A Crown Of War (Book 4) (17 page)

“
Common, no, not at all. The older staff know the truth, but it is not spoken of,” said Alrick, looking to the castle looming behind them, past the cemetery gates. “The dark one has eyes and ears all over the castle; our thoughts are not even safe from him. But whether he knows our minds matters little. What will we do with the knowledge?”

“
The lad asked if he be about, out with it,” said Roakore impatiently. Whill had noticed the dwarf king’s growing agitation. Roakore worried for his mountain, but something more bothered him.

“
He’s not been here in a tenday, and good riddance! Would that he never returned, our city might find peace,” Alrick spat.

Whill
considered the old man’s words, but they shed no light on the question of Eadon’s whereabouts. Eadon knew where Whill was, for he had a link to the crystal fortress. Eadon had either gone through one of the rifts, and was trapped somewhere in Agora when the Other destroyed them, or he was still somewhere in Drindellia. Whill could not be sure. Either way, the gate of Arkron needed to be destroyed.

“
This way. Follow Alrick through to the castle grounds,” Whill urged the elves and dwarves.

Many
of the elven Ralliad had taken to the sky in bird form to scour the city for dark elves. Whill walked past the steady tide of outgoing warriors. Avriel and Zerafin were there, ushering in the new arrivals. When Avriel noticed Whill, she took him aside.

“
Look,” she said, indicating a thin groove in the marble wall. As she pushed hard on its center, it clicked and swung open. Beyond the door, long stairs descended down into darkness.

“
Must lead to the castle, likely to Eadon’s quarters,” said Whill, though he knew where it led. Somewhere down there, within the deep, dark depths of the castle, the torture chambers waited.

“
We should search it out,” said Avriel beside him.

“
Not yet, the portal must be destroyed before anything else is done. It is too dangerous.”

Soon
, the last of the elves and dwarves had made their way through the portal. Avriel went through once again and came out with Zorriaz. The gate allowed her room to spare; the mausoleum doors, however, would not. A krundar master had remained behind for that reason. He grazed the walls with a hand and an ear to the cold stone. When it was time, he moved between the white dragon and the doorway, raised his hands, and began to chant.

“
The eastern tower is large enough to house her,” Whill told Avriel.

She
shook her head reluctantly. “She fears the castle. She will not stay here.”

Whill
understood how she felt.

He
looked to the elven Ralliad and listened to his steady chanting. He understood the words, and saw with mind sight as the spell formed.

The
stone began to vibrate with a soft humming. Cracks appeared in the corners, and the wall opened wide. When Zorriaz had finally gotten through the space, the krundar returned the stone to its place and fused the seam.

The
others left Whill to the portal; he didn’t want anyone getting hurt. The last time he destroyed a portal, the resulting explosion had been significant. He unsheathed Adromida and called up an energy shield. He was disappointed to have to destroy such an amazing and useful invention, but he had no choice. He could not allow a portal to Drindellia to remain in his castle. With a quick slash of Adromida, he cut through the enchantments and stone of the thick arch. There was a quick explosion as the spell of the gate escaped its containment. He watched from behind his pulsing shield as it flashed bright and dissipated. The last gate of Arkron was destroyed.

Whill
walked out into the cemetery and instantly heard the clamor in the courtyard. He followed the path through the shining gates, past the hedge, and came out into the courtyard where the two armies had gathered. The castle guard had raised the alarm. They stood at arms before the castle door. Zerafin and Alrick stood closest, assuring the guards they meant no ill will. The elves stood calm throughout the entire affair, while the dwarves danced on their toes, weapons ready.

Whill
walked to the front of the two armies and stood with Alrick and Zerafin. Many of the older guards shared the same expression of recognition Alrick had shown upon first seeing Whill. They remained in their defensive stance, however, and more soldiers filed out of the castle.

“
Hold!” the captain of the guard ordered, striding forward to meet Whill. “What is the meaning of this, Alrick?” he asked, eyeing the elves and dwarves wearily.

Alrick
moved between the captain and Whill. “Our lost prince has returned home. I give you Whillhelm Mathus Warcrown, son of Aramonis Warcrown, and rightful king of Uthen-Arden.”

The
captain scowled with disdain. “Have you gone mad, Bishop? Step aside and allow me to deal with these intruders.”

“
He has returned to us!” Alrick proclaimed for all to hear. He ignored the captain and spoke to the soldiers at the man’s back. “From the Warcrown Cemetery he came; as it was written, so shall it be!”

“
Move aside, this is not your concern,” the captain of the guard hissed.

Whill
had a flash of something odd just then−something from the corner of his eye. He gave the captain a closer look, and the man’s eyes darted to his. The captain was unable to turn away; Whill sensed the struggle within. He summoned power from Adromida and began applying pressure. A secret hidden just beneath the surface whispered in the man’s thoughts. Whill heard them as muffled and distant. For a human, this man was putting up a good fight. Whill found his answers when he gazed upon the captain with his mind’s eye.

Whill
released the captain’s mind and extended a hand in greeting. “I am Whill of Agora.”

The
captain stared at the offered hand and began to shake. He looked around at all of the watching faces and seemed to waver. A thick sweat began at his brow and pooled below his brown locks. He licked his lips and began to shift his weight nervously. The soldiers behind him looked on perplexed, and even the elves gave him a puzzled look. All the while, Whill smiled and held out his hand.

Whill
snapped his hand back, and, in a blur of motion, his other hand was turning the captain by the shoulder. A faint whimper escaped the man as he was turned to face the human soldiers.

“
This man is a puppet of the dark elf Eadon!” Whill announced, and thrust him to the end of his reach. He held the quivering man by the collar. The soldiers looked to their captain for an answer, and found it in his eyes.

“
He lies! He is the enemy. He has invaded the castle grounds with an army!” the captain desperately pleaded.

“
If I search you for dark elf trinkets, what will I find?” Whill asked, but the guard would not answer.

“
If you are innocent, this should be quite painless,” said Whill, and extended a hand forward. The captain screamed and convulsed as Whill began to pull the many dark elf gems to him. When the captain’s legs failed him, Whill held him firm by the collar and stopped.

“
Confess your guilt to your brethren. Save what is left of your honor,” said Whill, and threw the captain forward into the soldiers.

The
captain was shoved back by his men, and he reared on them angrily. “I saved your lives! The dark elves wanted to have you all killed and replaced! My words alone stayed their hands.”

One
of the soldiers, a man of years with hard eyes and chiseled features, unsheathed a blade. “Traitor!”

“
Hold!” Whill yelled. “He is not to be harmed. He and the other traitors among your ranks shall be questioned. Take him to the dungeon.”

Two
of the guards took the captain by his arms and led him away. Whill extended a hand to the soldier who had drawn his weapon; he sheathed his blade and shook Whill’s hand.

“
Justice Walker,” he said in greeting.

“
Well met,” said Whill, and quickly searched the man’s mind. He found no secrets, no hidden guilt; instead he sensed elation and hope. “You are now the new captain of the guard, for the time being,” Whill told him. He turned from the man and regarded the other soldiers…his soldiers.

“
I
am
Whillhelm Warcrown, and I now rightly claim the kingship of Uthen-Arden.”

The
wind moaned through the timber, bending branch and bow, and howled in many voices across the field. Whirlwinds of snow danced in the frozen chaos of the night, and the cold, piercing silver beams of the moonlight swept across the landscape. Aurora peered at the dancing snow through her open tent flap. Cold had come to northern Agora, but to the barbarians, the first snows meant little. It was still a time of rigorous work and preparation for true winter.

Lavish
furs from the Seven Tribes had been brought to her as gifts. Once, she shunned the idea of wearing the other tribes’ furs, but she now embraced the honor. Veolindra had noticed the furs and taken them, and the next day she returned with armor made to include them all. The armor itself was the same make as Veolindra’s: smooth and dark, like black ice. Black leather was woven into the armor, twisting its way around the legs and arms. The many furs puffed out through the seams, in an ascending color scheme. The red fur of the fox covered most of the boots, and continued up along the calf. At the knee, the black fur of the bear replaced the fox’s red, which in turn gave way at the hip to a coat of wolf and snow cat fur that fell below the knee. Eagle and hawk feathers formed a diamond pattern upon a dragon-scale cloak. Many precious stones were set about the armor. “Those are gifts, for your ongoing fealty,” Veolindra had told her. The gems stored many spells; Aurora could only guess their power. Veolindra said they would protect her from attacks of the body and mind, heal her wounds, and lend her strength.

Aurora
eyed her most valued gift and spun the ring around on her finger. The emerald within burned with a dull light: no undead were about. The ring was given to her by Zander. With the ring, Aurora would be able to control the Lich Azzeal and other undead given to her command.

She
rose from her desk and strode out into the camp. The night was cold, but also a good one for drinking. Zander found her quickly, and she welcomed his company.

The
Seven Tribes had been on the road for a week now, and Aurora had begun to recognize the telltale signs of their weary hearts. They had all left their children and elders to the coming winter, and, though their own absence would increase rations, the winter would be hard. The soldiers needed drink and song and tale, lest they lose their drive.

Aurora
led Zander to a large tent at the center of the camp. Bonfires had been built and stumps set about in rings around them, though few sat. Tales were being shared, and songs were being sung. At one fire, heavy drums and moaning horns accompanied songs of loss and remorse, while, at another, fast rabbit steps and quick strings told tales of glorious spring in the Valley of the Elk. The tribes celebrated mostly separate from each other, as they always did, but they were in good spirits. If fights broke out, they were brotherly, with no weapons drawn.

At
the center of the many fires, one was left in honor of the Chieftain of the Seven. Aurora strode through the crowds, acknowledging no one. When she reached the long-back wooden chair, she turned with a flourish and sat. Beorin of Bear Tribe strutted over to her and offered up a pint of dark beer. Aurora took the drink with a nod and downed it in a single gulp. The watching barbarians cheered, and the music continued. Zander sat to her right as the long table, set in her honor, began to fill up fast. Bread and beer was set upon the table, along with the day’s kill. A flask of grog made its way down the line, and Aurora did not pause before drinking also. The rum burned well on the way down, and set a small fire in her guts.

“
Give us a tale, Chieftain!” a woman yelled down the table. The hundreds of barbarians yelled their agreement.

“
Settle in, settle in. For I have traveled far these years passed,” Aurora sang out to the crowd, and they leaned forward in anticipation of the telling.

She
told them of her journey from Volnoss to the shores of Shierdon and beyond. She spoke of the many men who had regarded her with fear, and, the women, a quiet respect. Her journey brought her along the seemingly endless Elgar mountains, to the borders of the elf land Elladrindellia, and finally to Del’Oradon. She made her capture sound planned, just a way to get close to the fabled Whill of Agora. The story ended with her glorious return, after escaping Cerushia.

The
crowd listened, engrossed in the tale laid out before them. Aurora, like her father, had a gift for storytelling. Her voice rang loud and clear above the howling wind, while at the same time, it was melodic. She wove such a tale that the listeners became enthralled. Her father had told her that the best stories were those you never wanted to end. Her tale ended−to the barbarians’ regret−with her glorious defeat of the Chieftain of the Seven. The crowd clapped, stomped, and cheered her tale. The Seven Tribes had crowded together for the telling, and the lines of division faded.

The
morning came quickly for Aurora and many other barbarians. The merrymaking had gone long into the night, and, though she understood the last thing a traveling army needed was a hangover, she did not regret it. Many tales and imaginings of future glories had been shared the night before. The tribesʼ people had spoken of reclamation and conquest as Aurora had never heard before. They had found again a passion once lost to their people, pounded out of them by centuries of toil and the unforgiving cold of the north. The barbarians of Volnoss had rediscovered pride, and dared to hope for a better future.

Aurora
lay in her bed, laughing to herself as memories of the night played in her mind. The ruffled spot beside her was still warm; stroking it, she smiled at the memories. She had invited one of the tribesmen to her bed last night, Shadow Darktail, son of Chieftain Gnash of Wolf Tribe. When she rolled over to the pillow, his smell remained.

She
rose for the day, feeling refreshed and in good spirits. Her dreams had been pleasant, and though she slept for only a few hours, she was rested. As soon as she left her tent, the tribesʼ people went to work dismantling it. By the time she had gotten herself a hot bowl of whale-fat soup and a hunk of bread, her tent was down and stowed in a wagon.

The
Seven Tribes of Volnoss took up the rear as the Draggard and Shierdon armies started out for the day. Veolindra fell back, as she often did during travels, and taught Aurora the language of the undead. When dealing with the creatures, there was a way of wording things; the wrong phrasing would have disastrous consequences.

Aurora
had not seen much of Azzeal, and when she did, he displayed none of the peculiar behavior he had previously. Aurora had abandoned her guilt, and shed her fear and self-loathing. Veolindra and Zander had shown her a new way, one that would lead to glory, wealth, and power. Embracing their words as one would a new lover, she forgot all else, and focused on her lessons. Aurora became accustomed to the power of the emerald ring. In only a few days, she learned to command an undead soldier with but a thought. Her newfound power was exhilarating; she watched Veolindra’s demonstrations, and her lust for knowledge grew. The lich lord commanded entire battalions with her mind. In battle, she could unleash swarms of the unfeeling, undead soldiers upon her enemies; they were but cannon fodder to her.

“
Soon our master will announce himself to Agora,” said Veolindra, with a wide smile as Aurora caught up to her.

“
Is there any doubt he is here?” Aurora asked with a laugh.

“
The humans and dwarves know nothing. How much can one trust the news of the world passed on from mouths to ears a dozen times? The kingdoms have been divided; as we speak, the cities of humans, dwarves, and elves burn. As of yet, Eadon has been a rumored whisper, a myth cloaked in shadow. Soon, all shall know him, and all shall bow.”

Veolindra
turned her head quickly, as though someone had called her name. A wide smile spread across her face as a low rumbling began deep in the earth. The armies stopped in their march as the rumbling grew. Horses whined and shifted nervously, their fearful eyes darting.

“
The time has come,” said Veolindra with a shudder and wide-eyed laughter. “He speaks!”

*

Eadon stood before the long, white expanse of the Thendor Plains. Deep beneath the surface, the coursing power of Agora’s crossing ley lines waited to be tapped. He raised a single, dark crystal shard before him, and began to chant.

Twelve
other dark elves stood in a circle around him, more than two miles wide. They too began the chant. The crystal shard began to vibrate in Eadon’s hand, gaining power. The steady chanting of the elves lent to his power, and solidified the connection between the crystal and the deep ley lines. Eadon planted the crystal shard into the ground and floated into the sky.

A
deep rumbling began in the earth as the rivers of energy beneath the ground triggered the spells within the shard. The crystal pulsed with blinding light and began to grow. A quake shuddered through the land, followed by another, stronger jolt. The frantic chanting of the dark elves rose into the air as the shard grew downward into the earth. The roots of the crystal shard connected with the flowing energy of Agora’s ley lines, and a cascade of light shot forth, piercing the heavens. Eadon floated high, bathing in coursing power.

The
vibrating crystal began to steadily grow as the elves continued their chant. Earthquakes rumbled through the earth, and the ground heaved and split. Soon the crystal towered thousands of feet above the Thendor Plains. Large mounds of dirt crashed down like rolling waves as the crystal grew into a monolithic spire reaching steadily for the thin clouds and digging its roots deep into the earth.

The
spire grew high and wide, fed by the energy of the ley lines; it pierced the clouds and continued to grow. The flat plains were torn asunder, leaving gaping canyons in the wake of the spell. Lava from rivers deep within the earth spewed forth, filling the widening canyons.

The
rumbling subsided, and the dark elves fell dead at the edges of the spire. Eadon flew to the highest peak of jutting crystal and landed upon the smooth surface. He extended his consciousness down through the spire and into the coursing rivers of energy below. As the connection was solidified, Eadon spoke, his words traveling through the spire, into the rivers of energy, and throughout all of Agora.

*

Whill stood tall before Alrick and the soldiers as they knelt before him with heads bowed. Before, he felt uncomfortable to receive such treatment, but now it bothered him not. He was rightful king of Uthen-Arden, and he had claimed his birthright. His choice was made, and there would be no turning back now.

He
raised his hands and bade them all stand.

“
Long live King Whillhelm!” Alrick cheered, and the soldiers answered in kind.

Whill
began to address them, but a deep rumbling stole his words. The rumbling grew so violent it seemed the world might be torn asunder. Men, elves, and dwarves alike fought to keep their balance as cracks formed in the courtyard, and the ground split. Whill shot into the sky and hovered high above the city. The oldest and tallest buildings swayed with the earthquake. The highest towers cracked and fell to the streets below sending people scurrying for cover. Below him, the castle buckled and moaned, and the two towers crumbled in a heap of dust. The elves extended their shields throughout the courtyard, blocking chunks of falling rock from crashing down upon the armies.

Just
when he thought that the city could take no more, the rumbling subsided. He looked out over the horizon in every direction, but could find no cause for the disturbance. It was not until he looked with his mind sight upon the city below that he found the cause. Deep below the city, the surging power of the ley lines converged upon the castle from different directions; the brightest of them flowed north. Whill rose higher into the sky, until the air became thin and his breath came laboriously. With his mind sight, he followed the thin ley line north. Far away, a jutting spire glowed brightly. Whill unsheathed Adromida and prepared himself, but no attack came.

“
People of Agora: human, dwarf, and elf. Hear my words!” Eadon’s voice bellowed forth from all directions, scattering birds from the treetops. Whill flew swiftly down and landed in the courtyard as Eadon’s words echoed throughout the land. He saw fear in the faces of the soldiers, anger in the dwarves, and in the eyes of the elves, a quiet foreboding. Silence followed in the wake of Eadon’s command, and all of Agora waited.

“
You know my name, for it is whispered by warriors and cowards alike. My armies are legion; my reach is infinite; and my power, absolute. My brethren of old have put you all in danger. These elves of Elladrindellia, who you revere and hold in such high regard, have included Agora in a war that should have ended five centuries ago, and far from here. These sun elves you call allies; they are your greatest enemy. They have refused to surrender and pay for their war crimes. Instead, they hide behind humans far weaker, but braver, than they.”