The Warcrown Legacy

by Michael James Ploof

  “What does that matter?” said Orrian. “From what I learned from Eldarian, the elves won the black tower quite easily.”

  Vresh’Kon cackled and smiled at Orrian, which was horrific given his many rows of jagged teeth.

  “That was a simple ploy to draw them here. They have gained confidence, which we shall use to our advantage.”

  “Your defeat was a ploy?” said Orrian. He cocked a brow and offered Vresh’Kon a dubious look. “You sure about that? I saw Eldarian’s memories of the event. The elves were blessed by Whillhelm Warcrown, and their power was great.”

  “I am told that your power is nearly as great as his,” said Vresh’Kon.

  “I was defeated by the man, so it counts for nothing.”

  “Eldarian has plans for Whill of Agora,” said Vresh’Kon. “We need only worry about the elves, and their king.”

  “I have been sent to ensure that you do not lose,” Orrian informed him.

  That seemed to anger the drekkon king, and he pointed a long, clawed finger at the nearest black X.

  “This city holds over fifty thousand drekkon,” he said, and then pointed at another. “And this one is home to twice as many. In the east, there are millions of us. The elves, humans, and stinking dwarves are greatly outnumbered.”

  “That means nothing,” said Orrian. “This war will not last long enough for it to spread to the east. We must focus on the battle at hand, for it shall be the last.”

  Chapter 24

  Kellallea watched the sun slowly set, and she prayed to the Lord of Light that she would not see another day. Her torture at the hands of Eldarian had been terrible. But the physical pain was not the worst of it. What Kellallea couldn’t tolerate was that it was Eldarian who doled out her torture. They had been in love once, long ago, but there was nothing left of the strong, righteous elf that she had once known.

  As she hung from the saltire, she prayed for death. But the gods did not answer her. They had abandoned her, and she them. Perhaps this was her penance for meddling in the affairs of the gods; perhaps it was retribution for destroying Eadon.

  “Kellallea?”

  She opened her eyes, struggling to see who had spoken. It had sounded like Whill.

  “Kellallea? What has he done to you?” It was Whill, and he rushed over to her, his face torn with anguish at seeing her in such a state.

  “Whill…” She tried to speak, but the wards that Eldarian had cast upon her kept her in a constant state of agony, and her mind had become hopelessly dull.

  She felt Whill’s soothing energy wash over her then, and he carefully lifted her from the saltire and put her down on his blue cloak, covering her naked form. Tears shone in his eyes, and she touched his cheek. “You came for me,” she said with a smile.

  “Don’t try to speak,” he told her, and he placed a hand upon her forehead.

  She felt the painful wards dissolve, to be replaced by warm light. The sensation washed over her body, healing her injuries and clearing her mind.

  “The sword…” she said, struggling to speak. “You must get to it before Eldarian does.”

  “Where is it, Kellallea? Where did you hide it?” Whill asked, his eyes urgent.

  “It is in…” She tried to remember, but she was losing herself. The torture and the constant fight against the magic that held her had drained her not only of all magic, but also her mental functions.

  “Please, Kellallea, think…”

  She struggled to remember, and slowly the memory drifted up through the fog of her mind.

  “The blade is in the ancient Temple of Light on Aerros Island. In Wesserly Outpost,” she managed to say.

  Whill released her and stood. He was looking at her strangely now, and grinning.

  “Thank you, Kellallea.”

  She froze, for Whill’s voice was not his own, but Eldarian’s. She watched, horrified, as Whill’s face melted away, to be replaced by her former lover’s. The noble armor and blue cloak were replaced by the skeletal black armor that Eldarian wore.

  “You tricked me,” she said, feeling the painful wards returning.

  “And now I shall reward you with eternal peace.” Eldarian grinned and unsheathed his blade.

  He raised it and swung the sword, but rather than strike Kellallea, he severed her chains instead.

  Kellallea landed on her hands and knees, and Eldarian reached out a hand and lifted her by the neck until she stood on her own feet. He looked her up and down and smiled.

  “I will give you this one last chance,” he said. “Swear fealty to me, and together we will rule the new world.”

  Kellallea shook as she stood before him, but then a feeling of peace washed over her, and a new clarity flooded her mind. Memories came rushing back to her, memories of things that she had once known, but had made herself forget.

  She had seen this before, long ago, for it was the moment before her true death. Kellallea had also seen what came after this, and she smiled at the long-lost knowledge.

  “Dearest Eldarian,” she said as she reached out a gaunt hand and stroked his face. “You know that I have always had the gift of foresight.”

  His smile disappeared, and he searched her eyes.

  “What do you know?” he asked urgently.

  “I have seen this before.” Her voice was a mere whisper, so overwhelmed with emotion was she. “I have seen the end. I have seen Whill of Agora stand before the gods.”

  “You lie,” Eldarian accused and grabbed her by the throat. He pressed the tip of his blade between her bare breasts.

  “Soon we shall be together in oblivion,” said Kellallea, and she mustered the last of her strength and pulled herself forward onto Eldarian’s blade.

  Eldarian let out a surprised gasp as Kellallea impaled herself, but he did not pull the blade free. He didn’t attempt to heal her, but stared into her dying eyes.

  “Kellallea, my beloved.” His voice was soft, much like she remembered it from the past, before he became the monster now before her.

  She clung to him, feebly pulling his head toward hers. Their lips met, and a single tear spilled down her cheek.

  “May the gods have mercy on your soul,” she said, and closed her eyes forever.

  Chapter 25

  Whill and Avriel stepped through the portal leading to Wesserly Outpost and walked out onto the top of a hill overlooking the ruins of the ancient port city. To the right, the ocean drifted off into the horizon, and to the left the remnants of a once great metropolis sat as silent as a tomb beneath the gray sky. Pillars that had once been tall and proud had been reduced to broken stone and dust. Statues depicting elves of old were in varying states of decay. Some were missing arms or heads, and others lay broken on the stone walkways that had been overtaken by wild vines. The many pyramids had been razed to the ground, and the largest looked to have been shorn in half by incredible magic. The pyramid’s western facing wall was gone entirely, and some of the chambers within were left exposed to the elements.

  Whill scoured the island and the ruins with mind sight, searching for the telltale energy signature of Godsbane, but whatever enchantments Kellallea had put on the mystical sword hid it from such scrutiny.

  “I cannot see it with mind sight,” said Avriel as she too scoured the once great city.

  “Neither can I,” said Whill. He glanced at Avriel and noticed her shimmering eyes. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, it is just such a shame…” she said with a sigh. “So much history, so much art, so much knowledge, all gone.”

  “It is strange to think that thousands of elves once called this city home,” said Whill. “It makes everything seem so…”

  “Pointless?”

  Whill nodded.

  “Everything that lives must one day die,” said Avriel.

  “Not the gods,” said Whill, and he noticed Avriel staring at him.

  “You have that look in your eye,” she said knowingly. “What is on your mind?”

  Whill didn
’t want to tell her the truth, but he didn’t want to lie either. He had been considering a course of action for some time, one that might put an end to the upheaval that the world had been experiencing for the last few years.

  “I think…” Whill began, trying to find the right words. “Perhaps someone should challenge the gods directly.”

  Avriel stared at him, and her haunted gaze told him everything that her words could not; she had come to a similar conclusion, and she was afraid.

  Very afraid.

  She would never show such fear, would never put that burden of worry on Whill’s shoulders, but she felt it all the same, and it made him feel guilty.

  “How will you do it?” she asked.

  “You know how.”

  She turned her gaze toward the ruins.

  “You intend to free the power of the mantle.”

  “Yes,” said Whill. “Now that I have absorbed the power of Godsbane…I believe that I can control the mantle. I fear that the gods will never stop until the world is no more. I believe Eldarian, I believe that they have grown bored with this world and its people.”

  “Even if you could find a way to speak with the gods,” Avriel said, arms wide, “what would you say?”

  “What is there to say?” Whill asked. “Humans, elves, dwarves—hell, even dragons and draggard have prayed to the gods for eons. Perhaps the time has come for action rather than words. Godsbane has the power to kill a god…and now, so do I.”

  Whill looked up at the sky, and Avriel followed his gaze.

  “And if you killed the gods. What would happen to our world then?” she asked.

  “If we do nothing, our world will be destroyed,” said Whill. “So, what is there to lose?”

  She turned her gaze toward him, and Whill saw his own fear reflected. What if in killing the gods, Whill destroyed the heavens? If the gods had their way, then the world would burn, but many religions spoke of the true heavens, the immortal realm where souls could find peace and everlasting life. Whill had never believed in such a place, but seeing the ghosts of his father, Abram, and the reincarnated spirit of his mother had made him wonder.

  “Look!” said Avriel as she pointed toward the pyramid.

  Whill turned just as the last pyramid exploded. He instinctively produced a globe of energy that absorbed both himself and Avriel as chunks of molten rock came streaking toward them. The shield of glowing energy absorbed the blows as they bombarded Whill and Avriel, and when it was finally over, smoke issued from the crackling web of power surrounding them. Whill dismissed the shield and once again looked toward the pyramid.

  Eldarian stood among the rubble, and with him were two humans.

  Whill switched to mind sight and cursed under his breath when he saw the energy surrounding the humans. One was a girl who looked no older than eighteen, and the other was a young man with red, glowing eyes. Eldarian stood between them, grinning at Whill.

  The elf suddenly disappeared into the smoking debris at the base of the pyramid, and his two humans flew straight at Whill and Avriel. Whill knew that he could not let them get close to him, for they would absorb his power, but neither could he allow Eldarian to attain Godsbane.

  But he had planned for this.

  With no time to open a portal that would usher Avriel to safety, Whill drew his sword, summoned the power of the Lord of Light, and unleashed it on the humans. Blinding light exploded from Whill’s palms, eyes, and mouth and bathed his attackers in pulsating power. He knew that they would be overwhelmed by the new power coursing through them, and that meant that they would be distracted. He released his spell and shot off the hill to intercept the young man, who floated fifty feet off the ground, arms wide, basking in the glory of his newfound power.

  The young man saw him coming a second too late, and his sword was slapped away by Whill’s blade.

  “No!” the young man cried, eyes wild and full of awestruck fear.

  Whill cut through the air with his blade, creating a portal, and then hit the young man with an energy blast that pushed him through.

  Avriel’s cry reached his ears as he closed the portal, and he spun around to fly in her direction. The young woman had recovered quickly from the absorption of her newfound power, but she didn’t appear to be in control of it. She jerked and spasmed as light and then shadow shot from her eyes and mouth. Avriel had produced her own energy shield, but it was easily destroyed by the young woman’s glowing sword.

  Whill flew into the young woman as she raised her sword above a prone Avriel, and together they crashed through the ruins like a meteor. The woman hit him with a spell, but Whill easily absorbed it as he pinned her down.

  “The world will burn!” she croaked in Eldarian’s voice. “You are too late, Whill of Agora!”

  Whill slashed his sword at the air behind him and created another portal, then yanked the young woman up and pushed her through it. As the portal closed behind him, Whill flew back to the top of the hill.

  “Avriel!” he cried out as he ran to her side. She lay on the ground, bleeding from the chest.

  “Whill…” Her head lolled from side to side and her eyes swam, unfocused.

  Whill’s right hand began to glow bright blue, and he placed it on Avriel’s chest. Seconds later, Avriel’s wound had been healed, though she looked shaken.

  “Where did you send them?” she asked as he helped her up.

  “Somewhere safe,” he said as he opened a portal that would take Avriel back to their home. “Go, watch over the children. I know where Eldarian is headed, and I must stop him.”

  “Whill…”

  “It’s alright, Avriel. Everything will be alright.”

  She nodded understanding and hugged him tight. Whill gave her one last kiss before she turned and walked through the portal. He closed it, and then opened yet another portal, one that would take him to Lunara’s prison.

  Chapter 26

  Fifty miles northeast of the broken tower, Zerafin and his army came upon a sprawling drekkon city. It consisted of large earthen pillars like giant termite mounds, and Zerafin knew that the true grandeur of the city was to be found below the surface.

  As he stood upon the ridge a mile to the west of the city, Zerafin saw too that the drekkon were ready for them. A massive army of at least one hundred thousand awaited them, and more were coming from the east.

  “Their numbers are too great,” said Ninarra as she came to stand beside her husband.

  “The scouts told me as much hours ago,” said Zerafin. “But we shall not be deterred. I will not let history repeat itself. I will not lose the homeland again.”

  “The same old Zerafin…” she mused. “It is a miracle that you have lived so long.”

  Zerafin regarded his wife with an arched brow. “What would you have me do? They will never stop, and therefore they must be terminated.”

  “We should at least wait for the dragons. Has there been any word from Azzeal?”

  “No,” said Zerafin. “But it matters not. These creatures cannot withstand the might of the elves of the sun reborn. We move forward as planned.”

  As soon as the words left Zerafin’s mouth, a chorus of horns blared in the distance, and the drekkon city came alive. Winged creatures like giant bats took to the sky by the thousands, and on their backs rode two or more drekkon sorcerers. The Ralliad flew out to meet them at Zerafin’s command, and the land forces charged toward the city amidst the exploding spells of the bat riders.

  The drekkon numbers were great, but the elves still felt the power of Whill of Agora coursing through them. It was the power of light, borne from the Lord of Light, and it devoured the darkness set before it. Explosions shook the earth as the elves unleashed their terrible magic on their enemies, and though many elves fell to the defenses of the drekkon, many more burst through the ranks and turned their incredible magic on the earthen mounds.

  The drekkon had magic, but they did not have the experience of the elves, who had studied for centuries o
r more and had mastered their craft long ago.

  Zerafin was one such elf.

  He unleashed fire and ice, torrential winds, and devastating blasts of energy, the shockwaves of which left the large earthen mounds in pieces. The elf king led his elves into the tunnel system beneath the city, and they destroyed everything that stood in their way.

  Gone were the elves who had once sought peace on distant shores. Gone were the elves who attempted to parley with the enemy. For now, Zerafin, son of the fallen king of Drindellia, was at the helm, and no one dared stand in his way. He sought no peace, offered no parley, and instead laid waste to his enemy’s home.

  With every blow he saw the rise of Eadon and the draggard ravishing his homeland. With every spray of his enemy’s blood, he saw the faces of the fallen. And with every blast of magic, he put to rest the haunting spirits of his ancestors.

  Zerafin and his elves battled their way into the main chamber of the underground city, and there they found thousands of drekkon waiting for them. The cavern was at least a half a mile wide and full of hanging stalactites and towering stalagmites. It reminded Zerafin of a dwarven city, and the thought of his friend Roakore gave him renewed strength.

  “Hold!” he cried as he ushered his elves into the cavern.

  He glanced up at the cavern ceiling, knowing that soon the entire thing would collapse if too much force was used, and he knew that the drekkon were thinking the same thing. They had more numbers, but they began to retreat to the north through a large tunnel leading to the surface, and Zerafin knew that they intended to bring the whole thing down on the elves.

  “Back to the surface!” he told the others, and he gestured for Ninarra and Zilena to follow him.

  As the rest of the elves fell back, Zerafin and the two magnificent women at his sides charged after the fleeing drekkon, intent on chasing them to the surface. They unleashed a barrage of fire spells and green, glowing incantations that meant instant death to anyone they touched. The effect was enough to convince the fleeing drekkon that the elven army was still pursuing them, and they raced for the tunnel.