Kingdoms in Chaos (9 page)

Zerafin snapped awake with a start. His mother blinked sleepily at him and caressed his hand with her weak fingers. “Shh, now. It was just a dream.

He wiped the sleep from his eyes and remembered that he had been sitting with her when he dozed off. It had only been for a moment that he drifted, for the swans were still gliding across the center of the pond, but it had felt like hours.

He left his mother to her rest and walked out into the skeleton of the once grand Cerushia. The vines that had once been used to create walls and barriers grew wild. Unable to control them, the elves used them as they could, building new walls of wood and stone. Many of the tree dwellings had frozen as they were and were still useful as abodes for many. But where once a branch would lower one down to the ground through mental control, stairs had to now be built into the trees to reach the high places.

The city had recovered as well as it could. Those elves who had never had magical abilities had become more outspoken, and their knowledge of old-world skills had saved them from starvation over the winter.

He took a horse from the stable and rode to the shore north of Cerushia. It was the middle of the day. The skies were overcast and the wind swift. A storm was brewing to the south, but it would do the crops well.

The crashing of the waves upon the coast became louder as he approached. But rather than keep on north, he turned east when the road split and made his way to Queen’s Landing. The small harbor nestled on the eastern side of the peninsula was bustling with laborers. Three large ships were being built at the same time; those that would take the first of the elves back to Drindellia. They would be ready in a week.

Many of the dying elders wished to die upon their native soil, Queen Araveal among them. Zerafin had tried to talk her out of it, but she would not budge. In her condition he wasn’t sure she would make the trip, and the last thing he wanted was for her to die at sea.

He was considering going with her, but he worried for his people. The Old Ardenians would only continue their attacks, and there was word of strange things happening in Shierdon far to the north. Eadon and the Draggard had been defeated, but many of the beasts had escaped, or disappeared into the shadows and dark forests. Groups of them were still out there.

The scouts will return soon, and once I’ve heard their report I’ll make a decision.
He told himself so, but deep down he knew that he had already made up his mind.

Aurora walked through the crowd of undead soldiers. Zander’s lich army made no camp. They burned no fires. She and Azzeal had tents, along with the few dozen dark elves that had joined the necromancer since the fall of Eadon. The small group of tents sat at the center of thousands of undead who stood motionless, green eyes glowing dimly. She tried not to look at them as she passed by, carrying a small barrel of oil under one arm. One of the ships was complete, and three more were underway. The undead needed no sleep, working night and day on the building. Dark elf handlers oversaw the work. Without their guidance the workers would never be able to complete the task on their own. They could be set to simple tasks like killing, moving materials, gathering, but the intricacies of ship building eluded their simple minds.

Aurora avoided the dark elves and lich overseers and moved through the shadows to the finished boat. She went to work quickly, dowsing the lumber with her oil and tossing the rest to spill on deck. With some dried grass from her pocket and after many attempts with her striking stone, she started a small fire and lit the oil. It went up slowly, but was soon snaking its way across the side.

She checked to make sure no one was watching and crept along the shore away from the blaze. Up an embankment and along the rocky cliff, she made her way back around to the camp and slipped into her tent.

The alarm soon spread throughout the camp, and Aurora came out of her tent to find dark elves and undead hurrying toward the shore. She joined them, pushing through the crowd toward the water. When she reached the beach she smiled to herself; the ship was a furious pyre. Attempts had been made to put it out, but soon it became apparent that it was useless.

The crowd parted for Zander, who strode forth with a dark scowl twisting his features. His green staff glowed brightly, and all cowered before him. Just then Azzeal came out of the water dragging a dead barbarian behind him. In his left hand the elf carried a bloody blade, and when he dropped the body at Zander’s feet, Aurora saw that it had no head.

“I caught this one fleeing toward the sea,” Azzeal droned, playing his part.

Zander inspected the body and looked to the ocean. “How did he get here?”

“There was a boat, out on the waters.”

Zander settled his gaze on him. Aurora watched for a nervous moment, thinking that he saw through the ploy. She prepared herself to attack. Finally, Zander turned to one of his commanding death knights.

“Search them out and bring them to me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Zander regarded Aurora. “You said that there were no men left on Volnoss.”

She bowed her head in shame. “He must have been a deserter.”

He eyed her for a moment but said no more.

A few hours later the death knights returned and reported that they had found nothing. Zander seemed to believe Azzeal’s account, and had doubled the guard on the coast. Aurora and Azzeal wouldn’t have another chance to destroy a ship again, but there were other ways of slowing down the army’s progress. The undead were a volatile bunch, and fights broke out often. Aurora knew the violent rage always boiling in the undead, for she felt it too—the deep-seated anger, the need to extinguish life. She fed those desires by killing the undead. Though they would only be raised again by Zander, it would take from his power and focus, and give her people some time.

She wanted nothing more than to take a boat across the strait of Shierdon and warn her people of the coming attack, but it would be no use. Even if they were prepared, the undead army would sweep across the island killing, and then every fallen barbarian would be added to their ranks.

Her people were doomed.

The only hope was to stop Zander before he led the army across the channel, or to somehow distract him and get him to abandon the idea. The dark elf spent most of his time in his large tent, remotely controlling his death knights and the armies still conquering the west. Every day she felt his power over her waning as more undead joined the ranks. Soon she would be able to move against him. Until then she did what she could to start as many fights as possible. The undead proved hard to stop once they had gone into a bloody rampage. Once the fighting stopped, those that could be salvaged were sewn back together and raised anew. Many of the creatures were forged from two or more bodies.

No matter how many fights she and Azzeal secretly instigated, the work on the boats continued. When finally the four ships were finished, Zander called her and Azzeal and all of his death knights and dark elves to him.

Aurora moved through camp as the tents were being taken down. Only one remained, the most grand of them all. She pushed back the flap to Zander’s tent and found a large gathering standing before the raised dais. A dozen death knights regarded her as one. Their glowing eyes revealed nothing. The emptiness in those orbs made her shiver, though she knew her own appeared the same.

“You are late!” Zander suddenly erupted and reached out a clawed hand.

Aurora gave a startled cry as she was lifted off her feet and pulled by her throat toward the throne. He released her before she reached the stairs leading to the dais and she was thrown forward to slam into them face-first. She relished in the pain, and spit out a tooth as she got to her feet.

“I am sorry, master. Please punish me.” She bowed.

He ignored her and regarded the gathering. “Word has come from the south. King Whillhelm Warcrown has set out with two armies. One marched from Del’Oradon two days ago, another sets sail today.”

How can he know that?
Aurora wondered. Del’Oradon was hundreds of leagues to the south. Only the swiftest dragon could cover that much distance in such a short amount of time, and, to her knowledge, Zander had no such beasts.

“Our forces to the west will continue on and take the horn of Shierdon. I want the base in Hornhollow flying the dark flag in two weeks’ time. Commander Snowfell will lead a force north and quickly take Volnoss.”

Aurora tried not to show her emotions.

“…When every last filthy barbarian has been converted, you shall march south to Lake Eardon. By then I will be sitting upon the throne on Belldon Island.”

“Yes, my lord.” She averted her eyes to the floor as she bowed. When she stood straight once more, Zander was staring at her. “I can afford you three death knights. See to it that you are swift.”

“Yes, master,” she said evenly, showing nothing of her disappointment. For a moment a spark of hope had lit in her. Zander would be heading south to deal with the Uthen-Arden armies, and she might have had a chance to thwart his plans for Volnoss. But with three death knights to deal with, the task seemed impossible.

Zander gave orders to the rest of his commanders and dismissed them all. She hadn’t heard what Azzeal’s role would be. Outside, she found him waiting beside one of the big wagons led by undead dwargon. The mindless soldiers moved about, preparing for the long journey. Zander lived lavishly, and his possessions required five such wagons.

“To which army have you been appointed?” Aurora asked in a hushed whisper.

“I go south. Zander would have me at his side.”

She cursed to herself, wondering if there was some way.

“You can do this without me,” he said. “You will find a way to warn your people. We will meet again on Belldon Island.”

“How do you know this?” she asked, sounding more distraught than she liked.

“You must trust me.” He regarded her with eyes that barely glowed green, eyes that were more his own. He smiled, and then he was gone.

Later that day, Aurora watched as the many armies set off in different directions. Behind her, the death knights waited. The ships were loading with the undead hordes—the time had come. She turned and marched to her ship, praying to the barbarian gods to give her strength.

Whill stood at the helm with Tyrron Greyson. They had been at sea for five days and would soon be traveling around Elladrindellia. He had set out early, planning to spend at least a day in Cerushia. Whill hadn’t seen Zerafin or Avriel in months and though he and the king had shared correspondences over that time, he was eager to see his old friend in person. Even more so, he wanted to set eyes on Avriel.

He did not tell this to Tyrron Greyson, of course, saying instead that he had business with the elf king. Whill planned to spend only a few days in Cerushia, for the uprising in the north was much too pressing for a longer visit.

The choppy waters sprayed across the front of the ship, leaving the taste of salt on his lips. He hadn’t been to sea in so long that he had forgotten how much it calmed him. He thought of Abram then, and their many escapades across Agora.
What would he say if he could see him now?
Whill wondered.

“Looks like it’ll be another calm day. Gods willing,” Tyrron noted.

Whill had almost forgotten the man was there, lost in his ponderings as he was.

“Yes, it seems so.”

“We should make Cerushia in three days at this pace. The trade winds are weak for the season, but should pick up once we head north.”

Whill nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but this was a good time to get to know his fleet commander better. “Tell me more about yourself, Greyson. Where were you brought up?”

The general perked up—people loved to talk about themselves.

“Probably not a place you ever heard of. Lil’ village called Buckton, north of White Lake, nestled in the shadow of the Elgar Mountains.”

“I’ve heard of it, though I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing it. Sounds like a nice quiet place.”

“You mind if I speak plainly?” said Greyson.

“Can you trust a man who doesn’t?”

The old seaman grinned at that, liking the sound of it.

“You seem like you wouldn’t mind a nice quiet place right about now.”

“You’re right about that,” said Whill with a laugh. “As a kid I used to daydream for hours on end about traveling and adventure, magic, dwarves, dragons, elves. I was so naïve. Now, the thought of a quiet cottage at the end of nowhere sounds great.”

“You thought the fighting would end when Eadon was defeated?” Greyson asked.

Whill searched the man’s eyes, but couldn’t tell if he was being condescending or trying to relate.

“I had hoped.”

Greyson nodded and looked back to the ocean.

“This isn’t as bad as all that, though, just an uprising in the north. A thing like this is to be expected when so much power shifts. You defeated the most powerful enemy Agora has ever seen. I have no doubts you will be victorious.”

Whill was grateful for the man’s words, finding that he reminded him a lot of Abram. They looked nothing alike, but they shared a quiet strength and an optimism that Whill missed. He realized just how cynical he had become since the Taking. Still, it was hard to be optimistic in a world that seemed hell-bent on destroying itself.

“Do you believe the tales of undead walking around in Shierdon?” Greyson asked.

“I do. If I’ve learned anything in the last few years, it’s that anything is possible.”

Greyson shook his head and spit over the rail.

“How in the hells do you defeat the undead?”

“There’s always a way,” said Whill, though he wondered the very same thing.

“Indeed,” said Greyson with a chuckle.

Later that night Whill sat at the large desk in his private quarters staring blankly at the tomes spread out before him. He had yet to find anything in them that would help him understand Kellallea’s motives, and hoped that the elves might be able to shed some light on the subject.

With a heavy sigh he shoved off from the desk and looked out the window at the moon hovering above the calm waters. There was little wind, and the ship traveled slower than he would have liked.

Feeling quite bored, and tired of being alone, he made his way from his room to the deck above. A soldier announced his presence loudly, and all those nearby offered up a smart solute. Whill returned the gesture, nodding to the men, and wondering if he would ever get used to being king. Aside from the heavy—and boring—workload involved, being a king was a lonely job. What bothered him most was the fact that he had no peers. He had guards, servants, advisors, and subjects, but no friends.

Whill and the Watcher had become close over the last six months, but Whill had never felt on equal ground with the ancient and wise elf. Lunara was a friend, Whill soon realized, but she harbored feelings for him that he could not reciprocate, and it was an unmistakable wedge between them.

After a time Whill grew bored of watching the water from the helm and went downstairs, meaning to return to his quarters, when he heard a ruckus coming from the mess hall. Intrigued, he ventured down the hall. The closer he got to the door leading off to the right the thicker the smoke hanging close to the ceiling joists became.

Whill stepped into the room and all talk abruptly ended. Six soldiers quickly shot to their feet and saluted him—the looks on their faces told him that they expected that they were in trouble.

“At ease, gentlemen.”

They slowly lowered their hands, but none dared take a seat. A bottle of whiskey sat on the table, along with six shot glasses, and the deck of cards spread across the table suggested that they had been in the middle of a game.

“I assume that you are all off duty. Is that correct, Harker?” said Whill, looking to the ranking officer.

“Yes, Sir!”

“Good, so am I. Pour me a shot of whatever you’re drinking and deal me in.”

For a moment no one moved, they only exchanged quick glances.

“Of course,” Harker finally blurted.

Whill took a seat at the table and the men followed suit. A drink was swiftly poured and set before him, and he raised his glass with the men.

“To the peace of the open sea,” said Whill.

“Here, here!” one of the soldiers cheered.

After four shots and a dozen hands of cards, Whill was feeling quite well. Sitting there in the mess hall with the soldiers he forgot his station for a time. He let go of his worries, enjoying the comradery that he had so missed since reclaiming the throne.

Soon he found himself telling stories of the draggard wars to the soldiers. They listened intently, awed by his tales. In his slightly addled state he held nothing back, telling them in detail what it had been like to wield the great power of the elves. The men seemed greatly impressed by this, and cheered their king often.

Eventually word of their merriment reached the ear of General Greyson, for he appeared in the doorway just as the men were raising their glasses once more.

“What in the blazes is going on down here?” he demanded. When he finally noticed Whill, he offered his king a curious gaze.

“Come, drink with us,” said Whill. “Surely you have some interesting tales from the draggard wars.”

“Not half as interesting as yours, I imagine, Sire.”

With some reluctance, the general took a seat at the table with the others and accepted a glass.

“To King Whillhelm Warcrown,” said Greyson.