But the move would leave them vulnerable to attack. Luckily, Zerafin had ordered the building of ships after the fall of Eadon, thinking to strengthen the armada. The fleet was near completion, but still, such a journey required a great amount of supplies if they were to reach Drindellia—supplies they didn’t have.
He had sent out scout ships three months after the fall of Eadon. The journey from Drindellia had taken more than three months for the refugees five hundred years ago, so he expected no less from his scouts. When first the elves traveled across the sea, they sailed without a destination. Now that the way had been mapped, a straight course had been made that would save time. The first of the scouts were expected any day. If they brought back word that western Drindellia was free of the Draggard, he would begin the exodus.
“Sire!” A guard rushed into the chambers and bowed quickly. “The Old Ardenians, they are attacking.”
“Secure the palace,” he said to the soldier, then instructed his mother’s handmaidens to retire her to the inner sanctum.
A regiment of five hundred elven horsemen followed their king north from the city toward the coast. The day was overcast and mild, and fog pooled in the lowlands, making phantoms of the trees and shrubbery in and around the dell. Only a light wind blew in from the coast, moving the patches of fog inland—a perfect time to strike. Zerafin cursed himself for not fortifying the coast at such times. His oversight might cost many lives.
They arrived at the coast and found a regiment of two hundred already there waiting. The elven warriors carried long spears pointed at each end, with gleaming armor of gold with a beaming sun upon the chest plate.
Zerafin reined in his horse and looked to the ocean where the thick mists blocked the view of the harbor. “Report!”
“Sire, our lookouts have reported dozens of ships heading this way from across the gulf. But there has been no sign of them.”
“We have the high ground,” said Zerafin, seeing the fear in the elves’ eyes. “Cerushia will not be taken by humans with wooden spears and rusty blades! To arms! To arms!”
In the five hundred years since the exodus from Drindellia, the elves had feared—and prepared for—a dark elf attack from the east. Great walls had been built to slow an attack coming from the coast north of Cerushia, as it was the only lowland for miles. The rest of the northern tip of Elladrindellia was lined with steep cliffs.
The elves waited atop the wall, watching the fog for any sign of the enemy. Zerafin had fought alongside many of these elves before, yet never had he seen such fear in their eyes. When once they wielded fire and ice, changed into animals and had the power to subdue an opponent with a mental attack, now they had only their own strength, and their own steel. If they fell today they would not be revived by the healing magic they had once possessed.
A sound came to them suddenly, the grating noise of a ship hitting the beach. Zerafin raised a hand for the elves to hold. Hands wet with sweat gripped steel shafts, and squinted eyes stared into the fog…waiting.
War cries ripped through the maddening silence, followed by the roar of a beast and a thrashing of chains.
“Archers at the ready!” Zerafin cried.
A pounding of heavy feet shook the ground and again the roar came, not from one monster, but two.
“ Hold …”
The pounding shook the ground, growing louder with every passing heartbeat. Out of the fog came a pair of fifteen-foot abominations—dwargon, the dwarf and dragon crossbreeds created by Eadon.
“Fire!”
Arrows ripped through the mist and rained down on the charging beasts. A few of the arrows stuck in the rough hide; however, they only seemed to infuriate the monsters more.
“Fire!” Zerafin cried, watching from his horse as the two dwargon sped toward the wall with incredible speed.
“Spearmen, stop them at the wall!”
The dwargon
He had sent out scout ships three months after the fall of Eadon. The journey from Drindellia had taken more than three months for the refugees five hundred years ago, so he expected no less from his scouts. When first the elves traveled across the sea, they sailed without a destination. Now that the way had been mapped, a straight course had been made that would save time. The first of the scouts were expected any day. If they brought back word that western Drindellia was free of the Draggard, he would begin the exodus.
“Sire!” A guard rushed into the chambers and bowed quickly. “The Old Ardenians, they are attacking.”
“Secure the palace,” he said to the soldier, then instructed his mother’s handmaidens to retire her to the inner sanctum.
A regiment of five hundred elven horsemen followed their king north from the city toward the coast. The day was overcast and mild, and fog pooled in the lowlands, making phantoms of the trees and shrubbery in and around the dell. Only a light wind blew in from the coast, moving the patches of fog inland—a perfect time to strike. Zerafin cursed himself for not fortifying the coast at such times. His oversight might cost many lives.
They arrived at the coast and found a regiment of two hundred already there waiting. The elven warriors carried long spears pointed at each end, with gleaming armor of gold with a beaming sun upon the chest plate.
Zerafin reined in his horse and looked to the ocean where the thick mists blocked the view of the harbor. “Report!”
“Sire, our lookouts have reported dozens of ships heading this way from across the gulf. But there has been no sign of them.”
“We have the high ground,” said Zerafin, seeing the fear in the elves’ eyes. “Cerushia will not be taken by humans with wooden spears and rusty blades! To arms! To arms!”
In the five hundred years since the exodus from Drindellia, the elves had feared—and prepared for—a dark elf attack from the east. Great walls had been built to slow an attack coming from the coast north of Cerushia, as it was the only lowland for miles. The rest of the northern tip of Elladrindellia was lined with steep cliffs.
The elves waited atop the wall, watching the fog for any sign of the enemy. Zerafin had fought alongside many of these elves before, yet never had he seen such fear in their eyes. When once they wielded fire and ice, changed into animals and had the power to subdue an opponent with a mental attack, now they had only their own strength, and their own steel. If they fell today they would not be revived by the healing magic they had once possessed.
A sound came to them suddenly, the grating noise of a ship hitting the beach. Zerafin raised a hand for the elves to hold. Hands wet with sweat gripped steel shafts, and squinted eyes stared into the fog…waiting.
War cries ripped through the maddening silence, followed by the roar of a beast and a thrashing of chains.
“Archers at the ready!” Zerafin cried.
A pounding of heavy feet shook the ground and again the roar came, not from one monster, but two.
“ Hold …”
The pounding shook the ground, growing louder with every passing heartbeat. Out of the fog came a pair of fifteen-foot abominations—dwargon, the dwarf and dragon crossbreeds created by Eadon.
“Fire!”
Arrows ripped through the mist and rained down on the charging beasts. A few of the arrows stuck in the rough hide; however, they only seemed to infuriate the monsters more.
“Fire!” Zerafin cried, watching from his horse as the two dwargon sped toward the wall with incredible speed.
“Spearmen, stop them at the wall!”
The dwargon
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