Kingdoms in Chaos

by Michael James Ploof

  Orrin finished his drink in one gulp, and Roakore matched him.

  “Me king, dragons be gatherin’ on Drakkar Island.”

  “Bah, there been dragons livin’ there for centuries.”

  “Aye, but they be gatherin’ in force, sire. Some reports say there be near a hundred.”

  Roakore choked into his refilled glass. “Hundreds! What kind o’ tales ye been listening to, eh?”

  “Traders from Eldalon, numerous sources in Shierdon, and sailors from Uthen-Arden, sire. Not to mention me own scouts. Returned with the news not an hour ago.”

  Roakore slowly stroked his beard with one grizzled hand as he considered the news. “Ye be thinkin’ they’re gonna make a move on Agora?”

  Orrin nodded gravely. “I be thinkin’ such and more. Humans and elves be weak right now. But it ain’t human and elven lands they be after. We be the closest mountain to the island. We’ll be the first to be hit.”

  Roakore spat on the floor. “If it ain’t one damned thing, it’s their mother.” He slammed the table, causing the two glasses and bottle of whiskey to jump. The bottle teetered and wobbled and began to fall over. Roakore caught it up and pulled the cork out with his teeth and poured them both a steep glass.

  “I ain’t sittin’ here waitin’ for the attack. We’ll hit ‘em and hit ‘em hard where they live.”

  Orrin’s eyes widened. “You propose an assault.”

  “You’re godsdamned right. They think they’re goin’ to come bangin’ at me door without a what-for, they got another thing comin’.” He turned to the door. “Guard!”

  An armored dwarf hurried into the room. “Me king!”

  “Call the council together and do it right quick.”

  “Yes, me king!”

  “We’ll give ‘em a damned what-for all right,” said Roakore. He paced the room, his brow furled in thought. “Orrin, how be the Silverhawk chicks coming along?”

  “They be six months old now, sire, nearly full grown.”

  “Good,” said Roakore. “We just might be needin’ ‘em soon.”

  When all the members of the council arrived, Roakore wasted no time with pleasantries.

  “Listen up and listen good. We got a horde o’ dragons brewin’ on Drakkar Island.”

  The dwarves shared looks of surprise and outraged exclamations. Roakore walked slowly around the table, letting them simmer.

  “We’re goin’ to hit ‘em and hit ‘em hard. General Hammerfell.”

  “Me king.”

  “Put the word out that I’m lookin’ for five hundred volunteers for a strike on Drakkar Island. Let it be known that few or none o’ these brave dwarves be returnin’. They’ll be brought to the island under dark o’ night stealthily-like, and seek out the den o’ the beasts. With dragonsbreath bombs strapped to their backs, they’ll blow the beasts back to the hells. If they die, they’ll die fightin’ the devil dragons, and each one o’ them be securin’ their place in the mountain o’ the gods.”

  Orrin slammed his fist to his chest and gave a sharp nod. “Me king, I be the first to volunteer for the mission.”

  Roakore stopped in his circling of the table and regarded Orrin. “Now that be a soldier, ain’t no doubt.” He slammed his fist to his chest and gave Orrin a deep bow, which the council mimicked.

  Orrin stood proudly with lips pursed tight behind his proud beard. “Thank ye, me king.”

  Roakore continued. “I want riders sent out to all surrounding towns and villages of Isladon. Roakore’s halls be open to anyone seekin’ shelter against this firestorm.”

  “But, me king, we don’t have enough—”

  “I be speakin’ here, Silverbeard! And I ain’t fer givin’ a shyte what we got and ain’t got. If we ain’t got it, FIND IT! Or else I’ll find me another governor o’ foodstuffs.”

  “Yes, me king.”

  “This be how ye be makin’ hundred-year allies, Silverbeard. Keep your mouth shut. Ye might be learnin’ somethin’.”

  “Me apologies, me k—”

  “Furthermore! I want forces sent to keep guard over all working farms within a hundred miles o’ this mountain. Get ‘em to harvestin’ what’s ready and gather up their livestock. Hatchet!”

  “Me king?”

  “Send word to Ky’Dren that we be takin’ all the help they want to be givin’. And send word to Elgar, as well. Might be a time afore the dragons strike, best they be on their way.”

  Roakore set his gnarled knuckles on the table and leaned in, eyeing each dwarf in turn with a murderous grin. “I want every post fortified. I want all mining to cease until further notice. Get the furnaces burnin’. I want to hear nothing but the forgin’ o’ dwarven steel and dragon spears. We’re goin’ to rid Agora o’ dragons once and for all!”

  The council members began to cheer and pound on the table and Roakore ordered a maiden to pour them all a tall mug of beer. He clanged glasses with Orrin and cheered the brave dwarf.

  Chapter 32

  Blasphemous Words

  “Me King!”

  Nah’Zed hurried to catch up with Roakore as he left the council meeting. “Me King!” she yelled, when she dropped her scrolls and was forced to stop.

  Roakore kept right on going.

  “Damnit, Roakore. Wait!”

  Roakore froze, and turned on his heel, leveling her with an inquisitive scowl. She gathered up her papers calmly and stood before him. “What’s gotten into ye?”

  “Come again?” he said, eyeing her skeptically.

  “Yer wives say ye be drinkin’ till all hours o’ the night. I smell it on ye every time we meet. And ye be makin’ rash decisions without me council.”

  Roakore huffed, and puffed, and didn’t quite know what to say.

  She went on. “Furthermore, I ain’t the only one who be noticin’.”

  Roakore threw up his arms. “Ye been talkin’ about such things with me wives? Can a dwarf have no privacy?”

  “It be me job to be knowin’ about me king…sire. And I be worried.”

  “Worried?” Roakore paced the stone tunnel, eyeing her. “What there to be worried about?”

  Nah’Zed found her courage, and looked her king in the eye. “What be that book ye always be pourin’ over?”

  Roakore was speechless. He considered her for a moment, pondering.

  “Follow me.”

  Nah’Zed took the Book of Ky’Dren with shaking hands. She sat it on her lap and gently traced a finger over the elven words on the leather cover.

  “Why is it written in Elvish?” she asked.

  “I ain’t for knowin’. Mayhaps Ky’Dren knew elvish. I compared it to writings in the archives. It be his hand writin’, there aint no doubt.”

  “What does it say?” Nah’Zed asked with growing excitement.

  Roakore went to his desk and opened a low drawer. From it, he withdrew a black, leather bound book with no title. “I been spending what free time I be getting translating the book. Finished it a few weeks ago. It’s the same story I seen in Whill’s mind. Here.”

  If Nah’Zed had been shaking before, now she was trembling. She took the black-covered book and opened it slowly, causing the page to shake like a leaf.

  “Herein lies the tale o’ the Book o’ Ky’Dren, found in Drindellia by Roakore o’ Ro’Sar.”

  Nah’Zed read through the entire tome long into the night. It seemed that she too needed a drink soon after the third chapter. She spat when she read about the dragon migration. And kicked the side of the desk when the found how the elves refused to help the dwarves of Drindellia. And she cried when she read of the slaughter, and defeat of her ancient kin.

  As she finished she wiped her eyes and slowly closed the book.

  Roakore had been patient during the entire read, sitting on a chair by the fire and smoking his pipe. Now, he was animated in his curiosity, and couldn’t seem to sit still.

  “Well? What ye be thinkin’?”

  She ran a hand through her long hair and gav
e a sigh. “I ain’t for knowin’. I ain’t for knowin’. But I see why ye been drinkin’ yerself cross-eyed.”

  “Ye care for a drink o’ ale?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, make it whiskey.”

  Roakore poured them both a double of his Northern Elgar twenty-year and offered her a seat beside the large stone fireplace.

  Nah’Zed sat, and absently sipped her drink while she stared at the fire. “The book be speakin’ blasphemy,” she said, finally.

  “Aye. Ye see what me dilemma been? And why I couldn’t show it to no one?”

  “Ye think it be true? But why would he lie to the Agoran dwarves once he got here?”

  “Ye be forgettin’,” said Roakore. “Ky’Dren’s teachin’s be sayin’ that he has no memory before waking up on the beach. I don’t think he was lying. He said the gods came to him then. Told him what he was to do, and the powers to move stone that was bestowed upon him.”

  “Me King…What words befall ye mouth? Ye be sayin’ that this…this blasphemous tale be true? Ky’Dren received his powers from the elves?”

  “I ain’t for knowin’ lass. But that ain’t the only thing.”

  “NO MORE!” she suddenly cried and leapt to her feet shaking her head vehemently. “Tell me no more. I can hear no more.”

  She rushed past Roakore, nearly knocking him over as she went. He could hear her crying as she slammed through the double doors and ran down the hall.

  “Nah’Zed! What in the blazes?”

  He had wanted to show her his new abilities, even try to convince her that she too could do what he did. Considering for a moment going after her, Roakore downed his drink and headed for the door. Soon he stopped, however, and thought better of the idea. Having twenty-some wives had taught him many things about dwarven lasses, and knowing when to leave them alone to do their cryin’ was one of them.

  Chapter 33

  Dreams o’ Glory

  Roakore poured himself another drink, retired both tomes, and packed himself a pipe. He sat beside the fire, practicing with his new abilities, for a time, and cursing himself for having shown Nah’Zed the book.

  He was quite lost in thought when Helzendar burst into the study in a huff. Roakore was so startled that he dropped the log he had been floating above him, causing it to land on his big toe.

  “Dragon balls!” he howled and hopped on one foot.

  “I want to volunteer for the five hun’red!” Helzendar blurted.

  Roakore forgot his pain in an instant. “What’s this?”

  “I’m volunteerin’.”

  “Ye? Get that fool idea out o’ yer head, boy. Ye be too young.”

  “I’m old enough. I passed the trials, I can stone throw with the best o’ me brothers,” Helzendar declared.

  Roakore reached out and tugged on his son’s short chin hairs. “Yer beard don’t even touch yer chest. Ye be too young to be a warrior.”

  “Measuring the might o’ a dwarf by the length o’ his beard be stupid,” Helzendar dared say. “There be elders can wipe their arses with their beards, but can’t hardly walk no more.”

  An impulsive chuckle escaped Roakore but he quickly put on a stern face. “Mind ye be respectin’ yer elders, lad. Ye ain’t too old for the belt.”

  “I need to do this.”

  Roakore sat back in his chair and eyed his son. He recognized the fire of youth burning bright in Helzendar’s eyes; the need to prove himself, and the yearning to make a place for himself in the Mountain of the Gods.

  Roakore saw himself in his son’s fierce eyes.

  “Ye be getting’ yer chance someday, but not this day. Ye want to be helpin’, then hit the forges.”

  “I be a descendent o’ Ky’Dren. Ain’t no smithy!”

  Roakore gave him a warning glare. “Ye be too damn proud is what ye be. Now get yer proud arse to the forges and learn how to make the weapons ye be so damn keen on wieldin’.”

  Helzendar clenched his fists and slammed one to his chest hard. “Yes, me king.”

  Roakore watched him go. He was proud of his son’s bravado. He would make a fine warrior someday, and perhaps a king.

  From his desk, he withdrew his bag and pipe and packed himself a fresh one.

  Helzendar stormed down the polished halls leading from his father’s quarters. His pent up anger left him shaking and muttering to himself. A suit of metal armor stood by one of the large wooden doors. He punched it repeatedly and then lifted it high and threw it against the opposite wall.

  “What’s all this ruckus?”

  Helzendar released the armor and turned to find Agnar the Holy shuffling toward him. His red robes trailed long behind him. Two fierce green eyes stared at Helzendar from beneath a wide hood. “Well, then, explain yourself.”

  Agnar had been Helzendar’s teacher since he was a small boy. The dwarf was as gruff as any, but gave credit where credit was due. If one was to find himself in a bad way with the old holy dwarf, they probably deserved it. His love for Ky’Dren and the gods was unmatched by anyone that Helzendar knew. When he spoke of holy scripture, he stirred passion in the hearts of his listeners.

  “I was angry, is all,” said Helzendar, sitting on a bench beneath a wide, velvety banner with an embroidered mountain sunrise on it.

  “Angry is all? Is that all ye got to say?”

  Helzendar shrugged.

  Agnar stared down on him with a deep scowl. “What is it got ye so worked up, eh. Girls?”

  “Ain’t no stupid lass. It be me king. I want to volunteer for the strike on Drakkar Island, but he says I’m too young. I hate being young. I missed the reclamation, I missed the Draggard Wars, and I’ll miss out on the biggest dragon attack in history.”

  “Ye keep up bein’ impatient like that, you’ll get your fool arse killed right quick. You’ll be a warrior one day, and there’ll be somethin’ needs killin, and glory to be got,” said Agnar.

  “I know,” said Helzendar, bowing his head in shame.

  “Now go on, get that armor fixed before I tell the king what ye been up to.”

  “Yes, sir.” Helzendar dragged the armor down the hall, fully miserable with his lot in life.

  Chapter 34

  The Price of Knowledge

  Roakore awoke in the morning and instantly thought of Nah’Zed. He looked to the large bay window carved into the stone and deduced that it was just after dawn. Thinking it too early to disturb her, he tried to fall back asleep. He tossed and turned, and eventually got an elbow from his wife. Realizing that Nah’Zed likely hadn’t gotten any sleep, Roakore roused from bed quietly and walked into the large dressing room. He put on his royal brain’s favorite suit that she had picked out for him, and even laced up the ridiculous human boots she had given him for his birthday.

  He slipped out of his bed chamber and through his study. The guard at the door offered the customary chest slam, but Roakore ignored him, finding that he was quite nervous to face his assistant. Questions plagued his sleepy mind. What if she told someone? Would she have gone to a priest?

  She had left in such a fit as Roakore had never seen. True, she was a volatile one, always flustered and falling over a stack of scrolls. But she knew everything and everyone of any importance, and always remembered the smallest details.

  The book and its story had greatly affected her.

  Roakore found himself running to her quarters, a few halls and corridors from his own. He knocked on her door, asking the guard when last he had seen her.

  “About two hours ago, Sire.”

  “How did she seem?” Roakore asked, knocking once more.

  “Sire?”

  “Her mood, soldier, what was her mood?”

  “Oh, ah, I’m not for knowin’, Sire. In a hurry, I suppose.”

  “That ain’t a mood…Bah, give me yer keys.”

  Roakore snatched the ring of keys from the guard and hurriedly unlocked the door and pushed inside, turning and shutting the door behind him swiftly.

  “Nah�
��Zed,” he said, turning around. “I be sorry that ye—”

  Her toes hovered just a few inches from the floor. She wore her favorite dress, and had combed her hair and added color to her face. Nah’Zed looked to be going to a ball. Around her neck was a length of strong rope. Above, it attached to a beautiful crystal chandelier.

  Roakore stumbled back and slammed into the door. His voice was lost to him, his vision swam. The room spun, with Nah’Zed hanging at the center, unmoving.

  He snapped out of his shock suddenly and cried out, running to her so that he might lift her up, help her to breathe. Surely she was still alive.

  “Oh no, no, no. My dear Nah’Zed, what have you done?”

  Roakore tried to lift her and get at the rope at the same time, but he could not. Frustrated, afraid, he took her in one arm, and with the other, reached up and mentally pulled the chandelier from the stone ceiling with a mighty heave.

  The chandelier crashed to the floor with bits of stone and dust, and Roakore frantically disengaged the rope from her neck. He recoiled when he tried for a pulse—she was cold.

  “Oh, my poor dear lass. What have I done?” Roakore asked over and over, burying his head in her long locks when he could no longer speak.

  She had damned herself to never be allowed into the mountain of the gods. Her soul would forever haunt the halls of Ro’Sar.

  “Damn ye, Ky’Dren. Damn ye to the hells!” Roakore cried, shaking his fist at the heavens.

  There came an urgent knocking at the door. “Me King, do ye request me help?”

  Roakore’s mind raced. If it was found out what Nah’Zed had done to herself, her name would be disgraced for all time. She deserved better than that.

  “Sire?” the guard called once again.

  Roakore laid Nah’Zed down slowly, and searched the room, trying to figure out what to do. The stained glass window looking out over the mountainside caught his eye, He reached out with his mind and took hold of the glass, smashing it inward, and slowly lowering the shards to scatter across the floor. He then ran to the door and threw it open.