The Warcrown Legacy

by Michael James Ploof

  “Ah,” he said, smiling. “I see that you have been allowed to fight alongside the dwarves.”

  Ragnar nodded. He looked like the happiest man in the world—and Azzeal did not doubt that having Raene at his side had something to do with it.

  “That I have,” said the big man.

  “Where ye be off to with Zorriaz?” said Raene.

  “I have been sent on a quest by King Zerafin. I just wanted to say goodbye and good luck to you both, for I do not know when I shall return.”

  “A quest? Not to go north and spy again I be hopin’,” said Raene.

  “No, no, I am headed east to elicit the help of the dragons.”

  A group of dwarves passing by froze and looked in their direction with furled brows.

  “Go on then, be on yer way,” said Raene, shooing them off and shaking her head. “Damned looky-loos.”

  “This is turning into another bloody intercontinental war,” said Ragnar, shaking his head.

  Azzeal sighed. “I’m afraid that you may be right.”

  “Bah, bring it on,” said Raene, and she spit on the ground.

  Azzeal laughed and hugged Raene. “You take care of yourself. I want to hear all the stories when I get back.” He hugged Ragnar as well, and the two bade him good luck before joining the marching army once more.

  He watched the progression for a time before once again mounting Zorriaz.

  “Alright then, let’s go see your kin.”

  Chapter 7

  Orrian watched the harbor of Shoreshell through his eyes. He smelled the salty air with his nose. The sounds of seagulls and slowly lapping waves found his ears as he tasted blood in his mouth and felt the rough stone of the hillside beneath his feet—but he was only an observer in his body.

  Eldarian had taken control.

  Orrian could not scream out for help, for his words were Eldarian’s. He could not reach out to a guard, could not cling to their armor and push his face of terror in front of them, for his movements were Eldarian’s.

  He was but a vessel, a body and mind that had been blessed with the ancient powers of old, now being used by a master of darkness. And at that moment, the master was using his eyes to watch a young woman pulling in fish with her father. She was tall, slender, and had only one arm.

  “Can you feel it, Orrian? Can you feel her power?” his own voice asked. “It is the power of the dwarves.”

  Orrian could feel it. And indeed, it was not the power of the elves, for if she had absorbed their power, then surely she would have already grown back her missing arm. Orrian could only answer with his thoughts, but Eldarian never acknowledged that he had heard him.

  “Perhaps she will not fail me where you have,” said Eldarian.

  Orrian wanted to scream at the girl to run, to flee with her father into the mountains and never come back. But there was no escaping Eldarian.

  The girl suddenly looked in Orrian’s direction. He instinctively tried to duck behind the building he was standing by, but Eldarian controlled his actions. Orrian watched helplessly as his body walked forward. The young woman dropped the netting and, seeing this, her father looked up from his work to see what the matter was.

  They both stared. Fear in the eyes of the girl, confusion in the eyes of her father.

  Orrian reached out a glowing hand, and a nearby crate floated into the air. The hand pulled back and shot out, and the crate went flying. The man moved to grab his daughter, but she had raised a hand of her own. The crate suddenly stopped in midair, halfway between Orrian and the pair. Eldarian added pressure to the spell, but the girl ground her teeth and pushed back…HARD.

  The crate exploded, sending splinters flying in all directions.

  Through Orrian, Eldarian laughed.

  “Ember, run!” cried the girl’s father before pushing her toward the walkway leading north into the city.

  “Father, no!” she cried as the man charged Eldarian.

  Again, Eldarian laughed.

  The man came at him, a large fish hook in his right hand and a desperate, terrified, murderous gleam in his eyes.

  Orrian dodged the big hook, unsheathed his sword, and stabbed the man through. Eldarian lifted Orrian’s arm, raising the screaming man as he swiped desperately with his hook.

  “Run, Ember! RUUUNNN!”

  “Dad!” she cried, rushing toward them.

  Orrian felt a surge of power course through him, and suddenly the man burst into flames.

  “No!” Ember cried, but then, as if being strangled, she grabbed at her neck with her lone hand, staggered, and fell to her knees. She began to glow, and Orrian could feel it; the transfer of power.

  Orrian flung the burning man into the harbor. The water took him with a violent hiss and plume of steam, rolling him in a slow wave before tugging him back toward the ocean, like a siren dragging its victim into the deep.

  Ember was still on her knees, eyes wide and glowing.

  “Yes,” said Eldarian in Orrian’s voice. “Take the power unto yourself. Bask in the glory of the gods and rise!”

  Ember was vibrating now, her face a blur and her body a twitching smear of color. She arched back and screamed. The sound was deafening. It shattered boathouse windows and pierced Orrian’s ears, but he could not lift his hands to cover them.

  Suddenly Ember snapped her head forward, her eyes alight with power and white-hot hatred. She continued to scream, she continued to glow, and a surge of power emanated from her as she shot out her arm. Lightning erupted from her palm, striking Orrian in the chest. He felt the pain, terrible and searing, and he reveled in it.

  Eldarian reached out then, and Orrian’s right hand took hold of the young woman’s forehead. Shadowy tendrils snaked out of Orrian, wrapping themselves around Ember like snakes and slithering into her mind, suffocating her soul, and devouring her spirit.

  “Open yourself to me, my child,” said Eldarian. “For you need never fear again. You have been chosen by the gods, and you shall become a mother of the brave new world.”

  Orrian couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move a muscle, but he could still cry. Tears streamed down his face as Eldarian used him to rob Ember of her free will. His tears fell upon Ember’s cheeks, disappearing in a hissing puff of smoke. She stared up at him, her eyes wide with terror. He could feel Eldarian pressing into her mind. He could feel her resistance, her terror, her awe. Her screams were suddenly in his mind, and for a fleeting moment they were connected.

  Help me! she said.

  But Orrian could not help. One moment they were connected, and in the next that connection was violently severed. Orrian felt his mental prison shrink. He felt the walls around his mind pressing in, and his every ounce of resistance was met with excruciating pain.

  Welcome, he said in the chambers of his mind. His laughter began to echo, coupled with another of his own mewling voices.

  Welcome to hell.

  Chapter 8

  Vresh’Kon stood before the chieftains proudly. His staff hissed and crackled with dark energy, and the eyes of the drekkon leaders were glued to it, for everyone had heard of the great power he now possessed.

  “Chieftains,” he said. “I have called you together this day so that we might all settle our differences. For I would have no bad blood among us. A powerful enemy has come to Drindellia, and unless we are united, we will surely fall.”

  “Who is the enemy?” said one of the chieftains. “The elves, dwarves, humans…or this god of darkness who has made you his dog?”

  Vresh’Kon felt his temper flare, and he thought to kill the chieftain right then and there, show them his power and force them to kneel. The drekkon respected power, after all. But, as he had done with Ark’Fel, Vresh’Kon chose a more diplomatic approach.

  “You have a brave tongue, Chieftain Grinmar. But you know nothing of what you speak.”

  “I know what I see, and I remember the past. You would trade the chains of the dark elves for the chains of a dark lord. How will that help our
people?”

  “What I have done, Chieftain, is ensure our people a place in the new world.”

  Chieftain Grinmar laughed, and many of the other chieftains laughed with him. “New world? You are dreaming.”

  “It was not a dream, but a nightmare. I have seen the end. The world will burn, the waters will boil, and the mountains will crumble. This world of elves, dwarves, humans, and dragons shall pass into the void. And from its ashes a new world will arise, and we, Chieftain Grinmar, will be the new lords.”

  “You would believe the lies of a dark god?” said Grinmar. “Then you are a fool, Vresh’Kon.”

  “You will speak to the king of Drindellia with respect!” Ark’Fel suddenly screamed, pointing a shaking finger at the chieftain.

  “King?” said Grinmar, glancing around at the other chieftains and their warriors. “You are no king of mine.”

  Vresh’Kon smiled. “You have a right to challenge my authority, as do all drekkon. And I accept your challenge.”

  He rose from his high throne and handed Ark’Fel his staff. The other seven chieftains and their soldiers stepped back from Grinmar, creating a large circle. Vresh’Kon strode down from his throne and faced Grinmar, who stood stoically, though there was a hint of fear in his reptilian eyes.

  Both drekkon shed what armor they wore and took up their weapon of choice, Grinmar a heavy, jagged sword, and Vresh’Kon a long, curved dagger. The two drekkon circled each other as the chieftains watched on with bloodlust darkening their features.

  Grinmar struck first, lunging in with a quick stab of his jagged sword. Vresh’Kon parried with his dagger as he spun, pushing the sword out wide and slashing Grinmar’s chest. The dagger cut through scales, and a line of green blood appeared across Grinmar’s scales. The chieftain swung his sword with a growl, but Vresh’Kon met the blow with a parry that stopped the blade dead. The two drekkon locked in combat, muscles corded and tense, teeth peeled back in a growl, eyes locked on each other with searing hatred.

  Vresh’Kon slammed his scaled forehead into Grinmar’s nose, but the chieftain only laughed, pushing with all his might to unlock their blades. They finally separated, and Grinmar spun away as Vresh’Kon charged. The chieftain suddenly changed the direction of his spin, bringing his heavy sword around to eviscerate his opponent. But Vresh’Kon was the faster and, stepping inside Grinmar’s guard, he thrust the dagger into the chieftain’s chest. Grinmar instinctively lashed out with magic, blasting Vresh’Kon back to crash into the steps leading to his throne.

  The drekkon took in a shocked breath.

  “Grinmar is a cheat!” said Ark’Fel, and many others began to grumble and protest.

  Grinmar dropped to one knee, panting, and pulled the dagger out of his chest. The wound began to glow with healing magic.

  “You dishonor your tribe!” a chieftain yelled.

  The drekkon were beginning to press in, and Grinmar’s warriors drew their blades to keep the others back.

  Vresh’Kon rose to his feet with a grin and tossed the dagger to the side. “You bring dishonor to yourself and your tribe, indeed,” he said, glaring as Grinmar. “Using magic during a Kygorg.”

  Grinmar glanced around at the increasingly hostile masses. He looked to Vresh’Kon, and with a snarl he let loose a spell from his right hand.

  Everyone leapt back as the incantation erupted from his palm. Vresh’Kon raised a hand, intercepting the blast and absorbing it. He closed his glowing hand around the spell and grinned.

  “My turn!”

  He suddenly became a shadow, shooting across the short distance in the blink of an eye. Vresh’Kon took form again directly in front of a surprised Grinmar and thrust his thumbs into his eyes. Grinmar screamed and grabbed Vresh’Kon’s wrists, but his head suddenly exploded.

  The crowd became deathly silent as Vresh’Kon let the body fall to the ground.

  “Would anyone else like to challenge my authority?” he asked, face splattered with green blood and oozing gore.

  Grinmar’s son suddenly erupted from the crowd on all fours, screaming like a wild beast. He leapt, cocking back his glowing sword. Vresh’Kon shot out a hand, and from it writhing black shadows emerged. They wrapped themselves around the young drekkon, forcing themselves into his mouth, ears, and eyes. To everyone’s shock, the young drekkon turned to ash and floated to the ground like black, tainted snowflakes.

  Vresh’Kon stared at Grinmar’s warriors, and as one they took a knee and bowed before him. The other chieftains smartly did the same, and Vresh’Kon raised his arms to the heavens and let out a primordial victory cry.

  “You have all chosen wisely, for the time of the drekkon has come. Together, we shall set fire to this world!”

  Chapter 9

  Kellallea felt no pain. She knew no sorrow, for now she lived in her memories. She watched the ancient battle against the Lord of Darkness and Death play out in her mind. It had been a glorious battle, and Eldarian had shone like the God of Light as he faced the harbinger of death. The Dark Lord’s minions were an unstoppable legion. They swept over the land, killing everything they touched. The fields withered, the forests died, and the elves sent to defend the land fell by the thousands only to be raised from the dead. The fallen heroes had joined the dark horde and pressed the defenders all the way to the Black Mountain.

  Eldarian stood atop the mountain and faced the Lord of Darkness and Death as Kellallea and the last few defenders held back the tide of undead and other mangled abominations. It seemed that all was lost, but then Eldarian struck the final blow, impaling the dark one in the chest. The explosion of power that was released pushed everyone to the ground, but only the living elves got back up.

  Kellallea had been overjoyed by the victory, and she looked to the top of the mountain with tears of joy dancing on her tired eyelids. But then she saw the shadow that had spread above the earth. The dark cloud of destructive power burst with lightning, and a thunder born from the depths of hell sounded in a million tortured voices.

  “I have defeated the ancient one!” Eldarian bellowed as the sky broke. The earth began to shake and quiver, and Eldarian raised his hands into the air. “Come unto me! For I have destroyed your vessel. Come unto me, and together we shall lay waste to the land!”

  “No!” Kellallea screamed. But it was too late. The dark shadow swirling above the land spiraled down toward her beloved Eldarian and poured into him, consuming him in writhing black tendrils and terrible green lightning.

  Lightning struck Kellallea, waking her up from her fitful sleep. She opened her eyes, and before her stood Eldarian. Orrian was beside him, head down like a cowardly dog. Someone else was with them as well, a young human woman Kellallea had never seen.

  “I dreamed of you, my love,” Kellallea told Eldarian. “You were so beautiful, so brave, so valiant. The way you stood up to the Lord of Darkness and Death, the way you sacrificed yourself so that the world might live…”

  “You speak of the fool who died that day,” said Eldarian. “But I am not him.”

  “You can lie to yourself, my love, but I see through your facade. I see your inner turmoil. Free me. Join me. And together—”

  Lightning struck Kellallea again, and she gritted her teeth against the pain and stared defiantly at her lost love.

  “I would like you to meet our newest warrior,” said Eldarian. He glanced at the girl at his side. “Ember, say hello.”

  “Hello,” said the young woman in a droning voice. Her eyes were distant, dark, and haunted.

  “Kellallea is her name. Do you know why she hangs naked upon the saltire, Ember?”

  Ember shook her head.

  “It is because she betrayed me. She tried to get your brother Orrian to kill me.”

  “That isn’t very nice,” said Ember, but there was no life to her voice.

  “No, not very nice at all,” said Eldarian, looking sad.

  Kellallea shivered, for she knew that it was not Ember who spoke her words, but Eldarian who spoke
through her like a morbid puppet master.

  “You have lost your mind,” she told him, turning her gaze to the moon.

  “A few thousand years trapped in the prison of the gods will do that to a person, my beloved Kellallea.” He walked behind Ember, smelling her hair as though it were intoxicating and stroking the young woman’s neck. “She and Orrian are the first of many. Soon I will have an army of humans with the powers of old. I will destroy the wards. You will tell me where you have hidden Godsbane. It is only a matter of time.”

  “Time?” said Kellallea, and she laughed despite her pain. “What is time? I know it not, for I am dead. I will never tell you where I hid the blade, and you will never find it. In your frustration you will kill me here on this saltire, and I will die smiling. And you, you will be defeated by Whillhelm Warcrown…again.”

  Eldarian suddenly erupted. He lashed out with lightning from his clawed right hand, engulfing her in biting snakes of electricity. He stalked toward her as she screamed against the pain, and he grabbed the top of her head.

  “Where did you hide the sword!” he screamed in her face. His voice shattered her eardrums and echoed like a maelstrom in her mind. She brought up mental walls, but he crashed through. He pressed his will upon her, and she resisted with every ounce of her being, hiding away the information that he sought, even as he tore through her memories. She closed her eyes, opening herself to the power of light and love, and pressed back against his writhing shadow. Her energy was like an exploding sun to his darkness, devouring it and taking it as her own. Eldarian reeled back in agony, clutching the sides of his head and breaking the connection to her mind.

  Kellallea smiled, even as oceans of fatigue washed over her mind and body.

  “You will be defeated by light. Just like the god you serve, who was smote by his brother. Whill is now the embodiment of light, and before his glory, you shall flee.”