A Crown Of War (Book 4) (16 page)

“
O Ky’Dren, king o’ the mountain, give me the strength to smite me foe!” he cried. Strength found him then, and his eyes beheld a part in the clouds above. A single beam of light pierced the thick cloud cover and set its edges aglow with silver light. Tears came to the dwarf king’s eyes as power flooded his body.

“
Ky’Dren!” he bellowed, and sent the newfound energy surging through the stone, overtaking his enemy and burying him. The stone serpent too descended on the elf.

The
dwarves cheered their king once more as the dark elf was buried. Roakore wavered and fell to one knee, panting with the effort. He did not know the extent of the dark elf’s power, nor did he dare hope that he had killed him. He gathered his strength and watched the pile of rubble. The dust had settled, and the pile remained still. Roakore stood once again and dared a few steps toward the debris. The ground began to shake; loose stones and pebbles nearby bounced and began to float into the air slowly.

“
Down!” Roakore yelled to the nearby dwarves.

The
ground shook violently, and the heaping pile of stone exploded. Roakore did not try to take control of the flying debris, rather, he conserved his energy and waited for the dark elf’s next move. Dwarves and flying draquon alike were hit by the missiles, as the dark elf rose once again and guided the flying stone. Roakore ground his teeth and summoned his strength. He squared on the dark elf as the stone fragments began to swirl once again.

The
cry of a bird caught his attention. He looked to the sky expecting Silverwind, but instead saw a sun elf shifting out of bird form and descending through the center of the debris-ridden whirlwind. The sun elf drew his blade, and the two battled within the eye of the conjured storm. Roakore reached out and felt the dark elf’s hold still strong on the stone. He began once again to wrestle for mental control while the dark elf was distracted by his newest foe. But Roakore was tired, and he would need the strength of his kin if he was to continue.

Roakore
had learned how to use the strength of his fellows from his father, and he from his, and so on down the line all the way to Ky’Dren. A thought occurred to him then as he reached out with his will and summoned the strength of his dwarves. This practice was very similar to the elves’, who used the power of others−even stored it in gems. He was reminded once more of the
Book of Ky’Dren
, and the possibility he could control other elements. His anger rose as he chastised himself for such blasphemous thoughts. Together, with his newfound energy and his burning rage, he charged into the deadly whirlwind with a howl.

Roakore
barreled into the fray, unconcerned by the swirling stone; it would not touch him. He brought his axe to bear, and the dark elf was there, twirling away from deflecting the sun elf’s blade. Roakore saw only gleaming eyes within the horned helmet, and was suddenly spinning through the air. He landed hard outside of the spinning debris field and tumbled to a stop at Philo’s feet.

“
Me king!” Philo cried, and bent to scoop him up.

Roakore
went deaf and blind as a sudden explosion ripped Philo away from him, and he was tumbling through the air once again. Dust and smoke hung like curtains; all around him, he could hear the groans and coughs of his kin. The smell of burnt flesh found him, and anger roused him from his stupor. He shook his head and rose to his feet, looking for his axe. Stumbling blindly, he finally found it in the dirt, with a severed hand clutching it…his hand. Roakore looked down and found a bloody stump cut off at the wrist.

“
Me king!” Philo’s voice called to him.

Roakore
turned to find the dwarf lying on the ground, a jagged shard of stone protruding from his belly. A shaking hand pointed behind Roakore.

“
Boulder,” Philo wheezed.

Roakore
turned as a shadow fell through the sky at them. He summoned everything left within and lifted his remaining hand to the projectile. Roakore screamed with the exertion as he caught hold of the rock with his mind and slowed its descent. The great shadow hovered above him, turning slowly on an invisible axis. Roakore heaved the slab away and fell to his knees with exhaustion. As he watched, the slab sailed through the air, spinning, and stuck in the ground like a spear. He reached out and took Philo’s hand. The dwarf’s grip was weak, though in his eyes burned the same wild energy as before.

“
Pull this cursed shard out o’ me gut, and lets…” Philo coughed blood that sprayed from his dirty mouth in heavy clumps. “Kill us some Draggard.”

“
Nah,” Roakore shook his head drunkenly. “It be keepin’ yer gut in. Sit tight, lad,” he said, getting to his feet. He took his own severed hand and tucked it in his belt. He then retrieved his axe and turned to face the dark elf as he strode forward through the settling dust.

“
Let me take care o’ this bastard, and we’ll find ye some help,” said Roakore over his shoulder. When no response came, he looked back. Philo’s head was slumped over on his chest, which barely rose with his breathing.

Roakore
screamed a curse and staggered toward his friend, but the words of the dark elf held him fast.

“
He is as good dead, as are you all. Shall we have a last dance?” the voice behind the horned helmet asked.

The
dark elf stood tall in his thick plate armor, blood dripping slowly from the end of his lowered blade. Roakore took up his axe, closed his eyes, and prayed to the gods for the strength to defeat his enemy. When he opened them, a blur of white scales flew through the air and slammed into the dark elf. Avriel leapt from Zorriaz as the dragon mauled the dark elf. Sparks flew from her maw as her teeth struck the energy shield surrounding the warrior. A spell sent the dragon reeling; the enchantments laid upon her by Avriel shimmered as they absorbed the blow. Avriel sped forth and swords clanged. Something caught Roakore’s eye and held it fast. Disbelief, dread, even anger coursed through him as he stared, shocked. The stone slab that he had sent back was not stone at all, but rather a large piece of lumber that had been the shaft of a destroyed catapult. Roakore stared at the wooden beam, transfixed. He dropped his axe and fell to his knees as if defeated. The reality he had known all his life was shattered in that moment.

He
had moved something other than stone with his mind.

Whill walked through the portal blindly, his hand on the cold hilt of Adromida and his shield humming around him. It might be a trap, but he had no choice; this was the only way home. The chamber within the crystal fortress was replaced by darkness as he followed Kellallea. He used mind sight and quickly regretted his stupidity, as he beheld the piercing light of Kellallea’s power. He cried out and held his head, feeling as though it might explode.

After
a time the pain subsided, and he was able to open his eyes. Kellallea watched him with a knowing grin. Torches on walls of stone had been lit, and Whill guessed they were in Agora, inside his family’s ancient mausoleum. On the other side of the stone walls stood Del’Oradon Castle, and somewhere deep below were the dungeons and torture chambers where the Other had been born.

“
Do you feel him near?” Whill asked.

“
I do not,” said Kellallea.

“
Then I must hasten to get the others through,” he said, and turned back through the portal.

Kellallea
followed him into the crystal chamber; they were not alone. A half dozen of Eadon’s doppelgangers stood, barring the way out. As one, they spoke in Eadon’s voice.

“
Ancient one,” they said with a small bow. “Still your power and beauty shame the sun and the moon. What an honor to find you in my fortress.”

The
many Eadons regarded Whill with a familiar smirk. “And, young Whill. I assume you have surrendered to reason?”

“
I have,” said Whill, with s smirk of his own. He unsheathed his father’s blade and held out a hand. A writhing shadow like a serpent of darkness grew in his palm and lashed out at the doppelgangers. The black serpent stretched from his hand, branching out and surrounding them. The many Eadons were lifted into the air and disintegrated as Whill stole their power. They fell to the floor in ashes, and Whill shuddered as he stored the power within his father’s blade. Kellallea stared at him.

“
How did you do that?” she asked, putting space between them.

“
It seems my greatest gift is that of a mimic. I can cast any spell used against me,” he said. A brief flash of intrigue flashed in her eyes.

“
And you find nothing wrong with the taking of power?” she asked.

“
Not from a maniacal dictator,” he answered with a laugh.

“
Do you not recognize your own hypocrisy? You so eagerly judge my actions, yet you do the same,” said Kellallea.

Whill
ignored her argument and went about inspecting the portal, which seemed to be fused to the crystal. Somehow, he needed to get it out of the fortress; there was no time for the two small armies to file through. He studied the crystal walls and put a hand to the closest. Power hummed gently within; he could sense the life force of every egg and Draggard queen. Many spells had been woven throughout the fortress; they spread before his mind’s eye as webs of light, not unlike those the Watcher had shown him. Energy emanating from the core rode the light and pulsed throughout the crystal. Whill was transfixed by its brilliance, and he wanted the power within.

“
Protect the portal,” said Whill, and left the chamber and Kellallea.

He
moved toward the center of the fortress. Guided by his mind sight, he soon found the room that housed the core, and, standing before the door, a dark elf.

“
It is you,” said the elf.

Whill
raised a hand, and the dark elf stiffened and screamed in defiance as his energy shield dissipated in a shower of sparks around him. Black tendrils wrapped the dark elf in a sweeping embrace, stealing his energy.

Whill
stepped over the dry corpse and blasted the crystal door with focused energy. It shattered inward, resonating like broken glass on ice. At the center of the room, a lone diamond the size of an apple hovered in place between two points. Energy rotated in the form of a helix, a pattern revered by the elves, both dark and sun. Whill unsheathed his father’s sword, Sinomara, and stabbed forth through the many spells. He used the power of Adromida to clear the way, but the energy taken was not stored there. He drew out the power of the diamond slowly, pulling it to Sinomara. An arc of lightning shot from the diamond and danced along his blade as he pulled harder, shaking with the power coursing into the sword.

The
humming of the crystal fortress grew quieter by the second as Whill drained the diamond of its power, Eadon’s power. The soft light illuminating the crystal walls began to flicker and die. The fortress shifted, and Whill knew whatever spells kept it levitated were failing. The last of the diamond’s power poured into the blade, and the fortress began to fall.

*

Roakore sat on his knees on the scorched battlefield, staring at the broken lumber protruding from the ground. All around him the battle continued, but Roakore saw only the wood he had moved, heard only the words from the
Book of Ky’Dren
. The elves, not the gods, had bestowed the power to move stone on Ky’Dren. He was tormented by nagging doubt about his religion; if the reason behind his power was a lie, then what of the dwarf gods and their promised mountain?

An
explosion tore him from his disturbed pondering. Sunlight shone down on him as the crystal fortress fell into itself. Its point shattered against the ground, and the monolith toppled with an ear-piercing report. Another explosion sounded deep within the crystal, followed by a concussion that shattered the walls and reduced the fortress to a pile of jagged shards. Out of the rubble rose Whill, surrounded by a pulsing energy shield.

Seeing
his friend roused him to his feet. He wiped dirty tears from his swollen eyes and took up his axe. Avriel had been joined by her brother, and, together, she and the elf king were driving back the heavily-clad dark elf. Roakore forgot his grief and set aside his doubts. There would be time for such things later; now, there was a victory to secure. With a heavy heart, Roakore began the war song of Ky’Dren and charged with his dwarves into the wavering lines of Draggard.

After
the fall of the crystal fortress, Eadon’s dark elves quickly fled, leaving the Draggard to their fate. The two armies overtook the beasts with renewed vigor, scattering the lines and laying them low. Many dark elves escaped, but the dwarf and elven armies did not pursue.

Whill
rose above the wreckage of the crystal fortress as if floating upon the cheers of the armies below. Kellallea had protected the portal from the destruction, and guided it to the ground within a glowing force field. The power taken from the diamond hummed within his father’s blade, and he set his sights upon the band of fleeing dark elves more than a mile off.

Whill
quickly flew past the dark elves and landed among them. None moved to meet him, and Whill was excited by their fear. He sped toward the closest and stabbed the female dark elf through the chest. Sinomara hummed with energy as Whill sapped the dark elf of her energy. A bombardment of spells came at him as he unsheathed Adromida and strengthened his energy shield. With the two glowing swords, he made short work of the dark elves.

P
anting with exhilaration, he stood over the crumpled corpses of his enemies. The dark elves he once feared now feared him, and rightly so, for he wielded the ancient blade of legend, and none could stand in his way.

Whill
flew back to the armies and landed before the portal. The elves were busy tending to the wounded, one of whom was Roakore. He sheathed his blades and went to kneel beside his friend as Avriel tended to him.

“
Be but a hand, there be others in need o’ yer healin’!” he yelled at Avriel as she prepared to reattach his hand.

“
Find me dwarf, Philo, he be dyin’!” he added.

“
Your friend will live,” Avriel promised him. “Other healers tend to him as we speak−now sit still.”

The
dwarves and elves alike had taken many casualties. The dead were laid out and covered in vines that grew around the corpses at the command of the elves. The Draggard, however, were left to rot. The bodies of the fallen dark elves were incinerated, lest their spells of preservation regenerate their corpses.

A
ll of the dead had been gathered in two rows, and the elves and dwarves shared a short service for their fallen. Words were spoken for comrades and brothers, and tears were shed. The occasion was a solemn affair in light of the victory. Whill took heart that such a loss−though grave−had unified the two races like few things could. The elves and dwarves bled and died together, and they were now brothers-in-arms.

“
Come!” Whill said as he stood beside the portal with Roakore and Zerafin. “Agora waits!”

Whill
went through the portal expecting to find Kellallea. She was not within the mausoleum, nor was she anywhere to be found outside of the stone structure.

He
came out into a gated cemetery full of old gravestones. A light snow fell, adding to the thin sheet covering the old tombstones. Some were grand and others modest, but beneath every one laid the dead. Whill wondered how many of his relations were buried here. Some of the grave markers had broken with age, the centuries leaving the engravings unrecognizable.

Every
marker, whether the statue of a king, or the simple slab of a stillborn child, showed its age, and every one reminded Whill that time takes all things in the end.

A
ruckus came from the mausoleum behind him. Silverwind exploded through the heavy stone doors with Roakore trying to hold on. When she passed the threshold in a rage of flying feathers and angry squawking, Roakore slammed his head on the arch and was thrown off. The silverhawk took a leaping step and launched into flight. Roakore got to his feet and staggered after the bird, cursing all the while.

“
Bah, ye bloody bane! We ain’t got time for yer games, we gotta get back to Ro’Sar!” he called after her in vain.

Whill
ignored him for the figure approaching across the cemetery gate. He was short, but walked with the weighted steps of purpose. A hood was drawn low leaving only the end of a white beard to be seen. Roakore followed Whill’s eyes, and straightened in the presence of the stranger. The man stopped many gravestones from them, and stared for a long moment before slowly proceeding. Ignoring Roakore, the hooded man walked up to Whill and brought back his hood slowly, as if in a trance. When Whill met his eyes, he was held by a haunted gaze. Dark rings cradled the old man’s wild eyes, and deep lines beyond his years sharpened his dour expression. A short gray beard flecked with dark gray strands bent under his high collar.

“
I near the end. I am tired,” said the man in a broken voice. “If this is my final test, then I shall fail, but I would do so looking upon the face of my king, be he real or nay.”

The
old man reached forward slowly with a shaking hand. His cracked lips parted slowly with anticipation of the contact. When his cold hand touched Whill’s warm cheek, the old man bent with a quiet sob.

“
Tell me you are real, you have come home to us, and I will die a happy man,” the old man begged with a hopeful smile.

“
I am Whill…of Agora, and I have come home,” said Whill, taking the man’s hand in his. A smile grew beneath streaming tears. The old man fell to his knees and bowed at Whill’s feet.

“
Whillhelm Mathus Warcrown, as I once served your father, I offer my life to thee,” the old man pledged.

“
Please, please stand,” Whill urged him and helped him to his feet. “To whom do I owe the honor?”

“
Alrick Dupree, and the honor is mine. Damned if you aren’t the spitting image of your father, ’cept for the long hair,” Alrick mused.

“
Mathus you said? Whillhelm Mathus Warcrown?” Whill asked.

Alrick
was taken aback. “You don’t know your middle name? No, I guess you wouldn’t. Your mother told of it the night before they left…to visit her family.”

Alrick
seemed lost to a distant time; Whill’s introduction of Roakore broke him from his thoughts.

“
Alrick, this is Roakore, King of the Mountains Ro’Sar.”

“
Honored,” said Alrick as they shook hands. Roakore only grunted; his mind and eyes were on the sky and Silverwind, and getting home. Dwarves and elves alike began filing through the doors of the mausoleum; Alrick looked delighted as he beheld the growing army.

“
What magic is this?” he asked with a wide smile.

“
I will explain later,” Whill promised. “But, for now, I must know about Addakon. Where is he?”

Alrick
’s smile soured at the mention of the name. “The imposter Eadon you mean.”

“
You are aware of Eadon?” asked Whill. “Is it common knowledge here in the city?”