Kingdoms in Chaos

by Michael James Ploof

  Tarren wanted to tell her to stop. The beauty of her voice hurt his heart. He wanted an end to the constant pain. If that meant death, then so be it.

  He thought of his short life as he lay dying. By all rights he should have died a year ago when the pirate, Cirossa, slit his throat and tossed him from the deck of the Black Dragon. Whill had saved him; he had given him a second chance. Since then his life had been filled with excitement and adventure. He had traversed the wilds with elves, and lived with the dwarves for a time. With his friend Helzendar, he had passed the dwarven trials of manhood. He survived the Draggard attack on Sherna, and the fall of Cerushia. When Eadon had come for him, the Watcher had taken his place and his life had been saved a second time. But now death was returning to claim its prize.

  Lunara fought back her tears as Tarren struggled for the smallest of breaths. Sorrow and rage welled inside of her. Before the taking of power, she would have easily been able to heal him. Now she was no more useful than one of the handmaidens waiting by the door.

  On the other side of the bed, the Watcher seemed as placid as ever, and she found herself despising him. He looked to her then with Tarren’s eyes and smiled.

  “Why do you smile?” she asked with a sniffle.

  “Have you lost faith in your goddess?” he asked.

  She searched her heart and mind for the answer and began to cry.

  “You have much love inside of you. Do not let life harden your heart,” said the Watcher.

  “That is easy for you to say. You are an ancient; life has been long and prosperous for you. You lived your entire life in the golden age of Orna Catorna. Even now, when other elders are dying, you have been reborn in the body of a young human. You will yet outlive us all. And what of him?” She regarded Tarren. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

  The Watcher bowed his head and regarded his dying body. “Before Kellallea took Orna Catorna, when I could still see clearly the many possibilities of reality and timelines, I saw this event.”

  Lunara looked up at him hopefully, blinking through her tears. Tarren’s shallow breath quickened and his body jerked with the effort. The Watcher went on.

  “I have seen the boy’s life play out before my mind’s eye.” He wore a grin as he took his own hand in Tarren’s and covered it with the other. “Do not forget, Lunara, the unfairness of the world is what makes us what we are. If it was fair, we would be terrible, spoiled creatures. Nothing would be learned from loss, nothing would be cherished. Without an end, life would have no meaning.”

  Tarren stiffened and gave a muffled groan. One final gasp for breath caused his body to jump.

  “Tarren?” Lunara’s voice broke as she shook him. “Tarren? Tarren!”

  The Watcher sat on the side of the bed cross-legged and held his hand tight. He offered Lunara a loving smile and closed his eyes.

  Tarren fought for breath that wouldn’t come. He was so tired. Eternal sleep beckoned. Lunara’s pleading voice came to him, obscured by the veil of the spirit world fast encroaching upon his consciousness. He felt himself falling, falling, falling…

  He floated up out of the Watcher’s body and found his own body sitting on the side of the bed. It began to shimmer and glow, and a spark of light floated out of it and expanded. The spirit of the Watcher floated before him, wearing his old, pleasant smile.

  “This is where I say goodbye,” said the old elf.

  Tarren was confused. “Have you died as well? Will you come with me? I’m scared to go alone.”

  “When your time comes, I will be there to guide you if you wish. Until then, remember what I have taught you.”

  Then Tarren understood. “But…but what about you?”

  “Death comes to us all, Tarren. It is not ones death that is important, but rather what one does with that life. Live without fear, and create your own destiny.”

  “Thank you for everything. I will never forget you,” said Tarren.

  The Watcher smiled and began to glow brighter. “Nor I you. Come now, you must return…”

  Lunara clutched Tarren’s bed clothes and sobbed into the unmoving chest. She pressed her head against him and listened as the elf’s old heart grew slower, and slower still, until finally it beat no more.

  “Tarren…”

  She had promised to protect him, she had promised that everything would be all right. She had believed against all hope that Whill would somehow find a way. But in the end, Kellallea had ignored her prayers.

  A hand touched her shoulder and she shrugged it off, not wanting to be comforted by the Watcher. There was nothing he could say to her now.

  “Lunara?”

  “Leave me alone,” she sobbed.

  “Lunara…” The voice was joyous.

  She lifted her head off the Watcher’s chest and looked into the young boy’s eyes.

  He smiled. “It’s me.”

  Lunara took in a shuddering breath and reached out a shaking hand to touch Tarren’s face. “Tarren? Oh, my dear, dear boy. Is it really you?” She hugged him hard and dotted his forehead with kisses. “It is a miracle! Was it the goddess??

  Tarren glanced down at the body of the Watcher, his smile slowly melting away. “He has saved me yet again.”

  Lunara looked to the Watcher as well, and the sudden joy of Tarren’s survival was replaced by the realization that the old elf had passed on.

  Chapter 43

  Breggard

  Whill and his army made the march to Breggard in four days. They came to the foot of the valley overlooking the small city and he raised a hand. His commanders ordered the halt on down the line, and Tyrron stopped his horse beside him.

  “Should we make camp?” the general asked.

  “Yes, and gather the banner men and knights. Send a messenger into the city to announce our arrival.”

  “You will risk going into the city without the army?”

  Whill nodded; his jaw set strong. “This is not a siege, I am not a conqueror. The army is to protect these people from the horrors of the north, not to force their bent knee.”

  “As you wish.”

  The city was two miles away. Farmland surrounded them, and many watchtowers dotted the land. It had survived the dark-elf invasion due to two lords, Merek Carac and Althalos Fendrel. They had in turn forged an alliance with Clifton McKinnon of Brinn. The Elgar dwarves still traded with Breggard, who in turn traded with Brinn and every town and village in between. Being in the shadow of the Elgar Mountains, Breggard was more secure than its western counterpart, which sat upon the southern shores of Lake Eardon.

  The army began to make camp on the rolling hills overlooking Breggard and the north beyond. Only ten leagues to the north was the Shierdon border. Whill sent scouts out in all directions, concentrating twice as many to the north. A messenger arrived shortly with word that the Uthen-Arden land forces had set up camp outside of Brinn. His pieces were in place, now it was time to show his strength.

  It is in you, Whillhelm Warcrown. It was in you all along…

  Whill jerked, looking this way and that. The soldiers were going about their business, quite oblivious of his concern. He knew none of them had spoken the words, for they had been in his head. They were not Kellallea’s, but someone else, someone he knew well.

  “Watcher?”

  “Are you ready, my liege?”

  Whill snapped alert. General Greyson was staring at him, looking slightly concerned.

  “Yes…Please, lead the way.”

  Whill rode beside Tyrron at the center of the long line of twenty knights and four banner men. The winding road down from the highlands brought them to a tall, stone, city wall with its gate standing closed.

  Tyrron leaned over in his saddle. “If they open the doors freely, it means that they’re anticipating a truce. They will ask to keep the lands they have conquered and to be given high titles.”

  “And if they leave them closed?”

  “If the doors remain closed they are more likely to be vying to
keep their kingly titles. They mean to push for more than you’re willing to give. They’re saving face in front of the people.”

  As they approached the gate, Whill noticed how the guards scrambled to their stations—more than had been there previously. Merek and Althalos were trying to appear stronger than they were. The gate was impressive, and judging by the clear cutting around the edges of the city in all directions, they had been building the thick wall all through the winter. A small moat had been dug out around the city recently, and water from a nearby river kept it full and deep. The gate rose fifteen feet above the mound, with dozens of embrasures built into the wall.

  A decorated man in full armor stood high atop the battlements and pointed down. “Identify yourselves!”

  One of the banner men moved forward. “The king of all of Uthen-Arden, Whillhelm Warcrown, son of Aramonis Warcrown, has come to speak with Merek Carac and Althalos Fendrel.”

  The man held his hand up to the sun and eyed Whill sitting among his knights. He then disappeared from the battlements. For many long minutes they waited, but the door remained closed.

  “The longer we wait, the weaker we appear to the people. Both theirs and ours,” said Tyrron.

  Whill was becoming irritated by the pissing match. He was being blatantly disrespected, and began to think that he should do something.

  A command was given and the doors began to creak open. Beyond, Whill saw hundreds of curious faces. Men, women, and children alike had gathered by the gate to catch a glimpse of him. The banner men moved forward, and the procession commenced. Two knights of Breggard led them through the muddy streets.

  It took only a glance to tell Whill that this city was ready for war. He saw the telltale signs of struggle in the faces of the people. One and all had lived through the Draggard Wars. They were no strangers to conflict. And suspicion shone in their eyes. This far north, Del-Oradon might as well have been on the other side of the country. These people didn’t know Whill from Joseph. For all they knew, he was just another lord rising up to take what they had. This far northeast, the old blood of Arden ran deep, and they still held the grudges of yesteryear.

  The outer rim of the circular city appeared to have been recently constructed. The wooden buildings even carried the scent of fresh-cut lumber, and the sap still dripped from the pine. Where the rest of Agora had only just begun to rebuild, it appeared as though Breggard was thriving.

  They rode through the city without fanfare or applause—a fact that was strange, and not unpleasant to Whill. He enjoyed being unknown for once.

  At the center of the city an old castle sat upon a tall hill of stone. The road leading to the gates was lined on both sides with soldiers—a surprising number of them. It appeared that in Breggard, even women were part of the military. He had noticed many skilled workers, of course, but even they were armed with swords.

  They went through the gates without incident and were guided into the castle by the man who had inquired about them from the wall. He led them through the great room and into a large audience chamber, where sat one man upon a throne. The crier named him Merek Carac, King of Breggard.

  Whill was in turn introduced by his banner men and strode purposefully toward the throne. He stopped before the steps to the high perch and offered the man a nod.

  “Well met, King Whillhelm. What brings you to my kingdom?”

  My kingdom. Whill bit his tongue. “Lord Carac. Greetings. Might I inquire about Althalos Fendrel? I had hoped to speak to the both of you together.”

  “You might ask about him. And I might say that he fell in battle in the north.” The man had steely green eyes that made Whill nervous despite himself. He looked to be in his forties, and seemed more a lumberjack than a lord. His thick red hair sprouted from his stern brow in heavy rings, and his beard did well to hide his face.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I was under the presumption that Fendrel was your friend and ally, and had helped you to maintain order in my stead.”

  Merek grinned at him knowingly. “Yes, he was a good man. Come. You must be hungry from the road. I have prepared a feast,” he said with a wave of his hand.

  In the dining hall, Whill found a round table set with an abundance of food. He quick-eyed Tyrron as they sat. The general raised a brow in agreement—Breggard seemed to be doing quite well, indeed.

  Merek’s face was always smiling, but his eyes were shifty. He glanced at the knights standing behind their king like statues, shoulders broad, and eyes locked on their counterparts across the room. Merek’s men held those gazes and, while the silent battle ensued, the would-be king raised a glass of dark wine.

  “To peace in the north.”

  Whill looked to his own glass and back to the lord. Merek grinned. Tyrron shifted uneasily in his chair. Whill knew the man’s mind, but he doubted the lord would attempt to poison him. What would be the point? If anything happened to Whill inside the city, his men would attack.

  He lifted his glass as well and took a small sip. The wine was drier than he liked. Merek drank half his glass and put it down with a content “ahh” and dug into his food as though he had not a care in the world.

  “I must commend you on your handling of recent events. Breggard seems to thrive,” said Whill, ignoring his food.

  “Aye, but the credit goes to the people. They’re a fierce lot, they are, and loyal to the teeth.”

  Whill didn’t miss the allusion. “How did you manage to repel the dark-elf invasion?”

  Merek sliced off a fatty piece of veal and popped it in his mouth, then washed it down with more wine. “Could say luck, but I prefer perseverance. The hordes came from the west, but we fought them back each time. Was luck that the dwarves were marching through to aid their fellows in the Ky’Dren pass. They helped against the worst of it.”

  “And the winter that followed?” Whill indicated the spread on the table.

  “People have been pouring in from all surrounding towns and villages. Their food stores and livestock came with them. This land has always been more fertile than most. Our crops flourish even now in early summer.”

  “How many do you command?” Tyrron asked.

  Merek’s smile widened.

  “Every man and woman in this city is prepared to fight for her. We’ve ten thousand, and the count grows by the day. Word has begun to spread. Breggard has become a vestige of hope for the north.”

  “Some of those soldiers look no older than twelve,” said Tyrron.

  “Indeed. I understand in the south that it takes longer to make men, but here in the north, a boy is a man when he grows hair below his short sword. Ha!”

  “And the girls? Do you hold them to the same estimations?” Tyrron wasn’t impressed.

  Merek’s eyes flashed fleetingly. “Many people have died. There are families to replenish. Yet, we maintain that the older a lass is, the better for her and the child. Sixteen is legal with parental blessing eighteen without.” He eyed the two men. “We aren’t barbarians.”

  With a snap of his finger his glass was refilled by a young lass, and his eyes directly contradicted his honorable claim. He grinned at Whill.

  “You have done well,” said Whill. “If only more of my lords had been so advantageous.”

  Merek shrugged. “My accomplishments are nothing compared to the legend that precedes your great name. Whillhelm Warcrown…the lost son of the slain king. They say that before magic was lost to the elves, you wielded great power.” He stressed the past tense, and a smirk danced in the corner of his mouth.

  “If not for him, this land would be overrun,” said Tyrron. “‘Twas he alone who defeated the dark lord.”

  “Yes,” said Merek. “That is what they say. The legend of Whill of Agora has helped to pass many a cold night by the fire. I must admit, I thought you would be bigger. The songs made you sound like a god among men.”

  Whill gave a small laugh. “Rumor and song are oft borne from a truth but soon grow into fantasy. For instance, many call
you the king of Breggard.”

  Merek lowered his empty glass slowly and snapped his finger at the waiting servant. “Uthen-Arden fell long ago when Addakon came to power. We have been without want from the south for many years. Our own hands have worked this land. Our own blood has been paid to keep it, and will continue to. You may see me a usurper, but one cannot have taken from him that which he does not possess. It is not by my dictation that I am called king, but by that of the people. When the dark hordes spread across the land, the people needed a leader, not a legend.”

  “I have not come here to battle wits with you,” said Whill. “Your service to the kingdom is greatly appreciated. You shall be granted the title of governor of Breggard and the northwest, if that is your wish. But you must renounce your treasonous title, and educate the people to the truth of it. This land has ever belonged to Uthen-Arden and therefore falls under my rule.”

  Merek lost none of his presumptuous air; on the contrary, he offered him a grandfatherly look of amusement and sat back from his empty plate.

  “Would that I could. But I fear the people would never have it.”

  “This is not a suggestion.” Whill leveled an unyielding gaze on him.

  “Then you have come to Breggard with your force of five thousand as a conqueror?”

  “One need not conquer what he already possesses. I have come to Breggard to strengthen the northern borders, not to spar with you. There are disturbing reports of undead hordes in the north, and by all indications the throne of Shierdon has been compromised by a dark elf. You will not be able to repel them when they march south.”

  “We will do as we have always done: survive. Your kingdom is in disarray. Do not think that I do not have my ear to the ground. This force, and the one you have waiting outside of Brinn, represents most of your army. Would you waste Uthen-Arden’s resources by fighting against a declared ally?”

  “I have been quite clear,” said Whill. “If you decide to continue with your traitorous claims I will be forced to deal with you as such. You have heard my offer. Will you accept the title of governor and swear fealty to the crown once more, or must you be replaced by one who will?”