“That is enough of this test! Do you understand? I will not abide more of this lunacy,” Whill threatened.
Libratus bowed slightly, concern shadowing his brow. “We do not mean to offend. We only wish to know the extent of your abilities.”
“Then I shall set fire to myself and be made anew. I will not see more blood spilled.”
Libratus looked around as if estimating the other masters’ consensus. “Very well. We have seen enough for now.” He returned to his seat and the four female elves left the way they had come in. Whill saw disappointment in the eyes of those who had not gotten a turn, and he hid a small shudder at their fanatical mindset.
Next a gray-haired elf, ancient but strong-looking, stood. His lokata bore black and gray swirling patterns, and it hurt Whill’s eyes to stare at them too long. The elf had silver-and-black-streaked hair to match, sticking straight up from his head in long pointed spikes. A ring adorned each finger and he wore many bracelets on each wrist. From his lone silver necklace a large oval onyx pendant hung heavily, and within the stone fiery tones danced wildly.
“I am called Ornarell, master of the school of Zionar,” the elf said as he took long deliberate steps to the small stair and onto the sand. His eyes were almost unbearable to look at for too long, liquid smoke that seemed to churn the longer Whill stared, with a sudden piercing pinpoint of light that bore through Whill’s very being.
Ornarell’s eyes locked on his and Whill could not look away. He felt time slow and then detected a presence at the corners of his mind. Ornarell’s eyes flashed and settled in a scowl, his pointed silver eyebrows arching like rooftops.
Suddenly Whill was not in the pyramid. There were no elves and no sand nor light. Whill was nowhere. A light pierced the darkness and stung Whill’s senses—the light from Ornarell’s swirling eyes, now alive with white inner fire.
“I have brought you here so that you might understand the power to be gained down the path of the Zionar,” said the elf in a deep voice.
“Attempting to take over or delve into another’s mind is a crime among your people. Do you mean me harm? If so, let’s have at it. I have been a prisoner of the dark elves two seasons; you will not find my mind an easy fortress to conquer.”
“If I wanted to conquer your mind, you would now be my puppet. That is not my goal. I have brought you here to help you understand what others of less…restraint might attempt.” The elf’s voice hummed and he seemed to glide closer, the smoky storm of his eyes flashing with silver lightning.
“Where is here?” Whill demanded. “If it is not my mind, then whose?”
“I have not invaded your mind; no crime has been committed here” came Ornarell’s retort. He glided around Whill’s corporeal form, his gaze never leaving Whill’s as they turned in the darkness. “We are within the dream world. It can be made to be as elaborate as our own, but for these purposes, this will do.”
Stubbornly Whill followed the elf’s gaze, though the swirling silver fog made him disoriented and dizzy. He fought the sensation. He had not determined whether or not Ornarell had ill intent; he had not attacked, and Whill felt that he spoke the truth of the dream world—he had been here before many times, and had mistaken the familiar sensation for home, his own mind.
“And what is my test?” Whill asked. “To break free?”
“No, you could not break free if you tried,” said Ornarell matter-of-factly.
“Then I am a prisoner here in this dream world of yours?” Whill asked, slight anger creeping into his words.
“Would you like to leave?” asked the elf, still moving around Whill with storm-torn eyes.
“Do I need your permission?” Whill retorted, pressing the issue.
“Of course not. Simply wake up,” offered Ornarell.
Whill let his own stare bore into Ornarell’s. “My will is that of the world, my thoughts become reality. Or have you not seen the previous tests? What then do you think I could do here in the dream world?”
“What can you do? That remains to be seen,” said Ornarell coolly.
Whill closed his eyes and focused his will. He thought of the sun, and reached out to the ancient blade he knew still hung from his physical body. A rumbling arose in the eternal darkness of the conjured dream world, and with a deafening report, a sun was born far away. Giant waves spilled from the darkness and a mountain shimmered into existence. Next land and trees appeared and a blue sky above. Ornarell’s eyes no longer dominated the reality of the dream world. The two stood upon a cliff at the edge of the land. To Whill’s right the ocean crashed violently into the cliff, sending spray shooting high above their heads and turning to a drizzle that bathed them in seawater. Off in the distance but moving fast came a thunderhead. Thunder rolled across the land and the wind doubled as lightning battled within the rolling storm. Whill looked at Ornarell with a smirk. “Best take care. A storm is coming.”
The elf smiled and then burst out laughing; his sudden hysterics were slightly unsettling, as were his maniacal eyes and lightning-charged hair. “The youngest of babes can conjure within a dream! But all too often their conjured worlds turn on them,” he bellowed against the approaching storm. With his final word the monolithic thunderhead shimmered and changed into thousands of screeching dragons. They shifted from the storm’s previous heading and bore down upon Whill. Ornarell was somehow now far away, observing from a distant cliff as the dragons dove to devour Whill. Finding his blade at his side, Whill unsheathed it and drove it into the ground. The earth heaved and rumbled and from the ocean came a serpent of such magnitude that it blocked out the sun and turned day into night. The shimmering green serpent opened its colossal mouth and devoured the dragons. It reared back and sunlight spilled onto the world for just a moment before it struck down from the clouds to devour Ornarell. The elf raised a hand as if to alter once again the corporeal form of the thunderhead-turned-serpent, and strike back at Whill.
Whill channeled massive amounts of energy and focused his entire being upon the diving green serpent. He could feel Ornarell’s attempt to alter the dream creature, but Whill would not allow it. Soon Ornarell had frantically spent his conjured power and his will faltered. The snake crashed into the cliff and the world shuddered.
Whill opened his eyes and watched as a screaming Ornarell fell backward into the bench of the masters. He realized that virtually no time had passed here within the pyramid; they had been within the dream world, and there time had no hold, reason no bearing. Many jumped as the Zionar master slammed into the bench with a cry. Libratus moved to help the other master up, but his hand was shoved away. Ornarell got to his feet and took three quick strides to stand before Whill. So close did he come that their noses nearly touched. The Zionar master scowled his pointed-eyebrow scowl.
“I have seen enough. He has convinced me of his prowess in the art.” Ornarell looked Whill over from head to toe. “Though I did not go very hard on him, he has passed my test…for now.”
Strangely, Whill decided that he liked the mysterious if slightly dark Zionar master. He had learned from Avriel during one of their frequent, hour-long talks that Zionars mainly used their powers of the mind on animals, and aside from druids, they were the best animal trainers in existence. They could control entire herds of cattle or packs of wolves, even insects. Anything with a brain was fair game for Zionars, with the exception of the sentient races.
Zerafin gave Whill a questioning look, but Whill only shrugged as Ornarell returned to his place among the masters.
Next a young elf, bright-eyed and quick to smile, stood from the group. With her hands together under her long lokata, she bowed slightly to Whill, who responded likewise.
“I am Avolarra En’ Kayen, master of Aklenar.”
“Greetings, Master En’ Kayen,” said Whill and bowed once again.
“Greetings, Whill.” She smiled. “Have you ever had dreams that came true?”
“Just the once, I think,” Whill answered, trying to think. “It w
as during the spring, before…I dreamt of flying high over a battlefield atop a dragon. I saw the battles for Isladon and Ro’Sar before they happened. In the dream I watched the draggard hordes pour forth from the mountain, and in reality it came to pass.”
“That is the only dream that has come to pass?” Avolarra asked.
“It is all I can recall.”
She nodded as if to herself. “Do you ever know things are going to happen before they happen?”
“No…well, I don’t know. Sometimes in battle, I can sense what my opponent is going to do.”
“Interesting, do you ever have visions? Or hear voices?”
“No,” said Whill, trying not to think about the Other.
“One last question for you, Whill. What will be my next question?” she asked.
Whill frowned. How could he know? Was he supposed to guess, or was he supposed to know? He tried to remember the feeling of the dream that had come true. He listened, seeing if the words from the future could be heard. He heard only his own busy mind.
“Nothing. You do not intend to ask another question.”
Avolarra stared at Whill for a time and smiled. “That will be all.”
Whill wondered if he had passed. What did his correct answer prove, anyway? Only Avolarra knew if she had intended another question.
Whill sighed deeply, ready to be done with these trials. He knew that the only schools left were those of the Morenka and Gnenja. He thought he had a good idea of what the warrior test might consist of, but what would a monk, or Morenka, want to know?
The Watcher stood and addressed Whill. “Greetings, Whill. You are familiar with my name as I am with yours. I have but one question for your consideration here today. If peace can be gotten through war, can war also be gotten through peace?”
Whill looked from the Watcher to the other elves in turn. He sensed a tension grow inside the room. He knew that this had been debated and preached by the Morenka for millennia. Zerafin himself had alluded to it once. The monk class chose a life of nonconflict while the others fought their eternal wars. Whill did not know what the Watcher wanted to hear, and he didn’t know if there was a right answer. But he knew that his answer would lean toward one side or the other.
“No, war cannot be got through peace, but neither can peace be got through war,” he answered. The Watcher smiled slightly. “War is born of conflict; it is the opposite of peace. Peace is born of harmony.”
“Therefore,” the Watcher said with a grin at his fellow masters, “peace can only be attained through the practice of peace, through harmony. Do you agree, King Whill of Uthen-Arden?”
“It isn’t that simple,” answered Whill.
A brief shadow of disappointment crossed the Watcher’s old face but was replaced quickly by a smile. “Of course not,” he said.
“If someone is trying to kill you, you kill them. That is the way of the world. You fight or you die,” Whill argued.
“Thank you,” said the Watcher. “This is all.”
He turned to take his seat but Whill shouted, “Shall I just lay down the blade at Eadon’s feet? Shall I live my life in laughter until Eadon and his minions turn Agora into the plagued death that has become Drindellia? You would advise that peace in this matter is the way to peace? We shall all be murdered whilst we meditate!”
The Watcher smiled sympathetically. “I would see this world and all in it healed. When all embrace peace, all shall know it. In error, those who want peace think they must fight for it, when in truth they must simply practice it. Until we learn the difference, we shall not know peace.”
The Watcher returned to his seat and silence followed him. Whill heard the ring of truth in the Watcher’s words; he felt it in his heart. He was saddened to think that he was simply feeding the fires of war, when there existed another possible path; he also regretted not being able to see that path.
An elf stood and threw back his cloak. Beneath it he wore leather armor interwoven with golden mail, and at his hip hung a sword much like Whill’s. The elf looked to be in his twenties, but Whill knew better than to trust appearances. The elf had no hair to cover his pointed ears. His eyes were ice-blue orbs of focus. They bored into Whill as if his every flaw was on display.
“I am called Thryn ‘De Bregeth. I am master of the warrior class.”
“Greetings,” said Whill.
Thryn nodded. “Are you prepared for your test in the art of the Gnenja?”
“I am.”
“We would ask that you not wield the ancient blade. Nor any at all,” said Thryn, regarding Whill with a steely demeanor.
“I will not wield it, but neither shall I be without it,” Whill replied.
“Very well then,” said Thryn. “Let the test begin!”
From the entrance came a dozen elves. They split and made a ring around Whill. To his dismay he saw that they were all armed. They wore armor similar to Thryn’s, except that these warriors had black masks over their heads. So covered with the tight mail and leather armor were they that only their eyes could be seen. They faced Whill and withdrew their curved elven blades in unison.
One of the fighters surged forward, sword drawn back as if to strike. Quickly Whill moved as to unsheathe Adromida, causing the warrior to take pause. Whill took advantage of the hesitation and kicked sand in the warrior’s face. Another fighter came at him from behind, his sword leading the charge. Whill kicked the sword out wide as the elf closed in. He got inside the elf’s guard and landed a fist to the gut while simultaneously locking the elf in a standing arm-bar that left his sword arm turned up at the elbow. Whill landed a punch to the elf’s face and received one himself. He spun the elf and himself around to face another attacker. Whill used the elf as a shield, keeping the others at bay while the elf struggled to break Whill’s hold. With a snap Whill broke the elf’s sword arm at the elbow and with a flat hand to the nose he sent him flying. The elf’s sword dropped to the sand as two more warriors charged. Whill scooped up the blade with a kick of his foot and leapt over an attacking sword. He caught the blade and blocked a sword meant for his head. Steel sang on steel as the weapons moved in a blur. Whill parried every blow meant for him, first fighting two, then three elves at once. They came on hard and a fourth attacked his blind side, leaving Whill with nowhere to run. He leapt high and twisted as he came down to land upon the masters’ table. He was forced to hop from the slashes at his feet and came down on one of the blades, pinning it. A kick to the face sent the elf reeling. Whill blocked and parried from on high, even scoring a grazing blow that left one of the warrior’s shoulders bloody.
Whill leapt from the table, over an elf, and met the warriors head on. Deep within him something shifted. He felt the difference in him as the Other was awakened by the conflict. His senses became sharper, his reflexes faster, and he tore into the elven ranks with reckless abandon. Blades clanged in a chorus of speeding metal as Whill parried the attacks and kept the elves at bay. He received a hit to the leg that left a deep gash bleeding freely. His scream of rage echoed throughout the room, a scream Whill did not recognize as his own. He parried a blow so hard that the sword flew from the hands of its wielder. A kick to the knee bent the elf’s leg back unnaturally and he hit the floor in agony. Another got too close and paid dearly as his sword was sent wide and high by Whill’s parry. Whill slashed the elf’s exposed armpit, leaving the warrior’s arm dangling uselessly. Again an attacker came from behind, and Whill simultaneously blocked a blow at his back and retrieved yet another fallen blade. Whill took up the dual blades and sent them spinning in a blur of motion that sent the warriors back.
Time seemed to slow for him as his attackers rallied and came on again as one. Whill slashed wrists and hamstrings, laying low any fighter who got too close. Blades came at him from all angles, but Whill was always a step ahead. Every parry flowed into the next as Whill began to feel the elves’ next move. A warrior came in hard from Whill’s left, forcing him to block as another struck also from behi
nd, forcing him to block again. A third stabbed forward, and without a free sword Whill was forced to kick the blade high and to the side. Whill twirled out of the trap and ran to the entrance of the pyramid. There he turned and engaged his closest pursuer. They exchanged three blows before Whill cut his hand clean off. Whill left the elf to his pain and came on hard, screaming all the while. His barrage sent the remaining elves backpedaling as their swords became twisted with Whill’s parries.
“That will be all,” said Thryn. But Whill paid him no mind. He heard only the movement of his opponents, the subtle change of their sword grip, the way their breath alerted him to a coming strike. He read their eyes perfectly and knew their minds before the strikes came. A boot to the chest sent another flying, and a twirling parry sent another blade through the air.
“Enough!” screamed Thryn so unnaturally loudly that the words shook Whill from his fighting trance. Panting, he lowered his blades, as did the few standing elves. He looked around as if seeing the injured for the first time. Eyeing the two blades in his hands with a scowl, he dropped them to the sand and returned to face the masters.
“Those of you with injuries see yourselves and your brothers to the houses of healing,” Thryn said. “You are dismissed.” He nodded slightly at Whill. “That will be all. Thank you for the demonstration.”
Zerafin stood. “The masters will take the time to reflect upon what they have witnessed here. Thank you, Whill. That will be all for today.”
Chapter 13
The Hunter and the Hunted
Aurora awoke to the soft song of lovebirds as they peered at her from the open window. Her sleep had been restless, haunted. In her dreams Whill's friend Abram, deformed and rotting from death, had croaked a cryptic song that played in her head still. She shook her head trying to clear it and forced herself to focus on something else, anything. But the song continued, steadily becoming louder. Even the birdsong somehow joined with it, then the faint breeze through the window. Aurora, barbarian of the frozen north, was chilled to the bone.
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 12
