A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  Everyone complied without question and flattened on the beach. They were covered in heavy sand and sunk deep. Holding his breath, Tarren tried not to panic. His heart hammered in his ears, and the smallest of movements sounded to him like loud rustling. The dull sound of someone approaching reached him through the sand. The sound stopped, and Tarren felt pressure in the sand all around him. The hole was filling with water. Panic welled in him as the pressure mounted, and the water crept over his buried face. He knew that he was doomed. The weight of the sand left him unable to move. It crushed his chest, and his lungs burned with the pressure. Tarren felt himself begin to slip; he was spent from the struggle with panic, and he was tired. Sleep called to him, and he happily followed her soft song.

  Cold, salty water jolted Tarren, and he sucked in a mouthful of sweet, salty ocean air. Gasping and panting, he greedily choked down as much air as he could get. In the corners of his blurred vision, stars danced. Then came swirling blue light that he knew well, that of Lunara. His dizziness left him, and his mind calmed. His breathing became steady, and his vision cleared.

  Helzendar reached down and pulled Tarren up by the arm.

  “Are you all right, Tarren?” Lunara asked in a voice laced with concern and a dash of panic.

  “Is that really the best you could do?” Tarren asked the Watcher as he got to his feet. The ancient elf did not respond. He stood covered in wet sand, arms outstretched as if bathing in the sun.

  “You almost killed me,” Tarren continued, as he walked to stand before the elf.

  “Enough o’ this shyte,” said Helzendar, throwing up his arms. “I’ll take me chances in the woods.”

  Tarren was ready to join him, when, behind them, the water began to churn and bubble. The Watcher raised his hands, and, from the frothing ocean, an elven ship arose high above the water. The ocean fell away, and the Watcher began to weave his hands back and forth, up and down, in and out. The sails of the ship wavered and straightened, its holes closed up, and the tears closed. A big breach in the side of the ship was reshaped in an instant.

  Tarren looked in awe from the Watcher to the ship. The serenity with which the old elf cast his spells was enchanting. His closed eyes fluttered as if dreaming, and his hands seemed to compose a symphony. The boat descended slowly and drifted forward to stop before him, and he dropped his arms. The Watcher turned to the others with a smile. “Let us be off!” he said, but soon realized the scowls of Tarren, Helzendar, and Lunara.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You nearly drowned me!” said Tarren, exasperated and a little hurt.

  “Nearly drowned? Rain nearly drowns us,” said the Watcher.

  “I don’t care how old and respectable you are, Watcher. That was foolish,” said Lunara.

  “Perhaps…indeed, possibly.” He looked around at them all. “And yet, I say nay, here we all are, alive and well. And we had averted the attention of many Draggard.”

  The guards leapt and floated over the side of the ship, and soon set the ladder over rail. The Watcher stood in knee high water, his robes hung from one shoulder, and his eyes twinkled with life and the promise of adventure.

  “You want to hunt pirates, might as well get used to the sea,” he said to Tarren.

  “Where are you taking us?” he asked.

  “Me?” The Watcher scowled, as if confused. “I take you nowhere, but the road, my boy, takes us all,” his voice drifted off and he stared to the horizon.

  “This elf be smokin’ somethin’, and I be gone,” said Helzendar, and turned from the beach.

  “You will want to come where we are going,” the Watcher told them from the ship.

  Lunara raised a hand for Helzendar to stop. “Wait!”

  A Draggard patrol stalked around the small peninsula; one of the two beasts gave a screeching cry. Lunara urged Tarren to the rope ladder, as the two elven guards sped past the dwarf as he brought his half-moon spear to bear. Tarren scrambled up the ladder and tried to watch his friend at the same time.

  “Helzendar!” he yelled, as his fearless friend charged right after the elves, intent on spilling blood.

  “Hah, there he goes,” the Watcher laughed.

  “Get on the boat, you crazy fool!” Lunara screamed as she ran after Helzendar.

  The two elven guards engaged the Draggard with blade and spell, and soon the beasts bled at their feet. Lunara caught up to Helzendar and whirled him around. Dozens of Draggard and one giant dwargon charged around the corner and down the beach. Though outnumbered, the two elves sprinted to meet them.

  Helzendar struggled against Lunara’s clutches as one of the beasts broke through the guards and leapt at them. A spell from Lunara’s hand stopped the beast in midair, and Helzendar’s half-moon spear sliced through its neck.

  “Ha-ha!” he yelled triumphantly, and tried once again to join the elves, but Lunara held him firm.

  “Let me go, ye damned elf!” he yelled, and pulled his arm away hard.

  Lunara hit him over the head with her staff. A quick spark of light flashed, and Helzendar fell to the sand, sound asleep. She picked him up with a heave, and no doubt called upon her stored power for strength. The guards held their ground and let none pass, but more came.

  Lunara splashed into the water and made for the rope ladder quickly, all the while the Watcher only grinned. Tarren looked at him dumbfounded.

  “Are you gonna help?”

  “Huh? Ah yes,” said the old elf with some reluctance, as if he had been thoroughly enjoying himself simply watching.

  “All right then,” the Watcher began, and turned to Tarren. “What is it they say? Ah yes,” he smiled and straightened. “All aboard!”

  In an instant, both Lunara and Helzendar were sprawled out on the deck, along with the two soldiers who had been in mid-swing. The ship began to pull out of the small lagoon as the Draggard chased after it into the water.

  “Incoming!” Tarren called as the dozens of Draggard began throwing spears. The ship was yet only a hundred yards out, and many of the spears found the ship. Lunara got to her feet, and, with a lifted hand and uttered spell, she raised an energy shield. The boat surged forward with the Watcher’s steady wind-weaving and soon found deeper waters.

  The land remained to their right, and Tarren knew they traveled south. He sat with Helzendar as the dwarf boy snored loudly. He wasn’t looking forward to his friend waking; likely, he would be angrier than a wet sack of bees.

  “Don’t worry, he isn’t injured,” said Lunara as she watched for pursuers.

  “When will he wake?” Tarren asked.

  “He could be awakened now, but I prefer silence when I am sneaking away from a dark elf armada.”

  Tarren chuckled. “He is gonna be pissed.”

  “Mind your tongue,” she said, taking her eyes off the horizon to accentuate her point with a glare.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he laughed.

  They sailed through to the afternoon, and still no ship came for them. They had steered south long after the land turned west, and were now far out to sea with no land in sight. Lunara determined they would be safe with Helzendar screaming, and, with a touch of her hand to his forehead, his eyes shot open.

  “What, what happened?” he demanded as he looked around wild-eyed.

  “Whoa, pal, you−”

  Helzendar pushed Tarren away and shot to his feet. “What? Where?” he ran from end to end of the ship, sputtering with his every word. When nothing could be seen but the constant blue of the ocean, he returned and squared on Lunara. “You!”

  “Yes, me, you dolt! You trying to get yourself killed?” she asked, annoyed.

  “Ye got no right knockin’ me unconscious and takin me prisoner on this here vessel,” Helzendar protested and began to lurch. He wavered and grabbed the rail for support.

  “I am under the authority of your father and king, Roakore, to do whatever I deem fit to keep you safe. And I intend to, whether you like it or not.”

  Helzendar me
ant to argue, but was overcome with sickness. He bent over the rail and vomited. Once again, he turned as if to argue, but urgently went back to the rail.

  “Ah, Helz, how you gonna hunt down pirates with me if you be gettin seasick?” Tarren asked with disappointment. But his friend was in no shape for conversation.

  “Bring him below. I’ve a tea called Roz that will help settle his stomach,” said Lunara.

  “C’mon, Helz.” Tarren ducked under his arm and pulled his sick friend along. Helzendar’s head lulled weakly from side to side, and his usually rosy cheeks were a light green shade. With much coaxing and two quick shuffles back to the rail, Tarren got his sick friend below deck.

  Having traveled on a similar boat to Cerushia, Tarren was familiar enough with the design to find his way below deck easily. The elven ships, with their interwoven vines, reminded him nothing of human ships of wood. The elves used vines in all of their structures, and boats were no exception. The boat’s shell was wood, but, below deck, vines made up the many dividing walls. To Tarren, it seemed like floating in a huge tree stump.

  After laying Helzendar on a cot in the first room on the left, Tarren went about finding a bucket. Though it seemed the dwarf had nothing left to throw up, Tarren would rather be safe than sorry when it came to dealing with vomit. He found a bowl in the cooking area to set beside the cot. Helzendar groaned and babbled about being kidnapped, and Tarren set out to make the Roz tea.

  The small storeroom contained a variety of food and drink, and Tarren wasted no time fetching himself a smoked flounder and a loaf of dark bread. In his rummaging, he nearly forgot the tea. He lit the small wick below the elven teapot with a fire stone he had been given by the elf girl, Zuree, who he had danced with at Zerafin’s coronation party. He wondered about her now, as he waited for the water to boil. Was she all right? Had she and her family got out? He vowed to himself he would find her, and, one day, marry her.

  As proof of the old saying, “absence of mind causes a pot to boil faster,” the soft whistle of the boiling tea water shook him from his pondering of Zuree’s fate. He steeped the leaves and set the tea to cool. Helzendar seemed no worse for wear when Tarren pulled a chair up beside the cot.

  “Here, Lunara says this will help,” said Tarren through a mouthful of bread.

  “Bah,” Helzendar swatted at the drink, nearly spilling it. “Forget that traitorous wench−”

  “Hey!” Tarren yelled, scowling down at him. “Best be watchin your tongue, she be my godsmother.”

  “Elven godsmothers, vine cities, bloody rockin’ boats. Give me cold hard stone and steady ground, ye can keep yer elves, may they ro−” A dry heave wracked him, and left the dwarf panting and clutching his sides.

  “Bah, yourself,” said Tarren, “You ain’t right. If you had your head about you, we would have a row.”

  “Boy,” Helzendar laughed sickly, “I be whoopin’ your arse with one hand tied behind me baa−”

  Tarren shook his head as his friend strained against another heave, leaving his eyes bloodshot. “Drink the damned tea…who knows how long we will be out here. We got better things to worry about than your silly pride. A bloody war be wagin’ around us, and the enemy ain’t Lunara. So stop your pissin’…”

  Tarren spit out his last bite of fish with disgust. “What in the hells? Ugh,” he scraped at his tongue. He couldn’t quite place the flavor, and he didn’t want to. It was like dead fish and dog crap.

  “What ye fussin’ about?” Helzendar asked, amused.

  “The taste, ugh−disgusting. Don’t eat the fish.”

  “Why?” Helzendar asked with a chuckle and a look of anticipation for a punch line.

  Tarren frowned at his friend. “It be like eating shyte…ugh!”

  Helzendar laughed as Tarren again spit and scraped at his tongue. His laughter mixed with dry heaves once more, which only made matters worse. Helzendar grabbed a disgusted Tarren by the sleeve.

  “Seems yer elven godsmother be serious when she said to watch your tongue, baha! Ye can’t even swear like a man round that one.”

  Revelation came to Tarren, and he realized that Helzendar was right. “Shyte…ugh!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Revelations

  Roakore watched as Whill followed the ancient elf into the crystal fortress. He didn’t trust her, and thought about trailing them. But he had his dwarves to worry over. Whirling his stone bird above his head, he gave a toss as he and the elven Ralliad flew to meet the draquon. His twirling weapon spun like the seed of a maple, speeding out before him to clip the wing of the closest draquon. The beast gave a shriek and flailed to the ground below.

  The Ralliad force tore through the advancing draquon with gleaming beaks and slashing talons. Roakore steered Silverwind into a dive, bringing them flying low over the dwarven ranks. His stone bird came whirling down the front line, breaking in two the leading spears of the Draggard.

  Holdagozz and Philo led the charge, their voices singing the war song of Ky’Dren in unison. The dwarves of both Ky’Dren and Elgar barreled into their enemies, unleashing the pent up energy of Whill’s enchantment. Picks and axes−gripped by hands made strong from days untold in the ancient mines−fell on the front line with devastating effect. The sun elves came over the ridge casting spells into the center of the Draggard horde. The dark elves attacked from the jagged outcroppings of the crystal fortress.

  The sky streaked with dozens of spells and counter spells, some so bright the sunlight seemed dim in comparison. Explosions shook the ground, adding to the steady rumbling of the armies’ footfalls. The dwarves took many casualties when a fireball got through the elves’ defenses and hit their rear left flank.

  Roakore surveyed the battle from above and gauged where the dwarven line was weakest. He steered Silverwind down, and mentally pulled his stone bird along with them.

  “Give ʼem hell, Silverwind!” he yelled as she flew him low over the heads of his kin.

  He leapt from the saddle and gave a roar, cocking his axe high over his head. The momentum of the jump sent him flying into three Draggard that had engaged a wounded dwarf. They saw him coming and turned, bringing their long spears to bear. Black eyes gleamed and skin peeled back from hungry maws as the dwarf king attacked his foe. The stone bird whirled in at the command of Roakore, catching two of the Draggard upside their heads. He kicked aside a spear and sunk his axe into the shoulder of the third beast. Yanking the blade free, he ducked under a swipe meant for his head and came up under the attack, burying his axe in the Draggard’s armpit. The beast reeled, its arm dangling, and a hatchet thrown from behind Roakore silenced the screams. A war hammer came sailing past to take the remaining Draggard in the head. Roakore turned to the wounded dwarf as his soldiers poured around them as if they were an island. The king’s attack had stirred the already manic dwarves, and now they pushed the front line forward many feet.

  “How bad?” Roakore asked the prone dwarf, who was trying but failing to prop himself up on an elbow.

  “Bah, me king, it be nothin’ o’ yer worry,” he groaned with a pained smile and a hand over his left chest.

  “Ain’t what I asked ye, soldier,” said Roakore, pushing the dwarf’s hand away to spy free-flowing blood. He grabbed a passing dwarf by the collar. “Get this one to the back, to the elven healers.”

  “Yes, me king,” said the dwarf, and hoisted up his comrade.

  Roakore turned and joined his dwarves in the charge. Spells continued to sing overhead, many coming down at them. Seemingly at the last second, the magical missiles would be intercepted by counter spells. Few spells made it through the elven defenses, but those that did caused incredible damage, the likes of which could not have been withstood by the dwarves without the protection of the elves.

  They reached the front line, and Roakore took up the shield of an injured dwarf and shouldered his way to the front. The dwarves at the front dug in their heels and raised their shields against the ocean of Draggard. The battle
had stopped, it seemed. A line of dwarves with shields low protected the row from low attacks, and for each of them, a dwarf stood with a shield above. Still behind their crouching forms, a third dwarf completed the formation, this one raising the shield wall even higher.

  Roakore took up the rear shield station abandoned by the injured dwarf. He shouldered the tall shield against the spears that darted through the gap.

  “Hatchets at the ready!” Roakore bellowed. The line of shield bearers echoed the command to the ranks behind them.

  “Down!” he cried, and dropped low over the back of the dwarf before him. Those of the same station did the same, exposing the ranks behind them to the Draggard for a moment. A hatchet for every dwarf in range flew into the Draggard front line, sending it back.

  “Up and over!” Roakore bellowed.

  He was pleased when the shield bearing dwarves all moved seamlessly to create a ramp. Roakore braced himself as the hatchet wielders charged toward the front line and ran up the shield ramp. They poured over the ramps by the hundreds, using the momentum to push the Draggard back farther still. Soon, he was up and charging with his men.

  Above them, the crystal fortress loomed like a mountain, blocking out the sun and casting a long shadow over the land. Whill was inside somewhere, searching for their only way home.

  The elven battles raged on all around them, and Roakore knew one loose spell could take out dozens of his fearless dwarves. He hated magic for that reason. A dwarf might train for decades, and more than hold his own against the likes of dragons. But an elf could learn one spell and wreak havoc on an entire army. It just wasn’t right.

  He scoured the aerial battles above, but did not spot Silverwind, which was neither a good nor bad sign. He trusted his mount’s fighting instinct, and Lunara's and Whill’s enchantments.

  A flash of light caught his eye close by, and three dwarves flew by overhead, on fire. Another explosion sounded, and still more dwarves sailed through the air spinning. Roakore’s anger grew as he shoved forward through the unmoving crowd. A wide gap had been made by the explosions, and at the center of a smoldering crater stood a dark elf. Roakore stepped forward through the flames burning dull in a ring around the shallow crater.