The Warcrown Legacy

by Michael James Ploof

  The first god to approach him was the dragon. Its massive wings uprooted entire forests as it climbed into the air, and Whill rose to meet it. He burst through the air and thrust his sword forward as the dragon suddenly craned back its neck and spewed forth molten lava. Its mouth was like that of a volcano, and the magma slammed into Whill, but it sizzled into smoke when it touched his writhing skin. Godsbane found the dragon’s stomach, and the beast screeched as it wrapped its arms around Whill. The sword impaled the dragon to the hilt, and the beast latched on to Whill’s neck as they both careened into a ridge and shorn it in two. The dragon snapped and hissed, but it would not get a hold on Whill, for he was light and shadow; he was everything and nothing.

  He ripped the blade upward, splitting the monolithic beast in two, and then stood from the corpse to face the giant made of stone.

  The gargantuan stone creature barreled across the land like an avalanche, felling forests and stomping out lakes as it gained momentum. Whill stood valiantly atop the corpse of the dragon goddess’s minion and raised his sword.

  Then he let out a scream so primal, so terrible in its volume and power, that the shockwave uprooted everything before him. The ripple tore a mile-and-a-half-long swath across the earth and slammed into the stone creature, shattering it into a million pieces.

  Next came the fire and water minions—one boiling like the sun and the other churning like a furious tide. Whill spread his massive arms and crashed into them both. He ignored the searing heat and the crushing waves and created a globe of power around them both, pressing them together. Steam burst forth from his stormy appendages and rose to the ceiling of the world before spreading across the sky and blotting out the sun.

  The tempest came next, but this minion of the gods did not attack Whill; rather, it turned and ripped through the countryside toward New Cerushia. Whill pursued the churning humanoid colossus, but he didn’t attack. Instead, Whill flew past the ethereal incantation and put himself between it and the city. With a burst of power, Whill produced a wall of energy in front of him that stretched miles wide. It crackled and rippled with waves of multicolored light, and when the tempest growled and crashed into it, the monolithic incantation stopped dead.

  Whill ripped through the howling wind and churning clouds with Godsbane, and a pained voice crashed across the ceiling of heaven. As the howling echoed away to haunt the lands further inland, the tempest spun itself out before settling like a warm autumn breeze.

  “Fun’s over, lad!” the voice of the dwarven god bellowed, sending shockwaves through the land.

  The gilded dwarven giant crashed through the fields of barley and leapt across gaping chasms. Whill growled in a voice like thunder and charged to meet his foe. They both leapt from one side of the canyon that separated them and clashed like titans in the open air. The gilded dwarf wielded a double-headed axe that could have shorn the top off a mountain, and he brought it around his portly body in a great thrust. Whill blocked the strike with Godsbane, and the resulting explosion of power ripped through the air. It flattened trees and hay fields and caused an avalanche on the distant mountains to the south.

  Whill needed to get the destructive colossus away from civilization, so he put everything into a mental blast of power that exploded from his left hand and slammed into the dwarven god’s megalithic minion. The power of the blast was so great that the giant sailed through the air for miles before slamming into the side of a small mountain.

  A slow, booming laugh issued from behind Whill, and he turned in the air to behold the last god’s minion. The gilded human king stared at Whill with luminescent eyes as it pulled from its sheath a longsword made of pure light.

  Whill clutched the hilt of Godsbane as his body of lightning and shadow expanded with power. The power of the mantle urged Whill to strike, while the power of light that coursed through him reached out to the gilded king’s sword, wanting to become a part of it, wanting to return.

  “Lord of Light!” Whill bellowed. “Lay down your sword! Concede to me. And leave my world in peace!”

  “Or else you will kill me?” the gilded king asked. “You would slay the creator of man?”

  “If forced to, yes,” said Whill.

  They stared at each other from across a rocky hillside riddled with canyons. Rivers flowed into deep gorges, once proud forests lay in ruin, and the sky above had slowly turned black and menacing. The wind picked up, and lightning tore through the heavens.

  The sky suddenly broke, but rather than rain, blood began to bath the countryside.

  Whill stared at the growing red pools with horror.

  “This is the blood of every man, woman, and child who has lived on this planet since its creation. They once lived, but now they are gone, their memories lost to the infinite void of time. Why should you and those who live and breathe today be any exception?”

  “It is not only us, but those who will come after,” said Whill.

  “Again, why you? Why this world? We have created endless worlds, and we have watched the histories of their societies play out. Thousands of kings, emperors, heroes, and villains have come and gone long before this world was even thought up. What makes you deserve eternity?”

  “Tell me this,” said Whill. “How many of those kings have slain a god? How many have become a god? If I so choose, I can become the most powerful of you all, and if I am forced to do so, I will bath in your blood as well.”

  “You are an arrogant mortal, aren’t you?” the gilded king said with a smirk.

  “No more arrogant than a god who has never known what it is like to be mortal. You sit upon your ethereal thrones and you judge your creations, yet you have no idea what it is like to be one of us. You destroy our worlds on a whim like ill-raised brats tired of their latest plaything.”

  The Lord of Light’s smirk disappeared, and his eyes burned like twin suns.

  “I would be honored to show you what it means to be mortal,” said Whill as he took Godsbane up in two hands. “And I will show you the wrath of mortal man.”

  Whill shot through the air like a comet with Godsbane leading the way. He sped over the forest, tearing up trees as he summoned the great power of the mantel, and he put everything he had into the strike as he reached the gilded king. The fiery sword of the God of Light connected with Godsbane, and the explosion that followed tore the world asunder.

  Chapter 35

  Whill sucked in a breath and awoke with his face in the dirt. He came to groggily and pulled himself up to sit. A quick glance around showed him New Cerushia to the west. Whill was on a hilltop, one he thought had been destroyed in the battle with the gods’ megalithic minions. But the hill was intact, the forests stood tall, and the cracks that had formed in the earth were gone.

  Had it been a dream?

  A shimmer of light appeared in his peripheral vision, and Whill rose to his feet as he faced the mysterious orb. It grew bigger as it floated toward him, and Whill rested his hand on the hilt of Godsbane as a man emerged from the brilliant glow.

  The light winked out, and Whill’s breath caught in his throat.

  Before him stood Abram.

  “You look surprised to see me,” Abram said with a smile as he stopped before Whill.

  “Abram? But…how can this be?”

  “I have gone by many names on many worlds,” said the man.

  “No, that’s not possible. You’re not Abram, you’re the Lord of Light,” Whill realized.

  “I go by that name as well.”

  “Enough of your riddles,” said Whill as he took a step back. “What happened? Why has everything changed?”

  “You have impressed us, Whill, and we have decided to spare your world.”

  Whill’s throat constricted and his heart burned with hope. The possibility that it was all finally over made him weak in the knees.

  “You will let us live in peace?” Whill asked.

  Abram nodded.

  “And the powers that you have bestowed upon us?” W
hill said as he glanced at Godsbane.

  “You shall retain them all.” Abram leaned in and winked. “It’s more fun to watch.”

  Whill looked closer at Abram. The man looked just like he remembered, mannerisms, voice—everything was familiar.

  “Are you…have you truly lived as Abram?” Whill’s mind raced as the implications bombarded him. “You raised me, nurtured me, turned me into the man I am today. But why? You must have known that I would…”

  “Some things are best left to wonder.” Abram smiled and glanced up at the sky. “But alas, there is one condition to our offer, and I, unlike my peers, believe that you will agree.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You must give up Godsbane, its power, and you must give up the mantle. You agree to relinquish your godly power, and we agree to spare your world.”

  “How do I know that you will stay true to your word?” Whill asked.

  “I am a god; if my word does not count as the truth, what does?”

  “Not good enough,” said Whill.

  “You have wondered your entire life why the gods never answered your prayers, why I never answered you. But I was there all along, and I have never lied to you. Give me the blade, relinquish your power, and your world shall finally know peace.”

  Whill’s eyes became wet with tears, though joy flooded his heart. He stared at his old mentor, his father, his dearest friend, and at length he unsheathed Godsbane.

  Abram took the blade, and a pleasant smile twinkled in his eyes.

  “You have exceeded my greatest expectations, Whill. I shall keep my word, and this world and its people will live out their natural course.” He glanced around at the countryside and nodded. “It will be exciting to watch, for never before have we let a universe continue for so long.”

  Whill prayed that it wasn’t a dream, and Abram smirked as though he had heard the silent prayer. Whill had so many questions that he didn’t know where to start, but he never got a chance to ask any of them.

  Abram nodded and turned around, spinning Godsbane and whistling a happy tune.

  “Good luck, Whillhelm Warcrown!” he yelled over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

  Whill stared at the spot where Abram had disappeared, then he glanced at the sky. The black clouds had been replaced by puffy white ones, and a soft breeze blew over the land. Dusk was fast approaching, and it looked like it would be a mild night.

  The absence of power felt strange to Whill, and he stared at his hands, remembering the incredible force that he had embodied. The power of the mantle had gone with Godsbane, as had the blessing of light. Whill still retained the powers that he had absorbed from the many races, but it was nothing compared to that of a god.

  “Whill!”

  Avriel’s voice filled Whill with overwhelming joy, and he turned to see her racing up the hillside. She wore full armor and held her glowing blade in hand, but when she found that Whill was alone, she sheathed her sword and crashed into him. He held her tight and kissed her forehead.

  “It’s over,” he whispered. “It’s all over.”

  “What happened?” she asked as she cautiously glanced around.

  “Do you remember the battle?” Whill asked as he scoured the lush landscape. “I fought the gods’ minions, we nearly destroyed everything, but then…”

  “I only remember you leaving,” said Avriel. “And then…It all gets foggy.”

  “Perhaps it was a dream. I do not know. But I have spoken with the Lord of Light, and the gods have agreed to spare our world.”

  They began walking back to New Cerushia, and Whill told Avriel about the Lord of Light presenting himself as Abram. The encounter now seemed like a long-ago dream, but he knew that it had been real, and the thought of Abram being the mortal incantation of the Lord of Light left him shaking his head and smiling.

  The elves of New Cerushia greeted Whill and Avriel like returning heroes, and he waved back at them as he hurried toward Zerafin’s palace. Whill had thought that he might never see his children again, and when he laid eyes on them sleeping in their baskets, he took them both up in his arms and hugged them tight.

  Chapter 36

  Raene swooped down toward Riverfork with Prince and leapt from the silver hawk before its feet had even touched the ground.

  “Ragnar!” she yelled, and the humans, dwarves, and elves around the trading village all regarded her curiously.

  “Have you seen Ragnar?” she asked a passing woman.

  When the woman shook her head, Raene grabbed a dwarf by the shoulders.

  “Have you seen Ragnar? He be about this tall, a human, with—”

  “Raene the Goldenheart!” came a voice that made her heart leap.

  She spun a circle, searching the streets for Ragnar. Then she saw him striding toward her from the shore.

  “Ragnar!” she screamed, and she raced down the street, pushing aside the gawking dwarves.

  They embraced each other, and Ragnar lifted her up and spun her in a circle. She grabbed his head and pulled him close, kissing him deeply. The crowd—especially the dwarves—took in shocked breathes and gawked at them both.

  Raene parted from the kiss, her eyes twinkling, and then noticed the watching crowd.

  “Well then, ye bunch o’ perverts. Ain’t ye ever seen two people kiss before? Go on, get gone with ye!” Raene waved them off before turning back to Ragnar with a smile.

  “Was Roakore victorious?” he asked. “Did you defeat the albinos?”

  “Thanks to you,” she said, kissing him again.

  “Thanks to you, I’m still alive,” he said with a laugh.

  She blushed and rubbed his upper chest where the crossbow bolt had hit him.

  “I see that you have fully recovered.”

  “Yup, right as rain,” he said with a grin. “They say that Prince brought me into town, and a nice elf lass named Aemily—”

  “An elf lass?” she said with a cocked brow.

  “Yes, a married elf lass nursed me back to health with a little of that elven magic,” Ragnar explained.

  “Well, I’m glad ye ain’t dead,” she said.

  Ragnar laughed, and it was music to Raene’s ears.

  “Come, I would like to speak somewhere a little more private,” he said as he took her hand.

  “You don’t want to be seen with me in public, that be it?” She scowled at him and planted her hands on her hips.

  “What? No,” he said, turning back to her and taking her other hand as well. He leaned in closer and let his lips graze her ear. “Maybe I want to do more than talk.”

  Raene’s heart fluttered, and for once in her life, she was nearly speechless.

  “Oh,” she said. “Well then, why didn’t ye say so?”

  An hour later they mounted Prince, and Raene steered him back toward the Velk’Har Mountains. Roakore was expecting Raene back before nightfall, and she didn’t want to disappoint him. Not only was there to be a feast that night like Velk’Har hadn’t seen in centuries, but she knew that Roakore was planning to honor Ragnar in some way.

  Twilight descended upon the land as they flew south, and when they reached the mountain home, they found many large bonfires burning outside the main entrance. Loud groups of dwarves stood around the fires in full armor, laughing and carrying on like the drunken victors that they were. Dozens of silver hawks circled the wide mountain high up in the sky, some with riders, others without.

  Raene guided Prince down to the flat slab of stone outside the mountain door, where they were met with laughter and song. Ragnar smiled wide and sang right along with the dwarves, and Raene’s heart was warmed by her people’s acceptance of him. The man was a mover of stone, he was a blessed of the gods, and if Raene had her way, he would one day become her husband.

  “Cheers for Raene Goldenheart. Three cheers for Ragnar Spiritseeker!” the dwarves sang.

  “Spirit seeker?” said Ragnar.

  “Oh, they got a bunch o’ nicknames for ye,” Raen
e mused as they entered the mountain. “There be Ragnar the Boozemaster, Ragnar Aleman—”

  “Aleheart!” one of the guards bellowed and offered Ragnar a hearty dwarven salute.

  “And that one,” Raene said with a laugh.

  The sounds of merriment could be heard all through the great hall, and as Raene and Ragnar approached the balcony overlooking the city, one of the dwarves sang of Ragnar’s approach. The dwarves cheered, whistled, and sang to Ragnar’s glory, and the big man wore a wide grin. Raene thought that she even saw a tear form in his eye, and she clapped right along with the others.

  “Ragnar Hillman!” a voice boomed through the cavern.

  Everyone turned to see Roakore, Du’Krell, and Helzendar as they strode through the crowd of cheering dwarves. Roakore walked up to the balcony overlooking his subjects and shook Ragnar’s hand.

  “Good to see ye be all healed up,” said Roakore.

  “Aye, congratulations on your victory over the albinos.”

  “Bah, the little mind-bendin’ buggers thought they could run us out, but we taught ‘em a lesson,” said Roakore. He slapped Ragnar on the shoulder and grinned. “Some large thanks be to you, Ragnar. If ye hadn’t gotten them spirits to us, the little devils would still be stinkin’ up me halls!”

  “I’m glad I could help,” said Ragnar. “I only regret that those damned bandits put a bolt in me, or else I would have been right there with you.”

  “Aye, speakin’ o’ them bastards, me scouts found out where they was hidin’, and let’s just say, they won’t be givin’ nobody no more trouble.”

  “I hope they hung ‘em high,” Raene said, and then spit on the ground.

  Roakore turned and raised his hands to his gathered dwarves. “Lend me your ears, fellow dwarves o’ Velk’Har!”

  The crowd’s jubilant celebration quieted to an excited murmur, and the dwarves looked up at the king.

  “Today be a day for celebration, but it also be a day for mournin’. Many good dwarves fell in the battle against the mind-benders, and their sacrifice shan’t never be forgot.”