The Warcrown Legacy

by Michael James Ploof

  The dwarves cheered and surged through the tunnels. They were met with resistance in the form of more bees, but they slaughtered the creatures with ease and continued through the tunnels. Soon they came to a large cavern that looked to have once been a gold mine, but it had been sucked dry of its precious metal long ago, and now only chiseled walls remained with small hints of the gilded treasure they had once possessed.

  And clinging to the walls were hundreds of giant bats with an albino on each of their backs.

  “Charge!” Roakore commanded, and his voice shook loose the winged creatures.

  As one, the bats pushed off the walls and dive-bombed the charging dwarves. A volley of hatches took dozens of bats from the air, but from the backs of others, albinos tossed down the explosive glowing balls. The blessed pushed them back into the air all the way to the ceiling, and the explosions that followed rocked the cavern with a deafening boom. Bats and albinos were torn to pieces by the explosion, but so too was the ceiling and the many hanging stalactites.

  Chunks of rock rained down on the dwarves, and the blessed were pressed hard to deflect the falling debris. The dwarves covered themselves with their shields as others pushed the stones toward the other side of the cavern. When the noise died down, dust and smoke filled the earthen chamber.

  All became quiet.

  “Onward!” Roakore yelled, and his voice spurred the dwarves from their defensive positions.

  They charged through the chamber and filed into the tunnels once more. For a half hour they ventured through those wide tunnels, and the line of dwarves ferrying the spirits to the fighters stretched thin. But there was still enough to go around, and Roakore shared a bottle with Philo and Helzendar as they pushed deeper.

  “Where be the buggers’ lair?” Helzendar asked with a hiccup.

  “Hopefully it be coming up,” said Roakore. “We got this one chance to take ‘em out.”

  He glanced back at the runners issuing the spirits and ushered the dwarf over to him.

  “How much be left?” Roakore asked.

  “About five barrels o’ ale, and less than fifty bottles o’ spirits,” the dwarf replied.

  Roakore nodded grimly and ordered his dwarves to double their pace. They ventured through long-abandoned mine shafts, through caverns full of strange, glowing crystals, through chambers containing forests of tall mushrooms, and on into the depths of the earth.

  After another half hour of travel, they had still met no resistance, and just when Roakore was beginning to consider that they would never find the albino lair, a runner approached from the back of the pack.

  He stopped and took a knee, panting. “Me king…” he said tiredly. “We found ‘em.”

  Roakore ordered a full stop, and everyone listened to the runner.

  “They be about a mile that way,” he said, pointing to his right. “There be a tunnel leadin’ there. Follow me!”

  Roakore and the dwarves ran after the messenger with renewed purpose, and soon they came to a large opening in the tunnel, where hundreds of dwarves had gathered and now awaited their king. Roakore made his way to the front with Philo, Helzendar, and Du’Krell, and they gazed out over a crystalline city.

  The albinos were waiting for them, nearly five thousand in all, and with them stood nearly a hundred 50-foot-tall cave trolls.

  “Heh,” said Roakore. “That all they got?”

  The answer came as a loud buzzing, and from the other side of the crystalline chamber, thousands of hornets began to swarm. Bats that had been concealed on the high ceiling swooped down toward the dwarves as well, and Philo glanced at Roakore with a scowl.

  “Ye just had to say it, didn’t ye?” said Philo, and Roakore laughed drunkenly.

  “Chlarge!” he said with a thick slur, and he rushed out of the cave with hundreds of drunken dwarves following close behind.

  The albinos’ minions attacked with no concern for their own safety. The bees swarmed the tunnel, and the mountain trolls began hurling giant boulders at the dwarf king and his warriors. But the end was in sight, and the dwarves were fighting for the mountain home of Ky’Dren himself.

  The blessed pushed back the projectiles and the swarming bees as Roakore and the lead dwarves engaged the mountains trolls. One of the monsters caught sight of Roakore and stomped toward him as one of the bats swooped down and plucked him from the ranks. Roakore felt the devil’s claws scrape against his arms, but he let himself be lifted into the air and over the mountain troll’s head. When he was directly above the beast, Roakore reached up with both hands, each grabbing one of the bat’s legs, and snapped the bones in half. The bat released him, and he fell onto the mountain troll’s back. With every ounce of strength that Roakore had, he buried his great axe into the twenty-foot-tall troll’s neck. The hide was thick, but Roakore was as strong as seven men and drunker than a dwarf on his wedding day. He hacked away as the troll lurched and tried to dislodge the dwarf king, but the monster’s arms were too short to get a hold on Roakore. Blood sprayed Roakore’s armor as he cut through the thick neck, and he finally hit something vital, for the troll let out a tired groan of pain and fell like a great oak.

  Roakore leapt off as the troll slammed to the ground, crushing the scorpions that had joined the fight. Dwarves were now pouring into the city and overtaking the mountain trolls. They soon reached the albinos that controlled the many beasts, and as the pale-skinned creatures fell in a puddle of blood, their minions lost the heart for battle.

  The dwarves routed the scorpions, their hatchets ripped hornets from the air, and great axes felled the trolls. Soon only a handful of Albinos remained, but none were taken captive. They were too dangerous to let live, and so Roakore ordered their execution.

  When the last robed albino fell, Roakore lifted his axe high.

  “Victory be ours!” he bellowed. “The Mountain o’ Ky’Dren be cleansed!”

  Chapter 33

  “Whillhelm Warcrown.” The voice boomed in Whill’s mind and echoed throughout an unseen chamber. Blinding light replaced the darkness, and Whill struggled to see who had spoken.

  The light slowly dimmed to reveal seven ghostly forms sitting upon tall, gilded thrones. Whill was dwarfed by the mysterious beings, and he stared up at them, trying to make out their features, but a glowing mist permeated the chamber, leaving the figures blurred and foggy.

  “Who are you?” Whill asked the largest of the towering beings, though he already knew.

  “We are the creators of worlds, we are the builders,” said one, a female who sat behind Whill.

  “We are the masters of all that was, all that is, and all that will be,” said another.

  “The gods?” Whill asked as he slowly turned in a circle. Godsbane sat in its sheath at his side, and he had the urge to draw the blade and strike them all dead, but he knew that it was the power of the mantle influencing him.

  “Why have you come here, Whillhelm?” said the tallest of the gods.

  Whill turned to face the deity, but he still could not make out the man’s face. There was a hint of silver flowing hair, a long beard, broad shoulders, and gilded robes, but nothing more.

  “I have absorbed the power of the mantle, and I have come to make a trade,” said Whill.

  One of the gods laughed, and to Whill it sounded a lot like his friend Roakore.

  “A trade?” said the silver-haired god.

  “I will become the Lord of Darkness and Death. I will restore the balance,” said Whill.

  “And what do you seek in return?” said one of the beings to Whill’s right, who had an elven voice.

  “Spare my world. Move on and create another if you must, but leave mine alone.”

  “Yours?” said the goddess behind Whill. He looked up into the brilliant aquamarine glow that was her eyes.

  “Yes, my world.”

  “The human thinks that he can make demands of us,” the dwarf-sounding god said with a hearty laugh that echoed like an avalanche through the chamber.

/>   “And if we refuse?” said the female, sounding quite amused.

  Whill unsheathed Godsbane, and its power outshone that of the collected deities for a moment.

  “I am prepared to fight to defend my world. I am prepared to die. Are you?”

  “How dare you bring that blade into our halls!” another goddess screamed. She stood to her full height to Whill’s left, and he saw the unmistakable outline of a dragon in the ethereal glow.

  “You have meddled with my world long enough!” Whill’s voice boomed. “I have taken upon myself the power of your fallen brethren, and I shall use it to destroy you all if need be.”

  The silver-haired god stood from his throne, and he seemed to grow taller as Whill watched. Soon the mysterious deity stood more than fifty feet tall.

  “You have been poisoned by the power of the mantle,” said the god. “Already you can feel it growing inside you. Soon you will no longer be able to control it, and you will destroy the world you love so. That is the destiny of the bearer of the mantle.”

  Whill could feel it, but he had thought that somehow he could control it. Now it seeped into his soul, filling his mind with thoughts of destruction.

  “Perhaps now you see the truth,” said the dragon goddess.

  Whill’s mind spun. A terrible power grew in him, one that desired nothing more than flame and famine, pestilence and war. He knew it was the mantle, and he knew as well that its power was unstoppable. Soon he would lose control. Soon he would descend upon the world, and he would leave nothing but ash in his wake.

  “Even now, the power of darkness and death begins to weaken your resolve,” said the dragon goddess as she drew closer.

  Whill fell to one knee as the power of darkness coursed through him. He stared at his left hand as it became enveloped in shadow. But there was light in him as well, and he focused on that instead as his body became the battleground for the eternal forces.

  “Give me your word,” Whill said through gritted teeth as he struggled to his feet and faced the God of Light. “If I become the Lord of Darkness and Death, swear to me that my world will be spared.”

  “Fool mortal,” said the dragon goddess, and he felt the aftershock of her great weight taking yet another step toward him.

  Whill spun around then and slashed at the goddess with Godsbane. She had bent down to his level, and his blade sliced through one of the large, curled horns on the side of her head. The dragon goddess cried out and reeled back as the horn fell to the floor and shattered like glass.

  “Give me your word!” Whill bellowed.

  The chamber filled with the angry protests of the gods.

  “Silence!” the silver-haired god bellowed, and his voice was a tempest. Thunder rolled through the celestial chamber, and he pointed at Whill. “This mortal has seen the best and the worst of our children. Let him decide their fate.”

  “You would give him such power?” said the elven goddess.

  “Unlike the rest of you, I have waited patiently for the right being to bestow my power upon,” said the silver-haired god. “Let us see if he knows how to use it.”

  Whill began to shrink then, or else the gods began to grow; he did not know which. They towered over him like living sequoia trees. Their forms were suddenly lost to mist, then clouds, and Whill became weightless.

  Whill flailed his arms as he fell, and for a moment he was between worlds; Earth grew below him as the blackness of space and the brilliant stars were swallowed by blue sky. The wind battered his ears and engulfed his body as he fell toward Earth. Far below he could see New Cerushia, Rhuniston, and even the distant Velk’Har Mountains. Storm clouds swirled in his wake as he sped toward the ground like a comet, and he screamed as the power of darkness consumed him. He knew that he should pull up, but he didn’t have the will. A part of him wanted to hit the earth like a meteor, one that would end all things. The power of the mantle showed him the endless lives of the endless creatures that had once lived, and it showed him too the rot that they all became sooner or later. Life was nothing but the maturation of food for the world, a world that gobbled up every man, women, and creature who loved it and called it home.

  No exceptions.

  Why not pour everything into a strike that would finally end the suffering of the millions of elves, dwarves, and men? Why not put them out of their misery?

  That’s all that life was.

  Misery.

  Whill had felt it all his life, had felt the impending doom and had expected death to be lurking behind every corner. He tried to be brave—every man did in their own way, but Whill was petrified of dying. He couldn’t fathom it, yet he had given thousands of draggard and dark elves death.

  He found the spot on the ground. The spot where he would hit. It was a hill upon which he liked to watch the sunset with the children. With the immense power growing within Whill, he would plow into the earth, fly through the crust, and get to the ball of molten lava at the center. The power of the mantle showed it to him clearly. Once inside, he would release everything.

  He would be free.

  Everyone would be free.

  And the gods could build anew.

  The air exploded around Whill’s waist, leaving behind it a large ring-like cloud. The flames around him became green and wicked as the earth surged up to challenge him.

  Whill was a mile above the earth and flying faster than he had ever flown before.

  A few more seconds and it would all be over.

  Whill stared at his target, and then he suddenly saw three forms. They were people he knew. They were people he loved. They stood at the top of the hill, waving up at him. One of them spoke a name, just a single word, but it was all that Whill needed.

  “Dadda…”

  Arra reached for him, and Abe sat in Avriel’s other arm, crying into her shoulder.

  Whill cried out in terror.

  He pulled up at the last second and shot to the left of the hill, taking out the side of it and showering the fields with stone and soil. But another hill grew before him, and he could not change course fast enough nor slow down. Instead he shot through it, his green flames now blue and instantly melting the dirt and stone. He passed through the hill and exploded out the other side before finally slowing and turning back to gaze upon his family.

  “Whill!” Avriel cried out.

  He began to fly toward her, but the terror in her voice stopped him, and he followed her arm as she pointed into the sky behind him.

  Whill’s head slowly moved skyward, and what he saw was beyond his wildest fears. Seven colossal behemoths were falling toward the earth ten miles north of New Cerushia. The monsters appeared to be at least five hundred feet tall, for when they landed, their feet crushed one-hundred-foot-tall sequoias as though they were saplings. The ground groaned and shook, and finally split like a cracked crystal. Deep chasms opened as the world was torn asunder, and one split its way right through the city, beneath Whill’s feet, and cracked the hill that Avriel stood upon.

  Whill shot toward her and the children that she clutched to her chest, but then a beam of golden light enveloped them, and someone pulled them to the other side of the chasm. Whill flew above the quaking earth as it opened like the mouth of a god, and he landed behind Avriel. She and her rescuer turned to flee toward him.

  “Whill!” said Avriel as she rushed over with Abe in her arms. Zerafin carried Arra, and Whill embraced them all.

  “I’m sorry,” Whill told his wife. “I nearly—”

  “That isn’t important right now,” she told him, her eyes moving toward the behemoths marching on the city. “You’ve got to stop them.”

  “Can you stop them?” Zerafin asked his friend.

  “They have been sent by the gods,” Whill told them. “The time has come…”

  “Then you could not appease them,” said Avriel against Abe’s smooth forehead. She clutched him tight, and a small tear escaped her left eye.

  “They thought that the power of the mantle w
ould prevail. They meant for me to destroy it all. But I beat it, I’m in control once again.”

  “Then turn it toward them instead,” said Avriel.

  Whill glanced at the holy minions. One was a large multicolored dragon. Another looked like a gray mountain come to life, and the next was comprised entirely of fire, and carried with it a long whip that set the forest aflame and cracked like lightning when he used it. The fourth was a tall beautiful female being, made entirely of water, and the fifth was a tempest that tore trees from its roots and drained the river it stepped over. The last two were the largest: one had the stature of a dwarf, the other carried himself like a king of man, and they were both covered in gold. Their armor, weapons, skin, and even their hair was gilded. They moved with the fluidity of molten metal, and they carried the same incredible power.

  “This has always been your destiny,” said Zerafin, and he looked to Godsbane.

  “And I have always fought it,” said Whill. “But now that fight is over.”

  “I love you,” said Avriel.

  “And I you,” said Whill. “All of you.”

  He unsheathed Godsbane and turned toward the behemoths as he floated into the air. The power of the mantle combined with the power of light flowed through him in unison, and he felt himself becoming…

  Something more.

  Chapter 34

  The power within Whill grew. He became encased in an echo of his own power that stretched out and grew as tall as the godly creations now tearing across the land. His body was writhing shadow and streaking light held together by a heavenly dance unseen since the beginning of time. Whill knew that his human form was in there somewhere, but he felt closer to the giant that he became. He peered at his enemies through eyes of pure light set amidst a face of churning shadow.

  In his stormy hand was Godsbane, which had grown half as long as Whill was now tall.

  Below him, Earth and its inhabitants were small, but they were not insignificant, and he intended on teaching the gods just that.