These feelings and many more plagued Roakore’s mind, but the most disturbing of all was the distant, nagging suggestion that the albinos were actually dwarves who, either by time or Eadon’s dark magic, had been turned into the pale, hairless mind-benders.
But that be nonsense! He reminded himself of this often, still, the thought nagged at him…
Roakore couldn’t stand the way his people sulked about, but he had no words in him that might lift their spirits. He felt ashamed, and he knew that they felt the same. Arrianna’s words were pretty, and they were true, but it was also true that Roakore had failed.
Just like me father, gods bless him. If I cannot take back the mountain, me soul will haunt its halls forever…
“What’s wrong, Roakore?” Arrianna asked. “Come down here and eat with me. Ye can’t be sittin’ on that blasted bird all day.”
Roakore shook his head, snapping back to reality. “Eh? Food? I ain’t hungry. I’m goin’ to scout ahead.” He was about to snap the reins, when his wife grabbed ahold of his boot.
“Now wait just a damned minute. Get down here and talk to me. Why ye always flyin’ off to sulk? Talk to me. Tell me what be plaguin’ yer heart.”
“Bah, ye be knowin’ what be on me min—”
“There be somethin’ else. What it be?” his wife demanded, refusing to let go of his big boot.
“Fine. Blast ye, fine,” he said, dismounting. He paced back and forth.
Arrianna waited, and while he paced, she uncorked a special bottle of twenty-five-year whiskey and poured two small glasses. Roakore sat beside her, his shoulders drooping, and he let out a long sigh.
“Arri…ye know what be happenin’ to a dwarf king who loses a mountain.”
She suddenly straightened, and her eyes widened as realization struck.
“Aye,” he said, nodding. “They be unable to enter the Mountain o’ the Gods.”
“But, Roakore…ye done so much in the name o’ the gods. Ye done more than any dwarf before ye. Surely the gods will have mercy.”
“I ain’t wantin’ their mercy. And I ain’t so prideful as to think I be deservin’ it.”
“Well, that just be stupid talk. If any dwarf be deservin’ it, then it be ye.”
“Blast it, Arri, just listen for once!”
She bowed her head solemnly, and Roakore gave a sigh.
“Bah, but I be sorry.”
“We be gettin’ the mountain back. Ye hear me, Roakore? Ye be the most powerful dwarf king that ever lived, and ye ain’t going to die afore ye be takin’ back the mountain.”
Roakore had never been afraid of death, for he always knew that he would be welcomed in the Mountain of the Gods. But now he was in limbo. Now, if anything happened to him, his soul would be doomed to eternal solitude.
For the first time in his life, Roakore was afraid to die.
Chapter 16
News from the East
“There has been an attack on the human settlement in Drindellia,” said Larson Donarron.
Dirk had been pouring himself and the Magister of Secrets a drink, but now he paused, intrigued. “By whom?”
“A kind of draggard. They call themselves the drekkon.”
Dirk finished his pour and turned from the bar. “And what is different about these draggard?”
“They can perform magic, for one.”
Dirk nearly choked on his whiskey. “Magic-wielding draggard?”
“They are much more intelligent it seems. Much more elf-like than draggard in that regard.”
“And what happened?” said Dirk. But then he laughed. “Let me guess. The great Whill of Agora saved the day.”
“Yes.” Larson sipped his drink, considering it and savoring the smooth—and highly expensive—reserve stock. “Whillhelm killed their king and sent them back to the north.”
“How did he do it?”
“Sir?”
“How did Whill kill the drekkon king?”
“He reportedly made the king age until he was dead, sir.”
Dirk laughed to himself. “How dramatic. Sounds like our angsty friend alright.”
“Yes, quite. But it seemed to have gotten their attention. For the army retreated.”
Dirk wished that he had been there. He hadn’t seen much action as of late, aside from the attack on Lord Gelding’s castle. Being the governor of Uthen-Arden was rewarding in some ways, but the wheels of bureaucracy turned slowly. Dirk missed the open road, the danger…the freedom.
Across the sea, Drindellia and all its mysteries awaited. And now there were new draggard to kill—and magic-users at that! Dirk wondered what other marvels the land held, and he began to second-guess his decision to run for office. In Drindellia, he and Krentz wouldn’t have to sneak around. They could be open about their relationship, have children…
“I should reach out to Shepard Smith,” said Dirk. “Offer my support.”
“I agree, though I do not know what we could offer them that they do not already have. After all, they have Whill, and his power and abilities seem to be endless.”
“People need more than magic,” said Dirk. “The leader of Rhuniston cannot count on Whill and the elves alone. If he is going to remain the leader, then he is going to have to show the people that he is his own man. Whill still has the hearts of the people, it is true, but he does not have their trust.”
“Doesn’t he, sir?”
“No. Whill is a stranger to the common folk. By many, he is seen as a usurper, you said it yourself. And he has powers that people don’t understand. People don’t trust what they don’t understand.”
“Following this logic, what is it that you intend to offer the leader of Rhuniston? How can he show the people that he is ‘his own man,’ as you say?”
“I will give them their independence,” said Dirk.
The Magister of Secrets looked surprised. “Is that wise?”
“Uthen-Arden is big enough. Besides, they will vie for independence sooner or later. By giving it to them now, we gain a powerful ally and save Uthen-Arden a future war. Trade between our two nations will ensure prosperity long after the rest of us are dead and gone.”
Larson raised his glass to Dirk. “Those who plan for the long term tend to be the most successful. I applaud your foresight.”
“What other news have you plucked from the whispering wind?” said Dirk. “What are the lords saying about the Gelding Estate fire?”
“They know that it was you. But they also know that Gelding struck first. They are very interested in the young man that you had with you. It seems as though someone saw him and lived to tell about it.”
“What do they know?”
“They know that he wielded magic, but, they believe that he is an elf.”
Dirk was relieved to hear it. He wanted to keep Orrian and his abilities a secret as long as possible, but the impetuous young man was making it increasingly hard to do so. He had proven his lack of control when he nearly burned the castle to the ground.
“Sir, if I might ask…”
“Speak your mind.”
“How exactly do you intend to control Orrian? If he has the same power as Whillhelm, then surely he is more powerful than Krentz, for he has both the elf and dwarf abilities as well.”
Dirk didn’t know if Orrian could hear him, but to be safe, he didn’t say what was on his mind—that he would kill him if need be. “Orrian is powerful, this is true, but he has much to learn. For his sake, I hope that he can learn to trust Krentz and me. I see great potential in the young man. With our guidance, I believe that he will grow to become a great man. Without it, I fear that he will fall prey to those who wish to exploit his abilities. Others might wish to control him, but I do not.”
Larson Donarron nodded understanding, for he had played the game of secrets all his life, and he knew a ruse when he saw one. “What shall I whisper back into the wind? No one suspects what Orrian really is, and I assume that you want to keep it that way.”
; “Yes. We don’t need the people thinking that Orrian is a murderer. When he becomes known to the world, it shall be through deeds of heroism, not the assassination of lords.”
***
Orrian tried hard to focus on the rest of the conversation, but the background noise became too much. He was at the end of the east wing, but with his enhanced hearing, he was able to spy on Dirk and Larson’s conversation in the study. What he was not able to do was tune out the other noises that became enhanced as well. The scratch of a quill on paper, the simple turning of a page in the library, boiling water in the kitchens below, or the slamming of cupboards and the washing of pots; even the application of a woman’s powder thumped loudly in his ears. But he focused his attention as well as he could and made out most of the conversation.
He wondered about the magic-wielding drekkon and Whill. Larson had said that Whill killed the drekkon king by making him grow old, and Orrian shivered to think of wielding such power. He wanted to meet Whill of Agora, but not yet. First, he needed to learn as much as he could from Dirk and Krentz. Now that they had seen his true power, they would begin to speed his training in hopes to better control him. Orrian was no fool. He had heard the ruse in Dirk’s voice, even with the background noise. He knew that Dirk sought to control him, for Orrian was the first since Whill to exhibit the human powers of old. Orrian would be needed to train the new generation, assuming more were found. Once he had learned all that he could from Dirk and Krentz, he would seek out Whill on his own, and he would gain his god-like powers. Then they would be equals.
But for now, Orrian needed Dirk and Krentz.
He had been excited by the information that there was a new breed of draggard in Drindellia, and he wondered what other new and exotic creatures there were in the strange new land. There would be many dangers, he knew, and Whill would not be able to keep the people safe—he had already proven that. Agora had been ravaged by the dark elves and the draggard. Then had come the necromancers and barbarians of the north. Whill had won in the end, but hundreds of thousands had died, entire kingdoms had fallen.
No, Whill could not keep the people safe. The young king was afraid to use his power. He was afraid of what he would become. Orrian, however, was not afraid. He would become whatever the people needed. He would become the shield that stood between humanity and the creatures of shadow. For too long humans had cowered before the power of the other races. But not anymore. Orrian would see to it that humans finally got the respect that they deserved.
The thought of fighting the drekkon made him want to board a boat and sail to Drindellia immediately, but he knew he must not be hasty. Wars were not fought overnight, and even if this one was resolved quickly, there would be others.
Chapter 17
The Disease of Vengeance
Lyrian Vosk was an elf of simple pleasures. He could make the act of enjoying a cup of tea seem sublime, and the way he marveled at the most trivial of sights—a snail slowly inching its way up a rock, the reflection of a still pond, even the tedious growing of the grass—made Whill envy his apparent innocence and his capacity for joy. But, Whill was learning, the elf had known loss, for his was a tragic tale indeed.
Whill had come to Lyrian to put his worried mind at ease, and he had imagined they would sit and meditate as they often did, or else Lyrian would give him a task—like the rose they had studied together. But Whill got none of that. For as soon as he arrived, Lyrian began telling him his life story, though Whill had not asked.
“After the dark elf murdered my parents, I was fifteen, mind you, I joined a small band of resistance fighters who lived in the hills north of our lost city. I remained with them until my twenties. I learned a lot from them, including how to die with honor. We were found out and attacked, and once again, I was the only survivor. The defeat drove me west, like most elves, to answer the call of the king, who had gained some momentum in the war against Eadon, and was taking back much of the western coast.
“I was skilled in magic and began studying under various masters. I was a natural, they said, a ‘Ventarvian.’ And over the next twenty years, I began to master the ways of the gnenja. I excelled in battle, for with every killing blow, I saw the faces of my parents’ murderers. But my appetite for violence and death only grew. I had a family, three children, and for a time they filled my heart with love, helping to fill the darkness lurking inside, waiting…
“They were killed the day the king fell…”
“I’m sorry, Lyrian,” said Whill.
Lyrian, surprisingly, smiled.
“Don’t be, for I am not telling you my story, just a story. These things did not happen to me, they simply happened.”
“But, your parents, your family…What of their memory?”
“What of it?” said Lyrian with that same placid grin. “Does it honor their memory more if I hold on to the pain, the anger, the rage, the sorrow? Why should they live through me in such a way? To remember them with anything but love…that is what dishonors them. How selfish would I be if I made their deaths about me? For it is not I who died.
“No,” he said on second thought. “I suppose I did die. For I believe that we die many times in our lifetime. But I digress. After the death of my family and the king, we were forced to flee Drindellia. That was a dark time for our people, and it was no less dark for me. I fell into a deep depression. My family was gone, my king was dead, my land was lost. There were no enemies to take my frustrations out on.”
Lyrian paused to watch a whooping crane on the other side of the pond take flight. The majestic bird spread its wings and glided across the water, flying directly over Whill and Lyrian.
The elf’s smile widened.
“I tried to kill myself.”
Whill glanced over at the placid elf, who had his eyes closed and his head tilted to the sun.
“The Watcher saved me, came into the water after me and pulled me up. ‘I apologize for having disrupted your plans,’ he said to me as I lay on the deck of the ship, vomiting seawater. ‘But I saw you jump overboard and was driven by principle to help. You can try again if you like, but please, wait until I have gone below deck.’”
Lyrian laughed. “Then the Watcher smiled at me and turned around to leave. But he stopped, glancing back at me quizzically, and said, ‘If you change your mind, I have an excellent mint tea that I was about to enjoy. Please, feel free to join me. That is, if you decide not to kill yourself.’”
Whill chuckled. “Sounds like the Watcher. So, let me guess. You went and had tea.”
Lyrian nodded. “Yes, but not before sitting there for a good ten minutes soaked and sick and fully confused. I had met Morenka before, and had always dismissed their teachings. I was a warrior, after all, and what did I need with a bunch of peace and enlightenment nonsense? But I was a warrior with no one to fight, no one but myself. I still wanted to die; I wanted to end the pain, the anguish. But the Watcher had made me curious. Here he was, just like all the rest of us, homeless, beaten, bloody, and on a boat leading to an unknown land. Yet, he smiled pleasantly. He offered me to tea! Can you imagine my anger? Here I had been, trying to kill myself, and I get saved by a smiling Morenka who invites me to tea! Well, I was furious. I had been looking for someone to take out my frustrations on, and now I had someone.
“I sought out the Watcher and confronted him in his quarters. I even drew my sword on him!” Lyrian chuckled at the memory, and Whill could just imagine the exchange.
“Needless to say,” Lyrian went on, “the Watcher disarmed me easily, all without dropping his teacup. He handed me back my weapon and offered me a glass. I was left in disbelief, and you can imagine, feeling quite foolish.
“We became fast friends after that. The Watcher helped me through some tough times. He helped me to overcome my demons, taught me how to differentiate the thoughts and feelings of my clever ego from my own. He taught me that we are not our bodies, or our pain, or our memories; we are not even our name. The pains of the past need not l
ive immortal in our minds and hearts. The pains of the past do not have to be the prejudices of the present, nor the cause of the future. In the same way, the imagined joy and pleasure of the promised future need not be that which we feel today, for there is no future, there is no past, and there is no present. There is only movement. The linear mind must apply its laws to all things, yet the reality of all things will not bend to the will of the linear mind, and so it creates resistance. Our unacceptance of what was, what is, and what will be leads to pain, yet it can also lead to innovation.”
Lyrian glanced at Whill, looking to have come out of a trance. He smiled. “I seem to be rambling. I mean to say that the Watcher helped me, and I believe that he helped you. Perhaps together we can honor him by helping each other.”
“But what help can I give you?”
“You forget, perhaps, that I believe that everything is connected. In a way, everything is one. So, by helping yourself, you are helping me as well.”
“Couldn’t that be said for a murderer?” said Whill out of his need to always be testing the Morenka. “By killing others, he satisfies his own need, he helps himself. Is he then also helping those he has killed? Is he helping the rest of us?”
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