A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  At the center of the many fires, one was left in honor of the Chieftain of the Seven. Aurora strode through the crowds, acknowledging no one. When she reached the long-back wooden chair, she turned with a flourish and sat. Beorin of Bear Tribe strutted over to her and offered up a pint of dark beer. Aurora took the drink with a nod and downed it in a single gulp. The watching barbarians cheered, and the music continued. Zander sat to her right as the long table, set in her honor, began to fill up fast. Bread and beer was set upon the table, along with the day’s kill. A flask of grog made its way down the line, and Aurora did not pause before drinking also. The rum burned well on the way down, and set a small fire in her guts.

  “Give us a tale, Chieftain!” a woman yelled down the table. The hundreds of barbarians yelled their agreement.

  “Settle in, settle in. For I have traveled far these years passed,” Aurora sang out to the crowd, and they leaned forward in anticipation of the telling.

  She told them of her journey from Volnoss to the shores of Shierdon and beyond. She spoke of the many men who had regarded her with fear, and, the women, a quiet respect. Her journey brought her along the seemingly endless Elgar mountains, to the borders of the elf land Elladrindellia, and finally to Del’Oradon. She made her capture sound planned, just a way to get close to the fabled Whill of Agora. The story ended with her glorious return, after escaping Cerushia.

  The crowd listened, engrossed in the tale laid out before them. Aurora, like her father, had a gift for storytelling. Her voice rang loud and clear above the howling wind, while at the same time, it was melodic. She wove such a tale that the listeners became enthralled. Her father had told her that the best stories were those you never wanted to end. Her tale ended−to the barbarians’ regret−with her glorious defeat of the Chieftain of the Seven. The crowd clapped, stomped, and cheered her tale. The Seven Tribes had crowded together for the telling, and the lines of division faded.

  The morning came quickly for Aurora and many other barbarians. The merrymaking had gone long into the night, and, though she understood the last thing a traveling army needed was a hangover, she did not regret it. Many tales and imaginings of future glories had been shared the night before. The tribesʼ people had spoken of reclamation and conquest as Aurora had never heard before. They had found again a passion once lost to their people, pounded out of them by centuries of toil and the unforgiving cold of the north. The barbarians of Volnoss had rediscovered pride, and dared to hope for a better future.

  Aurora lay in her bed, laughing to herself as memories of the night played in her mind. The ruffled spot beside her was still warm; stroking it, she smiled at the memories. She had invited one of the tribesmen to her bed last night, Shadow Darktail, son of Chieftain Gnash of Wolf Tribe. When she rolled over to the pillow, his smell remained.

  She rose for the day, feeling refreshed and in good spirits. Her dreams had been pleasant, and though she slept for only a few hours, she was rested. As soon as she left her tent, the tribesʼ people went to work dismantling it. By the time she had gotten herself a hot bowl of whale-fat soup and a hunk of bread, her tent was down and stowed in a wagon.

  The Seven Tribes of Volnoss took up the rear as the Draggard and Shierdon armies started out for the day. Veolindra fell back, as she often did during travels, and taught Aurora the language of the undead. When dealing with the creatures, there was a way of wording things; the wrong phrasing would have disastrous consequences.

  Aurora had not seen much of Azzeal, and when she did, he displayed none of the peculiar behavior he had previously. Aurora had abandoned her guilt, and shed her fear and self-loathing. Veolindra and Zander had shown her a new way, one that would lead to glory, wealth, and power. Embracing their words as one would a new lover, she forgot all else, and focused on her lessons. Aurora became accustomed to the power of the emerald ring. In only a few days, she learned to command an undead soldier with but a thought. Her newfound power was exhilarating; she watched Veolindra’s demonstrations, and her lust for knowledge grew. The lich lord commanded entire battalions with her mind. In battle, she could unleash swarms of the unfeeling, undead soldiers upon her enemies; they were but cannon fodder to her.

  “Soon our master will announce himself to Agora,” said Veolindra, with a wide smile as Aurora caught up to her.

  “Is there any doubt he is here?” Aurora asked with a laugh.

  “The humans and dwarves know nothing. How much can one trust the news of the world passed on from mouths to ears a dozen times? The kingdoms have been divided; as we speak, the cities of humans, dwarves, and elves burn. As of yet, Eadon has been a rumored whisper, a myth cloaked in shadow. Soon, all shall know him, and all shall bow.”

  Veolindra turned her head quickly, as though someone had called her name. A wide smile spread across her face as a low rumbling began deep in the earth. The armies stopped in their march as the rumbling grew. Horses whined and shifted nervously, their fearful eyes darting.

  “The time has come,” said Veolindra with a shudder and wide-eyed laughter. “He speaks!”

  *

  Eadon stood before the long, white expanse of the Thendor Plains. Deep beneath the surface, the coursing power of Agora’s crossing ley lines waited to be tapped. He raised a single, dark crystal shard before him, and began to chant.

  Twelve other dark elves stood in a circle around him, more than two miles wide. They too began the chant. The crystal shard began to vibrate in Eadon’s hand, gaining power. The steady chanting of the elves lent to his power, and solidified the connection between the crystal and the deep ley lines. Eadon planted the crystal shard into the ground and floated into the sky.

  A deep rumbling began in the earth as the rivers of energy beneath the ground triggered the spells within the shard. The crystal pulsed with blinding light and began to grow. A quake shuddered through the land, followed by another, stronger jolt. The frantic chanting of the dark elves rose into the air as the shard grew downward into the earth. The roots of the crystal shard connected with the flowing energy of Agora’s ley lines, and a cascade of light shot forth, piercing the heavens. Eadon floated high, bathing in coursing power.

  The vibrating crystal began to steadily grow as the elves continued their chant. Earthquakes rumbled through the earth, and the ground heaved and split. Soon the crystal towered thousands of feet above the Thendor Plains. Large mounds of dirt crashed down like rolling waves as the crystal grew into a monolithic spire reaching steadily for the thin clouds and digging its roots deep into the earth.

  The spire grew high and wide, fed by the energy of the ley lines; it pierced the clouds and continued to grow. The flat plains were torn asunder, leaving gaping canyons in the wake of the spell. Lava from rivers deep within the earth spewed forth, filling the widening canyons.

  The rumbling subsided, and the dark elves fell dead at the edges of the spire. Eadon flew to the highest peak of jutting crystal and landed upon the smooth surface. He extended his consciousness down through the spire and into the coursing rivers of energy below. As the connection was solidified, Eadon spoke, his words traveling through the spire, into the rivers of energy, and throughout all of Agora.

  *

  Whill stood tall before Alrick and the soldiers as they knelt before him with heads bowed. Before, he felt uncomfortable to receive such treatment, but now it bothered him not. He was rightful king of Uthen-Arden, and he had claimed his birthright. His choice was made, and there would be no turning back now.

  He raised his hands and bade them all stand.

  “Long live King Whillhelm!” Alrick cheered, and the soldiers answered in kind.

  Whill began to address them, but a deep rumbling stole his words. The rumbling grew so violent it seemed the world might be torn asunder. Men, elves, and dwarves alike fought to keep their balance as cracks formed in the courtyard, and the ground split. Whill shot into the sky and hovered high above the city. The oldest and tallest buildings swayed with the earthquake. The highest towers
cracked and fell to the streets below sending people scurrying for cover. Below him, the castle buckled and moaned, and the two towers crumbled in a heap of dust. The elves extended their shields throughout the courtyard, blocking chunks of falling rock from crashing down upon the armies.

  Just when he thought that the city could take no more, the rumbling subsided. He looked out over the horizon in every direction, but could find no cause for the disturbance. It was not until he looked with his mind sight upon the city below that he found the cause. Deep below the city, the surging power of the ley lines converged upon the castle from different directions; the brightest of them flowed north. Whill rose higher into the sky, until the air became thin and his breath came laboriously. With his mind sight, he followed the thin ley line north. Far away, a jutting spire glowed brightly. Whill unsheathed Adromida and prepared himself, but no attack came.

  “People of Agora: human, dwarf, and elf. Hear my words!” Eadon’s voice bellowed forth from all directions, scattering birds from the treetops. Whill flew swiftly down and landed in the courtyard as Eadon’s words echoed throughout the land. He saw fear in the faces of the soldiers, anger in the dwarves, and in the eyes of the elves, a quiet foreboding. Silence followed in the wake of Eadon’s command, and all of Agora waited.

  “You know my name, for it is whispered by warriors and cowards alike. My armies are legion; my reach is infinite; and my power, absolute. My brethren of old have put you all in danger. These elves of Elladrindellia, who you revere and hold in such high regard, have included Agora in a war that should have ended five centuries ago, and far from here. These sun elves you call allies; they are your greatest enemy. They have refused to surrender and pay for their war crimes. Instead, they hide behind humans far weaker, but braver, than they.”

  Eadon paused, and Whill stood beside Zerafin and Avriel. Zerafin’s face was void of expression, but his eyes darted anxiously as he waited for Eadon to go on. Avriel hid neither her anger, nor her fear. Whill noticed many of the dwarves had been nodding, or sharing glances, testing each other’s resolve.

  “The dwarves of Agora have lost much for these elves, and for what? Have they shared with you their great secrets, their power? Have your lives been enriched by their presence? I would end this war, before any more blood is shed.”

  “Lyin’ son o’ bitch!” Roakore screamed into the sky. His face was beet red, and his hands wrung his axe handle so hard it seemed his white knuckles might pop. Many of the men and dwarves jumped at the exclamation, having been pulled from the effects of Eadon’s voice; more than a few of their faces reddened with the guilt of their thoughts.

  Far away, upon the southern oceans of Agora, Tarren and the others heard Eadon’s words. Helzendar mumbled profanities as he clenched the rail facing north. Lunara held a hand over her mouth as deep tears pooled in her eyes. The Watcher however simply stood and listened; his face shone neither fear nor anger. Tarren wondered if this was the end of all things.

  “I have come to Agora seeking only my brethren,” Eadon continued, “I have no fight with dwarves or humans. I want only what was stolen from me long ago. I seek only the ancient blade. One among you is in possession of this blade; one among you can end this war: Whill of Agora! Your name remains the last secret hope of the masses, and you are my last hope as well. The Elves of the Sun would let Agora burn out of sheer stubbornness. They have done nothing to stop this war. You can. You can end it all.”

  Humans, dwarves, and even elves looked to Whill then. In some of their eyes was accusation; in others, hope. The Uthen-Arden soldiers glanced at the blade in wonder. The legend of Whill of Agora had suddenly come to blazing life before their eyes. A small, rumbling shudder coursed through the earth once more, and cries rang out in the city as everyone prepared for another series of violent earthquakes, but they never came. Once again, Eadon’s voice echoed from all directions.

  “As a show of faith to all of Agora, I shall give you seven days of peace. If Whill does not come to Felspire with the ancient blade by the seventh sunset, I will be forced to destroy you all.”

  Eadon’s last word echoed throughout the land, through every tunnel in every dwarf mountain. It was heard by every man, woman, and child, every dwarf, and every elf in Agora.

  The Del-Oradon Castle courtyard was utterly silent. All eyes were on Whill, waiting for him to do something, anything. He avoided the waiting gazes and turned to Alrick.

  “Bring me to the castle war room,” he told the bishop, and with a nod to them, Roakore, Zerafin, Avriel, and Justice Walker followed him.

  Whill had imagined his glorious return to his family’s castle many times; reality held none of the romantic luster of his daydreams. He had solved one problem, only to find another waiting for him. Seven days. Whill’s mind raced as he tried for the thousandth time to think of a way he might actually defeat the dark elf. To his surprise, Eadon’s ultimatum came as a bit of a relief to him. In only a week, it would be over. For better or worse, it would be over.

  Alrick led them from the bailey and through the thick double doors of the castle. He ushered them swiftly into the great hall. Whill felt a pang of sorrow upon seeing the beauty of his family’s castle. The great hall was twice as long as wide, with a long, dark table of highly polished wood that could seat more than a hundred. The long table, however, was dwarfed by the room’s high wooden arches of dark red and gold that seemed to grow like webs from the walls. Banners and flags hung all around, along with paintings of kings of old and artwork depicting battles won and beauties sought. Axes, swords, daggers, and war hammers ornamented the walls as well. A large map of Agora hung on the southern wall. At the middle of the eastern and western walls, twin stone fireplaces burned low fires; their chimneys towered to the ceilings and became lost in the web of arches. The floor was a highly-polished dark wood that hid well the heavy footfalls as Whill and the others moved through. Curved molding along the walls led to lighter brown, recessed panels, curving out from the center in an X-pattern. The wooden panels gave way to walls of mineral-rich, rough-surfaced stone. Light from the tall and narrow windows−which reminded Whill of long talons−sent the walls dancing with fractured light as he moved through it.

  Many doors led off from the great hall, but the group took none of them. At the end of the hall, Alrick led them to the left and behind a wall that had been hidden from view until now. Behind it, a wide staircase brought them to a set of large double doors. Alrick opened the doors and bowed before Whill as he entered. Many of the elven masters had come with their king; likewise, Holdagozz and Philo came with Roakore. Walker had brought one man with him. Whill took a moment to search the man’s mind, and he found nothing of import.

  The war room looked as though it had not been used in decades. Cobwebs draped chandeliers like curtains, and a fine layer of dust had settled upon everything. Alrick swiftly went to lighting the many torches, but, with a lazy wave of Krundar Master Arngil’s hand, all of the torches blazed to life.

  “This room ain’t been used in an age!” Roakore grumbled.

  “No, it has not been used since the days of King Aramonis. Addakon took what items he found useful, and moved them to one of his underground chambers. He seemed always to be down in those dark chambers,” said Alrick.

  “Food and drink please, Alrick. We have had a long journey,” said Whill, sitting down at the round table.

  “Of course,” Alrick bowed, and swiftly left the room.

  Whill blew the dust off of the table, and began wiping at it with his cloak. Walker joined him, and soon a map of Agora−with a large, blown-up map of Uthen-Arden within it−shone brightly beneath the table’s clear surface.

  “Please, join me,” Whill bade them all with open arms.

  When everyone was seated, Whill looked to each of them in turn. He was not striving for dramatic flair; he simply did not know where to begin.

  “We have seven days,” said Whill, “and I am at a loss.”

  “I says we march our arses r
ight to this…Felspire, and kill the dark bastard right now,” said Roakore, jabbing his stubby finger with the last four words.

  “I couldn’t agree more my friend, but how do you suggest we accomplish the feat?” Whill asked.

  “Ye got the damned sword o’ power, ain’t ye? It be time to quit the lollygaggin’, and lay that devil low.”

  “It isn’t that easy,” said Whill.

  “It be written in the prophecy o’ old that you be the one doin it, with the bloody blade at your hip. Me damned mountain, and the mountains o’ me kin been invaded!” Roakore suddenly exploded with rage and slammed the table as he stood from his chair. “It be time for you to be fulfillin’ the prophecy.”

  “Writings of old are oft as lies of old,” Whill said calmly.

  Roakore heard the words from the Book of Ky’Dren once more, and in his mind’s eye he saw the massive timber that he had moved. He became so angry that he began to shake; his words came forth, tinged by restraint, as if a hurricane was building inside the dwarf king.

  “I have no time for idle talk,” said Roakore, and pointed a shaking hand at the elven masters. “Agora shall burn thrice over before you lot get off your tree huggin’ arses and do anything useful. I…Bah, I be wastin’ me breath! Come on!” he said to Philo, and stormed to the door.

  “Roakore!” Avriel begged.

  “King!” Zerafin yelled, and Roakore stopped at the door.

  “We need you,” Whill told him.

  “Me people be needin’ me, and I be needin’ them,” said Roakore over his shoulder. After a time in which it seemed he might talk himself into staying, he stormed out of the room with Philo in tow.