Kingdoms in Chaos (6 page)

“Wait,” said Whill, standing as well. “Why did you originally come here to speak with me?”

The Watcher turned at the door and offered Whill a smile. “I thought that you might need to talk.”

When he was alone again, Whill refilled his wine glass and moved to the window. Night had fallen over Del’ Oradon. Lanterns lit the streets beyond the castle, and people could still be seen about. He envied them and their simple lives.

He was tired of the warring, tired of the mysteries that seemed ever to occupy his life. The old days traveling Agora with Abram had been a blessing, and he now understood why the old man kept his secrets all those years—he wanted to give Whill some semblance of simplicity in his life, if only for a short time. Whill wished that Abram were with him now more than ever.

Roakore.

The voice woke him from a deep sleep. He shot upright in bed and looked around the dark chamber. His wife, Rubella—whose night it was to share his bed—stirred, and ran a hand across his chest, murmuring something unintelligible.

“What? Who’s that?” he asked the darkness.

No one answered.

He searched the shadows, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. Something was in the stone chamber with them, he just knew it.

“Show yourself!” Roakore screamed, leaping out of bed. He lit a lantern and whirled around quickly.

The chamber was empty.

“Roakore?” His wife sat up and wiped her sleepy eyes.

“Sshh!” He held up a silencing hand and began stalking through the room, checking in dark corners and under furniture.

When he had searched the entire room, he stood there puzzling.

“Come back to bed. Yer havin’ yer dreams again,” his wife called to him.

“I ain’t dreamin’. I heard a voice, I tell ye.”

“Just the wind through the flue,” Rubella said with a yawn.

He ignored her and checked the room a second time. When still he found nothing, he got dressed and left his sleeping wife.

Retiring to his den, he poured himself a beer from the barrel in his extensive bar. After lighting a lantern and a half dozen candles, he sat down at his desk and stared out the window beside him. The wind howled along the side of the mountain, and it looked to have been raining recently, for the wide sill was slick with wet.

He drank his beer and considered the voice that he had heard—again. It was deep and rumbling. When first he heard it he thought that it had been an earthquake, or possibly an avalanche. His chamber was built into the eastern side of the mountain, and the ice and snow often shifted. The voice was distant and muffled, as if obscured by a thick stone wall. It was commanding, calling to him as a father might.

The Book of Ky’ Dren
sat on the desk before him…beckoning. It spoke of a great migration of dragons who attacked and destroyed the dwarves of Drindellia. The tome also spoke of the origin of dwarven powers, saying that they came not from the gods, but the elves.

The contradictions insinuated by the story had caused Roakore to begin questioning his faith. How could he be a king to his people if he questioned the very religion they worshipped? Roakore dropped to his knees beside his desk and offered up a prayer to Ky’Dren.

He had hoped that the voice would return, but it did not. Only the howling wind spoke to him, and its voice gave a mournful warning.

A knock came at the door shortly after, and Nah’Zed peeked in her head.

“Ah, me royal brain, come in, come in. What’s on the agenda today?” Roakore asked as he closed
The Book of Ky’Dren
.

“Good mornin’, me king,” she said.

As usual, Nah’Zed carried a pile of scrolls with her. She placed them on the table and unfolded one. “Ye got a meetin’ with the elders in half an hour. After that, you got a meetin’ with the ambassador o’ Eldalon. Then yer scheduled for lunch with, Ak’Ren, the lad who be courtin’ yer eldest daughter from yer fourteenth wife. He be seekin’ yer blessin’ in marriage. After that, ye be unveilin’ the statue o’ Haldagozz.”

She offered him a kind smile at the mention of the loyal dwarf, who had saved Roakore’s life by taking the brunt of a spell meant for him.

“Aye, Haldagozz’s statue. It be a beauty,” said Roakore.

He had moved the slab himself, and handpicked the best stone workers in the kingdom to create the homage to his fallen friend.

“Sire, is something bothering you?” Nah’Zed asked.

Roakore realized that he had been staring off into space. “O’ course not,” he said, waving her off. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

He watched her leave, and pondered whether or not he should bring her in on his dilemma. Nah’Zed was a smart one, to be sure, and the most read dwarf he had ever met. But he finally decided it was best to keep quiet about it. She would likely be unable to deal with the implications of the book’s teachings.

Dirk walked through the dark streets of Brinn. With a thought, he turned to mist and flew through an alley. He solidified in front of a tower built into the battlements on the southern wall. The building at the base of the tower had many windows aglow. Voices—those of soldiers—spilled out into the summer night. Dirk floated along the barrack’s windows, listening. He was looking for hushed conversations, those with fear in their voice. Two guards turned the far corner and Dirk turned to mist once more. He flew past the oblivious guards and soon found what he sought. Three men sitting at a small table in the center of their sleeping quarters were hunched toward each other as if imparting secrets. Dirk flew into the room and listened.

“…or I’m a liar,” a bearded man was saying.

The youngest of the three looked petrified. “Dragonshyte,” he said with a nervous laugh, and then sat back on his stool with a dismissive wave.

The bearded guard leaned in closer, his animated expressions urgent. “Peterson seen it with his own damn eyes!” He kept his voice to a whisper, though a harsh one.

The oldest of the three gave a chuckle, drank from his mug and wiped his wide mustache. “A lot of strange things happened afore the winter, but the dark elf is dead. Don’t be helping spread these fables.”

“I tell you, there be undead been seen in the woods, and Peterson ain’t the only one who saw them,” said the bearded guard insistently.

Dirk withdrew. He had already heard as much from another pair of guards. He needed to get to the commanders. He made his way to the southern keep and wisped his way up the stairs to the chambers of the residing general of Brinn, under the new ruler, King McKinnon, one of three now controlling northern Uthen-Arden.

The general sat at a thick desk reading over scrolls by candlelight. Dirk moved to the window behind him and watched over his shoulder as the man settled his business for the day. The first few scrolls were inconsequential: refugee numbers, reports on grain and corn reserves, promotion recommendations, enlistee information, and finally, troop movements.

Dirk gathered what information he needed and flew back through the city to the hillside that Raene waited upon. Krentz was already back, and Chief wagged a translucent tail upon his arrival.

“What you got?” Raene asked between chews. The pheasant drumstick in her hand reminded him how much he missed having to eat.

“They’re fortifying northern positions around Lake Eardon rather than concentrating their efforts on the southern front. Soon they will attempt to take Belldon Island and the seat of Shierdon’s power.”

Krentz nodded. “I’ve learned as much, but they are also fortifying borders running east and west. They fear attack from the north. There is word of armies of roaming undead.

“Armies?” said Dirk. “I only heard rumors of isolated sightings.

“Undead Armies marching across the north…” said Raene. “Which direction they be headin’?”

“West,” said Krentz.

Raene tore off another greasy bite, dribbling the juice down her chin. “Zander be convertin’ the entire countryside to join his undead legions.”

“He has grown considerably more powerful since the fall of Eadon,” said Dirk. “And without the magic of the elves, he may prove to be a grave threat to all of Agora.”

“Bah!” Raene spat. “Ain’t no elf magic needed. We four are goin’ to take him out. They’re all under his control, right? Ye cut the head off the dragon, you needn’t worry ‘bout the tail.”

“This isn’t a game,” said Krentz with a mirthless laugh. She indicated Dirk and Chief. “We cannot stand up to his power.”

“You ain’t gotta stand up to it for long, just gimme enough time to get me blade into him.”

“Krentz is right,” Dirk put in before Krentz had a chance to erupt. “We cannot defeat him. We should enlist the help of the one spoken of in the spirit world.”

“I ain’t followin’ the lead o’ no damned spirit less it be o’ me own kin, and I see it with me own eyes.”

“So that’s it? You hold the figurine, so you decide the road, against our vote?” Krentz glided toward her slowly.

Raene tossed the pheasant bone and Chief flew to catch it. “You look tired, you should get some rest.”

Krentz’s face dropped. “DO, NOT. Dare. Dismiss. Me.”

“You two need to stop,” Dirk warned, trying to keep the peace.

Raene and Krentz stood mere inches from one another. The dwarf stared up at her with a smug grin. She took the wolf figurine from her pocket and held it to the side. “Back to the spirit world, Krentz.”

A furious scream escaped Krentz as she turned to mist and swirled into the figurine.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Dirk. Raene had never dismissed either of them without their expressing a desire to rest.

“She’s bein’ unreasonable. And she ain’t never liked me from the beginnin’.”

Dirk noted that she didn’t put the figurine away. He trod lightly. “She likes you just fine, but she’s worried that you’re leading us to our doom.”

“And what be your mind?”

He eyed the figurine. “You are the bearer. You have the power to summon us between realms, but you are not our master.”

She looked disappointed. “This ain’t about masters and slaves. It’s about stoppin’ a dark elf wreakin’ havoc across Agora.”

“To you this is about revenge. We have expressed our concerns, our vote has been cast. We would see Zander fall as well, but we should enlist allies in this endeavor. We should travel southeast to—”

“I ain’t bein’ led to Elladrindellia by a damned
dark elf
.” She pointed a shaking finger. “Ye two be searchin’ out this old sorcerer ‘cause she done created the figurine, and ye be wantin’ to be free o’ it.”

“Of
course
we want to be free…it seems you feel otherwise.”

Raene took a deep breath and regarded him thoughtfully. Finally, she raised the figurine. “I need to be alone.”

“
Raene…
”

She sniffed nonchalantly, yet was unable to meet his eyes. “Back to the spirit realm, Dirk Blackthorn.”

“Raene!”

Zerafin sat beside his sleeping mother’s bed on the balcony overlooking the thousand falls. The morning mists covered the city, and crystal shards and stone columns jutted out across the smoky landscape. A rainbow was growing in the air just above the falls, but he found no beauty in it. He looked upon his mother, she who had been so strong her entire life, now thin and frail, lips chapped and cracked, and skin like dry paper wrapped around bone. Her eyes were sunken, and once proud ears bent beneath their own weight.

Most of the elders were sick or dying, and even the younger and stronger of the elves knew that they, too, were now mortal. The second age of the elves had ended with the Taking, and now, the once fierce and powerful people cowed to the thought of death. The human natives of Old Arden had been pressing their attacks across the gulf of Arden. Once, not long ago, the elves would have defeated them easily. Now, however, without magic and with the knowledge that they could so easily die, the elves had become quite timid.

Zerafin left his mother sleeping. They had talked over his plans, and, before falling once more into slumber, the queen mother had agreed. They needed to leave Agora. But the move would leave them vulnerable to attack. Luckily, Zerafin had ordered the building of ships after the fall of Eadon, thinking to strengthen the armada. The fleet was near completion, but still, such a journey required a great amount of supplies if they were to reach Drindellia—supplies they didn’t have.

He had sent out scout ships three months after the fall of Eadon. The journey from Drindellia had taken more than three months for the refugees five hundred years ago, so he expected no less from his scouts. When first the elves traveled across the sea, they sailed without a destination. Now that the way had been mapped, a straight course had been made that would save time. The first of the scouts were expected any day. If they brought back word that western Drindellia was free of the Draggard, he would begin the exodus.

“Sire!” A guard rushed into the chambers and bowed quickly. “The Old Ardenians, they are attacking.”

“Secure the palace,” he said to the soldier, then instructed his mother’s handmaidens to retire her to the inner sanctum.

A regiment of five hundred elven horsemen followed their king north from the city toward the coast. The day was overcast and mild, and fog pooled in the lowlands, making phantoms of the trees and shrubbery in and around the dell. Only a light wind blew in from the coast, moving the patches of fog inland—a perfect time to strike. Zerafin cursed himself for not fortifying the coast at such times. His oversight might cost many lives.

They arrived at the coast and found a regiment of two hundred already there waiting. The elven warriors carried long spears pointed at each end, with gleaming armor of gold with a beaming sun upon the chest plate.

Zerafin reined in his horse and looked to the ocean where the thick mists blocked the view of the harbor. “Report!”

“Sire, our lookouts have reported dozens of ships heading this way from across the gulf. But there has been no sign of them.”

“We have the high ground,” said Zerafin, seeing the fear in the elves’ eyes. “Cerushia will not be taken by humans with wooden spears and rusty blades! To arms! To arms!”

In the five hundred years since the exodus from Drindellia, the elves had feared—and prepared for—a dark elf attack from the east. Great walls had been built to slow an attack coming from the coast north of Cerushia, as it was the only lowland for miles. The rest of the northern tip of Elladrindellia was lined with steep cliffs.

The elves waited atop the wall, watching the fog for any sign of the enemy. Zerafin had fought alongside many of these elves before, yet never had he seen such fear in their eyes. When once they wielded fire and ice, changed into animals and had the power to subdue an opponent with a mental attack, now they had only their own strength, and their own steel. If they fell today they would not be revived by the healing magic they had once possessed.

A sound came to them suddenly, the grating noise of a ship hitting the beach. Zerafin raised a hand for the elves to hold. Hands wet with sweat gripped steel shafts, and squinted eyes stared into the fog…waiting.

War cries ripped through the maddening silence, followed by the roar of a beast and a thrashing of chains.

“Archers at the ready!” Zerafin cried.

A pounding of heavy feet shook the ground and again the roar came, not from one monster, but two.

“
Hold
…”

The pounding shook the ground, growing louder with every passing heartbeat. Out of the fog came a pair of fifteen-foot abominations—dwargon, the dwarf and dragon crossbreeds created by Eadon.

“Fire!”

Arrows ripped through the mist and rained down on the charging beasts. A few of the arrows stuck in the rough hide; however, they only seemed to infuriate the monsters more.

“Fire!” Zerafin cried, watching from his horse as the two dwargon sped toward the wall with incredible speed.

“Spearmen, stop them at the wall!”

The dwargon charged through the arrows and leaped high into the air, one after the other, and cleared the wall. Spearmen were there waiting, and one of the beasts came down on a brave elf who had planted his spear in a crook in the stone. The beast landed, crushing the elf beneath it, but also impaling itself through the gut and out the back. It roared and batted away the attacks of the frantically stabbing spearmen. The other dwargon tore through the ranks with ease. To their credit, the elves stood their ground, but they paid for it with their lives.

Zerafin watched, horrified, as the two monsters rampaged through the elven army. The roar of many men sounded in the fog—the second wave was coming. The dwargon had been a distraction; they did not fight for the men of Old Arden, likely they had been trapped somehow and chained to a barge that was then run aground upon the beach. The humans did not control the beasts…they didn’t have to.

“Charge!” Zerafin cried, and the horsemen complied.

The dwargon were meant to disorient the elves and cause chaos. Rather than flee, Zerafin led his horsemen through the gates of the wall and onto the beach, leaving behind the two beasts to be dealt with by the others.

His horse carried him across the sand as others sped up to protect their king, yet he would not be overtaken. A rage had been building inside of Zerafin since the Taking. His mother’s illness—and his own impotence to help her only fueled the flames.

Through the fog the army came like ghosts in a dream. Zerafin impaled one with his spear and tossed it to the side. A sword swung for him and he was forced to raise a shield to it. His horse trampled through the men, and Zerafin took up his sword, wetting the beaches with the blood of his enemies. When they reached the water—and a clear patch in the fog—he saw a small fleet had landed, more than a dozen in all. Still more ships came from the north and east, flying banners of Old Arden.

“Protect the king!” an elf cried, and many came to his aid.

He wanted none of it. The frustration of the last few months fueled his strikes. He slew a half a dozen men in the fog. The battleground was a whiteout, which gave him and his elves the advantage over the charging men. Without magic, however, they soon began to tire. Zerafin fought through the fatigue, turning away strikes with his long shield and coloring the ocean red with blood. He ducked for a flying spear and leaped from his horse, coming down hard on a man with a wooden spear and no armor to speak of. Twirling, Zerafin slashed the throat of another, and dodged the sword strike of one coming at his back.

The sound of more boats landing gave him pause. Slain elves lay dead in the water alongside the humans.

“Fall back!” he called out as he and his soldiers ran from the ocean.

Avriel heard the warning cries and called to Zorriaz. She put on her armor while she waited, and took her most trusted bow from its place on the wall. Shouldering a quiver of arrows and sheathing her sword, she ran out to the balcony. Zorriaz had come to her call, and glided in from the south. She landed on the balcony and Avriel quickly spurred her to the north.

When she reached the beach, she found that many ships had made landfall, and many more were coming from the northwest. “Protect the elves!” Avriel cried.

Zorriaz flew through the fog and bathed the boats in a swath of flame two hundred feet long. Another pass lit those that had already made landfall. The people hadn’t anticipated a dragon, and even those who could get off a shot found their arrows could not penetrate Zorriaz’s hide. Avriel used her bow to devastating effect, and their appearance on the beach spurred the elves into a second charge.

The battle for the beach lasted nearly an hour, and when the fogs finally lifted and parted for the sun, many elves bloodied the ground—too many. The human forces had only numbered a few hundred, yet the strike had been a small victory for them. They had gained no ground; however, twenty-five elves had been killed, some who Zerafin knew to be many hundreds of years old. If Avriel hadn’t shown up with Zorriaz, many more would have fallen.

He left the beach in the command of one of his generals and mounted a horse to take him quickly back to the city. His fear and apprehension grew as he followed the trail of carnage and destruction that the two beasts had wrought. He arrived at the city gates and gave a small sigh of relief when he saw one of the dwargon dead against the wall. The other was nowhere to be found. Inside, he found not bodies, but blood-stained ground where many had fallen. The other dwargon lay face down in the street just inside the city gate, dozens of spears, swords, and arrows riddling its body like a pincushion.

Zerafin wept as he looked upon his scared people. The pain of injuries that could not be quickly healed twisted their faces.

Kellallea, why have you forsaken us?

Avriel helped to tend to the injured, but without her magic, she was forced to watch many elves die in her arms. The infirmary was overrun. She sat clutching an elf who had just taken her final breath—an elf more than four hundred years of age. With shaking hands she laid the woman down on the bed and closed her eyes with two fingers.

It all seemed so unfair.

She soon found herself unable to breathe and stumbled to the door, hungry for fresh air and a reprieve from the begging voices and smell of death.

Outside, many elves had gathered to sing together the songs of old—ones used alongside Orna Catorna to help soothe and heal the sick. Without the magic that had once accompanied the melodies, the music sounded hollow and sad, a lamenting of loved ones unable to help their kin.

This is what it is like to be a human, or a dwarf.

Avriel had never truly understood, and the realization caused her to respect them all the more. The humans especially, who were not as long-lived as the elves or dwarves. Now, with lifespans reaching four hundred years, dwarves were the longest-lived of the three races.

How do they find the strength to go on?