The Warcrown Legacy

by Michael James Ploof

  “That much is obvious,” said Dirk. “But why?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

  “And what is that damned smell?” said Dirk, catching a whiff of rotting meat. “Smells like death.”

  “No,” said Krentz. “It smells like a necromancer.”

  Chapter 12

  Zerafin rose from bed and put on a long lorenka. He glanced back at his sleeping wife and smiled. The day was bright and clear, and a warm breeze pushed back the vines that hung like curtains between the balcony and sleeping quarters. He walked out onto the balcony, which wrapped around the entire capstone of the pyramid. Far below, his army was gathering.

  The elven army was five thousand strong, and Zerafin had decided not to wait for the drekkon to attack again. He was tired of waiting defensively. The elves of the sun had waited in Elladrindellia for five hundred years, and the dark elves had come at last, and many humans and dwarves had died. The time for waiting to be slaughtered was over. Zerafin was now king, and his would not be a timid rule.

  It was time to send a message.

  “Good morning, my love.” It was Ninarra. She tied her lorenka around her waist and joined him on the balcony, stretching her arms wide and taking in the morning sun.

  “Sorry if I woke you,” said Zerafin.

  “Your eyes are shining with excitement.” She kissed him, her smile alluring. “You are eager to begin the march.”

  “I am,” he said, turning back to gaze upon his army.

  “Is Whill still urging patience and peace?”

  “He is.”

  “Then he is still not coming?”

  “No,” said Zerafin. “He will bless us with wards and strengthen our swords and crystals with the power of light, but he will not leave his children.”

  “I cannot say that I blame him. If anything happened to them…”

  “I know. That is why it is important to take the fight to the drekkon. Neither Rhuniston nor New Cerushia need another attack. We must snuff out this threat before it becomes a raging pyre.”

  “I understand, and I will stand by you.”

  “We have not fought side by side in many years,” said Zerafin. “I look forward to it.”

  “We will cleanse the land of our forefathers,” she said, stroking his face. “And we shall restore the cities of Drindellia to their former splendor.”

  “With you at my side, I feel as though there are no limits to what we can achieve,” said Zerafin, kissing her.

  She pushed him back, tugging his sash and throwing open his Lorenka. She took him in her hand firmly. “Our reign shall last a thousand years,” she said, trailing kisses down his chest.

  Zerafin leaned back against the balcony, gripping the rail.

  An hour later, Zerafin sat upon the back of his white steed before the elven army. Zilena and Ninarra sat to his left and right upon horses of their own. The elven army stood proudly before them, five-thousand strong. Every school of magic was represented here, and though much of their stored power had been used up in the war for Agora, they were still a force to be reckoned with.

  Whill joined them shortly after the army had gathered. He glided upon beams of light, a glowing god of a man, and landed in front of Zerafin.

  “Zilena, Ninarra,” said Whill, offering them each a respectful nod.

  “Whillhelm,” said Zilena, offering him a coy glance.

  “Thank you for this,” said Zerafin. “With your blessing, perhaps we can put this threat to rest once and for all.”

  “Have your elves join hands,” said Whill, offering Zerafin a halfhearted smile.

  Zerafin climbed down from his saddle and gave the command. He joined hands with his wife and his sister, who in turn clasped the hands of other elves. Once the chain was complete, Whill placed a hand on Zerafin’s head.

  “This will feel…well, it will be intense,” said Whill.

  “I am ready.”

  Whill closed his eyes and began chanting in Elvish. He spoke not to the gods. He did not plea for their blessing or their strength. Instead, Whill spoke to the sun. A sudden surge of power jolted Zerafin erect, and he squeezed Zilena’s and Ninarra’s hands. Wave after wave of power coursed through him, and he had the urge to take it for himself. But he fought the urge, just as he had in the past, and allowed it to flow through him and into the others. The seemingly endless stream of power recharged crystals and enchanted weapons, filling the warriors with the power of light.

  The elves of the sun began to glow then, and a tear found Zerafin’s eye. When Whill finally released him, Zerafin’s teeth were chattering as though he had been plunged into cold water. He took a moment to compose himself before opening his eyes and looking upon Whill with wonder.

  “My friend, you…your power is incredible. Surely you could put an end to the drekkon threat.”

  “And if I slaughter them all single-handedly, what then would I become?” Whill asked.

  Zerafin understood. With such power, Whill could defeat entire armies. If he so chose, he could easily become a conquering king. But somehow, he resisted the urge to impose his will upon the world, something that Zerafin was grateful for.

  “Thank you, friend,” said Zerafin.

  “I await your return,” said Whill. He turned to walk away but stopped and glanced back at Zerafin. “If you find yourself…if you need me, you need only call to my mind. I will hear you.”

  Zerafin gave a small bow. He watched Whill walk away, wondering if indeed the man’s power was as endless as it seemed, and he laughed to himself. Only a few short years ago, Whill had been an impetuous young man struggling to find a place in his strange new world of magic and elves.

  Now he was a god among men.

  The soldiers awaited his command, and Zerafin returned to his horse and opened his arms wide to them all. “Elves of New Cerushia. Brothers, sisters, friends. We have been to the hells and back together. We have defeated Eadon and his draggard hordes. We have defeated Zander and his undead minions. And now, a new threat looms on the horizon. Once again, we must fight for our homeland. The drekkon wish to drive us from these shores, from the very land that our ancestors called home. They are an echo of Eadon’s power. The final scourge standing between the elves of the sun and everlasting peace. We set out this day not as conquerors, but as defenders of a way of life that has endured for a time unknown.

  “Elves of the sun, I ask you, are you with me?”

  The elves’ responding cry shook the earth, and Ninarra offered Zerafin a sly smile.

  “Then let us set forth unafraid. Defenders of New Cerushia, let us march!” Zerafin commanded, and his captains echoed the order. Soon the elven army was marching north.

  Soon the drekkon would pay.

  Chapter 13

  Silverwind flew down through the clouds, and Roakore’s heart leapt as he beheld the mountain door. The dwarven army was coming through the pass, tens of thousands of them, snaking for miles through the winding mountain trail and forest beyond. Roakore’s sons flew with him, and their eyes were wide and teary with pride—though they would have blamed their leaking eyes on the wind.

  Roakore signaled to his hawk riders, and they split into two separate groups, one following him left around the mountain, and another turning right. They scoured the mountainside, making a half dozen passes before landing near the door.

  No one reported seeing anything, but Roakore had felt something watching him from the hollow eyes of the many dwarven faces chiseled into the side of the mountain. He knew not the names of those ancient kings and heroes, but he felt a kinship to them, one that stretched across the oceans and the currents of time.

  It was here that Ky’Dren had once lived. Here the mountains were wide and thick, their peaks wreathed in silver clouds. Some of the many mountains that made up the range had carvings that covered every square inch of their surface. Roakore couldn’t imagine the centuries that it had taken. The carvings showed more than just the busts and statues of dwa
rf kings, but queens, heroes, scholars, holy dwarves, and common miners as well. Battle scenes between dwarves and dragons were depicted in the chiseled stone, along with images of great discoveries, be they glimmering veins of gold, or stones riddled with rubies. There was evidence as well of the dwarven power to move stone, not only in some of the impossibly large slabs that had been set on the mountainsides to create fortresses, castles, and in more than one case, entire cities, but also in the murals themselves, where dwarves were shown with hands held out, brows furled in concentration, and stone floating into the air. One of the curious murals seemed to depict the first dwarf to have learned how to move stone, for in it, the old dwarf seemed to be showing a crowd of amazed onlookers.

  So much history, so much lost.

  Roakore wiped his eyes—though he had been wearing goggles and could not use the excuse of the wind—and leapt off Silverwind to greet the other kings.

  “By the gods, will ye look at that,” said Du’Krell, taking off his helm and holding it to his chest.

  The sun was just then cresting the peak of Velk’Har, which eclipsed it, sending golden rays shooting out in every direction away from the mountain.

  “It be a good omen from the gods, it be,” said Du’Krell, taking a knee.

  Everyone followed his lead, and the marching dwarves stopped to take a knee as well and bask in the glory of the gods. They remained, humbled and silent, as the sun passed by the peak and finally bathed them in glorious sunlight.

  They set up camp in the flat plain to the south of Velk’Har. There were many ruins littering the valley, and the walls of those ancient haunts made for good cover against the wind, which blew hard through the pass from the south. Roakore did not doubt that they had been spotted, but he didn’t care. The dwarves had been blessed by Whill. The wards would protect them from the telepathic albinos.

  He intended on first going in with a small force to determine which caverns and halls might be safe, for Velk’Har was gargantuan, with hundreds of miles of tunnels. It would have to be cleared systematically.

  The dwarves waited until nightfall. Then Roakore, along with Philo, Helzendar, Du’Krell, Dwellan, Raene, Ragnar, and a few dozen other dwarf warriors, stealthily moved in. They crept through the valley, keeping to the pines, and approached the door to the mountain cautiously.

  Roakore could hear the older Du’Krell breathing hard, though he knew it was not out of exertion. The old dwarf king was feeling the awe of the majestic mountain home of Ky’Dren. Indeed, Helzendar and Dwellan looked on the brink of tears as well—and they hadn’t yet seen the home mountain’s halls.

  “All clear,” said Philo, before tossing back a shot and hiccupping.

  Roakore saved his breath and slipped by the drunken dwarf. He stopped, sniffing, listening, watching—but nothing moved. The mountain door was eerily quiet. He motioned on a couple of stout dwarf warriors, and slowly, methodically, the dwarves moved into the grand main foyer.

  Du’Krell and Dwellan took in a collective breath as the light from the many torches climbed up, up, up, chasing away the shadows and illuminating the cathedral ceiling, where a mural of the Mountain of the Gods stared down at them.

  “By Ky’Dren’s beard,” said Du’Krell, slamming his fist to his chest and falling, teary-eyed, to his knees.

  “It be the Mountain o’ the Gods!” said Dwellan, and he too, along with a number of the newest additions to the reclamation army, followed the elder king’s lead.

  Roakore didn’t like stopping like this in the middle of such a large chamber, and he liked even less the dwarves getting down on one knee. But he understood their sentiment.

  “Wait till they see the city,” said Philo, elbowing Roakore.

  They moved on through the foyer and into a large antechamber, which was lined on both sides with four levels of ramparts, where guards had once watched the main door. Behind them, Roakore knew, were barracks and training rooms large enough to house hundreds, if not thousands of warriors. But now, they were as silent and cold as the rest of the mountain.

  Roakore sent a runner to report their progress and continued leading the group to the halls that would bring them to the city.

  “I feel like we’re bein’ watched,” said Du’Krell, eyeing the many dark corners warily.

  “Aye,” said Roakore, scanning the gloom at the end of the tunnel they were traversing. “Them albinos be tricksters, they be, and I ain’t for doubtin’ that they got spies all around. Bugs and other critters large and small.”

  “Then why we being so cautious…” Philo belched loudly. “If they know that we be here?”

  “So we don’t run headlong into a trap, ye dolt!”

  “Bah,” said Philo. “We got near on forty thousand dwarves. Let’s show these bastards what happens when ye try and rout the blessed o’ the gods!”

  Roakore stopped his friend as they came to the end of the hall. Beyond in the dark lay the city. “Shh!” he hissed, eyeing the shadows.

  The mineral-rich walls reflected the faint light of the thousands of glowing mushrooms that grew all over the inside of the mountain, but it was enough light for a dwarf to see. Suddenly, there was a sound, like a series of clicks. Roakore all too clearly remembered that sound, and he grabbed Philo and threw him back. Three glowing stones, likely launched by scorpion tails, flew through the chamber toward them. Helzendar saw them and gave warning, and Roakore took mental hold of the stones and sent them shooting back in the direction that they had come.

  The explosions were blinding, and Roakore turned away, shielding his face.

  “The kings o’ the dwarves have come to lay claim to this mountain!” Du’Krell cried.

  As the explosions died down, the chamber erupted with clicking sounds, and Roakore could just imagine the hundreds of giant scorpions rushing toward them. The dwarves fell back to the wide tunnel and stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting for what might come over the ridge in front of them. Far out beyond the ridge, beyond the forest of carved stalactites and stalagmites, thousands of scorpions scurried forth in the gloom, their matte plates barely reflecting the light.

  Roakore felt no intrusion on his mind, and he smiled to himself—Whill’s wards were working. He sent another runner to report what had been found, along with instructions for the next battalion to enter.

  “Come and taste me blade!” cried Du’Krell, and as the first scorpion crested the ridge, he barreled in, shield leading the way. A claw swiped for him, but he deflected it wide and sunk a hatchet into the creature’s head. He kicked it over the ledge and laughed, then flipped his hatchet in the air, caught it, and threw it into the twitching mouth of the next scorpion.

  The black oversized scorpions came in droves, pouring over the ridge with snapping claws and hooked tails dripping venom. The entrance to the hall became a killing field as the ferocious dwarves tore into the black-eyed demons, and soon the scorpions were stacked five high on the ridge.

  Roakore chopped off the right claw of a scorpion before sinking his axe into its head, and with a mental push sent it and dozens of others over the ridge. The scorpions soon gave up the fight, and Roakore saw them shuffling and clicking their way back into their holes.

  “That be right!” yelled Du’Krell, his axe thick with dark blood. “Run from the fury o’ the dwarf kings!”

  “Hear, hear!” Philo cheered. He began to follow it up with a fine obscenity, but suddenly fell over on his face and began to snore.

  The dwarves began to cheer, and Roakore with them, but then he saw a figure emerge from a nearby tunnel to the right, beyond the stairs leading from the hall to the chamber below. His joy was replaced by fear as he felt those cold fingers seeping into his mind, scrambling his thoughts, filling him with dread.

  “I…Be…A…” Roakore tried to speak, but he could not. Only his eyes worked, and he mentally cursed the albino.

  “What be this?” Du’Krell growled against the mental intrusion.

  Glancing around, Roakore saw with horror
that everyone was paralyzed as well.

  Get out o’ me head, ye blasted white bastard!

  The albino answered, but not in the common tongue, nor in the dwarven tongue. It was no language that Roakore had ever heard, and the words bit into his mind, clamping down around him like the jaw of a dragon. He saw the robed albino making his way toward them. Then the apparition was lost beyond the ridge. Roakore fought for control of his body, cursing all the while. Whill’s wards were supposed to work. Why weren’t they? If someone didn’t gain control fast, they were all going to die.

  The albino topped the stairs and glided over the dead scorpions to stand before the furious, paralyzed dwarves. It raised a hand, pointing at Roakore. To Roakore’s horror, he stepped forward. His body shook, sweat poured from his too-hot metal helm, and he white-knuckled the axe in his hand, willing his arm to swing it at the hated albino.

  But Roakore was helpless.

  The red-eyed albino drew back his hood, exposing a large, domed skull that was about two sizes too big. The red eyes seemed to see nothing, but Roakore knew that somehow, the strange mind-bender saw everything. Roakore felt it riffling through Roakore’s thoughts, emotions, and memories, and it stopped on a mental image of Helzendar.

  The albino grinned.

  He pointed at Helzendar.

  Roakore’s son stepped forward.

  “Kill,” said the albino.

  Roakore faced his son. Helzendar looked horrified as he raised his left hand, pointing his iron fist at his father.

  Get out o’ me head, ye bastard! Roakore screamed, and his voice echoed in every chamber of his mind.

  Kill, came the deep, guttural voice of the albino in his head.

  I cast ye out!

  Kill.

  Not me son, anyone but me son!

  Kill! Kill! Kill!

  Roakore could no longer fight it. He raised his axe into the air with two hands, eyes streaming tears, teeth gnashing, and body shaking. Helzendar gave a helpless cry and released his iron fist, but Roakore batted it to the side with his axe, spun, and swiped at his son’s knees. To his relief, Helzendar leapt over the swing. Roakore slammed into him with his heavy shoulder plate, knocking him off his feet, but not before the iron fist slammed into the back of Roakore’s head.