The Crown of Alegare Part 1

 1

The white wolf, the size of a small pony, raced through the silent cobblestone streets. He passed darkened, empty houses like a spectre in the night, his blue eyes fixed on the walled castle in the distance. It sat upon a flattened hill like some strange, sleeping beast. The castle isn’t sleeping, the wolf thought, just waiting.

Passing the last house of the village, he began the climb toward the front gate. As he ran silently over the smooth stones, his gaze shifted to the rising harvest moon. It was abnormally large and the color of fresh blood. There will be death tonight, he thought. Death and destruction.

He reached the double doors of hardened oak and iron. The air reeked of fear—a bitter, acrid odor drifting on the breeze that swirled around the castle towers. He reared up on two legs and shifted. His fur receded into a long white coat; white hair and thick brows framed his piercing eyes, and a silver beard fell over his chest. His feet were bare against the cold cobblestones, the tops still dusted with white hair.

“I will see the King!” he called to the right tower. After the heavy clang of metal, one of the great doors groaned open.

“My Lord,” the guardsman said, bowing his head. “The King is in the armory, preparing.”

Eirwen nodded and strode through the courtyard. The armory was located on the ground floor for easy deployment, and he reached it within minutes. The sentries stepped aside quickly, but Eirwen could smell their terror. He could not blame them.

Inside, King Alegare was donning a suit of shining chainmail with the help of his squire. The King was a tall, powerful man with a kind face that could turn fierce in an instant. Beside him, Lady Aren was tightening her sturdy leather armor. She offered a grim smile as the wizard entered.

“Eirwen,” the King said, clasping the wolf-man’s hand. “What news?”

“A dozen black ships are entering the harbor,” Eirwen reported. “They are anchored offshore, likely waiting for the army to crest the pass.”

“And the main force?”

“Moving through the Dromdere Pass,” Eirwen said.

The King paused, his voice heavy. “How many do you estimate?”

“At least ten thousand strong,” Eirwen replied quietly. “We are conducting hit-and-run strikes against the forward units, but we cannot stop them.”

“When will they arrive?”

“The vanguard will reach the mountain by midnight.”

The King slumped slightly at the news, then straightened to his full height, gripping the hilt of his sword. “We knew this night would come. We will stand as long as we can.”

“I will call the pack to surround the castle,” Eirwen offered.

“No,” the King countered. “I have a much more important task for you.” He signaled to a nanny, who carried the King’s son into the room. Five-year-old Richard Alegare II saw Eirwen and squirmed out of the woman's grasp. He ran to the large man and hugged his legs. Eirwen lifted the boy into his arms.

“Uncle Eirwen!” Richard chirped. “Daddy says we are going for a ride!”

Eirwen turned his blue eyes toward the King. Alegare managed a small smile. “I told Richard you would be taking him to Balliskin for a holiday. You leave now. With the pack.”

“But—” Eirwen started, but the King cut him off.

“Take him to Balliskin. Let the scholars and the wizards—and you—teach him what he needs to know. Melachor will explain.”

Eirwen hadn't noticed the court wizard sitting silently at a small table in the corner. Melachor stood, his dark blue robes swirling around his body like a living thing. He approached with measured steps.

“Time is short,” Melachor said. He was a man who never wasted words. “I have spent the day scattering the pieces of the Crown across the land and placing the Crown itself in the depths of the Dry Lands. Here is its location.”

Melachor touched Eirwen’s forehead. Suddenly, Eirwen saw a black stone castle in the heart of a cursed wasteland. The fortress teemed with the Dead Ones, but on a raised dais sat a chest containing a golden crown and a note. The vision snapped shut; Eirwen knew exactly where to go.

“When the time is right,” Melachor said, “the Prince will begin his journey. Without the Crown of Alegare, the Dark Wizard cannot truly claim the throne. He may sit upon it, but it will never be his.”

Eirwen bowed deeply, still holding the young Prince. “I am your servant.”

“Thank you, my friend,” the King whispered. “This land will need hope, and he is that hope. Go now. The back passage is open. Godspeed.”

Eirwen set the boy down and shifted back into the great white wolf. “Let us go for a ride, little Prince.”

Richard climbed onto Eirwen’s back, gripping the thick white fur with tiny hands. The King and Lady Aren kissed their son one last time, tears blurring their vision as they nodded to the wizard.

“Hang on tight, Richard,” Eirwen said. “Tonight, we fly like the wind.”

Melachor led them to the library and pressed a series of volumes on a tall bookcase. A section of the wall swung inward, revealing a lightless tunnel. Eirwen’s lupine eyes adjusted instantly, piercing the gloom.

“Thank you,” Melachor said. “May the Ancient Gods watch over your path.”

“It has been an honor,” Eirwen replied.

Melachor offered a rare smile. “Go with speed.”

Eirwen leaped into the shadows. Fifteen generations of Alegares had called this castle home, but he knew the era was ending in blood. For a time, evil would win—but as long as the boy lived, it would not be forever.