A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  “I shall procure rations from Orington; I need to inform my second of my intentions,” said Reeves.

  “Very well,” said Dirk. “We leave just before the setting sun, don’t be late.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Reeves replied, and began walking back through the forest.

  Dirk had no intentions of hunting; he had plenty of rations from Eldalon Island left in Fyrfrost’s saddlebags. He had needed an excuse to go to the woods to summon Krentz in privacy.

  From the opposite side of Fyrfrost came a rustling in the woods, followed by a heavy dragging noise. Dirk walked around the huge dragon-hawk, and Chief came, pulling behind him Fyrfrost’s missing wing. He could not help but laugh at the sight of the wolf, hauling along a wing ten times his size. The drooling grin upon his pet’s face didn’t help matters.

  “Well, I’ll be damned if you aren’t the best wolf a man could ask for,” said Dirk, bending to give him a scratch behind the ears.

  Chief released the wing to enjoy his reward. He quickly dropped and rolled on his back for a belly rub, and Dirk was glad to comply. Fyrfrost’s wing was tattered and broken, but the healing would be much easier now for Krentz, as she would no longer have to force one to regrow.

  Dirk gave Chief his due and summoned Krentz from the spirit realm. She came to form before him, and soon noticed the large, severed wing. She gave Chief a wide smile and a few more scratches below the ears.

  Reeves arrived just before the setting of the sun as Dirk had said. He carried with him two bags over his shoulder, one of which, Dirk assumed, held the rations he had promised.

  “Ah, the wing has healed,” he said nonchalantly, as if it was of no import that the previously severed wing had somehow appeared again, whole and new. “And the beautiful Krentz has returned from her rest,” he added, with a chivalrous bow.

  Krentz gave the general a smiling curtsy. “General Reeves, it is good to see you again. I hear you will be joining us in our travels.”

  “I would, if it pleases you, of course.”

  “It pleases me,” she assured him with a smile.

  Reeves’ bags were added to the gear strapped to the saddle, and the three mounted Fyrfrost.

  As the sun set over the horizon behind them, they set off northeast toward the Ky’Dren Pass, and, possibly, the end of the world.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Two Brothers and the Elven Blade

  Whill returned to the war room and apologized to those waiting. Alrick had brought beer, wine, and liquor. Even the elves found occasion for spirits. Food there was also, but it seemed that none had much appetite for it at the moment. Whill returned to his seat and nodded his thanks when Alrick handed him a mug of beer.

  “The dwarves are not needed. Your friend’s departure is of no consequence,” said Zionar Master Ornarell, the storms in his eyes gleaming.

  “Mind what you say about King Roakore. His friendship has proven invaluable, as well as his council,” said Whill.

  “I mean no disrespect,” said Ornarell with the smallest of bows. “I simply speak the truth. Eadon shall not be defeated by dwarves; they’ve enough work clearing their mountains.”

  Whill turned away from Ornarell, ignoring him. He was in no mood to debate at the moment. Seven days…the words replayed in his head over and over again, reminding him of his dilemma. He had spent weeks with the elves, yet he was no closer to an answer than he had been.

  “What do you think Eadon will do if he attains the power of the two swords?” he asked the elves. The two humans, Alrick and Walker, were lost in the conversation.

  “He will gain the power of a god,” said Master Libratus, and many of the others nodded agreement.

  “Will the gods respond?” Whill asked.

  The elves seemed to ponder the question for the first time.

  “Haven’t any of you considered the gods may have something to say about all this?” he asked.

  “We cannot rely upon the gods to defeat Eadon.” Master Arngil argued, as he sought confirmation from his brethren.

  “That cannot be known,” said Avriel.

  “The god of peace can be relied upon,” Morenka Master Myrramus assured them. “If all would simply stop fighting for peace, peace they would have.”

  “We are not here to debate dogma,” Zerafin reminded them all.

  “Many religions exist, and, though you may not be devout, your culture speaks of the gods. So what of them? When Eadon ascends to their level of power, will they answer?” Whill asked them all.

  “Our gods do not meddle in the affairs of mortals,” Captain Walker put in.

  “Nor, the elven gods,” said Master Arngil.

  “This will cease to be a mortal affair if Eadon becomes godlike,” said Whill. “Should he continue this war after that point, he will be a meddling god and they will be forced to intervene.”

  “You would give Eadon what he seeks, and have faith that the gods will deal with him?” Ornarell asked, amusement lacing his words.

  “Enough of this. The man is simply trying to weigh every possibility,” Zerafin interjected, annoyed. “Cerushia was been attacked; many of our kin are dead! This is not the time for your condescension, Master Ornarell.”

  The Zionar master nodded curtly to his king, and then to Whill in turn. “Apologies,” he said dryly.

  Zerafin went on. “If we do not succeed in stopping Eadon, we will find out what the gods intend to do. As for now, I suggest we focus on the task at hand.” He looked to Aklenar Master Avolarra En’Kayen. “What does your sight show you?”

  Avolarra jerked as if from a trance; it did not appear she had been listening. Her eyes settled upon Whill, and long they remained, until finally she answered. “Many paths…they change with every turn of events…every word of this conversation.”

  “Do any of them end with me defeating Eadon?” Whill asked. His words came out more forcefully than he had intended.

  The thin smile she had worn disappeared completely, and was replaced by a disturbed expression. “Many rivers in the timeline,” she said in a near whisper. The others waited for her to go on, but she fell silent, head bowed and gazing upon the table. Her wide eyes stared, as if unable to turn from a disturbing vision. Whill’s gaze lingered long upon her, but was never met.

  Nearly an hour later, the group still had gotten nowhere, and Whill began to think the elven masters had no answers. Though he had the full support of the elves, when it came to defeating Eadon, they still looked to him. Would that he could give away the power within the blade; the elves could deal with their own mess. He was about to call an end to the meeting when the doors swung inward and an elven Ralliad strode into the room.

  “My king,” he said with a bow to Zerafin. “We have been in contact with the queen’s scouts.”

  “Report,” said Zerafin, and Whill perked up to the news.

  “Kell-Torey has fallen; Eldalon has no king.”

  Whill’s heart dropped, and his throat tightened. “Who is the next in line for the throne?” he asked Alrick.

  He began to answer, but the messenger interrupted him with a raised hand. “It is believed his entire line was wiped out,” he said. “All, but one.”

  “Then you, my king, are also heir to the Eldalonian throne,” Alrick said to Whill with a glorious smile.

  Whill ignored the man; Kell-Torey had fallen. King Mathus, his grandfather, had been murdered, and his mother’s family had been wiped out. He felt his outrage and anger well inside of him, the sword responded with a high-pitched hum and began to glow.

  The messenger backed away from the table a step and stared at Adromida on Whill’s hip. He had more to say, and he looked to be searching for the courage to speak.

  “Out with it!” Whill yelled, trembling with the effort of keeping his rage at bay.

  “Fendale was destroyed; the Light of the North has been taken. Also, a portal opened on Belldon Island in Shierdon. We are estimating nearly ten thousand Draggard came throug
h that rift alone. The capital of Isladon, Del’Harred, has fallen to a rift as well. A rift was reported in Volnoss, and a barbarian army moves toward the Ky’Dren Pass as we speak.”

  “How many rifts in all?” Zerafin asked.

  Whill tightened his closed eyes at the answer.

  “Seven.”

  “There were more than seven in Drindellia,” said Avriel.

  “The Dwarven Mountains,” Whill said, thinking of Roakore.

  “A portal opened upon the eastern shore of Elladrindellia…Cerushia has fallen,” said the messenger with a bow.

  Zerafin, who had stood for the report, now fell to his seat slowly. “The queen?” he asked.

  “She is alive.” The druid was happy to report; it was the only news spoken with a smile.

  “He's already won,” said Master Flouren En Fen looking crestfallen.

  “Not quite,” said Zerafin with determination.

  Whill thought of the countless dead; human, dwarf, and elf. While he had been wasting his time dealing with his inner demons, Eadon had been planning a full-scale invasion, and the assassination of his entire line. Eadon had made him heir to the Eldalonian throne as well, but why?

  “What of this Felspire?” Whill asked.

  “Eadon tapped into Agora’s ley lines; he used the power to create a crystal spire that reaches to the veil between earth and heaven,” said the messenger.

  “He seeks to reach the gods, one way or another,” Avriel surmised.

  “Can we utilize the energy of these…ley lines?” Whill asked. The elven masters looked at him as if he spoke blasphemy.

  “That is not our way,” said Zerafin.

  “How are we to defeat Eadon if we are bound by rules that he does not obey?” Whill asked, his annoyance growing with every obstacle set before him.

  “To do as the dark lord does, is to become the dark lord,” said Master Myrramus.

  “Still, it is preferable to his tyranny,” Whill pressed. He was met with no argument, only the stares of the masters. He turned to Zerafin, but the elf king’s face was unreadable. Avriel seemed concerned by his words. He wished Roakore was still with him; he would have a thing or two to say on the topic. Whill thought for a moment as Roakore might. To the dwarf king, things were black or white, right or wrong.

  “We’ve learned much,” Zerafin said after a long silence. “Let us learn what else we might, and take the time to analyze what we know.”

  “I agree,” said Whill, with a nod to the seated elves.

  He left the room with Alrick and Captain Walker following him briskly. Avriel pushed past them on the stairs to the great room and came to walk beside Whill.

  What do you hide in the back of your mind? She asked, meeting his brisk pace.

  Whill stopped abruptly and faced Alrick and Walker. “Gather everyone to the castle gates, I would address my people.”

  “Yes, my king,” they answered in unison.

  They hurried off to the task, and Avriel stepped to block Whill’s view. Her face told him she would not be ignored. He took her face in his hand and kissed her lips. Whill allowed himself to become lost in the kiss, and he was freed of his worries. She ended the kiss, and Whill opened his eyes to her patient smile.

  “Where is Kellallea?” he asked, but she would not answer whilst her own question hung unanswered.

  They stubbornly stared at each other for many long moments. Finally, Whill gave in, but could not bring himself to reveal what was on his mind.

  “I hide nothing; it is just the beginnings of a thought, a whisper…”

  “You need hide nothing from me,” she reminded him, as she stroked his broad shoulders. Her hands felt their way across his armor and down his chest.

  “I can only defeat Eadon…if I attain what he seeks,” he said finally.

  Avriel did not seem offended by the idea as the masters had been. She kissed him again and smiled, leaving Whill feeling silly for having been hesitant to admit he was considering the possibility. She dotted kisses across his cheek to his ears.

  “I believe whatever you do will be the right thing, and you will indeed be victorious.”

  “You would set no boundaries to what I must do?” he asked.

  “I trust you will choose what is right,” said Avriel.

  Whill kissed her once more, happy to have her at his side. Together, they walked out of the castle and made their way to the gates, where the call to hear the king was being sung by the criers.

  “The King addresses the city at the castle gates! To the castle gates!” and many other such proclamations echoed throughout.

  People came from all over to hear the king speak, for they thought Eadon had summoned them; it was not so much curiosity driving them, as fear. Whill and Avriel made their way through the courtyard, which was full of elves and human soldiers. The dwarves had already left the castle grounds.

  At the castle gate, Alrick led Whill up a stair running along the high wall of the grounds. Thirty feet above the gathered crowd, Whill and Avriel looked down upon thousands of Uthen-Arden citizens, all waiting for the word of the king. Whill strode forth and raised his hands to the crowd, and many questioning whispers and murmurs issued from them. He gazed out over the city of his forefathers, a city unfamiliar to him.

  “Good people of Uthen-Arden! I’ve a story to tell you this day!” Whill said with open arms; Adromida lent power to his voice.

  “A tale of two brothers, and an elven sword. A tale known to only a few humans,” he said, gaining the attention of everyone. He let the silence thicken as they waited for his words. When the moment was right, he went on with his tale.

  “Long ago, the elves came to our shores seeking shelter, and the good king of Uthen-Arden gave them Elladrindellia. In return, and unbeknownst to all, the queen of the elves taught the human king her magic. Since that day, every prince of Uthen-Arden has gone to the elves, and has learned their ways. King Aramonis and his brother Addakon were no different; they went to the elves, and they too learned their magic. But Addakon wanted more, and so, he killed his brother and took from him the crown of Uthen-Arden!”

  There were quick, sharp screams of disbelief; men looked at each other wide-eyed, and some women even fainted to hear the words that had been rumored for twenty years, now spoken loud from the castle wall. Supporters of Addakon−those few there were, mostly nobles−booed and grumbled.

  “Addakon himself ambushed him with a horde of fifty Draggard at his command… his command! King Aramonis was killed. But, he took every one of the Draggard bastards with him!” he cried with a raised fist, and the crowd cheered and raised their fists alike.

  “Your good Queen Celestra was with child when a Draggard arrow took her life. That child was cut from her dying womb…by the king’s guard Abram. He raised the boy, and kept him hidden in the wilds and mountains of Agora. Addakon took the throne in his brother’s stead, and slowly he turned this once great kingdom into one of war, poverty, and squalor.”

  The crowd had begun to nod in agreement of his words. Where once they had seemed timid and on guard, now life began to find them again. The shackles of fear had been thrown off by Whill’s words, and he was now seeing an oppressed people that had found their voices once again. Whill waited until the cheering settled down. He reached into Adromida until his whispered voice came out loud and clear to all nearby, as if Whill was standing beside them each.

  “Addakon wanted the throne, this is true. But, more so, he wanted the ancient elven blade Adromida. The blade was said to be made by a powerful elven Seer. The elven Aklenar saw the rise of the dark lord Eadon, the very one that has brought darkness to Agora. And so, he created a weapon that would one day destroy Eadon. The blade cannot be wielded by elves; only humans with the knowledge of elven magic might. Aramonis and Addakon had such knowledge, and could have wielded the greatest power ever given. It is for this very reason that Addakon killed his brother, and tried to kill the child.”

  The people looked on, waiting
for the words to come. For they had all heard the legend of Whill of Agora; the recent incident in the gladiator arena had only strengthened the people’s hope.

  “I have been hidden from you for twenty years,” he said, and many women wept with hands over open mouths. Men looked on with strong set jaws, shoulders pulled back, and necks straight, as if Whill’s words lifted them from where they stood.

  “The lost prince of Uthen-Arden has found his way home. I defeated my murderous uncle six months ago; he has since been replaced by the dark elf Eadon. For the dark one can wear the skin of another, to the knowledge of none. After months of torture, I was sentenced to death; many of you saw me fight in the arena,” he said, raising a hand toward the burnt out coliseum at the center of the city.

  “I have since been across the ocean in Drindellia. It was there that I found this.”

  Whill unsheathed Adromida and held it high for all to see. It shone with a bright, white light that forced all to cover their eyes. Whill finally willed it to dim. When the crowd looked again, the sword had found its sheath.

  “I, Whillhelm Mathus Warcrown, son of Aramonis Warcrown, wielder of the ancient elven blade Adromida, claim by birthright, the thrown of Uthen-Arden!”

  “Long Live King Whillhelm!” Alrick cried, and the call was taken up by all. Seven times it was cheered. On the faces of his people, Whill saw victory. That he had dared lay such claim in the midst of the booming voice of the devil Eadon, helped the people find their own courage.

  “I shall meet the dark one at Felspire in seven days…” Silence filled the air once more as everyone hung on his last word. Even Avriel looked on in anticipation.

  “And I shall lay him low!” he finally growled. The crowd erupted into growls of their own, and, for the first time in many years, the streets of Del’Oradon were alive with happy faces and cheering crowds.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Elven Stones and Dwarf Kings