A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  Breaking free of the reaching hands and blades of the undead, he charged to face Aurora and the dark elf once more. An explosion behind him leveled the nearby armies, sending dwarves, undead, Draggard, and barbarians alike flying to the ground. Dirk found himself high upon the pile of rubble where the conflict had begun. Searching for the source of the disturbance, he found Whill standing inside a shallow crater. Sudden, blinding light shone from the ancient elven blade in his grip, and everyone was forced to turn their heads from the brilliance. The light finally lessened, and the dark elf Dirk had been fighting bellowed a command to her armies. The nearby enemies charged Whill, but their attack proved short lived. He let loose a spell of fire and lightning, engulfing the dark elf armies in flame.

  Dirk’s attention was drawn to the dwarven woman he had saved from the dark elf. As the fire and lightning cascaded out through the Pass, he leapt with flames licking his heels and landed on top of her covering them both with his enchanted cloak. When the rumbling died down, he dared a glance beyond the cover of his cloak. All around them was smoldering waste. Aurora and the dark elf had disappeared. There was not much to be seen as the smoke and flames blocked visibility beyond ten feet. Dirk brought his hood over his eyes and gazed upon the carnage Whill had wrought.

  The dwarves took the opportunity to charge the scattered enemy ranks, and Dirk summoned Krentz to him through the power of the timber wolf figurine. She came to him in an instant in the form of smoke and soon stood at his side.

  “Can you help her?” he asked Krentz, indicating the broken female dwarf.

  Krentz bent to Raene and laid a hand on her forehead. “She is a tough one,” said Krentz as she smiled down upon the dwarf woman, who gasped for her final breaths like a fish out of water. Her vacant eyes shimmered with tears as they stared at her fallen twin brother.

  Blue tendrils of healing energy engulfed Raene, and she sucked in a greedy breath as her body was healed.

  “Raene!” cried a dwarf. Turning to the sound, Dirk discovered King Ky’Ell. The old dwarf ran to her as Dirk moved to intercept him.

  “Outta me way lad!” Ky’Ell warned.

  “Please, Krentz is healing her. Let her do her work,” said Dirk.

  The dwarves filed past them after the retreating armies. Their war songs filled the pass with deep, booming voices.

  “What happened?” Ky’Ell asked, shrugging off from Dirk’s grip, but not pressing ahead.

  “It was a dark elf,” said Dirk.

  “Me King!” yelled Dar’Kwar expectantly. The dwarven forces pushed back the invaders with Whill of Agora leading the way. The king was needed.

  “See she stays put,” he commanded Dirk and turned on his heel with one last lingering gaze upon his injured daughter.

  Ky’Ell finally turned, mounted a large, armored mountain goat, and rode toward the mouth of the Pass.

  The retreating armies fled from Whill’s awful power. The dark elves fought back against him, but Dirk doubted they stood a chance. Gazing out over the smoldering battlefield, Dirk found no sign of the dark elf woman who had attacked Chief, or Aurora. But, he knew they were out there somewhere, and he intended to find them.

  *

  Aurora lay upon the smoldering ground in more pain than she had known in her life. Her body would not respond to her mental commands; she could not move. Her skin was charred a dark, blistering red. When Whill released the spell of fire and lightning, she was engulfed in flames and stabbed by the crackling blades of light. The lightning burned a hole in her side, and though it had been cauterized by the heat of the blast, it was deep and long.

  She wondered why Eadon had failed her, why his power had forsaken her in her time of need. As she lay dying, she saw the lich, Azzeal, come to her then. He reached down and took her burnt and bloody body in his arms.

  “Eadon has not forsaken you, Lady of the North,” the undead elf whispered in her ear. “You shall never be free of his gift.”

  Aurora was carried away from the smoldering battlefield by Azzeal. She watched with heavily blinking eyes as her barbarians were engulfed in flame and the incredible spells that flew from Whill. She shed a single tear as she was whisked away. Regret filled her heart as she took in her last breath. The hot winds of destruction blew from the mountain pass, melting snow and ice. All around Aurora, the rhythm of the dripping world played like drums of war in her mind. The air, though smoke-filled and carrying with it the stench of death, smelled to her like the shores of her homeland. She exhaled, and, for a moment, she looked upon her ancestors, and they greeted her with open arms.

  And Aurora Snowfell died.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Prisoners

  High above the Thendor Plains, inside the looming crystal spire, Avriel fought against her chains. Roakore too thrashed against his restraints, so much so, the blood began to trickle from the circular, open wounds about his wrists. The blood ran down his bare arms and sides; some was absorbed by his thick, red-brown beard, while the rest dribbled down to his feet and dripped on the floor, creating a small pool beneath his dangling toes. In normal circumstances, he would have been able to open or break the chain links, but these were enchanted by elven magic.

  Roakore stared at Tarren all the while, sensing something was not right about the lad. No tears came to the boy’s eyes, and he seemed not the least upset with their situation. He hung from biting chains as they all did, but he gave no indication he was uncomfortable. Avriel had tried to speak to him, but he only stared blankly at the opposite wall. Roakore thought perhaps the lad had gone into some sort of fit, or fear-induced trance. From Whill, he had learned that humans did not do well with torture, unlike dwarves, who went through such pains as basic training. The dark elves had beaten him, and tried their mind invading tactics; they even took the whip to his back, and Roakore had laughed in their faces all the while. He figured they were not often mocked whilst torturing people, which made the sessions all the more enjoyable. The only begging he had done was for them to continue when they brought him back to the cell. Avriel had not fared so well. To think they had put their dirty hands on her infuriated him. Bloody cowards they were, torturing a woman.

  “How you holdin’ up?’ he asked Avriel, who, like he, was hanging from chains in the small, crystal-walled cell.

  “I am okay,” she said, mustering a smile.

  “It be all right, he be comin’, they all be comin’,” Roakore assured her.

  “I know…” Avriel’s voice broke into gentle sobbing, and tears fell to mingle with the blood at her toes.

  “What did the dirty, rotten devil do to you?” Roakore growled.

  “He took her memories,” the Tarren-Watcher answered, when she could not.

  Roakore and Avriel both looked to Tarren.

  “Tarren, where you been lad, are you all right?” asked Roakore.

  “Tarren is in a safe place,” said the Watcher.

  “What did they do to him?” Roakore asked Avriel, but she only stared at the boy, as if reading something of his face.

  “Who…who are you? Where is Tarren?” she asked.

  “Tarren is in a safe place, you know who I am,” he responded.

  “Watcher,” she breathed, dropping her voice as her eyes darted to the cell door. “How can this be? The practice of soul joining is forbidden.”

  “Forbidden it may be, though necessary it was,” he said with a sly grin.

  “But you are benign in all things, you are Morenka.”

  “Yes, child, however, when one of evil heart wishes to do pain to an innocent, ʼtis only right to spare the innocent, and to bear their burden for them.”

  “What in the hells you be talkin’ about? Where be Tarren?” Roakore demanded.

  The Watcher regarded Roakore kindly, with a serenity unknown to a human Tarren’s age. “He resides within my body for the time being.”

  “You switched out your brains?” asked Roakore, shocked and wide-eyed.

  “In a sense, yes, but qui
te unlike what you imagine, I assure you,” said the Watcher.

  “So he be walkin’ round in what, an old, crusty elf’s body?”

  The Watcher laughed with a voice of boyish glee. “Old indeed, but not so crusty I hope.”

  “You tricked Eadon,” said Avriel, suddenly aware of the implications.

  Roakore was not lost to the meaning, and his face lit up. “You sly, old tree hugger, you tricked the devil right good! Bahaha! I always told me boys Eadon weren’t all powerful. Every damned thing be havin’ a weakness, I told ʼem. Everything.”

  “What if Eadon learns of the deception?” Avriel asked.

  The Watcher shrugged. “He is too busy with his own plans, and too blinded by the future he sees. All is clear to me now that I am so near to him. I understand his design, that which he has staked eons on. He is single-minded in his vision, and has blinded himself to all others. Many possibilities still remain; it will inevitably come down to Whill’s choice, which is something Eadon has forgotten.”

  Avriel began to cry, and Roakore wondered why. The Watcher hinted the dark elf could indeed be beaten.

  “What is it?” Roakore asked.

  Avriel was wracked with sobs, and took a long time to compose herself. When she finally did, her voice was laden with loss.

  “I don’t know who he is,” she said in a near whisper.

  “Who?” Roakore asked.

  “Whill,” she said. “I don’t remember him. I know I should. But, every time I try to remember, I see only Eadon’s face. I feel his mind inside mine, like an army of insects eating away the memories.”

  Roakore peered at the floor, offering her a little privacy in her sorrow. She would not want pity, but a friend. He looked again to her tear-filled eyes and offered a grin.

  “Then let me tell you ’bout the man they call Whill o’ Agora, the bravest human I ever be knowin’,” he began.

  Roakore told Avriel all about Whill: how he had first met him and Abram, their shared battles, and many escapades. Avriel laughed when he told the story of the bar brawl they had all gotten into in Kell-Torey. She could not help but laugh at the tale. He told her of the prophecy, and of the recent battles. How Whill had claimed the thrown of Uthen-Arden, and was to face Eadon at Felspire. It took him hours to recite it all, but hours they had, and the Watcher too seemed enthralled by the tales. Some of the stories he chuckled at or nodded in nostalgia, as if he had been there. Roakore figured with a name like the Watcher, he probably had.

  “He sounds like a charming young man,” she said when Roakore was through.

  Roakore laughed, “I’ll say, seein’ as you two got somethin’ goin’ on, always have.”

  “Preposterous,” she laughed. “I am over six hundred years old, and he is what…twenty? And human.”

  “I ain’t for arguin’,” Roakore chuckled, “but you two be carryin’ flames for each other and ain’t no doubt.”

  Avriel was taken aback by the idea. She searched the Watcher for clarification. He only smiled with a shrug.

  “What is this you say about Eadon?” she asked the Watcher. “You see his plans clearly now?”

  “Indeed,” he replied.

  Avriel and Roakore both waited expectantly.

  “So?” Roakore finally blurted.

  “Everything makes sense now,” said the Watcher. “Whill’s torture, the invasion of Agora, our capture, the hunting and killing of his Eldalonian kin. Eadon wishes to be him.”

  “Come again?” said Roakore.

  “Eadon cannot take the power of the Sword of Power Given; it must be given to him. If Whill strikes Eadon with the blade, which is his very own, he will, in essence, be giving the power to Eadon. If, on the other hand, Whill defeats Eadon, which he can only do by taking Eadon’s power, I believe he will simply do what I have done with Tarren: Eadon shall become Whill, and, therefore, a god-king.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The Lich Lord

  The Ky’Dren dwarves rallied together and steadily pushed the invading armies back toward the eastern mouth of the Pass. Reinforcements poured from the northern and southern mountain walls as the dwarves viciously defended their home. Whill could not target large groups of enemy soldiers due to the proximity of the dwarves, who had filled the gap created by Whill’s fire spell. Instead, he set his sights on the dark elves blasting the dwarven ranks with spells and cutting through them with their glowing weapons.

  Whill charged a dark elf who was slicing through dwarven shields and armor with his flaming sword. The dark elf must have sensed his approach, for he turned, and a spell erupted from his right hand, vaporizing any dwarf standing in the way. The spell hit Whill’s energy shield and was absorbed harmlessly. The look of terror on the dark elf’s face electrified Whill. He swatted aside the dark elf’s defensive block, and the sword went flying. Whill shot his hand forward through the elf’s energy shield. He grabbed the dark elf’s head and ripped the life force out of his body. The dark elf’s armor fell to the ground in a clatter, and his body fell in ashes. Whill shook with the exhilaration of such unrestrained power.

  To his right along the southern wall of the Pass, an explosion sounded. Chunks of broken stone and one massive slab broke away from the sheer wall and fell down toward the dwarves charging out of the many passages below. Whill shot out his left hand and took control of the falling slab. Keeping the slab aloft with a force of will, he leapt into the air and flew the few hundred yards toward the dark elf responsible for the blast. A circle of dead dwarves lay at the dark elf’s feet, and still more charged the dangerous spell caster with reckless abandon. The dark elf began to turn in a quick circle creating a whirlwind around him that drove back the dwarves in all directions. Whill forced the floating slab to fly toward the dark elf. With a great resonating boom, the slab landed on top of him and drove itself halfway into the hard earth.

  Whill leapt one hundred feet into the air along the southern wall and came down on another dark elf; this one stood amid hundreds of undead soldiers whose eyes glowed with a green mist to match her staff.

  *

  Veolindra noticed Whill coming, and froze in place as she beheld the sword Adromida. She had only ever seen such power within Eadon’s blade. As Whill landed, she turned to mist and seeped into the ground. She came out many feet behind him, and sent her undead after him. Whill tore through the undead soldiers sending limbs and heads flying from the edge of his blade. He circled as he fought, looking for her. She studied his energy shield and nearly laughed at his novice incantation. The shield was quite basic, simply a force of will surrounding him and fueled by the immense power of the ancient blade. The spell showed Whill’s lack of knowledge of Orna Catorna, but, while not intricate, it was fueled by Adromida and was therefore impenetrable to magical and physical attacks. But Veolindra existed not in the physical plane: she was a lich lord. Death had been given to her centuries ago by Eadon, and she was reborn a powerful master of the undead. Eadon chose her out of dozens, and for good reason. Aside from him, she was the most proficient in the necromantic arts. She proved loyal, though not because of her constitution, but rather because she had sworn a soul oath to the dark one. The oath remained the only thing holding her back from possessing Whill’s mind and body, and wielding the power of legend.

  Their eyes met, and his mental grip tightened around her body. At once, she turned to mist and freed herself. With a mental command, she sent more of her undead, humans, barbarians, Draggard, and lumbering dwargon alike to descend on him. Veolindra found a high perch and watched from afar with glee, as Adromida destroyed them all. Whill clumsily wasted energy with his overzealous attacks, but his methods proved effective all the same.

  *

  Dirk ran to the northern wall where he had seen the big slab of stone being manipulated by magic. The stone looked too big for one dwarf to handle. The undead converged, bringing with them the green glow of the cursed. Where the undead were hording, he would likely find the female necromancer who had attack
ed Chief. Behind him and Krentz, Raene followed. The other dwarves had tried to stop her, but she was quite insistent upon making her own decision. The king had asked Dirk to see she kept put, however, Dirk did not answer to the King of Ky’Dren. He answered to no one. Raene could do whatever she pleased as far as he was concerned, and she seemed to like him all the more for it.

  “Thank you,” Raene said to him, catching up.

  “T’was nothing I did, Krentz healed you,”

  “Not the healin’,” she said, her shorter legs pumping to keep up with him as they ran the back of the dwarven line.

  “For puttin’ me brother to rest is what I be meanin’. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Dirk told her over his shoulder.

  They came to the southern wall, and Dirk stopped beside one of the many tunnels opening up to the Pass. Toward the mouth of the Pass, hundreds of dwarves stood between him and the green light. He needed a quicker route, lest he run atop the dwarves’ shoulders.

  “Do you know your way through?” he reluctantly asked Raene, hating tunnels.

  “Aye,” she said eagerly. “You be after them who killed me brother?”

  “Aye,” said Dirk. “Lead the way,” he said, extending his open arm toward the dwarven tunnel.

  When they came out of the shortcut through the stone, Dirk found she had brought them at least five hundred yards through the mountains, and into the thick of the undead horde. Veolindra remained out of sight, but in his searching, he found Whill.