Before the large wood-and-iron door they dismounted and the general knocked. No one came to answer. After a long pause the general knocked again. Dirk knew it was useless, the place was too quiet. No guards walked the ramparts, and no sound came from within. Dirk knew they stood before a tomb.
He threw his grappling hook over the wall and pulled it until it caught. “Hey!” yelled the general as Dirk began expertly scaling the wall. He slipped over the top, quietly landing in a crouch. Listening, motionless, he wound the elven rope and returned the hook to its place along his belt. Below he could still hear the banging of General Steely, and his calls to anyone inside.
Dirk wasted no time in entering the castle. From the roof he came down a short set of stairs that led to a long hall. Doors lined both sides of the hallway and Dirk went to the first on his left. He pushed the door open slowly and saw no movement within. A large four-poster bed sat at the opposite wall near the wide windows. Two lumps in the bed caught his attention.
Dirk walked to the bed and hesitated before throwing back the sheets. He feared what he knew he would find: the bodies of Krentz’s victims. Seeing the bodies would make Krentz’s crimes real, her fall complete. Dirk knew her as a dark elf who shunned her people’s evil ways; she had always been quick to laugh and good at heart. Though she could be a fierce warrior if forced to fight, she could also be gentle, kind, and caring. Once Dirk saw the bodies of her victims, all of that would change.
He took a deep breath and threw back the blankets. An animalistic mewling left his throat as Dirk laid eyes on the two dead bodies. He barely registered the crash and groaning splinter of wood as the general and his men began slamming something large into the front door below.
Dirk stared at the seemingly sleeping faces of a mother and her daughter. The girl, no more than six years old, clung to her mother as they slept. Likely she had been scared by the storm and had crawled into bed with her mother in the dark of night. Their peaceful faces showed no sign of terror; they had been killed in their sleep. The lack of blood and the small puncture wounds in their bedclothes, just below the breastbone, told Dirk they had died instantly with a thin dagger through the heart. With trembling hand he reached for the single long-stemmed black rose that had been placed in the child’s small hand.
Dirk jumped as the door was smashed open below, the boom of impact reverberating through the entire building. Boots hurried throughout the castle as doors were slammed open and rooms were searched.
“In here! By the gods, they are all dead!” yelled a man down the hall.
Other such proclamations echoed throughout the castle and fell upon Dirk’s ears like lashes of a whip. A chill ran through his body as he took up the rose and stood, unable to tear his eyes from the dead.
“The duke is dead, and all of the servants,” the general said from behind him. Then Steely saw the mother and child. “By the gods, his wife and even…little Annabelle. What kind of monster would do this? What kind of demon would take the life of a mother and child?”
The general’s words tore through Dirk as he looked down upon Krentz’s victims. Rage welled within him with Steely’s every curse. He wanted to strangle the man just to shut him up. This wasn’t her; it was not the Krentz he knew. It made him sick to think he had been prepared to do the very same thing. If she had not sworn fealty to her father, Dirk would have held the killing blade. Had it been easier for her because she was a dark elf? Was it truly in her blood? When the moment came, would Dirk have been able to do it? Krentz had been able to, and quite efficiently. His urge to save her swelled as his anxiety grew.
“Where is the next royal in line?” Dirk suddenly yelled, grabbing General Steely by the edges of his breastplate and shaking him. Steely scowled at the intrusion but his face lost all anger when he saw Dirk’s haunted eyes.
“Where?” Dirk demanded.
The general seemed to remember his high station and shoved Dirk away hard. “You are not running off alone ahead of me and my men. This is a matter for the Eldalonian army. You are in possession of knowledge that must be contained and dealt with by the king’s men.”
General Steely took three deliberate steps toward Dirk and looked him dead in the eye. “Until this entire affair is over, you are my prisone—”
From nowhere Dirk produced Krone and jabbed it into the general’s hand. “Silence!” he commanded in a hushed whisper as blood dripped and the general froze.
“Sir.” A voice approached from down the hall.
“Tell them to leave us,” Dirk hissed.
“Leave us!” General Steely was forced to blurt out, though Dirk could tell the general was trying to fight the effects of the torturous dagger. Its real strength was in its euphoric effects should the victim stop resisting; good behavior was rewarded instantly, while bad behavior was punished painfully. To the approaching soldier, the general simply sounded gruff.
“Now tell me where the next in King Mathus’ line can be found,” Dirk ordered.
With a grimace and shaking with effort, General Steely hissed, “Southwest a day’s march, McKellian’s Cross, Lord Grendial…”
“And what would the closest target be beyond that one?”
Steely ground his teeth and after a silent scream that left his eyes bloodshot, he broke. “North to the Twin Lakes, Castle Carlsborough…Kessleton is the name.” He cringed.
General Steely glared at Dirk with murder in his eyes. To force such vital information out of such a devoted soldier was akin to death. Dirk knew that he had made an enemy for life. But the general would have to get in line.
“You will not yell out when I take back the blade. You will wait here until you have counted one thousand heartbeats, and you will never speak of me again. You have no memory of me. Say it.”
“I have no memory of you,” droned the general.
“No memory of who?” asked Dirk.
“No memory of you.”
“Who am I?” Dirk finished.
“I don’t know.” The teetering general drooled.
Dirk retracted the dagger and walked out of the room, back to the stair and onto the roof. From there he took in a quick lay of the land. He looked southwest beyond the horizon to where he knew the closer village McKellian’s Cross lay, likely Krentz’s next stop. Then his eyes traveled north to where he knew Twin Lakes to be. Krentz would take the targets at Castle Carlsborough after McKellian’s Cross.
Dirk ran along the wall and leapt. Catching his grappling hook on a gargoyle, he swung down smoothly, guiding his descent with his left hand. He landed and dislodged the hook with a whispered word. The rope followed him, winding itself back up into the mechanism as he walked. By the time he had reached his horse, the rope was again on his belt.
He sped away from the soldiers and their questioning yells at his back. From a strap he took a dart and jabbed it into the horse’s neck. The next dart was for him. The adrenaline hit them both and they flew off northwest. Dirk intended to get there before Krentz did. He rode on into the night and his mind was haunted with images of what Krentz was now doing to the family at McKellian’s Cross.
The general would still be on the trail of the assassin, but they would follow the trail south to her next kill. And Dirk would be waiting for her in the north. He had to put an end to her spree, no matter the cost.
Chapter 25
Treason
Music took to the skies as harp and fiddle, flute and reed rang out, marking the beginning of the festivities. Whill had been too preoccupied with his studies and that twisted figment of his imagination to know that a grand celebration had been planned. He soon learned that Zerafin’s crowning would be that night.
The queen motioned to a nearby elf and he quickly came forward. “See to it that the dwarves are shown to their special quarters and their every need is met.”
The elf bowed. “Yes, my queen.”
As the dwarves were being guided away by the queen’s help, a blast of lightning erupted from somewhere in the crowd.
All in the blink of an eye screams and crackling thunder tore through the jolly gathering. The lightning snaked its way toward Whill as a blade came at him from behind. Two more assassins blasted fire and black spells at him.
Time slowed to a crawl for Whill, and in the ocean of elven faces he saw the grinning apparition of his tortured self. “What would you do without me?” the Other asked.
Time surged forward and sound crashed into Whill. He unsheathed Adromida and the thunder was devoured by the vibrating hum of the blade’s sheer power. Whill raised his free hand and the lightning hit an invisible globe of energy and shot back at its wielder. The blade at his back was blocked and driven into the ground by Roakore’s massive axe. The fire was absorbed by a black globe that swirled in Ralliad master Flouren En Fen’s outstretched hand. Whill raised his arm and the four assassins were lifted into the air to slam together and then violently smashed to the center of the stone circle. Elves quickly parted from the four assassins as they slammed to the ground. There was an ear-piercing roar and fire rained down from above. Avriel landed and impaled one of the dark elves with a razor-sharp talon. She trapped another with her other clawed foot and with a snap of powerful jaws bit his head off. The crowd reeled in shock and the dwarves gave battle cries. Hatchets flew through the air only to freeze mid-spin by Roakore’s command of the metal blades.
“Stop!” commanded Queen Araveal and Roakore in unison, and the dwarves froze in their charge.
“She is my daughter!”
“She be princess Avriel!”
At mention of her name and title, the white dragon Avriel seemed to realize what she was doing. She flung the lifeless body of the dark-elf assassin and pawed her bloodied lips as if to hide them. Not able to stand the gawking of the crowd, she sprang shamefully into the air and took flight toward the Thousand Falls.
One of the two assassins still breathing unsheathed his blade and charged Whill in a blur of motion, but Whill was faster. He blocked the attacking blow with Adromida, and on contact the assassin’s blade disintegrated to ash. The assassin slammed into Whill’s energy shield and his head snapped to the side as Philo barreled into him with a crushing tackle. Underneath, Philo the elf cackled and proclaimed in Elvish, “Lord Eadon take you all!”
Zerafin, sensing what was coming, reached forward and mentally pulled the dwarf from the dark elf. The Krundar master Arngil stepped forward and with a clapping boom caused stone from the circle to heave like ocean waves and wrap around the elf. There was a great muffled explosion as the assassin blew himself up. The stone from the circle shot out in every direction, and so too did the hands of a dozen elves and Roakore. The flying stones stopped in midair, reversed direction, and slammed back on themselves. With so much force applied by Krundar earth movers, the stones could only collapse in on themselves, entombing the remains of the assassin forever in a smooth, round boulder.
All eyes went to the last assassin and everyone froze. The dark elf stood among two dead elves of the sun who had been trying to protect his hostage. Tarren looked at Whill wide-eyed as the dagger pressed to his throat drew a trickle of blood. Whill flashed back to the same scenario upon the pirate ship. Tarren would have died then. It seemed to Whill for an eerie moment that death had returned to claim Tarren, as it had first meant to those many months ago.
“Tarren!” Lunara shrieked and with a clawing hand shot a spell of green multicolored light, but it was absorbed by the staff of the Watcher who seemed to suddenly appear.
“That way ends badly,” he warned Lunara, who was held back by Holdagozz.
Ten feet away from Tarren, Whill held Adromida with both hands. No blood came from the bare hand that squeezed the blade. His gaze bore down into the dark elf and the elf began to shudder. Tarren was released and the dagger was dropped. The boy slammed his short staff into the dark elf’s face. The assassin squeezed his head painfully as he dropped to his knees.
“Tarren, come away from him!” Lunara yelled as his mother might, and the boy staggered backward.
In agony the dark elf glared at Whill. Blood ran from his nose and ears and he shook violently. Through clenched teeth he growled, “Sun elves do not…invade…another’s…mind…aagh!” He screamed as Whill stepped closer and scowled.
“I am not a sun elf,” Whill answered.
The dark elf ceased in writhing convulsions as Whill bore down on him with his mental assault. The Other was in control now, and he tore through the dark elf’s mind. Whill sent more power surging through himself and the dark elf screamed in anguish.
“Enough!” commanded the queen. “Release him!”
Whill looked at the queen, and for a moment the insane eyes of the Other regarded her. Then Whill blinked and released the dark elf.
“We must learn what he knows. He must be questioned,” said the queen.
“I know all that he would tell,” Whill informed her. He sheathed his blade and regarded the whimpering assassin. “He is of no value alive or dead.”
The queen regarded Whill with apprehension and turned to her guards. “Take the prisoner away; he will be dealt with later.” She then addressed her help. “See that this mess is taken care of. The festivities will not be interrupted!”
Whill went to Tarren and put a hand to his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Tarren did not look too shaken from the incident. Rather, he looked furious. “I am fine…thanks, Whill.”
“Come,” Zerafin bade Whill and Roakore. “We must speak in private.”
Whill looked at Tarren with worry.
“I will watch over him,” said Lunara.
Whill smiled at her gratefully and followed Roakore and Zerafin to the carriage.
They were brought to Zerafin’s pyramid in short order. Inside, the place looked more like the interior of a castle than anything. Zerafin led them into a large library at the heart of the structure. He gestured for them to take a seat at a round table at the center of the room. “Cider, wine, ale?” he asked from a small cabinet as he poured himself a glass of wine.
“Ale,” said Roakore.
“The same,” Whill concurred.
Zerafin brought the drinks and joined his friends. He handed them each glasses and lifted his own.
“To Abram and Rhunis!” he said.
“To Abram and Rhunis,” Whill and Roakore repeated and clanged glasses.
Zerafin drank deeply and put his glass down. His demeanor changed in an instant. “This tale of Kellallea the Ancient One, do you believe it?” he asked Whill.
Whill took a deep breath and sighed. “I do not know what to think anymore. I have thought it over for a long time now and am no closer to revelation.”
Zerafin nodded but Roakore scoffed. “Bah! That old elf was crazy! Whill be the one to defeat Eadon, don’t ye be doubtin’.”
Zerafin nodded with Roakore’s every word. “That may be true, and it may not. Either way, the elves of Elladrindellia and the humans of Agora need hope. They need something, someone to believe in, and that someone is you, Whill.”
Whill began to argue but Zerafin cut him off. “Think about your people, your father’s people!” He slammed the table. “By the gods, man, your name alone stirs hope in the hearts of men. You have not seen the world these six months. Agora has been tortured by the dark elves right along with you, my friend. Your father’s people need you, they want you. For nineteen long years they suffered under Addakon’s rule, and now they suffer under Eadon’s. You—”
Whill slammed the table and it jumped, causing the drinks to teeter. “Do not speak to me about my father’s throne and my responsibilities to my people! It has taken you five hundred years to claim the throne of your father. I am twenty years old! I cannot be held responsible for the fate of an entire continent, I will not!”
He found himself looming over the table, his knuckles white as he leaned on them. The sword at his belt hummed and vibrated.
Zerafin looked at the sword and Whill. Roakore silently looked from one to the oth
er as he slowly sipped his beer. Whill closed his eyes to calm himself and sat back down. Quietly he spoke. “I do believe Kellallea’s tale. Eadon wants me to try to kill him. He wants me to give him the greatest power given, and he wants to become a god.”
Silence followed his words and for a time no one spoke. Zerafin set his laced fingers upon the table.
“I ask much from you—we ask much from you. I cannot imagine the burden you carry, but I would help you bear it.”
“Aye, as will I,” Roakore declared. ‘You be what gave me the strength to be facin’ me haunted mountain again. I said to meself, if this lad be findin’ the strength to face his rotten fate, then so too I be. You ain’t alone, laddie. We be much alike, we three, one an’ all redeemin’ our fallen fathers and lost lands. We three be kings, and we three be havin’ to lead. Ain’t none of us likes our lot—we would rather it were someone else had our problems—but there ain’t no one else. Our people be lookin’ to us, and I for one ain’t for lettin’ ’em down!” He guzzled back his beer, walked to the cabinet, and poured another from a small barrel. Returning to his seat he took a long pull and slammed down the mug. Froth leapt from the mug and wet his beard.
“So who gives a good godsdamn about the prophecy bein’ true or false? Whether you be the son o’ a king or living happily in Fendale playin’ trouser sticks with a fair lass, you still be livin’ through this war.” Roakore scowled at Whill.
“Well, I would rather be…playing trouser sticks!” Whill yelled and his face twisted in laughter. Roakore gave a bellowing laugh and the three burst into fits of laughter. None could form the words “trouser sticks,” and with each attempt it only got worse. Whill laughed until his sides hurt and his cheeks were sore. After a time they settled down and, parched, they raised their glasses.
“Don’t say it!” Whill warned Roakore.
The dwarf grinned, threatening to send them back into hysteria. “To bein’ in a sinkin’ boat with good friends,” he said.
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 22
