A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  “Surrender now, or be destroyed,” the dark elf finished.

  Minutes dragged by, and they waited in anticipation. No reply came from the queen. Tarren shifted nervously and watched the city. Movement down below caught his eye. Hundreds of elves were shifting to the outer edge of the city, closer to the spell shield. Above the city, hundreds of draquon flew circles like huge carrion birds, waiting to feast on the eyes of the dead. More quiet minutes passed, and still no word from the queen. The Draggard hurriedly scrambled across the blackened and scorched earth, away from the shield.

  A rumbling began outside of the spell shield. Dull at first, it slowly grew until it sounded through the spell shield like an underwater explosion. The city shook, and the rumbling increased. Soon, the crashing waters poured forth.

  “They have released the dam,” said the Watcher.

  From the balcony, Tarren watched in terrified awe as the unleashed river crashed over Thousand Falls and pounded on the spell shield. The dome rippled with shimmering webs of multicolored energy, but held the great weight of the water. Tarren assumed dark elf water weavers must have been behind the force of the water, for it came down upon the city with unnatural speed. The sun elves who had moved to the edges of the city began making patterns upon the spell shield with glowing hands. The shield glowed deep blue as the water continued to crash down. Ice began to form on the other side of the shield. Tarren did not know if it was the work of dark elves or sun elves. The shield disappeared to choruses of cracking ice, echoing throughout the city as the river’s waters were frozen solid. For a moment, they were encapsulated in a dome of sheer ice, still smooth from solidifying against the spell shield.

  Tarren jumped with a start as all the enchanting silence beneath the ice dome was shattered, and noise and violence once again found them. He realized the sun elves had frozen the flooding river. The gathered elves that circled the city gave a cry and outstretched their hands by the hundreds. The deafening blast broke the ice into a million jagged pieces shooting in all directions. Tarren found himself deaf and dazed as the world erupted into chaos.

  The elves poured forth from the city blasting spells at the dazed and battered Draggard forces. Many of the beasts had been impaled by long, thin ice shards; they stood dead, held up by translucent lances. Spells and fireballs blasted through the air toward the city once again, a barrage coming from the dark elves lurking behind the hordes of monsters. Many of the spells were intercepted and destroyed harmlessly; some, however, could not be stopped. Explosions sounded all around them as Tarren was pulled by Lunara toward the shelter of the mock dwarven mountain. At the same time, the Watcher firmly held him on the balcony. Lunara’s face showed her confusion.

  “That way leads to sadness,” said the Watcher with a grin. He acted as if he was not aware of the destruction around him. “Better we wait here a moment, and prepare to jump.”

  “Jump?” asked Lunara as she leaned closer to the old elf. “What do you see, master?”

  “Yeah, w-what do you see?” Tarren echoed.

  “Right then…everybody near the ledge,” he bade them, even the two stoic elven guards.

  Tarren moved to the ledge with the rest of them and peered down the side of the hill, he soon wished he hadn’t. This hill was not a true dwarven mountain, but tall nonetheless. Next to the pyramids, the hill was the tallest structure in Cerushia. Tarren didn’t like heights any more than he liked the Watcher’s insinuations.

  “Now?” the Watcher asked himself. “Oh no, not then, nor now. Maybe this one, or, no, no. Ah ha, yes, this one. In five, four,” he counted off and turned to Tarren and the others. “Jump now.” And he leapt.

  Tarren was no coward, nor was he stupid. Back home at the inn in Fendale, he had often climbed to the rooftop of his family’s tavern with his friends. He had walked the peak of the roof fearlessly. But this was something different altogether; he guessed they were at least two hundred feet high. There was no getting up from that fall. But, as the Watcher yelled jump, he found himself complying. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Helzendar leapt, with a war cry to boot.

  Even as they leapt, a giant green fireball shrieked through the sky, defying all counter spells, and slammed into the side of one of the large pyramids. The capstone blew out, up, and to the side and hurtled through the air to collide with the peak of the dwarven hill. Tarren screamed as he fell rapidly toward the jutting rocks below. He found himself again screaming as an unseen force solidified under his feet, and guided him safely wide of the rocky hillside. He and Helzendar laughed hysterically together, Tarren’s fright showing itself in his manic laughter.

  The balcony upon which they had stood tumbled past them, and more debris followed in its wake. One large slab would have killed him, had it not been deflected by an unseen shield.

  They soon reached the bottom, and found themselves on the cobblestone streets of war-torn Cerushia. The city had come alive. Monsters made of twisted and tangled vine lurched to life to intercept the incoming magical missiles. The fireballs blasted them to pieces or froze them solid, while still others withered them to dust. More vines rose up in their places. Elven druids rode upon the heads of the vine behemoths and shot spells and counter spells against the dark elves.

  “Come,” said the Watcher, and everyone listened.

  “Ye think this ole crusty elf be knowinʼ where he be goinʼ?” Helzendar asked as he kept pace beside Tarren.

  Tarren shot him a disappointed glare. “He be your captain, ain’t he? You be following him. He got us off that hill afore it blew, and floated your fat arse down safely.”

  “When an elf be me captain, that’ll be the day I kiss a dragon’s arse,” Helzendar replied.

  The Watcher led them through the mostly deserted city streets. All around them, explosions sounded big and small. Dust and debris clouded their vision, and they were left to trust the Watcher’s guidance.

  “Left, now run!” he would say, and a moment after they had veered around a structure, an explosion would sound where they had been. He led them on this way through fire and ash and lurching vine-monsters until they reached scorched earth.

  “This is the edge of the city!” Lunara protested. “You lead us out?”

  The Watcher distracted himself from his pondering amid the dark smoke to regard her curiously. “Silly girl…does the city look safe to you? Come then,” he said and dashed off to the north, and right into the battle upon the outskirts of the city.

  Tarren and Helzendar shared a glance. Mad glee filled the dwarf’s eyes; Tarren imagined his own looked petrified.

  “Come on!” Helzendar yelled and ran after the mad elf.

  “Stay close,” Lunara urged Tarren as they followed the Watcher into the fray.

  The small group ran toward the back line of advancing sun elves as they fought back the Draggard and dwargon. Some among them were not magic users, but plain soldiers endowed with gifts of strength and protection from their practitioner kin. Behind them, healers sent steady bolts and streams of writhing blue healing spells into them. Offensive spell casters bombarded the Draggard ranks with devastating blasts, while defensive casters shot bolts of light and streaming energy coils at incoming spells. The battle left Tarren humbled, and he thought no matter how much he had sparred with wooden weapons, or how many tournaments he had won, he was not ready for this. He wasn’t sure if he ever would be.

  “Stop! To the left! Go, go,” the Watcher hollered over what sounded like the end of the world. The ground shook with a boom as two thousand pounds of headless dwargon landed where they had been.

  They ran on past the healers and casters and the rear line of soldiers and devastating Gnenja. Tarren followed behind Helzendar, wanting nothing more than to be away from this madness. Beside him, a Draggard broke through the ranks, maimed and bleeding. He came at Tarren with wicked claws and drooling fangs. Lunara stopped the beast in its tracks with a glowing staff to the face. A flash blasted the Draggard back, its broken body landing twen
ty feet away.

  “Tarren, count to three and duck,” the Watcher yelled behind him.

  Tarren’s eyes searched for danger as he followed his friends.

  One, two, three…he ducked as a spell flew over his head, singeing his hair.

  The Watcher skidded to a stop as the dark elves breached the line of defenders before them. The sun elves fought to secure the line, but an explosion had greatly decreased their numbers. The healers worked franticly to keep the front line alive, but they were sent flying high and wide by the sweeping hammer of a monstrous dwargon. The Watcher slammed his staff into the earth, and, before him, a wall of vines grew to life from the blackened earth. The wall parted and drove earth and beast aside. The Watcher smiled at his creation and urged the others through the living pass. Tarren ran through the vine hall and watched above him as the vines came together creating a tunnel. The walls shook and rustled, emitting screams of agony from those Draggard attempting to get through. The Watcher leaned on his staff, and the rest soon caught up.

  “What is it?” Tarren asked, concerned.

  “Go on then, forward. Don’t forget to hold your breath,” he waved them on.

  “Hold our breath?” Tarren asked Helzendar as they rushed on.

  “The old elf is a nutter, that’s what.”

  Behind them, an explosion sent smoke shooting through the tunnel. Tarren was suddenly blinded, and like Helzendar, he coughed and choked, having been too busy jesting to heed the old elf’s words.

  A swift wind blew the smoke far ahead of them down the tunnel, and a shove from Lunara urged them on as they sputtered and gasped for fresh air. All around them, the vine tunnel went up in flames. Finally, the end was near, and Tarren braced himself for whatever nightmare might await them beyond the green overgrowth. To Tarren’s relief, they came out into a glade, far away from the dark elf blight.

  “We are away, for now,” said the Watcher, appearing among them as if he had never fallen behind.

  “What be the meanin’ o’ rushin’ a dwarf away from battle?” Helzendar yelled too loudly for Tarren’s liking.

  The Watcher seemed to study him for a moment. “No doubt your father told you that brave is not stupid, nor is dying from stupidity honorable.”

  Helzendar was left to boil, speechless.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Lost Gate of Arkron

  Roakore wiped his brow and gazed up to the sun. Good enough, he thought to himself, and took a much needed drink from his water flask. Below him, Drindellia rushed by as he and Silverwind scoured the horizon for any sign of Eadon’s other portal.

  He couldn’t get the image of a rift inside one of his mountain cities out of his head. He remained convinced the other portals led to dwarven mountains, and he was fraught with worry for his people. The dwarves were fighting for control of the mountains, and he was helpless to do anything to help.

  Roakore cursed himself; he should have listened to Nah’Zed. What kind of king left his mountain during a war? He heard his royal brain lecturing him on the responsibilities of a dwarf king. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be royalty.

  Knowing the rifts had been closed did little to remedy his mood. For all he knew, they would be trapped here in Drindellia for months. They needed to find the portal, and fast. War was being waged in Agora, and he intended to take part.

  Not even the strange stone formations below took his interest; he had too much on his mind. Next to everything was the problem of the Book of Ky’Dren and its implications. If indeed the elves taught Ky’Dren how to move stone, his religion was likely a lie, and the power to move stone was not gods-given.

  “I shoulda left the damned book alone,” he told Silverwind.

  Roakore made one more turn around the lake and gave up. The sun would be setting soon, and he was anxious to find out what the others had learned.

  “C’mon Silverwind, best we be headin’ back to camp,” he said, and turned his mount around.

  He found nothing new on the way back to the group. They were easy to locate; the mushroom-like cloud left a scar in the sky that could be seen for miles. When he arrived, he noticed the elves and dwarves had made camp. Below, many small cook fires and tents were scattered near the face of a large cave. After landing, he dismounted Silverwind and soon found Zerafin among the elves. He was huddled with a small group, looking over a map of Drindellia.

  “Ye failed to mention ye brought a bloody map,” he said to Zerafin.

  “Ah, Roakore, did you find anything?”

  “That was gonna be me question,” he replied with a sigh. “Where the bloody hells be Whill?”

  An alarm rang out, and something streaked across the sky, coming in fast. Roakore and Zerafin squinted at the object.

  “Well, what ye spyin’ elf?”

  “Whill,” said Zerafin with a smile.

  Whill came down fast and slowed at the last second; he floated to the ground and landed among the elves. Roakore pushed his way through the elves with Zerafin in tow.

  “Well, Laddie, what do ye know?”

  “Prepare to march. We make for the lost portal of Arkron,” said Whill.

  The elves and dwarves prepared to march. Whill, Roakore, Zerafin and Avriel met at the mouth of the cave. The sun sat low. Drindellia had become cold. Already, their breath came in plumes of vapor as they spoke.

  “I have spoken with Kellallea,” Whill told them.

  “That old crazy lady? The words outta her mouth be suspect if any ever spoken. She’s a nutter,” said Roakore.

  “She possesses great power, and she has agreed to help.”

  “Last we saw her, she struggled to keep the blight at bay. How can she be of help?” asked Avriel.

  “She is stronger than she appeared,” said Whill. “She has told me how to reach Eadon’s stronghold.”

  “And you be believin’ her? She what told you the prophecy was a lie and such? Bah!” Roakore spat.

  “I believe her information is correct,” said Whill

  “How far?” Zerafin asked.

  “It is a day’s march southeast of this location.”

  “Well, then,” said Roakore. “Let’s be off, I for one wish to be back in Agora right quick.”

  The elves and dwarves prepared for the road. Whill had not been back for thirty minutes, and they were already heading out in the direction he had indicated. Avriel stayed behind with him, and they watched the small army of elves and dwarves start out over the rocky terrain.

  “What happened?” he asked Avriel.

  She regarded him with a small scowl. “You do not remember?”

  Whill shook his head.

  “What do you remember?” she asked concerned.

  “We came through the portal, but then the Other gained control. I don’t remember what I…what the Other did.”

  Avriel smiled. “You destroyed the rifts, and the entire Draggard army. I have never seen such a magnificent spell cast before.”

  “It was not my doing,” said Whill.

  “The Other then, is he...?”

  “He is gone,” Whill confirmed. He studied Avriel’s reaction to the news and sensed more than a little disappointment. “You would see the tortured side of me endure?”

  “I do not mean to be insensitive, Whill, but he struck a great blow against the dark elf forces. You do realize the two of you are one.”

  “And he has been put in his place, once and for all. Let us speak no more of him,” said Whill.

  “Of course, I apologize. I understand what great pain it must have cost you. I am glad you are well once more.” She gazed at him intently.

  “What?” Whill asked.

  “I don’t know, you are different. There is a peace about you.”

  Whill understood what she meant. There was a calm deep inside him, like soft lapping waves on a moonlit beach. He had discovered the essence of all life within him; he had become illuminated. The raging inner fires of the Other had been quenched.

  “I spoke with Ab
ram,” he said.

  Avriel perked her pointed ears at the mention of his oldest friend. “He yet lives?”

  ’No, he came to me inside the prison of my mind. He took me away to a memory,” said Whill.

  “Was it a good one?”

  “Yes,” Whill laughed. “As good a memory as a wolf attack can be, I suppose.”

  “Do you think that it was real?” Avriel asked with genuine curiosity.

  “I do,” he said, the memory bringing a wide smile to his face.

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me what I already knew.”

  “What?”

  “I needed to let go, I had to accept…the Other.”

  Twilight came to the world, a time when shadows flirted with phantoms in the corner of the eye. The last of the army crested the far hill. Somewhere in Drindellia was Eadon’s floating palace of crystal, or so Kellallea had said. Would he find Eadon as well? Would the final battle come tonight? He hoped not…he was not yet prepared to die; there was much work to be done. Whill had united the elves and dwarves, but had yet to unite Agora.

  “We should catch up with the others,” said Avriel, bringing her head to rest on his shoulder.

  Whill hummed agreement, lost in his thoughts of facing Eadon. He found he was no longer afraid, no longer bitter because he was expected to face impossible odds. The scales were tipped against him, yet he did not care. He was no longer at odds with his reality.

  “Come, fly with me upon Zorriaz. You have wielded incredible power this day; come and rest.”

  Mounting Zorriaz the White, they flew off to follow the two armies. A half-moon rose as the sun died away, and the clouds began to part. The further they got from the dark cloud that still hung over the battlefield, the clearer the sky became. Roakore flew with them, as well as a host of elven Ralliad. They came as eagles and hawks, owls and crows. Whill suspected the dwarves had been given energy from the elves, for the two armies ran at a fast pace and did not slow. The armies made good time over the mostly barren terrain, the lack of vegetation leaving them unhindered.