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

  “How is he?” Fogrolir asked as he nodded toward the dwarf.

  “Not good.” Replied the dragon as she listened for the dwarf’s heartbeat; something she always did when they flew together. She found it to be soothing. “Not good at all, young dwarf.”

  They flew the rest of the night in silence; the only sounds coming from their clothing as it whipped in the wind. The rogue dwarf would live, but he would never walk again.

  7

  (Present Day)

  “A few days later we flew into Thirndor, where I was released into the care of the Storm Riders. They showed me how to properly train dragons, care for them, and most of all, respect their abilities and individuality. I have been a Storm Rider and trainer ever since then.”

  Fogrolir stood and began to walk off, seeking a shadow to hide in so as not to be in the sunlight.

  “Are we just to take your word for it then?” the aide to Vulred asked. “Are we just not to question your story and assume that what you say is true? We are to assume that there is a threat bigger than the cyclopses and that they are here with the beasts, all because you give us a story about something no one can verify?”

  The aide was visibly shaking, though he tried his best to hide it. Fogrolir ran his fingers through his dark blonde beard that was now showing a few gray hairs. His blue eyes appeared to be a duller shade than normal, no doubt affected from the trouble he knew would be headed their way any day in the very near future.

  “I never said no one could verify my claims.” He kept his back turned to the aide. He feared that if he looked at the elf, he might break his nose for being so disrespectful.

  “Well, where is the person that can verify such outlandish claims?” Vulred looked sideways at his man, lifted his hand slightly, and shook it side to side, signaling for the man to stop his line of questioning.

  “Would you like to meet the only man still living that can verify what happened on that island?” Fogrolir placed his thumbs inside his waistband and gripped his pants.

  “Not only would I like to meet him, I think it is only fair that we meet him, so we know you are not exaggerating these claims to ensure our help in your kingdom!”

  “That will be enough,” Vulred spoke up.

  “Surely you do not just take the word of this dwarf without verification! I am still not convinced that he is not really the false king in disguise!” The man walked over to Vulred, and began to whisper:

  “That is enough!” Vulred bellowed, interrupting the elf. “I will not have you questioning the truthfulness of our allies, nor will I have you jeopardizing our alliance!”

  “I just want to ensure…”

  “I have spoken!” the king yelled, the disturbance caused his men to look in their direction.

  “Fine,” the elf said, “but I will report your actions to the council if this turns out to be nothing more than a lie.” The elf shot an angry stare in Fogrolir’s direction before stomping off alone to set up his inventory of weapons.

  “It saddens me to see one of my men act in such a way.”

  “Oh for the sake of all that is good, do not patronize me, Vulred. You can try that on anyone else you would like, but not on me. I am no fool. I know that you know any alliance we had in the past is voided by Praghock’s actions. As such, I am sure you are here to help so your kingdom will get something greater in return.”

  Fogrolir walked to King Helethorn and stood in front of him. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small cloth belt, made from materials not commonly seen in their part of the world. The belt, a sandy blonde color, caught the attention of Vulred as the black onyx pearls braided into the center of the belt shimmered in the sunlight.

  “This was given to me by my friend, Sharp the skinder. It rightfully belongs to him, but we made a deal: I would keep his belt, and he would keep mine, and if either of us were ever in trouble, we would send for the other’s help by having the belt returned to its proper owner. Your man wishes to know who can verify my story, so give him this belt, and I will gladly tell him where he can find the skinder.”

  Vulred stared at the small belt for a moment, admiring the intricacies in the hand-braided leather.

  “Very well, I shall do so. I will call Avalore and order him to come speak with you once more.”

  Vulred began to walk away in search of his soldier.

  “Vulred,” Fogrolir spoke up, causing the king of elves to stop and look back at him, “if he ever disrespects me again in such an unwarranted fashion, I will thrash him myself and feed him to one of my dragons. Relay that message before he speaks with me again.”

  Fogrolir did not wait for a reply but instead walked down the street to his own home. He entered the house and waited for the elf to come knocking at his door. His dull blue eyes were starting to shift color again as the vibrant blue hues were returning slowly. He smiled, for he knew he might get to see his old friend once more very soon.

  Vulred stood in the sunlight, silently watching as Fogrolir walked down the street to his house. After the dwarf had entered his own abode, Vulred turned and set about the task at hand; he needed his aide to deliver the small belt to Sharp.

  He found the man sitting outside the tavern, his long black leather jacket stretched all the way to the floor, gathering dust as he drank his worries away.

  “Avalore,” Vulred spoke to the man in an even tone, “Fogrolir Grumbane sent word that he seeks to hold counsel with you. You must go to him at once and hear what he has to say.”

  The elf grunted and rolled his eyes, but he did not attempt to stand up. He looked at his stein and smacked his lips, disappointed that he was out of ale.

  “Stand up, Avalore.” Vulred was not in the mood to deal with any more insubordination from his elf.

  Avalore smirked, “I would rather not, thank you.” He leaned his head back against the wooden support beam and closed his eyes.

  “I said stand up!” Vulred kicked the elf’s legs just under the kneecap, which made Avalore cry out in pain.

  “What in the name of Faswary do you think you are doing?” Avalore said as he clamored to his feet. “Do you not know who I am and how I should be treated?” he stumbled forward a bit.

  “Do I know who you are?” the incredulous look which sat upon the king’s face spoke volumes. “Need I remind you of just who I am? You, Avalore, are a pitiful excuse for a soldier and right now I dare say you are a sad excuse for an elf! Just because my wife happens to be your sister does not change the chain of command. You do what I command when I command it, and you do it without question! Is that understood?” Vulred practically yelled at the elf, each word he spoke made his face turn a darker shade of crimson.

  Avalore looked at his brother-in-law for a moment and then without provocation, spit in the face of the king. He raised his hand and pointed his finger at the king.

  “You are not...”

  ‘Whack!’

  Avalore never saw the punch coming. A sentinel in the elven army overheard the words of disrespect spoken to Vulred Helethorn, and it angered the elf.

  “I have had enough of such disrespect from you! You will not speak to the king, our king, in such a manner!” the sentinel towered over Avalore, his stern face set in a serious tone that unnerved anyone that was not accustomed to seeing such a look.

  Avalore’s vision blurred. It took him a moment to realize his nose had just been broken.

  “Ow.” he shook his head. Blood was flung about as it exited his nose like a raging waterfall, the cobblestone and wood speckled unceremoniously by the dark red color. “You are…” he stammered as he tried to climb to his feet, “you are going to receive a thrashing for this!”

  Avalore made it to his feet with the help of the sentinel’s garment as he pulled and tugged on it. Just as he made it to his feet and looked the sentinel in the eyes, he was doubled over in pain from a sharp knee to the gut. He fell back to the floor and sputtered.

  “Until you learn to shut your mouth and follow orde
rs, I will continue to flatten you.” The sentinel continued to hover over Avalore as he waited for the King to stop him from pouring out more judgment upon the arrogant elf.

  He glanced back at Vulred as he expected the King to nod for him to stop. Instead, he found Vulred with a sly smile on his face as he awaited more violence to be dispensed upon Avalore for his refusal to follow orders.

  After a few more kicks and some choice words had been muttered in Avalore’s direction, Vulred signaled for his sentinel to stop. The elf, unlike Avalore, obeyed the king’s command without question.

  “Stand him up.” the king snapped his fingers as he paced back and forth while scratching his beard. “This belt is a memento from the only person alive that can verify Fogrolir’s claims. If you are finished being an ungrateful ass, you will deliver this belt to said person, and return with confirmation when the task has been completed. Do you understand?” his gaze was menacing as his eyes bore into those of Avalore.

  Avalore nodded but remained silent for fear that saying anything would result in him being punished further; his outward demeanor was calm, but inside his mind and heart, he was furious. The sentinel lent a hand and helped Avalore to his feet. The elf took the belt and headed off in the direction of Fogrolir’s home, muttering curses under his breath that only he could hear.

  Fogrolir heard the knock at his door and made his way over to the oak door to open it. What he found when he opened the door was a disheveled Avalore, holding the belt that was given to him to bring to his meeting with Fogrolir.

  “I see you have the belt. So, am I to assume that you are willing to fulfill the task for which that belt is meant?” Fogrolir asked the elf.

  Avalore sighed deeply, “Just tell me what it is you want me to do, sir.”

  “I have a question for you, Avalore. Please, sit.” Fogrolir motioned to a small iron wrought chair near his writing desk. Avalore entered the small home and sat down; his mind tried to figure out what Fogrolir was up to.

  Fogrolir took a seat on the edge of his bed and looked across the room at Avalore. He tried to reason within himself that the elf could be trusted, and yet a sinking feeling of distrust continued to nag away at his conscious.

  “Why are you beaten?” he asked the elf as he pointed at his face. “Was it because of your questioning my account of the past?”

  “Do not flatter yourself, dwarf. My mouth earned me these wounds.” Avalore reached up and touched his lip; it throbbed, and he noticed for the first time that it was split open.

  “I see – well then, shall we talk?” Fogrolir asked.

  “Go ahead dwarf; say whatever it is you wish to say.”

  Fogrolir continued to look the elf over and reconciled within his own mind that despite his reservations, the elf would have to do for the task ahead.

  “Earlier you stated very clearly that you wished to speak with someone, anyone that could verify the story I shared. Well, there is one person alive who can not only verify my claims, but he would be a great help in warding off the cyclopses and skinders.”

  Avalore’s attention piqued and he sat forward in the chair, ready to hear more – not because he wanted to help, but rather that he wanted to be away from the other elves who were no doubt talking about him at that very moment.

  “I am listening. What do you need me to do?”

  “We, the entirety of the dwarves and elves alike, need you to make the journey to Vel Boramm and find my friend. Take the belt with you as it will be the only item stopping you from being killed when you do find him.”

  Avalore’s brow furrowed as he thought about the words just spoken.

  “Wait, your friend will kill me if I do not have this belt?” he asked as he raised the belt into the air and looked it over.

  “Yes, he will. He will kill anyone who finds his home and dares to enter it without him knowing they are a friend. If you do not have that belt as a gift, he will assume he has stumbled upon an enemy, and you will die before you know what is happening.”

  “This sounds more like a mission to kill me than a request to help Umuosmar or Faswary.” Avalore was nervous, and it showed as he began to fidget about.

  “It is a mission to help, Avalore. If my friend would kill you solely because he does not know you, just imagine what he will do to those he knows are his enemies.”

  Fogrolir stood and moved toward the door, a signal that he was finished with the conversation. Avalore stood as well and walked briskly to the doorway. As he exited, he turned to ask one last question:

  “What is the name of your friend and how do I find him in Vel Boramm?”

  Fogrolir smiled, “His name is Sharp, and I am certain if you show that belt to any of the locals, they will certainly point you in the right direction.” Fogrolir began to shut the door but paused: “one last thing, Avalore. Do not tell anyone along your journey about the belt, and try to stay away from the ports in Vel Boramm. They are full of anything but local people, and some of them may try to steal such a fancy looking thing as that belt.”

  Without saying another word, he shut the door. Avalore ventured back to the elven camp to inform his brother-in-law that he would be leaving Thirndor, though he was still unsure as to whether he was an ally or merely a tool in the inner workings of those around him.

  8

  Vel Boramm, the port city of Umuosmar, was a safe haven for criminals within the kingdom. The city sprawled about for hundreds of miles and offered everything from solitary mountain ranges, to lush forestation where those wishing to remain unseen could easily flourish in their underhanded schemes.

  The waterways were traversed by various factions of creatures, from dwarves, elves, ogres, and giants. Even the occasional orc or two had been known to show their faces on the shores of the beautiful city. Fishing was once the mainstay in the beautiful city, but years of rogue factions refusing to heed protocol had all but rendered fishing for profit a useless business; unless, of course, you happened to own an enormous ship that would not be sunk by smaller vessels in the channel.

  Most of the cities dwellings and various habitats were formed from sandstone, as the salty air did nothing but damage everything from marble to iron. If there was a town in Umuosmar that could definitely use the advantages of magical trinkets, it was Vel Boramm. Sadly, the city was one of the few places in the kingdom where most did not practice the magic of any kind for fear that it would drive away business. It was here in this city where nothing appeared to be too odd that a small, strange, creature called a Skinder made his home.

  After safely arriving in Umuosmar all those years ago, Sharp found his way through the winding streets and overrun forests as he ventured out for a new home. Thirndor was too cold, Zowgant Kregork too hot, but Vel Boramm? It was perfect for Sharp. A few locals knew of Sharp’s existence, only because of his fondness for the local tavern, though outside of visiting the bar he rarely ventured out of his underground home. He lived in Vel Boramm just as he lived on the island of skinder all those years ago: secluded, withdrawn, and hidden amongst the shadows.

  These days, Sharp spent most of his time honing his craft of trap making or sitting in the local rundown bar having a swig of firebrew. He often feared that without anyone around to test his skills, he would become complacent and fail to make traps of substance.

  On this day, in particular, the wind was unusually harsh, which only served to make the cold weather that much more unbearable. Sharp pulled his handmade duster out of a chest in his room and put it on, making sure to fasten all the clasps. Unlike a traditional duster, there were special hidden pockets within his coat to ensure he could always have a trap or two with him. He made the alterations himself, even an added cloak type hood to the top of the duster.

  He climbed the few small stairs to exit his abode and once outside, made his way over to the tavern. Hidden away on the outskirts of the forest to the northeast of the big city, Sharp knew the wind would be worse once he made it out of the tree line. The wind swept across the ocea
n waters, bringing forth a cold front that chilled the skinder to his core. He shivered as he shut the opening to his home and covered the metal hatch door with dirt and leaves. His body was warm, but the cold air forced him to sniffle; his beard blew to one side of his face as the wind whipped by.

  As he trudged along toward the tavern, he glanced furtively about him. It felt as though someone, or something, was watching his every move. He could not shake the feeling, and thus, he found himself walking faster to get to his destination.

  Finally, he stepped out of the wet grass and onto the sand-laden streets of the outer edges of Vel Boramm. The tavern was just ahead, and as he walked he could not help but wonder whether his feelings of being watched were legitimate, or just a patina, caused by being alone and suspicious of everyone and everything he came across.

  Looking upwards, he noticed a plume of black smoke as it exited the smokestack of the tavern. It was a welcomed sight for Sharp; he loved the smell of burning wood. He smiled in spite of the sharp wind, circled around the backside of the tavern, and entered through the rear door. The owner of the bar had become accustomed over the years to hearing the old wooden door opening and scraping the floor. Sharp was the only patron who entered the tavern through the back door, though no one knew why.

  “Well… well…” the bartender began as Sharp walked out of the dark hallway and into the soft light of the candlelit tavern. Sharp glanced at the dwarf and smiled. She was an excellent companion to have on a day such as this one.

  “So, what’ll it be today, Sharp?” she called out to him from the bar as she washed out a tankard with an old rag.