A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  Zander nodded slowly, “As you wish, but I would stay at my lady’s side, if it pleases you.”

  The barbarians made camp in the deserted village, and Aurora had her tent set up in the town square. She called for the Chiefs of the Seven, including the newly appointed Chief of Eagle Tribe. They heeded her call swiftly, and soon they sat before her at a long table within her tent. She regarded them all with a steely gaze as Zander stood by silently.

  “How far are we from Shierdon’s main force?” she asked the dark elf.

  “The lich Azzeal shall lead us to them by nightfall tomorrow,” said Zander.

  “How do we know the human army can be trusted?”

  Zander smirked. “My master has ensured their loyalty.”

  The Chief of Fox Tribe spoke up; he was a grizzled old barbarian named Moontooth, with knots of gray hair falling about his wide shoulders. He had nearly as many scars upon his face as lines, and Aurora knew many battle wounds hid beneath his heavy plate armor.

  “Long have our people waited to reclaim our ancient lands. We extend our gratitude to your master,” he said to Zander and his fellow chiefs; some nodded agreement.

  “Our master sees great strength in your people. You choose wisely in your allegiance,” said Zander.

  “Once we meet with the Shierdon army, what then is our destination?” asked Goldenwing of Dragon Tribe.

  “We are to march to the Uthen-Arden border and await instruction,” Zander told them all. The seven chiefs shared glances.

  “The ancient lands are to the southwest. We should march on Ky’Dren while they are weak,” said the Chief of Bear Tribe, Beorin Sharpclaw.

  “Patience, my friend. You will see those mountains soon enough,” Zander replied.

  Beorin was not placated; he scowled at the dark elf from behind a winter beard. “Do the Chiefs of the Seven follow you, or Aurora Snowfell?” he asked boldly.

  Zander arched an eyebrow.

  Beorin Sharpclaw’s words seemed to help the other chiefs find their courage. They nodded in agreement and began to mutter to themselves.

  “The Chiefs of the Seven Tribes of Volnoss follow Chieftain Snowfell, and she follows master Eadon,” said Zander. He leaned forward to meet the chief’s glare. “Why did you not express these concerns when your fellow chieftain was bleeding at the end of Aurora’s lance?”

  Beorin’s eyes flashed, but he said no more. Aurora didn’t like where his questions were coming from. If they thought she was not in control, she would not last long. Zander had made clear to them she was in charge, but the chiefs were not convinced. She could not allow the Seven to see weakness.

  “I did not raise this army so we might wait like dogs for our master’s orders,” she told the Seven. “I will decide our course of action once we meet with the Shierdonian army.”

  Beorin scowled at her from across the table as she spoke. He had not taken his eyes off of her. “You will decide nothing but what you are told,” Beorin laughed.

  Aurora leaned forward on white knuckles and rose above them all. She was about to speak when Zander interrupted her and addressed Beorin.

  “What she means is–,”he began, but Aurora’s backhand caught him across the face, snapping his head to the side.

  “You do not speak for me,” she said calmly, and Zander grinned, licking the cut on his lip.

  “Yes m’lady.”

  She turned on Beorin with a wide smile. “Do you think you can lead this army better than I?” she asked as she began to slowly walk around the table. Beorin eyed the others again, and Aurora wondered of a multi-tribal plot against her. She put a hand to his shoulder and whispered in his ear loud enough for all to hear.

  “It is your right to challenge a chieftain you believe unfit,” she reminded him and moved slowly to the other ear. “But, understand when I defeat you, as I shall, I will have you turned into a lich like the undead elf. Then you will heed my every word.”

  Aurora trailed his face with her fingertips and scraped across his beard. Beorin had lost his gusto to her promise. He turned his head from her sidelong gaze. “You have my loyalty Chieftain Snowfell…I am eager for glory, is all.”

  Aurora could tell it hurt his pride to utter the words, but he understood as well as the rest of them that, had he not, he would have died. She looked to the others and knew this was the time to gain true loyalty.

  “I was raised on the ancient tales as you all were. Many of you passed the stories on to your own children and grandchildren. The songs of ancient glories and days past are taught to every child who survives three winters. We honor the deeds of our dead, and we celebrate their bravery.”

  She locked eyes with each chief in turn as she began pacing before them. “But what of our deeds, our bravery? We stand upon the brink of reclamation, and you would set us squabbling among ourselves?” she chastised Beorin, and he bowed his head in shame.

  “This is our chance to make history! To take back, with devastating force, what is rightfully ours. We have slumbered long upon the frozen island, fighting to survive one more winter. No more, I say!” she slammed the table. “No more. I shall lead the Seven Tribes to the glories of old. I will not be stopped by man or elf, dwarf or dragon. If you would see the power of the Seven Tribes restored, then you are my brothers. If not, you have no place here.”

  She turned from them and regarded the fire at the center of the tent for a long time, letting her words echo in their minds. They would be staring at her arse, no doubt; she knew that, like her words, her figure stirred their passion. She turned on them suddenly and walked to the table. They regarded her with newfound respect; even Beorin seemed to be appeased.

  “Give me your undying loyalty, and I shall carve your names in history!”

  Chapter Six

  Infinite Consciousness

  Whill drifted in and out of sleep for hours. Every time he awoke, he found himself still within the nightmare. The chains from which he hung sent a constant trickle of blood down his body, dripping into a puddle at his dangling toes. A large candle above him offered the only light. He stared at the flame while he prayed to the many gods, none of whom he had ever believed in. At the moment, he was ready to believe in any god who might release him from his prison.

  A sudden sensation passed through him, and he realized he was not alone. A blurred figure stood before him in the dark cell. Whill thrashed and cursed, thinking that the torturer had returned. When his vision cleared, it was not a dark elf standing before him, but Abram.

  Whill laughed until he coughed, sending blood-speckled spray dancing in the candlelight. Abram said nothing but waited patiently. He was as Whill remembered him in the best of days: broad and strong and seemingly taller than his six feet. He could go unseen if he wished with a hunch of the back and hooded cloak, but when Abram wanted to be seen, men and women alike could not help but notice him. People were drawn to Abram, and he to them. If ever a man possessed the ability to read others like an open book, it was he. Abram had risen to a position of influence and power within the kingdoms of men, dwarves, and elves, not because of lineage or title, but through character and deed.

  “Why do you torture me so?” Whill sobbed, and Abram’s stoic face broke into one of barely contained sorrow.

  “Ah son, why do you torture yourself so?” he asked and walked forward to reach out to Whill.

  In a thrashing of chains, Whill screamed to be left alone. He reeled from the outstretched hand as if it were a cleaver. Abram touched Whill’s forehead and held firm. Blinding light flashed, and all pain left him. Whill found himself outside in a world of clear winter’s night sky, and beside him stood Abram; the two of them stood upon the snow-covered Old Road.

  “This is where everything began,” said Abram. His words, like the steam that rolled from his mouth, dissipated in the chill wind.

  Whill was bewildered; he spun a full circle like a dog chasing its tail and noticed he wore the clothes of a winter traveler.

  “This is…”
Whill began, but lost his words as over the hill came Abram and himself from long ago.

  “Yes,” said Abram, “last year on our way to Fendale for the Winter’s End Celebration, just before the wolves attacked us. Our last journey before the world went mad.”

  He turned to Whill and laid a hand upon his shoulder. “You have learned much this last year. You have had to do things, had to make hard choices. You have endured pains I cannot imagine, and you are a bigger man than I. Now you face the toughest opponent, the most worthy adversary, and one who has laid many men low. Now, you face thyself.”

  Whill turned away from Abram to hide his wet eyes as the image of himself and Abram topped the hill. Whill remembered clearly now the boy he had been, quick to laugh and always filling people’s ears with stories of elves, dwarves, knights and monsters. His years with Abram and Teera had given him every advantage, considering the destiny he would have to one day face, and he felt as though he had squandered it all.

  The images of he and Abram stopped with the raising of memory-Abram’s hand. Standing in the middle of the road, Whill thought for a moment they had been seen by his memory-self. But he soon remembered the moment.

  “Ride, boy, ride!” memory-Abram hollered in the night, and both horses surged forward as a pack of wolves sprang from the cover of the dark, snow-laden forest. Whill found himself and Abram caught in between their charging selves and the attacking wolves. Arrows flew by to strike true, felling two of the beasts. Whill closed his eyes instinctively and flinched as the horses sped by, and a host of wolves followed. Before them, the entire battle played out until the two men emerged victorious. “Come on!” memory-Whill bellowed into the night, and the defeated wolves retreated.

  “I knew then you were ready,” Abram recalled in reverie.

  Whill turned from the scene to Abram and studied him. “How can this be real?”

  Abram smiled his same smile. “Does it matter? The fact remains you are in mortal danger of losing yourself to your inner demons. Eadon has fractured your mind and created the Other so you might bend to his will. You must face your demons once and for all, else become a slave to them eternally.”

  The memory of himself tending to Abram’s wounds played out before them, and tears streamed down his face. “I wish none of this had ever happened. What have I ever done to deserve this…this hell?”

  Abram gave Whill a sympathetic smile. “What have any of Eadon’s victims done to deserve his cruelty? How many of them wish all of this had never happened? You are not alone in this. The essence of life is struggle; you either get back up, or you lie down and die. This is the choice we all must face every day.”

  Whill knew Abram’s words to be true. He had a choice to make: hide from the pains of the world, curl up in a ball, and cower from the cruelty of life, or accept what was, and fight for survival.

  Around him the world of snow and ice began to fade as a whirlwind of white circled them.

  “My time has passed. I must go,” said Abram, as the whirlwind of snow began to swallow him up.

  “Wait!” yelled Whill, reaching out as Abram became like the snow.

  “Acceptance, my friend…that is the way to peace,” said Abram, and his voice faded with the world of memory.

  Whill opened his eyes, and, below him, a desert unfolded. He found himself flying through the air at high speeds and did not know where he was. He realized the Other had been in control, even as he felt the struggle within him. The Other ripped himself out of Whill and turned to choke him. Whill’s concentration wavered, and they fell through the sky, grappling.

  “Clever of you to find a way out, but I tire of these games,” said the Other in Whill’s ear, as he choked him and caused them to fall like a rock. Whill struggled against the apparition of his ego and attempted to slow their descent. They hit the ground hard, sending a plume of dust into the air.

  Whill unsheathed Adromida, as the Other shot his chains from his wrists. The glowing chains flew at Whill, and he parried them wide. The Other pulled back a glowing hand and shot a fireball at Whill, which exploded against his shield. Smoke and dust filled the air as the effects of the blast were taken by the wind. He whirled around looking for his doppelganger, but found only leveled trees, long dead.

  “I am not your enemy!” Whill screamed into the wind as he turned in his search.

  “You are your own worst enemy, Whill. Look at you, talking to yourself in the middle of Drindellia. You are insane and no longer fit to control our body.”

  Whill stopped looking for the Other, realizing there was nowhere to look but within. He turned his mind sight once again inward. The familiar web of lightning stretched out before him. He moved deeper into his mind, past thoughts that rode the lightning, farther than he knew existed.

  Far into the depths of his own consciousness, he delved, past the organized chaos of his thoughts and mental impulses. He went to a place within himself beyond the fabric of his being. Here was only light, harmony, tranquility, and peace. Here, he realized his true identity, his true self, one that had nothing to do with either the body or its worries. With him, he dragged the Other, and in the presence of the spirit that was Whill, his ego was humbled.

  “This is what I am: infinite consciousness,” said Whill, as he floated with arms stretched, bathed in light. At his feet, the Other cowered from the brightness.

  “This form, of which you are a part, that you call the self, is not your dominion. It is the host through which I experience this world. You seem to have forgotten your place, my friend.”

  The Other squinted up at the incarnation of Whill’s spirit with spiteful, blood-streaming eyes. “Destroy me and have done with it!” he screamed.

  The spirit of Whill raised a hand, and the Other was lifted to his feet. Before he was able to retaliate, Whill embraced him and held him still. The Other lashed out and struggled against the unmoving form of the spirit. The illusion of Whill melted away, and the Other floated up, arms outstretched, to be bathed in piercing light. The voice of Whill surrounded the Other.

  “You carry a great burden my friend, and you must carry it no more.”

  The all-encompassing light hummed brighter with warmth, and the Other stopped his thrashing and began to glow with an inner light of his own. His chains shot out wide, only to be dissolved. His eyes cleared of blood, and his scars melted away. A smile that had never been worn crept across his face as he was born anew.

  Light and sound melded as Whill’s spirit spoke through the light coursing through the Other. “I release you, my friend, from all your earthly pain. No more shall the memories haunt you. Be at peace, and know you are loved.”

  Shimmering tears found smiling cheeks as the Other was bathed in light and love from the spirit of infinite consciousness. They shined brighter still, until the two were one.

  Chapter Seven

  Winterstar

  Dirk awoke after a few hours of rest and eagerly called Krentz and Chief from the spirit plane. They danced around each other as wisps and materialized before him. Chief bounded over to Fyrfrost and playfully barked and nipped at the dragon-hawk. Krentz solidified and offered Dirk a smile as she gained her bearings.

  The morning sun rose behind rolling clouds, causing them to glow with ambient light in the east. The mild day’s breeze carried the reminder that winter was on its way. Krentz approached Dirk and gave him a long, slow kiss.

  “I have been thinking while I waited to be summoned back,” she said, taking Dirk’s hands in hers. Reading her eyes, he knew she had come to a decision, and her resolve was strong.

  “I must make this right. The world around us falls to my father. It is in my power to move against him.”

  She released Dirk and gazed upon her palms as she shifted to spirit form. “No matter your words, the truth remains unchanged. My hands are stained with the blood of the innocent. I will wash them in the blood of tyrants.”

  She stared at her hands as they glowed bright. Dirk understood little about the
powers of spirits; only legends attempted to explain such matters, and they were seldom reliable. Aside from her new ghostly powers, it seemed she retained her ability to perform magic, as she still possessed her father’s gifts of power.

  “Krentz,” said Dirk loud enough to reach her in her current state of concentration. She jerked her head as if she thought herself alone.

  “These are times of war my love.” She hummed and stroked his hair. “Together, we shall be a force to be reckoned with. I am done running and hiding. I have already given my life. What is left, but my very soul? I would see it redeemed.”

  “As would I,” said Dirk, “as would I.”

  The remainder of the day was spent repairing the enchantments upon Dirk’s cloak and gear. His darts she replaced to the best of her ability with materials gathered from the nearby forest, and, though she possessed no dragon’s breath, there were other means with which one of knowledge and skill might create explosives.

  Long into the small hours of night, she wove her spell work by firelight. Chief watched curiously for a while. He soon became disinterested, however, and seemingly disturbed by the occasional swirling light or sparks of enchantment. Krentz poured forth large amounts of energy into the embedded gems within Dirk and his gear; his cloak alone contained thirteen gems.

  At some point in the night, Dirk fell asleep as he watched Krentz empty herself into her work. He was always fascinated by the elven craft, and though Krentz taught him enough to be able to use the enchanted weapons and trinkets, he showed no magical proficiency. Dirk Blackthorn’s abilities lay in other areas, and they were many.

  Due to Krentz’s recent proclamations, Dirk understood he would not be getting a good night’s sleep any time soon, so he took advantage of this last opportunity. All morning and early afternoon he slept soundly, knowing Chief was guarding the perimeter and Krentz was nearby. His dreams were haunted by the echoed exclamations of the drunkard from Helzenvargen. In the town, the strange fortune teller had called Krentz a harbinger of death. In his dreams, one word played over and over: wraith.