Mind made up, she smiled for the first time all day and skipped along, dreaming about her upcoming adventure.
Up ahead, three figures rounded the corner, and Izzy groaned at sight of the three Elven girls walking directly her way. If she turned around now to avoid them, it would only give them further reason to poke fun at her. She took a deep breath and forced herself to be calm. Head held high, she continued forward at an unhurried pace.
The girls approached wearing their finest gowns, their pretty faces aglow from drink and dancing. Izzy recognized the girl in the center as Celena Aelwen. Demon’s breath! That girl is a monster. Izzy smiled and attempted to go around the trio, but Celena stepped in her way.
“Going to the King’s ball, Izzy? Oh, wait, I should call you Your Grace now, shouldn’t I?” The girl bent low into a mock curtsy.
“Let her be, Celena,” said one of her friends. “Izzy doesn’t have time for balls. She is more interested in teasing the boys. How many have you kissed and sent running away? Three now, Your Grace?”
That big mouth, Valint Strong! “You don’t understand,” Izzy mumbled, her cheeks flaming.
Celena snorted. “Oh, yes, we do. You think just because you are a Falewir, you can mistreat people as you wish. Use them and then cast them aside like old shoes when you’re done.”
“No! It’s not like that!”
“Yes, it is!” Celena taunted and pinched Izzy on the arm.
“Ow!”
“And, if you think I’m going to bow down to you, you are crazier than I think! Why you just—”
Izzy had enough. She stepped in close and slammed the palm of her hand into the girl’s nose.
Celena shrieked and cupped a hand to her bloodied face. “What have you done?”
“Pinch me again and you’ll get more of the same, you little twit!”
For a moment, Izzy thought the other girls might retaliate, but they simply directed venomous looks her way while wrapping their arms around their friend.
Celena struggled to get free. “Let me go! I’ll show her!”
Thankfully, the two girls managed to wrestle their bleeding companion away.
Izzy watched them go with a satisfied grin on her face.
“Very effective strike, Your Grace. It would seem my lessons are serving you well.”
Izzy flinched at the familiar voice. She turned to find Elon Aubry, dressed in her white Gladewatcher’s cloak with the ficus tree stitched at the breast, standing with her arms crossed at her chest. Izzy frowned. “You were here? The entire time?”
“Aren’t I always?”
“Well, you could have stepped in at any time then,” she complained and started back down the hallway.
“Whatever for? You weren’t in any danger,” Elon said, keeping pace beside her.
“Oh, those girls are very dangerous! Their sharpened tongues could rip the hide off a mantath!”
“I heard only one sharp tongue,” Elon murmured. “May I suggest, Your Grace, now that you are a Princess of the realm that you try another tactic besides violence for dealing with recalcitrant citizenry?”
Izzy’s cheeks heated for a second time. “I suppose you’re right.” She lowered her eyes. “Did you hear much?”
“Enough.”
“About the boys?”
Elon nodded.
“Wonderful,” Izzy muttered dejectedly.
“Another word of advice?” Elon asked, stopping her by placing a hand on her arm. “Don’t force it. Your tormented memories will pass.”
Izzy’s eyebrows rose. “How…how did you know?”
“I’ve known you since you were a child, Your Grace. I have seen how you’ve struggled these past years. Also, my own similar experience has convinced me that you may be going through the same thing.”
“Experience? You were…?”
“Yes. When I was a young girl.”
“How did you get over it?”
“Time. Maturity.” Her mouth twitched. “And, the right Elf.”
Izzy’s mouth fell open in shock. It was hard for her to imagine the hardened Gladewatcher as a…well, a female.
“So, you think my Prince is out there somewhere and when I meet him everything will be fine?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elon scoffed. “You’re too old to believe in child’s tales. You make your own happiness in this world, Izabel Falewir. You can chose to allow the actions of others to mold your life for you or you can mold it the way you wish it to be. Your life is yours. No one else’s.”
Izzy mulled over what Elon said and they continued on in a companionable silence born of many years walking side by side. As they passed a window that looked out onto the King’s Round outside of the palace, she stopped. “Elon, look. Who is that?”
The Gladewatcher stepped up beside her.
In a sea of white hair and pointed ears, a man with dark hair was making his way toward the King’s Round and there was no mistaking the open look of evil intent on his face.
****
A pleasant breeze drifted through the open-domed King’s Round and enchanted lights blazed in every tree, but Airron barely noticed as he tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his heavy robe. All around him, Elves floated over the white marble floor as they danced and sang of the joyous reunion of King Thorn with their woodland deity, Elán. In true Elven custom, the end of an Elf’s life journey was to be celebrated, not mourned.
Vigilant Gladewatchers lined the perimeter standing among the wide-spaced pillars in their white cloaks trimmed in gold.
With a commanding view of the festivities, Airron sat upon his throne and adjusted the royal emerald on his forehead until it felt slightly more comfortable. He suspected the weight of this particular jewel would never sit easily.
“Stop fussing,” Melania admonished, sitting beside him in her own ornate, if smaller, throne.
“This bloody robe is too tight around my neck,” he complained.
“You will get used to it, my husband.”
“The robe or the monarchy?”
“Both.”
He eyed her enviously. His wife seemed to have no such trouble adjusting to her new role as the Queen of Haventhal even though it was only hours old. She sat beside him in a green and brown silk dress. An emerald-encrusted tiara nestled beautifully in the ringlets piled atop her head.
“I thought you loved your royal life?” she questioned without looking his way.
“Yes, a royal-in-waiting! Not a bloody King! Do you realize that since the ceremony this morning, I have taken no less than twenty meetings? Everyone wants something! Either to instruct, advise, solicit remedy or favor. I’m only one Elf, Melania! How did Thorn find the time?”
She chuckled. “You will build your staff around you to handle most of these matters, and then you will find your stride.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I will help you.”
He squeezed it back. “I know you will. Are you sure you wish to travel to Nysa with me? The trip will take weeks.”
“I go where you go, my King. I think I established that rule very early on in our marriage.”
An amused snort pulled his attention to his long-time friend, Loren Faolin, who was now one of his personal guards. Loren had been in attendance at Rogan and Janin’s wedding in Kondor when Melania showed up unannounced, and he was fully aware of her rules.
Airron ignored him and turned back to the celebration anxious for it to be over so he could rest before his journey to Iserlohn tomorrow. It would be far easier if he could simply travel through Aquataine by himself, but his new gaggle of advisors insisted that their King travel with the appropriate retinue of counselors, Gladewatchers and Gardiens. One thousand strong!
He sighed and slid his eyes to the captain of the Gladewatchers, Raine Aubry. The Elf had been winding his way through the dancers but suddenly stopped, his fist moving to the hilt of his sword.
Airron sat up straight and followed the direction of Raine’s gaze. A man wearing a black
cloak strode through the crowd, pushing people out of his way on an unerring path for…him. The intruder didn’t appear to have a weapon, but moved forward with deadly purpose.
Airron stood, unpinned the heavy robe at his throat and let it fall to the ground. “Loren, take the Queen out the back to safety. Now!”
Trusting Loren to do his duty, Airron watched one of the Gladewatchers down below close in on the man. Several Elves, sensing danger, ducked out of the King’s Round. Most stood their ground, frowns replacing smiles.
The Gladewatcher finally reached the man and put out a hand to stop him. It was a fatal mistake. The man whirled on him, thrust out his arm and sent the Elf hurtling backward through the air and out of the open pavilion. The music screeched to a stop. Plates and goblets fell to the ground as people now found more incentive to get out.
“Stay back!” Airron barked at the Gladewatchers. They had no defense against this Mage. Neither do I for that matter.
Regrettably, several Gladewatchers had already been in flight toward the man before Airron’s command and surrounded him. The Mage laughed, spun in a circle with his palm out and the white cloaks of the soldiers suddenly blossomed in red. The doomed Gladewatchers had only a horrified moment to look down at their bloodied chests before crumpling to the ground, dead.
Rage surged through Airron as he shifted. Long legs shortened and multiplied into eight spindly, jointed limbs followed by the furred, oval body and fangs of a Goliath Arachnid.
The spider scuttled off the dais straight for its target. A flash of lighting came out of nowhere and struck the floor in its path sending bits of marble exploding into the air. The spider leapt to safety and disappeared beneath the tables.
The Mage growled, flipping tables and chairs aside as he searched the King’s Round.
Outside of the pavilion, shouted orders echoed throughout the chamber, and the Elves set up a line of archers.
“Ready!” came the shouted order and weapons were raised into position. “Loose!”
The unmistakable twang of the release of arrows announced their ominous intent. The Mage mumbled under his breath, and the missiles bounced harmlessly off his shield and clattered to the ground.
With the man’s attention on the Elves, the spider scurried out from its hiding place. In a blur of speed, it crossed the floor behind the man and sank its fangs deep into his calf, injecting a fatal dose of venom.
The Mage screamed and jumped away. He pointed a finger at the spider and sent it flying back. A second strike went wide of its mark, the Mage’s movements already becoming clumsy due to the poison in his body.
“You will die, Savitar!” the man screamed. “You will all die!”
The spider scampered close once again and emitted a strand of silk from a gland in its abdomen, letting it fly out on the breeze toward its prey. The silken rope stuck true to the man’s ankle and the Goliath circled its victim, building an inescapable web of steel. The teetering Mage tried to move, lost his balance and tumbled to the ground.
The Gladewatchers rushed in.
The air around the spider shimmered as Airron shifted. “My robe,” he commanded softly and within seconds, one of the soldiers draped his new heavy robe around his shoulders to cover his nakedness. He wanted to question the wizard to find out if he was the same man that killed Thorn, but he never got the chance.
The bloodthirsty Gladewatchers swarmed in to demand payment for the death of their comrades. And, that price was the wizard’s head.
Chapter 8
Wings of Magic
Rogan packed the fire-cured tobacco leaf down into the long-stemmed Chero pipe with his thumb. After the day he had just had, he wanted nothing more than a few moments of peace before the Guildmasters arrived.
He made a move to retrieve a stick from the brazier to light his pipe, and two nearby servants jostled each other out of the way to be the first to hold a flaming brand to the bowl. With a disapproving glare, Rogan grumbled his thanks to the servant who managed to get there first and the Dwarf’s eyes widened in surprise. How could I forget? It was the first of many rebukes he suffered today. Kings do not show gratitude. Bah! He would do things his way and if the Dwarves didn’t like it, they could find themselves another monarch.
He took a deep pull to light the tobacco and sighed in pleasure at the familiar aroma and the heady sensation of the inhaled smoke. Leaning back in his chair, he lifted his feet to the table and surveyed the inner sanctum of the High Tower where King Erik had taken all of his private meetings. A single window provided muted light to the austere stone room. The only furniture was the table where he sat and the surrounding chairs. Large maps of all the cities of Deepstone covered an entire wall making him feel small and even more in disbelief that he now ruled those cities.
He couldn’t help the smirk brought on at the thought of his late uncle, Rik, in the Highworld shaking his fist at the fates for putting Rogan’s shifter arse on the throne. Although, they did enjoy a civil relationship after the Demon War, Rik still distrusted Rogan and his magic, and since he died shortly after the war, the two never really had a chance to become close.
He had achieved that closeness with Erik and a stab of grief cut through him. His cousin had been a good King, if tentative. There were times when Rogan wished Erik had been more decisive, and he knew he had not been alone in that desire. But, for the most part, his cousin’s rule was fair and calculated and good for Deepstone.
After the appropriate mourning period, he would send a messenger through Aquataine to inform King Thorn and King Maximus of Erik’s death. Normally, the Council of Kings would convene in the ruling city to affirm a new monarch, but Rogan planned instead to travel directly to Nysa to deal with this threat to the island. Beck had a rogue Mage on the loose and he had to be stopped at all costs.
A soft breeze drifted through the open window prompting Rogan to walk over and look out at the magnificent stone city of Kondor. The cobbled streets and homes and the warren of connected sandstone alleyways that took him forever to learn. He had come to love this land. Unlike his childhood home in Pyraan where despite the years he spent there he never quite felt like he fit in, the moment he stepped off the ferry in Deeport at the age of eighteen, he knew he had found his place in the world.
Now, though, the streets were deserted. The voices had gone silent. The hammers and chisels had stilled. On this day, the Dwarves had secluded themselves in their homes to grieve the death of King Erik, but it wouldn’t last long. By the morrow, life for the pragmatic Dwarves would return to normal. The King was dead. A new King had been raised. What more was there to say about it?
The door opened and Rogan turned from the window as his advisors walked into the chamber. General Klay Arsten of the Iron Fists led the way, his long gray hair and beard decorated with the finest gems. Gundar Fither of the Merchant’s Guild and the oldest son of one of the richest families in Deepstone, followed. Behind him came Baz Morgen of the Stonemasons. He had a reputation as a sycophant, agreeing with everything King Erik ever said even if it contradicted his own opinion of a moment before. Trake Donnar of the Goldsmiths, a shy, bespectacled Dwarf who managed the royal coffers with a hawk’s eye and a stingy hand, entered last.
Rogan extinguished his pipe and waved them all to seats around the table as servants hurried in to deliver drink and steaming trenchers of food.
When the goblets had been filled, Rogan lifted his wine. “To King Erik Rojin. May he find peace in the arms of the spirits.”
Resounding replies of “Hear, hear!” echoed through the room. A few “To King Rogan!” if not as enthusiastic. When the servants left, Rogan pried a leg off the roasted chicken that had been placed in front of him and tore off a hearty bite. “Let’s get right to it,” he said around a mouthful. “General, how long before the army is ready to march?”
Arsten picked up a loaf of bread and dipped it into the gravy in his trencher. “We have discussed at length, my King. With five thousand troops—”
/> “Two,” Rogan interrupted.
The general’s disapproving lips flattened into a straight line. “Impossible. We need five.”
Arsten was clearly used to Erik’s passive ways and felt free to voice his opinion.
“I agree with the King,” said Baz. “Two thousand is the right number.”
Rogan frowned. He had no need for a bootlicker advising him. What was the point?
Trake Donnar, thinking only of the expense, agreed that two sounded right.
“Two thousand is not enough,” Arsten said again and Rogan turned back to the general, the only one he truly trusted.
Rogan leaned forward on one elbow and pointed with his chicken leg. “Even if half of that number is to be comprised of shifters, General?”
Klay narrowed his gaze.
“I don’t have your military expertise, so I will be depending upon your counsel in the days ahead, but I do know a thing or two about shifting.” He smiled. “Mages do not like fire.”
The general stroked his graying beard, a predatory grin on his face. In battle, it mattered little to Arsten if he won by sword or magic as long as he did win. The leader of the Iron Fists would use any means at his disposal to secure victory for the Dwarves. He tilted his head in approval. “It will be as you command, my King.”
“How will Maximus Everard react to the Dwarves showing up on his doorstep with an army?” Gundar asked.
“What other option do we have?” Arsten responded.
“The general is right,” Rogan said. “If Maximus does not take this threat seriously, I will have to force his hand. The Land of Men must understand that the Dwarves cannot allow the death of our King to go unpunished.”
With that declaration, Rogan sat back and listened in as his advisors spent another hour discussing logistics for the journey. Arsten would need a few days to ready the army and a fast march should bring them to Nysa within three weeks or less.
An Oath Of The Kings (Book 4) Page 5
