A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  “You,” said the dark elf, “King Roakore of the Mountains Ro’Sar.”

  The elf strode forward confidently, his arms crossing and hands resting upon twin sword hilts. His voice came muffled from behind a large, horned helmet, yet it reverberated like a bell. Large pauldrons set with wicked spikes sat a layer above thick plate mail. The armor was copper red with dents and scorch marks. A darker red cloak trailed out behind the elf.

  “Lad, I don’t be knowing who you be,” said Roakore.

  “I am−”

  “And I don’t be right givin’ a steamin’ shyte who you be, hear? All you be to me be dead!” Roakore charged across the crater. He could feel the stone beneath his feet and began to touch on it with his mind. The dark elf didn’t move, but rather, watched amused as Roakore barreled toward him. Roakore summoned his inner rage, and his heart leapt, lending strength to mind and body. He focused his will into the stone before him and pushed at the air with his calloused hands. The ground in front of him heaved and exploded forward toward the dark elf. A cascade of pebbles, stones, and boulders arched up and buried the dark elf where he stood.

  In the shadow of the crystal fortress, the dwarves held a collective breath before cheering the victory, many eyeing the stone pile as they fought off the nearby Draggard. Roakore knew better than to think he had yet won. He set his stone bird whirling and prepared for retaliation.

  “Get ye back! Press the lines, we be taking the fortress!” Roakore ordered his dwarves and the Elgar dwarves as well.

  The dwarves moved back, and none too soon. The stone pile exploded in every direction, but soon conformed and came together to swirl above the dark elf’s helmet.

  “I have waited anxiously to test the earth-weaving powers of the legendary descendant of Ky’Dren,” said the elf.

  “May his name become poison on your tongue,” Roakore spat.

  The dark elf laughed and raised his arms to the swirling stones. They split into two groups, which spiraled downward, encasing his raised arms. He slammed his stone fists together and stalked toward Roakore. A dwarf charged in from the right, only to be swatted away like a bug by a stone fist.

  Roakore roared in anger, and gathered loose stone to his arms as well. He surged forward, even as the swirling swarms of rock and crushed stone converged to form massive fists of his own. The dark elf leapt high into the air, bringing his massive appendages high above his head. Roakore leapt to meet him, forcing the collection of stone under his control to fly at the dark elf. They were as high as treetops when they collided above the battlefield. Silverwind appeared then, as if out of nowhere, crashing into the stone hands just as they shifted to strike Roakore. The quick deflection sent the blow wide, and Roakore came in hard, swinging down from on high as if splitting wood. His stone fists slammed the dark elf and shattered, sending sparks webbing across a yet unseen shield wall. Silverwind swooped away quickly, as the dark elf was rocked hard by the blow and whirled out of control for a moment. Roakore’s arms flailed as he fell through the air. He saw his faithful mount circling in a dive to catch him, and prepared himself for a rough landing upon the saddle. He hit with a thud and groaned a thanks to Silverwind.

  The dark elf landed and rolled to stand, the swirling stone in his control once again. He weaved his hands in and out in a peculiar dance, which the stone responded to by melding to form a large, writhing serpent. It rose up and quickly lashed out as Silverwind circled. The silverhawk reared, and the stone snake struck. An explosion knocked Roakore and his mount off course.

  “Steady now, girl,” he urged Silverwind as she righted herself and steered away from the dark elf and his stone serpent. The enchantments had saved them from serious damage, but Roakore didn’t think they would withstand many blasts of that magnitude.

  “Bring me down, girl. Do what ye can to distract the devil, but don’t be doin’ nothin’ stupid.”

  Silverwind banked and glided, nearly colliding with a draquon as it dropped from the sky ablaze with blue flame. Roakore leapt and rolled to stand before his men at the edge of the shallow crater. He once again poured his consciousness into the earth, but was shaken from his concentration by a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to regard Philo.

  “Let me at the dark son o’ a demon’s arse!” Philo pleaded, slurring arse into a long hiss.

  “This one be mine, soldier,” Roakore replied, and walked to meet the dark elf.

  The stone snake waited, coiled next to its master. About its neck, a hood formed as it slowly weaved back and forth. The dark elf extended a hand and blasted a spell toward Roakore. The dwarf connected to a sheet of stone below him, and brought it shooting up out of the ground. He ran wide of the stone as the spell slammed into it, turning it to rubble. He brought up another such slab, and another as he charged on. The two slabs were joined by a third, and, together, the three circled Roakore, slowly at first, but swiftly gaining momentum as Roakore growled with determination. Spells flew at him, but each hit stone instead. The slabs were blasted to rubble, as smoke and fire and a million jagged pieces of rock swirled around Roakore. To those dwarves who witnessed the charge of their fearless king, he looked like the revered Ky’Dren himself.

  The stone serpent reared to strike, and Silverwind swooped down to peck at its eyes. The dark elf hit her with a fireball, leaving her engulfed in flames for a long moment during which Roakore’s heart stopped. Finally, she could be seen spiraling out of control, trailing black smoke and scattered feathers of silver.

  “Silverwind!” Roakore screamed in a rage that was not long contained.

  He growled and bellowed a curse at the dark elf, shooting his palms forward, sending the millions of stones flying straight at him. His opponent raised a palm, stopping the assault mid-flight. Roakore roared and redoubled his push on the stone, and the dark elf was visibly taxed to hold it still. The stone serpent struck quickly then, as the two were fixed in their deadlock. Roakore sent an open palm out as it lunged at him with stone teeth leading.

  All around them, the battle raged on, but not a Draggard nor dwarf entered the crater. Nothing existed, but him and the dark elf. The sounds of battle were muffled, a faint sound at the back of his mind. Time slowed, and Roakore reached out for the serpent. He felt instead the slithering presence of the dark elf’s mental control. He fought for the serpent as he fought for control of the floating missiles. The serpent began to writhe and buckle, rearing its head to strike first Roakore, and then the dark elf. It fell to the ground with a crash and heaved once again, raining stone as it began to fall apart. Roakore found himself screaming with the exertion. He dug deep, summoning the strength of his line.

  “O Ky’Dren, king o’ the mountain, give me the strength to smite me foe!” he cried. Strength found him then, and his eyes beheld a part in the clouds above. A single beam of light pierced the thick cloud cover and set its edges aglow with silver light. Tears came to the dwarf king’s eyes as power flooded his body.

  “Ky’Dren!” he bellowed, and sent the newfound energy surging through the stone, overtaking his enemy and burying him. The stone serpent too descended on the elf.

  The dwarves cheered their king once more as the dark elf was buried. Roakore wavered and fell to one knee, panting with the effort. He did not know the extent of the dark elf’s power, nor did he dare hope that he had killed him. He gathered his strength and watched the pile of rubble. The dust had settled, and the pile remained still. Roakore stood once again and dared a few steps toward the debris. The ground began to shake; loose stones and pebbles nearby bounced and began to float into the air slowly.

  “Down!” Roakore yelled to the nearby dwarves.

  The ground shook violently, and the heaping pile of stone exploded. Roakore did not try to take control of the flying debris, rather, he conserved his energy and waited for the dark elf’s next move. Dwarves and flying draquon alike were hit by the missiles, as the dark elf rose once again and guided the flying stone. Roakore ground his teeth and summoned his strength.
He squared on the dark elf as the stone fragments began to swirl once again.

  The cry of a bird caught his attention. He looked to the sky expecting Silverwind, but instead saw a sun elf shifting out of bird form and descending through the center of the debris-ridden whirlwind. The sun elf drew his blade, and the two battled within the eye of the conjured storm. Roakore reached out and felt the dark elf’s hold still strong on the stone. He began once again to wrestle for mental control while the dark elf was distracted by his newest foe. But Roakore was tired, and he would need the strength of his kin if he was to continue.

  Roakore had learned how to use the strength of his fellows from his father, and he from his, and so on down the line all the way to Ky’Dren. A thought occurred to him then as he reached out with his will and summoned the strength of his dwarves. This practice was very similar to the elves’, who used the power of others−even stored it in gems. He was reminded once more of the Book of Ky’Dren, and the possibility he could control other elements. His anger rose as he chastised himself for such blasphemous thoughts. Together, with his newfound energy and his burning rage, he charged into the deadly whirlwind with a howl.

  Roakore barreled into the fray, unconcerned by the swirling stone; it would not touch him. He brought his axe to bear, and the dark elf was there, twirling away from deflecting the sun elf’s blade. Roakore saw only gleaming eyes within the horned helmet, and was suddenly spinning through the air. He landed hard outside of the spinning debris field and tumbled to a stop at Philo’s feet.

  “Me king!” Philo cried, and bent to scoop him up.

  Roakore went deaf and blind as a sudden explosion ripped Philo away from him, and he was tumbling through the air once again. Dust and smoke hung like curtains; all around him, he could hear the groans and coughs of his kin. The smell of burnt flesh found him, and anger roused him from his stupor. He shook his head and rose to his feet, looking for his axe. Stumbling blindly, he finally found it in the dirt, with a severed hand clutching it…his hand. Roakore looked down and found a bloody stump cut off at the wrist.

  “Me king!” Philo’s voice called to him.

  Roakore turned to find the dwarf lying on the ground, a jagged shard of stone protruding from his belly. A shaking hand pointed behind Roakore.

  “Boulder,” Philo wheezed.

  Roakore turned as a shadow fell through the sky at them. He summoned everything left within and lifted his remaining hand to the projectile. Roakore screamed with the exertion as he caught hold of the rock with his mind and slowed its descent. The great shadow hovered above him, turning slowly on an invisible axis. Roakore heaved the slab away and fell to his knees with exhaustion. As he watched, the slab sailed through the air, spinning, and stuck in the ground like a spear. He reached out and took Philo’s hand. The dwarf’s grip was weak, though in his eyes burned the same wild energy as before.

  “Pull this cursed shard out o’ me gut, and lets…” Philo coughed blood that sprayed from his dirty mouth in heavy clumps. “Kill us some Draggard.”

  “Nah,” Roakore shook his head drunkenly. “It be keepin’ yer gut in. Sit tight, lad,” he said, getting to his feet. He took his own severed hand and tucked it in his belt. He then retrieved his axe and turned to face the dark elf as he strode forward through the settling dust.

  “Let me take care o’ this bastard, and we’ll find ye some help,” said Roakore over his shoulder. When no response came, he looked back. Philo’s head was slumped over on his chest, which barely rose with his breathing.

  Roakore screamed a curse and staggered toward his friend, but the words of the dark elf held him fast.

  “He is as good dead, as are you all. Shall we have a last dance?” the voice behind the horned helmet asked.

  The dark elf stood tall in his thick plate armor, blood dripping slowly from the end of his lowered blade. Roakore took up his axe, closed his eyes, and prayed to the gods for the strength to defeat his enemy. When he opened them, a blur of white scales flew through the air and slammed into the dark elf. Avriel leapt from Zorriaz as the dragon mauled the dark elf. Sparks flew from her maw as her teeth struck the energy shield surrounding the warrior. A spell sent the dragon reeling; the enchantments laid upon her by Avriel shimmered as they absorbed the blow. Avriel sped forth and swords clanged. Something caught Roakore’s eye and held it fast. Disbelief, dread, even anger coursed through him as he stared, shocked. The stone slab that he had sent back was not stone at all, but rather a large piece of lumber that had been the shaft of a destroyed catapult. Roakore stared at the wooden beam, transfixed. He dropped his axe and fell to his knees as if defeated. The reality he had known all his life was shattered in that moment.

  He had moved something other than stone with his mind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Warcrown

  Whill walked through the portal blindly, his hand on the cold hilt of Adromida and his shield humming around him. It might be a trap, but he had no choice; this was the only way home. The chamber within the crystal fortress was replaced by darkness as he followed Kellallea. He used mind sight and quickly regretted his stupidity, as he beheld the piercing light of Kellallea’s power. He cried out and held his head, feeling as though it might explode.

  After a time the pain subsided, and he was able to open his eyes. Kellallea watched him with a knowing grin. Torches on walls of stone had been lit, and Whill guessed they were in Agora, inside his family’s ancient mausoleum. On the other side of the stone walls stood Del’Oradon Castle, and somewhere deep below were the dungeons and torture chambers where the Other had been born.

  “Do you feel him near?” Whill asked.

  “I do not,” said Kellallea.

  “Then I must hasten to get the others through,” he said, and turned back through the portal.

  Kellallea followed him into the crystal chamber; they were not alone. A half dozen of Eadon’s doppelgangers stood, barring the way out. As one, they spoke in Eadon’s voice.

  “Ancient one,” they said with a small bow. “Still your power and beauty shame the sun and the moon. What an honor to find you in my fortress.”

  The many Eadons regarded Whill with a familiar smirk. “And, young Whill. I assume you have surrendered to reason?”

  “I have,” said Whill, with s smirk of his own. He unsheathed his father’s blade and held out a hand. A writhing shadow like a serpent of darkness grew in his palm and lashed out at the doppelgangers. The black serpent stretched from his hand, branching out and surrounding them. The many Eadons were lifted into the air and disintegrated as Whill stole their power. They fell to the floor in ashes, and Whill shuddered as he stored the power within his father’s blade. Kellallea stared at him.

  “How did you do that?” she asked, putting space between them.

  “It seems my greatest gift is that of a mimic. I can cast any spell used against me,” he said. A brief flash of intrigue flashed in her eyes.

  “And you find nothing wrong with the taking of power?” she asked.

  “Not from a maniacal dictator,” he answered with a laugh.

  “Do you not recognize your own hypocrisy? You so eagerly judge my actions, yet you do the same,” said Kellallea.

  Whill ignored her argument and went about inspecting the portal, which seemed to be fused to the crystal. Somehow, he needed to get it out of the fortress; there was no time for the two small armies to file through. He studied the crystal walls and put a hand to the closest. Power hummed gently within; he could sense the life force of every egg and Draggard queen. Many spells had been woven throughout the fortress; they spread before his mind’s eye as webs of light, not unlike those the Watcher had shown him. Energy emanating from the core rode the light and pulsed throughout the crystal. Whill was transfixed by its brilliance, and he wanted the power within.

  “Protect the portal,” said Whill, and left the chamber and Kellallea.

  He moved toward the center of the fortress. Guided by his mind sight, he soon found the room
that housed the core, and, standing before the door, a dark elf.

  “It is you,” said the elf.

  Whill raised a hand, and the dark elf stiffened and screamed in defiance as his energy shield dissipated in a shower of sparks around him. Black tendrils wrapped the dark elf in a sweeping embrace, stealing his energy.

  Whill stepped over the dry corpse and blasted the crystal door with focused energy. It shattered inward, resonating like broken glass on ice. At the center of the room, a lone diamond the size of an apple hovered in place between two points. Energy rotated in the form of a helix, a pattern revered by the elves, both dark and sun. Whill unsheathed his father’s sword, Sinomara, and stabbed forth through the many spells. He used the power of Adromida to clear the way, but the energy taken was not stored there. He drew out the power of the diamond slowly, pulling it to Sinomara. An arc of lightning shot from the diamond and danced along his blade as he pulled harder, shaking with the power coursing into the sword.

  The humming of the crystal fortress grew quieter by the second as Whill drained the diamond of its power, Eadon’s power. The soft light illuminating the crystal walls began to flicker and die. The fortress shifted, and Whill knew whatever spells kept it levitated were failing. The last of the diamond’s power poured into the blade, and the fortress began to fall.

  *

  Roakore sat on his knees on the scorched battlefield, staring at the broken lumber protruding from the ground. All around him the battle continued, but Roakore saw only the wood he had moved, heard only the words from the Book of Ky’Dren. The elves, not the gods, had bestowed the power to move stone on Ky’Dren. He was tormented by nagging doubt about his religion; if the reason behind his power was a lie, then what of the dwarf gods and their promised mountain?