addakon waited. “We do not love for power.”
Addakon smiled, but his voice revealed his malice. “Do we not? Do we not feel power over those we love? Do we not love the powerful?”
“Was it worth it, Addakon? Your betrayal, your tainted soul? Have you attained the great power you sought?”
“I have attained more power than any human before me.”
“You both know of the prophecy, I assume,” Whill said.
Addakon lowered his eyes and quickly raised them again. Whill saw a spark of doubt on his smug face.
“It is written that I will find the sword and destroy you, Eadon. This is written by the greatest seer that ever lived. This you cannot change.” Whill dared to say.
Eadon shrugged lazily. “I could kill you with a thought.”
“But you have not, and I know you will not, because you didn’t in Addimorda’s vision.” Whill’s mind raced. He believed he was right, he believed all of it. Somehow in this, his darkest hour, his moment of revenge, he believed for the first time that he really was the chosen one. That meant he would not die here tonight.
Addakon began to pace. “The blade of Adimorda cannot be wielded by an elf. But we can wield it, Whill, and so could your father. And after I kill you, only I will be able to wield the great power within the blade.”
“But you will not kill me. You cannot. For it has been written.”
Addakon unsheathed his sword but did not strike. “You believe it, don’t you?” Whill only smiled. “So do you.” He eyed Addakon up and down. “You fear me.” Addakon said nothing. Then Whill looked into Eadon’s unchanging eyes. “But you do not.”
Addakon erupted. “I do not fear you, boy! I will finish what I started twenty years ago this night. You are not the chosen one.”
Eadon smiled. “Yes, he is.”
Whill unsheathed his sword but did not attack. He could feel the power within, and the energy radiating from Avriel’s heartstone. It coursed through his body faster than his blood. He believed it all. He had been named by Adimorda, he alone. He would kill Addakon this night, and later, with the great sword, Eadon.
Addakon raised his hand and a red tendril shot towards Whill. Whill raised his own hand and blue tendrils of healing energy shot forth, meeting the red. Sparks lit the room like lightning as the two powers collided. Whill did not know how he was doing it, somehow he just knew what to do. Something had been awakened in him, something that had been slumbering for quite some time. Addakon screamed and sent a huge blast through the red tendrils. The blue ones were devoured and Whill was hit with a gut-wracking blow of pure pain. He hit the floor and from there extended his hand once again. From it came a blast of energy directed at Addakon. Addakon redirected it to a bookshelf, which exploded as if hit by a tornado.
Whill had risen even as the blast left him, and brought his sword down on Addakon.
It took the army nearly two hours to reach the deep lair of the Draggard queen. They entered the ancient caverns of Baz’klon. At the bottom of a stair they encountered dozens of crudely built stables filled with cows, pigs, sheep, goats, and albilos, no doubt food for the great queen. Many wounded dwarves and more than a few dead ones littered the wide hall leading to the chamber.
An elf maiden bent to see to one. Lunara, young even by human standards, was not as seasoned as the other elves, and had less tolerance for the suffering of others. She was still Ullestranna, or innocent, in the eyes of her people. It was an unspoken fact that over many years, even centuries of life, elves had to harden themselves to the pains of the world. Many elves did not reach an age of thousands of years, though they had the means; indeed, most did not live to see a millenium. They did not take their own lives, but they stopped prolonging them. Many also went into the unknown without fear, for they achieved wisdom beyond the grasp of any human, or dwarf, for that matter.
“What is your name, good dwarf?” she asked.
The dwarf, choking on blood and with closed eyes, answered, “I be Holdagozz, son o’ Holdagar. Who asks, good lady…?” He stopped mid-sentence and looked wide-eyed at Lunara. “I be dead then, and you be me godly escort to the Mountain o’ the Gods, for never on Agora have I seen anythin’ so beautiful.” He cleared his throat. “That is-have I made it into the Hall o’ the Gods?”
Lunara smiled. “No, you have not, Holdagozz, but nor are you dead.” Holdagozz frowned, and so did Lunara. “But I’m afraid you soon will be.” She looked at his chest, where two Draggard tails protruded from his armor.
“Bah this? This ain’t nothing.” Holdagozz burst into a coughing fit, and his gloved hand came away soaked in blood. He wiped his hand on his short cloak. “This is it, then. I go to me gods. Soon my deeds will be read.” He coughed again briefly and looked at his war hammer, Zlynock, forged by his great-great-grandfather seven hundred years before.
“Have I done enough?” he asked Lunara, grasping frantically at her sleeve.
“That is for your gods to answer, friend.” She looked around slyly. “Would you like to do more?”
Holdagozz ignored the blood on his lips. “I would. But I cannot.”
Lunara knelt beside him. “I am young, even for an elf. But we all have special gifts, things we are naturally better at than most. For some it is listening to the wind, or talking with birds; for others it is forging weapons or divining the universe. My gift is in healing. If you would allow me…”
“Witchery! Black crafts!” yelled Holdagozz.
Roakore pushed his way to the dying dwarf and elf lady. He addressed Lunara. “Is he demented? What is it?”
“No, his wits are with him-well, some. I simply offered to heal his wounds.”
An elf commander stepped forward. “You cannot heal every dying person you meet in war, Lunara. Your energy is priceless in times such as these.”
Roakore turned to the tall Elf. “An’ what?” Roakore demanded. “Yer thinking dirty dwarves ain’t for healin’-waste o’ energy, eh?” He stepped so close that his belly bumped the elf’s thighs.
Zerafin put a hand on each of their chests. “Stop this, please. I apologize for Shief, he must not know to whom he speaks. The dwarves in Roakore’s army are the most skilled warriors to ever come out of the stone. It would be a valuable investment into the future of this war to save any of them. I give my blessing on any healing.”
“He is right warrior,” Roakore said to Holdagozz. “If ye can be saved, ye should be. An’ ye wouldn’t be the first. I…I too have been healed by elven powers.” The army of dwarves around him sucked in their breath. “An that’s all they is are powers, too, ye buncha old ladies! Like any power, it can be used fer good or ill. These elves use ’em fer good, so quit bein a dragon’s arse, take what’s offered ye, an’ be glad ye can live to fight again.”
Roakore started off down the cavern hall. Zerafin followed close. “Well said, my good friend. I think you may have just brought our two peoples closer than anyone ever has.”