A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  “I cannot, but I can lend you the strength to spur you on without rest.”

  “Well, then let’s have it,” said the gruff dwarf.

  Whill extended his right hand and his left settled on Adromida’s hilt. Philo cringed in anticipation of the energy offering. He had not approved of the offering outside of the city the day before, but the energy had turned out to be valuable. The dwarves had run all through the night and day without the need for rest, but they had not been impervious to the blisters that came with such haste.

  Tendrils of blue-yellow energy shot forth from Whill’s extended hand and surrounded the gathered dwarves. He healed their sore feet and replenished what energy they had used. Philo hooted and hollered when it was done, barely able to contain the vigor within him.

  “I must be off, good luck to you all,” Whill told them, and shot into the sky once more.

  “And to you, Whill o’ Agora!” Philo yelled after him.

  Within the hour, he arrived at the Ro’Sar mountain range. He flew to the peak Roakore had said Silverwind’s high perch was located. He found the arched entrance to the cave and flew into the opening, landing within the chamber. Silverwind cooed from the center of the room, but Whill’s hope was short-lived when he noticed the bandages set against the bird’s bloody, silver feathers.

  “Who you be?” a dwarven woman insisted, holding a long dagger out before her.

  “My name is Whill, I am a friend of Roakore,” said Whill, holding his empty hands out to the sides.

  The dwarf woman lowered her dagger and eyed him over suspiciously. “You be Whill o’ Agora?”

  “I be,” Whill assured her.

  “I be Roakore’s assistant, Nah’Zed.”

  “Well met, Nah’Zed. I have heard a lot about you.”

  “And I, you,” she said, unimpressed. “You be the one Roakore thinkin’ he need be leavin’ his mountain for.”

  “Is he here?” Whill asked.

  “No. I was hopin’ you brought word with you. Silverwind showed up this morning all bloody and beat up. I ain’t for knowin’ how she made it in her condition,” said Nah’Zed.

  “What of the invasion? Was a rift found within the mountain?”

  “Aye. Hell-born devils invaded not a week ago, been all we could do to hold ʼem back. Had a few dark elves with ʼem they did, two o’ Roakore’s sons died takin’ ʼem out, but they got the devils, they did. Told Roakore not to go; his place be here with his people. When he finds out about his kin…he ain’t gonna be forgivin’ his self soon.”

  “I am sorry for clan Ro’Sar’s losses,” said Whill. He agreed with her as well. Roakore already felt bad about being away during such an important time. When he learned of his sons, he would be crushed.

  “You said you had held back the Draggard. Have they been defeated?” Whill asked.

  “Nay, they be trapped in Whar’Rok cavern. We sealed off every way into and outta there. The sittin’ king be formulatin’ plans as how to kill ʼem all. Drown ʼem out I say. Others say gas ʼem, others beg to be let in to kill ʼem. Some o’ them men ’r crazy. Others say let ʼem starve and eat each other. Any o’ themʼs fine by me. Can still hear the scratchin’ and clawin’ at the stone, ye can.”

  “How many lives were lost in the initial invasion?” Whill asked.

  Nah’Zed looked away to the side in thought for a moment. “Two hun’red seventy-two, and thrice more injured. A few die every day from their wounds. The ones who make it a week will make it a year, they say.”

  “Do you think they will accept my help?” asked Whill.

  “I ain’t for seein’ why not. They be knowin’ ye be a good friend o’ Roakore’s. I can lead ye down. First though, ye mind takin’ care o’ Silverwind? The king be right fond o’ the bird.”

  “Of course,” said Whill, and began inspecting Silverwind’s injuries with his mind sight. Seeing the extent of her internal injuries, he was also surprised the bird had made it home.

  Whill finished Silverwind’s healing, and Nah’Zed led Whill down the many stairs, tunnels, and hallways leading to the injured dwarves. Few protested, and those who did were soon convinced to accept the healing. Roakore’s son, Ror’Den, who had been left in charge of Ro’Sar in his father’s absence, came to the cavern in which the healing was being performed.

  “Aye, Whill o’ Agora, I done heard a lot ’bout ye from me pa. Welcome to Ro’Sar, once again,” said Ror’Den, slamming his fist to his chest. Whill returned the gesture in kind.

  “Thank you. I hope you do not mind my healing of your dwarves. Nah’Zed told me about the injured, and I offered,” said Whill.

  “Bah, we be takin’ all the help we can be gettin’. If me father be callin’ ye dwarf friend, then dwarf friend ye be.”

  “About your father,” Whill began, and Nah’Zed perked up instantly. She lingered off to the right, acting busy with the recently healed dwarves, but Whill knew where her attentions lie. “I believe Roakore has been taken by the dark elf Eadon.”

  Ror’Den’s brow furled in anger, and his cheeks reddened as he looked around at the crowded chamber. “Come, we will find a place with fewer ears.”

  He led Whill through a tunnel that opened into a large natural cavern of stalactites and stalagmites, shimmering mineral rich walls, and waterfalls large and small feeding a massive underground lake. The crashing of the water would hide their voices from any curious ears.

  “Eadon, ye say?” said Ror’Den, looking out over the lake. Torches illuminated the wide expanse in a ring about the still waters.

  “Yes, he has kidnapped the Elven Princess Avriel as well, and meant to take Tarren, but was thwarted by a clever old elf.”

  “Hah! Well then, that be a bit o’ good news then, ain’t it? I grew to know Tarren well while he was livin’ here…good to hear he got away from the scoundrel,” said Ror’Den, stroking his long beard.

  Ror’Den was the same age as Whill, though one wouldn’t guess by his appearance. He was tall, taller than Roakore and most other dwarves. At only 20, he had a beard that reached the floor, braided in fat knots and set with silver rings every few inches. Ror’Den had wisdom beyond his age in his eyes. In those deep, dark pools, Whill sensed a high intellect, and the stubbornness of Roakore; also pain and worry, though no dwarf would admit as much. Whill did not have to read Ror’Den’s mind to know he feared for his father’s fate. Should Roakore not return, Ror’Den would be king of all of Ro’Sar. Whill knew the dwarf would rather see his father’s return than accept his throne at such an early age.

  “What ye thinkin he be wantin’ with me Pa?” Ror’Den asked.

  “Eadon is baiting me to Felspire,” said Whill.

  “Seems he wants you there and right badly.”

  “It would seem,” Whill replied.

  “Why there?” Ror’Den asked, his eyes still locked on the faraway shore of the cavern’s lake.

  “Sorry?” Whill asked.

  “Why Felspire? Seems a right stupid move to follow a wolf into his den. He be baitin’ ye, but why that place?”

  Whill thought about the question, but the answer eluded him. Eadon had tapped into the convergence of energy within Agora’s ley lines, and was more powerful than ever−likely more powerful than Whill and Adromida. Eadon would use Roakore and Avriel against him, and would likely kill them if Whill did not hand over the power of Adromida. But Whill would not give him what he wanted, no matter the cost. Avriel and Roakore would not want Whill to hand over such power on their behalf, and therefore, he would not.

  “There are rivers of energy below the earth, ley lines they are called. Seems Eadon has bonded to those rivers of energy, and, with them, he created Felspire,” Whill explained.

  “He be luring you to where he be most powerful. The cowardly piece o’ Draggard shyte,” Ror’Den spat. “And he be usin’ me pa as bait.”

  “If I know anything about Roakore, Eadon will wish he hadn’t,” said Whill.

  Ror’Den gave a hearty laugh that ec
hoed across the lake and was lost in the crashing of the waterfalls. Whill recognized genuine mirth in the laughter, but also a hint of nervous apprehension. One could say that at twenty years old−which was quite young for a dwarf who could live to be 400−Ror’Den was quite over his head. But, then, so too was Whill, who only a year ago had no more problems than those brought on by the weather. However, like Whill, Ror’Den would do his duty.

  “You be goin’ after him eh?” Ror’Den surmised.

  “I be,” said Whill.

  A long silence followed, one of tumultuous pondering on the part of the young dwarf prince. Whill did not read his mind; he didn’t have to, Ror’Den was projecting. He wanted to go with Whill; wanted more than anything to be part of the final battle. His sense of duty was too great, however. A part of him was angry with his father for ever leaving his post to help in human and elf affairs, but another part of him felt ashamed for such thoughts.

  “When you see me pa, tell him Ror’Den crushed the Draggard invasion, and that he be keepin’ the throne warm for him. Ye bring him back now, ye hear?”

  “I will tell him,” Whill promised.

  Nah’Zed appeared then behind them, and the two turned to regard Roakore’s teary-eyed assistant.

  “You bring him back to where he belongs,” she demanded, “say it, on your word, you be bringin’ him back.”

  Nah’Zed walked determinedly toward Whill, her big red cheeks streaming with tears, two shaking fists gripping her thick braids, as if holding herself down from exploding with anger.

  “You are a loyal subject and a good friend Nah’Zed,” said Whill, with a hand to her shoulder.

  “Promise!” she insisted through stifled sobs.

  “I will try,” said Whill; it was the only promise he could make.

  By the time Whill returned to the surface, it was morning, and the sun rose behind a gray blanket of storm clouds setting the heavenly ceiling aglow. He had five days in which to respond to Eadon.

  He had offered his help in exterminating the trapped Draggard, but Ror’Den declined, saying that Whill had already helped in the reclamation, and if the dwarves needed help a second time to hold their mountain, then they didn’t deserve the mountain. Whill respected the wish.

  Whill left Ro’Sar and flew north toward the Ky’Dren Mountain Pass. If his Eldalonian kin had been slaughtered, and he was now the rightful heir to the Eldalonian throne, he would be needed there as well. Eldalon and Ky’Dren had been allies for centuries. They would be working together to protect the pass.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Pass

  Aurora rode between Zander and Veolindra as they approached the Ky’Dren Pass. The mountain range, which spread for hundreds of miles to the north and south, ended dramatically in sheer cliffs to the Pass floor, as if the mountain range had been cleaved in two by the axe of a god. They had surely been spotted, but it mattered not; their goal was not stealth, but conquest. They had been joined by more bands of Draggard and their dark elf handlers, as well as one thousand more of the un-dead Shierdon soldiers.

  As they approached the pass, a large crow came flying to them from the east. At first, Aurora dismissed the bird. But, when Veolindra stopped their advance and the crow landed before them, Aurora knew this was no regular crow. The bird grew to the height of an elf and changed into one before her eyes. The transformation was not completed however, and what stood before them was a strange, feathered cross between elf and crow. The dark elf’s eyes remained the endless black of the crow, and where his nose and mouth would have been, a strange combination of beak and flesh remained.

  “My Lord,” he bowed before Veolindra. He did not acknowledge Aurora whatsoever.

  “Report!” Veolindra.

  “A regiment of Uthen-Arden soldiers comes from the east; they will arrive within the hour.”

  Veolindra looked out over the wide expanse that was the beginnings of the Thendor Plains. “How many?” she asked.

  “Nearly five hundred,” said the scout.

  “Very well,” said Veolindra. “See they are left unhindered. They shall add nicely to our undead human ranks.

  “Yes, my Lord,” the dark elf bowed once more. He leapt into the air and, with a flurry of feathers, turned once more into a large crow.

  “Zander, send the Shierdon ranks just over the ridge to the east,” said Veolindra. “Notify me when the humans are through killing each other.”

  “As you wish,” he responded, and rode off to carry out her orders.

  Veolindra offered Aurora a wide, mischievous smile. “The time for war draws near. Ready your barbarians to strike at the heart of the pass.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” said Aurora with a grin to match.

  *

  They flew all night across the wide expanse of the Ky’Dren Pass. Dirk had dismissed Krentz to the spirit world during the night while General Reeves slept, tilted in his saddle. He did so as quietly as possible, aware the seasoned general would wake at the slightest disturbance. When asked about her absence, Dirk would attribute it to the elves’ mysterious magic.

  They glided over the mountains unseen, Silverwind taking on the color of the night sky above. Lookout towers loomed on both sides of the Pass, and the Pass itself was flooded with dwarves in gleaming armor. By morning, they had reached the eastern mouth of the Pass, and Reeves had awakened, stiff from sleeping sitting up. He had accepted Dirk’s vague explanation of Krentz’s absence however, more interested in breakfast than the comings and goings of elves.

  When they crested the peak of Bharak Mountain and the pass could be seen, Dirk and Reeves realized the dwarves’ peril. Camped beyond the mouth of the Pass was an army of Draggard, barbarians, and human soldiers. Dirk recognized the banners of both Uthen-Arden, and Shierdon. He circled the mouth of the Pass and set down upon a high ridge overlooking it. From there they would be able to watch unseen.

  “Uthen-Arden and Shierdon are in league with the Draggard! This is an outrage!” Reeves fumed in a hushed whisper as he peered over the ledge beside Dirk.

  “Those soldiers are not quite themselves,” said Dirk as he spied the armies through his spyglass. He handed it to General Reeves and showed him how to focus the instrument. Dirk’s spyglass was of elven make, and quite unlike human or dwarven counterparts. Reeves’ eyes widened as he saw the soldiers miles away as clearly as if he were standing among them.

  “What in the name of the gods is wrong with them? Their eyes…they glow with a green light,” said Reeves, taken aback.

  “Turn the end ring to the left for a wider view. There, on the black horse, do you see him?” asked Dirk.

  “The dark elf?”

  “Yes, he will have on his person some sort of staff, or necklace, or glowing green gem,” said Dirk.

  “A ring, yes, glowing like the eyes of the human soldiers,” Reeves reported.

  “That, my friend, is a dark elf lich lord.”

  “Lich?” Reeves asked, taking his eye from the spyglass to regard Dirk curiously.

  “Lich…necromancer…they have many names. They raise the corpses of the dead to do their bidding,” said Dirk.

  Reeves was disgusted, he went back to his spying and scanned the armies below. “So any who fall to the creatures…”

  “Are raised once again to fight their brethren,” Dirk finished for him.

  “Such blasphemy. Is there no limit to the dark elvesʼ evil?”

  “It seems not,” Dirk replied. “May I?”

  Reeves handed him back the spyglass, and Dirk took in a wide view of the vast army at the mountain’s doorstep. He guessed the combined armies to number in the tens of thousands. The undead made up the majority, but there were enough Draggard and barbarians alone to create a serious threat to the dwarves. Dirk’s slow scanning stopped abruptly, and an exclamation escaped his lips. A few miles east of the Ky’Dren Pass, Aurora Snowfell stood before the vast barbarian army. She looked to be giving a speech, for every now and again, the barbarians would raise
their weapons to the sky.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Dirk mumbled to himself, amused. “Seems as though she has chosen.”

  “What’s that?” Reeves asked.

  “The barbarian leader, her name is Aurora Snowfell. She infiltrated and betrayed our group,” Dirk lied.

  “Your group?”

  “Yes, when Whill of Agora fought in the Del’Oradon Arena. Aurora and I fought beside him, and escaped as well. She is a powerful warrior and, no doubt, made stronger now by the dark elves.”

  To their right, the dwarves had begun to pour out of the Southern Ky’Dren Mountains, filling the Pass. Huge catapults and war machines went with them, and those machines set about the cliffs along the pass were loaded and cocked back. The usually open Pass had been barricaded the entire length of its mouth by boulders and smaller stones, to help hinder the enemy’s advancement. A steady stream of dwarves−looking to Dirk like worker ants from his vantage point−added boulders to the piles. Dirk spied a few dwarves raising giant slabs with nothing more than a wave of the hand; likely, they were Roakore’s kin, and like he, were able to control stone with their minds.

  “The dwarves won’t have a chance against this army,” said Reeves, still surveying the armies.

  “They have the benefit of the bottlenecking Pass. The dwarves could hold out indefinitely against the barbarians, even the Draggard. However, many dark elves and undead are among them.”

  Reeves put down the spyglass to regard Dirk to his left. “Those who fall to this army, they will be raised by the dark elf lich lords?”

  Dirk nodded in the affirmative. Reeves shook his head in disgust and went back to his spying. Dirk retreated to where Fyrfrost sat farther back on the ledge, her feathers had taken on the color of the surrounding stone, and had Dirk not known what to look for he wouldn’t have seen her. He went to the opposite side of her and pulled the trinket from his pocket.

  “Krentz, come to me,” he whispered. She came in a swirl of mist and took form before him.