A Crown Of War (Book 4)

by Michael Ploof

  Chapter Forty

  Green Wood

  Fyrfrost carried Dirk and Raene away from the Ky’Dren Pass steadily eastward toward Felspire. With his hood drawn tight against the blustering wind and the protection of his enchanted cloak, Dirk was not chilled by the biting wind. Raene had no such protection as she sat, pressed against his back. The night had gotten steadily colder since they left the mountain range of her birth, and Dirk new they needed to put down soon. When asked, Raene insisted she was fine, but her chattering teeth told him the truth.

  Sparse forests and outcroppings of trees dotted the northern parts of the Thendor Plains, but Dirk was able to find a suitable location from their high vantage point. He steered them toward a thin coppice running the length of a ridge, and put down at its edge. Raene leapt from the saddle and landed square. She crouched, looking and listening to the surroundings.

  “We are alone,” Dirk assured her. “I scouted the area before we landed.”

  “Bah,” Raene replied in a near whisper as she scanned the area. “I been right behind ye when ye did, and I ain’t sure there wasn’t nothin’ down here.”

  “Trust me, I have means to see what you cannot. We are alone. Gather what wood you can find,” said Dirk.

  “This wood be green,” she said, breaking a small tree in half and having to peel it apart at the middle. “Doubt any deadwood worth tryin’ to burn be ’round here.”

  “We aren’t starting a fire with striking stone and tinder; we have a dragon. Trust me, the greenwood will burn.”

  Raene shrugged and went to chopping the small trees with her hatchet. Like her male counterparts, she carried four of the weapons strapped to her thighs.

  Dirk walked to the ledge of the ridge. Many such rims and rolling hills dotted the plains. In the moonlight, the smaller hills looked like nothing more than snow dunes blown by the wind, stretching off for miles in the quiet night. The ridges reached higher, and stretched west to east: roots of the distant mountain range. They were still in the shadow of the mountain, having traveled only a few hours and with no haste.

  From his pocket, he withdrew the wolf figurine and summoned Chief; he dared not bring Krentz forth yet. Chief swirled out of the trinket and solidified before him. From behind, Raene gasped. Dirk turned to find Raene standing wide-eyed twenty feet away. She had dropped many of the felled trees when she stopped in her tracks, and now stood with her arms out, holding a few of the remaining branches.

  “What kind o’ devilry be this?” she asked, shocked.

  “This is Chief,” Dirk laughed, and the spirit wolf wagged his bushy tail and cocked his head at the dwarf. He playfully pounced on the ground before him and suddenly sprang at her.

  Raene backpedalled and tripped, falling on her backside and sending the small branches flying. She had left her shield and axe where they had landed, and now frantically scrambled away from the big wolf. “Call off your dog, or I’ll kill him!” she screamed, brandishing a hatchet.

  “Be nice, Chief,” Dirk laughed. “He won’t harm you.”

  “Stop right there!” Raene commanded the playful wolf as she got to her feet and cocked back her hatchet. Chief heeded her command, stopped, and sat a few feet before her, wagging his tail lazily in the snow. She slowly extended her hand to pet his head. Soon, she had put her hatchet away and was scratching behind his ears, though she still cocked her head back from getting too close to his mouth.

  “Chief,” said Dirk, and the spirit wolf came bounding over to him, panting happily. “Is Krentz all right?”

  To Dirk’s disappointment, Chief gave a small whine and licked his paw.

  “Still recovering, huh?”

  Chief gave a small bark.

  Dirk realized he had saved her from the necromancer at the last moment. Krentz had become translucent, and had begun to glow with the green light of the lich lord’s spell. He decided to give her another day to recuperate.

  “Chief, watch the perimeter until morning.”

  At once, the spirit-wolf turned to mist and disappeared among the surrounding coppice.

  Raene had gathered a big bundle of trees and thin branches. Dirk built up the firewood and stepped away as Fyrfrost shot a jet of dragonsbreath, igniting the green wood quickly. The dragon fire melted the thin snow cover around the fire pit, leaving blackened earth and scorched patches of grass. His job done, the dragon-hawk leapt up into the sky, leaving a small blizzard of displaced snow whirling around the camp.

  “Chief and Fyrfrost will guard us while we sleep. Morning will come quickly; I suggest you get some shut-eye.”

  Raene didn’t argue, though her stomach growled for food. She had gotten little sleep in the last week since the invasion of the northern mountain range. She laid her bedroll opposite Dirk’s on the scorched earth and soon fell into a deep sleep.

  Dirk fed the fire enough to last until he woke, and lay back looking up at what stars could be seen peeking between the quickly passing clouds. He worried for Krentz. She had recovered quickly from the effects of the necromancer on the road to Ky’Dren, but the latest foe had been much more powerful than the other dark elf. He hoped she had suffered no permanent damage.

  He had been impressed by Whill’s display of power during the battle for the Pass. He seemed to have learned much since the last time he had seen him. Still, with the powerful elven blade in his possession, Whill had been vulnerable to the necromancer and her otherworldly powers. This disturbed Dirk greatly, for surely there would be other such dark elves in and around Felspire. Likely, Eadon possessed such necromantic powers, and even though Whill wielded Adromida, it would be useless against the dark elf if he attacked Whill as the necromancer had. Thinking back on what he had witnessed, he realized the dark elf woman had been trying to possess Whill.

  A thought came to him, and he sat up with a jolt at the grave revelation. The answers to the riddle came rushing to him. He finally understood why Eadon had cared to make Whill the sole heir to both Uthen-Arden and Eldalon, why Eadon had created a blade that he himself could not wield, and his true intentions in trying to corrupt Whill with those months of torture…Eadon wanted to become Whill.

  Dirk believed Eadon’s plan likely would succeed, given what he recently had seen of Whill’s behavior. He thought back on the fight scene again and again, paying attention to what he had seen of Whill’s use of the elven arts. He remembered now clearly how Whill had pulled the life force from his victims as Dirk had seen Krentz do many times. Whill did not follow the sun elves’ strict codes and magical laws. He took from his victims as readily as any dark elf might. He thought back on what he knew of the two blades of power. One was the greatest power given, and, as such, could not be taken, but only given. The other was the greatest power taken, and, as such, could not be given, only taken. The nature of the power of the blades was balance, and seemingly a failsafe against the attainment of both. Whill would never voluntarily hand over the power of Adromida, and Eadon understood as much, for it would mean a defeat worse than death. Neither did he have the power to defeat Eadon. How then, Dirk wondered, would Whill destroy the dark elf?

  Chapter Forty-one

  Teera

  The days passed in a blur of rushing landscapes and circling stars. Whill had solicited the help of the Ky’Dren dwarves; they would be marching to Felspire and converge upon the final battle with the elves from the south. Whill had intended on uniting the three races against the dark elves, but Eadon had successfully neutralized the human Kingdoms. Uthen-Arden had not officially accepted Whill as their King, and the scattered Uthen-Arden forces who had not become the dark elves’ undead were beyond his influence. Shierdon was under the rule of the imposter Travvikonis, and Whill had seen many of their soldiers among the undead. Isladon would be no help to him either. The kingdom had barely survived the initial invasion by Uthen-Arden under Whill’s uncle. A new king sat upon the Isladonian throne, an inexperienced king half the age of his father, who had inherited a kingdom in shambles. He would have en
ough of a challenge seeing the kingdom through the coming winter, let alone offer any soldiers to the battle of Felspire. He had no time to move such an army anyhow. For the same reason, the Elgar dwarves would be of no help. Likely, a rift had opened within Elgar as well, and they would be busy fending off the attack. Lest they had preemptively set out more than a week before, they would not make it in time.

  Whill wasn’t sure how the fight with Eadon would end; he was not confident he would succeed. All he could do was try. He owed the people of Agora that much, at least.

  He had resisted the urge to go immediately to the aid of Roakore and Avriel, knowing it was a trap. Imagining what was being done to them was agony, especially Avriel. Neither she nor Roakore would want Whill to fall for the trap on their account. Too much was at stake to be controlled by impulsive emotions. He had agreed to face Eadon with Zerafin, and he would abide by his promise.

  He flew all day and night, east from the Ky’Dren Pass toward his childhood home, Sidnell. He had not seen Teera and the girls in years, and he wished to say his goodbyes and warn them of the coming doom.

  By nightfall, the eastern coast of Shierdon came into view, along with its many lighthouses dotting the rocky cliffs, warning sailors of the jagged rocks along the unapproachable parts of the shoreline. He drew back the power of Adromida and slowed considerably, lest he crash into the earth like a meteor from the heavens. He came down on the sands of the quiet beach, sands speckled with the recently fallen snow.

  Whill had seen many burnt out towns and destroyed villages across both Uthen-Arden and parts of Shierdon. The warring had not reached these parts. There was little need for the dark elves to attack here; Shierdon had been compromised nearly twelve months ago.

  He walked from the beach and up the road leading from the harbor. The village was quiet at this time of night−nearly an hour before the sun would rise. The only lights coming from the shops he passed came from the baker’s and few others. Teera would still be asleep at this time, but he doubted she would mind the intrusion. He soon came to the cottage he had spent the first half of his life. Those days seemed to be a lifetime ago, as if memories from a dream not his. To his surprise, the lights were on inside. He knocked on the door three times, loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough as to not disturb the neighbors.

  “Get the door, Ella,” Teera called from inside. Her voice was music to his ears.

  Someone approached the door from inside the house. “If it is more sick, we will need to begin moving them to the healing ho-” Ella opened the door and froze as she saw Whill.

  “Hey, sis,” Whill smiled.

  Tears pooled in the corners of Ella’s eyes and, for a moment, she was speechless. Finally, she flung the door wide and threw herself into his arms.

  “Whill!” she shrieked and hugged him tight.

  She backed once more to look at him with wonder in her eyes, and again she hugged him. “By the gods, Whill, it is good to see you,” she laughed wetting his cheeks with her tears.

  Over her shoulder, Teera turned the corner. Their eyes met, and she stopped and wavered. One hand went to the table to steady herself, and the other clutched her chest.

  “Whill?” she smiled and came rushing to him with the sudden agility of a woman half her size and age. She wrapped her arms around him in a crushing hug, leaving Ella trapped between them.

  The two women ushered him into the cottage. A kettle was set upon the hearth for tea, and as always, Teera fussed over him, offering drink and food or anything he might need.

  “Tea will be fine, for now,” said Whill, looking to the sickrooms off to the right. “What’s going around?”

  “Some fear it is the beginnings of a plague, but I am not sure yet. Started about a week ago, after the voice spoke from the heavens,” said Teera, looking to Whill with concern.

  “The voice spoke your name, Whill,” Ella said in a hushed voice, as if relaying secret information.

  “It is a long story,” he began.

  Whill told Teera and Ella everything that had happened since Fendale, when his life had so utterly begun to change. He told them he was the son of the fallen king of Uthen-Arden, and saw no surprise in Teera’s face. As he had guessed, she had known all along. What did surprise her was the story of the prophecy, and, when he mentioned the blade Adromida, her eyes darted to the sword at his hip in amazement. The tale eventually led to the battle in the Del’Oradon arena, and Whill reluctantly told them about Abram. Teera had not asked where Abram was when he arrived. And, when he told her of his death, she seemed less shocked than sorrowful, as if she had guessed as much, but been too afraid to ask. Newfound tears fell for his lost mentor, but rather than relive the pain of the loss, Whill turned to stories of fond memory.

  They talked well into morning, until Teera’s sense of duty forced her to the sickrooms to tend to the ill. Whill went with her and found four cots in each room. They were all full of children who looked to be on their deathbeds.

  “These are the worst of them. There are dozens more throughout the village. The sickness starts as a small cough, and soon turns into dehydrating expulsions of every sort. It is hard to treat them, as nothing can be kept down,” Teera informed him as she wiped the forehead of a six-year-old with a damp cloth.

  “I can help them,” said Whill.

  Teera’s glance fell to the blade at his hip, and her eyes lit with wonderment. She stepped aside and looked on with anticipation. Whill laid his hand upon the forehead of the dying child and slowly stretched his consciousness out and into her body. With his mind sight, he found the intrusion, and the damage the sickness caused. The disease spread throughout her entire body, and though she tried to fight it off, her body was losing the fight quickly. Through the contact of his hand, he sent a blue, writhing tendril of healing energy into the child, and eradicated every trace of the disease in her system. Whill opened his eyes and found the girl’s big, bright ones staring up at him.

  “Are you magic?” she asked, and sat up with all the energy of a normal child.

  Teera could not help but cry tears of joy as all of her frustration over not being able to help the dying children dissipated in an instant. Whill healed the rest of them, but asked Teera to keep them as long as he was in town, lest his healing cause the kind of riot he had seen in Sherna after healing the stillborn infant.

  Bella soon fetched her sisters, who, like her, had grown into strong, handsome women. The eldest, Mael, had four children, and Elzabeth, the middle daughter, had two. Ella, though a year older than Whill at twenty-one, had not, as of yet, taken a husband, a fact Teera did not hide her disapproval of. Like her mother, Ella was a born healer, and did not have the time to devote to such romantic endeavors, choosing rather to focus on the arts of the craft.

  Whill spent the day with his family remembering old times, often until they were all laughing until they cried. The loneliness he had been carrying with him dissipated, and he forgot he was Whill of Agora and Whillhelm Warcrown. To them, he was plain old Whill, magic sword or not.

  They enjoyed a dinner of chicken and biscuits, and emptied a few bottles of wine Teera had been saving for a special occasion. Soon, night was upon them once more, and Whill was reminded that he had to leave. He wished he could stay, he wished it had all been just a bad dream, and Abram would come through the door any minute. The women sensed the moment coming as well, and again the tears began to fall.

  “I don’t know how this is all going to turn out. I may never see you again. You must be prepared to leave these lands,” he told Teera.

  “Where will we go?” she asked. “If this Eadon is as powerful as you say, and all of Agora comes under his rule, where shall we hide?”

  “Find passage to the elven lands. Tell them who you are. They will protect you as well as possible,” he offered.

  “I am too old for all of that. Besides, I am needed here.”

  Whill began to argue, but Teera took his head in her hands as she had when he was little, when
she wanted his full attention. “I believe in you Whill. I always have. Since the day my brother brought the son of King Aramonis home to me, I have believed you would one day grow to become a great man, and that man stands before me now. Abram would be so very proud of you, Whill, as am I.”

  Whill broke down, and Teera held him as she so often had in his youth. Though he did not share her assessment of him, her opinion meant a lot to him. He got a hold of himself, and as she once had, Teera wiped his tears.

  “You are the bravest man I have ever known, Whill. I am sorry your life had to be one of such peril. I think you were chosen for a reason. If there is anyone out there who can do it, you can,” she said with a loving smile.

  “I love you, Aunt Teera,”

  “I love you too, son.”

  Whill left them standing at the door, waving their goodbyes, and never looked back.

  Chapter Forty-two

  The Only Way

  Aurora, Zander, and Azzeal entered Felspire and made their way to Eadon’s audience chamber. The dark lord sat upon a throne of crystal which hummed and pulsed like the surrounding spire.

  “It is with ill tidings that you come to me now,” said Eadon.

  Zander bowed at his feet, Aurora followed his lead. “Veolindra has failed you my lord. We would have taken the Pass, but Whill of Agora showed up and destroyed our forces.”

  Eadon didn’t seem bothered by the news. He looked to Aurora and she turned her gaze to the floor.

  “You have both failed me,” he said, standing.