Kingdoms in Chaos (2 page)

Far beneath the ocean floor, the ancient green dragon slowly began to emerge from his long slumber. There had been a shift in the world, even in his deep sleep far below the surface, Reshikk had felt it in his bones. The glowing orb surrounding him had been his prison for untold millennia, but now, it was slowly losing the power to contain him.

For a long time Reshikk fought to remember who he was, and how he had gotten here. Days became weeks, and slowly, over the following months, as his prison lost power, he began to piece together what had happened. His memories were vast, stretching over tens of thousands of years, and a half a dozen continents. And beyond that was the collected knowledge and memories of his line.

As his own memories returned, so too did the pain of loss.

How long had he been trapped here, deep below the ocean near the heart of the earth? How had the world changed? He thought of the others, and the slaughter and near extinction of the dragons at the hands of the elves.

His memories fueled his rage, and his anger gave him strength. When finally the orb surrounding him blinked out altogether, and he came out of his stasis, he blasted a streaming jet of green acid at the surrounding stone before him. The acid melted away layers, and he doused it again, burrowing himself a hole through the sedimentary rock. He continued on for hours, and finally broke through. Water poured in through the hole he had made in the ocean floor, sending him falling back through the tunnel. He gripped the walls with strong claws and fought against the onslaught of crushing weight. Growling, he met the challenge, determinately clawing his way up through the tunnel and finally emerging at the bottom of the dark ocean. The pressure was immense, but Reshikk was a powerful ancient. He spread his massive wings and began to swim toward the surface. When the first rays of light illuminated the darkness he redoubled his efforts, and surged upward with all his might. Finally he broke the surface, and shot out of the ocean like a glistening emerald, shining brightly in the midday sky.

Reshikk immediately scanned his surroundings and, finding only water for miles in every direction, turned his attention to food. In the waters below a dark shadow caught his eye and he dove swiftly, catching the small whale in his giant maw and easily snapping it in half with his sharp teeth. He ate hungrily and soon found a school of large fish. When he had filled his vast belly he floated upon the waters and considered his location.

The sun had set while he was below the surface, and now stars shone brightly in the heavens. The image was startling, for Reshikk did not recognize the night sky. He knew the stars, but they had changed. Anger welled in him once more, and in his rage he bathed the water with a plume of flame that left steam slowly rising into the air. When he had regained control of himself he called upon the memories of his line, and his own knowledge of the world. He soon determined where he was, and was surprised by the realization—it seemed that the elves had gone to great lengths to hide him far away from the homeland.

Reshikk turned his attention eastward, toward the island that he had found in his ancestors memories.

Whill sat listening to the council’s reports. The grain crops were not doing well and the corn had yet to take. Refugees poured into Del’ Oradon steadily, having had to flee from their towns and villages due to the empty food stores and the many small battles raging across the land.

Many of the lords who had done well during Eadon’s reign had claimed themselves kings over their lands. Whill held the south and west, and had taken back much of central Uthen-Arden, but three lords still held firm to the north, and had made an alliance. The peoples of the east—descendants of those who had been forced off their lands when the elves were given Elladrindellia—had begun attacking the elves, who were now without the use of magic. The natives of Elladrindellia called the land Old Arden, and claimed it their birth right to take it back.

With the victory over Eadon, Whill had thought there would finally be peace throughout Agora. But the kingdoms were in turmoil. His was the most secure, aside from Eldalon, which was now under the rule of his distant uncle, King Carlsborough. Shierdon remained in the control of the dark elf Ainamaf, who was said to be still impersonating the late king. Whill had not been able to address that issue. First he needed to stabilize his own kingdom.

The Watcher—in the body of eleven-year-old Tarren—sat beside him scribbling the reports of a messenger from the north. “—and what’s more, Sire, lava flows from Eadon’s Fall have become steadier with every passing day,” said the messenger.

Eadon’s Fall was the name of the large canyon left behind by the destruction of Eadon’s monolithic crystal tower, which had sprouted from the earth during the war. The scar stretched for nearly three hundred miles north to south across the Thendor Plains, and was nearly fifty miles wide in some areas. Many people—those who didn’t worship him—blamed Whill for all that had happened. Those farther north knew little of what really occurred, or how close they had come to being the dark elves’ slaves.

“What of the strange reports near the Shierdon border?” Whill asked. He had been trying to locate his aunt Teera and her daughters since the end of the war. Scouts had been sent to Sherna, the village on the eastern coast where Whill had grown up, but they had reported that it appeared to have been destroyed, and no survivors were found. Teera knew that Whill had become king, and so he assumed that if she were able, she would make her way to Del’Oradon. The more time that passed, the more he worried for her and the girls.

The messenger’s face blanched at the mention of Shierdon, and he fidgeted with his helm nervously. “I haven’t seen anything myself, or been given anything to report from the general, but…”

“What are people saying?” Whill asked.

“Well, Sire, they say that the dead rise at night—soldiers slain in battle, horses, and even children.”

The council members shifted uneasily in their chairs and shared quick glances.

Alrick, the Empyrean Magister, looked to be the most disturbed by the rumors. “It is as I have warned, King Whillhelm. The Lord of the Dead begins to stir.”

Whill shook his head. “Dark elf necromancers had the power to raise the dead. Why are we to assume this is the work of some long forgotten human god?”

“Not long forgotten, Sire. The Zodorian religion speaks of him still.”

“All due respect, but religions speak of many things,” said Whill.

Alrick nodded. “I would think that you of all people would give heed to prophecy.”

“Well said, Magister. What else does the Zodorian scripture say of such things?”

“The line I reference is found in the teachings of Hermidian of Locknar. I must admit it has always been held as one of his more obscure gospels, being that they were his last words, come at a time when he was fevered and wild-eyed. He said thus, ‘The reign of the Lord of Death shall follow the fall’.” Alrick sat back in his chair and crossed his arms beneath his thick robes as if to say “checkmate.”

“Duly noted, Alrick. For now the council will focus on the problems at hand. Now, what does the Magister of Numbers have to report?”

Hyrold Glean opened a thick log book and trailed his finger across the page. He regarded Whill over his spectacles. “Trade with the dwarves has increased by thirteen percent over the last month. However, the influx of five thousand Isladonian refugees into Del’Oradon has increased our need for foodstuffs. Until the crops come in, we will remain at a deficit in that regard.”

“Do we have enough to see a substantial army to the north?” Whill asked.

The council members shared glances.

Hyrold looked to his books and mumbled to himself. Finally he took off his glasses and nodded. “It would be a stretch, Sire.”

Whill turned to Fenious Brighton, Lord General of War. “What is your council?”

“It is imperative that we take back the lands to the north. The false kings have a tentative hold on the lands surrounding the border to Shierdon. They have fewer resources than we, and unless they ally with Shierdon they will have no trade to speak of.”

“Do you think it likely the traitors will make allies with Shierdon?” Whill asked.

“They share a common goal,” said the general. “War between them at this point would be counterproductive. They are flanked by our allies on both sides. I believe an alliance is inevitable.”

More war was the last thing that Whill wanted, but he knew the threat to his northern borders could not be ignored. Something strange was brewing in Shierdon, and the longer they waited, the stronger the dark elf impersonating King Travvikonis would become.

“Tyrron, how many ships can be spared for this venture?”

The Lord General of Fleets considered this, twirling his long mustache as he often did. “Fifty at the most.” He pointed at the large map built into the table. “We could land north of the Elgar Mountains and take Breggard from the west. Of course we will need to cross through southern Shierdon to get there.”

“No,” said Whill. “We will land in Elgar Harbor. We can take the northern mountain pass across to Breggard. The Elgar dwarves have stock in a stable north as well.”

“Excuse me, Sire,” said Larson Donarron, Magister of Secrets. “Word has come to me from associates with their ears to the mountains. They say that the dwarves, both Elgar and Ky’Dren, are secretly planning to take Shierdon. This is an important time for them. The elves have no magic, the human kingdoms are in turmoil. It is said that the descendants of Ky’Dren still retain the ability to control stone. For the first time in five hundred years, the dwarves are the strongest race in all of Agora. They have much to gain…if they would just take it.”

Whill shook his head. “The dwarves are not conquerors.”

Archemedes Krell, Magister of Reflection spoke up. “Might I remind the council how the dwarves gained control of the mountains in the first place? Not only did they drive out the barbarians for control of the Ky’Dren Mountains, but the dragons as well.”

“If they wish to take Shierdon from the dark elf Ainamaf, then they have my blessing,” said Whill.

“If they take Shierdon they would flank Uthen-Arden from the east, west, and north,” said Archemedes.

“The dwarves would never attack us,” said Whill, waving him off.

“I do not mean to speak ill of the dwarves—they have ever been our allies—but it is my job as Magister of Reflection to remind the council of the mistakes of the past. It is not uncommon for allies to betray one another.”

“Your concerns have been noted. If the dwarves plan to take Shierdon, we will make it a joint effort. Together we can secure the north, and I will oversee the reinstatement of the late king’s line.” He addressed Lord General Brighton, “Send pigeons to the Ky’Dren and Elgar Mountain kings, and tell them of our plans to take back the north.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Whill stood and tapped his stack of papers smartly on the table. “Lord General Greyson, prepare the fleets. We set out by the end of the week.”

Roakore sat in his private chambers staring at the piece of wood burning in the stone fireplace. He had spent the last few months busying himself with preparations for winter and the rebuilding of the ancient chambers. The Draggard Wars had taken their toll on the Ro’Sar Mountains and its dwarves. Many had died in the final battle against Eadon, and many more against the dark elves and monstrosities who attacked the mountain while he was away—a guilt that weighed on him heavily.

But they had been victorious, and now that the threat of Eadon’s hordes had been dealt with, and they had gotten through the winter, Roakore could no longer ignore what had happened. He had moved a piece of wood with his mind. The implications frightened him. His line—the descendants of the dwarf king Ky’Dren—had the ability to move stone with their minds, but nothing more. It was a power bestowed upon Ky’Dren’s line by the dwarven gods; so said their religion. He shouldn’t have the power to move anything else. Yet…

He focused on the burning log and reached out a hand. With a growl, he pulled it back. “Well then, on with it, you’ve waited long enough,” he said to himself. He reached out once more, focusing on the burning log with his mind. “Ky’ Dren, help me.”

For many minutes he tried without success. He even stopped, focused on a stone carving on the desk across the room and lifted it with a thought. Keeping the feeling fresh in his mind, he turned back to the log and tried again. When he still failed, a sudden laugh escaped him. Roakore—very happy with himself—raised a glass to the fire and tossed back another shot of rum.

He rose from his chair and stretched his stiff joints. He was beginning to feel his hundred-plus years of age creep into his bones.

A mood came over him, and he took the long stairs up to his mount’s perch. Dwarves stopped what they were doing as he strode by, slamming their chests and bowing respectfully as was custom. It drove Roakore crazy, but he couldn’t order them to stop. The tradition was as old as their civilization.

As he approached the perch, he could smell the crisp mountain air howling through the stairwell. Silverwind’s anxious cooing echoed through the corridor, putting a smile on the old king’s face. He crested the stair and came out on the landing. Far across the wide chamber, his silverhawk gave a squawk and ruffled her brilliant feathers in anticipation.

“There ye be, ye blasted bird!” Roakore sang with a wide smile.

Silverwind responded with a trilling song.

“Ye feel like flyin’?” he asked, grabbing the saddle from its place on the wall.

The giant silverhawk opened her wide wings and flapped them fervently, causing a small windstorm in the roost. She leaped from her huge nest of vine, branches, and hay, and turned toward the mouth of the high chamber.

Outside, silver moonlight and summer winds beckoned.

Roakore attached the saddle and strapped himself in. “All right, girl, give it a gooo—”

Silverwind took five quick steps and leapt out into the air with a triumphant cry. Roakore’s own manic laughter was drowned out by a furious wind that took his breath away. Tears welled in his eyes and he slipped his goggles on as Silverwind plummeted to the earth in a spiraling descent. She opened her wings and caught air right before they hit the rocky side of the mountain, and Roakore gave a howl as she glided down and abruptly arched up and soared out over the valley.

Roakore hadn’t had a proper flight in a month, and had nearly forgotten how much he loved it. The demands of kinghood had been taking their toll as of late. The winter had been a hard one for all three races of Agora, and even he had been forced to tighten his belt to get through it.

Trade between the dwarves of Ro’Sar and shattered Isladon had ceased altogether, which left only Uthen-Arden from which to attain foodstuffs. And while Whill was now king of that land, it had suffered greatly from the Draggard War. Roakore had sent two thousand dwarves to help rebuild and protect many of the towns and villages near to the mountain, for they produced the vegetables and livestock the dwarves had come to rely on. Livestock was less of an issue, as Ro’Sar had its own goats, cows, pigs, chickens and the like. However, they were not farmers, and regardless, animals required fodder. Until the snows melted and the grassy valleys between the mountains opened up, they could not raise enough.

Summer was finally upon them, and trade had begun to pick up. And though the wagons came with far less supplies than were needed, it was a start. Roakore didn’t like the idea of being so dependent on the human farmers—he never had. For that reason he had ordered more livestock to be raised this year, and more crops to be sown where the ground between and around the mountains would permit it.

In spite of all that had happened, he was doing his best, and as much as he despised being stuck in the mountain tending to kingly matters, he did it, for it was his duty. He had begun to face the fact that his days of adventure were likely behind him. A king’s life was one of numbers, facts, figures, and other problems…always more problems: cave-ins, food shortages, trade negotiations, meetings with dignitaries, not to mention twenty-seven wives and over two hundred children. Roakore found himself longing for the open road, axe in hand, friends and ale aplenty, and Draggard to kill. As terrible and impossible as the war for Agora had seemed, it had been the best year of his life. He had killed hundreds of the beasts, and freed his father’s spirit from an eternity of wandering the halls of his fallen mountain. He had slain dark elves, and even a few dragons. More importantly, he had reclaimed the Ro’Sar Mountains.

Surely, Roakore had earned a place in the mountain of the gods.

The gods…

Flying high over his mountain range—his kingdom—he was troubled once again by the nagging doubt. He felt ashamed for even harboring such thoughts, yet, he was unable to shake them from his mind. Ever since Whill read the Book of Ky’Dren to him, he had been helpless to consider the possibility that his powers were not gods-given, but a gift of the elves. His own manipulation of a flying piece of wood while fighting a dark elf was evidence of the deception. He had thought to quiet the idea when he was unable to move the wood in the fireplace, but still a flicker of doubt remained. When the dark elf had sent the battering-ram arm at him, Roakore had thought it to be a stone slab, he had
believed
it to be so, and so it was. With the same mental power he used to move stone, he had manipulated the beam. The action saved his life, but at the same time put a crack in his heretofore rock-solid system of belief.

Perhaps that was the key—belief.

Was that why he couldn’t repeat the feat, because he didn’t
want
to believe that he could do it? Roakore wondered. Somewhere deep inside his soul, he knew that he could do it again. He didn’t want to think of the ramifications, though. For if the words of Ky’Dren were in fact a lie, it meant that his people’s entire way of life was a lie, it meant that there was no mountain of the gods…there was nothing.