small victory for them. They had gained no ground; however, twenty-five elves had been killed, some who Zerafin knew to be many hundreds of years old. If Avriel hadn’t shown up with Zorriaz, many more would have fallen.
He left the beach in the command of one of his generals and mounted a horse to take him quickly back to the city. His fear and apprehension grew as he followed the trail of carnage and destruction that the two beasts had wrought. He arrived at the city gates and gave a small sigh of relief when he saw one of the dwargon dead against the wall. The other was nowhere to be found. Inside, he found not bodies, but blood-stained ground where many had fallen. The other dwargon lay face down in the street just inside the city gate, dozens of spears, swords, and arrows riddling its body like a pincushion.
Zerafin wept as he looked upon his scared people. The pain of injuries that could not be quickly healed twisted their faces.
Kellallea, why have you forsaken us?
Avriel helped to tend to the injured, but without her magic, she was forced to watch many elves die in her arms. The infirmary was overrun. She sat clutching an elf who had just taken her final breath—an elf more than four hundred years of age. With shaking hands she laid the woman down on the bed and closed her eyes with two fingers.
It all seemed so unfair.
She soon found herself unable to breathe and stumbled to the door, hungry for fresh air and a reprieve from the begging voices and smell of death.
Outside, many elves had gathered to sing together the songs of old—ones used alongside Orna Catorna to help soothe and heal the sick. Without the magic that had once accompanied the melodies, the music sounded hollow and sad, a lamenting of loved ones unable to help their kin.
This is what it is like to be a human, or a dwarf.
Avriel had never truly understood, and the realization caused her to respect them all the more. The humans especially, who were not as long-lived as the elves or dwarves. Now, with lifespans reaching four hundred years, dwarves were the longest-lived of the three races.
How do they find the strength to go on?
Chapter 12
Homeland on the Horizon
An overwhelming sense of dread washed through Aurora as the undead army reached the northern shore of Shierdon. She had come through this way more than six months ago when she led her people across the ice from Volnoss. They were meant to reclaim the lands of old and restore glory to their people. Instead they had all died.
The village had been burned to the ground. Skeletons of humans and buildings alike remained where they had fallen. No one had returned to rebuild or bury the dead.
“Why have we stopped?” Aurora asked Azzeal. The lich stood next to her staring off toward the north.
“You know why.”
She didn’t want to believe it. Hadn’t her people already suffered enough? “I’ll kill him…”
“In time. Now you must be patient,” said Azzeal. He continued to stare off to the north.
She was surprised by his words. He hadn’t shown much of an opinion in the last six months since she took his life upon the fields of Volnoss. When he was first raised from the dead she hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. Her guilt had been great, and he stared at her endlessly, and often spoke to her in a familiar manner. Since becoming a lich herself she didn’t mind his company, on the contrary, he was the only thing that reminded her who she was.
Zander rode up to them upon his undead horse. Its wild eyes glowed green, and bones could be seen in places where the skin had rotted in the time between death and reanimation. The dark elf necromancer grinned at her. He pulled off his gloves one finger at a time and looked to the north as well.
“You must be excited to share our glory with your people.”
Aurora ignored his goading, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He laughed nonetheless. If she thought that it would have an effect, she would have
He left the beach in the command of one of his generals and mounted a horse to take him quickly back to the city. His fear and apprehension grew as he followed the trail of carnage and destruction that the two beasts had wrought. He arrived at the city gates and gave a small sigh of relief when he saw one of the dwargon dead against the wall. The other was nowhere to be found. Inside, he found not bodies, but blood-stained ground where many had fallen. The other dwargon lay face down in the street just inside the city gate, dozens of spears, swords, and arrows riddling its body like a pincushion.
Zerafin wept as he looked upon his scared people. The pain of injuries that could not be quickly healed twisted their faces.
Kellallea, why have you forsaken us?
Avriel helped to tend to the injured, but without her magic, she was forced to watch many elves die in her arms. The infirmary was overrun. She sat clutching an elf who had just taken her final breath—an elf more than four hundred years of age. With shaking hands she laid the woman down on the bed and closed her eyes with two fingers.
It all seemed so unfair.
She soon found herself unable to breathe and stumbled to the door, hungry for fresh air and a reprieve from the begging voices and smell of death.
Outside, many elves had gathered to sing together the songs of old—ones used alongside Orna Catorna to help soothe and heal the sick. Without the magic that had once accompanied the melodies, the music sounded hollow and sad, a lamenting of loved ones unable to help their kin.
This is what it is like to be a human, or a dwarf.
Avriel had never truly understood, and the realization caused her to respect them all the more. The humans especially, who were not as long-lived as the elves or dwarves. Now, with lifespans reaching four hundred years, dwarves were the longest-lived of the three races.
How do they find the strength to go on?
Chapter 12
Homeland on the Horizon
An overwhelming sense of dread washed through Aurora as the undead army reached the northern shore of Shierdon. She had come through this way more than six months ago when she led her people across the ice from Volnoss. They were meant to reclaim the lands of old and restore glory to their people. Instead they had all died.
The village had been burned to the ground. Skeletons of humans and buildings alike remained where they had fallen. No one had returned to rebuild or bury the dead.
“Why have we stopped?” Aurora asked Azzeal. The lich stood next to her staring off toward the north.
“You know why.”
She didn’t want to believe it. Hadn’t her people already suffered enough? “I’ll kill him…”
“In time. Now you must be patient,” said Azzeal. He continued to stare off to the north.
She was surprised by his words. He hadn’t shown much of an opinion in the last six months since she took his life upon the fields of Volnoss. When he was first raised from the dead she hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. Her guilt had been great, and he stared at her endlessly, and often spoke to her in a familiar manner. Since becoming a lich herself she didn’t mind his company, on the contrary, he was the only thing that reminded her who she was.
Zander rode up to them upon his undead horse. Its wild eyes glowed green, and bones could be seen in places where the skin had rotted in the time between death and reanimation. The dark elf necromancer grinned at her. He pulled off his gloves one finger at a time and looked to the north as well.
“You must be excited to share our glory with your people.”
Aurora ignored his goading, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He laughed nonetheless. If she thought that it would have an effect, she would have
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