A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  Although Whill could have stayed awake indefinitely with the power of Adromida, he fell asleep on the double saddle. He had faced his inner demons, and he had won. No longer did he fear his dreams.

  Avriel came to his mind and gently woke him, and he stirred in the saddle stiffly. Morning had come. When he dismounted, Zerafin was there to greet him.

  “The crystal fortress is beyond the ridge, as you said,” Zerafin told him. “I have sent elves out wide to strike from the sides. The dwarves will do what they do best: charge straight in.”

  “You be gods damned right!” said Roakore, coming upon them. “I say we take ʼem by storm.”

  The dwarf king cocked an eyebrow toward Whill. “Unless ye be wantin’ to bomb ʼem back to the hells as before.”

  Whill avoided the suggestion, having no idea how the Other had wrought such devastation down upon the Draggard horde.

  “We cannot risk damaging the portal; it is our only way home,” said Whill.

  Walking to the crest of the hill, he peered over at Eadon’s forces. When he realized the Draggard army numbered many times more than the dwarves and elves combined, he refused to let it affect his resolve. When he returned to the others, they waited in quiet anticipation of his words. He shook his head, at a loss.

  “I don’t know if Eadon is there. I cannot sense him,” said Whill.

  “If he be, then so be it, I ain’t for hidin’ out in this gods-forsaken land,” Roakore proclaimed.

  Zerafin scowled at such words against his homeland, and Roakore did not miss the expression. “Meanin’ no offense,” he said, slamming his chest.

  The elf king nodded understanding and turned to Whill. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

  “I would see a promise kept,” said Whill.

  He had asked Kellallea to help them against the dark elves, and meant to hold her to it. Closing his eyes, he focused his consciousness down into the hard-packed earth. He connected with the essence of Keye and called to the ancient one.

  He knelt and put a hand to the ground. The dirt around his hand began to vibrate, causing small stones to jump sporadically. Whill stood and dusted his hands off.

  “She will come,” Whill said confidently, though he was not convinced entirely.

  Roakore turned from Whill to Zerafin, and then to Avriel expectantly. “Who’s she?” he asked.

  “Kellallea, the ancient,” said Whill.

  Roakore threw up his hands with a huff, turned a circle as he shook his head, and squared back on Whill. “That crazy old elf ain’t gonna be o’ no help. She be thinkin’ the prophecy be a lie, she ain’t right that one.”

  “The prophecy is a lie,” Whill told him. “She spoke the truth, though she has motives of her own. I have discovered the truth about her. There is no need for her to feign weakness.”

  “Why have you not spoken of this until now?” asked Zerafin.

  “We have come to an understanding. It is between her and I.” said Whill.

  “She best not be takin’ all day then,” said Roakore, resting an elbow and leaning upon his axe.

  A low rumbling began deep within the earth. The spot where Whill had touched the ground began to vibrate and heave. They backed from the spot and watched expectantly as the heaving subsided. A flash of light caused them to turn their heads away, and, when they looked again, she stood before them.

  “Kellallea,” Zerafin gasped, and fell to his knees. Every other elf nearby fell to their knees. Avriel, however, did not greet her as she had before. She, like Roakore and Whill, remained standing.

  The ancient elf gazed out on the elven army with eyes of bright green. Her short hair grew into long tubers resembling reaching roots. She wore a garment of moss and leaf, flower and vine, which left much of her dark skin bare in the sunlight. Around her bare feet, grass and vine grew and radiated with life.

  “Zerafin, son of Verelas,” she said, laying a hand upon his bowed head. She cocked her head, and a smile crept across her face. “Rise, first King of Elladrindellia.”

  Her gaze fell upon Avriel, who still refused to kneel. Avriel averted the powerful elf’s gaze, and stood her ground stubbornly.

  “Do you sense Eadon?” Whill asked.

  Kellallea lingered long on Avriel. “No,” she finally answered. “He is not here in Drindellia.”

  “He must’ve gone through one o’ the rifts,” said Roakore.

  Whill hummed agreement. “And he knows they have been closed. He is likely making all haste to reach the last portal’s twin in Del’Oradon."

  “Or, he be waiting just on the other side,” Roakore suggested as he stroked his beard the way he often did when pondering.

  “Perhaps,” said Whill, looking to Kellallea.

  “Surely, it matters not!” Zerafin proclaimed. “We have Whill of Agora and Kellallea the ancient one. None shall stand before us!”

  Zerafin’s voice boomed for all to hear. The elves pumped their fists in a cheer, and the dwarves began to dance on their toes. Kellallea, who had spent so much time in seclusion, seemed moved by the excitement around her, for a wild look came to her, one of mischievous excitement.

  “Lead the way, good king,” she said with a small bow. Zerafin straightened and seemed to gain strength from the gesture from one such as her.

  “Elves and dwarves, to arms!” he called.

  “Formations, lads!” Roakore bellowed and leapt atop Silverwind.

  Avriel and Whill mounted Zorriaz and took to the sky behind Roakore. Many Ralliad joined them in their various bird forms. Below, Zerafin and his small cavalry crested the hill. Kellallea too had changed into such a bird as Whill had never seen. He wondered if such a creature even existed. Her wingspan rivaled a dragon’s, and her feathers were like dancing flame.

  Ahead, a horn rang out, signaling they had been discovered, and many draquon took to the sky. The Draggard army surrounding the crystal fortress, fanned out, and took up defensive positions. Whill guessed they numbered a few thousand, but what caught his attention was the sheer size of the crystal palace. Dominating the landscape, it cast a shadow that seemed to stretch on forever. He wondered what might await him inside the fortress.

  Kellallea’s voice came to his mind then. Follow me to the Fortress.

  “What is it?” Avriel asked from the saddle in front of him.

  “She calls to me to follow her.”

  “Be wary of that one. I do not trust her.”

  “Nor do I,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her. He laid a hand upon her chest and transferred a surge of power from Adromida. He kissed her again as she shuddered, unable to speak. “Be safe.”

  Whill leapt from Zorriaz and flew off after Kellallea as she glided swiftly toward the fortress. Dozens of draquon descended upon her, meaning to intercept. They soon fell from the sky, dead.

  Spells shot forth from the Draggard ranks and slammed into the elves’ energy shields. The charging dwarves sang the “Call o’ Ky’Dren” at the top of their lungs, as their boots echoed like thunder upon the land.

  Whill reached the fortress and approached Kellallea as she blasted a hole in the side of the floating monolith and disappeared within. Whill prepared himself with a calming breath, and followed her inside.

  Within the floating crystal monolith, no sound bled through from the outside world. A soft humming reverberated steadily with the pulsing of the multicolored crystal walls within. He had entered a long hall with a floor like polished glass. No uniformity was found in the shape or cut of the walls, which arched up and melded smoothly into the ceiling. Kellallea stood before him in elven form, concentrating on something. She opened her eyes as he approached.

  “Arkron’s gate is this way,” she said, beckoning him to follow her.

  Whill walked after her down the hall despite his growing unease. She had gotten into the supposed fortress quite easily. How she knew the location remained a mystery. But he had no choice; he had to get back to Agora, and this seemed the only way.

  A
small explosion shook him alert, and he reached Kellallea in time to see a dark elf fall dead at her feet. Another came around the corner, and she raised a hand, stopping him. A surge of lightning shot from the elf’s body into her palm. At first, Whill thought he had attacked her with a spell, but he soon realized she had drained him of all power. The dark elf stared at his hand in horror as he tried to cast a spell. A sword took his head as Kellallea passed. Whill stepped wide of the body and caught up to her.

  “You take not only their power, but also the memory of magic?”

  She did not answer, but walked on.

  “It is the very spell that ended the first age of enlightenment?”

  Still she did not answer.

  “Teach it to me,” he said, raising his voice and causing the crystal around them to sing. Kellallea wheeled around to glare at him.

  “What would you do with such a spell? Disarm your enemies? Would you dictate who is worthy to wield Orna Catorna?”

  “Seems as though someone should.”

  “And that someone should be you?” she asked. “When I stripped the elves of all knowledge of Orna Catorna, I left none with the ability. None.”

  “You left one with the ability…yourself,” said Whill.

  Kellallea did not reply. She turned from him and continued down the hall. They passed many rooms and wide corridors as they made their way steadily down deeper into the fortress. No call of alarm rang out, though the ancient elf left a line of dead in her wake. Whill jumped as they turned a corner, and Eadon stood before them. Kellallea raised a hand, and the dark elf went rigid.

  “It is not him,” said Kellallea as she drained the doppelganger, and he fell to a pile of ash. Whill’s heart hammered in his chest as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

  “If not Eadon, then who?” he asked.

  “Eadon has made copies of himself to do his bidding. When I made a connection with this one, I sensed the dark one. Now he knows we are here, and he will come. We have little time,” she said and sped off down a corridor.

  Whill followed, eager to find the portal and be done with it. His mind drifted often to his friends outside fighting for their lives. They traveled down many winding crystal stairs and finally came to a landing off which many halls led. A strange mewling came to Whill from the hall to his right, the opposite direction Kellallea had veered.

  “Come, we’ve no time,” she bade him.

  “That noise, it comes from just past the threshold,” he said as he moved forward to investigate.

  The strange sound came again, clearer this time, and equally more disturbing. Something was in pain. He followed the sound down the hall and came to a wide open chamber of soft glowing light. He stepped through yet another threshold and came out on a wide balcony. He moved to the edge and discovered the source of the sound. Below, surrounded by what must have been thousands of Draggard eggs, was a Draggard queen. She moaned in apparent ecstasy as an egg slowly oozed from the long birthing canal behind her.

  “Come, we are close,” Kellallea said behind him.

  Whill tore his eyes away from the hellish image and followed her the way he had come. When they had again reached the landing, she indicated the many halls branching off in every direction.

  “These other halls lead to more birthing chambers. I can feel the portal below the chambers; great power surrounds it,” said Kellallea. “Come, this way.”

  They took the hall leading to a short staircase that wound down to a wide chamber below the birthing chambers. Spears, swords, axes, and massive war hammers hung by the thousands, and ramps led up and into the walls every few feet. Whill assumed these led to the birthing chambers. When the Draggard were hatched, they would be led here to the armory before going through the gate of Arkron and into Del’Oradon. He followed Kellallea to the end of the chamber, where they found the lost gate of Arkron. It was identical to the one they had found on Drakkar, only much bigger. Ten men could walk through it side by side, and it was high enough to easily allow a dwargon to pass through.

  “What awaits us on the other side?” Whill asked.

  “Let us find out,” Kellallea answered with a wry grin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Way Out

  Aurora awoke with a throbbing headache. A lot of the dark liquor had passed between her and Veolindra. Zander would be able to alleviate it easy enough. With a groan, she sat up in her bed and gave a stretch exposing her bare skin to the cold winter air.

  “Lady of the North,” said a voice, and she jumped to discover Azzeal standing at her tent door. His head hung lazily to the side, and a steady line of drool hung from the corner of his mouth. His haunting eyes looked at nothing.

  “How did you get in here?” she demanded, as she pulled the fur blanket up to her chin.

  Rather than answer, Azzeal jerked his head to the other side, as if looking at her more closely. A shiver danced up the small of her back.

  “What do you want?” she asked, wishing he would just go away.

  Again, he refused to answer.

  “Get out!” she ordered, pointing at the door.

  Azzeal rushed forward until his milky-white eyes stared inches from her face.

  “I have seen into your heart,” he croaked with a twitch.

  Aurora was horrified, though she wasn’t a woman who scared easily. The rugged and unforgiving tundra had made her as strong as any barbarian. But the lich petrified her. He was the embodiment of her sin, a walking testament to her cowardice. In those white eyes, her reflection stared back, putrid and rotten like her soul.

  “Never speak to me again!” she screamed in a rage born of guilt and self-loathing.

  “I have−”

  Aurora backhanded Azzeal to shut him up. His head snapped to the side from the powerful blow, but he did not waver.

  “You!” yelled Zander from the door. He stalked over to Azzeal, grabbed him by the hair, and bent his head back to face him.

  “You have orders to stay away from the Lady! Why are you here?” Zander searched the dead white orbs and pushed the lich away with a disgusted snarl. Clumps of dark-green tinted hair fell from his hand. He raised a fist to Azzeal, and a ring set with a brilliant emerald began to glow. The milky-white eyes mirrored the glow.

  “Why are you here?” Zander insisted, and the inner fire of the ring glowed with his will.

  Azzeal’s head snapped up, and, for the first time, he seemed alert. “I wanted to see her.”

  “You wanted?” Zander repeated, as though he did not understand the word. “You do not want anything. You do not feel anything. Do you understand?”

  “Do I understand? It is a feeling…I believe,” Azzeal cocked his head toward Zander. “Can I believe?”

  Zander sneered at the lich and punched out with the ring. Azzeal bent at the waist as if he had been struck and shot upright again with such force that he bent back unnaturally far, his bones cracking. A howl of pain in many voices sang out in agony as he fell sideways to the bearskin rug in convulsions. Aurora found herself fighting the urge to cry as she watched the tortured form of her friend. She sensed him still, and knew a part of the elf remained.

  “Stop this!” she screamed, and Zander complied at once. He turned and frowned at her. Conscious of his probing mind, she wiped away at her tears urgently and tried not to sniffle in front of the dark elf.

  “Send him away,” she waved toward the door.

  “Report to the whipping post at once!” Zander yelled, and, with a lifting motion of his ring hand, Azzeal was pulled to his feet like a puppet. Guided by the ring, he was shown to the door promptly.

  “I want that thing destroyed. Do you understand me?” exclaimed Aurora, fighting to hold back tears that she feared might never end should they fall again.

  Zander regarded her with what might have been pity; she could not be sure. What she did recognize, however, was the hint of disgust playing at the corners of his eyes. “Apologies, Chieftain, but that will not happen until our master
releases him.”

  “Master? What does Eadon care for the fate of Azzeal?” Aurora asked, unable to bear the thought of having to see him anymore, pained as he was. She had never meant for any of this to happen.

  “Azzeal is Eadon’s Risen; only he may dictate such an action. It is also personal to him: Azzeal interfered in our master’s plans. He does not forget, and he does not forgive. His retribution is swift, and his punishments…inventive.”

  “Then, send him far from here,” she said in a voice more pleading than she liked.

  “Perhaps,” Zander nodded, and walked to sit at the foot of the bed. He gazed upon her with searching eyes.

  “No matter how far you go from the lich, there you will be,” he said.

  Aurora knew his words to be true. It wouldn’t matter; Azzeal’s dying eyes would haunt her dreams and waking hours forever, as her guilt over Abram still did. No respite would be found, not even in death. Sorrow took her breath away and wracked her body. Her mind spun in maddening circles as she tried to think of a way out. Her tears came in uncontrollable sobs, and she hid her head in shame.

  Zander’s hand touched her shoulder and squeezed softly. “You suffer needlessly,” he said in a soft, melodic voice.

  She wasn’t comfortable exposing such feelings to the dark elf; she hoped he would just go away and leave her to her misery. Every tear she shed would be seen as yet another sign of weakness, and likely her behavior would get her killed. To think the Chieftain of the Seven−the commander of the Seven Armies−was crying, naked in her tent. She felt pathetic.

  “There is but one way out for you,” he went on, gripping her shoulder firmly, even adding a small jolt to focus her attention. She listened, but she dared not admit anything to him.

  “Embrace thyself. Embrace thy nature. Cast away your selflessness, your guilt. Azzeal offered you death, and for what? Honor? Eadon offers you power, freedom, and eternal life.”

  “What I did was for my people,” she said, looking at him finally. Tears streamed down her face, but she no longer cared.

  “No,” Zander said, as if they both knew the truth. “You did it for yourself. The sooner you admit your actions were guided by your lust for power, the sooner you can begin to become whole.”