A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

“Yes, though I am not known to them. I have no power to move them to action, not with so little time. If the undead we faced earlier are any indication, I doubt many of Uthen-Arden’s soldiers are still…themselves.”

  “Aye, Laddie, be dark magic we face. Not for you, our dead woulda been raised against us to take the Pass. We be in your debt, Whill. Any way we can help rid Agora o’ this scourge once and for all, just say the word.”

  Whill pondered the offer. He didn’t want anyone else to die because of him, but he could use all the help he could get at Felspire.

  “I had intended to unite the races against the dark elves. I think Eadon understands this, and I believe it is one of the reasons for the recent invasions. I would be honored, Ky’Ell, if you and your dwarves stood with me during the final battle.”

  “The honor be ours,” said Ky’Ell. “The dark elves and their abominations need be dealt with, once and for all!”

  “Hear, hear!” Dar’Kwar cheered, and many dwarves joined in, ever ready to toss back a drink.

  Ky’Ell took another shot from his flask, and, this time, Whill joined him. “This Felspire you speak of. Seems it be seen from the mountain lookout posts. It be bout fifty and a hun’red miles from here. You says you got four days? Then, by the gods, we’ll muster what we can and be there with ye. Between us ’n the elves, we’ll give ʼem a right wakeup call.”

  “Hear, hear!” the cheer went up again, and the spirits flowed.

  A man strode forth from the edge of the fire glow, and stopped before Whill.

  “Is it true? The one named in legend is here before my eyes?”

  “Well met,” said Whill extending a hand.

  “General Mick Reeves of Eldalon,” said Reeves with a wide smile.

  *

  Dirk listened to the conversation through the enchanted studs in his ears, and he was glad he had not been near when Dar’Kwar mentioned him. Whill would have more than a few new questions for him, questions he could not answer. He was glad to learn that Reeves had survived the battle. The general had a few cuts and bruises, and his armor was dented and dirty, but he was alive. Dirk considered waiting for Reeves to be away from Whill, but that would likely be a long time indeed. They were talking in depth about the fate of Eldalon.

  Dirk decided it was time to be on his way. He turned from the cliff of the southern mountain range and climbed the rocks up to the ledge Fyrfrost had landed upon.

  “It is time we were on our way, Fyr—”

  A noise came from somewhere above him on one of the jagged outcroppings of stone. He put up a cautious hand for Fyrfrost to stay hidden. The dragon-hawk had taken on the likeness of the surrounding stone, and even Dirk could hardly find him perched against the mountainside.

  “Who goes there?” he asked the night.

  “I be goin’ here,” Raene called back.

  Dirk sheathed his dagger as the dwarf’s silhouette peeked out over the stone. She made her way down to him deftly, scaling the stone with surprising agility.

  “Ye be on your way then, aye?” she asked as she came to stand before him.

  “What if I am?”

  “I’m thinkin’ it be time I be on me way as well. You headed to this…Felspire?” she asked.

  “What if I am?”

  “I would go with ye, be a good three days march to the strange spire. The lookouts be sayin’ they can see it from the peaks. Long walk that be, me thinks you could use the company anyway.”

  Dirk stared at the feisty dwarf warrior, confused. “You want to go with me?”

  “ʼTis where they be holdin’ Roakore, ain’t it?”

  “I thought your father ordered you to report to your mother?”

  “So? I ain’t for a life o’ cookin’ and cleanin’ and birthin’ an such. And pity on me father for not seein’ me for what I be.”

  Dirk laughed. He liked Raene, and wouldn’t mind having her along. Though, she would never ride on the back of a dragon-hawk.

  “I am afraid you would not agree with my means of travel.”

  “If’n you be meanin’ the magic dragon-bird, you be wrong. He be your mount, then he be good enough for me,” said Raene.

  “You don’t even know me,” Dirk protested.

  “I be knowin’ ye saved me hide today, and ye put me brother to rest. If nothin’, I be owin’ ye the benefit o’ the doubt,” she told him as she eyed the spot where Fyrfrost hid.

  Dirk realized she had been spying on him for a while without his knowledge, and he was more than a little impressed.

  “You would ride a dragon-hawk?” he asked skeptically.

  “I be meanin’ on bustin’ me cousin Roakore outta Felspire. Even if it means ridin’ your dragon-bird,” said Raene.

  “You don’t share your people’s beliefs about the dragons?”

  “I be believin’ everything ain’t as it appears. Me people believe women can’t be warriors, just as they believe all dragons be evil. Who’s to say they always be right?”

  Dirk considered her for a long while. “And if I say no?” he finally asked.

  “Then I be screamin’ dragon,” she threatened, and Dirk had to laugh.

  “I thought you might say that.”

  Raene peered over the ledge to the Pass below, a hint of apprehension on her face. He couldn’t be sure what this kind of defiance meant for the daughter of a dwarf king, but he guessed it wouldn’t be good. For a fleeting moment, her face showed sorrow, regret, and longing. Raene’s expression quickly hardened as she gave a single nod. She had said her goodbyes.

  She followed Dirk to Fyrfrost’s side and mounted the dragon-hawk. To her credit, Dirk sensed no fear of the mount.

  “Best hang on tight,” he told her, and Fyrfrost took four powerful strides and leapt off the side of the mountain.

  *

  Whill bid the king and his soldiers farewell and was about to leave for the western mouth of the Pass, when something in the sky caught his eye. A shadow had passed in front of the illuminated clouds. With his mind sight, he made out the glowing life force of a dragon and two riders. Upon closer inspection, he realized one to be Dirk, and though he couldn’t believe it, he thought a dwarf flew with him. He pondered the idea of confronting the assassin once again; he had a few more questions for him. He decided to let it go for the time being, sensing that this was not the last he would see of the man.

  Good riddance, Dirk Blackthorn, he thought and took to the sky.

  Fueled by the power of Adromida, Whill flew to the western mouth of the Pass before the sun had come up. He passed over legions of dwarven soldiers marching from the mountain. At what must have been the middle of the Pass, the soldiers broke into two directions, east and west. He guessed there had been, or would be, trouble near the Eldalon border.

  He reached the western mouth of the Pass and found a smoldering city of tents and an army of humans and dwarves standing shoulder to shoulder. Beyond the mouth waited an army of Draggard, draquon, and dwargon. With his mind sight, he determined at least a dozen dark elves among them, judging by the bright glow of their stored power. For whatever reason, the dark elf army was not advancing.

  Whill landed before the front line to a chorus of surprised exclamations and shouted warnings.

  “I am Whillhelm Warcrown, King of Uthen-Arden! I come in peace!” he said, holding up his empty hands to the crowd.

  “I ain’t for knowin’ no Whillhelm Whatsit!” yelled a dwarf, pushing through the crowd to face him.

  “Whill of Agora,” Whill clarified.

  “Whill o’…” the dwarf began, and his face lit up with recognition.

  “I heard o’ the name, what you want?” he spat.

  Whill walked forward despite the spears and hatchets aimed at him. Another dwarf pushed past the first and slammed his fist to his chest with a bow.

  “Whillhelm Warcrown, be an honor. Word o’ your exploits an friendship to our cousin Roakore be legend. Orzor Brightstone, at your service.”

  The first dwarf sc
owled at Orzor. “I be the rankin’ dwarf round these parts, shut your gabber and mind your place!” He squared on Whill once again. “Name’s Griznor, I be General o’ the Western Door.”

  “Well met, Griznor,” said Whill with a slam to his chest that seemed to put the dwarf at ease a bit.

  The dwarves and humans alike had begun to stir; his name was whispered by a hundred voices. An Eldalonian knight broke through the ranks and stood before Whill with a shocked expression on his face.

  “Now, here is a sight for sore eyes,” he said, extending his hand

  Whill didn’t recognize the man, but he shook the hand nonetheless. Seeing his searching eyes, the knight introduced himself.

  “Theolus Klemus, I met you in Kell-Torey.”

  “Ah, yes, Rhunis’s friend. You led us to the castle. You were a city guard at the time, if I remember correctly,” said Whill, regarding the knight’s armor.

  Theolus lit up at Whill’s recognition. “Seems I have been promoted again, sign of the times, I suppose,” he replied humbly. “We have lost so many, soon enough farm boys will be knights if they can only hold a blade steady.”

  “The losses have been great, indeed,” said Whill, thinking of Abram and Rhunis.

  “Take the reunion behind me front line, will ye?” Griznor growled.

  Theolus led Whill back through the standing armies. “General Steely will want to speak with you,” he said as they walked. “What of Rhunis, is he with you?”

  “He is not, he and Abram fell in Del’Oradon,” said Whill.

  Theolus stopped short, as if he had been punched in the gut. His jovial demeanor was lost at once, and a shadow spread across his face that seemed to cause him to age before Whill’s eyes.

  “Grave news, indeed,” he said as he began to walk with Whill once more.

  “Yes, they were both good men, and good friends,” Whill replied.

  They walked in silence for a while, Whill remembering his old friends with a smile, and Theolus with a frown of sadness. The dwarves and Eldalonian men alike craned their heads as they went. Word of Whill’s arrival had already spread throughout both armies. Many stopped him to shake his hand, both men and dwarves.

  “What of Fendale?” Whill asked hopefully, but Theolus’s face told him all he needed to know.

  “I am afraid Fendale has fallen, the Light of the North shines no more.”

  Whill’s heart sank. He had only been in Fendale for a short time. However, the city held a special place in his heart. In Fendale, he had won his weight in gold sparring against Rhunis, and it was the last time his life had been relatively normal…back before prophecies, pirates, dark elves, and ancient elven blades. He thought of Freston and his three sons, hoping by some grace of the gods they had survived. He guessed the old ship builder and his sons would have escaped by sea, if nothing else.

  “ʼTis a time of dark tiding, indeed,” said Whill.

  They came to a large tent well inside the mouth of the Pass, and Theolus recited Whill’s title to the standing guard. After a moment, the dumbfounded guard slipped through the tent flap and informed his general.

  “Enter,” he told Whill, unable to meet his gaze.

  Whill entered the tent, followed by Theolus. A big man stood from behind a large wooden desk and extended his hand in greeting.

  “General Steely.”

  “Whillhelm Warcrown, King of Uthen-Arden,” said Whill, shaking his hand.

  The general stopped dead. “King, you say?”

  “Yes. I am the son of the late King Aramonis. I have slain my murderous uncle and reclaimed the throne from the imposter Eadon.”

  Steely gestured to one of the seats opposite his desk, and absently sat after Whill.

  “I have not heard a whisper of this,” he said, regarding Whill with puzzlement.

  “You wouldn’t have, I claimed the throne nigh on three days ago.”

  “I met your father once,” said Steely, searching his face for resemblance. “Good man.”

  “So they say,” said Whill. “What can you tell me of my Eldalonian kin?”

  The general stared, stone-faced.

  “My mother’s family…the Eldalonian Royals?”

  “Pardon my rudeness,” said Steely with a raised hand. He looked to Theolus. “You know this man to be the son of Aramonis?”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Theolus answered with a sincere nod.

  “How do you know such a thing?”

  “Sir, I was introduced to Whill by Rhunis the Dragonslayer, in Kell-Torey. They traveled with King Roakore of the Ro’Sar mountains, and two elves, a prince and princess, I believe, and one by the name of Abram, sir.”

  The general nodded and seemed to be mulling over the information. In the blink of an eye, he seemed to make his decision and all suspicion left his face.

  “Well met, Whillhelm Warcrown.”

  Whill nodded. “What can you tell me of Eldalon? Of my kin?”

  “Eldalon stands upon the brink of collapse. Kell-Torey has fallen, and we lost Fendale recently to a massive naval invasion. Gods damned dark elf ships blasted the city to rubble. Our forces are scattered throughout the kingdom. What word reaches us, comes with the refugees. As for your kin…I am sorry to say the king has fallen, gods bless him.”

  “The others?” Whill asked.

  “Many of the king’s family have been assassinated,” said Steely, and Whill immediately thought of Dirk.

  “A man came round a few weeks back, claiming that he knew of a plot to kill the royal family. T’was likely he who thwarted the attack on Lord Carlsborough. The lord and his family arrived here in one piece a few days back.”

  “What was the man’s name?” Whill asked.

  The general seemed to become uncomfortable all of a sudden; he shifted in his chair and reached for a bottle of rum. He gestured with the glass to Whill who nodded. Steely poured two glasses and took a sip of his.

  “I don’t know his name,” he said, finally.

  “What did he look like?”

  Steely shifted again. “I hear he wore leather armor of all black, and some kind of fancy cloak made of gods knows what.”

  “You hear?” Whill asked puzzled. “Did you not say he came to you?”

  The general squinted and pursed his lips. “I am told he did.”

  Whill eyed the bottle of liquor with a raised brow, suspecting the early-morning-drinking general might not be the best source of information.

  Steely followed Whill’s eyes to the bottle. “Nothing like that,” he assured him. “The devil must have laid some sort of spell on me. I don’t remember a thing about him.”

  “Sounds like Dirk Blackthorn. Did he have a flying mount?”

  “They say he left Carlsborough Castle on one. Got it from a pair of dark elf twins. Who, they say, he killed.”

  “They?” Whill asked.

  “The soldiers who witnessed the fight. Seems the dark elves were after Lord Carlsborough and his family. The mystery man, your Dirk Blackthorn, saved them all. They may well be the only ones left,” said the general, and tossed back another shot.

  Whill tried to hide his surprise. Why would Dirk care about the fate of the Eldalonian royal line? Whill had come here for answers, but seemed to find only more questions.

  “I would like to meet Lord Carlsborough.”

  General Steely nodded to Theolus Klemus, and the man swiftly left the tent to fetch the lord.

  “What can you tell me of the wider world?” asked Steely.

  “Much, but first, how long has the dark elf army been out there?”

  The General glanced to the side with a scowl. “Three days. They attack randomly, and have killed every soldier and citizen seeking refuge. They taunt us by dropping the bodies throughout the camp at night.”

  Whill told General Steely about the dark elf necromancers and the undead soldiers. He spoke of the recent battle in the eastern Pass, among other things.

  Lord Carlsborough came shortly and was pleased to meet him.


  “Seems you might be the heir to the Eldalonian thrown,” Whill informed him after they had become acquainted.

  “Let us hope that isn’t true,” said Carlsborough sincerely. “My family has suffered a grievous loss. Our line goes back nearly a thousand years, and farther back still if you take into account tales of lost records and such. I still can’t believe it myself. Eldalon has never seen a king as great as King Mathus, gods bless his soul.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Whill, and the three tossed back a drink.

  “Now, what can you tell me of the man that saved your family?”

  Lord Carlsborough told him all about his encounter with Dirk, but the tale shed no light as to why he had helped them. Carlsborough only reiterated the assassins had been sent to kill his mother’s family; the question was why. Why would Eadon want him to be the sole heir to the Eldalonian throne? Why had he allowed Whill to reclaim the throne of Uthen-Arden? Had the assassination attempts been completely successful, Whill would have been rightful king of two countries.

  He left the tent with more questions than answers and set his sights upon the Draggard army blocking the way into the Ky’Dren Pass. He boldly made his way through the dwarven and human armies, walked to the halfway point between the two forces, and drew Adromida. The blade surged brightly with power, and the ring of the blade coming out of its sheath echoed loud and long. Draggard began to charge across the snow covered ground at the command of their handlers. He saw many dark elves take to the sky, transforming into large birds and even dragons.

  Whill stopped before the charging horde and summoned the power of Adromida. He held the form of the fire spell in his mind, seeing it clearly, visualizing the release, and letting the power gather. The Draggard closed in to less than ten feet, and Whill shot his open right palm toward them, casting the devastating spell with a cry of rage.

  Silence followed in the wake of his echoing voice, and time seemed to stop. The Draggard who had been charging toward him froze in place and floated slowly off the ground. Abruptly, they fell as sound returned to the world and a concussion like crashing thunder rolled over the Draggard army. The ground exploded beneath them and rolled on like a wave folding over itself and the Draggard, and continuing on to engulf the lot of them. The shockwave was followed by spells of fire and lightning that blasted from Whill’s right hand in rapid succession, peppering the trapped Draggard and leaving nothing but smoldering bones in their wake. Behind him, the dwarves and humans charged, and Whill took to the sky after the dark elves.