The words settled on Kyrn’s mind like a heavy stone. All of them. The names of long forgotten kings, long forgotten wizards. Warriors and magics that’d became no more than bedraggled camp fire stories, none of them close to accuracy. He felt the pull of the Dark Ones. More than once, now, they’d entered his dreams, stolen his true sight, silenced his peace of mind.
He found his hand upon the necklace beneath his neck, no longer able to resist the urge. He closed his eyes, feeling the cold winds of Grimmrich nipping at his neck, rustling his hair as he led Elrich through the woods. He thought of the scowls of Cecelia and Abellia when they’d returned from the adventures forged with their own genuine cleverness. Innocence. He yearned for it. Those times have long since passed, he reminded himself.
“May we see it?” King Glahlan asked sincerely.
“What?” Kyrn asked, returning to the room he sat in. “Oh, yes. Of course.” Slowly, he tugged the amulet from beneath his shirt, holding the scarab beetle in his hand. He ran his clean fingers over the beautiful etchings; the pincers carved elegantly into the stone, the wings that held such significant details that he’d not seen in the dull light of the lands east of Grimmrich.
His hand numbed slightly as the wings wiggled beneath his fingers. When he moved them, they extended, and flapped with a furiousness that shook his hand. Kyrn looked up at King Glahlan and Magmi the Great, eyes wide with bewilderment. “She searches for me,” he said, nearly shouting. “For my safety.”
The old wizard’s face didn’t hold the same excitement that Kyrn’s did.
Looking at the old man, Kyrn could see a sense of dread wash over his recessed features. “Why has this come to me?” Kyrn asked. “To Abellia?”
“As King Glahlan has said,” the old wizard began, “all but the stone were retrieved after the old king was felled. We scattered them at first, thinking the Five Fingers of the Dark Hand would return to finish what they had started. Though, years passed and their Darkness subsided. We studied them.” He lowered his head. “There were more wizards then than there are now, I fear. We could find no more use for them, not without the Stone of Ezroch. So, we left them with Northal, locked away in his study. Hidden with the race of man.”
“Surely the Dark Ones wouldn’t think the elves would trust their heirlooms with men,” Kyrn wondered.
“Precisely.”
Kyrn found himself ever more curious. “You said all the pieces were retrieved.”
“All that could be found,” Magmi agreed.
“Then,” Kyrn said as he looked at the king nervously, “what of the king’s glaive? Why had it remained in the Crystal Caverns?”
Magmi chuckled, but Kyrn could see that King Glahlan didn’t share the same excitement.
“That is the very spot the old king fell, creating the new Castreeth,” King Glahlan answered. “Many have tried removing the king’s glaive.” He looked at Magmi. “Including myself.” He stood and walked to the near wall, removing a book from his shelf. As he opened it, he removed an old and stained piece of parchment, carefully. “This was found in King Mayhlan’s chambers, after the war.” He began to read:
May the race of elves face no burden great as the Dark Wars.
May the race of elves resist from temptations of men and dwarves.
Until my last breath, I protect the elves of Castreeth.
Strengthen them within the forests of beauty.
Until their return, live, love, and grow.
Know that it is inevitable, the Five Fingers will show.
Only my heir will be my weapon, send them back to their tombs of black.
By the Old King and the New, may the forest of Castrolyl be born anew.
Kyrn repeated the lines over and over again in his head. He watched King Glahlan retake his seat. “Only my heir will be my weapon,” Kyrn said.
King Glahlan stared at Kyrn blankly.
“Then why were you not able to remove the king’s glaive?” young Kyrn asked.
King Glahlan glanced now at Magmi. He saw the wizard nod his head slowly, as if they were communicating through body language alone.
“I was not,” King Glahlan began, “the true bloodline of the old king. My father was King Mayhlan’s brother, but that does not seem to be what the old king had in mind when his glaive was bound within the crystal.”
Kyrn pondered over the old king’s meaning. Then, with a spark of his messy mind, his eyes shot back to the king before him. “That means?” was all he asked.
Magmi laughed again, this time more heartily than he’d done before. “You are an elf, my young Kyrn.”
Kyrn looked back and forth between the stares of the old wizard and the new king of Castrolyl.
King Glahlan was the first to break the silence. He said, “Half of an elf, to be exact.”
“That matters not,” Magmi grumbled, hearing the jealousy rising in his king’s voice. “Kyrn has lifted the old king’s key, bringing us one step closer to the fall of the enemy before us.”
Kyrn felt his face flush, his eyelids grew heavy. He slouched into his sofa. This way and that, his mind bounced between all that he’d heard.
Magmi the Great rose slowly from his seat, using his cane to lift him as his knees creaked and moaned. “That is quite enough for such a young boy at one time. We must continue after supper. I’ve found myself quite hungry.”
The old wizard helped Kyrn to his feet and led him from the room.
Kyrn glanced over his shoulder. King Glahlan still sat within his chair, staring at Kyrn as he left the room.
Chapter Twenty
Monsters in the Walls
The council chambers were silent, other than the sporadic howls of wind rushing through the mountain’s halls. As Raeli, Iafi, and the council members entered the Room of Hammers, a massive round stone table sat within the center of the room, unoccupied and lonesome. The council members stood at the chairs, waiting for their lord to seat himself at the head of the table, and Iafi took his place beside the lord.
“Iafi,” Lord Nulgal started, “we’ve been nearly kin for too long now. Too many years and battles beneath our belts to ever be mad at ye.” He slouched into his seat, wishing he were still seated at his throne, watching the battles ensue. He could hear the chants and shouts echo through the cavernous mountain, and a raging jealousy boiled in his stomach.
Iafi laughed. “Aye. Ye were there on the day of me birth. And I couldn’t ask for more out of ye.”
“But…”
“But I come on behalf of the King of Grimmrich.”
Raeli scoffed. “The old king Ulrich needin’ assistance from us troublesome dwarves.”
“The king needn’t fear ye. In fact, the king has more respect for the dwarves than any I’ve known outside of these mountains.”
“And where was yer king when we were forced from our home in the south?”
Iafi’s eyes bounced back and forth between Atli and Nibli. “Well, me lord. He wasn’t born yet.”
Again, Raeli scoffed, like what Iafi had said meant nothing. The dwarves had been chased from the Galothain Mountains, now forbidden to the name Black Rock, centuries ago, when Raeli was but a boy. Long before the Great War, vicious demons and beasts alike rose from the depths and banished the dwarves that had made peace within the mountains.
“There be dark times ahead,” Iafi continued, hoping the lord would understand through his sulking.
The lord of the mountain rose from the table; unable to keep still, he paced the room. “We live deep within the mountains, Iafi,” he said. “All times are dark to us dwarves.”
Iafi sighed and reached beneath the table, pulling up an over-sized bag he brought on his journey. From inside, he struggled to remove his axe, the same he’d removed from the wall inside the council chambers of Grimmrich. With a quick flick of his wrist, the axe clanked upon the large stone table and skidded to a halt, the flame surrounding it faltering as it was released from his dwarven grasp.
Lord Raeli stopped mid-p
ace, eyeing the marvelous weapon. “Flame-Weaver,” he whispered. His fat fingers danced across the handle of the weapon. Tiny bursts of sparks shot from the blade as he did so. When he let his fingers wrap around the hilt, the blade lit anew, and he waved it slowly before his face, just as Iafi had done days before, admiring the beauteous weapon.
“Yer grandfather gave me that axe when I left for Grimmrich,” Iafi said.
“Don’t talk about our history like I don’t know meself,” Raeli spat. He surely wasn’t angry with his dwarven friend, though, he didn’t need to be patronized. “After the Great War, ye swore ye’d never use it again until…”
“The Dark Times returned,” Iafi finished for him.
“Are you certain?”
“King Ulrich saw them himself, in the land of Stalholm.”
Raeli jeered at the thought. The word of Man.
“I saw the necromancer with me own two eyes!” Iafi shouted, nearly jabbing his own eyes with two fingers. He rested his palms atop the table, caressing the smooth stone. How he missed the mountains! One day, perhaps he could return. Though, the times that lay ahead proved otherwise. He had a loyalty to the King of Grimmrich and his family, especially to Kyrn. The boy had ventured off with the guidance of Aldir with hardly any questioning. A dwarf Iafi’s age should not question anymore. Iafi understood the Darkness buried within the lands of Einroth, and surely Lord Raeli must as well.
All was silent in the room. Atli and Nibli looked terrified, unable to believe the news Iafi had delivered. Raeli must have felt the same, though, on the outside, all of his attention was in marvel, seeing the Flame-Weaver yet again. The cheers and shouts fled like ghosts from the pit, roaming freely through the halls of the Irnost Mountains and into the council chambers. They were louder now, a higher pitch. And Iafi realized that no longer were they cheers and applause. But they were shouts; cries of terror.
Chapter Twenty-One
May the Forest of Castrolyl Be Born Anew
Kyrn sat silently at a large, oval dinner table. To his right sat the dusky-haired elven guard, who’d formally introduced himself as Hairen. To Kyrn’s left sat the blond-haired elf, who called himself Brailen. Beside Brailen sat Magmi the Great. And, seating himself moments later, King Glahlan sat across from Kyrn, some ways down the table.
The table was lined with a feast that made Kyrn’s breakfast seem but an early morning snack. More sautéed foods: mushrooms, vegetables, colorful fruits of the sort he’d never seen in Grimmrich. There were steaming, buttered rolls, and assortments of toasts and breads. Multiple platters circled the table, overflowing with sliced meats, light and dark. Their plates had already been piled high before they’d taken their seats. The regale set before him was only to be used as seconds, thirds, as much as his small stomach could handle.
Magmi was the first to dig in. He stuffed his mouth with meats and bread simultaneously, not bothering to use the utensils before him.
Kyrn slowly picked at his food, though he still felt starved from his previous days of travel. He held in his laughter while he watched Magmi lose pieces of a roll in his lavish beard.
The old wizard shot him a quick wink, and gestured to Kyrn’s plate. “You must be famished, Master Kyrn,” he said. “Dig in.”
Kyrn looked across the table at King Glahlan. The new king of Castreeth carefully sliced his food with his utensils, watching Kyrn as they ate. Kyrn stuffed the remainder of a roll into his mouth. “May I ask a question?” Kyrn grumbled.
“We will speak of what is to come soon, Kyrn,” the king responded. “Let us not spoil our meal with dark talks. Not with Brailen and Hairen at our sides. They bear a great deal in Castreeth as is. They needn’t have more burdens.”
Brailen set his utensils down beside his platter. “It’s no burden, my king,” he said with a slight nod of his head. “Master Kyrn must have a full mind.”
Kyrn smiled in agreement. “It’s not of that,” he continued, “but of Syonne. The elleinor who saved me. What will happen to her?” he asked.
At this, the king, too, ceased his eating. “The elleinor has done a great service to Castreeth,” he said, “bringing you here. It seems that fate truly exists. Your stars have been aligned almost perfectly since you set out from your home.” He broke his stare from Kyrn and continued his methodical eating. “The elleinor has broken her sacred vows, however, being captured by the dwarves outside of the forests. It puts everything we have at risk, our new Castrolyl.”
Kyrn set his food upon his plate and slid it slightly away from him. He missed the indiscreet company of Syonne, her smile. The thought of her being subjected to a punishment by the elves stole his appetite.
“She will face her hearing,” King Glahlan continued. “It would honor us if you were to attend, Master Kyrn, great-grandson of the old King Mayhlan.
***
King Glahlan’s study held an entirely different atmosphere when Kyrn found himself again seated with the king and Magmi the Great. The lights had been dimmed, a few of the candles flickering with their purple hue waved in the room. He’d grown certain that the purple colors of Castrolyl were Magmi’s doing, such as the vibrant flames Northal had created for the king’s return from his journeys to Stalholm.
When the three of them were seated, Magmi removed a book from beneath his cloak and handed it to Kyrn.
“What is this?” Kyrn asked, as he took the dusty book in his hands. He studied it for a moment. On the cover, the bane of Ezroch was stitched into the faded brown leather. When he opened the book, it seemed to fall forcefully to a page that had a roughly-sketched drawing of the symbol he’d seen so many times before.
“I call it the Book of Ezroch,” Magmi said. His smile glowed as he spoke, and his eyes glinted with a sense of pride. “I wrote it myself,” he whispered. “Inside you will find answers to most of your questions. Your family’s blood lines and, not least, what we know of the stone.”
The king waited until Kyrn closed the book and placed it softly at his feet. Then he asked, “What do you know of the western lands?”
Kyrn thought to himself for a moment, recalling his younger learnings. He remembered the maps he’d studied with the elder Northal, none of which were of the lands over the Grey Sea, to the west of Grimmrich. “Not much at all,” he finally answered. “They’re said to be barbaric lands. Disarray, lawless.” He found his eyes were closed, and he thought of sitting in the gardens with Elrich as their mother gave them their daily lessons. At the time, they wanted nothing more than to be running through the snow-filled woods.
“Another grave example of the forgetfulness of men,” King Glahlan scoffed. “The lands to the west have been seldom traveled since the Dark War.”
Kyrn’s stomach sank. He could see the king’s request in his silvery eyes. “You can’t expect me to,” he argued.
“But you must,” the king hissed, though he meant no ill-will to the young man.
“You have an army,” Kyrn continued. “Elves that fight for you, for your lands.”
“We have stayed far away from the trifles of men,” King Glahlan agreed. “For the Great War and all that has come before and after. Though, the return of the Five Fingers must not be ignored.” His eyes blinked rapidly, and he forced himself to continue. “You wield the bane of Ezroch. None before have done so since the fall of the old King Mayhlan.”
“I didn’t ask for it,” again Kyrn argued.
“None of us do.” The king smiled. “The elves would like nothing more than to remain here, in the new Castrolyl, away from these dark times. Though, I fear that doing so would not only destroy the Einroth that you have come to know and love; the elves, themselves, would fall to the Dark Lords as well.”
“How could I even reach the western lands?” Kyrn conceded.
Magmi the Great let out a subtle gasp before composing himself. “You are strong for such a young boy.” He looked at his king, though the king of the forest stared intently at Kyrn. “Worry not about your travel just yet. I will
prepare the journey that lays ahead, as my son has done before.” He leaned in from his seat, closer to Kyrn. “We are all faced with burdens we do not ask for,” he whispered. “It is how we carry them that defines who we are.”
***
Long into the waning hours of the night they sat and talked. They laughed and cried. Kyrn learned more than he wanted about the Dark Wars, how the old king gave his life to create the new Castreeth. He learned of the secrets kept through so many families, including his own. His own father, Ulzrich Fellenor, son of Heinrich Fellenor, king of Grimmrich, knew of his part-elven heritage. In fact, as Kyrn learned, Ulzrich had unwillingly married a half-elf, Kyrn’s own mother. Though Ulzrich had grown to love her dearly, he fought against their marriage, determined to rise against the elves that abandoned the races of Einroth during the Great War.
It was the council of the great wizards, when Magmi was much younger and had more allies at his disposal, that the successors of the fallen king Mayhlan Ezroch were spread across the lands of Einroth. Though his mother hadn’t known of her ancestry, she and her husband were well aware of her elven heritage. And, as much so, aware that it was to be kept hidden.
Kyrn learned of the amulet that hung around his neck. A piece of the fallen king’s puzzle. It was with both pieces of the amulet that the king had summoned the power of the Stone of Ezroch, hiding Castreeth from the realms of Einroth.
“You must not let them near one another,” King Glahlan said of the two amulets. “With them, great power is drawn. Surely, as you sit here within the new Castreeth, you can see the true magnificence of their power. Though, the Dark Lords seek them, seek the stone. If the pieces of the fallen king’s amulet are together, it would be all too easy for the Five Fingers to grasp.”
“That’s why Abellia was sent away,” Kyrn said to himself.
“Surely,” Magmi said. “But she is not hidden well enough, nor can she ever be. Our only hope is for you to find the Stone of Ezroch before the Five Fingers of the Black Order.”
A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1) Page 15