Kingdoms in Chaos

by Michael James Ploof

  “He has grown considerably more powerful since the fall of Eadon,” said Dirk. “And without the magic of the elves, he may prove to be a grave threat to all of Agora.”

  “Bah!” Raene spat. “Ain’t no elf magic needed. We four are goin’ to take him out. They’re all under his control, right? Ye cut the head off the dragon, you needn’t worry ‘bout the tail.”

  “This isn’t a game,” said Krentz with a mirthless laugh. She indicated Dirk and Chief. “We cannot stand up to his power.”

  “You ain’t gotta stand up to it for long, just gimme enough time to get me blade into him.”

  “Krentz is right,” Dirk put in before Krentz had a chance to erupt. “We cannot defeat him. We should enlist the help of the one spoken of in the spirit world.”

  “I ain’t followin’ the lead o’ no damned spirit less it be o’ me own kin, and I see it with me own eyes.”

  “So that’s it? You hold the figurine, so you decide the road, against our vote?” Krentz glided toward her slowly.

  Raene tossed the pheasant bone and Chief flew to catch it. “You look tired, you should get some rest.”

  Krentz’s face dropped. “DO, NOT. Dare. Dismiss. Me.”

  “You two need to stop,” Dirk warned, trying to keep the peace.

  Raene and Krentz stood mere inches from one another. The dwarf stared up at her with a smug grin. She took the wolf figurine from her pocket and held it to the side. “Back to the spirit world, Krentz.”

  A furious scream escaped Krentz as she turned to mist and swirled into the figurine.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” said Dirk. Raene had never dismissed either of them without their expressing a desire to rest.

  “She’s bein’ unreasonable. And she ain’t never liked me from the beginnin’.”

  Dirk noted that she didn’t put the figurine away. He trod lightly. “She likes you just fine, but she’s worried that you’re leading us to our doom.”

  “And what be your mind?”

  He eyed the figurine. “You are the bearer. You have the power to summon us between realms, but you are not our master.”

  She looked disappointed. “This ain’t about masters and slaves. It’s about stoppin’ a dark elf wreakin’ havoc across Agora.”

  “To you this is about revenge. We have expressed our concerns, our vote has been cast. We would see Zander fall as well, but we should enlist allies in this endeavor. We should travel southeast to—”

  “I ain’t bein’ led to Elladrindellia by a damned dark elf.” She pointed a shaking finger. “Ye two be searchin’ out this old sorcerer ‘cause she done created the figurine, and ye be wantin’ to be free o’ it.”

  “Of course we want to be free…it seems you feel otherwise.”

  Raene took a deep breath and regarded him thoughtfully. Finally, she raised the figurine. “I need to be alone.”

  “Raene…”

  She sniffed nonchalantly, yet was unable to meet his eyes. “Back to the spirit realm, Dirk Blackthorn.”

  “Raene!”

  Chapter 11

  The Old Ardenians

  Zerafin sat beside his sleeping mother’s bed on the balcony overlooking the thousand falls. The morning mists covered the city, and crystal shards and stone columns jutted out across the smoky landscape. A rainbow was growing in the air just above the falls, but he found no beauty in it. He looked upon his mother, she who had been so strong her entire life, now thin and frail, lips chapped and cracked, and skin like dry paper wrapped around bone. Her eyes were sunken, and once proud ears bent beneath their own weight.

  Most of the elders were sick or dying, and even the younger and stronger of the elves knew that they, too, were now mortal. The second age of the elves had ended with the Taking, and now, the once fierce and powerful people cowed to the thought of death. The human natives of Old Arden had been pressing their attacks across the gulf of Arden. Once, not long ago, the elves would have defeated them easily. Now, however, without magic and with the knowledge that they could so easily die, the elves had become quite timid.

  Zerafin left his mother sleeping. They had talked over his plans, and, before falling once more into slumber, the queen mother had agreed. They needed to leave Agora. But the move would leave them vulnerable to attack. Luckily, Zerafin had ordered the building of ships after the fall of Eadon, thinking to strengthen the armada. The fleet was near completion, but still, such a journey required a great amount of supplies if they were to reach Drindellia—supplies they didn’t have.

  He had sent out scout ships three months after the fall of Eadon. The journey from Drindellia had taken more than three months for the refugees five hundred years ago, so he expected no less from his scouts. When first the elves traveled across the sea, they sailed without a destination. Now that the way had been mapped, a straight course had been made that would save time. The first of the scouts were expected any day. If they brought back word that western Drindellia was free of the Draggard, he would begin the exodus.

  “Sire!” A guard rushed into the chambers and bowed quickly. “The Old Ardenians, they are attacking.”

  “Secure the palace,” he said to the soldier, then instructed his mother’s handmaidens to retire her to the inner sanctum.

  A regiment of five hundred elven horsemen followed their king north from the city toward the coast. The day was overcast and mild, and fog pooled in the lowlands, making phantoms of the trees and shrubbery in and around the dell. Only a light wind blew in from the coast, moving the patches of fog inland—a perfect time to strike. Zerafin cursed himself for not fortifying the coast at such times. His oversight might cost many lives.

  They arrived at the coast and found a regiment of two hundred already there waiting. The elven warriors carried long spears pointed at each end, with gleaming armor of gold with a beaming sun upon the chest plate.

  Zerafin reined in his horse and looked to the ocean where the thick mists blocked the view of the harbor. “Report!”

  “Sire, our lookouts have reported dozens of ships heading this way from across the gulf. But there has been no sign of them.”

  “We have the high ground,” said Zerafin, seeing the fear in the elves’ eyes. “Cerushia will not be taken by humans with wooden spears and rusty blades! To arms! To arms!”

  In the five hundred years since the exodus from Drindellia, the elves had feared—and prepared for—a dark elf attack from the east. Great walls had been built to slow an attack coming from the coast north of Cerushia, as it was the only lowland for miles. The rest of the northern tip of Elladrindellia was lined with steep cliffs.

  The elves waited atop the wall, watching the fog for any sign of the enemy. Zerafin had fought alongside many of these elves before, yet never had he seen such fear in their eyes. When once they wielded fire and ice, changed into animals and had the power to subdue an opponent with a mental attack, now they had only their own strength, and their own steel. If they fell today they would not be revived by the healing magic they had once possessed.

  A sound came to them suddenly, the grating noise of a ship hitting the beach. Zerafin raised a hand for the elves to hold. Hands wet with sweat gripped steel shafts, and squinted eyes stared into the fog…waiting.

  War cries ripped through the maddening silence, followed by the roar of a beast and a thrashing of chains.

  “Archers at the ready!” Zerafin cried.

  A pounding of heavy feet shook the ground and again the roar came, not from one monster, but two.

  “Hold…”

  The pounding shook the ground, growing louder with every passing heartbeat. Out of the fog came a pair of fifteen-foot abominations—dwargon, the dwarf and dragon crossbreeds created by Eadon.

  “Fire!”

  Arrows ripped through the mist and rained down on the charging beasts. A few of the arrows stuck in the rough hide; however, they only seemed to infuriate the monsters more.

  “Fire!” Zerafin cried, watching from his horse as t
he two dwargon sped toward the wall with incredible speed.

  “Spearmen, stop them at the wall!”

  The dwargon charged through the arrows and leaped high into the air, one after the other, and cleared the wall. Spearmen were there waiting, and one of the beasts came down on a brave elf who had planted his spear in a crook in the stone. The beast landed, crushing the elf beneath it, but also impaling itself through the gut and out the back. It roared and batted away the attacks of the frantically stabbing spearmen. The other dwargon tore through the ranks with ease. To their credit, the elves stood their ground, but they paid for it with their lives.

  Zerafin watched, horrified, as the two monsters rampaged through the elven army. The roar of many men sounded in the fog—the second wave was coming. The dwargon had been a distraction; they did not fight for the men of Old Arden, likely they had been trapped somehow and chained to a barge that was then run aground upon the beach. The humans did not control the beasts…they didn’t have to.

  “Charge!” Zerafin cried, and the horsemen complied.

  The dwargon were meant to disorient the elves and cause chaos. Rather than flee, Zerafin led his horsemen through the gates of the wall and onto the beach, leaving behind the two beasts to be dealt with by the others.

  His horse carried him across the sand as others sped up to protect their king, yet he would not be overtaken. A rage had been building inside of Zerafin since the Taking. His mother’s illness—and his own impotence to help her only fueled the flames.

  Through the fog the army came like ghosts in a dream. Zerafin impaled one with his spear and tossed it to the side. A sword swung for him and he was forced to raise a shield to it. His horse trampled through the men, and Zerafin took up his sword, wetting the beaches with the blood of his enemies. When they reached the water—and a clear patch in the fog—he saw a small fleet had landed, more than a dozen in all. Still more ships came from the north and east, flying banners of Old Arden.

  “Protect the king!” an elf cried, and many came to his aid.

  He wanted none of it. The frustration of the last few months fueled his strikes. He slew a half a dozen men in the fog. The battleground was a whiteout, which gave him and his elves the advantage over the charging men. Without magic, however, they soon began to tire. Zerafin fought through the fatigue, turning away strikes with his long shield and coloring the ocean red with blood. He ducked for a flying spear and leaped from his horse, coming down hard on a man with a wooden spear and no armor to speak of. Twirling, Zerafin slashed the throat of another, and dodged the sword strike of one coming at his back.

  The sound of more boats landing gave him pause. Slain elves lay dead in the water alongside the humans.

  “Fall back!” he called out as he and his soldiers ran from the ocean.

  Avriel heard the warning cries and called to Zorriaz. She put on her armor while she waited, and took her most trusted bow from its place on the wall. Shouldering a quiver of arrows and sheathing her sword, she ran out to the balcony. Zorriaz had come to her call, and glided in from the south. She landed on the balcony and Avriel quickly spurred her to the north.

  When she reached the beach, she found that many ships had made landfall, and many more were coming from the northwest. “Protect the elves!” Avriel cried.

  Zorriaz flew through the fog and bathed the boats in a swath of flame two hundred feet long. Another pass lit those that had already made landfall. The people hadn’t anticipated a dragon, and even those who could get off a shot found their arrows could not penetrate Zorriaz’s hide. Avriel used her bow to devastating effect, and their appearance on the beach spurred the elves into a second charge.

  The battle for the beach lasted nearly an hour, and when the fogs finally lifted and parted for the sun, many elves bloodied the ground—too many. The human forces had only numbered a few hundred, yet the strike had been a small victory for them. They had gained no ground; however, twenty-five elves had been killed, some who Zerafin knew to be many hundreds of years old. If Avriel hadn’t shown up with Zorriaz, many more would have fallen.

  He left the beach in the command of one of his generals and mounted a horse to take him quickly back to the city. His fear and apprehension grew as he followed the trail of carnage and destruction that the two beasts had wrought. He arrived at the city gates and gave a small sigh of relief when he saw one of the dwargon dead against the wall. The other was nowhere to be found. Inside, he found not bodies, but blood-stained ground where many had fallen. The other dwargon lay face down in the street just inside the city gate, dozens of spears, swords, and arrows riddling its body like a pincushion.

  Zerafin wept as he looked upon his scared people. The pain of injuries that could not be quickly healed twisted their faces.

  Kellallea, why have you forsaken us?

  Avriel helped to tend to the injured, but without her magic, she was forced to watch many elves die in her arms. The infirmary was overrun. She sat clutching an elf who had just taken her final breath—an elf more than four hundred years of age. With shaking hands she laid the woman down on the bed and closed her eyes with two fingers.

  It all seemed so unfair.

  She soon found herself unable to breathe and stumbled to the door, hungry for fresh air and a reprieve from the begging voices and smell of death.

  Outside, many elves had gathered to sing together the songs of old—ones used alongside Orna Catorna to help soothe and heal the sick. Without the magic that had once accompanied the melodies, the music sounded hollow and sad, a lamenting of loved ones unable to help their kin.

  This is what it is like to be a human, or a dwarf.

  Avriel had never truly understood, and the realization caused her to respect them all the more. The humans especially, who were not as long-lived as the elves or dwarves. Now, with lifespans reaching four hundred years, dwarves were the longest-lived of the three races.

  How do they find the strength to go on?

  Chapter 12

  Homeland on the Horizon

  An overwhelming sense of dread washed through Aurora as the undead army reached the northern shore of Shierdon. She had come through this way more than six months ago when she led her people across the ice from Volnoss. They were meant to reclaim the lands of old and restore glory to their people. Instead they had all died.

  The village had been burned to the ground. Skeletons of humans and buildings alike remained where they had fallen. No one had returned to rebuild or bury the dead.

  “Why have we stopped?” Aurora asked Azzeal. The lich stood next to her staring off toward the north.

  “You know why.”

  She didn’t want to believe it. Hadn’t her people already suffered enough? “I’ll kill him…”

  “In time. Now you must be patient,” said Azzeal. He continued to stare off to the north.

  She was surprised by his words. He hadn’t shown much of an opinion in the last six months since she took his life upon the fields of Volnoss. When he was first raised from the dead she hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. Her guilt had been great, and he stared at her endlessly, and often spoke to her in a familiar manner. Since becoming a lich herself she didn’t mind his company, on the contrary, he was the only thing that reminded her who she was.

  Zander rode up to them upon his undead horse. Its wild eyes glowed green, and bones could be seen in places where the skin had rotted in the time between death and reanimation. The dark elf necromancer grinned at her. He pulled off his gloves one finger at a time and looked to the north as well.

  “You must be excited to share our glory with your people.”

  Aurora ignored his goading, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He laughed nonetheless. If she thought that it would have an effect, she would have dropped to her knees and begged him to spare her people. She would give her life—her very soul—to save them. But she had no life to give.

  “How many do you suppose are left on the island?” Zander asked.

 
; “Perhaps ten thousand children, and elders. There are no warriors left among them,” said Aurora, hoping to dissuade the dark elf.

  He saw through her feeble ruse. “I need not warriors. Children, elders—they will all do just fine. I find that undead children work quite well in psychological warfare.”

  Tremors of rage betrayed her calm facade. She wanted nothing more than to strike him down. Yet she was unable to move against him, just as she was unable to deny his will.

  “I believe it would be fitting if you led the liberation.”

  Aurora turned to him, disgusted. “Liberation?”

  A sneer found his face quickly. “Yes, from this mortal coil, this ‘hell on earth’, as the humans are fond of saying. In death they will know a peace that is only fleeting in dreams.”

  “Perhaps you should liberate yourself.” Aurora gasped, unbelieving of the words that had come out of her mouth. Zander’s eyes widened with shock for a heartbeat. So quickly did the moment pass that she thought maybe it hadn’t occurred. Had she really just spoken out against him? Azzeal had noticed the slight as well, and while he didn’t turn to regard them, his head cocked to the side. She could just imagine him smirking on the other side of the raven-feathered hood.

  Zander’s same condescending smile returned. If his confidence had faltered, he had found it again. “I cannot punish you with pain, for you seek it out, and now find it a pleasure. What, then, should I do to help you remember your place?” He regarded her, feigning deep thought, and tapped his pointed chin with a long metal-tipped finger. “Perhaps I could let you know love once more. But…who is left in the world who loves Aurora Snowfell?”

  A wave of depression washed through Aurora’s dark soul. This was nothing new. She had accepted who she was and what she had done. It was true; no one loved her, not even herself.

  Zander was seemingly satisfied with the effect he had on her, and urged his undead horse back to oversee the progress of the ship building.