Kingdoms in Chaos

by Michael James Ploof

  “I can help to restore Tarren to his body.”

  He jumped. Kellallea was suddenly standing right beside him.

  “I wish that you would learn to use the door,” he said casually, not bothering to look at her. From the corner of his eye he could see her faint glow, and her long silver hair blowing in the breeze.

  She touched his shoulder.

  A shiver passed through him as power filled his body momentarily, but then was gone. It was the power he had given up moments before Eadon tried to possess him. He often dreamed of wielding that energy once more. With it, he would be able to quell the would-be usurpers vying for power in Uthen-Arden, he would be able to restore Tarren and Avriel.

  “Swear fealty to me, and I will give you everything your heart desires,” Kellallea purred.

  “I am the one who helped you ascend to godhood. It would seem that you are in my debt.”

  She laughed melodically and caressed his cheek. “You did not do it for me.”

  “No,” he said, moving away from her. “I did it for Agora.”

  “And now that threat is gone. But your kingdom is in shambles, your armies are stretched too thin. The three kings of the north have forged an alliance. Soon, they will march south, and your city will fall.”

  “You have seen this?” Whill asked, unable to keep concern from his voice.

  She nodded solemnly. He studied her for a moment but was forced to look away. Gazing upon the goddess was like staring at the sun.

  Whill didn’t trust her, he never had. She could have stopped Eadon long ago, yet she had allowed him to wage war on her own people and drive them from Drindellia. She may have helped to defeat him in the end, but only so that she might gain the power of a god.

  “You do not trust me,” she noted.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I am the only one who can help you.”

  “You stole all knowledge of Orna Catorna from the elves—from me. With it, we could bring peace to the land.”

  “It is not enough to bring peace to the land. People must find peace in their hearts. Humans, dwarves, elves… you are all the same. You know as well as I that magic would have destroyed the elves in the end.”

  He couldn’t disagree. As useful as magic was, its misuse had nearly destroyed Agora. “Then why do you offer it to me now?”

  “You are different from other people. You held the power of a god in your hands, yet you gave it up for the good of others. I said that I would reward those who proved themselves, and you, Whill, have proven yourself beyond worthy.”

  “And still, I must swear fealty to you.”

  She nodded.

  “Why? What do you want from me?”

  Kellallea offered no answer, but stroked his face once more. Her hands were electric, and Whill caught a hint of his lost power once again. It was all he could do to not drop to his knees immediately and swear himself to her.

  “King Whillhelm Warcrown, Savior of Agora, why do you resist me?” Kellallea asked. “Take what is offered, become my champion, and together we shall bring peace to the world.”

  Whill shrugged away from her, and staggered from the balcony. He turned to speak, but found that she was gone.

  A shuddering breath escaped him and he steadied himself against one of the carved columns. When he had calmed his pounding heart, he returned to his chambers and sat back at his large desk. He considered the collection of old tomes spread out before him, some dating back to a time before the elves came to Agora. Whill had been poring over the ancient religions of the world, trying to find something…anything. The books spoke of the gods of men, elves, dwarves, and even dragons, yet none of them mentioned Kellallea’s ascension. He found it odd that neither scripture nor prophecy spoke of her. Surely such an event would be foretold?

  The tomes told of many things, and he even found his own prophecy in one of the elven books given to him by Zerafin when last they met—more than three months ago. It said only that he would defeat Eadon, but nothing of what might come after.

  Whill had never been a holy man, but now that Kellallea had attained her empyrean throne, he had begun to wonder about the gods again. If they existed, why had they remained silent for so long?

  The elves had an extensive religion, volumes upon volumes had lined the walls in the libraries of Cerushia. But many of those ancient tomes had been destroyed when the capital city of the elves fell. If Whill was to learn anything from them he would have to wait until he visited them again.

  The human religions were many, with numerous subdivisions. But he found that human religions, like many, were obscure in their claims. The events spoken of by the old texts had taken place thousands of years before. If the gods ever spoke, it had been a long time ago. Even so, Whill doubted he would hear them, for nearly all the religions told that one must have faith to hear the voices of the gods—something that he did not possess.

  A knock came at the door, and a guard peeked in his head when told to enter.

  “Sire, the Watcher is here to speak with you.”

  “Let him in,” said Whill, rising from his seat.

  The Watcher strode into the room and waved off the curious guard. The old elf might have been in the body of an eleven year old boy, but his gait was still that of an ancient elf.

  “I hope that I did not interrupt anything important,” said the Watcher.

  “No,” said Whill. “I was just reading over some old religious tomes.

  The Watcher cocked an eyebrow. “That sounds important to me. What is on your mind?”

  Whill offered him a seat and took his own once more. “It is Kellallea. I was trying to find some mention of her in the old texts.”

  The Watcher nodded understanding. “She has appeared to you again.”

  “Yes, just recently.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She claims that if I swear fealty to her, she can restore you and Tarren,” said Whill.

  “What is stopping you?” The Watcher asked.

  Whill wondered if this was one of the eccentric old elf’s tests. “I…I don’t trust her.”

  “I see.”

  The Watcher’s eyes were smiling.

  “You seem to find this quite amusing,” Whill noted.

  The Watcher gave a small laugh. “You misread me. I find it all quite fascinating. You never cease to amaze me, Whill. To give up godlike power is one thing, but to refuse it a second time…that is impressive.”

  Whill hadn’t thought of it that way. To him, he seemed like a fool to refuse the goddess’s gifts. He could not deny that he was tempted by her offer, but he could not ignore the part of his mind screaming a warning.

  “Why is she so adamant that I swear fealty to her? What could I possibly offer her that she could not attain herself?”

  “Perhaps she is simply being stubborn, said the Watcher. “Even with all of her great power, you are the one thing that continues to elude her.”

  Whill considered that. The reasoning seemed petty for a deity, but then, many of the gods told of by the religions were just that. Quite often the gods spoke and acted in ways similar to mortals. Most religions said that the races had been created in their god’s image, but went on to claim that one could not possibly understand their motives or grand plans.

  “There must be more to it than that,” said Whill.

  “I have pondered this for many days,” said the Watcher. “Yet her motives still elude my mind. I was quite surprised to learn that she had appeared to you.”

  “Because I am not an elf?”

  “No, it is not that. I would be surprised to hear that she had appeared before anyone,” said the Watcher. “The gods are said to have come to a truce tens of thousands of years ago. They no longer meddle in the affairs of mortals. It is said that if one of the gods breaks the truce, it will bring about the end of the world.”

  “You believe this?” Whill asked.

  “I acknowledge that it is possible, as are all things.�
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  Whill gave a small sigh, frustrated by the old elf’s riddles.

  “If the gods do indeed exist, then Kellallea has broken their rules by speaking to me. But she must know this. Why would she risk such a thing?”

  “I do not know,” said the Watcher, with uncharacteristic bluntness. “It could be that the gods do not exist, and she is the most powerful being in all of creation. If so, she is free to do as she pleases.”

  “Yes, but even that does not explain her continued interest in me. From what Zerafin has told me, she continues to ignore the prayers of her own people.”

  “To my knowledge this is true.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” Whill asked. When the Watcher only grinned, Whill laughed. “Of course not, nothing bothers you.”

  “Do not fret, all things are as they should be.”

  “How can you say that?” said Whill. “Tarren remains trapped in your body, Avriel still has no memory of me, and Agora is in shambles. Not to mention, there is no magic left in the world.”

  “Whill, my friend, you have come a long way since first we met. But you still have much to learn. There will always be reasons to worry, why do you continue to focus energy on your fears and suspicions? Instead, try to focus on what you want to happen.”

  “What do you want to happen?” Whill asked.

  “I want the world to know peace, therefore, I am at peace. We have the power to change many things, but we must begin with ourselves. What do you want, Whill?”

  I want the power that I once possessed.

  Whill was surprised by his inner voice. He had thought to answer that he wanted Avriel to remember him, and for Tarren to be healed.

  The Watcher looked on knowingly. “It is easiest to deceive ourselves. We must be ever diligent in that regard. For without clarity of mind we cannot see the path before us.” He got up and offered a small bow. “I will leave you now. I imagine that you have much to consider.”

  “Wait,” said Whill, standing as well. “Why did you originally come here to speak with me?”

  The Watcher turned at the door and offered Whill a smile. “I thought that you might need to talk.”

  When he was alone again, Whill refilled his wine glass and moved to the window. Night had fallen over Del’ Oradon. Lanterns lit the streets beyond the castle, and people could still be seen about. He envied them and their simple lives.

  He was tired of the warring, tired of the mysteries that seemed ever to occupy his life. The old days traveling Agora with Abram had been a blessing, and he now understood why the old man kept his secrets all those years—he wanted to give Whill some semblance of simplicity in his life, if only for a short time. Whill wished that Abram were with him now more than ever.

  Chapter 9

  Whispers in the Dark

  Roakore.

  The voice woke him from a deep sleep. He shot upright in bed and looked around the dark chamber. His wife, Rubella—whose night it was to share his bed—stirred, and ran a hand across his chest, murmuring something unintelligible.

  “What? Who’s that?” he asked the darkness.

  No one answered.

  He searched the shadows, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. Something was in the stone chamber with them, he just knew it.

  “Show yourself!” Roakore screamed, leaping out of bed. He lit a lantern and whirled around quickly.

  The chamber was empty.

  “Roakore?” His wife sat up and wiped her sleepy eyes.

  “Sshh!” He held up a silencing hand and began stalking through the room, checking in dark corners and under furniture.

  When he had searched the entire room, he stood there puzzling.

  “Come back to bed. Yer havin’ yer dreams again,” his wife called to him.

  “I ain’t dreamin’. I heard a voice, I tell ye.”

  “Just the wind through the flue,” Rubella said with a yawn.

  He ignored her and checked the room a second time. When still he found nothing, he got dressed and left his sleeping wife.

  Retiring to his den, he poured himself a beer from the barrel in his extensive bar. After lighting a lantern and a half dozen candles, he sat down at his desk and stared out the window beside him. The wind howled along the side of the mountain, and it looked to have been raining recently, for the wide sill was slick with wet.

  He drank his beer and considered the voice that he had heard—again. It was deep and rumbling. When first he heard it he thought that it had been an earthquake, or possibly an avalanche. His chamber was built into the eastern side of the mountain, and the ice and snow often shifted. The voice was distant and muffled, as if obscured by a thick stone wall. It was commanding, calling to him as a father might.

  The Book of Ky’ Dren sat on the desk before him…beckoning. It spoke of a great migration of dragons who attacked and destroyed the dwarves of Drindellia. The tome also spoke of the origin of dwarven powers, saying that they came not from the gods, but the elves.

  The contradictions insinuated by the story had caused Roakore to begin questioning his faith. How could he be a king to his people if he questioned the very religion they worshipped? Roakore dropped to his knees beside his desk and offered up a prayer to Ky’Dren.

  He had hoped that the voice would return, but it did not. Only the howling wind spoke to him, and its voice gave a mournful warning.

  A knock came at the door shortly after, and Nah’Zed peeked in her head.

  “Ah, me royal brain, come in, come in. What’s on the agenda today?” Roakore asked as he closed The Book of Ky’Dren.

  “Good mornin’, me king,” she said.

  As usual, Nah’Zed carried a pile of scrolls with her. She placed them on the table and unfolded one. “Ye got a meetin’ with the elders in half an hour. After that, you got a meetin’ with the ambassador o’ Eldalon. Then yer scheduled for lunch with, Ak’Ren, the lad who be courtin’ yer eldest daughter from yer fourteenth wife. He be seekin’ yer blessin’ in marriage. After that, ye be unveilin’ the statue o’ Haldagozz.”

  She offered him a kind smile at the mention of the loyal dwarf, who had saved Roakore’s life by taking the brunt of a spell meant for him.

  “Aye, Haldagozz’s statue. It be a beauty,” said Roakore.

  He had moved the slab himself, and handpicked the best stone workers in the kingdom to create the homage to his fallen friend.

  “Sire, is something bothering you?” Nah’Zed asked.

  Roakore realized that he had been staring off into space. “O’ course not,” he said, waving her off. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  He watched her leave, and pondered whether or not he should bring her in on his dilemma. Nah’Zed was a smart one, to be sure, and the most read dwarf he had ever met. But he finally decided it was best to keep quiet about it. She would likely be unable to deal with the implications of the book’s teachings.

  Chapter 10

  Crossing the Line

  Dirk walked through the dark streets of Brinn. With a thought, he turned to mist and flew through an alley. He solidified in front of a tower built into the battlements on the southern wall. The building at the base of the tower had many windows aglow. Voices—those of soldiers—spilled out into the summer night. Dirk floated along the barrack’s windows, listening. He was looking for hushed conversations, those with fear in their voice. Two guards turned the far corner and Dirk turned to mist once more. He flew past the oblivious guards and soon found what he sought. Three men sitting at a small table in the center of their sleeping quarters were hunched toward each other as if imparting secrets. Dirk flew into the room and listened.

  “…or I’m a liar,” a bearded man was saying.

  The youngest of the three looked petrified. “Dragonshyte,” he said with a nervous laugh, and then sat back on his stool with a dismissive wave.

  The bearded guard leaned in closer, his animated expressions urgent. “Peterson seen it with his own damn eyes!” He kept his voi
ce to a whisper, though a harsh one.

  The oldest of the three gave a chuckle, drank from his mug and wiped his wide mustache. “A lot of strange things happened afore the winter, but the dark elf is dead. Don’t be helping spread these fables.”

  “I tell you, there be undead been seen in the woods, and Peterson ain’t the only one who saw them,” said the bearded guard insistently.

  Dirk withdrew. He had already heard as much from another pair of guards. He needed to get to the commanders. He made his way to the southern keep and wisped his way up the stairs to the chambers of the residing general of Brinn, under the new ruler, King McKinnon, one of three now controlling northern Uthen-Arden.

  The general sat at a thick desk reading over scrolls by candlelight. Dirk moved to the window behind him and watched over his shoulder as the man settled his business for the day. The first few scrolls were inconsequential: refugee numbers, reports on grain and corn reserves, promotion recommendations, enlistee information, and finally, troop movements.

  Dirk gathered what information he needed and flew back through the city to the hillside that Raene waited upon. Krentz was already back, and Chief wagged a translucent tail upon his arrival.

  “What you got?” Raene asked between chews. The pheasant drumstick in her hand reminded him how much he missed having to eat.

  “They’re fortifying northern positions around Lake Eardon rather than concentrating their efforts on the southern front. Soon they will attempt to take Belldon Island and the seat of Shierdon’s power.”

  Krentz nodded. “I’ve learned as much, but they are also fortifying borders running east and west. They fear attack from the north. There is word of armies of roaming undead.

  “Armies?” said Dirk. “I only heard rumors of isolated sightings.

  “Undead Armies marching across the north…” said Raene. “Which direction they be headin’?”

  “West,” said Krentz.

  Raene tore off another greasy bite, dribbling the juice down her chin. “Zander be convertin’ the entire countryside to join his undead legions.”