“Sir?” She puffed. “Sir? You are due to meet the boy Tarren shortly fer dinner, along with Haldagozz ‘n’ the Elf lady Lunara n—”
“I be knowin’ whats it is I gotta be doin’ ya dolt. I be headin’ that way didn’t, ya happen te notice?” roared Roakore as he spun around on Nah’Zed, causing her to bump into him as she followed.
Nah’Zed hit the solid Roakore and dropped her quill and parchment and many papers. She looked to them and then up to the scowling Roakore, and her nostrils flared with anger. “I know ye be knowin’ where ye be goin’, but it seems ye ain’t knowin’ what ya be wearing to where ye be goin’! Ye got on yer bed clothes!” said Nah’Zed with frustration and slight embarrassment.
“Me, king.”
Roakore scowled at her and looked down at his bed clothes. He burst into a great belly laugh that was picked up by his royal brain. “Bahaha! Thought it was a wee bit breezy in this here tunnel.” said Roakore as he tied tighter his bed robe.
Tarren and Lunara awaited Helzendar at the entrance to their living quarters. They slept but a minute’s walk from Roakore, though Tarren did not see him daily. Indeed, weeks would go by without Tarren seeing the great Dwarf king, but he did not mind. He was so engaged in his study of the Dwarf language, history, customs, and battle techniques that he had not a minute to spare to loneliness.
He lived with Lunara, and from her, he had learned a great many things. She alone could have kept his mind busy with learning. But she understood that to live alongside Dwarves was a great chance for the boy, a great chance for her for that matter. She did not distract the lad from his teachings; there would be time for other lessons.
Tarren had an insatiable appetite for knowledge that Lunara respected. For a human child, his energy and enthusiasm was great enough to better that of many an Elf she had known. He learned all lessons taught to him, the first time. There was no need for repetition for the boy. The harsh and awkward language of the Dwarves came easily to Tarren, and he sometimes insisted on speaking it for days. Lunara had to admit that his pronunciation was perfect, without accent, while hers was not. The Dwarf talk was too rough and sharp for her Elven tongue.
Every time that Tarren came back from training, Lunara inwardly winced at his wounds. Many times the boy had needed to be carried back to his dwelling, once with two broken legs. The Dwarf boys were rough, and Tarren was an eleven-year-old human. The trainers treated him no differently; he was given no favor, as had been his wish. Lunara had treated his wounds as he received them, and always he left the next morning, chin bravely lifted.
Recently, he had come home with less and less wounds. Upon receiving them, be it a broken nose, a bruised rib, or a bent finger, he would insist on not being healed for hours at a time. During these times, Lunara watched him closely and worried while Tarren lay upon his bed, silently fighting the pain. He would not be healed until he had mastered the agony of his injuries.
Lunara was quite fond of Tarren, as he was her.
Helzendar finally showed, and Tarren greeted him with a punch to the arm, which got him a small shove and laugh from Helzendar.
“‘Bout time!” said Tarren as they followed Lunara to Roakore’s dining hall.
“Bah!” exclaimed the Dwarf boy.
“Me dad’ll be late te this one, I be thinkin’. He been with his women folk fer two days now; we be lucky if he be showin’ up at all,” said Helzendar with a laugh.
Helzendar was one of Roakore’s sons. He was tall for a Dwarf boy, even at age thirteen. He had a long, unruly head of dark red-and-brown hair that gave him the look of a wild and crazed Dwarf, but his eyes were kind and brown. He had not yet grown a beard; this meant that he was still a boy.
Helzendar had not seen his father often in his lifetime, but he understood the reason. He was but one of many sons of one of many wives. Roakore gave them all equal amounts of time and direction, at least he tried to. His father was a very important Dwarf, and Helzendar was proud to be the king’s son.
Helzendar had been born within the mountain kingdom of Ky’Dren, years before the retaking of the mountain home of his forefathers. He had grown up with the Ky’Dren Dwarves as the grandson of the fallen king of the Ebony Mountains. His grandfather had failed at protecting his mountain kingdom; he had fallen to the Draggard seven years before Helzendar’s birth. Helzendar had to live with the failings of his line, as did his brothers and his father. Though no Dwarf ever said anything aloud of the shame of clan Ro’Sar, he had seen the looks and heard the snickers.
Because of this, he could relate to the young human boy Tarren, being so far from home with truly no home to return to. He had watched the boy progress over the past six months in training, and he was confident that the boy would grow into a great warrior of men. Also, Tarren was Whill of Agora’s boy, and if Whill was good enough for his dad, then Tarren was good enough for him.
They reached the dining hall and found the table set for five. Haldagozz was already seated to the right of the king’s chair. He raised a glass and cheered as the three walked in. His cheer echoed throughout the great hall and was met with many smiles.
Just then Roakore burst through the door abruptly and slowed upon entering; trying to make it look as though he had not rushed. “Ey, then, ye all made it on time. Good, I be starving.”
Helzendar eyed Tarren and Lunara with a smirk. “Looks like he got away from the wives intact—no matter that his coat be buttoned wrong.”
They all looked and chuckled under their breath, or tried to.
Roakore had heard his son and looked down at his coat; a button was left at the top with no hole to go through. Without acknowledging that he had heard the joke, he ripped open his coat, sending buttons flying, and fanned himself. “It hot in here, or be it just me?”
Lunara could not contain herself and fell into a fit of laughter; Tarren and Helzendar followed. Roakore waited with a grim face as they walked to greet him and one annoying button spun noisily upon the table. He raised his chin and looked down on his son, wiping the grin from his son’s face. They stared at each other for many moments until; finally, Roakore extended his arms and greeted Helzendar with a great bear hug that brought the boy’s feet from the stone floor.
“A joker, just like your mother, eh?” laughed Roakore as he set the boy down.
Helzendar beamed. “Father, me king.”
“‘N’ what’s this?” Roakore scowled at Tarren. “Ye be in league with Tarren, no doubt. A troublemaker if I ever be seein’ one,” said Roakore as he scooped Tarren up in a bear hug also.
“Me lady.” Roakore nodded at Lunara.
Lunara nodded back. “Good King.”
“Lads.” Haldagozz nodded. “Lady Lunara.”
“Haldagozz.”
They all settled down to eat, and Roakore clapped his hands. Among Dwarves, dinner was served first, conversation followed. In through the side door opposite the one Tarren and the other two had come in came many Dwarf maidens with many trays of food. To Tarren’s surprise, the trays carried not only the usual venison, pork, and beef, but also many varieties of ocean fish—the same as he had known his whole life in the coastal city of Kell-Torey. There was also crab, shrimp, and lobster, with drawn butter to boot.
“How did you…?” said Tarren speachless.
“Bah, it ain’t no matter how. It being yer birthday, lad, I figured I’d give ye a bit o’ home fer yer gift.”
Tarren beamed at the king with shimmering eyes and dipped one of the shrimp in a red sauce and brought it to his mouth. Roakore held his breath in anticipation. Tarren chewed for a long while and finally swallowed; all eyes were on him. “Mmnn, mmnn!” he exclaimed with a jerk of his head and grabbed another. “Perfect, Roakore, it’s perfect.”
Roakore let out a breath and smiled from ear to ear. “‘N’ it better be, what, with all the trouble o’ havin’ it delivered fresh from hundreds o’ miles away, ‘n’ havin’ me chefs tryin’ to perfect the recipes.”
“They di
d great!” announced Tarren behind a mouthful of shrimp.
They all tried the shrimp and many of the other plates set before them. Then they eagerly filled their plates and began to dine.
They ate in silence for a bit and then fell into conversation. Roakore inquired about Helzendar and Tarren’s training. Many stories of the mock battles were told. Lunara informed Roakore that Tarren needed less healing every day. Tarren blushed at the telling. Helzendar told his father that he had won the last four tournaments. Roakore nodded his head and smiled with pride between bites of a chicken leg.
Roakore lifted his foaming mug and cleared his throat. Before he could speak, the door burst open as an exhausted Dwarf in soiled clothes stumbled through the doors and fell hard. Everyone had jumped when the door burst open, and all had grabbed the nearest weapon, be it hatchet or a fork. Two guards came in cursing, one with his hand pressed firmly to his bleeding eye, the other with an exaggerated limp. They moved to grab the rogue Dwarf when Roakore noticed that the half-dead intruder carried a thick parchment.
Roakore raised his hand to stay the guards, and they froze. He leaned down and saw that the Dwarf had passed out. He took the parchment from the sleeper. Those at the table looked on expectantly as he read the paper to himself. He finished and passed the parchment to Tarren with a shaking hand.
He looked deadly serious, his eyes vacant. “Me human reading ain’t what me talkin’ be, boy; let me hear it clear from you in Dwarvish.
Tarren looked to the parchment with wonder as he took it from the Dwarf king. He cocked his head to read it.
“Come one, come all. Your great king doth invite all that may attend to the newly finished coliseum of champions the twenty-seventh of this month for the grand opening celebration, featuring some of the greatest gladiators to have ever bled in the arena. In honor of this great day of blood sport and festivities, all in attendance shall witness the trial and execution of the most hated criminal in all the lands of Agora. Bringer of darkness, master of the Draggard, enemy to all free humans of Uthen-Arden, Whill of…”
Tarren gulped and looked to Roakore with wide eyes. “Whill of Agora.”
Tarren lowered the paper to the table, his appetite gone.
Lunara and Haldagozz looked to each other, thinking the same thing.
Roakore slammed the table with his heavy fist; the crack of his knuckles on the wood resounded throughout the hall.
“He lives! Ha-ha!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Powerful and
Powerless
Zerafin bathed in the river for hours. Finally, the first day’s light crested the water, sending it aflame with color. The sun reminded him of the power he had been gifted with. Such power as had not been given in many centuries, now his. With such power, he could live without fear of foe for thousands of years. None could match the power he possessed but Eadon and the wielder of the sword of Adimorda. He’d known that these thoughts would come to him; they always did with the knowledge and possession of such energy and power. He had been told he would be tempted.
Zerafin was aware of the side of him that would seek to dominate and create a world of his liking. He was also aware of the side of him that wished for no power at all but simply a peaceful life. As his two sides bickered and Zerafin listened, he became aware of an approaching friend.
He walked from the river to the bank and stood in the long grass, looking to the forest. He did not bother covering himself; neither the weather nor the company called for it.
“Azzeal? I was wondering when you would be joining the hunt.”
For a moment there was no sound but the breeze, then came a rustling in the woods. From the tree line leapt a large wolf. It was brown, for the moment, with streaks of almost black. But once its paws touched the long grass, it became dark green with strips of dark brown. Its head came to Zerafin’s elbow; its body was massive. The great wolf looked to Zerafin, sat on its hind end, and began to scratch itself behind the ear with a hind paw.
Instantly Zerafin raised his head and let out a howl. The sound rose into the sky and suddenly cracked. The howl turned into that of a wolf, as did the body of Zerafin. The wolf Azzeal came out of his leisurely scratch and became alert, cocking its head in interest. Zerafin growled and pounced. Azzeal jumped back. The two great wolves circled each other.
The wolf Azzeal growled and swatted its paw at the air. As the claws sliced the air, they released an energy attack. The wolf Zerafin swatted the long grass, causing it to fly into the path of the energy attack and into the vision of Azzeal. As the grass was sliced in two, Zerafin bounded to the side and let out a great bark. Energy rushed from his mouth in the form of a sonic distortion that tore up the ground before him. Rather than counter the attack, Azzeal bored into the earth as his body took on the form of a large vine.
The vine spread across the grass and up a nearby tree. The roots took to the ground and surfaced behind Zerafin, grabbing hold of his hind legs. Zerafin growled. His wolf cry grew strangled and became that of an eagle.
He beat his great wings and took to the sky; his talons dug into the roots that bound his legs. The plant’s vines attacked from the forest and entwined themselves to the great eagle’s wings. Zerafin realized his doom and returned to Elf form. He raised his vine-entangled arms and dropped to the ground, his arms tucking his head in. From behind him, the water rose up to pummel the plant form of Azzeal. The vines receded, and the spinning form of Azzeal the Elf emerged and outstretched his arms in the direction of the water. Dirt flew up in a ten-foot wall and met the water with equal force. As the two elements became mud, their wielders returned once again to wolf form and leaped at each other under the rain of their own conjuring.
Zerafin was the first to draw blood as they came together and his jaws met the neck of Azzeal. But it had been a feint. As Zerafin’s sharp teeth barely penetrated the neck of his opponent, Azzeal’s jaw crushed his own throat. Out of panic, Zerafin called upon the power within his heart stone and thrust his forepaws into Azzeal’s chest. The energy within the blow blasted the wolf back end over end into the forest.
Zerafin fell to his hands and knees as he returned to Elven form. He eyed his sword, which leaned against a boulder five feet away. The river water lapped at his bare ankles as his eyes went from the sword to the woods. There was a rustling in the woods, and Zerafin utilized his mind sight. Within the swirl of the forest-life pattern, he found Azzeal. As if waiting to be seen, the Elf took the form of a small green dragon, his maw opening with a great inhale. Zerafin let go of his mind sight and called up the water behind him. Great waves rose up and surrounded Zerafin as huge flames leapt forth from the forest, followed by the roar of a dragon. Steam hissed into existence as water met flame and surrounded Zerafin in mist.
“A dragon, no doubt, I take it your studies with the lost beasts have paid off!”
The dragon Azzeal leapt from the woods, his huge claws deepening the ground. He took two bounding steps and leapt into the air as he extended his wings in flight. Zerafin laughed and ducked as the tail nearly smacked his face.
“A dragon, no doubt!”
Azzeal, in dragon form, glided far out across the river and finally turned back. As he returned to Zerafin, he changed into Elven form and fell to the ground, landing before Zerafin in a crouch on one knee. He grinned and rose. Azzeal was a master at the art of the Ralliad, called druids by the humans. He could change into any animal form and that of plants and trees. He had not been seen in more than twenty years as he had been studying the form of the dragon.
He nodded to Zerafin, his gaze moving to the blade Nifarez. “You have been gifted a great power. The time has come then?”
Zerafin regarded the blade thoughtfully and nodded. “Indeed. The time has come for the sleeping Elves of the Sun to awaken. The reckoning draws near.”
Azzeal growled deep in his throat with a smile. His feline eyes glowed. “A brother tree tells me that you go to free the one called Whill and the soul of your sist
er. You plan to storm the castle of Del-Oradon, aided by humans and Dwarves. A horde of Draggard and Dark Elves and Eadon, himself, await you.” Azzeal laughed. “And you want me to come accompany you on your mad journey?”
Zerafin nodded, waiting for the laughter to end. Finally, Azzeal stopped, holding his side. “Well then, old friend…when do we leave?”
“Again!” Eadon bellowed as he watched Whill and the man exchange blows. This was Whill’s tenth opponent, and he did not have much left for the fight. He had no sword or gems with which to tap into additional power. And Avriel’s heart stone had been emptied long ago from the torture. He fought as a man now, and though he could more than hold his own, he had been fighting for an hour, nonstop. The dryness in his mouth was only quenched by blood. Sweat blurred his vision, and dozens of bruises and scratches and cuts, even teeth marks, covered his body.
The fighters used no weapons, but the fighting was brutal and to the death. Each fighter came at Whill with a different discipline of combat; each one was skilled at his own style. But Whill had learned all the many styles of hand-to-hand fighting many years ago with Abram, and he had practiced extensively in each.
The fighting was to the death, or so the many opponents thought, but none could kill Whill, and Whill would kill none of them. Instead, he incapacitated each fighter; expending much more energy than he would have had to if he had killed them. But this was some twisted game of Eadon’s, and Whill was not going to give Eadon the satisfaction of seeing him kill the men.
A fist came at his face, which he blocked with a downward windmill of the arm; it was quickly followed by a boot meant for the gut. Whill spun away from the attack and suddenly came back in at his opponent, blocking the man’s anticipated follow-up jab while simultaneously twisting the arm that had dealt the blow. Whill had the man by the wrist and was still moving through his spin as he brought the arm up, ignored a blow to his ribs, and slammed his elbow into the man’s armpit while holding the arm at an unnatural angle.
Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings Page 6
