Garhet turned to look at him; his eyebrows raised as if he already knew the question. “Yeah?”
“What I’m wondering is…well, would the Grove have accepted me if I’d decided to stay? You said dwarves, goblins, and humans aren’t welcome there. I’m kind of wondering, where do I fall on that list.”
The dwarf sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small bag containing an assortment of candies. He held the bag out to Krin, who waved it away. A second later, a piece plopped into Garhet’s mouth, and Krin winced when he heard its hard shell crunch between his friend’s teeth.
“It ain’t exactly my place to explain, lad,” he finally said. “The Magus Prime didn’t even entrust the full truth to me when he sent me to Nicholas. I just sort of pieced it all together.” He chewed on the candy as he considered his next words. “But I think it’s safe to say our story is a bit…complicated, and it’d take someone more knowledgeable than myself to tell it right.”
“I’m not looking for a story, Garhet. I’m looking for the truth. Tuhg, the goblins, and even Finleara all claim that I’m one of them…one of the Dhuna. A Dhunanax or Dhunan’ag or something like that.”
The dwarf chuckled. “N’ahki. Dhunan’ahki. And the simple answer to that is…not exactly. Or more precisely, not completely.”
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“Simple. Your mother was, indeed, human. Your father…well, wasn’t.”
Krin paused; his eyes widening. “Did…did you know my father?”
“I did.” There was no hesitation. He had apparently been anticipating that question as well. But he offered no further response, so Krin had no choice but to press.
“And?”
“A good man, yeah…at least as far elves go.” The dwarf bit down on his lip. “A great man actually when you consider what he was and what he did. But on this subject, I can say no more. At least, not until Calibus has a chance to explain things his way.”
“I don’t get it. What does being an elf have to do it with anything? I mean, I pretty much figure that dwarves and elves basically don’t get along much. But are they really that bad?”
The dwarf took a moment to consider the question, then nodded, and pointed over the Finleara. “Did you get a chance to see her fighting the goblins this morning?”
Krin shook his head. He had, after all, been hanging upside down from Ulfilas’ shoulders at the time.
“Well, if you had, you’d know exactly what I mean. I suppose the Light Elves were decent enough. But you have to understand, the Dhuna are direct descendants of the Dhunarolc. The Nephilim, who are themselves, the unholy offspring of demons and humans. The dark elves, by their very nature, are driven by a thirst for war. A thirst for blood.
“There are no more light elves in this world, Krin, or in Wyndter. They said to have disappeared long ago—even before the Great Divide—but I’ve never believed it.”
“What do you think happened to them?”
Garhet shrugged. “I think they were simply swallowed up by the Dark.” He nodded once more to Finleara. “The Cap’n? She’s like you…a Halfer. She’s not nearly as mean or conniving as full blooded elves. And there’s the added bonus that she was raised up right. Raised by one of the best human men I’ve ever known—outside Nicholas anyway.”
“This Calibus person?”
“Lord of the Magi. A king really, though he would never accept that title. He claims to serve a greater King. The Christ King. And his faithfulness to his God has helped to temper that girl’s metal. Helped reign her in. Teach her right from wrong.” The dwarf gave a weak smile. “She’s decent enough because of her upbringing, but in many ways, she’s every bit as wild and as cruel as the rest of her kind.”
“Don’t you mean my kind? Do you see me in the same light?”
“Ha!” Garhet slapped a meaty hand across Krin’s back. “Hardly. Ye ain’t got enough discipline, lad, to ever be much of a warrior.” Keeping his hand on the boy, he gave Krin’s shoulder a quick squeeze, and shook his head.
“But seriously. No, not at all, boy. I’m not sure why, but I’ve not seen a single shred of the Dark within yer bones. Maybe it was the way Nicholas raised ye. Maybe it was the fact that, unlike you, Finleara was born in the Wyndter, and came across when she was a bit older…long enough for something much darker than her kind to have its influence on her. I don’t know. But the one thing I do know, ye may have dark elf blood in ye, but that bloodline was as good as yer kind could be possibly be. I would have trusted yer father with my life. And that’s why I so easily place my trust in you as well.”
Smiling, Garhet slapped his knees, and stood from the log. “Now, looks like the Cap’n’s almost done. What say we go check on our friend?”
“Can you at least tell me his name?” Krin asked. “My father’s name, I mean.”
The dwarf stared down at him, unconsciously fidgeting with the patch over his eye. “Kraen-Lil. His name was Kraen-Lil.” He dusted the back of his pants off with his hands, and turned toward the Grove. “Now, let’s see to that rock troll of a bounty hunter, shall we?”
Krin remained seated, watching as the dwarf swaggered away. Kraen-Lil. It was the same name that had excited the goblin queen into a near frenzy the night before. She had been so determined to discover if he was related, that she seemed somewhat in awe of the name, if not a little frightened. So, who was he? Why was he so important to the monarchy of the goblin race? And how had his mother, a druid priestess, come to know such a creature to begin with?
Just more questions. The more I learn, the less, I discover, I know. He glanced up at the high plateau above, and stared, as if his eyes could penetrate the veil of mysteries that Madagus Keep, perched so far from sight, were keeping from him.
Just a little while longer, Krin, Son of Kraen-Lil. Soon, you’ll have your answers. I just pray it’s something I’ll be able to live with.
TWENTY-FIVE
Madagus Keep
“What’s taking them so blasted long?” Ulfilas’ growling rebuke echoed around the vast ante-chamber of Madagus Keep. The chamber, easily the size of the town square in Myra, was constructed of enormous blocks of marble, inlaid with gold trim along the edges and moldings. Twenty-four onion-shaped windows were cut high upon each of the walls, allowing sunlight to filter into the otherwise dim room during the day. At the moment, the chamber was illuminated by a collection of oil lamps that rested casually on golden pedestals throughout the room. Krin had counted twenty-two Corinthian columns, easily fifty feet tall, which supported a vaulted ceiling along two parallel rows.
At the northern end of the room stood two massive oak doors that led directly into the council chamber of the Magi Order. The doors were securely fastened, and guarded by six well-armed soldiers. To the west, another set of doors led to the outside courtyard. A sprawling staircase spiraled up at least four levels on the southern wall, leading to the other recesses of the Keep.
Krin glanced at the remainder of Finleara’s personal guard, now standing watch over Garhet, Ulfilas, and himself, as their captain paved the way within the Council chamber for their introductions. Despite the dwarf’s insistence that they would be welcomed with open arms once the formal introductions were made, Krin couldn’t ignore the uneasy feeling growing inside him—wondering if perhaps he wasn't being fattened up for slaughter.
The denizens of the Keep had offered no overt hostility toward him, or his friends, since their arrival just before two in the morning. The Magi naturally had taken necessary precautions, as any community might when strangers entered their most hallowed halls, yet they had been hospitable; offering a small repast of bread, cheese, a few slabs of varying meats, and providing as much wine as they could drink.
To Ulfilas’ chagrin, Krin had refused the drink, and had forbade his two companions to partake as well. Though Nicholas had assured him in his letter that the Magi were a good and noble sect of scholars and theologians, he wanted to ensure their wits were k
ept as sharp as possible should anything unforeseen take place while within the opulent fortress.
Garhet hissed at the giant, breaking Krin’s train of thought. “Keep yer voice down, ye goblin-faced buffoon. This here’s holy ground. Show respect.”
“I show respect only to those who respect me first, Runt.” Ulfilas glared at the dwarf, but slid down on the marble bench beside him.
Krin smiled at the exchange. Back to normal. When the bounty hunter had strolled out of the Grove under his own power and on his own two feet, Krin inexplicably rejoiced. The cuts and scrapes on his former captor no more evident, than his sense of humor. Although neither dwarf nor giant would have admitted such, he could tell that they were pleased to see each other alive and well, by the steady string of insults they hurled at each for the rest of the journey to the Keep.
As for the ‘short cut’ to Madagus Keep Garhet had referred to, he had been true to his word. Just past an ancient stone monolith—the dwarf had called it Kair’n Del—the travelers found a hidden, winding path that led them through a narrow stretch of forest shaped into a tunnel of vegetation. The passage had barely been wide enough for their animals to pass unmolested by the numerous thorns and brambles, and the roof had nearly taken Ulfilas’ head off at least twice. But after a slow, four hour march, they finally had made it to the sprawling gardens that surrounded the legendary Madagus Keep.
The Keep itself was like nothing Krin could have ever imagined. The fortified palace was, from Krin’s perspective, as large as the entire business district of Myra; easily occupying five acres of land, if not more. He counted forty-three towers stretching into the sky like the talons of some gigantic flock of carrion birds. A great round dome, plated in something that looked like gold, adorned the very center of the palace. All the walls, towers, and parapets were painted white, and trimmed with intricate spirals of gold.
When they had arrived, it was well into the wee hours of the morning, but the Magi had already been sequestered within the council chambers since earlier that day—occupied with some local problem involving the disappearance of numerous children in and around the valley. A female servant, visibly overjoyed to see Finleara’s returned, quickly ushered her into the council chamber.
That had been two hours ago, and they were still waiting to meet their hosts. Travel-weary, filthy, and nursing various aches and pains, none of them were in much of a mood to be kept waiting, but it appeared the Magi were unconcerned about such trivialities.
Krin had no idea what was being discussed within the Magi’s inner sanctum, but he doubted the comfort of their guests ranked high among the possible topics.
“I’m just sayin’, these are important men, you walking tree trunk,” Garhet whispered. “The news Finleara is bringing them is a big deal to them. They’re going to need time to process it all.”
“And I’m sayin’ I could have had the boy back in Myra by now, and collectin’ my reward, in the amount of time it’s taking them to process everything.” Ulfilas glanced over at Krin. “Not that I would, mind you. That boat has literally already sailed away.”
“I know, big guy. I know.” Krin nodded absently, returning his gaze to the council doors. Next he turned his attention to his own reflection on the polished tile of the floor underneath where he sat. He had not had a bath in well over a month. His tanned face was mottled with grime, bruises, and the scruffy facial hair of a not-quite-full-grown man. His silver-white hair and goatee had grown out since he had left Myra, making him look like some sort of wild goat-man who had wandered in from the cold, and he marveled that the wise men of legend had even permitted him entrance this far into the Keep.
His thoughts then rocketed through his mind. Since he had recently discovered an entire world of races long thought to be nothing more than legend, he wondered if somewhere out there, a group of goat-men was just waiting to be discovered. He wondered if they would welcome him such as he was at that moment. This led his thought back to his current situation…at the surprises that still awaited him…and then, gradually, he came to contemplate the recent news that he might not be as human as he had always believed.
He sat there motionless for another hour, sorting through the facts he had recently discovered, and trying to make sense of it all. In the background, he was aware of Garhet and Ulf bickering back and forth, and complaining over the long wait, the lack of alcoholic refreshments, and the general sense of loss and irritation. Krin easily tuned them out, and after a while, they were nothing more than the buzz of a lazy bee, echoing through the ante-chamber.
More time passed. Krin wasn’t entirely sure how long, but he knew his body was growing weary. He found his mind wandering even more chaotically in his exhaustion. In order to keep focused, he decided to bide his time experimenting a little with his relatively new-found gift. Finleara had refused to allow him to rift while in her presence…
But she isn’t exactly around at that moment, now is she?
And if the Magi were going to take their sweet time deciding how best to receive their guests, Krin was determined to make the most of his wait. It was the first time since their journey began, after all, where he wasn’t on the run from one danger or another. It was high time he discovered more about this strange talent that allowed him to move from one place to another, supposedly at will.
He thought about Nicholas, the prison in which he had abandoned him, and wondered if there was a limit to how far he could go. Musing to himself about the possibility of rifting by the power of his will alone, he could simply step into his adopted father’s cell, take him by the hand, and walk out again. He mulled over questions of controlling his gift; mastering it. He had never done it intentionally, and the only time he ever tried, he had failed miserably—and Garhet, fortunately, had been saved by someone who seemed to have a much greater grasp of the gift than he.
But knowing there was someone out there—the mysterious Poseidon-like elf who had rescued the dwarf from the depths—capable of rifting the same way he could, gave him some unexpected assurance. He had no idea who the man was, or what his intentions were, but his presence indicated that there was, indeed, a way to fine-tune a rift. To steer where he wanted to go more precisely. But if that is the case, then how?
Slowly, Krin became aware that his friends' banter had ceased. He turned to look at them, A gasp slipped passed his lips when he saw the fine coating of frost on their beards and eyebrows. White, wispy tendrils of frosted breath issued from each man’s nostrils as they stared back at him dumbfounded. A smile briefly graced his own lips as he prepared to remark on their ridiculous appearance, and then he was gone.
TWENTY-SIX
“For the hundredth time, we need to get back to the matter of real importance,” said a short, rotund, robed, man with a balding head. His paunch awkwardly pushed his indigo robes out, giving him the appearance of a large, blue pear. “Right now, the missing children are a much greater priority than this…this young man who claims to be…”
“He doesn’t claim any such thing, Reganus” said a much taller figure with jet black, long hair and a thick beard sitting two seats to his right at the center of the table. “I wholeheartedly agree with you that finding the children, as well as the source of their disappearances is priority. But I’m not entirely convinced that the two topics are mutually exclusive.”
“You think there’s a connection?” asked another man.
“I think we’d be fools to disregard the coincidence of Master Krin’s appearance in Thana Pel occurring simultaneously with the disappearances, yes.”
“So you think he might have something to do with it then, Calibus?” This last question was asked by Reganus.
The Magus Prime cupped his face with his hands, and sighed. “Not at all. I just cannot help wonder if The Lord has brought him here now to…”
“But that’s my point!” Reganus shouted, bolting up from his seat. “How do we know his appearance is our Lord’s doing? How do we even know he is who he says he is? J
ust because he has the sword does not mean he is, indeed, the son of Kraen-Lil.”
“Because Garhetnor Bliix has confirmed it,” said Calibus. “He is the same boy entrusted to Brother Nicholas to raise. What more do you need for proof enough to believe?”
“You are willing to take the word of the dwarf?” Reganus roared. “Your own daughter has reservations about his credibility. And you know, as well as the rest of us, that despite your affection for Bliix, he’s not exactly the pillar of…”
The Magi’s words caught short when he noticed the puff of white breath steaming from his lips. A low murmur erupted throughout the chamber as all six of the ancient order shivered at the sudden and severe temperature drop. Immediately, Finleara and four of her warriors rushed to the dais, drawing swords and spears alike, and prepared themselves for battle.
Then, in a sudden flash of ice and a flurry of snow, an equally bewildered Krin stood in the middle of the austere council chamber. He glanced nervously around the room, eyeing each of the Magi in turn. His eyes then fell on a glaring Finleara and her guards, and finally came to rest on their weapons gleaming in the lamplight.
“Um, hi?” Not the most eloquent of introductions one might expect give when addressing formal body of scholars and wizards, but it was the only one he could muster at the moment. He casually raised his right hand in a timid, but friendly wave, and them an embarrassed, if not apologetic, smile.
The entire assembly stared at him, immobile, and silent. They seemed just as unnerved at his sudden appearance as he was, and it showed in their scowling and bewildered faces. They were, after all, the Magi. Viziers of the East, who had studied the mysteries of the universe, and counseled kings and world rulers in their day. He would have thought they, of all people, would have been fascinated with his grand entrance. They were familiar with the phenomenon. Garhet had told him as much when they had first met. The dwarf was surprised that Krin could do it, but he at least knew enough about the talent, and so did the Magi—to teach him the correct term for his episodes —Rift.
The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur Page 19
