Kingdoms in Chaos

by Michael James Ploof

  The age of the elves in Agora had passed.

  Chapter 6

  Father of Dragons

  For two weeks Reshikk traveled east, taking his time, and eating often to replenish his strength. When he arrived at the island he flew a wide circle around it, and to his surprise, he found many dragons about. The call went out when he was spotted, and his kin began to gather at the mouth of a cave. Three of them took to the skies, flying defensive crisscross patterns in the air, which led Reshikk to believe that there were eggs in the dens below the earth. The notion was heartening.

  He gave a great roar and hovered in the air, fully extending his wings, allowing the other dragons a glimpse of his grandeur. Their roars changed from threatening to inquisitive, and they flew wide circles around him, none daring to get too close. He reached out with his mind, calling to each of them to land and bow before him. He sensed a great confusion followed by fear and awe, and discovered from their thoughts that dragons no longer communicated in such a way.

  Have I been gone so long? Reshikk wondered.

  Slowly, he descended upon the island and landed at the foot of the volcano. The dragons followed suit and gathered before him, six in all. They were small compared to Reshikk, whose wingspan stretched nearly two-hundred feet, and whose tail was half as long. Each of his scales were as large as a warrior’s shield, his teeth were as long as lances, and hundreds of long spikes lined his back and tail.

  One by one the dragons bowed before him, and Reshikk was glad to see one who would not, presumably, the alpha male.

  “Who are you,” asked the large black.

  “I am Reshikk,” he said loudly, taking a step forward, “the last of the ancients!”

  After some hesitation, the black bravely stepped forward. “The ancients were killed by the elves of Drindellia more than ten thousand years ago.”

  Reshikk nodded. “You are mistaken, not all of the ancients were killed. I stand before you as proof.”

  “If you are an ancient, then you must possess the powers of old,” said the black, offering up a small challenge.

  “Behold!” Reshikk roared, and shot a streaming jet of green acid at the black’s feet. The acid melted through the rock easily, and Reshikk moved his head from side to side, creating a gaping fissure in the ground between them. When he had finished, toxic fumes rose up slowly from the crack, and the dragons backed away, awestruck.

  The black quickly bowed before Reshikk, laying his wings out on the ground at his sides. “Ancient One, forgive my ignorance.”

  Reshikk towered over them from across the gully. “I have waited millennia for freedom from my eternal prison. Now, I am free, and I will have my revenge on those who imprisoned me! Join me, and together we shall bathe the world in flame!”

  The dragons rose up and shot jets of flame into the sky, and roared victoriously before their Lord.

  “What is your name?” Reshikk asked the black dragon.

  “I am Ez’Rah, my Lord.”

  “Come with me, Ez’Rah, we have much to discuss.”

  Reshikk stood perched on the edge of the volcano away from the others, listening to Ez’Rah’s account of the last ten thousand years. He was shocked to learn of the destruction of Drindellia, and the defeat of the Agoran dragons at the hands of the humans and dwarves. He had lived for a time in the land that was now called Agora, but that had been long ago when the world was young, and neither humans, dwarves, nor elves lived there. The three races had been created by the gods long after the dragons came to being, and the lesser creatures had spread across the world like a plague.

  His anger welled with every passing minute as he listened to Ez’Rah’s account. Reshikk was shamed to hear of the dragons’ defeat, and that they had been reduced to dwindling clans living on remote islands far from the mainland.

  “How could this have happened?” Reshikk roared, turning on the lesser dragon with rage-filled eyes.

  Ez’Rah bowed low before him. “It shames me to speak these words, my lord.”

  “How have our kind been banished by these tiny creatures? Tell me!” Reshikk insisted.

  “The elves have ever had powerful magic, and the dwarves are ferocious beasts. Some have the power to move stone.”

  “And the humans? What is it that makes them so formidable?”

  “Their numbers, my lord. While our numbers have dwindled, theirs, all of them, have multiplied greatly.”

  “Father of Dragons!” Reshikk cursed. “But I have awoken to a nightmare.”

  The black bowed his head further, until his horns scraped the stone. “We have failed our ancestors. Forgive us, my lord.”

  The black’s weakness infuriated Reshikk, and he had the urge to tear the coward apart limb by limb. However, he settled himself, and turned to look out over the ocean once more.

  “Tell me of the disappearance of magic that you spoke of,” he said.

  Ez’Rah told him what the dragons knew, how the war of the dark elves had ended, and how one called Kellallea ascended to the heavens and became a goddess, taking with her all magic in the process.

  Kellallea, the name was all too familiar to Reshikk, for she had been one of the elves responsible for his imprisonment. When the gods decided to no longer interfere with the world they had created, Reshikk and the ancient dragons had set out to destroy the elves. The father of dragons secretly blessed them with powerful abilities, like the greens’ acid venom. And because of the dragon god’s interference, the elven gods granted great magic to the elves, so that they might have a chance to defend themselves against the ancients. A great war ensued, and the ancients were defeated. Once again the treaty of the gods was ratified, and Reshikk, the last survivor, was banished to his underground prison. Many eggs survived, but they were stripped of their God-given abilities, and became the lesser dragons that now roamed the world.

  Reshikk had been spared as part of the truce, but the father of dragons told him that he would one day be freed to exact his revenge.

  Now, that day had come.

  “Go now and tell the others to prepare the birthing chambers,” said Reshikk.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  When Ez’Rah had left, Reshikk raised his horned-head to the sky and gave a roar that could be heard for miles around. “Father of dragons! You have freed me from my eternal prison. I will avenge the ancients, I will bathe the world in fire. In your name I shall enslave the lesser races, and once again the glory of your destruction shall be known!”

  Reshikk, my son.

  “Father,” said Reshikk in reverence. “I cry to hear what has happened to our kind. How is it that I have finally been freed?”

  There is a new elven goddess, and she has broken the pact of old. Now, because of her folly, the gods are free to effect the mortal world once more. I name you my champion.

  “What would you have me do?”

  Gather my children to you, plant your ancient seed, and build an army the likes of which have not been seen in an age.

  Reshikk grinned to himself. “As you wish, Father, so shall it be done.”

  Chapter 7

  Tortured Souls

  Aurora Snowfell wanted nothing more than to die. She stood between Zander and Azzeal wishing that she could find the strength to draw her sword and attack the dark elf necromancer, but she could not move against her master. He turned to her, his dark tattoos swirling about his face in sharp-edged patterns. The dark lines flowed with his smirk, causing it to appear unnaturally long. He continued the speech to the lich commanders without skipping a beat.

  “—I want them all. Every last man, woman, and child, dead.”

  She ground her teeth and a pensive breath escaped her with a growling shudder. Try as she might she could not even speak out against him and his atrocities. He eyed her, and cocked his head as if listening to a whispered secret. Their eyes met, hers burning with impotent rage, and his silently laughing. “Right you are, Lady Snowfell.” He straightened. “The infants as well. Slay them
all!”

  Aurora shook with pent-up emotion, the conflict causing a fire in her gut that burned like the sun. She reveled in the pain—she deserved it. Death should have come to her long ago on the snowy fields of Volnoss. Rather than lead her people with Azzeal and the elves into battle and certain death—honorable death—she had betrayed the elf. Now he stood beside her, doomed to the same fate, that of a lich under the control of a dark elf. She knew not the fate of her people, and she didn’t want to know. As Chieftain of the Seven Tribes, Aurora had ordered all able-bodied men and women into battle, leaving the old and the young to care for each other while she led her people to war alongside the dark elves and their monstrous creations.

  They had lost.

  Eadon had been defeated, and Aurora’s entire army destroyed by Whill and the armies of dwarves and men. She had died in that battle, and in those moments beyond the realm of the living she had stood in judgment, naked in mind and body, before the barbarian gods. And they had cast her to hell. Zander plucked her from the abyss, raising her body once more, and enslaving her with his dark power.

  Now her life was a living hell, and she was helpless to escape it.

  A surge of energy from Zander to all near to him jolted her from her tormented pondering. “—for tonight we shall have such a summoning of the spirits as has never been seen before! Flank them from all directions, and attack with the rising of the moon!”

  Aurora stood before her army on the hill overlooking the sleepy village. Everything had a greenish tint to it, due to her glowing eyes. She wore the same furs she had died in, the same armor as well. In her hand she held a seven-foot-long sword, its blade stained red with the blood of her victims. She had been forced to kill untold multitudes over the last months as Zander slowly made his way across Northern Uthen-Arden and around Shierdon, destroying all who stood before him, and then absorbing them into his legions. There was no elven magic left in the world, but the power at Zander’s disposal had never been of Orna Catorna; his was a dark, ancient power.

  The horizon glowed with the light of the coming moon, and as the first sliver of light broke over the treetops, the undead hordes charged forth silently through the foggy valley. Aurora raised her sword and began across the recently sown fields of barley. As she gained momentum, she felt the ground beneath her begin to rumble—thousands charged behind her.

  The warning cry went up at the wall. Power surged through Aurora as Zander’s commands echoed in her mind. She screamed against the pressure and charged the wall. A command rang out from the wall, and the twang of bows joined in the chorus of shouting voices. An arrow hit Aurora in the shoulder. She shuddered. Another one hit her in the leg and she cried out in ecstasy. The archers frantically tried to reload as the army closed in with inhuman speed. Aurora’s long legs propelled her seven-foot frame faster than any of the others, and she was the first to reach the wall.

  A wagon had been abandoned outside the gate when the charge began. Aurora leaped off the wheel and cleared the ten-foot wall easily. She landed on the wooden battlements and came down hard with her sword on the first man she saw.

  The soldiers stared in awe at the dark, giant beauty with glowing eyes standing before them. One of the men sprang forth with a spear and stabbed her through the gut. Aurora cried out as she reveled in the cold, sweet, burning pain. Another guard charged and she impaled him with a lightning fast strike. With another swing she chopped the shaft protruding from her gut in half and batted two men off the battlements with a swift blow. She was ordered not to maim the soldiers but kill them clean.

  Aurora obliged.

  By the time her forces had scaled the wall, a dozen men lay dead at her feet. She leaped from the wall and landed on the cobblestone. Alarm bells, shouts, and screams were ringing out all over the village. Aurora roared against the nightmarish sounds, unable to stop herself from exacting Zander’s will upon the people. She found herself charging through the streets and cutting down men and women alike.

  Two soldiers blocked the way into a two-story cottage. Inside, she could hear the pathetic mewling of the frightened civilians. Her sword cut through the body of the guard to her left from neck to torso. The other stabbed forward, and Aurora grabbed him by the throat and snapped his neck with a quick jerk. Her wound glowed bright green and closed, and with it went the beautiful pain.

  Furious, she chopped at the big wooden door with her mighty sword. Three swings had it hanging from its hinges. A young man stood before her bravely, holding a fire poker in his right hand and an iron pan in the other.

  RUN! Her mind screamed to him, though she could not.

  Three crossbow bolts slammed into her armor from the side. Relieved, she turned from the young man in the doorway and charged the shooters. They reloaded their darts quickly, but not quick enough. Aurora closed the distance between them in two heartbeats. Her sword found the chest of one, a boot to the head laid out another. One of the remaining men raised his crossbow and fired. The bolt grazed her cheek as she twirled and slashed his throat. The final crossbowman quickly fled but found the blade of an undead soldier.

  Aurora turned back toward the cottage and found that the hordes had already finished them off.

  In only half an hour Zander’s hordes killed everyone in the village. Aurora stood on the hill as she had before the carnage began. Azzeal watched beside her, silent as usual. She knew there was something left of the elf she had betrayed, but only rarely did his consciousness emerge.

  She noted that his blade was also stained with the blood of humans.

  The village below began to glow, and Zander’s necromantic spell echoed across the fields and up the hill. The green glow converged on the square, and soon many lights began to sprout up, illuminating the churning clouds overhead.

  When he had finished, the undead villagers began to file out of their now burning village. Aurora caught sight of a group of undead children. The wounds that had killed them were still fresh, and their eyes glowed with the same green light as all the others. A baby scurried after them like an insect. Aurora turned her head in horror, wishing once again to be free from her living nightmare.

  Through eyes of glowing green, Azzeal watched Aurora silently weeping. He smiled to himself—something still remained of the woman she had been. Behind her, the village burned brightly, and the silhouettes of the newest members of the undead army joined the ranks. Through his link to Zander, he felt pride, satisfaction.

  Azzeal hid back in the depths of his mind, lest he be discovered and devoured. He needed to be patient; the time would come for him to exert his will. Until then he would store his strength. There would be only one chance, and there was no room for mistakes.

  Chapter 8

  Hope and Despair

  Tarren stared at his old, weathered hands. The knuckles were knotted and swollen, the lines on the long boney fingers running like wood grain, yet the nails were thick and strong. He sat in wonder at all the things those hands had done, the things that they had created, the magic they had once wielded. He often stared at those hands—hands that were not his own.

  “Are you paying attention?” Lunara asked.

  Tarren glanced at her. “Sorry,” he said in the Watcher’s voice.

  Lunara stared. There was compassion in her eyes, but also a steely resolve. “Am I bothering you? I know that geography isn’t your favorite, but—”

  “What’s the point?” Tarren asked, head bowed. He couldn’t look at her.

  She sighed deeply and sat back from the table. The wind curled the edges of the map of Agora he was supposed to be studying. It was a warm breeze, a soft whisper on the skin. Below their veranda the tulips swayed. The castle grounds were brightly lit by the warm sun sitting high in a cloudless sky.

  “What’s the point of what?” she asked.

  “My learning all of this…learning anything…what is the point?”

  “Your sulking can wait until the lesson is complete.”

  “I’m trapped in the b
ody of a thousand-year-old elf!”

  “Actually, the Watcher is much older than—”

  “I think I’m dying.”

  For a moment she was speechless.

  “Don’t be foolish. If you’re feeling unwell, perhaps you should speak with the Watcher, he will know how best to treat…himself.”

  Tarren turned back to gaze upon the garden and its many vine-covered arches. “I don’t want to talk to him. It’s…weird, seeing myself like that.” He glanced at her, and saw her searching eyes.

  She had no answers, no one did. There was no elven magic left in the world, there was nothing anyone could do. When Eadon had come for Tarren, the Watcher had somehow switched consciousness with him. The act had saved his life, but now he was condemned to a slow death in an ancient elf’s body.

  “Hope,” Lunara said softly.

  “What?”

  “You asked me, what is the point of it all, and my answer is…hope. Whill shall find a way. He always does.”

  “No,” said Tarren. He silently cursed his swelling throat and burning eyes. “Whill has no magic now, either. He’s just like everybody else.”

  Her eyes lit with a fire that Tarren had seldom seen as of late. Tears fell, yet a smile found her face. “He is so much more than that. He saved us all when he gave up the power to the goddess Kellallea. With her blessing, you will be restored to your body, and the Watcher to his.” She gently took his face in her hands and rested her forehead against his. “As Kellallea is my witness, you will be saved. I promise you that.”

  Tarren could hold it in no longer. He suddenly burst into tears and let himself be comforted by her soft embrace and soothing words.

  Whill watched from the balcony as Lunara comforted Tarren. The boy was Whill’s ward. He had sworn to protect him…and he had failed. Now, without the magic of the elves, he was unable to do anything.