A Crown Of War (Book 4) (37 page)

The days passed in a blur of rushing landscapes and circling stars. Whill had solicited the help of the Ky’Dren dwarves; they would be marching to Felspire and converge upon the final battle with the elves from the south. Whill had intended on uniting the three races against the dark elves, but Eadon had successfully neutralized the human Kingdoms. Uthen-Arden had not officially accepted Whill as their King, and the scattered Uthen-Arden forces who had not become the dark elves’ undead were beyond his influence. Shierdon was under the rule of the imposter Travvikonis, and Whill had seen many of their soldiers among the undead. Isladon would be no help to him either. The kingdom had barely survived the initial invasion by Uthen-Arden under Whill’s uncle. A new king sat upon the Isladonian throne, an inexperienced king half the age of his father, who had inherited a kingdom in shambles. He would have enough of a challenge seeing the kingdom through the coming winter, let alone offer any soldiers to the battle of Felspire. He had no time to move such an army anyhow. For the same reason, the Elgar dwarves would be of no help. Likely, a rift had opened within Elgar as well, and they would be busy fending off the attack. Lest they had preemptively set out more than a week before, they would not make it in time.

Whill
wasn’t sure how the fight with Eadon would end; he was not confident he would succeed. All he could do was try. He owed the people of Agora that much, at least.

He
had resisted the urge to go immediately to the aid of Roakore and Avriel, knowing it was a trap. Imagining what was being done to them was agony, especially Avriel. Neither she nor Roakore would want Whill to fall for the trap on their account. Too much was at stake to be controlled by impulsive emotions. He had agreed to face Eadon with Zerafin, and he would abide by his promise.

He
flew all day and night, east from the Ky’Dren Pass toward his childhood home, Sidnell. He had not seen Teera and the girls in years, and he wished to say his goodbyes and warn them of the coming doom.

By
nightfall, the eastern coast of Shierdon came into view, along with its many lighthouses dotting the rocky cliffs, warning sailors of the jagged rocks along the unapproachable parts of the shoreline. He drew back the power of Adromida and slowed considerably, lest he crash into the earth like a meteor from the heavens. He came down on the sands of the quiet beach, sands speckled with the recently fallen snow.

Whill
had seen many burnt out towns and destroyed villages across both Uthen-Arden and parts of Shierdon. The warring had not reached these parts. There was little need for the dark elves to attack here; Shierdon had been compromised nearly twelve months ago.

He
walked from the beach and up the road leading from the harbor. The village was quiet at this time of night−nearly an hour before the sun would rise. The only lights coming from the shops he passed came from the baker’s and few others. Teera would still be asleep at this time, but he doubted she would mind the intrusion. He soon came to the cottage he had spent the first half of his life. Those days seemed to be a lifetime ago, as if memories from a dream not his. To his surprise, the lights were on inside. He knocked on the door three times, loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough as to not disturb the neighbors.

“
Get the door, Ella,” Teera called from inside. Her voice was music to his ears.

Someone
approached the door from inside the house. “If it is more sick, we will need to begin moving them to the healing ho-” Ella opened the door and froze as she saw Whill.

“
Hey, sis,” Whill smiled.

Tears
pooled in the corners of Ella’s eyes and, for a moment, she was speechless. Finally, she flung the door wide and threw herself into his arms.

“
Whill!” she shrieked and hugged him tight.

She
backed once more to look at him with wonder in her eyes, and again she hugged him. “By the gods, Whill, it is good to see you,” she laughed wetting his cheeks with her tears.

Over
her shoulder, Teera turned the corner. Their eyes met, and she stopped and wavered. One hand went to the table to steady herself, and the other clutched her chest.

“
Whill?” she smiled and came rushing to him with the sudden agility of a woman half her size and age. She wrapped her arms around him in a crushing hug, leaving Ella trapped between them.

The
two women ushered him into the cottage. A kettle was set upon the hearth for tea, and as always, Teera fussed over him, offering drink and food or anything he might need.

“
Tea will be fine, for now,” said Whill, looking to the sickrooms off to the right. “What’s going around?”

“
Some fear it is the beginnings of a plague, but I am not sure yet. Started about a week ago, after the voice spoke from the heavens,” said Teera, looking to Whill with concern.

“
The voice spoke your name, Whill,” Ella said in a hushed voice, as if relaying secret information.

“
It is a long story,” he began.

Whill
told Teera and Ella everything that had happened since Fendale, when his life had so utterly begun to change. He told them he was the son of the fallen king of Uthen-Arden, and saw no surprise in Teera’s face. As he had guessed, she had known all along. What did surprise her was the story of the prophecy, and, when he mentioned the blade Adromida, her eyes darted to the sword at his hip in amazement. The tale eventually led to the battle in the Del’Oradon arena, and Whill reluctantly told them about Abram. Teera had not asked where Abram was when he arrived. And, when he told her of his death, she seemed less shocked than sorrowful, as if she had guessed as much, but been too afraid to ask. Newfound tears fell for his lost mentor, but rather than relive the pain of the loss, Whill turned to stories of fond memory.

They
talked well into morning, until Teera’s sense of duty forced her to the sickrooms to tend to the ill. Whill went with her and found four cots in each room. They were all full of children who looked to be on their deathbeds.

“
These are the worst of them. There are dozens more throughout the village. The sickness starts as a small cough, and soon turns into dehydrating expulsions of every sort. It is hard to treat them, as nothing can be kept down,” Teera informed him as she wiped the forehead of a six-year-old with a damp cloth.

“
I can help them,” said Whill.

Teera
’s glance fell to the blade at his hip, and her eyes lit with wonderment. She stepped aside and looked on with anticipation. Whill laid his hand upon the forehead of the dying child and slowly stretched his consciousness out and into her body. With his mind sight, he found the intrusion, and the damage the sickness caused. The disease spread throughout her entire body, and though she tried to fight it off, her body was losing the fight quickly. Through the contact of his hand, he sent a blue, writhing tendril of healing energy into the child, and eradicated every trace of the disease in her system. Whill opened his eyes and found the girl’s big, bright ones staring up at him.

“
Are you magic?” she asked, and sat up with all the energy of a normal child.

Teera
could not help but cry tears of joy as all of her frustration over not being able to help the dying children dissipated in an instant. Whill healed the rest of them, but asked Teera to keep them as long as he was in town, lest his healing cause the kind of riot he had seen in Sherna after healing the stillborn infant.

Bella
soon fetched her sisters, who, like her, had grown into strong, handsome women. The eldest, Mael, had four children, and Elzabeth, the middle daughter, had two. Ella, though a year older than Whill at twenty-one, had not, as of yet, taken a husband, a fact Teera did not hide her disapproval of. Like her mother, Ella was a born healer, and did not have the time to devote to such romantic endeavors, choosing rather to focus on the arts of the craft.

Whill
spent the day with his family remembering old times, often until they were all laughing until they cried. The loneliness he had been carrying with him dissipated, and he forgot he was Whill of Agora and Whillhelm Warcrown. To them, he was plain old Whill, magic sword or not.

They
enjoyed a dinner of chicken and biscuits, and emptied a few bottles of wine Teera had been saving for a special occasion. Soon, night was upon them once more, and Whill was reminded that he had to leave. He wished he could stay, he wished it had all been just a bad dream, and Abram would come through the door any minute. The women sensed the moment coming as well, and again the tears began to fall.

“
I don’t know how this is all going to turn out. I may never see you again. You must be prepared to leave these lands,” he told Teera.

“
Where will we go?” she asked. “If this Eadon is as powerful as you say, and all of Agora comes under his rule, where shall we hide?”

“
Find passage to the elven lands. Tell them who you are. They will protect you as well as possible,” he offered.

“
I am too old for all of that. Besides, I am needed here.”

Whill
began to argue, but Teera took his head in her hands as she had when he was little, when she wanted his full attention. “I believe in you Whill. I always have. Since the day my brother brought the son of King Aramonis home to me, I have believed you would one day grow to become a great man, and that man stands before me now. Abram would be so very proud of you, Whill, as am I.”

Whill
broke down, and Teera held him as she so often had in his youth. Though he did not share her assessment of him, her opinion meant a lot to him. He got a hold of himself, and as she once had, Teera wiped his tears.

“
You are the bravest man I have ever known, Whill. I am sorry your life had to be one of such peril. I think you were chosen for a reason. If there is anyone out there who can do it, you can,” she said with a loving smile.

“
I love you, Aunt Teera,”

“
I love you too, son.”

Whill
left them standing at the door, waving their goodbyes, and never looked back.

Aurora, Zander, and Azzeal entered Felspire and made their way to Eadon’s audience chamber. The dark lord sat upon a throne of crystal which hummed and pulsed like the surrounding spire.

“It is with ill tidings that you come to me now,” said Eadon.

Zander bowed at his feet, Aurora followed his lead. “Veolindra has failed you my lord. We would have taken the Pass, but Whill of Agora showed up and destroyed our forces.”

Eadon didn’t seem bothered by the news. He looked to Aurora and she turned her gaze to the floor.

“You have both failed me,” he said, standing.

Eadon towered over them, and Aurora prayed that he would strike them down. He did not.

“The end draws near. You shall have a chance to redeem yourselves,” Eadon promised.

*

Whill left Sidnell, at peace for the first time in a long time; he had said his goodbyes, and he was ready. He flew toward the Thendor Plains from the northeast and mentally recited the elven tomes of Orna Catorna he had put to memory. He had not attempted any of the shifting spells, afraid he might not be able to turn back from whatever animal he changed into.

He
came back to the Morenka tomes again and again, and, every time he did, the teachings of the peaceful monks resonated with him more. They spoke of acceptance of life, peace and harmony. The monks believed that by resisting the reality of one’s life, pain was created, and only through acceptance would the cycle be broken. They did not believe in war, for, if everyone thought as they did, war would not exist. Whill thought theirʼs a dangerous mindset. The very notion caused its share of wars, but the Morenka at least did not invade their neighbors and force their beliefs upon them. They were enemies to none, and friends to all. A true Morenka would share his water with an enemy, and forgive them while they drank. But Whill remained unable to embrace the way of the Morenka. To him, it would mean to stand down against Eadon, and that was something he just could not do.
That is why you shall fail,
a voice spoke in his mind, one that sounded quite similar to the Watcher.

The
land sped by below him, and the sun rose behind. The darkness of the distant horizon turned from dark to lighter shades of blue. To his left, hues of pink and orange turned to blazing red and yellow, as the sunlight seemed to race him across the sky.

He
flew all day, and, by nightfall, he passed over the border between Shierdon and Uthen-Arden. He flew at a slower pace than he had whilst traveling from Del’Oradon to the Ky’Dren Pass, slow enough that he did not have to expend so much of the sword’s power on the energy shield.

Whill
did not remember the last time he had slept. With Adromida at his side, he did not need sleep; he was constantly refreshed, and stronger than ever. Flying took some getting used to, but as Abram used to say, “When you get it, you got it.” Though, Abram had been speaking on the topic of knife throwing at the time.

T
he hours and the miles raced by, and Whill thought of Avriel.
If, by some grace of the gods, we get through this together, I am going to marry that woman,
he promised himself. He wondered how the elves would react to such a thing, and inevitably his thoughts turned to children. Could humans and elves even have children? He was not sure. He could just imagine the hard time a half-human/half-elf would have getting along in the world. And, what problems would arise from having a half-elf as the heir to a human throne? He doubted the people would stand for such a union; they would cry of elven occupation and human sovereignty. Whill cared little about what the people would think, and the more he thought about it, the less he cared for the idea of being king. Royals were bred for their station from birth, and, though he might be an able warrior, an able warrior does not a great king make. He understood nothing of taxes, or trade, or the multitude of other things that a king had to deal with.
Or does the king just appoint people to do all those things for him?
He wondered.
Probably not, if they want to remain in the know, and in power.

Whill
was torn from his ponderings as he came upon the Thendor Plains. In the distance, like a lance jutting from the earth to pierce the heavens, stood Felspire, glowing with vibrant energy from within the earth and pulsing and throbbing in the darkness before the dawn. He drew steadily closer and began to hear the low hum of Eadon’s crystal creation. The dark elf was indeed intent on gaining the attention of the gods. Felspire was impossibly tall, splitting the sky with its peak and continuing on beyond the swirling clouds churning around it.

Was
Kellallea right? Was Whill doomed to fail against one of such incredible power and unrestrained magic? What if Whill died in the fight? Would Eadon simply take the sword and find some other fool human to give the power of the weapon to him? If it was that easy for the dark elf, why hadn’t he already? He chose Whill for a reason, but he could not think of what the reason might be.

He
thought of everything he had learned about Eadon, and Adimorda, the elf he had once been. Avriel and Zerafin said Adimorda was the most powerful seer of his age, looking farther into the future and with more accuracy than anyone else. Once it was learned that the two were one and the same, Whill had dismissed the stories of Adimorda as fictitious lies, an elaborate hoax created to ensure the creation of the Sword of Power Given. Perhaps Eadon had seen himself attain both blades as the prophecy stated. If indeed he was the most powerful seer who ever lived, how was Whill to change the future that he had witnessed? Could one truly change the future? Eadon needed to convince Whill to hand over the power of Adromida and fulfill his destiny, but how? Whill was determined not to; he would gladly die first. Perhaps he could simply empty the blade of all of its power and strike Felspire with such a blast that it came tumbling down upon the gathered armies at its base. Kellallea offered him a way out, a way to be free of his burden, once and for all. But Whill could not hand over such power, would not. He did not trust Kellallea or her motives. She had allowed for the rise of Eadon and the destruction of Drindellia for the sake of becoming a god herself.

Whill
pondered another notion; what if he attained the Sword of Power Taken? Unlike Adromida, the other sword
could
be taken. He possessed no desire to become godlike, but it would be better than Eadon attaining such a high station. And, what of the gods? If indeed they existed, would they allow a rise to power by one of such evil heart as Eadon? Whill laughed at the very notion. He had no reason to believe the gods were real, and, if they were, they seemed not to care about the plight of the good peoples of Agora. Where had the elven gods been when Eadon destroyed their homeland? Where had the dwarven gods been when Roakore’s mountain was invaded and his people slaughtered? Where were the human gods now? Whill gave no stock to the thought of divine intervention. The gods either did not care, or did not exist. It was up to him to stop the future Eadon witnessed those eons ago. He would have to take from Eadon all of his power. It was the only way.