A Crown Of War (Book 4) Page 30

  “You’ve met the elf; he likes willing servants over mindless slaves.”

  True, but Whill remained unsatisfied.

  “If he wanted you so badly, why would he trade your fealty for hers?”

  Dirk said nothing, as if he had wondered that very thing. “He is a great deceiver. I cannot begin to understand his motives in anything. Perhaps he thought he could keep me snared, dangle her over my head to keep me in line. He sent a dark elf after me after releasing me. I believe he meant to rein me back in.”

  Whill smelled a rat. He didn’t invade Dirk’s mind for his answers, but he listened intently for Dirk’s projected thoughts.

  Silence.

  Either the assassin had a great amount of control, he felt guilty about nothing, or he told the truth.

  Sensing what Whill was doing, Dirk stretched out his good hand. “Go ahead, read my mind if it will get us anywhere faster.”

  “Who is she?” Whill asked.

  “I don’t trust you any more than you trust me,” Dirk answered.

  “Then you have something to hide, or rather, she does?”

  “Don’t we all?” Dirk countered, not backing down.

  Tension filled the silence as they both stared at one another. Finally, Whill reached out his right hand. Dirk didn’t flinch. Whill nodded to his broken arm, and Dirk hesitantly walked toward him. Placing his hand on Dirk’s broken arm, he surrounded it with blue healing energy. He delved into the wound with his mind sight, healing torn tendon and muscle, and setting the bone in place with a force of will. He touched upon an energy coursing through the assassin’s body and armor. The wound had already begun to heal itself, and Whill followed the energy flow to a gem set in Dirk’s chest. Elven magic was at work inside him.

  Dirk pulled his arm back and Whill returned to himself with a jerk.

  “Thanks,” said Dirk, flexing his hand and rubbing his healed arm.

  “We are even,” said Whill, watching him closely.

  “Agreed,” Dirk replied.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Judgment

  Aurora stood before her father, head bowed and tears streaming from her like flowing rivers after a long winter thaw. Around them stood the shadows of their ancestors, and, beyond them, the great pillars that made up the glowing entrance to the barbarian paradise, Val’Kharae. She knelt upon her knees in shame, her every deed laid out bare before her ancestors.

  “My daughter, what have you done?” her father asked, anger and sorrow etching his booming voice.

  Aurora wanted to explain herself, wanted to make them understand that she had had no choice, but it was a lie. She had had a choice, and now she would pay the price. She had led her greatest warriors to a slaughter at the hands of Whill of Agora. The future of Volnoss had been destroyed the moment she killed Azzeal and chose her path. She had tried to lead her people to their lost homeland so they might once again know glory and honor. Instead, she had sealed their doom. Volnoss would be seen as the enemy now.

  “Aurora Snowfell!” a voice boomed throughout the murky glow. The shadows of her ancestors turned their heads upward, and her father slowly stepped away from her.

  Aurora’s armor was ripped from her violently. The furs of the Seven Tribes went up in flames, leaving her quivering naked beneath the looming face of Thodin, the father of the gods.

  “You are the coward at your people’s back. You have disgraced your tribe. Stand and receive!” Thodin bellowed.

  Aurora tried to stand on her shaking legs, but she was suddenly falling. The glowing pillars of Val’Kharae faded in the distance above her, and the shadows of her ancestors went with it. Aurora screamed in the void as she fell, thinking she had been cast down to the Underdeath. The sound of strange chanting surrounded her. She didn’t understand the words.

  Pain crashed into her, and she screamed for death. Her eyes shot open, and she lurched and flailed. Strong hands held her down, and the chanting rose to unbearable levels. All around her a glowing green fog akin to Azzeal’s dead eyes surrounded her. She realized what was happening, and her screams of pain became keening sobs.

  Aurora sucked in a frantic breath and opened her eyes to Zander standing above her. His arms shot to the heavens and a crackling bolt of lightning hit her in the chest. The power of the strike jumpstarted her still heart, and air flooded into her burning lungs.

  “Rise, Aurora Snowfell, my undead beauty. Rise!” Zander bade her, and she was compelled to comply.

  She floated to her feet and stood on strong legs. She saw everything differently through her glowing green eyes. Nighttime had come, and yet everything was as clear as if it were day. The faint moonbeams shooting out between the clouds showed with the same green tint. All about the forest, the glowing outlines of every living creature and every tree gave them away. But, her own flesh didn’t glow with life force, but rather a dark swirling fog.

  Zander smiled upon her and sat to rest on a large stone set beside a green fire.

  “You can thank Azzeal for bringing you to me, and just in time. You were nearly lost to my efforts,” said Zander.

  Azzeal’s eyes never wavered from hers. She realized he had been staring at her the entire time. There was yet a hint of the elf she had known in the milky gaze, a shadow of who he was.

  “Why do I remember everything? Why am I not like…him?” she asked Zander, holding Azzeal’s gaze. She thought she saw the slightest of smiles at the corner of his mouth.

  “I was able to preserve your mind…actually, Azzeal was. Seems a bit of magic remains in the sun elf,” Zander said, amused.

  Aurora didn’t share his amusement; she was horrified. She had become one of the undead, a pawn to be used at Zander’s disposal. The connection between them pulled at her heart, at her soul. Sorrow permeated through her, washing against her tortured mind like an eternal ocean upon the sands of the world. She believed some part of Azzeal had kept her mind intact on purpose, as a final retribution for her sins. In the back of her mind, his croaking voice echoed across the oceans of despair. Before she had awakened, she thought herself cast down to the depths of the Underdeath, and how she wished that was her fate instead.

  “You have served our master well. We would have been successful had it not been for Whill. Your people’s sacrifice will not be forgotten,” said Zander.

  “My people…” Aurora’s voice trembled.

  “They are all dead I am afraid. The wielder of the ancient blade utterly destroyed our armies.”

  “Where are we?”

  “About ten miles east of the Ky’Dren Pass. We travel to Felspire. Eadon shall pass judgment on our failings as he sees fit.”

  “But, it wasn’t our fault,” Aurora protested, cringing at the idea of standing in judgment before the dark elf. But, then again, what could possibly be worse than undeath, she wondered.

  “Eadon has no patience for such excuses as fault. Failure, to Eadon, is failure,” said Zander.

  “Where is Veolindra?” Aurora asked.

  “She has been destroyed,” said Zander without feeling. “Come, you’ve no need for rest now.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

  “Felspire.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Ancient One

  Helzendar stared at the Watcher’s body, and, from within, Tarren stared back. They had been holed up inside Del’Oradon castle seemingly forever, and Tarren had not even begun to get comfortable in the elf’s body.

  “You really in there?” asked Helzendar with a hint of skepticism.

  “For the hundredth time, yes, I am really in here,” Tarren answered. Hearing the Watcher’s voice was still strange. Thankfully, his own voice narrated his thoughts.

  “Must be weird. You got any o’ the old crazy elf’s magic in ye?”

  Tarren thought about that. It definitely felt weird, but if there was magic in him, he couldn’t tell. “I think he took the magic with him,” he finally answered.

 
Lunara had insisted they remain inside the castle, in one of the lower chambers used as a lock-out room for the royals in times of invasion. Outside of the windowless room’s single door, a half dozen elves stood guard. Tarren figured the guard was pointless, given Eadon’s incredible power, but she insisted all the same. A few of the elder masters had been in to inspect him. They all hummed and nodded to themselves, but didn’t find it prudent to share what they had learned with Tarren, to his growing annoyance. Though it was not his body, they poked and prodded with their hands and their minds, and the inspections felt quite uncomfortable all the same. He was glad when the last of them left.

  Despite all of the annoyance and strangeness, he was glad he was not inside his own body, and he was thankful for the Watcher’s sacrifice. He could not imagine what the elf was going through in his stead, and he cringed to think what had been done to his own body. The entire affair had the air of a bad dream he could not wake from. He wished he would wake up in a soft bed in Cerushia, or Ro’Sar, or, better yet, back in his bed next to the window in his family’s inn.

  “How you thinkin this all be turnin’ out?” Helzendar asked as he anxiously paced the floor of the large room.

  “Who is to say how a dream will end?” Tarren replied, wondering where he had come up with such words. Helzendar seemed to notice the difference too, for he stopped his pacing to regard Tarren.

  “Think the elf’s crazy brain be getting’ to ye,” he said, and went back to his pacing.

  “There are worse things,” said Tarren.

  *

  Zerafin and the army of elves met with others from Elladrindellia near the town of Harrow, at the end of the eastern branch of the Ky’Dren River. They came in bird and animal form as it suited them. Others rode upon the majestic horses of southern Elladrindellia. Bred for speed and endurance, and fueled by the magic of the elves, the elven horses could travel long lengths before tiring.

  With the help of Zionar Master Ornarell, and the network of speaking stones the elves possessed, word had been spread throughout the land to converge on Felspire. Many bands of elves heard the call and had begun the journey from all corners of Elladrindellia. Elves remained spread out across Agora, spies of the Queen Araveal who had been stationed strategically throughout the land. Many of the elves had remained behind in Elladrindellia to fight the hordes of Draggard who came through the portal outside of Cerushia.

  Zerafin had been in contact with the queen. He was pleased to learn she and many others had survived the attack. The city however had not been so fortunate. The dark elves laid Cerushia to waste, though they had lost many in doing so. It was the largest attack, and the greatest loss for the Elves of the Sun, in Agora to date. But, the elves had recovered from the surprise of the attack quickly, and had successfully routed the enemy to the shores of Elladrindellia.

  Like those in the other kingdoms of Agora, the attack on Cerushia had only been a distraction, a way to keep the kingdoms busy defending their own lands while Eadon and his hordes gathered at Felspire upon the Thendor Plains. Reports were coming in from the druid scouts that the dark armies moved steadily in the direction of the spire.

  Zerafin thought of Avriel as he gazed out over his growing elven army, the largest gathering of elven warriors they had mustered since the Drindellian Wars, and it well may have been the last. He remained unsure how the war would all play out. Once, he was confident the prophecy was true, and that Whill of Agora would end the centuries-old war. But now, given what Kellallea had said in the cavern, he was not so sure. He wished to speak to her to discover the truth. He had tried to contact the ancient elf, knowing she was in Agora, but to no avail.

  He rode away from the main gathering by the banks of the Ky’Dren River where the horses drank their fill, and dismounted a mile away upriver from them. He left his horse to graze and unsheathed his blade as he sat in a meditative stance among the high grass of the bank. He focused his will on Kellallea and called to her with his mind. Tapping into the power of his blade, he called to her through the water and earth and wind. For nearly an hour, he tried to make contact with the ancient one, but, to his dismay, she either did not hear him, or refused to answer.

  Reluctantly, he sheathed his sword and stood beside the banks of the river. He had used much of the power of his blade in calling, but he had to try again. He was possibly leading his elves to slaughter, and needed all of the wise council he could get.

  “Kellallea!” he screamed to the heavens. “I am King Zerafin of Elladrindellia, son of King Verelas of Drindellia! Hear me!”

  Just when he had given up and began to mount his steed to leave, the wind picked up and blew the thin snow cover up in small twisters of churning white. His horse whined and shuffled nervously, but he paid it no mind.

  “Ancient one?” he asked the wind.

  The snow began to swirl more violently, and Zerafin soon found himself in the midst of a snowy whirlwind. Ahead, through the whiteout, a form appeared. The wind quickly died down altogether, and the powdery snow fell lazily around him.

  “Hello, my child,” a voice spoke to him through the snowfall.

  He moved closer and inspected her with his mind sight, and gasped when he saw the power she possessed. Quickly, he turned away and closed his mind’s eye. She came to stand before him in a long flowing dress of vine and leaves. Like the falling snow surrounding them, she glowed with the sunlight. Zerafin took a knee before her and bowed his head.

  “Kellallea, Lady of the Tree,” he said in reverie.

  “Zerafin, my child, rise.”

  He stood before the ancient elf of legend, she who had ended the Great War and stripped the elves of all knowledge of Orna Catorna those eons ago. He stood before her, humbled. Words fled from him and his mind knew only her beauty.

  “Kellallea,” he said in a broken voice.

  “I understand, my child. You fret for our people, for your sister. You have given much of yourself in this fight. Rest now, and be at peace. For things are as they should be,” she said, lifting her hand to rest upon his crown. Waves of soothing energy washed through him and his heart and mind found peace.

  “Will you come with us to Felspire? Will you help your people as you once did, long ago? Or have you forsaken us; have we fallen from your grace?” he dared ask.

  “I meant to teach the elves a lesson those eons ago, a lesson that has been forgotten. How then shall I help you now?” she asked.

  Zerafin fell to his knees once more. “Please, Kellallea, we beg of you. Many among us have headed your words, who live by your lessons. Always there will be those who do not. How are we to fight such evil?”

  “Fret not, child, I have not forsaken you.” She reached out her hands, which Zerafin took as he stood before her once again. “Go with my blessing, Zerafin, son of Verelas. And know that I am with you.”

  There was a brilliant flash of light, and a surge of power was transferred from Kellallea to Zerafin. His inner gems and his blade were filled with the power of the ancient one, and she was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The Western Door

  Whill sat with King Ky’Ell and a few of his generals around a large fire near the eastern mouth of the Pass. Dar’Kwar was among them. Whill had healed those dwarves he could, and had saved many from the clutches of death. The Ky’Dren dwarves had taken many casualties during the invasion, but the Draggard had been routed, the day had been won. The dwarves were in a celebratory mood after the victory. Ky’Ell did not share the jovial spirit around him. He had lost a son and many other good soldiers during the battle. Many of his cities had been destroyed, and all under his watch.

  “What can you tell me of the invasion of Eldalon?” Whill asked Ky’Ell, putting down his bowl of stew.

  Ky’Ell regarded Whill as if he had been torn from deep pondering. “Not much, lad. I been fighting my way here from Northern Ky’Dren these last few days. You be findin’ more answers at the western mouth o’ the Pass.”

  “If I
might interrupt, me King, I come from the west recently,” Dar’Kwar offered.

  Ky’Ell nodded and the dwarf went on.

  “I been there, on account o’ that Dirk Blackthorn and his flight from Uthen-Arden. Eldalon be in shambles, far as the refugees be tellin’.”

  “Blackthorn?” Whill asked.

  “Aye, the man came to the Pass like a bat outta hells, said he knew o’ a plot to kill the royal family o’ Eldalon, and said he been tryin’ to stop it. I left him at the western mouth, ain’t for knowin’ where he went from there, but if he was trying to stop the slaughter, he ain’t been successful. Be true bout yer kin, sir. Last came to me ears, the King o’ Eldalon and his family been killed. I ain’t for knowin’ how many survived.”

  Whill only nodded at this. He had heard as much, but clung to the possibility that the stories were false. How had Dirk known of such a plot? Better yet, why would he care to stop the assassinations? He searched for the assassin, but saw no sign of him in the nearby dwarven camps. He began to regret his decision to let him go. Another question burned in his mind: Why would Eadon bother exterminating his line? Was he simply trying to goad Whill into fighting him once and for all? Surely, that was the reason he kidnapped Roakore, Avriel, and who he thought was Tarren.

  “Might I ask what your next move be? You plan on facin’ Eadon?” Ky’Ell asked, and took a long pull from his metal flask. He offered the liquor to Whill, who declined.

  “I came here in hopes of learning the fate of my kin. I suppose I will travel to the western mouth and see what might be learned. I will face Eadon in due time. I had hoped to rally the kingdoms of Agora against him, but it seems his ultimatum will leave little time for such a feat. The elves of Elladrindellia move toward Felspire as we speak.”

  Ky’Ell nodded grimly and lit up his pipe. “What o’ the Uthen-Arden armies? You be king o’ them now, ain’t ye?”