Dragon Souls, book 3, Chapter 2

     I've been working on book 3 of Dragon Souls.  I don't have a definite name for the book yet, so for now it's book 3.  I had to look back at his chapter to write the chapter I'm working on, and I realized that this would be a good one to share.  The first chapter is posted on the blog, too.  You can find the link to it on the Wednesday Writing tab above.  Here's chapter 2

Chapter 2

                Erroyle rushed to the gates.  Nervous dwarves stood at the ready with bows and pikes.  She snatched the bow from one of the closest dwarves before he could put up a fight.  He grabbed her wrist as she reached for his full quiver of arrows.  Fayern raised a hand to halt the foolish young dwarf.  He released her and nodded to the dwarven prince behind her.  Erroyle was glad for the acquiescence; she would have killed the dwarf had he not.  The poor dwarves had been through enough.  She didn’t want to fight them, but she would not allow anyone to get in the way of her and Cal.  She needed to be with him.  She needed to feel his love, his acceptance, his nonjudgmental gaze.  She had never felt that kind of love from anyone but her father.  Her own people ostracized her because of her Gaian gift.  Knowing the emotions of others was more of a curse than a gift, really.  Her purple eyes marked her as different, and her people feared her for it.  Only the boy had loved her without prejudice.  He did not fear her gift.  After ten thousand years she had finally found someone to love her as she was.  She was not going to let him be taken away.

                Erroyle looked back at the dwarven prince and nodded her appreciation as she picked up the quiver of arrows.    The prince was probably only a few centuries old, but in his short life, he’d aged more than any dwarf his age.  Deep creases from wrinkles of worry and stress wore out the corners of his eyes, and around his nose and mouth.  He had no beard, which was beyond strange for a dwarf, but that wasn’t the only thing strange about the dwarf.  He was tall… tall for a dwarf, anyway.   About the average height of a man, but built twice as wide.  His brown hair was prematurely graying at his temples, and swooped back in a tangled mess just above his shoulders.  His grey eyes were tired.  This was a man who knew he was about to lose everything he loved.  Erroyle promised herself she wouldn’t let that happen.  She would save the dwarves on her way to save Cal.

A massive beam of the door splintered inward, affording them the first view of their pursuers.  Erroyle wasted no time.  She grabbed four arrows, placing one between each finger, and drew back the string.  In a whoosh they were away.  Through the freshly made hole, four dark creatures cried out as each arrow sunk deeply into their skulls.  Before they hit the ground Erroyle loosed eight more arrows.   In a span of seconds, the battering team was down, with the wicked battering ram lying heavily on their dead carcasses.   

                For the first time since the siege of the inner sanctum, quiet rang through the cavern.  Erroyle could almost see the wave of relief was over the dwarves’ faces.  She felt no joy.  She knew all too well it would only be a matter of moments before other dark creatures continued what their fallen comrades had started.  She grabbed another quiver from a nearby dwarf, hers having been partially used up, and ran to the opening.  She knocked two more arrows from the first quiver, stripping the feathered blades off the inner parts of the shafts and fired at two onrushing orcs.  They fell dead mid stride.  The others behind them paused, not wanting to join the growing heap of bodies.  Erroyle didn’t wait for them to advance, five more arrows zipped through the small crack in the massive door, and five more orcs went down.

                Finally, she was able to see what she was looking for; one of the orcs was shouting for others to press forward and pick up the battering ram.  He was their leader.  Before he could turn back to look at the ram, an arrow burst through his skull.  The orcs in front pressed backwards to get away from the new threat.  For a brief moment there was chaos in the ranks of the churning dark hoard.

                Erroyle looked back to the dwarven prince, pleading to him with a glance to let her out.  He shook his head sadly, and then nodding his consent.  A feeling of elation washed over her as she was finally given her chance to get back to her beloved Cal.  She fired twenty more arrows through the small hole just to ensure the chaos continued long enough for her to slip out among the orcs without them seeing her walk through what would appear to be solid rock.  Once through the magical wall Erroyle ran down the passage to her left to circle around the massive wooden gates.  The passage was riddled with dwarves, but her nimble gate carried her past them.  Sometimes using a wall, shoulder, or head to keep her forward momentum, she made it to the front before the orcs had regrouped. 

                Dropping the bow and quivers of arrows, she loosed the two massive swords from her back… Cal’s swords.  She would return them to his hands if it was the last thing she ever did in this world.  The massive blades were light as feathers in her hands because of the fallen dwarven king’s magic.  The blades were as tall as she was.  Each blade resembled a dragon’s maw agape with the blade protruding like a blast of fire from its mouth.  They were sharper than any weapon she had ever wielded, and laced with magic to penetrate even shields of dark magic.  They were fitting swords for a powerful warrior such as her, but they were his.  They belonged to her beloved.  They would be his once again.

                She kissed each blade, and then quickly darted out, through the magical opening, and into the sea of back filthy bodies.  Before she even touched the ground she had taken the head of three orcs.  As soon as she landed, she spun, extending the swords to their full length, and cutting down a dozen other dark clan soldiers. The area around her was cleared, and the invading hoard drew back, away from her.  They had fought her outside of the main gates, and once again in the main hall.  None of the Dark Clan soldiers were eager to repeat the encounter.  More chaos erupted as those around her tried to flee back behind the ranks of others, all the while they were trying to stay away from the crack in the gate which had mowed down a few dozen of their comrades in a matter of seconds.  The chaos brought a smile to the beautiful elven princess’s lips.  She would enjoy exacting revenge on these dark creatures.

                Before they could regroup Erroyle was moving, pressing them back farther.  She spun, lunged, kicked, flipped, spun again, and rolled.  Each movement cut down the enemy.  Not a move was wasted.  The magnificent weapons cut through anything they made contact with; be it metal or bone.  She pressed the enemy clearing thirty paces between them and the door they so desperately wanted to breach. 

                To her surprise, Erroyle heard the door creak loudly as it opened.  The dwarves came pouring out to meet their foe.  She felt a sense of pride for them.  She knew they were hurt, every last one of them, but they pressed anyway.  They would not be slaughtered in retreat, but rather fight the enemy head on.  Erroyle would ensure they lived to boast of their bravery.

                She ran at the cowering orcs and darkinder.  The short darkinder proved to be a bit troublesome as she had to strike up and down, but none of the enemy put up a fight.  A blur of bodies passed before her eyes.  The way the elves trained to fight, they never stood still.  Battle was an elegant dance.  Every limb was used in fluid motion to cut down their enemies.  Erroyle’s golden armor had sharp protrusions on the heels, toes, knees, elbows, and shoulders, so if she made contact with an enemy she would always draw blood.  She spun and flipped and kicked and rolled, pressing ever forward.  Hundreds fell before her.  She was covered in blood, none of it hers.  The grips on her magnificent swords would have been slick with the sticky substance if it weren’t for the magic.  Her hands held true to the grips, and she continued her onslaught. 

                Some orcs tried to attack, but were slashed down mid swing, or before they could even raise a sword.  The large trolls and ogres took more than one blow, but they too fell like reed before the fire.  Erroyle saw only red.  Her rage had blinded her to anything else.  She needed to get back to Cal.  Time passed, a wake of bodies lay behind her and yet she pressed on.  She vaguely heard the roar of battle behind her as the dwarves slaughtered any of the Dark Clan who managed to slip past her destructive assault.  Erroyle had only one goal in mind; to make it out the front gate.

                A large ogre was suddenly before her.  He was glowing in an eerie black light.  Just before she rolled out of the way of his massive club, she saw the source of the incandescent black glow… a dark elf.  For the first time she recognized that she was fighting living creatures.  This was a cousin.  She knew him from thousands of years earlier.  His name was Aorilalie.  He had played with her sister when they were younger, before the dark elves had abandon elven society and turned to evil.  Aorilalie had been one of the many suitors of her sister.  He had loved Erai once.  Erroyle felt conflict in her actions for the first time.  How could she kill someone she knew?

                A sharp pain jolted her out of her memories.  A blade had nicked her just below her protective armor breastplate.  A small trickle of blood oozed down her hip from the scratch on her side.  Rage replaced her conflict.  She turned and took the head of the orc who had cut her, and then turned back to the large ogre, just in time to roll out of the way of his massive club.  In the middle of her roll, she extended her blade, severing the ogre’s hand.  The club fell with a loud thunk to the floor.  Erroyle used her momentum to leap up to the ogre’s knee.  With one foot she jumped off the knee and onto its back.  Standing with one leg on each shoulder, she swung her sword behind her and down, taking the ogres head, all the while keeping an eye on Aorilalie.  His eyes widened in surprise that her weapons could penetrate his dark magic shields.  As the Ogre began to fall to the earth, she jumped off his back, flipping in the air, taking the heads of two more orcs along the way, and landing two feet in front of the shocked dark elf.  Without a moment’s pause, she slashed criss-crossed with each blade, like a massive pair of scissors, cutting the dark elf in two at the middle. 

                The dark elf fell forward, grabbing onto her shoulders for support as his bottom half fell helplessly to the ground.  The look of horror and pain filled his eyes as he looked desperately into hers.  A feeling of revulsion washed through her as the young elf, whom had once courted her sister, hung desperately to her as if he could somehow hold on to his now forfeited life.  He moved his mouth to speak, but as his insides fell out of the severed bottom half of him.  He found he was without air to make the words.  She saw him mouth the words, “I should have known better than to fight you.” But only a whisper escaped his lips, and then the fingers relaxed and he slunked lifelessly to the ground.

                Errolye looked down in shock at the bloodied dark mass at her feet.  Fresh blood oozed down her pristine golden elven armor… his blood.  She felt sick.  She looked back at the river of dead bodies in her wake.  Thousands lay lifeless on the ground…  at her hand.  She thought she might throw up.  She remembered Cal crying himself to sleep after his first battle.  How he had said he murdered the dark clan.  She remembered how distraught he was.  She had felt his pain and anguish through her Gaian gift.  She had felt his guilt at murdering so many.  She had felt his sorrow over their lives, his worry for their families left without mother, or father.  He had had his innocence shattered that day. 

                Erroyle looked back again at all of the bodies bathed in a sea of blood, and then again at the one at her feet, the one she knew from the time he was a baby.  She had killed so many, and yet she didn’t feel the anguish her beloved had felt that day.  Perhaps it was the millennia of war and death.  Perhaps she was not as sensitive as the young human.  Perhaps she was justified in her killing, but either way she just didn’t feel guilt.  She felt sick at having to slay a childhood friend, but no guilt.  He had chosen his path.  She would not have slain him if he weren’t trying to invade the free world.

                The enemy were all around her, frothing at the mouths wanting to get to the object of their hate, but held back by a fear of her wrath.  She sneered at them, backing them up a foot or two, and then she looked back into the main hall of the dwarven stronghold.  She was standing in the doorway of the main gate, now battered and splintered into pieces on the floor.  Across the hall, at the back wall, she saw the last of the dwarves, fighting their way into an escape tunnel.  The young dwaven prince, Fayern , was looking back at her, a sad worried look on his face.

--------------------

                The fighting lasted all day, all night, and late into the next day.  As Fayern limped dumbly out in the open fields of the dragon plains he couldn’t help but feel small and insignificant.  What he had seen had scarred his already injured psyche for life.  Few had survived; mostly women and small children.  Even the young boys had taken up arms in the end to defend their mothers and sisters, only to fall at their heels as they fled the swarming mass of dark clan.  All of Fayern’s men had fallen.  All except, to his never ending shame, him.

                He shook his head sadly.  Why?  Why had his father left him to this fate?  Why had Mother Gaia shunned her beloved earth-dwellers?  Why hadn’t Sky Father stopped the slaughter?  What had the dwarves done to deserve such a horrid fate?

                He looked around at the bloodied dwarven women marching along with him in their small, sad procession.  Some carried small children on their hips.  Some, not more than children themselves, carried motherless children on their backs.  Fayern’s good arm held a hastily crafted crutch, the other hung limply at his side dripping the occasional drop of blood from his nearly severed shoulder muscle.  Even now, away from the fighting, he was not much help to his people.  The soldiers kept most of the danger away from him during the battle, until the last fell, and then the women tried to protect him.  He had fought vigorously to stay at the enemy front, but his people insisted on throwing themselves between harm and their ruler, costing more unnecessary lives.  In the end, his retreat was the only way to get his people to retreat.  He had shed his own blood, but not before others laid down their lives before him.

                The safety of the few remaining dwarves was not because of Fayern’s efforts, nor was it by some divine intervention by their beloved Mother Gaia or Sky Father.  It was, in fact, because of the elven princess. 

                Princess Erroyle fought like a demon.  Just as the Dark Clan was breaking in through the great doors of the inner sanctum, the elven princess ambushed them from the side.  True to her word, none saw where she came from.  Most didn’t see her until her blade ran them through.  She wielded Fayern’s birthright, the swords of the royal family, to free his people; something Fayern could not do even if he had the weapons.  Perhaps that was why his father had left them to the boy.  Perhaps the old king knew that this would be their final stand, and if his line somehow survived, it would only be at the great cost of life from others.

                Fayern shook his head.  “Curse you Father,” he said, under his breath.  “Curse my royal line.”

                “Highness,” asked a young woman at his side.  He hadn’t even noticed her until that moment.

                “Oh nothing, lass,” he said, trying to smile.  The swelling in his face forced a tear out of his eye in the effort.

                “It not be dat bad, Highness,” the young woman said.  “We be alive, an’ dat be reason to be thankful.”

                “I suppose you’re right, lass,” Fayern said. 

The woman was of low ranking among the dwarves; perhaps a cook or house-lady, so even if Fayern, had lived among his own people, wouldn’t have cause to know her.  Living away from his people made the lack of familiarity even more forgivable.  His father knew all the dwarves by name.  Fayern had been sent away to live with the humans when he was but a boy three hundred years ago.  He did not have the accent of his people, and certainly not the accent of the young woman, but he did have a slight gruffness of dwarf mixed in with his well-practiced human tongue.  The result was that Fayern did not fit in in either world.

                “Highness, do ya think she’ll be alright,” the woman asked.

                “I’m sorry,” Fayern held out his hand as if to ask her name.

                “Vaylehia, Highness.  Er juss Vayle, if it be pleasin’ yer majesty.”

                “Vayle then.  Vayle, I’ve never seen a living creature move the way that elf moves.  She must have killed a thousand orcs and half again as many trolls and ogres.  I don’t think the Dark Clan could stand against her if they gathered all their forces to do so.”

                “It’s so romantic, if’n ya think about it; her goin off to save her man like dat,” Vayle said as her jolly cheeks flushed red.

                The girl (for that was how Fayern saw her now, as a silly girl) was obviously trying to take his mind off the horrific thoughts of the slaughter of his people.  There was nothing romantic about what had happened in the dwarven city.  Especially what had happened at the end, as the last of the dwarves made it to the exit tunnel.

                Fayern shuddered at what had almost happened to his people at the end.  He tried to smile again, squeezing another tear out of his swollen eye.  “She’ll get her boy back.  I’ve no doubt.  That woman could do anything she wanted.  I could scarcely believe what she managed in the city, but having seen it, I’ve no doubt that she’ll get her boy back.”

                Vayle looked down at the ground.  “An’ what about da last bit?”  She looked up suddenly into Fayern’s eyes.  “You don’t suppose dat Mother Gaia sent dem do you?”

                Fayern Shuddered again.  “I couldn’t possibly know,” he said, a haunted look settling in his blank gaze, as he relived the horrific event.  “I’m just glad we weren’t in the city when they came through the wall.”

                Vayle wiped away a tear of her own; hers was not from a swollen eye, though.  “I know dey be da enemy, but dat be about da most horrific way of dyin’ I can imagine.”

                Fayern nodded sadly.  “No less than they deserved, though; always nipping at our heels, not letting decent folk live in freedom.  They’re animals, young Vayle.  You mustn’t let yourself be moved to compassion for them.  They’d have killed every last one of us if the princess hadn’t fought us out of our corner.  They’re evil, wicked, nasty. They want nothing but death and destruction, chaos and suffering.  I think I shall be happy knowing they aren’t spending a night of drunken celebration in our ancestral home.”

                Vayle seemed uncomfortable thinking it good that the Dark Clan had been burned the way they had.  She walked quietly in the waning light of day.  Marching… To where?  Fayern hadn’t had time to think yet.  He simply walked north, away from the battle.  Away from their ancestral home.  Away from the wicked Dark Clan who had invaded.  Away from the smell of their burning flesh.

                Fayern shuddered again at the thought of what had almost happened to the few survivors of his people.  He vividly recalled the lava creatures breaking through the thin walls of the hollowed out volcanic mountain.  Creatures which had fallen to myth and legend until that moment were suddenly real.  With them came the lava, of course, super-heated because of their mere presence.  It flowed unabated into the vast cavern.  Fayern had to run up the old lava shoot his people were using as an escape tunnel to avoid being burnt himself.  He only had enough time to look across the cavern at the elven princess fighting back the enemy at the main gates.  She saw the lava coming, and though he had reassured Vayle of her well being just moments before, he couldn’t see how she could have gotten out of the way fast enough to avoid the molten rock. 

                Hoping to lighten the mood, Fayern forced another smile, which pressed out another tear, which he gingerly wiped away from his rapidly swelling cheek as he spoke, “So Vayle, which family are you from?  What did you do in the old city?”

                The young dwarven woman brightened up again, and her cheery cheeks blossomed red.  “Oh I be juss a nobody, Highness.  I worked in da bakery by da ol’ smitty.”

                “Well, a baker could be the means to survival for our people, young Vayle.  You aren’t a nobody anymore.  You are a very important dwarf.”

                Vayle blushed profusely.  “I begin yer pardon, majesty, but it be you dat be important.  We be needin’ a leader now more dan ever.”  She looked around and the hundred or so dwarves.  “And we be needin’ men more dan anything.”

                Fayern looked around and the battered dwarves.  He could only see about ten males, most too young to father children.  Hopefully there were more he couldn’t see, but somehow he doubted it.  “That may be true, but right now we need to make it through the next couple of days.  Most of these people will die of infection if we don’t get them cleaned and stitched up.”

                The world started spinning for Fayern as the wound in his shoulder continued to bleed freely.  He needed to be stitched up or he’d be dead right along with them.  He had to push forward, though.  The farther away from the scene of the bloody battle they got, the better he’d feel.  Nausea washed over him as he thought of the destruction of his people.  Were there enough left to restart the race of dwarf?

                “Majesty?”  The young girl was pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.  “My lands, yer cold as night, an’ sweating sometin’ fierce!”  She pulled back his tunic to see the gaping gash in his shoulder.  “You’ll bleed ta death if’n we don’t get dat sewed.”

                Fayern tried to push her away, but in the effort he lost his balance and fell to the ground.  His groggy head heard only muffled noises as the young girl tried to rouse him.

                “Curse you, Father,” he managed, just as the world went black.