Why do you blush? Avriel asked with a deep hum.
Whill jerked his head toward her as if he had been caught at something. No reason, he said quickly. Come; let us be off, I begin training today.
Avriel’s smile could make a damsel faint. Now she smiled widely.
“What?” Whill asked aloud.
Avriel huffed smoke out of her nostrils and shook her head but said nothing more, and to Whill’s relief she did not speak of his thoughts.
Chapter 2
Black Rum and Pipe Smoke
Roakore thumbed through the book he had found within the elven library. He had yet to prove its authenticity, but he had a feeling. The elf Azzeal had ensured him that it had indeed been written by none other than the first Agoran dwarf king, Ky’Dren, but he was not about to take the elf’s word for it.
He could not decipher a word of text, as it was written entirely in Elvish. Why would a dwarf write a book in Elvish? This was the burning question that filled Roakore’s mind.
Upon his return to his mountain kingdom, he had immediately been bombarded with pressing issues. The human refugees he had sent to his mountain had arrived without incident and had been recovering from their journey. They had settled into one of the many vacant living quarters within the dwarf mountain and were doing well. They would hold out there until spring, when Roakore had vowed to help them rebuild their ruined town. Tarren had been particularly excited with the arrival of other humans, and had since been showing them around the mountain kingdom.
Roakore had been overcome with pride to learn that his son Helzendar, along with his teammates, including Tarren, had passed their trials. They were now no longer children by dwarven standards, which meant that Helzendar would be allowed to make the dangerous journey through enemy territory to Elladrindellia.
Tarren could hardly wait to set out to see Whill and the elven land, but before that journey could be made, Roakore was waiting to hear from the many search parties. He had sent them out to scour every inch of the inside of the Ro’Sar mountain kingdom. They were looking for a portal similar to the one that had magically taken Whill’s company to the lost elven country of Drindellia. Roakore had always puzzled over how the draggard had suddenly poured into Ro’Sar those decades ago when the mountain was taken. It made sense that they could have come through one of the seven pairs of Gates of Arkron, magical elven portals created during a time lost to history. He would not leave until he was sure that the gate no longer remained within his mountain. It was possible that they had been removed once their purpose was through, but it was also possible that they remained, waiting to be used again. Roakore had vowed that would never happen again.
He pondered while he absently gazed upon the book. The only light within his personal quarters was a single burning candle. He had taken his late father’s quarters, and it was here that he felt the closest to his father and king. His father had spent many days and nights here and was never to be disturbed. Roakore knew it was because he had had a large taste for spirits but preferred to drink alone.
Roakore raised a glass of wheat beer, a gift from the refugees, and offered cheers in the name of his father. He guzzled down the fine ale and chased it with a shot of black rum. There he sat through many more drinks, pondering the book on his desk until he finally passed out, mumbling of secrets and elven libraries.
Roakore awoke to a light tapping upon his shoulder and a soft voice calling his name. He smiled to himself as he dreamt but was shaken awake.
“Bah, what you want?” he grumbled and looked to see his royal brain, Nah’Zed, scowling back at him.
“Your highness—”
“I told ye a million times if I done told ye once, I be hatin’ them fancy-pants titles! Call me Roakore, or King, or King Roakore.”
“Right then, King, your search parties have all reported back.”
Roakore jumped to his feet and looked around aimlessly for his boots, all in a huff. “Why didn’t ye say so?”
Two hours later, Roakore had heard the reports of the many search parties. Nothing had been found. The report did nothing to quench his nagging feeling of trepidation. He had immediately ordered a second, more thorough search of the mountain. He wanted to be sure before he left his mountain kingdom once more.
Nah’Zed had not taken kindly to the idea of Roakore’s leaving again, and did not waste any opportunity to tell him so. The truth was that Roakore did not think he was cut out for the tedious work of being king. He did not enjoy sitting idle within the mountain, dealing with the never-ending workload that came with his position. He longed for the road as his axe longed for battle. It was the reason he had often volunteered for lookout duty outside of the Ky’Dren Mountains when his people had lived there after the fall of his mountain. It had been on such a patrol that he’d first met Whill and Abram.
It was true that he was anxious to have his precious Book of Ky’Dren translated, and hear what secrets of his lineage it might hold. But the trip to Elladrindellia held other lures. He was curious to see the elven land, and he was worried about his elf friend Zerafin. The last he had heard, Zerafin was in a bad way, suffering from a rotting curse at the hands of Eadon, and Roakore was worried.
Roakore made his way to find a late breakfast, his many troubles following him down the dimly lit tunnels.
“It is gonna be amazing Helz!” Tarren promised Helzendar as he flipped through the page of a book he had been given by Lunara.
Helzendar eyed the colorful pictures of the elf land in the book with skepticism. “I don’t know, looks weird to me. Why in Ky’Dren’s beard did they cover all that pretty stone with them ugly vines?”
“Bah, they ain’t ugly. Lunara says they actually strengthen the structures. And those, the crystals, they collect sunlight and power lanterns and things,” he said, drunk with wonder.
Helzendar nodded. “Yeah, they got one o’ them crystals up atop the peaks o’ the Helgar Mountains. Powers the main city proper it does. A gift from the elves it was. They are a queer lot, them Helgar dwarves, usin’ elf magics and such.”
“Geesh! Those are harsh words against your own. Helgar was a king of Ky’Dren, you be knowin’,” said Tarren.
“Yeah, I be knowin’ me own history. I be son o’ the king, ain’t I?” said Helzendar. “What, you be likin’ every human o’ Eldalon?”
Tarren thought about it. “No, I guess not.”
“Besides,” said Helzendar, “I didn’t say I don’t like ’em.”
“Yeah, well, the new door of Roakore that they put up last month was blessed with elf magic, you know. What’s the big deal with using elf magic? Why do the dwarves dislike the elves so much?”
Helzendar was instantly flustered. “Why we be dislikin’, eh? What’s to like? They brought the dark elves here, didn’t they? You know how many o’ me clan died because o’ the elves? Not to mention me grandfather and uncles. Roakore be the last o’ his father’s children ’cause o’ them.”
Tarren was sorry he asked, given Helzendar’s reaction. “Yeah, I can see were there would be some bad blood. But we be needin’ their help against the dark elves.”
“Bah! You mean they be needin’ our help to clean up their mess.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Tarren. He hadn’t thought of it that way before. He let the topic go and went back to his elven book. He couldn’t wait to see Elladrindellia. More so he couldn’t wait to see Whill once again. Thoughts of Whill led him to think of Abram. Tarren had been greatly saddened by the news of Abram’s and Rhunis’ deaths. They had both been men who’d seemed larger than life; he still couldn’t believe they were dead.
His thoughts inevitably led him to frustration at his own age and weakness. He would give anything to be able to help in the coming battle. He could train with the dwarves all he wanted, but he would not be strong enough to be of help until he was grown. But one day he would be grown, and though the war would be over by then, there would still be evil in the world, and he had vowed to t
he spirits of his family that he would dedicate his life to fighting for those who could not. He would one day be a strong and powerful man with years of training behind him, and those of evil heart would quiver at the mention of his name.
Lunara finished healing the last of the injured human refugees. She had been hard at work for nearly two days mending the many wounds they had received when their town was attacked.
Holdagozz steadied her when she swooned from the exertion, and though she could have stood on her own she welcomed his support. He guided her to a chair within the makeshift infirmary and was quick to offer her a drink of mountain spring water, which she took thankfully. Though she used the energy within her staff to heal, her mind was thoroughly spent. She had spent countless hours in deep concentration mending bone and reconnecting muscle, and the work had taken its toll. Seeing this, Holdagozz offered to take her back to her room.
“I appreciate the offer, but I would remain here, I may be needed…” she said softly as she was hit with another dizzy spell.
“At least take a cot and get some sleep. We got a long road before us to your lands,” insisted Holdagozz as he led her to a cot and covered her with blankets.
“You are coming with us, then?” she asked brightly.
“’Course I be, me place is by me king. And I would see you and Tarren to Elladrindellia safely.”
She smiled at that and closed her eyes to much-needed sleep. Holdagozz watched her and looked out over the dozens of people she had healed. He was awed by her healing power, a power that had saved his very life. And though he was a strong dwarven warrior, made stronger still by her very hands, he was humbled by her ability to reverse sickness and injury and steal from death its helpless victims.
Not only did he marvel at her skill but also her beauty. He had never seen one who shone so with such radiating inner light. Her energy was that of a child, and she was filled with the wonder and awe of life usually beaten out of people by tragedy and age. Perhaps it was because she was young for an elf, young by all standards.
Looking upon her, Holdagozz was reminded of the beauty of life. He was reminded that miracles did exist, and where there was darkness, there too was blinding light. She had saved him from the clutches of death, had given him a second chance at life. He would be forever grateful, and always in her debt and at her service.
“Aye, Holdagozz, come share a drink. We have much to speak of.”
He was jolted from his reverie by his king’s hushed voice. Holdagozz felt his face flush from the knowing look he got from Roakore. He got up and followed the king to the common room that was part of the humans’ quarters. Two large high-backed chairs had been set beside the large fireplace, and between them sat a small table and a bottle of black rum. They sat, and Holdagozz rubbed his hands together near the fire, waiting to hear Roakore’s reprimand. None came.
Roakore poured two glasses of rum and together they cheered Ky’Dren and tossed the drinks back. Roakore poured himself and Holdagozz another and sat back to smoke his pipe and sip from his glass.
“I be gladdened that you’ll be comin’ with us, Holdagozz. It ain’t the same out there without a good dwarf at yer side, I say.”
Holdagozz took the compliment with a smile and lit his own pipe. “It’s gonna be a dangerous road, it is…”
Roakore sniffed at the air and looked at his friend’s pipe. “What’s that ye be smoking, eh? That be no Shierdon leaf.”
“Nah, it ain’t,” Holdagozz confirmed. “It be from the refugees you done saved from the shyte-eatin’ draggard. Their main crop it is, an’ it’s got a smoothness to rival the best.”
Roakore quickly tapped out the cherry from his pipe and offered it to Helzendar with a lick of his lips. “Pack her full.”
Holdagozz filled his king’s pipe and handed it back. Roakore puffed up the fire slow and steady. His cheeks bulged and he blew out a swirling silver ring.
“Nah’Zed!”
“Yes, me king!” she said as loudly, clearly annoyed at being shouted at though she was sitting three feet away.
“See to it that a small barrel o’ this weed finds its way to Silverwind’s saddlebags. In return, give the humans a few pints o’ me twenty-year-old Helgarian sweet rum.”
Nah’Zed wrote swiftly and sent a dwarf off with the request. Holdagozz blew a ring of his own and wore it like a halo for a long moment. “Think they got any weed o’ their own there, them elves?”
“Bah!” answered Roakore. “You’ll never catch me smokin’ no elf weed. Who knows what them folk do to it. Probably have magic farts for a week.”
Helzendar coughed his last toke and choked with laughter. “Haha, rainbow farts!”
“Bwahaha!” laughed Roakore, and Nah’Zed joined in the mirth. Then Nah’Zed suddenly farted and gave an embarrassed “oh!” The squeak of a toot sent the two dwarves falling to the floor in convulsions.
“Magic farts, bwahaha!”
Chapter 3
The Crystal Palace
Dirk was awoken by a shift in pressure in the room. The grip on his dagger tightened and his eyes opened slightly; otherwise he made no movement. He smelled the intruder and knew it to be Eadon. He relaxed his grip and sat up.
“I am done here. We return to Agora,” Eadon said. He looked Dirk over with searching eyes. “Are you ready to meet your army…General?”
Dirk remembered his pact, reminded himself of his pledge of fealty. Such a pledge to Eadon could not be broken but on pain of death. Eadon had shown him how it worked by forcing a human prisoner to plead fealty, and then attempt to defy his will. He had convulsed and thrashed until finally, frothing at the mouth, he dropped dead. Dirk knew then that had he not told Eadon of Whill’s location, he would have died. Dirk had asked Eadon why then did Aurora live—he had guessed correctly that she too had sworn fealty. Eadon informed him that it was due to the fact that she had tried to kill Abram, and he would have died had Whill not healed him. She had not yet moved against Eadon in any way, and therefore would live.
“We shall see how that feisty little icicle plays out,” Eadon had said, to his own amusement.
He led Dirk through the halls of the tower of crystal. It jutted out in every direction and in every color, shining a thousand reflections in the midday sun. Within the mammoth crystal palace were rooms and halls, libraries and weaponries, servants and slaves, waterfalls and wine. Dirk felt like he was living in a waking dream, one as beautiful and mysterious as it was dark and disturbing. The crystal pulsed in unison with a low, almost soothing hum of power. The assassin had been given lavish quarters within the crystal palace. Krentz was even released to live there with him, though she still felt like a prisoner, they both did. But at least they were prisoners together, she had told him. Being with her brought him a peace he had not known without her. Whether they were ever freed from Eadon’s clutches, he did not at the moment care. He was with her again. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, shared stories of their adventures since parting those years before. They made love and they watched the sun rise and set through the multicolored walls of the crystal palace.
Dirk knew not how the thing might possibly work, and could not guess what great amounts of power it must have taken to do so, but the castle-sized crystal flew. He had been awed when he first saw the approaching crystal city, after he had been found and healed by Eadon. The thing had shot through the air at impossible speeds and come to hover over their heads. Eadon had grabbed him by the collar and flown them both up and into the crystal. Then the crystal shot off again in the direction it had come.
Inside, Dirk found a fortress teaming with dark elves and his breath was taken away. It was not the number of dark elves, which he guessed to be in the hundreds, but their appearance: they were Eadon’s twins, identical in all regards except for the vacancy in their eyes, the lifelessness. The only others who lived within the crystal palace were select dark elves and women for Eadon’s pleasures.
“They are me,” Eadon had explained
of the identical dark elves. “I call them my Afterthoughts. If I think it, they do it. They are alive but have no minds of their own. They have no power but through me. They see to it that my will is done.”
Dirk followed the self-absorbed elf out onto one of the long shards that stretched out like a bridge. Below them was a sight that took Dirk’s breath away like nothing ever had. An army of draggard, draquon, dwargon, and unnamable other beasts stretched for what seemed miles. They were in regimens of fifty, he guessed, and they must have numbered in the thousands.
“I have three such armies,” Eadon said with great pride. “This one is yours.” He looked deep within Dirk’s eyes and drew so close it was intimate. He whispered in Dirk’s ear, “Follow me and lead my army and you shall be a king and my daughter Krentz your queen. Fail me and you will see her die forever.”
Dirk did not react to the threat. He simply stared forward, eyes locked on the impossible sight below them. “King and queen of what?” he dared ask. “This barren wasteland or a charred and dead Agora? One cannot be king of nothingness.”
Eadon’s head twitched. “Can’t he?”
He let the unanswered question linger in the silent air of the crystal palace. After a time, as Eadon looked out over his magnificent creations, his pure killing machines, he said, “I will not lay waste to Agora. What happened here in Drindellia will not happen there. Here was a battle as you have never imagined.” He seemed to warm at the memory. “Yes, the elves of the sun fought well, but in the end they killed themselves trying to kill us. Imagine an explosion of such magnitude it was as if the sun collided with the oceans. The sun elves scorched this land, not I.” He turned once more to face Dirk. “If those on Agora surrender peacefully, I shall not have to unleash my army. But if they refuse, they must be convinced. I will be named king of all lands and the world will know peace.”
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 3
