A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  Zerafin and Roakore came to stand beside him, and Eadon regarded them with fear. He looked around at the approaching elf and dwarven armies, and he saw no allies. He raised his hands up as the tear mended itself, and Kellallea ascended to her godly throne.

  “This is not how it happens!” he cried to the heavens.

  Eadon fell to his knees, and Whill stalked toward him. Suddenly realizing his doom, Eadon jumped to his feet and began to run the other way toward the advancing Elgar dwarves.

  “Not so fast, ye dark elf piece o’ shyte!” Roakore yelled, and threw a stone that sailed through the air and struck Eadon in the back of the head. Eadon went down hard, but found his feet quickly as he frantically searched for a weapon. He took up an abandoned Draggard spear and with fury in his eyes charged Whill.

  Whill’s heart pounded in his chest as he rushed to meet Eadon’s charge. He had fought as a mortal all his life, and, unlike Eadon, he was not afraid to die.

  Eadon stabbed forward with his spear, and Whill knocked it wide with Nodae. Eadon twirled away from Adromida as Whill slashed. The spear darted for his head, and Whill knocked it aside once more. Eadon had no magic left, but, in his long lifetime, he had mastered more than just Orna Catorna. Whill struck with the two swords, keeping Eadon backing defensively. The fire in the dark elf’s eyes had been replaced by fear. As he parried, Eadon looked for a way out, but none was to be found. Whill struck with all his might and Eadon blocked with the tip of the spear, just as Whill had hoped. With the other sword, he chopped the wooden shaft in half. Eadon took up the spear's shaft like a staff and began a twirling dance that pushed Whill back, blocking the flurry of strikes.

  Eadon turned and dove into a roll, coming up with a discarded sword. The dwarf and elf armies watched on as Whill and Eadon battled near the edge of the deep hole left by the destruction of Felspire.

  Whill charged Eadon once again with a flurry of slashing blades. The dark elf ducked the first and parried the second and quickly spun away.

  “There is nowhere to run, Eadon, you are defeated,” said Whill, stalking him.

  Eadon began to chuckle. “You have not defeated me, boy! You can never defeat me! I am the most powerful dark elf that ever lived!”

  He charged Whill and lunged forward with a powerful thrust. Whill parried the blade wide with one sword and stabbed Eadon in the gut. He stumbled back as his shocked gaze regarded his bleeding stomach. Whill retracted his blade and slapped the sword from Eadon’s weakened grip. He clutched his stomach and looked at the blood in his hands, confused as he fell to his knees.

  Whill tossed the blade Nodae to the side and brought Adromida to bear on Eadon’s neck.

  “This is not how it happens,” Eadon pleaded, blood dribbling from his lips. “I ascended to the heavens, I became a god.”

  Whill cocked back Adromida, and, with a swift strike, lopped off Eadon’s head.

  Whill stared into Eadon’s shocked, dying eyes as his head rolled and settled upon the scorched earth.

  “You forgot about choice,” said Whill. The dark elf could only stare up at him, and a look of utter shock became his death mask.

  Chapter Forty-six

  A New World

  Whill stood panting, looking down upon the corpse of Eadon. It was finally over. Time seemed to slow as he gazed upon the armies of the elves and dwarves surrounding him. Roakore took him up in a one-armed bear hug and pumped his fist into the air victoriously. He was let down and met by pats on the back and shakings of his hand. All the while, his eyes remained locked on his defeated opponent.

  “You have done it, Whill,” Zerafin told him with a wide smile. He shook his hand and patted his shoulder with the other.

  Whill peered to the now clear sky. “She has ascended to the heavens, she has become a goddess,” he said of Kellallea. He remembered that she had once again taken all knowledge of Orna Catorna from the elves. His eyes met Zerafin’s, and the elf knew his mind.

  “Perhaps it is for the best,” Zerafin offered, but Whill saw the pain of loss in his eyes. They had won the day, but at great cost. The ancient enemy of the elves had been defeated, but they were now mortal.

  “Where is Avriel?” Whill asked, but then saw her over Zerafin’s shoulder, standing among the elves.

  He let go of Zerafin’s hand and ran to her. Avriel met his gaze without recognition as he approached, and Whill stopped short before her.

  “Avriel?” he said through his fading smile, “What is it?”

  “Eadon robbed her of her memories. She does not remember you,” Zerafin said behind him.

  A tear found Whill’s eye to match those welling in Avriel’s. She offered Whill her hands, and he took them in his. “Eadon may have taken my memory of you, but I know that I once loved you.”

  Camp was made among the ruins of Felspire. Crystal shards littered the Thendor Plains for miles. Some were no bigger than a small dagger, while others were hundreds of feet long. They jutted out of the landscape in all directions, casting a multitude of lights upon the land. As was tradition, the dwarves had brought barrels of ale with them, and that night the spirits flowed like rivers. Both dwarven and elven scouts reported no dark elves or Draggard for miles. Those who had gotten away were far from the ruins of Felspire.

  As jolly as the dwarves were about the victory, it was a bittersweet win for the elves. Their faces held a mix of emotions. Joy at finally being rid of the dark elf threat, and sorrow for the loss of a magic they had used all their lives. Not one of them remembered the ancient knowledge, including the Watcher, who seemed to be trapped within Tarren’s body forever, as the boy was likewise trapped in his.

  The dwarves and elves alike had many injured and dying, and Whill spent the night tending to those in need, and though the elves no longer possessed magical healing abilities, they had retained a vast knowledge of the working of the body. Ointments and bandages replaced spells and mind sight, and the wounded were tended to in the old ways.

  *

  Raene avoided the dwarves as well as possible. She kept her head down as she searched for wounded throughout the ruins of Felspire. It would have been nice to take part in the celebration with her kin, but she would not be accepted by them for what she was. Her father would be furious to find her here, and she didn’t care to have that conversation. As she lifted a shard of crystal from the pile, something echoed strangely as it fell and slid down the smooth surface. She looked closer, carefully removing debris as she searched, and then she saw it. Unbelieving of her eyes, she reached for the object carefully and extracted it from between two crystals. She raised Dirk’s timber wolf figurine to the light and quickly clutched it to her breast, looking around for any who might have seen. She stashed the trinket in her pocket with a smile and wondered.

  *

  Aurora, Zander, and Azzeal stared out over the destruction of Felspire. Aurora couldn’t believe her eyes; Eadon had fallen. Zander seemed less concerned than he should have been, he even grinned.

  “Your master has been defeated, your magic taken. Why do you smile so?” Aurora asked the lich lord.

  “Do you not feel it within you?” he asked, regarding her. “Orna Catorna has been lost to us, but the power of the spirits remains.”

  Aurora glanced at the silent Azzeal. His eyes still glowed with the same green light as hers. “In a world without magic, we shall be powerful indeed,” said Zander turning from the ledge. “Come, there is much to be done.”

  Aurora could not help but follow him. She reluctantly turned from the celebration of the allies and followed her master into an unknown future.

  *

  The following morning, the dwarves and elves went their separate ways. Ky’Ell and his Ky’Dren dwarves headed west, and the Elgar to the east. Whill traveled with the elves, along with Roakore, Raene, and the Watcher.

  “Will you be able to return Tarren to his body?” Whill asked as he walked beside the Watcher

  “Kellallea has taken all knowledge of such things. I am
afraid she is the only one who might,” he said, peering up at the sky.

  Beside them, Zerafin looked to the clear, blue sky as well. “And she, like the gods, remains silent to our prayers.”

  Whill felt bad for Tarren. How long would he have inside the body of one so old? Without Orna Catorna, the Watcher’s body was as mortal as any. Whill reminded himself that had the Watcher not switched places with him, Tarren would have died at Felspire. Still, he had paid a dear price.

  Looking to Avriel, Whill felt a pang of loss in her pleasant, but distant, gaze. Her every memory of their time together was gone; he had lost her. He could only hope that someday, somehow, the memory of the love they had shared would come back to her. Until then, he would search for a way, and he would wait for her.

  *

  Two days into the march south, Raene snuck away from the armies and found a place to be alone. There was barely a tree to be found along the plains, and the grass was weighed down with snow. But Raene found a suitable location along the deep banks of a small stream. With her back to the high wall of the bank, she took the timber wolf figurine from her pocket. Hesitating for a moment and looking over her shoulder in all directions, she listened but heard nothing. She held the figurine before her, simply staring at it. She had overheard Whill, talking about how Dirk and Krentz had tried to warn him of Eadon’s plans, and how Dirk had died.

  “Dirk Blackthorn, you in there?” she whispered to the trinket and waited. She glanced around again feeling silly. What had Dirk said to bring forth the wolf?

  “Dirk Blackthorn, come to me!” she hissed in a whisper.

  She was about to pocket the trinket when it began to glow. She squealed and dropped it in the mud as shimmering fog slithered out of the trinket and Dirk Blackthorn solidified before her eyes. She quickly scooped up the trinket and backed away from him. He looked as real as he had in life, his armor and weapons intact. Dirk stared down at his own body in wonderment, and his eyes quickly went to Raene and the trinket in her hand.

  “You are a clever little dwarf,” he said with a smile.

  He offered her an outstretched hand and indicated the figurine. “May I have that?”

  Raene pulled back the figurine and held it behind her. Dirk cocked an eyebrow.

  “The holder of the trinket controls the spirits within, correct?” she asked.

  Dirk scowled and withdrew his hand without an answer. Raene fondled the trinket in thought.

  “Such a trinket would come in handy for a dwarf warrior. They say that there is no magic left in the world, yet this remains,” said Raene.

  “I put your brother to rest, remember? You owe Krentz your life,” he reminded her.

  Raene nodded, and reluctantly handed Dirk the trinket.

  “Thank you,” he said to her. He held the trinket aloft and summoned Krentz and Chief.

  Nothing happened.

  Dirk cocked his head and stared at the trinket. “Chief, come to me!”

  Still nothing.

  “Krentz I summon thee!” he yelled shaking the trinket in his fist. “Something is wrong.”

  Raene offered her hand. “May I?”

  Dirk ground his teeth and gave her back the trinket.

  Raene coughed and cleared her throat. “Chief, Krentz, I summon thee.”

  The timber wolf figurine began to glow, and their spirits swirled out of it and solidified beside her.

  Krentz looked from Dirk to Raene and to the trinket, in turn. “What?”

  “I was unable to summon you myself,” said Dirk.

  “It seems that only the living may control the spirits within,” said Krentz, staring at Raene.

  “You mean I be controlling you three?” Raene asked, eyeing the trinket with newfound wonder.

  “Controlling? No, but it seems that we are at your mercy. You are now the guardian of the wolf relic,” said Dirk.

  “Thank you, Raene, we are forever in your debt,” said Krentz. “But, tell us, what happened, how did you find the trinket?”

  Raene took the better part of an hour filling them in on what had transpired after they went into the trinket. Krentz listened with a pained expression when she told them of Kellallea’s taking of power, and Dirk grinned to hear that Whill had killed Eadon after he tried to run away like a coward.

  “The son of a bitch did it,” he said in wonderment when the tale was through.

  “You seem surprised,” said Raene.

  “Indeed, I am.”

  Chief had scampered off to frolic in the snow, and the three of them climbed the bank and took in the sight of the marching armies.

  “Now what?” Raene asked them both.

  “Well, seems you are stuck with us,” Dirk replied.

  Raene gazed out over the plains of jutting crystal. “There be many dark elves and Draggard out there still. And there ain’t no magic left, none but what be in that trinket.”

  “I suspect that non-magical powers, such as necromancy and that which fuels the trinket, were unaffected by the Taking,” Krentz clarified.

  “Right,” Raene nodded. “I says we hunt down and kill as many o’ the surviving dark elves and Draggard we can find,” she added.

  Her mind was racing with possibilities. She was now the ʽGuardian’ of the wolf figurine, and, as such, had the power to summon not only a ghost wolf, but also a powerful elf and deadly assassin. She would be the most powerful dwarf warrior who ever lived.

  *

  Whill and the elves traveled for two weeks, mostly by foot, as there were not enough horses to carry them all, and they were no longer fueled by their magic. When they came to the fork in the road leading to Ky’Dren, he and Roakore reluctantly said their goodbyes.

  “Well, ye did it, Laddie. I never had a doubt about it,” said Roakore.

  “Well, then,” Whill chuckled, “that makes one of us.”

  Roakore laughed and hugged him, patting him on the back so hard that Whill’s breath was nearly knocked out of him. They parted, and Roakore slammed his fist to his chest and bowed low. Whill returned the gesture.

  “Come and visit me mountain when your duties permit,” he said with shimmering eyes and a wide smile. “Whillhelm Warcrown.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  Roakore said his goodbyes to Zerafin and Avriel as well, and the three watched the dwarf king begin down the road leading to his mountain.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  The End of a Long Road

  Whill stood before the city gates of Del’Oradon, unable to believe he was now the king of Uthen-Arden. He realized he had never really believed that he would ever serve as king. Now that the war was over, he began to dread his newfound duties. Once again, he wished Abram was with him.

  The elves had marched farther south than they needed to, and would soon make their way east to Elladrindellia.

  “We shall visit in the springtime,” said Zerafin, and beside him, Avriel smiled reassuringly at Whill. His heart broke when he realized that she would be going with her people. He forced the lump in his throat down and hugged them both.

  “It has been an honor to have known you both. Thank you for all that you have done. Without your help, this would not have been possible,” said Whill.He waved to them as they rode to catch up to their people, and Zerafin yelled back to him.

  “It is the dawn of the age of peace in Agora. Long live King Whillhelm!”

  “Long live King Zerafin!” Whill yelled after him.

  When they had faded beyond the horizon, Whill walked through the gates of his city and was met by Alrick and the cheers of his people. He was home.

  The winter months passed by, and the peoples of Agora got by the best they could. The four human kingdoms had seen great loss during the war, as had the dwarves of the three mountains and the elves of Elladrindellia. Magic had been lost to the elves, and those first months of adjustment were hard on them. They soon realized just how much they had relied upon magic to do everyday things.

  The dwarven descendan
ts of Ky’Dren retained their ability to move stone, though they did not share this information with the elves. To Roakore, it was a welcome testament to the power of the gods.

  There were few reports of Draggard or dark elves within the borders of Agora, and the barbarians had not pressed their initial invasion from the north. The winter went by slowly. Heavy snows fell that year, and the freeze lasted longer than usual. Just when the people had given up hope for spring, the weather turned, and the worst of the winter passed.

  Springtime came to Agora, and the new age of peace was celebrated by all. The dead were properly buried, and the rebuilding process began. Nearly everyone in Agora, be they human, dwarf, or elf, had known loss due to Eadon and his dark armies. Many cities no longer existed, their people all but wiped out. New cities cropped up around the old, and people went on living. There were many births during the spring and summer. It was a time of healing and new beginnings.

  Whill’s official coronation took place on his twenty-first birthday, one year to the day that Abram had given him the wolf-hide jacket while they sailed to Sherna upon Old Charlotte. So much had happened during the year that it felt as though it were a lifetime away. He thought of Abram often, and was comforted by the knowledge that his old mentor smiled down upon him.

  Kellallea came to him the first night he was officially king, while he was reading by candlelight in his chambers.

  “And so, the reign of Whillhelm Warcrown has begun,” she said as she suddenly appeared before him.

  Whill jumped with a start. “What do you want?”

  Kellallea walked around the desk with a frown. “You have a strange way of showing gratitude.”

  Whill scoffed at that. “Had you helped when I asked, many lives might have been saved!”