Whill looked again to the rose, trying to imagine what it might be thinking, if indeed it was thinking at all. He closed his eyes and imagined himself as the rose. He imagined his long roots, moist in the cool earth, felt the warm sun on his many open petals, and focused on the blissful energy being absorbed by the leaves. He breathed deeply, slowly, and swayed loosely with the soft breeze.
When he finally opened his eyes, the sun had crept much higher in the sky. Lyrian was no longer beside him, but could be heard humming inside the hut. Whill smiled to himself and got up, leaving the blissful rose to soak up the sun.
Lyrian’s hut, like many elven abodes, had been constructed of living vine that had been planted in a circle. Upon mental command, the doors, windows, and even the pointed roof would open. Now, the entire place was wide open to the cool breeze, and sunlight bathed the simple furnishings. Whill walked in and found the elf pouring two cups of tea. Lyrian smiled at Whill and extended his hand to a small table near the window overlooking the pond. There by the water, the rose quivered in the growing breeze that sent ripples dancing from shore to shore.
“You became the flower?” said Lyrian before blowing on his steaming cup.
“I did. Thank you.”
“Yet the world beckons. For indeed, we cannot always be the flower. And while it may seem like a simple lifeform, it exists in a plane of consciousness that we find hard to mimic. It is funny how the simple things can sometimes be so hard.”
Whill thought about that and sipped his tea, which he found quite bitter.
Lyrian smiled knowingly. “And sometimes, that which is good for us does not seem so.”
Whill raised the glass. “A new concoction of yours?”
“Yes. Do you like it?”
“No,” said Whill, straight-faced.
At length, they shared a laugh.
“But I am assuming that it is good for me.”
“That it is,” said Lyrian with a wink.
Whill met with Avriel for lunch and was pleased to find that Tarren would be joining them. Tarren had decided to forego the Del’Oradon academy and joined the newly created training school in Rhuniston, the human settlement twenty miles to the north of New Cerushia. The people of the first human settlement had asked Whill to name it, and in honor of Rhunis the Dragonslayer, he had named it Rhuniston. He and Avriel had an abode in both the human and elf settlements, though they spent most of their time in New Cerushia.
“I’m glad that you could join us,” said Whill, rustling Tarren’s hair. “I trust that your ride from Rhuniston was enjoyable.”
Tarren nodded happily and shook the ever-present Ragnar’s hand. “Ragnar told me all about the battles that he fought during the Agoran wars. He took down a dwargon single-handedly.”
“The lad exaggerates,” said Ragnar, looking slightly uncomfortable to hear of his own exploits with such enthusiasm. “I merely landed the killing blow.”
“Have you decided on whether you are going to become an instructor?” Whill asked the big man.
Ragnar nodded. “I have agreed. And thank you for your referral. Governor Smith has also appointed me as a captain of the Rhunistonian army.”
“Congratulations. I believe that he made a good choice,” said Whill.
“Thank you my lei—Whillhelm.”
Whill nodded, used to Ragnar’s slip-ups as he was. The man still considered him a king. Indeed, most Agoran men who had come over from Uthen-Arden still considered him their king. But he was not king; he was not even the leader of the human settlement. Like he had in Uthen-Arden, Whill decided to leave the election of a ruler up to the people, and though they had begged him to run, he had declined.
“Shepard Smith is a good man,” said Avriel. “And a wise man to have chosen you as a general.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Ragnar.
She offered him a smile before getting up and handing Arra to Whill. “Food’s ready,” she said, and glided away to the kitchen.
Arra blinked sleepily at Whill and smiled, and he was helpless not to smile back. She wrapped a hand around his finger and squeezed. She was so strong already.
Chapter 3
The Power of Old
The brittle grass crunched beneath Dirk’s boots as he climbed the hill. Krentz crept up beside him quietly, and together they peeked over the top. Beyond their perch was a low valley, once home to a thriving Uthen-Arden village. Now, however, the wind howled mournfully through the burnt husks of homes and buildings. Skeletons, whose white bones had been picked clean by crows long ago, lay where they had fallen. This village, called by the dwarves Kor’Thegor and known by the humans as Peacevale, was like so many others in Agora that had been ravished by the undead hordes. No one had returned to rebuild, for the few survivors of the initial invasions had left long ago and fled to the closest city. They would not be returning, Dirk knew, for the valley was now considered to be cursed land. The only souls who dared venture into such towns were treasure hunters and grave robbers. One such group, a band of some fifteen rugged-looking men, had made camp in the village less than a week ago and had already dug up half the cemetery.
But Dirk was not there for the grave robbers; he had come to seek out someone far more important.
“There he is,” said Krentz in a low voice, pointing west toward the tree line.
“Just in time,” said Dirk.
Word had come to Dirk through Larson Donarron, the Magister of Secrets, of a young man who was said to have extraordinary powers. Dirk and Krentz had set out three days prior, and it was not long before Chief picked up the mysterious man’s scent. They had been watching him from afar for a day and a night, but he had not done anything to suggest that the rumors were true.
As they watched, the young man emerged from the trees boldly. He did not hunch down and sneak for cover, but strode confidently into the heart of the village. Sheathed at his side was a long blade that bore the hilt of a knight of Uthen-Arden. He wore brown leather armor with a suit of chain mail that could be seen hanging below his jacket, and a spiked helm covered the bridge of his nose, leaving his dark eyes hidden in shadow. Curly black hair protruded from beneath the helm, reaching nearly to his thick shoulders.
At first glance, Dirk assumed the lad to be a blacksmith’s son or the hardworking son of a farmer, for he was well over six feet tall, with muscles earned from a life of daily toil.
“He seems a bit cocky, wouldn’t you say?” said Krentz as they watched him walk right into the heart of the grave robbers’ camp.
Dirk nodded with a grin. “I like him already.”
They watched as he stopped, head down and arms hanging loosely at his sides. One of the nearby thieves noticed him, and with a cry of alarm he unsheathed his sword. The others noticed him then, and they too brandished weapons.
“Oi! Who the hells are you?” the closest thief asked, but the young man only stood there, silent and unmoving.
“Hey, Captain! We got ourselves a dumb mute!”
The captain, a gray-haired lanky man who looked to have seen his share of battles, emerged from a tent and discarded a towel that had been tucked into the front of his shirt. In his right hand, he held a straight razor. He looked to the young man and eyed his comrades.
“He just walked into camp like he owns the place,” said one of the thieves.
“Oi! You!” the captain yelled as he strode forth. “You better have a damn good reason for interrupting my shave.”
The young man remained motionless.
Dirk watched with growing excitement as the captain unsheathed a long dagger and, spitting on the ground beside him, took three long strides that brought him before the stranger. He pointed the dagger at the young man’s neck, saying, “You’ve got three seconds to tell me who the hell you are, and what the hell you want.”
“This was my home…” said the young man in a voice low and haunted. He pointed to the skeletons. “They were my neighbors, my friends, my family…”
“Yeah,
well welcome home. Now get the hells out of here,” said the captain.
The young man finally lifted his head, and his gaze was so full of quiet malice that the captain took a step back, and his fellows took a step forward, circling the two.
“You have desecrated hallowed ground. The spirits are quite upset,” said the young man.
“Listen, I’ve had just about enough of your—”
“The punishment for your crimes shall be death.” The young man’s voice was suddenly deep and strong. “Do you have any last words?”
“Now just who the hells do you think you are?” said the captain, and nodding to his men, they began to move in.
For many tense moments, the intruder just stood there like a statue as the blades inched closer to him. Then suddenly, with the speed of a viper, he unsheathed his blade, shot forward, and severed the captain’s head.
“I am Orrian Dreck,” he said, and he spit on the severed head.
The shocked grave robbers charged in, and it seemed as though Orrian was doomed. To Dirk’s great satisfaction, however, Orrian shot his hand out at the closest thief, and from it a streaking blue spell erupted, hitting the man and turning him to ice. Orrian flung out his other hand, and an invisible force hit the frozen man, shattering him into a million pieces.
The grave robbers smartly turned to flee from the powerful young warrior, but they never had a chance. Orrian moved with the speed of an elf, hacking and slashing and shooting spells from his palm that erupted in flames. A half-minute after the initial strike, a dozen men lay dead at Orrian’s feet.
Dirk stood from his cover and began to clap. With Krentz in tow, he crested the hill that he had been spying from and began walking into the village. Orrian regarded them calmly, though he did not sheath his blade.
“Well done, well done indeed,” said Dirk, stopping a dozen feet from the young man.
Orrian said nothing. He only stared, wiping blood from his blade.
“That is quite an impressive power that you have,” said Dirk. “I assume that you have met an elf before.”
Still, Orrian only stared.
“Not much of a talker, eh? Well then, let me introduce myself. I am Dirk Blackthorn, governor of Uthen-Arden.”
Orrian perked up, and a spark of recognition lit his eyes briefly.
“Ah, you have heard of me. Good,” said Dirk. “And I have heard of you, Orrian Dreck.”
“Have you come to arrest me?”
“Arrest you? Heavens no. I’ve come to offer you help.”
“Does it look like I need help?” said Orrian, glancing around at the bodies of the dead thieves.
Dirk Laughed. “No, indeed it does not. But I can offer you understanding. Surely your newfound powers—and I know that they are new—have been hard to get used to. My friend Krentz, here, can help you control them. She can help you to refine them.”
“They say that Dirk Blackthorn travels with a spirit wolf,” said Orrian, eyeing Dirk and Krentz in turn.
“Indeed, his name is Chief,” said Dirk.
“If you are Dirk Blackthorn, then where is Chief?”
Dirk smirked and produced the figurine from inside his robes. “Chief, come to me!”
Blue mist swirled out of the figurine, circled Dirk twice, and Chief suddenly appeared, standing beside him.
“Chief, this is my friend Orrian. Say hello.”
Chief barked and padded over to Orrian to sniff him. Orrian sheathed his blade and reverently stroked Chief’s head. When he again looked to Dirk, there was enchantment in his eyes.
“Why did you ask me if I have ever met an elf?”
“Because, it is from an elf that you have absorbed your power,” said Dirk.
“Absorbed?”
“Yes,” said Krentz. “This power of yours, it is the ancient blessing given to the humans. And there is only one other that we know of who has this power.”
“Who?” said Orrian, his eyes alight with hope.
“You know his name, for he is the greatest hero of our age.”
“Whill of Agora,” said Orrian in a reverent whisper.
“Yes,” said Krentz. “And just like him, you are meant to do great things.”
“We can show you how to control your power, how to strengthen it,” said Dirk.
“And what do you want in return?”
“It is simple. I want you on my side.”
Orrian considered Dirk’s words. “I answer to no one,” he said at length.
Dirk shook his head. “That is a dangerous statement coming from someone with the human powers of old.”
“You fear me, is that it?”
“No, I do not fear you. I fear for you. There are a lot of people who would try to use you and your power. They would seek to steer you wrong, to use you as a weapon.”
“You know nothing about me,” said Orrian.
“Then let me learn.”
Chapter 4
The Drekkon
Zerafin opened the old stone door with a mental push, and Azzeal crept through the opening with his torch held high. The chamber was vast, full of shadows, and smelled like dust long settled. Zerafin scanned the room with mind sight, and seeing no lifeforms larger than a beetle, he set a small crystal on the floor and spoke a soft word. Light exploded from the crystal, illuminating the vast library.
Azzeal took in a shocked breath, smiling teary-eyed at the rows of bookshelves stacked three stories high. Tall ladders, some still intact even after so many years, reached to the rim of the domed ceiling.
“The library of Urren’Dar survived,” said Azzeal breathlessly.
“Indeed,” said Zerafin as he touched one of the thick leather-bound tomes. “The spells of protection probably lasted until the second taking of power. The library has been exposed for less than a year.”
“When I was young,” said Azzeal, his eyes wet with joy, “back before we left Drindellia, I begged the council members for permission to browse these tomes. I feel…I feel as though I am breaking the rules a bit.”
Zerafin’s heart was warmed by how young and mischievous Azzeal seemed then, for the Ralliad was staring at him with wide-eyed delight. “I believe that you have earned the right to browse these tomes, my friend,” he said.
Zerafin scanned the massive library, trying to imagine the vast amount of ancient knowledge stored there. In an alcove set at the center of the southern wall, he found a collection of stone boxes. He walked toward the collection, and his hand shook as he reached for the closest.
“Azzeal, come and look at this.”
Azzeal hurried to him, sharing Zerafin’s look of enchantment.
“Speaking stones,” he whispered.
Slowly, Zerafin opened the stone box, which had the rune for water carved into it. Inside, sitting upon a bed of blue velvet, was a smooth, round aquamarine crystal.
“Water,” said Zerafin in the elven language, and the crystal began to hum and glow.
The voice of an unfamiliar elf began to speak. “Water magic and its many applications. As read by Durrek El’Kren…”
Zerafin waved a hand over the crystal, and the voice faded. He carefully returned the crystal ball to its velvet bed and closed the box. “The elders will be happy to know that these have survived.”
The knowledge contained within the crystals was well known by the elves, for it consisted of the teachings of Orna Catorna. Still, it was a priceless find. Zerafin and Azzeal spent hours looking through the library before reluctantly gathering their things to leave. They cast wards of protection over the many shelves of books, the speaking stones, and other enchanted items within. Each took with them a few select tomes that would add nicely to their own libraries. Azzeal, being a Ralliad and quite fond of books about plants and animals, selected a tome entitled The Flora and Fauna of Western Drindellia. Zerafin, being fond of history and family trees, took with him a tome that listed the members of the elder council going back five-thousand years, along with quotes and biographies from each.<
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When they left, they cast additional spells on the door as well as the surrounding area. The ancient city of Ellentii was in ruins, like most cities left behind for the dark elves and draggard to ravish, but cities could be rebuilt, and with any luck, the others would hold as many treasures.
They returned to their camp outside the decrepit city and reminisced on the old days, before the driving of the sun elves out of Drindellia, before the maelstrom that was unleashed by Eadon, before the loss of the homeland.
Being back in the homeland was still strange for Zerafin. The place had changed so much in five hundred years that he hardly recognized the once familiar land. The curves of the hills, mountain ranges, and valleys were all the same, but the forests had changed, the roads had grown over, and what was left of the cities was decrepit and crumbling. There were places where the dark elves had even changed the landscape. Zerafin and Azzeal had passed more than one dark tower on their way to the city. There had been draggard hives as well. The towers and hives were empty, they had made sure of that, but they still held ominous energy.
“Can you believe it?” said Azzeal as he watched the fire with heavy yet happy eyes. “After five hundred years in exile, here we are, a stone’s throw from Ellentii. I never thought I would see the day.”
“I always knew that we would return,” said Zerafin. “It was only a matter of time.”
“I envy you your faith. You always did believe the legend of Whill of Agora.”
“My faith was nothing compared to my sister’s.”
“Indeed,” said Azzeal with a laugh. “She had enough faith for all of us. It is nice to see them so happy together. And the children, they are beautiful.”
“Yes, but I wonder what their lives will be like…being half breeds.”
“I imagine that it will be what all of our lives are: what we make of it.”
“Right you are,” said Zerafin.
“How does Whill seem to you?” Azzeal asked a moment later, and his tone lost some of its cheerfulness.
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