CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Oakenheart
Tarren had watched in awe as Lunara planted an oak seed by moonlight. She had added water and sang to the heavens until sunrise. He had dozed for a moment when the first rays of the sun shone forth over the horizon, and the first beam fell upon the spot in which Lunara had planted her nocturnal seed.
Tarren staggered back as the seed within the earth sprouted forth and grew into an oak tree of full maturity before his eyes. Tarren had backed nearly twenty feet, but Lunara had stayed. As the sun rose and the tree grew, she straddled a branch that grew below her. She rode the branch almost fifteen feet, and when it had stopped, it looked as though she sat upon a horse, so thick was the branch and so large the tree. Lunara had stroked the tree and whispered to it. The tree groaned, and its leaves sang like the waves of the great oceans. Lunara kissed the tree and jumped from her branch. No sooner had she landed than the branch broke loose, clean from the tree, and landed at her feet.
With Tarren’s help, Lunara had carried the large branch to the base of the tree. The day was spent talking with the tree, or so Lunara had said. To Tarren, this magical business seemed very strange. Not to say that he did not believe in magic, he, like any other eleven-year-old boy, did believe. But where he had imagined quickly casted spells and rituals, he found elaborate ones.
Night came and once again, the moon found its place in the heavens. Lunara presented Tarren with a Dwarven hatchet.
“Cut from the branch a piece as long as yourself.”
Tarren took the small hatchet. He looked from the hatchet to the thick branch and guessed it would take him the better part of the night to complete the task. Lunara waited, and he did not complain. Instead, he began the tedious task of chopping at the wood with the small hatchet.
The wood was thick and strong, and Tarren quickly realized that it would take him longer than he had first anticipated, by far. He realized also that the hatchet was dull. He stopped and looked to Lunara once more, sweat having already begun to bead his forehead. She waited with a raised eyebrow. He did not complain.
Tarren steadily chopped at the branch long into the night, pausing only shortly to stretch his tired muscles and take a swig from his water flask. Lunara sat and talked with the tree as Tarren labored through the night and into the morning. It was not until the sun took to the midday sky that Tarren finally cut the branch in half. He collapsed where he stood and panted for long minutes. He drank from his flask eagerly and gingerly poured water over his blistered hands in turn. A hiss escaped him as the water stung his bloodied hands.
Tarren joined Lunara near the small fire and presented his hands. She looked at him with pity. “I am sorry, Tarren. But the oak says that if you are to receive his blessing in this, you must not be given help.”
Tarren gave the tree a look. Without breaking eye contact with the tree, he tore two pieces of cloth from his shirt and wrapped his hands. He drank and ate of his rations and soon fell asleep under the bows of the great oak.
Tarren woke during the night to find Lunara dancing around the cut tree branch, singing beautifully to the moon. He cringed as he flexed his blistered hands and got to his feet once more. He was sore everywhere, and blood had soaked through his bandages. He paid it no mind and took up the dull hatchet once again and began working on the end of the branch.
Hour after excruciating hour, Tarren hacked at the tree branch. Lunara watched in silence, but giggled now and again as she spoke with the tree. Tarren did not ask what was said; he did not care. He would show the tree that he was not weak, and he would finish the task.
Long into the morning he worked, and the closer he got to cutting through the branch, the more excited and energized he became. Seeing the end near with only an inch left, he hacked and chopped with all his might until, finally, his hatchet cut through the last of the branch and struck earth beneath. Tarren dropped the hatchet and shouted to the heavens in triumph. He then passed out and slept with a smile.
He awoke to a world once again bathed in moonlight. To his dismay, he found that his once-blistered hands were now raw and throbbing. He accepted a drink from Lunara and looked to the branch he had shaped. Lunara smiled widely as she watched him. “You have done well, young human. The oak is pleased with your inner fire.”
Tarren looked to the tree and nodded, not knowing how to respond to a compliment from a tree. He laughed to himself. “If Pa could see me now.”
Lunara then walked from the fire, and from her pack, she took a thick, sharp blade.
“Oh, but you get to use a sharp blade,” Tarren accused with an incredulous laugh.
Lunara smiled and nodded. “Indeed, I made the tree to grow, did I not? That was my test.”
She said no more and went to work carving out large chunks of the thick branch. Tarren changed his bandages and ate, and, seeing that she would be a long time as well, he slept. The afternoon came, and Tarren awoke to find Lunara still at work on the branch. But she had made good progress. The once-thick branch was now as thin as his wrists.
Tarren went to her and offered her a drink. She took it gratefully and drank her fill. The rest she dumped over her head and sighed with pleasure. She wiped her brow and went back to work, whittling the wood.
Tarren guessed that she would be done well after nightfall and decided to make a feast of their rations. First, he changed his bandages with much discomfort. The raw blisters had dried and begun to scab. Tarren cursed himself that he had used the wrong kind of cloth and had not applied any salve. But he had been stubborn and not used his head. He hissed and kicked a rock as he peeled one badly stuck bandage from his palm. From his pack he retrieved his healing kit and found the balm.
After bandaging himself with fresh cloth, he built up the fire to get some decent coals ready. Had they not been thousands of feet up upon the side of a mostly barren mountain, Tarren would have hunted something better than salted meat. But he made do with what they had, and by the time nightfall came and Lunara finally stood from her work, Tarren had prepared a small celebration feast of roasted boar and potatoes with carrots.
Tarren quickly forgot the food as Lunara turned from the branch and the boy saw the finished work. What had once been a huge oak branch had been turned into a beautifully carved and rune-covered staff. Four feet long and perfectly straight, the sides of it were as smooth as an egg, where the raised runes did not cover it.
Mesmerized, Tarren walked, with a hand outstretched, to the amazing creation before him. Lunara stopped him with a kind hand to his arm. “Let it sit. You had a wonderful idea with the food. Let us eat, and heal, and we will continue.”
Tarren did not argue, and with Lunara, he sat and ate. He tasted not his food and stared at the magnificent staff and imagined himself wielding it. Lunara finished her third helping of food and took a long pull from her water flask. Tarren burped and patted his belly, which elicited an exhausted laugh from Lunara. Together, they shared a long, silly laugh that could only occur with exhaustion, and Tarren realized that Lunara had not used any of powers on herself during the work.
Lunara took Tarren’s hands in hers and finally healed the blisters. He sighed as the throbbing pain subsided and his palms were made smooth again.
“Your sacrifice has been made. I am sorry I could not heal you sooner.
“That’s alright,” said Tarren as he eyed the staff eagerly. “Now what?”
Lunara smiled at his eagerness. “Now I have much more work to do. But first I rest. We shall continue tomorrow.”
Tarren gave a frustrated sigh and quickly caught himself from complaining. Lunara settled into her bedroll near the fire and sighed, content. She turned upon her side and rested her hand upon her jaw, regarding Tarren.
“What is it like, growing up as a human boy? You are the only one I have ever met. Are all boys like you?”
Tarren blushed as he threw two more pieces of wood on the fire and settled into his own bedroll. He mimicked Lunara’s pose and scrunched up h
is nose. “Being a boy is…I don’t know…like being a boy, I guess. It is all I have ever been; it is all I know.”
Lunara shook her head. “You don’t know if it is all that you have been. But what I meant was what is your life like?”
Tarren thought for a moment. “Well, my father had an inn, family run since the days of my great-grandfather. I worked there and did quite well for myself tending guests’ horses and bags and such. My sister worked the tavern, my nana the rooms. I was schooled in the basics at the Estar School of Learning for four years.”
“What did you learn?” Lunara interrupted.
“Well, we were taught to read, write, and to do numbers, the history of the lands, and basics in the language of the Dwarves. It is quite fun speech, really, very to the point.”
Lunara turned upon her back and gazed at the stars between partings in the clouds. “I find the language rough and hard to make sounds. It is like spitting all the time.”
Tarren giggled and then laughed, and his laughter echoed off of the mountainside, creating a chorus of childish glee. Lunara smiled widely and chuckled. Tarren strove to speak through his fits and finally spat out, “I know, right? Roakore never speaks softly. I can’t imagine him putting a babe to sleep.”
Tarren scrunched up his face and scowled, doing his best Roakore impression. “Sleep, li’ll baby. Don’t ye be crying; there be Draggard need be dyin’. Now shut yer eyes, eh!”
Lunara broke out into hysterical laughter as Tarren finished his song. His impression of Roakore was spot on, down to the last inflection. It was Tarren’s best voice mimic; albeit, he was a boy without the booming voice of the Dwarf king.
They chuckled for a long while and finally settled to gaze upon the sky. Lunara bade him continue. “What else did you learn?”
“Well, those things come first. After that, you continue on at other schools, if your family so deems it and if your funds make you able.”
“Funds?” Lunara asked.
“You know, money. If you aren’t a prodigy or rich, you aren’t going to go to the best schools.”
Lunara was dumbfounded. “You mean that only the privileged or geniuses have access to your greatest knowledge?”
Tarren thought about that. “I guess so. Why? Any Elf can learn anywhere, without paying?”
“We do not use money; we had never learned of it until coming here.”
Tarren scowled, trying to comprehend a world with no money. “Then what do you do for work? How do you…I don’t know…how do you pay for things?”
“Well, back home in Elladrindellia, we trade what we can’t make for things we can. We do favors and call upon favors as well. We help each other at times without want for favor, for in that way, one gains more favors unasked. Do you understand?”
Tarren did, and he smiled. “It sounds wonderful.”
Lunara hummed. “It is.”
No more was said that night as they both fell fast asleep beneath the great oak. They slept until the sun’s rays broke over the nearby mountaintops and bathed them in warmth that chased away the night’s chill. Breakfast was had, and camp was cleaned up in short order. Lunara settled next to the carved staff and from her bag began to extract many different-colored jewels.
“Come, Tarren. Before I add the stones, we need to bind the staff to you.” From her belt she withdrew her dagger. “This will hurt a bit,” she told Tarren and took his hand. With the blade, she cut a long gash in his palm. She retrieved the staff and held it before Tarren. “Squeeze your hand over the staff.”
Tarren complied, and blood dripped from his fist onto the runes of the staff. Not a drop spilled from the wood but rather was absorbed by the runes and carved leaf-and-vine pattern that adorned the staff from end to end. The runes and carvings glowed for a moment as the blood filled the crevasses and disappeared into the wood altogether. Lunara set the staff upon her lap and healed Tarren’s cut with a whisper and an outstretched hand.
“Gather the hatchet please,” the Elf asked, and Tarren complied.
From the top of the hatchet, Lunara removed a small red ruby and set it within the center of the staff. The wood molded itself around the jewel and held it firmly.
“The ruby atop the hatchet I enchanted to collect a bit of the kinetic energy of each of your many swings. It gathered much of the energy and stored it within. This gem holds the energy of your will also and will, from this day forth, store a bit of the kinetic energy that is produced by its movement.”
Lunara produced another gem from her bag, a diamond. This too she fastened to the staff in the same manner. “This diamond my grandmother enchanted to gather energy from the sun.”
Again she reached into her bag, and Tarren watched keenly, fascinated and growing more excited by the moment. This time she withdrew a round onyx orb the size of an apple and carefully placed it atop one end of the staff. The wood became fluid at Lunara’s command and reached out from the tip of the staff to form a wooden talon and grasp the orb tightly. The onyx orb glowed red at its center and became dark once more.
“The orb will gather the energy of the moon.”
From the bag Lunara gathered seven gems and set them among the swirling runes. Before she could tell him, Tarren asked excitedly, “What do those do?”
“These have been enchanted with protection spells. They will make your parries and your blocks stronger. It will also protect your body, within reason.”
Finally she extracted one last item from her bag, a long, straight blade of Dwarven steel. Tarren watched with awe as she sang to the staff, and it opened at its center. Within the staff she inserted the blade, and the wood molded closed around it. Lunara took the staff in her hands and raised it to the heavens.
She closed her eyes and chanted loud and fast. The runes upon the staff glowed brightly in the waning light as the sun set below the mountain peaks. The wind picked up as the light died and sent Lunara’s hair dancing wildly. Thick, dark clouds overtook the heavens and swirled above as Lunara continued her frantic chanting. Thunder boomed and lightning cut through the heavens, and Lunara held the staff high. Her chanting reached a crescendo, and more roaring thunder joined in the chorus. With a great exclamation, Lunara slammed the staff to the ground, and a blinding bolt of lightning tore through the sky and hit the onyx orb upon the top of the staff. The lightning hissed and crackled as it was absorbed by the staff. Lunara’s hair stood on end as the lightning buzzed and crackled.
In the blink of an eye, it was over. The thunder and lightning receded, and the clouds began to disperse. The silence that followed in the wake of the tumult was unsettling. Lunara turned to Tarren and offered him the staff. Wide-eyed, he took it.
“This staff I bestow upon you, young Tarren. Name it as you will.”
Tarren grasped the staff in wonder. He looked from it to the great oak from whence it had been given.
“I name you…Oakenheart.”
Lunara nodded. “Oakenheart will grow in power and strength as you grow in power and strength. It has been forged of your will and the power of nature.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Burning Love
Whill watched as Dirk Blackthorn disarmed and defeated yet another opponent. Dozens of men had fallen to his blades, yet not one of them had landed a single blow. Dirk was possibly one of the best fighters he had ever seen in action. Not only was he apparently knowledgeable of all forms of fighting and how to defend against them, but he also possessed the raw talent necessary to be such a devastating foe. He was quick as a cat but, at the same time, strong for his size. He could wield all weapons well, but with a thin blade and a dagger, he was lethal.
Whill had decided that he would take Dirk as one of his fighters, along with ten other men and the large barbarian woman. They would be his army; they would be his warriors. The crowd will get a show.
If he was to die, then he would do so in a blaze of glory that no one present would soon forget. He would kill all that came before him, Draggard, Dark Elf, m
an; it did not matter. He would leave a legend so great that not even Eadon would be able to silence it. He would show these puppets exactly what revolution looked like.
He asked a guard to line up the potential fighters and walked down the line. As he passed Dirk, the man gave him a smirk. Whill stopped before him. “I hear you were arrested in the square for inciting a riot in my name.”
Dirk nodded. “This is true.”
“Why?” asked Whill.
“Because of what you stand for.”
Whill let out a small laugh. “What do I stand for?”
“Revolution!” Dirk quickly answered. He eyed the guard and moved closer so that only Whill could hear. “We have a common enemy, Dark Elves.”
Whill nodded. “I will take this man.”
He continued down the line and chose the rest of his fighters, including Aurora Snowfell. The remaining fighters were escorted out of the practice area, and Whill was left with his twelve warriors.
“You have all been sentenced to death. Yet you fight with passion and purpose. This is why you have been chosen. Though we will be outnumbered by tides of opponents, I expect that you will fight bitterly to the end. We are all doomed to die, but I would rather die with honor. Together, we will show the people of Uthen-Arden the meaning of honor.”
He walked the line back and forth as he spoke, measuring each man. “Will you fight with me?”
“Yes!” came the answer.
“Will you bleed with me?”
“Yes!” They answered louder this time.
“Will you die with me?”
“Yes!”
Whill stopped in his pacing and outstretched his arms. “Then let us prepare to die.”
Roakore and Jarred made their way slowly backward to stand side by side near the alter of the church. The dozen Draggard advanced slowly, some down the aisle on their feet; others crawled over the pews like lizards. Roakore gave the signal, and the dragons’ breath was ignited in the basement, and all hell broke loose.
Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings Page 13