Kingdoms in Chaos (7 page)

An overwhelming sense of dread washed through Aurora as the undead army reached the northern shore of Shierdon. She had come through this way more than six months ago when she led her people across the ice from Volnoss. They were meant to reclaim the lands of old and restore glory to their people. Instead they had all died.

The village had been burned to the ground. Skeletons of humans and buildings alike remained where they had fallen. No one had returned to rebuild or bury the dead.

“Why have we stopped?” Aurora asked Azzeal. The lich stood next to her staring off toward the north.

“You know why.”

She didn’t want to believe it. Hadn’t her people already suffered enough? “I’ll kill him…”

“In time. Now you must be patient,” said Azzeal. He continued to stare off to the north.

She was surprised by his words. He hadn’t shown much of an opinion in the last six months since she took his life upon the fields of Volnoss. When he was first raised from the dead she hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. Her guilt had been great, and he stared at her endlessly, and often spoke to her in a familiar manner. Since becoming a lich herself she didn’t mind his company, on the contrary, he was the only thing that reminded her who she was.

Zander rode up to them upon his undead horse. Its wild eyes glowed green, and bones could be seen in places where the skin had rotted in the time between death and reanimation. The dark elf necromancer grinned at her. He pulled off his gloves one finger at a time and looked to the north as well.

“You must be excited to share our glory with your people.”

Aurora ignored his goading, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He laughed nonetheless. If she thought that it would have an effect, she would have dropped to her knees and begged him to spare her people. She would give her life—her very soul—to save them. But she had no life to give.

“How many do you suppose are left on the island?” Zander asked.

“Perhaps ten thousand children, and elders. There are no warriors left among them,” said Aurora, hoping to dissuade the dark elf.

He saw through her feeble ruse. “I need not warriors. Children, elders—they will all do just fine. I find that undead children work quite well in psychological warfare.”

Tremors of rage betrayed her calm facade. She wanted nothing more than to strike him down. Yet she was unable to move against him, just as she was unable to deny his will.

“I believe it would be fitting if you led the liberation.”

Aurora turned to him, disgusted. “Liberation?”

A sneer found his face quickly. “Yes, from this mortal coil, this ‘hell on earth’, as the humans are fond of saying. In death they will know a peace that is only fleeting in dreams.”

“Perhaps you should
liberate
yourself.” Aurora gasped, unbelieving of the words that had come out of her mouth. Zander’s eyes widened with shock for a heartbeat. So quickly did the moment pass that she thought maybe it hadn’t occurred. Had she really just spoken out against him? Azzeal had noticed the slight as well, and while he didn’t turn to regard them, his head cocked to the side. She could just imagine him smirking on the other side of the raven-feathered hood.

Zander’s same condescending smile returned. If his confidence had faltered, he had found it again. “I cannot punish you with pain, for you seek it out, and now find it a pleasure. What, then, should I do to help you remember your place?” He regarded her, feigning deep thought, and tapped his pointed chin with a long metal-tipped finger. “Perhaps I could let you know love once more. But…who is left in the world who loves Aurora Snowfell?”

A wave of depression washed through Aurora’s dark soul. This was nothing new. She had accepted who she was and what she had done. It was true; no one loved her, not even herself.

Zander was seemingly satisfied with the effect he had on her, and urged his undead horse back to oversee the progress of the ship building.

Aurora felt a small victory. She had somehow spoken her mind against her master, so perhaps she would soon be able to act against him as well.

“He is wrong, you know.”

Aurora stared at the raven hood. “What did you just say?”

Azzeal turned to face her. His eyes shimmered with emotion and understanding. “He was wrong when he said that no one yet lives who loves you. I love you.”

She stared at him, her own tears suddenly teetering upon the cusp. Emotion burst in her throat, cutting like a glowing blade. Her chest burned deep inside, a place she had thought dead. “These are Zander’s words. He taunts me.”

“My words are my own, Lady of the North. I learned of you many hundred years ago. Indeed, I set in motion events that led to your birth. For all those long decades I pondered who you might be—she who would one day take my life. I hated you for many years, but then I realized that it was not your fault. It was my punishment. The first time I met you I knew who you were, and what you would do. I accepted my fate long ago. And over the years, waiting for you to come into my life, I realized that I loved you. You are the balancer. My actions led to your birth, and many others, but they also snuffed thousands from the timeline of this reality. I acted as a savior and executioner, and my punishment was two hundred years of knowing of my death. Now I have been cursed with undeath and the memories of what I have been forced to do by Zander’s will.”

His glowing eyes had faded, and now looked almost elven. Like Aurora, he hadn’t been dead for long before he was raised and he was still beautiful. Azzeal had a feral quality to him, etched facial lines, a sharp jaw, a strong brow, and chiseled chin. He had been a Ralliad for so many centuries that his bestial attributes remained though there was no magic left in the elves.

“I made a choice,” said Aurora. “I killed you.” She bowed her head, unable to meet his eyes.

“Was it your choice? Then how did I know you would make it two hundred years ago?”

She turned from him then, overcome with torturous emotion. Was this Zander’s true punishment? She fought to get a hold of her churning feelings and realized that Azzeal had never been so lucid in his current state. She whirled on him. “How have you suddenly gained your mind?”

He grinned mischievously. “Zander spreads himself too thin. I knew that it would happen eventually, though I did not think it would take this long. He is quite powerful. I have yet to determine where his strength comes from. But I will. Just as you were able to speak out against him, so too can I. But we must bide our time. We are not yet strong enough to act.”

“He must be stopped before we attack Volnoss!”

“Shh…” Azzeal glanced around at the undead along the shore. “For us to grow stronger, so too must he. The bigger his army grows, the more spread his attention and influence will be. We have one chance at this, and timing means everything.”

“I will not stand by and watch him kill them all—”

“We may be able to slow him down.”

A spark of hope lit in Aurora, brightening the dark caverns of her mind for the first time. “How?”

“Kill his generals. Cause chaos.”

Aurora hadn’t thought of that. Her sense of vengeance had made her mind obsessive. All she had thought of these last long months was killing Zander…and herself.

Azzeal pointed at her bosom. “The green gem inside of you where your heart used to be, we call it a Kressrok. They are objects of ancient, dark magic. The practice of what you humans call necromancy was, of course, shunned long ago by the sun elves. The dark elves, however, have no such scruples. Even Eadon saw the danger in the great power of the lich lords, for he only allowed those to live who offered him their souls.”

“If the gem is removed, what happens?” Aurora asked with growing excitement.

“What happens if a heart is removed?” he said with a smirk.

She glanced around quickly and leaned in. “Can he hear our thoughts?”

“No, he can speak to your mind, and he is fond of acting as though he can read minds, but he cannot. The magic of the gems reanimated us, and gives him control when he wishes, but that is all it does.”

“And if he dies? Do we finally die as well?”

He frowned at her hopeful eyes. “Not as long as the gem remains.”

“Why? Why are we different? Why do I still know who I am? Why do you?”

“If you remember, I was raised by Eadon, and he saw to it that I retained my
self
. It was my punishment for meddling in his affairs.”

A realization hit her then and a trembling breath escaped her. “But…it was you who raised me from death. How…why would you make me remember?”

“So that you might have a chance to do what is right.”

Whill awoke early on the day the fleet was to set out. The land forces had already begun the long journey north. The trek would take them nearly three weeks, in which time the fleets would have landed in Elgar and journeyed through the northern mountains to the city of Breggard. Whill had sent word to King Ky’Ell of the Ky’Dren Mountains requesting assistance with the campaign to hold the northern border.

The Magister of Secrets, Larson Donarron, had verified through his spy network that indeed, the dwarves were planning an invasion on Isladon. When Whill sent pigeons to relay his query into their plans, they had not denied the allegations, but neither had they offered any reason for their secrecy. He thought the behavior strange for the dwarves. Whill had never met the king of Elgar, but he and King Ky’Ell of Ky’Dren had gotten along well when Abram took him to the mountain city.

The secrecy of the dwarves didn’t bother him as much as the war he was being forced to wage. He had sworn to his people that his would be a reign of peace. Now he realized just how naïve he had been.

Perhaps I can talk to the three lords. Surely they would rather retain their lands and titles over a war they cannot win.

“Sire, are you awake?” Lunara called from the doorway to his chambers.

“Come in, I was just about to get up,” he said, sitting up in bed.

She strode into the room with a grace he had seldom seen in humans. Her footfalls were undiscernible beneath her flowing gown. She smiled brightly, holding something behind her back.

“A surprise?” he asked.

“Strawberries!” she said with a laugh, and produced a small basket. “They have ripened. Here, try one.”

Whill reached for one but she slapped his hand playfully and proceeded to feed him herself. He bit off half of the plump berry and gave a small groan of pleasure.

“They are delicious. This is a good sign.”

She popped the other half in her mouth and gave an exaggerated groan. Whill laughed to himself—she was often an insufferable tease. He was well aware of her feelings for him, and he had been careful to not give off the wrong impression. There was no future for them; he was a king of men, and she, an elf. He was expected to marry the daughter of one lord or another. Neither the council nor the people would condone the marriage of their king to an elf.

He wondered if he would care for their opinion if Avriel was still his.

“Do strawberries make you think of her?” Lunara asked.

Whill realized that he had been staring off into space. “What? Who?”

Lunara gave a small laugh and a fleeting smile dimpled one cheek. She left her basket on the bed and hurriedly moved toward the door.

“Wait!” Whill blurted.

She stopped at the threshold and turned to him.

“Thank you. For the berries,” he said.

She offered only a nod and small bow and left.

Whill sighed. What did she expect from him? He popped another strawberry into his mouth and got up to prepare for his day.

Shortly after breakfast Whill and the council met with the city’s guild leaders. For five hours he sat listening to their many complaints. The tallow chandlers complained that due to the livestock shortage, the butchers had less and less animal fat to provide for their candle and soap making. The Wax Chandlers, on the other hand, were thriving, due to the abundance of beeswax. The guild leader of the Tallow Chandlers had been pushing for months for Whill to sign his charter, one that would merge both the Tallow and Wax Chandler guilds into one. Whill listened to their arguments for a half hour before finally agreeing to temporarily ratify the charter for a term of six months.

Next came the Brewers, whose businesses were struggling due to the shortage of hops, barley, and grain.

“If we are to meet the demands of the growing population we will need more than a ten percent allocation of grain,” said the Brewer’s Guild Leader as he stood before the court.

The Magister of Numbers, Hyrold Glean studied his scrolls for a time and finally addressed the man. “What do you propose?”

“Twenty percent, at least.”

The leader of the Baker’s Guild shot to his feet and began to protest.

Whill looked to Hyrold, who shook his head faintly.

“We cannot justify such an increase,” said Whill.

“Fifteen, then,” begged the Brewer’s Guild leader. “Sire, we are being undercut by moonshiners. If not the increase in grain, would the court then consider stricter punishments for those making liquor without a charter? While we are bound by the laws of fair trade, these scoundrels sell their concoctions for ungodly prices.”

“I cannot take bread from children so that their fathers might have beer,” said Whill. “Weaken your recipes if you must, but for now your allocation will remain at ten percent. As for the moonshiners, I would suggest that you bring them into your guild, as they are helping to meet the demand. To this end, I hereby proclaim that anyone caught brewing spirits for the purpose of sale without a charter shall receive the maximum fine, half of which shall be paid to the Brewers Guild from this day forth.”

The scriveners of both the Magisters of Laws and Numbers took note of the declaration, and the leader of the Brewers Guild, while not completely satisfied, returned to his seat nonetheless.

Many more complaints and arguments were heard, and Whill did his best to placate the agitated men. But there was only so much that he could do, and he reminded each of them that sacrifices needed to be made.

By the time court was called to a close, Whill felt mentally exhausted, however, there was still much to discuss with the council.

Once everything was put in order, Whill went to say his goodbyes to Tarren, who was in the middle of his daily tutoring lessons in the castle’s garden with Lunara. It was still strange for Whill to see Tarren in the Watcher’s body. His inflections and mannerisms were still the same, but that was as far as the resemblance went.

“May I speak to your student for a moment?” Whill asked.

Lunara nodded, and without a word left them to speak. He watched her go, having meant to tell her goodbye as well.

“She’ll be over by the swan bridge. That’s her favorite spot,” Tarren said absently.

“How are you holding up, kid?”

Tarren shrugged and began pulling petals off the flower he had been learning about. The book before him boasted an impressive drawing of the plant.

Whill found that he could think of nothing to say. He had always promised the boy that everything would be all right, that somehow, things would work out. No such words could be spoken now. The body of the Watcher was dying, and so too was Tarren. There was nothing he could
do.

“You’re going to war, aren’t you?” asked Tarren.

“I’m going to try and avert a war.”

Tarren had plucked all the petals off the flower and now held the stem in his hand. It began to quiver, and Whill realized that the boy was crying. The old elven face twisted with sorrow, and the stem fell to the grass below. Tarren hunched over and put his face in his hands.

“I’m scared I’ll never see you again. Lunara says that you’ll find a way to switch us back…that maybe Kellallea will give you the power. But what if I don’t last until you return?”

Whill felt his guilt swell, and choked down the growing lump in his throat. There
was
a way. If he swore fealty to Kellallea she had promised to not only restore Avriel’s memory, but also Tarren to his body. Would he let Tarren die because of his suspicions of the goddess’s motives?

“Don’t worry yourself, I’ll find a way,” he found himself saying.

He found Lunara by the swan bridge as Tarren said he would. She was sitting at its peak, legs dangling over the side and arms resting on the lower rail. Whill sat beside her and put a hand on hers. “Thank you for caring for Tarren these last few months. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Lunara regarded him with shimmering eyes and attempted a smile, but her lips quivered and she took in a shuddering breath. Suddenly, she took his face in her hands and kissed him. He was surprised by the kiss, though he didn’t pull away. Her lips were soft, warm. She pulled him to herself, pressing against him urgently. Passion stirred inside of him. He wanted to let himself go, to take her right there above the slowly flowing stream. But the closeness, the passion, reminded him of Avriel and he quickly pulled away, panting.

Lunara stared wide-eyed for a moment and quickly got up. “I should never have done that…I…” She turned from him as he got up.

“Wait!” he said, reaching for her. He took her by the shoulder and turned her around to give her a hug. She melted in his arms and sobbed softly.

“I will return to you. I swear it,” he said.

Whill left the garden and found his personal guard waiting for him. They escorted him to the castle wall where he was to address the people of the city before heading out to sea. Whill hated giving such speeches, or any at all for that matter. His grandfather, the late king Mathus of Uthen-Arden had been a great orator, but Whill didn’t think that he had inherited much of the skill. He could have had one of the council members speak for him, but Whill wanted to be seen as a strong leader.

The council was there to stand beside him at the podium, and the Watcher offered a placid smile when he saw that Whill had arrived.

“They are eager to hear from you.”

Whill couldn’t help but notice the way some of his personal guards looked to the old elf. It had taken many people a long time to accept that the eleven year old boy was actually an ancient elf of Elladrindellia. Many didn’t trust the Watcher, and never would.

“Let’s get this over with then,” said Whill.

The thundering of the crowd was overwhelming at first, but as he ascended to the battlements and looked out over the cheering people he found his courage. They called out his name with reverence. Here in the city they knew him well, for they had seen his great power before the Taking, they had witnessed his miracles. Unlike the country outside of the city, where rumors and misinformation were common, here, in Del’Oradon, the people knew the truth.

“My good people of Del’Oradon, it is with great humility and respect that I stand before you today. You have all made great sacrifices these last six months, and though the winter was a hard one, you have survived. Our city was ravished by the dark elves, yet, we have begun to rebuild. There is nary enough food to fill your bowls, yet you welcome starving refugees into your homes. Even after two decades of tyrannical rule by my late uncle Addakon, your hearts have remained virtuous and true. In a country nearly torn asunder by the Draggard Wars, Del’Oradon is a shimmering beacon of hope to those who have lost so much.”

The crowd cheered their king, and he took a moment to let their enthusiasm build.

“But alas,” he said finally. “There are those who would take advantage of such situations for their own gain. There are those who would replace the tyrants that we have deposed.”

Cheers turned to resounding boos, and Whill let the people’s anger fester for a moment before continuing.

“To those people I offer a warning. We who serve the light will never relent, we will never surrender. For too long we have been oppressed by the servants of darkness. Never again, I say! Never again!”

The crowd broke into cheers once more, repeating their king’s proclamation.

“We have come a long way, but there is still much work to be done. I go now to the north, to spread our message to the rest of Agora. For it seems that there are ever wolves howling at the door.”

Whill offered one final wave to his subjects, “Be well, good people of Del’Oradon. I shall return to you shortly, and I shall return victorious!”

As Whill turned from the battlements he did so with newfound strength. His own guards and soldiers were cheering as well.

“For one who dreads public speaking, you seem to do quite well,” said the Watcher over the commotion.

“Thank you,” said Whill. “An old friend once told me that the truth rolls off the tongue easier than a well laid lie.”

“He was a wise man,” said the Watcher.

“That he was,” said Whill, and extended a hand. “Goodbye, old friend. I will see you soon.”

The Watcher shook his hand, and regarded him with a serene smile. “Go well, my friend. Remember that inner peace is but a thought away.”

There was a finality in the Watcher’s voice that was unsettling, but he didn’t press the subject.

He mounted his horse and gave the order, and the soldiers began through the gates. The crowd cheered their king as he emerged from the wall, leading the thousands of soldiers to the southern harbor.