Little was known of Ky’Dren’s early life. Dwarven history spoke only of the time after Ky’Dren appeared to the people and made his holy claims. Little if anything was ever said of where he came from. Roakore had ordered his clerics and historians to look into the matter, but without the great library within the Ky’Dren Mountains, little could be discovered of such matters. Therefore Roakore needed to have the precious book translated so that he might hear the tale from the dwarf himself, and he trusted none but Whill to do it.
Why Ky’Dren had never spoken of the lost dwarf home he did not know. Perhaps it was utterly destroyed and there was nothing to return to; perhaps the gods had told him to abandon the lost kingdom and start anew in Agora. But if the tale was true, and there was a lost mountain kingdom to return to, Roakore would be the one to attempt it. His mind raced with possibilities. He imagined the glory he would know. Not only would he be Roakore, king of Ro’Sar, who took back the fallen mountain, he would be Roakore, king of the ancient mountain of the dwarves. Wine and ale would overflow the mugs at the table of the kings, and the gods would cheer his health. He already had the high favor of the gods. In only a short year he had taken back his mountain, become king, and killed a dark elf, a draggard queen, and a black dragon. He could feel the power of the gods flow through him. He felt it in every strike, every blow. The power of the gods grew within him daily. He would ever be their weapon; his would be their right hand. He would lead his people to victory and salvation, or he would die trying.
Roakore stuffed the book in his belt and turned to the sulking Nah’Zed. “I be on a path that you would be approvin’ of if I could tell you o’ it. Trust your king, good dwarf, and know that I be takin’ your counsel to heart. You have been a royal brain o’ legend, and I be knowin’ you will remind me son o’ his duties in me absence.”
She blushed and was gladdened by his words. His son Ror’Den topped the great stair and entered Silverwind’s tower. He was a tall dwarf, taller than his father, and his eldest son by his first wife. Though Ror’Den was only twenty years old, his beard had grown to the floor and he had many scars to show for his part in the great reclamation. He was wise beyond his years and had a good mind for problem solving. His powers over stone had shown themselves early, and now he gave his father a good fight in the family tradition of stone wrestling. It was a game similar to tug-of-war, but rather than a rope, the dwarves mentally pulled or pushed boulders against each other’s minds.
“Me king.” Ror’Den slammed his chest and bowed so low that even though his beard was folded over thrice and bound in leather, it still brushed the floor.
Roakore approached his son with open arms. “Ah, me boy. Just the dwarf I be wantin’ to see. I am off to bring Tarren to the elf lands—me friend Whill awaits us there. You be in charge o’ me mountain till I return, and king if I don’t.”
“Then let us hope that I ain’t king any time soon,” said Ror’Den sincerely. “I am honored by your choice, Father, but I would join you in your travels if you would allow it. I would see the world beyond the mountain walls.”
“Bah, and I would have ye at me side, son, but for your value bein’ here, watchin’ over our mountain. That be a greater task than the road before me.”
“Of course, me king.”
Roakore slammed his fist to his chest and nodded. “Nah’Zed, let it be known that once again, Ror’Den be in charge in me absence.”
Nah’Zed scribbled furiously on her scroll, then suddenly ran up to Roakore and embraced him tightly. He got a raised eyebrow and smirk from his son. He patted his devoted royal brain on the back and hugged her. After nearly a minute he had to pry himself from her clutches. “All right, then, I ain’t on me deathbed. See to it things run smooth and I’ll be back afore you can say dragon shyte.”
“Yes, me king,” Nah’Zed sniffled. She and Ror’Den left their king and descended the stairs. No sooner had they left than Tarren came sprinting up, panting, a wide smile spread across his face.
“This is gonna be great! Hey, do I get those neat goggles like you got?”
Roakore tossed him a similar pair. “Can’t see nothing but wind tears without ’em.”
Tarren caught the goggles and put them on. “Holy—!”
Roakore laughed. “Heh, I told ye in Kell-Torey that I would get a silver hawk o’ me own.”
“Wow,” said Tarren as he stroked Silverwind’s feathers. “Is it scary?”
“Bah! I don’t know the meanin’ o’ that word.” Roakore helped Tarren up into the newly reconfigured saddle and strapped him in. He took his place in front of the lad and took hold of the reins.
“Ready, boy?” Roakore asked, but did not wait for the answer. He kicked Silverwind’s sides and snapped the reins. “Hyah!”
Silverwind ran to the ledge and leapt out into the air. Tarren laughed with joy and yelled gleefully, until they began to descend. A rush of wind hit them and his laughter was taken with his breath.
“Haha, boy, ain’t it great?”
“Roakore, I…” Tarren gasped.
“Takes your breath away, don’t it!”
“I think I’m gonna…”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet! Bwahaha.” Roakore pulled left and banked so hard Tarren thought he might fall off.
“Stop…I can’t…” Tarren tried to warn the laughing dwarf but it was too late. His eyes and cheeks bulged and he threw up all over Roakore’s back.
Roakore howled. “Turn your blasted head next time, boy! Ah, all over me new cloak.”
Roakore landed at the base of the mountain where Lunara and Holdagozz were waiting with their horses. He leapt from Silverwind and threw his cloak to the ground in disgust. Tarren unbuckled himself, slid to the ground, and threw up again.
“How ye got anymore in ye, laddie?” Roakore asked. “That’s gotta be your whole breakfast on me back!”
Lunara and Holdagozz had deduced what happened and chuckled. Lunara went to Tarren, put a hand on his shoulder, and rubbed his back.
“What did you do with the lad, loop-de-loops?” asked Holdagozz.
“Bah, ye be knowin’ nothin’ o’ the art o’ flyin’,” Roakore grumbled. “Loop-de-loop, my arse. He got no stomach for it, I’m guessin’. Didn’t but turn sharp and I was wearin’ his food.”
“I’ll get used to it, Roakore, gimme another chance,” Tarren pleaded.
“Maybe when the smell o’ your puke wears off. Till then, you’ll be washin’ me clothes first thing when we make camp.”
“Don’t be so hard on the boy,” Lunara interjected.
“Bah. The world be hard, you be knowin’, hard as stone. Make somethin’ weak, it’ll stay weak. Bein’ too soft an’ easy with kids be the real abuse.”
A regiment of fifty dwarves on horseback came galloping out of the gate behind them. They rode atop miniature brown and white Thendora Plains horses, thusly named because they were half the size of their kin, the great Thendoran warhorses. Even a miniature horse came up to a man’s shoulders, and the smaller ones were perfectly built for carrying dwarves with their heavy weapons and armor. At Roakore’s orders, no flags or banners were flown, nothing to indicate that the dwarf king rode among them.
Tarren mounted with Lunara and the group began the long journey through Uthen-Arden territory to Elladrindellia. It would take them the better part of two weeks to get to the elven borders, even though their horses were a long-distance breed. Traveling through Elladrindellia to Cerushia would be another ten-day.
Chapter 6
The Cost of Fealty
Dirk attempted to mask his horror as he watched Eadon’s army prepare to pour through the portal. He did not know where the portal led, but it didn’t matter. Soon the already overwhelmed people of Agora would wake to a new nightmare. He knew then, looking out over the massive army of abominations, that Agora was truly doomed.
He had sided with the victor, it seemed. Krentz was safe, they were together once more, and as long as Dirk kept his promise of feal
ty to Eadon, they would remain that way. This fact should have brought more comfort to the assassin, but it brought none.
He stood next to Eadon before the dead land and its legions of monsters. He tried not to think too loudly, to clear his mind. But the images of burning towns, cities, women and children plagued his mind and pierced his armor of detachment. He saw the face of his sister, gone now nearly forty years. She had died at age two during a bad winter sickness that had swept the land. Dirk had vowed then that whatever god would take her as his own was an evil god, and he would strive always to eradicate the world of men of like heart. He was a killer true, but he was a killer of killers mostly. In his long career he had never taken a contract in which he had not known the target to be deserving of death. Dirk’s services came with a high price, and thus he was hired to kill men of such worth. In his line of work his employers had been rich merchants, businessmen, bankers, and even kings. He was glad to help eradicate the scum of Agora. Being paid for it was a bonus.
“You must think me a prime target for your righteous justice,” said Eadon without looking at him.
Dirk did not answer. He was not about to attempt lying to the dark elf lord. Eadon knew his mind; he could feel the constant presence at the edges of his consciousness, always watching. Dirk knew also that Eadon could see clearly his resolve to keep his vow, regardless of his conflicting morals. He did not attempt to hide his disdain for Eadon, for he could not regardless.
Eadon looked at him as he thought this, and he grinned. “You are a bold warrior indeed.”
Dirk stole a glance at Eadon and gave a grin of his own. “I do not fear you.”
“Indeed!” laughed Eadon. “The only thing you fear is losing your beloved dark elf tramp.”
Dirk’s upper lip twitched a snarl. “Such words for your own daughter?”
“Daughter of mine,” Eadon said, as if to himself. “My children are legion; you look upon them as we speak. If ever I have failed, it is with her. She is weak minded, insolent, and a traitor.”
Dirk quietly fumed, knowing full well that Eadon was toying with him, savoring the anger that he caused.
“But she has ever set the hearts of men and elves afire,” Eadon added with a smirk.
Dirk ignored the barb, knowing his rage to ever be impotent against the powerful elf. He looked out past the horrid army to the ever-hazy sky of Drindellia. He loathed this place. It reminded him of nothing but death, of Agora’s fate.
“Worry not of that. The sniveling humans of Agora will see that they stand no chance. The dwarves will hide in their stinking mountains, and the elves of the sun shall kneel to me, or they will die. Take heart, my assassin; you will be a king of men when this is through. Now, for your next—what did you call it? Contract?”
Dirk looked at the hated dark elf, his imagination running wild with hideous possibilities.
“You are to travel to Eldalon and kill Whill’s remaining relatives; his grandfather, King Mathus; and every last man, woman, and child. Without their beloved leader, Eldalon will be driven to its knees.”
Dirk returned to his chambers to say goodbye to Krentz. He stopped before the door, his hand a mere hair’s breadth from knocking. He retracted his hand as if he had been burned. Shame washed over him and his throat constricted painfully.
For the first time in his life he was trapped; for the first time he was the victim of a more cunning and powerful foe. He had never before bent to the will of anyone; he would be controlled by no one. Whenever in his life he had been attacked by a bully, either physically or verbally, he would beat them down. He made such a scene as to show everyone in his circles that if you attempted violence or disrespect toward Dirk Blackthorn, you were a dead man. And now, because of his relentless pursuit of Krentz, he had sold his soul to evil in the name of love. For the first time in his life, he felt like an idiot.
If I do not do Eadon’s bidding, or ever act against him, I will die. If I die, Krentz will lose what protection I can give her.
Dirk silently screamed and pulled at his black hair. His frustration swelled and his rage boiled at the impossibility he had been given. He could not even conspire against the dark elf. He had learned that the hard way when last he spoke to Krentz. They had been considering ways of escape and how they might break the oath. Dirk had been racked with a gut-burning pain that left him gasping on the floor. He could not resist, and for Krentz he gave in. Had the circumstances been different and Dirk did not have her to lose, he would have told Eadon to eat his own shyte and he would have died fighting.
He took a deep, calming breath, which came out in a nervous shudder. He opened the door and she was waiting. Before the door closed she had confronted him at the threshold. Tears streaked her eyes and he knew that she had somehow learned of his newest mission.
“You cannot do this,” she said before he could speak. He avoided her eyes and shut the door behind him.
“I must—”
“You cannot! You should have never sworn fealty to him; you should never have found me. You will die because of me.”
Dirk tried to charm her from her mindset with her favorite smile. He put a hand softly to her smooth, dark face. Her tattoos swirled slowly, churning like her emotions. She took his hand from her face and gripped is firmly with both hands at her breast.
“I will not die because of a dream you—”
“Then you shall be forced to do things that will change you forever,” she said. “You may not die, but you will not be able to live with yourself if you become Eadon’s monster!”
“What would you have me do?” he screamed, yanking his hand away. The crystal walls of the chamber rang faintly with his voice.
“You cannot kill the innocent; you are not an evil man. It will tear you apart…”
Dirk’s face, Krentz saw, was one of resolve and determination. In his eyes she saw something she never had before. She saw the shadow of the man he might become if he continued down this dark path.
“I will do what I must to see you safe,” he said.
“It is not up to you to keep me safe. I am not like your people. Your chivalrous sentiments are not for me.”
“And neither are you like your people,” he argued.
She ignored the statement, not letting him divert the conversation. “You cannot do this,” she said, grabbing hold of his arm as he turned away from her.
“I must,” he said firmly and pulled his arm from her grip.
“If you will do this, what will you not do? If you would kill an entire family, what will you not do?”
Her accusatory words cut through his enchanted cloak and leather armor to pierce his heart. He walked to the door and turned to her at the threshold. In her eyes was the smallest glimmer of hope that he might be swayed from his path. That hope was crushed when he spoke.
“I will do whatever it takes, Krentz. For you I would see the world burn.”
He turned to leave but suddenly swooned and fell to one knee. He shook his head to clear it, thinking that it was his inner turmoil over Eadon’s orders that had caused him to feel so…poisoned. He cursed under his breath and his head spun again, dropping him to both knees. He knew he did not have time. A panic fueled by the realization of what Krentz had done and what she might do sent a surge of adrenaline through his body and he shot to his feet. His eyes tried to focus on one of her images, but all he could make out was the needle ring on her left hand, which was held out toward his face. He staggered toward her like a drunkard and reached for her weakly. He took her by the shoulders as if to shake her, but ended up needing her to lower him to the floor. Tears welled in his eyes and he managed to utter, “Wh…what have you done?”
“Shhh.” She whispered as a mother might. “Fret not, my dear Blackthorn. I love you. Remember that I will always love you.”
Dirk struggled against the drug but quickly fell into oblivion.
Krentz walked briskly through the crystal corridor to her father’s quarters.
“Fathe
r, Father!” she cried as she approached the door to his chamber and beat upon it. “Father, open the door! I would have words.”
After a long moment the door finally opened, and Eadon scowled down upon his renegade daughter.
“You would have words, would you? What words would my spiteful daughter have?”
“I come to barter.”
Dirk came to and found himself on unfamiliar ground. The brightness of the world stung his eyes. His vision was blurry and his head pounded. He tried to stand and found his legs unresponsive.
How did I get here? he wondered. He fought through the thick fog in his mind and the truth came rushing back to him. He had been poisoned by Krentz. They had been arguing about his mission and then he had fallen. She had said something to him as he passed into unconsciousness…she had said…goodbye.
His mind cleared and panic gripped his heart. What had she done?
“Krentz!” His voice was slurred, and the after-effects of the drug caused him to stagger as he stood. He looked around frantically and saw Eadon standing a stone’s throw away, his form silhouetted in the churning light of what looked to be a portal. They were in a forest clearing, and Dirk knew from the foliage and trees nearby that he was no longer in Drindellia.
“What has she done?” he screamed and lurched toward the hated dark elf. His legs buckled but he found them quickly, the effects of the poison wearing off.
“Where is Krentz? What has happened?” he bellowed, his voice hoarse. Eadon grinned at him, thoroughly amused by the spectacle. Dozens of dwargons and draquon stood guard near to the portal, hissing and growling at Dirk as he stumbled toward their master. He ignored their warnings.
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 5
