Demoweir's Rise (Great War Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  Demoweir’s

  Rise

  __________

  Michael Benningfield

  Demoweir’s Rise

  Copyright © 2016 by Michael Benningfield

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

  Cover Artwork courtesy of Michele Cornelius.

  (http://www.123rf.com/profile_mscornelius)

  Dedication

  This is for all of you who spurred me on during the downtimes of my first novel, Dwarf. You pushed me, refused to let me make excuses, and helped me finish ahead of schedule. For that, I say thank you.

  I also owe a very special thank you to author Marcus De Storm for his moving foreword in Dwarf; as well as his encouragement to always keep writing. Lastly, to Brad Meltzer (yeah, THAT Brad Meltzer) who was always kind enough to respond to emails, answer questions, and push me onward toward my goal. Your unwavering support of a person you hardly know whose writings you had never read before, were a perfect spark to keep trudging ahead. Not only are you a great author, but you’ve shown more than once that you are indeed a great man of principle, and for your kind words to your friendly tweets of support for my book, I say thank you. I hope we meet someday and exchange book signatures.

  Enjoy book two, everyone. This one is for you all.

  “Templars of steel - we came here to win

  Never will kneel - we never give in

  This is our deal - the future 'n' past

  Built to last”

  -HammerFall-

  Prologue

  Over a month had passed since the ships filled with cyclopses landed upon the shores of Megh Borim. Fogrolir, leading many excursions as close to their ranks as possible without detection, kept a watchful eye on the beings from another land, just waiting for any signs of an attack. Elves disembarked from ships, and they all looked the same, from the tips of their heads to the soles of their feet; it was impossible to tell them apart from one another. It shook Fogrolir to his very core.

  Every few days Fogrolir would have a Storm Rider fly over the encampments in plain sight. He hoped the task would give pause to the cyclopses. He needed the beasts to be wary of attacking; for he knew his men stood little chance against such beings as those one-eyed monsters.

  Today, he would pass over the troops as opposed to sending another to do it. He longed to be on the backside of a dragon once more, and Mersoth needed to keep her wings sturdy. He climbed into his harness and locked himself in. Mersoth did not say a word, as these days were more somber than any days had ever been before. He pushed down on the foot stirrups and waited for them to loop over his boots and lock-in. The left foot locked immediately. The right foot, however, did not respond to the pushing motion.

  “Hmm. Mersoth, remind me to have that stirrup looked into when we arrive back in Thirndor.” He did not like having to fly without both feet being locked in, though there was no real danger to having one foot loose in the saddle.

  With Mersoth’s reins in one hand and her guiding harness in the other, he whistled softly, and the dragon rose into the air. It was still early morning – the crisp cold air made the leader of the Storm Riders smile; fall had arrived just days before, and it was his favorite time of year. As they rose higher into the sky, Fogrolir tugged slightly to his left; Mersoth responded by banking sharply upward and to the left – she rolled over completely, pushed ahead with her wings to gather speed, and then promptly tucked them back at her side. Her form tightly spiraled as she continued to roll through the air, climbing higher, until at last she leveled out and spread her wings; the wind pushed beneath her, and she let out a roar that echoed through the air for miles.

  In spite of their current situation, Fogrolir smiled. He longed for days to come again in which war was no longer an issue. He wished nothing more than to ride a dragon and feel like he and the beast were one – inseparable at their core. Hearing Mersoth’s roar reminded him that even these beasts have feelings, and he intended on making sure they lived a peaceful life, even if it meant giving his own in their stead.

  As the sun rose in the north, its rays broke through the hazy sky, illuminating Mersoth’s spectacularly colored midnight blue body. She reveled in the warmth of the rays as they meshed with the cold air; it was a feeling she loved more than anything else.

  “Shall we see what our friends are up to on this morning?” Fogrolir asked.

  “Yes,” she finally spoke, “we shall see indeed.”

  Circling high above the bluffs of Megh Borim, Mersoth scouted the area. She saw the same thing she saw every time she passed the cyclops camps: a small army of elves that never changed appearance, and hundreds of one-eyed beasts at the ready. She relayed her sightings to her rider as always, and they continued to circle above the troops.

  After a bit, Fogrolir signaled for her to begin her descent so he could get a closer look while ensuring the invaders below could clearly see them. Mersoth responded accordingly, and moments later, they were within range of the naked eye. Just as they circled back across the waters edges one last time, Fogrolir saw something that grabbed his attention: Skinders - hundreds of them, exiting one of the ships.

  “That is not okay,” he said, “not good at all.”

  “What are those, sire?”

  “Bad news, Mersoth – those creatures are dreadful news. Skinders are skilled machinists. The best I have ever seen. They take things that should not work together and make them work together. Skinders have landed on our shores. Only the gods know what they have in tow, but it will not be good. Cyclopses kill with brute force; Skinders kill with cunning and diversion. We must return to Thirndor.”

  Mersoth arced through the air and headed toward Thirndor, uncertain of just how bad the situation was becoming. From the ground, a Skinder watched the pair patiently as they flew over, taking notes and drawing symbols. Soon, they would invade, and her job was to ensure they were successful. She had a plan in store for the mighty dragons of Umuosmar - a plan to kill them all.

  1

  Fogrolir and Mersoth made it back to Thirndor in what felt like no time at all. As they saw the colored banners of the city, Mersoth dipped downward to gather speed for her final approach toward the streets. She swooped into the town, surrounded by mountains, and landed softly on the cobblestoned road.

  Fogrolir unbuckled himself from his harness, hopped off the dragon’s backside, and immediately sought out one of the scouts.

  “Grab a harness, ready a dragon, and get to Hegh Thurim. When you arrive, find Skalmaena and inform her that we need the army here immediately. No delays! Now go!” The scout wasted no time finding a harness and fitting it to an emerald green dragon. Fogrolir looked over his shoulder at the dragon and, speaking non-verbally, gave her instructions to be kind to the rider. The dwarf was not a dragon rider, and Fogrolir knew dragons like to scare the dwarves, who are leery of such beasts, though today there was no time for play.

  “Fogrolir, we are glad to have you back home safely.” Vulred Helethorn approached the dwarf and extended his hand. Reaching for the hand and shaking it, Fogrolir returned the pleasantries.

  “Any news of our cyclops entourage and their friends?” he asked.

  “They stay the same, still sitting and waiting. However, the cyclopses are no longer the most present danger.” Fogrolir took a deep breath and let it out.

  Vulred looked him over and motioned for one of his men to come hither so he could hear the news as well. They waited patiently for a moment as Fogrolir closed his eyes and tried to find a way to explain it all.

  “
Skinders. There are skinders amongst their ranks.” He looked at Vulred, expecting a reaction, but none was forthcoming.

  “What exactly is a skinder?” the Sentinel asked.

  Fogrolir gave a furtive glance his way, wiped his mouth and continued:

  “Skinders are a lot like dwarves in appearance, but very much smaller. The humans I used to trade with while working on my father’s ship, the Bearded Quail, called them gnomes.”

  “What is so dangerous about these Skinders or gnomes or whatever you call them?” Vulred asked.

  “They are like dwarves. They are mechanical workers. Where we build traps with simplistic, yet very functional parts, they build entire cities in this manner. If you step into their streets and touch the wrong thing, you are going to die. They are here on our land, and that means they have brought their tools and are probably planning a great attack upon our kingdom as we speak.”

  Vulred signaled for the men to walk away from the others so as not to alert anyone to the new details.

  “Fogrolir,” he said, “how is it that you know so much about these beings? You are from Thirndor, are you not? How does a dwarf from the cold northwest know so much about beasts that none of us have ever seen before?”

  “I was a deckhand on my father’s ship, the Bearded Quail when I was a young lad.” He responded.

  “What, you just happened to meet these various creatures while out at sea?” he looked at the Storm Rider with curiosity.

  “Not exactly,” he paused and took a deep breath before continuing on, “my meetings, if you wish to call it that, with these creatures, was anything but normal.”

  “Well then,” the elven king said as they continued walking, “do tell.”

  Fogrolir realized there would be no getting around a very touchy subject that he did not care to discuss, and so as the men walked, he began to tell a story - a story, which took place when he was just twelve years old.

  2

  (Fogrolir – 12 years of age)

  “Reel in the boom chain!” Gamut yelled.

  “I am reeling in the boom chain, sir!” Fogrolir called back to his father.

  They were making final preparations before exiting Quks Slemt Port, the ocean dock in the far western region of Libiather. It was the home of what the dwarves knew to be the human race. The port was easy enough to spot from the ocean. The inlet boasted the colors of various nations; a distinction that the people were quite proud of having.

  Fogrolir learned that in Libiather, unlike Umuosmar, the inhabitants were friendly with unfamiliar faces. They did not hesitate to shake your hand, though he still did not see a reason to do so, it seemed a kind of gesture to these beings. They were kind and welcoming, though hard-nosed in negotiating. You could expect to pay exactly what their goods were priced, and not a penny less.

  Fogrolir continued to wind the turnstile, bringing in the boom chain. His father’s ship, aptly named Bearded Quail, was currently settled in the biggest port space in Libiather. Fogrolir did not know much about the humans, but he did know every time his father’s ship settled here, they blocked off the entire outlet with boom chains to ensure no one crept up upon their ship without their noticing.

  He finished pulling in the boom chain and immediately headed to the aft of the ship, ready to raise anchor at his father’s command. Moments later the command was given, and Fogrolir began running in a circle while pushing the turnstile, raising the heavy metal anchor from the sea below.

  “Lower the main sails!” Gamut called out.

  “Aye! Lowering the main sails!” another dwarf replied.

  The Bearded Quail was a beautiful ship. Made from the reddish brown tree trunks in Faswary, it shone a great mahogany hue as it cut through the waters. Its manila sails looked like low clouds on the horizon from afar; a beautiful sight to see in the open waters.

  As she left port and sailed out to sea, leaving Libiather behind in the distance, Fogrolir began to search the skies, looking for his favorite thing in the entire world: Storm Riders. He knew they were far from their home, but it was common to see Storm Riders across the ocean, as they often accompanied fleets of ships as they set out to sell their goods, pick up more, and initiate barters.

  “Lower the mizzenmast!” the command rang out to Fogrolir. He continued staring into the sky, his thoughts anywhere but the Bearded Quail.

  “I said lower the mizzenmast!” Fogrolir began to walk backward at a slow pace, never taking his eyes off the sky above. He stopped when he ran into something. He reached behind him, feeling around for the ropes to lower the mast. Instead, he grabbed a handful of his father’s beard.

  Gamut Grumbane spun him around and looked him in the eyes: “Boy, get your head out of them clouds and follow orders. You are no different on this ship from any of my other men, son or not. You understand me?”

  Gamut’s gaze was an unsettling sight. A scar covered one side of Gamut’s face just above the right eye, down to his chin. Made by the blade of a troll in years past, he could barely see out of the eye.

  “Now get back to work, Fogrolir.” He pushed his son toward the ropes to unfurl the mast. As he walked off he mumbled something about his son being ungrateful and not respecting the ship and her crew; Fogrolir grumbled like the adolescent he was and quipped that one day he would be a Storm Rider. His father heard him and decided at that moment that his son was no longer worthy of sailing upon the seas with his crew of dwarves.

  Fogrolir unhooked the mast, his mind still so intent on daydreaming about riding dragons and being the hero of big battles that he was no longer paying attention to the rope. It unwrapped rather quickly, and once he realized his mistake, he grabbed the rope and felt a burning sensation as the line ripped through the flesh of his hands. He let out a small cry and a few choice words. A few of the crew members laughed at his troubles, but their voices fell silent the moment Gamut was seen approaching his son once more.

  “What did I tell you, son? Not more than thirty seconds before did I not say to you to get your head out of the skies!” he grabbed Fogrolir’s hair near the back of his neck and lifted him off the ground.

  “Let me down!” he screamed at his father. The crewmen stopped what they were doing and watched on in horror as Gamut opened the hold’s latch and shoved his son into the depths below the ship.

  “You will not eat! You will not drink! You will not come out of that cell until I give the order!” he turned and stormed off toward his quarters.

  “Captain!” one of the men called out. “He is but a lad! Fogrolir is not a seadog like the rest of us. Cut him a break!” the dwarf looked exasperated at the treatment of young Fogrolir, and he held no intentions of backing down from the captain on the matter.

  Gamut stopped in his tracks and turned around. He heard the dwarf’s words, and when he was finished speaking, he walked over to the crewman. So silent were the midshipmen that nothing but the wind in the sails, the water sloshing, and Gamut’s boots could be heard as he traversed the deck.

  “Do you have an issue with how I raise my son?” the captain asked his man.

  “Aye. I have an issue with how you treat the lad. You cannot expect him to love the ocean as we do when you constantly berate him for being a child. Children are not meant for these waters, days on end without steady ground to walk and play upon.”

  Gamut held his temper for the time being, though he wanted nothing more at that moment than to punch the insubordinate. Instead, he nodded at the crewman:

  “As you were - men.” He looked around and waited for all his people to go back to their jobs. “The next time you interfere in my affairs will be the last time you are seen onboard my ship.” He did not wait for a reply. He chuckled and walked away as though nothing had transpired, though one crewman saw him stop and whisper something to another onboard. He was not sure what was said, but he, like the rest of the crew knew one thing to be true: no one talked back to Gamut Grumbane and got away with it - no one.

  The rest of the afternoon
passed by quietly as the men sailed to their next destination. Fogrolir remained below deck, confined to the small cell in which his father locked him in hours before. It was not all bad, however, as it gave him plenty of time to stare through the metal grating without being questioned. As he did so, his eyes watched the fluttering of the mast in the wind, and the occasional cloud as it passed overhead. More than anything, he dreamt of being a Storm Rider, and in his mind, he could already see himself leading an army.

  Eventually, daylight turned to darkness and the deck became quiet. Only a few men stayed out in the cold air to keep watch. Fogrolir shivered – the dampness of the cell for the first time began to enter his mind as he realized how cold he was. To counter the coldness, he pulled his arms inside his tunic and hugged himself. He continued to stare through the grating, watching as the clouds covered the stars and eventually uncovered them for the eye to see once more.

  A pair of boots stepped onto the grating, scaring Fogrolir. He gasped involuntarily. He had not heard the approaching footsteps, and so he shrank back against a corner, between two barrels.

  “Hey lad,” a voice whispered. Fogrolir recognized it as the voice of the crewman that argued with his father earlier in the day.

  “What do you want?” he said, defiantly. He was doing his best to keep up the appearance of a sturdy young dwarf.

  The crewman laughed and opened the grating as quietly as he could. He tossed Fogrolir’s blanket from his bunk into the cell below.

  “Be a good lad and get some rest. Tomorrow is anew, and we need you up here, Foggy boy.” He put the grating back in its proper place and disappeared back into the night.

  Fogrolir took his blanket and laid it over a barrel. He wanted to be somewhat comfortable since he was stuck in the hold, and so he looked about and found a couple bags of grain. He fetched the bags and laid them on the floor under the grating so he could lie on top and continue to stare out into the starry night. He took his blanket and laid it over himself. Before long, the motion of the boat rocking, the cool breeze blowing, and the soft sounds of the masts as they fluttered in the wind, put the young dwarf to sleep.