The Warcrown Legacy

by Michael James Ploof

  “Please,” said Dirk. “Lead the way.”

  “This is most irregular. Even for you, Blackthorn.”

  “We mean you no insult,” said Krentz.

  “I speak to the governor!” said the high commander. “Now listen. I’ve entertained this ghost hunt of yours for three days. Word gets around, you know. You’ve got the citizens scared sick. And now you want to investigate my family crypt?”

  “What are you hiding, Marsden?” said Dirk.

  “You’re done here, Governor.”

  “We’re far from done, I’m afraid,” said Dirk.

  Marsden took a step closer, and Dirk noticed how many of the men upon the battlements tensed, white-knuckling their crossbows. “You may be the governor of Uthen-Arden. You may be the second heir to the Eldalonian throne. But around here, I’m in charge. And I say that it is time you leave.”

  Dirk and Marsden stared at each other, the weight of what they both knew like a wedge between them.

  “Need I remind you that I am here on the request of Whillhelm Warcrown?” said Dirk.

  “The great Whill of Agora wishes that you befoul the resting place of my ancestors? What sacrilege. We owe him nothing. While Isladon burned and the undead ran rampant, no one came to our aid. No, sir, you need not remind me of anything. You and Whillhelm Warcrown can go to hell. And Isladon will do what we have always done; we’ll take care of ourselves. Mind you do the same.”

  The high commander turned from them with a flourish of robes and gestured to two guards. The men took three steps forward, eyeing Dirk and Krentz. Dirk noticed the guards upon every rampart closing in.

  They waited.

  “Come on,” said Dirk. “No need to stir up trouble. We’ll come back tonight.”

  “Marsden is testing my patience,” said Krentz.

  Dirk summoned Fyrfrost, watching how the guards shuffled backward and clutched their weapons.

  “He didn’t want us anywhere near the crypt,” said Dirk. “That can’t be a good sign.”

  Chapter 18

  Zerafin pulled back on his horse’s reins and stopped upon a hill overlooking a dusty valley. In the distance, the drekkon stronghold rose out of the dry and cracked earth like a boney black finger. A drekkon force of ten thousand awaited them on that barren land, and as the elves gathered, the horns of their enemies rang out. Ninarra and Zilena stopped beside their king and surveyed the waiting army.

  “They are ready for us…good,” said Ninarra.

  No messengers were sent out to speak with the elves, for the drekkon knew that the elves came not for negotiations, but for revenge.

  Zerafin unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the distant tower. “Winged Ralliad, attack!” he bellowed.

  Hundreds of elves leapt into the air then, some sprouting the wings of bird, and other dragon. They flew out over the dry land and engaged the army from above, raining down fireballs and streaking spells of destruction.

  “Charge!” Zerafin ordered, spurring his horse into a sprint.

  The elven army surged toward the drekkon front line like a tidal wave of magical spells. But the drekkon had magic of their own, and soon the world was alight with exploding spells and the cries of the dying. Chaos reigned as the two forces collided. Swords shrieked across metal shields and clanged against armor. Spell shields crackled and hissed as they absorbed the blows of both weapons and magic. But above it all was Zerafin’s voice, urging the elves to fight harder, to avenge the fallen, to reclaim the homeland.

  Zerafin leapt from his horse when the horde before him became too thick and landed with Ninarra and Zilena at his sides. Together the three tore into the drekkon forces like a tsunami of streaking metal and glowing magic. As one they danced, covering each other’s backs and unleashing death with their humming blades. The power that Whill had imbued them with, combined with their incredible skill, made them unstoppable, and soon the drekkon front line was in disarray. The elves pushed through, slaughtering the abominations without remorse.

  A chasm one hundred feet wide separated the front line of drekkon from their archers waiting on the other side, and soon arrows were streaking through the sky in droves. Zerafin leapt and sailed across the chasm atop magical winds and landed among the surprised archers. There were hundreds of them, and it was indeed a reckless thing to do, but Zerafin was drunk with power and vengeance. He cut into the surprised drekkon with his glowing blade and incinerated a wide swath of the screaming beasts with hellfire that spewed from a crystal embedded in his left palm. A moment later, Zilena and Ninarra joined him on the other side of the chasm. Above their heads the glowing arrows of the drekkon continued to sail into the elven ranks, but their magic was no match for that of the elves, and soon the archers began to retreat as well.

  An explosion so large that it shook the entire valley suddenly erupted one hundred feet from Zerafin. He was thrown through the air with Ninarra and Zilena but managed to cushion his landing with a blast of wind. The ground beneath them began to shake. It bucked and split and spread apart, engulfing drekkon and elves alike. Zerafin looked to the top of the tower, and there he saw a figure cloaked in shadow.

  Vresh’Kon…

  The drekkon king unleashed a power so great that for a moment Zerafin knew fear. The spells streaked down from on high, destroying the energy shields conjured by the elves and laying them low by the dozens.

  Zerafin focused on Vresh’Kon as Ninarra and Zilena cleared a wide swath around him. He summoned the power that Whill had blessed him with, felt it churning within his glowing sword. Zerafin let the power build, until it was a tempest threatening to tear him apart lest it be unleashed. With a great cry he finally struck out with a mighty spell that streaked through the air and struck the tower in the middle. The explosion that followed took everyone on the ground off their feet as the shockwave rolled out from the blast point. Silence followed, but then the stones of the mammoth tower creaked and groaned in protest, and the top half suddenly fell to earth. It hit with a resounding boom that shook the world.

  The elves cheered, redoubling their efforts and engaging the enemy once again. Zerafin scoured the wreckage, leaping up onto the crumbled tower and further thinning the drekkon ranks. Vresh’Kon was nowhere to be found, and Zerafin could see a long line of drekkon retreating to the northeast. The Ralliad elves pursued them, chasing them off with exploding spells.

  A half hour later, Zerafin, Ninarra, and Zilena stood in the highest room left in the tower. The wall was gone, and from his perch Zerafin could see for miles to the north and east. Mind sight showed him the still retreating drekkon, and he was heartened by the sight.

  “We have won, but hundreds of elves have died,” said Ninarra.

  “And thousands of drekkon,” Zilena reminded her.

  “They are luring us deeper into the north.” Ninarra looked at Zerafin, and in her eyes he saw the sorrow of loss. “Too many elves fell today. You were careless in your attack.”

  It was true, and he hung his head. Had he lost control? Had he become drunk with power? Zerafin had been driven by vengeance, which was a poisonous motivator.

  “You’re right,” he said at length. “They have powerful casters among them, and I should have been more cautious. But we needed to send a message to the drekkon, and that message has been sent. We will die for our homeland, and we will chase them to the ends of the earth if need be. I tried to offer them peace, but they wanted war.”

  “We should continue our advance while we have the momentum,” said Zilena.

  “I agree,” said Zerafin. “Tell the armies to prepare to head out.”

  Chapter 19

  Roakore paced back and forth in the medical tent while Du’Krell and Helzendar were being stitched up. They had both received minor wounds, but not all the dwarves had been so lucky. Some of the warriors had died by the hands of their mentally possessed brethren, and the guilt of the deed showed on their faces. Roakore still cringed when he thought of what he had almost done to his son, and he
had Philo to thank for saving him. Indeed, they all did.

  But how had Philo done it? He had been the only one immune to the albino mind-bender’s power. Whill’s wards had either been a complete failure or had only worked for his drunken friend.

  “What be the next step, Father?” Helzendar asked as he rose from the sick bed and pulled his sleeve over his bandage.

  “I ain’t for knowin’, son. I been rackin’ me mind tryin’ to puzzle out how in the hells Philo did it. But I just don’t know.”

  “What be different about him?” said Du’Krell.

  “He be a fool, that be about it,” said Roakore with a small laugh that got none in return.

  The flap on the tent door opened, bringing with it a fierce wind and a grinning Philo.

  “Where the hells ye been?” asked Roakore, though he did not wait for a response. “Tell us how the hells ye broke through the albino’s spell. Was it Whill’s wards?”

  “I ain’t for knowin’,” Philo said with a shrug. “It just didn’t affect me like before.”

  “We know that,” said Roakore, all in a huff. “But WHY?”

  Philo shot back a swig from his flask and burped.

  “Whatever it was, I be glad it worked.”

  Roakore slapped the flask out of his hand.

  “Dammit, dwarf! Why ye got to be so damned drunk all the time?”

  “That’s it!” said Helzendar.

  “That’s right, that’s it!” said Roakore, glowering at Philo. “It be about time ye got yer act together, Philo.”

  “No,” said Helzendar. “I mean, that be the answer. He was right drunk when we fought the mind-bender.”

  “A flask a day keeps the mind-benders away.” Philo laughed and tipped back his flask.

  “Well, I’ll be a goat herder,” said Roakore, turning to regard the other kings. “Ye think it be that simple?”

  “Only one way to find out,” said Du’Krell, pushing aside the dwarf working on the gash on his leg and standing. “Break out the spirits, and we’ll give it another go.”

  Two hours later, and with a pint of rum in his belly, Roakore stood before the door to the mountain with Helzendar, Philo, Du’Krell, Raene, and Ragnar. They all teetered a bit, staring with slightly crossed eyes at the door.

  “I think I might have drank a bit too much,” said Raene, smiling dreamily at Ragnar.

  “Bah, there ain’t no such thing,” Philo slurred.

  “Alright, me good dwarves,” said Roakore as he tossed his stone bird into the air. “Let’s kick us some albino arse!”

  Du’Krell hooted, Helzendar cheered, and Philo bent over at the waist and vomited in the snow.

  Roakore led the charge into the mountain, through the door, past the hallway full of murder holes and ramparts, and all the way to the opening of the main cavern. They stopped on the ledge overlooking the city, only a few feet from where Roakore had nearly been forced to kill Helzendar.

  Down in the city square below, a dozen albinos were standing around a smoldering pyre. Roakore noticed that the body of the dead albino was gone.

  “Oy!” he yelled down to them drunkenly. “When ye be done burnin’ yer friend there, how ‘bout ye come up…come up here ‘n’ try ‘n’ avenge him!”

  The albinos hissed, and dozens of scorpions suddenly emerged from the tunnels leading to the city. The dwarves bounced on their toes, slapped their weapons, and tossed back gulps of rum. They waited, some swaying, others giggling, but every one of them ready to crack some skulls.

  “I hope this works!” said Raene as the first of the scorpions crested the ridge.

  Roakore shot out a hand, sending the scorpion flying backward beyond the rim.

  “Never mind yer bugs, ye bunch o’ cowards!” he yelled down to the albinos.

  Bombs launched by scorpion tails sailed through the air, arcing toward the ledge. Again, Roakore shot out a hand, taking mental hold of the many bombs, and sent them back toward the scorpions. The explosions that followed were glorious and met by the dwarves’ hearty cheers. The bombs ceased, but the scorpions came in droves, for it seemed that the albinos had an endless supply of them. Ragnar and the dwarves fought them off with axe and hammer and shield, and still more came.

  With a great PUSH, Ragnar cleared the ledge of scorpions, and everyone waited, panting.

  “Come on, ye bald weirdos!” Philo cried.

  More scorpions crested the ridge, but they waited, tails arched back, pincers snapping. The only sound in the cavern came from the creak of Philo’s armor as he snuck a drink. Roakore followed his lead, drinking down the rest of his rum and throwing the empty canteen at a scorpion, bouncing it off its head.

  The scorpions made a clicking, hissing sound, and an albino’s bald head appeared as it crested the ridge.

  “Hold!” Roakore urged them all.

  Three more albinos, all in dark gray robes, came over the ledge as well. They stopped their scorpions beside the apparent leader.

  “Hold!” said Roakore.

  The dwarves waited. The albinos sat motionless. Milky ooze dripped slowly from one of the scorpion’s twitching mouths.

  Then the lead albino reached out a thin hand. His face twisted, and those dark, demonic eyes danced eagerly. “Maaaraaa,” the creature said in a voice disturbingly deep and menacing.

  Roakore waited with bated breath…

  Nothing happened.

  He felt no pressure in his skull, no cold, searching fingers in his mind.

  The other three albinos reeled back, surprised or disgusted, Roakore couldn’t tell. But he knew that the little bastards weren’t happy.

  Roakore grinned at the shocked mind-bender as it tried again.

  “My turn!” said Roakore, and he took five long strides toward the albino leader, cocked back his axe, and buried it with a wonderful crunch into the trespasser’s head.

  Helzendar, Du’Krell, and Raene suddenly sailed into Roakore’s peripheral, burying their axes into the other albinos’ heads.

  “Long live Ky’Dren!” Du’Krell bellowed, and the dwarves went into a frenzy, hacking and smashing the remaining scorpions to twitching bits.

  Chapter 20

  When they returned to the camps, Roakore told the dwarves of the victory. The excitement was palpable, and Raene felt electrified by the fight. She shook with excitement, eager to wipe out the scourge from the revered Mountain of Ky’Dren.

  “When we hittin’ ‘em then?” asked an old grizzled dwarf from the crowd.

  “Soon as we get more spirits!” said Roakore.

  Everyone cheered and tossed back their wine skins—which, to a dwarf, was more often a liquor skin.

  “Raene, I got a job for ye,” said Roakore, turning this way and that in search of her.

  “I be here, me king.”

  “Ah, good. I need ye to go to Riverfork and bring back all the spirits they got, and I mean all!”

  “Aye, cousin.”

  “Good king,” said Ragnar. “Would you mind if I accompany her?”

  Raene glanced up at the big man, embarrassed that he had asked. Roakore scowled at him, looking to not like the idea one bit.

  “If the humans are difficult about handing over their booze, I can crack a few heads, get the liquor here sooner,” said Ragnar.

  Roakore mulled it over before finally nodding. “Alright then. Fly swiftly.”

  “I’ll go with ye,” said Philo.

  “No!” Raene blurted. She felt her face flush when Roakore cocked a brow at her knowingly. “I mean, there ain’t no point. We’ll get the job done.”

  “Bah!” said Philo, spitting very close to Ragnar’s boot.

  Raene pulled Ragnar with her and rushed to the silver hawks. Roakore had been kind enough to replace Moonbeam, and she hurriedly mounted her new hawk, who, due to his airy and noble nature, she had named Prince.

  “To Riverfork!” she said proudly, pointing north and kicking the stirrups.

  Prince didn’t move.

  “Come
on, Prince. We gotta get to the trade city.”

  He bent and pecked at something in the grass.

  “Dammit, ye blasted bird, FLY!”

  Prince ruffled his feathers, shaking the saddle and causing Raene’s butt to wiggle against Ragnar. Her face suddenly burned.

  “Prince, I swear to Ky’Dren, if ye don’t fly right now, I’ll get me another bird that’ll do the jooo—”

  Prince suddenly leapt into the air, jerking Raene and Ragnar back in the big saddle.

  “Attaboy!” She laughed into the wind, glancing back to see a beaming Ragnar.

  When they reached Riverfork, it was just a few hours after sunset. They landed in the dwarven quarter and instructed the females to gather every drop of spirits that they could find. Ragnar rushed over to the human part of town and told them the same. The elves were the most reluctant to hand over their booze, which Raene found humorous. But in the end, they all agreed, and the spirits were loaded up on two wagons pulled by a team of four strong elven horses.

  They wasted no time and hit the road as soon as the last of the kegs had been loaded on the second wagon. Prince flew overhead as Raene sat beside Ragnar, holding the reins and feeling quite pleased with herself.

  “Whew, that was a hectic few hours,” said Ragnar, kicking back on the driver’s bench and putting his hands behind his head leisurely.

  “Ye got a pipe?” Raene asked.

  “I sure do, my lady,” he said, pulling his smoking pouch out from beneath his armor.

  He packed some dried tobacco into his bowl and offered it to her.

  “That there’s my special stash of Elgar Mountains Spring Leaf. Two years old, it is.”

  “Many thanks.” Raene struck a match on her tooth and puffed up a glowing cherry.

  “An old pro, I see,” said Ragnar with an arched brow.

  “I been known to puff now and again.” She blew out the blueish smoke and grinned.

  He accepted the pipe and took a puff himself, and Raene turned to regard the beautiful day.