“What would you have me do?” she asked with a growl.
“You were all brought together for what Reshikk called the great migration, were you not?”
“Yes…”
“Then lead them to a land free of humans, dwarves, and elves. Lead them to Drindellia. It is a land thrice the size of Agora, or so they say. Surely Drakkar is too small to support so many. Soon they will be forced to move to the mainland in search of food.”
“The ocean can sustain us.”
“Can it sustain the vengeful heart of a leader? One blessed by his god with lightning?”
Zalenlia looked up to the golds once more, and Whill wondered if she were mentally conversing with them.
“It will not be easy to convince them to go,” she said finally.
“I have faith in you, Zalenlia. The dragons will follow you. You will see.”
Chapter 9
The Wolf
Dirk and Krentz flew above the Uthen-Arden army as they made their way toward Brinn. After two months of hunting down the last remnants of the undead army, they were finally finished, and would now return to Del’Oradon as heroes.
Shierdon had fallen, its royal family had been wiped out, and those citizens who survived had fled to Uthen-Arden or Eldalon. While it was a tragedy, it was also an opportunity for Dirk Blackthorn. Not only had he secured the north, but he had also committed a large number of soldiers to cleaning out every ruined city, town, and village along the way. Now dozens of wagons lumbered south, heavy with weapons, jewelry, gold, silver, and other heirlooms that had been left behind. Dirk figured that rather than leaving it to the barbarians, he might as well put it to good use.
He had procured the riches in the name of King Whillhelm Warcrown, but as always, Dirk had taken his cut. The Uthen-Arden treasury was depleted, and rumor said that the kingdom would be in debt to the Ro’Sar dwarves for generations. The funds would help the kingdom, but they would also help Dirk, who had been maneuvering to run for governor and replace Whill as the leader under the new government.
Dirk had remained anonymous so far, sending money to the guild leaders of Uthen-Arden to gain their support. He never gave his true identity, but sent the funds under the name of The Wolf. So far, The Wolf had sent millions to the guild leaders in a very public display. He had also sent money to the many orphanages and sick houses, as well as the churches and schoolhouses, always with the same message, “The Wolf is looking out for you.”
As the sun began to set, Dirk steered Fyrfrost to a field a few miles south of Brinn, which had been utterly destroyed by Zander and his minions. A pile of bones littered the ground for half a mile south of the city, where the final battle had been fought and Zander finally defeated.
He and Krentz dismounted, and Dirk dismissed Fyrfrost to the spirit world to rest. One of his officers rode up to them then and offered Dirk a quick salute.
“Shall we make camp, sir?”
“Yes, and break out a few barrels of ale. We have just crossed the border. Let us celebrate.”
“Yes, sir,” said the officer with a smart salute.
A few minutes later, a cheer went up as the order was relayed to the soldiers.
“They are fond of you,” Krentz noted.
“They are fond of ale,” said Dirk with a laugh.
“The people of Uthen-Arden will like you as well, especially after they realize that you are The Wolf.”
“That is the hope, isn’t it?” said Dirk, going about his routine of finding the best place for their tent.
“They will not like me,” said Krentz, pressing the issue that had come up many time.
Dirk had no more arguments for her. Indeed, he was reluctant to face that one glaring fact. His campaign and plans for becoming governor of all of Uthen-Arden were flawless, except for Krentz. She did well enough to hide that she was a dark elf, but once Dirk got into that high office, the truth would soon come out. Already there were rumors; Larson Donarron had told him that much. Dirk had been conversing with him by way of raven for weeks now. The Magister of Secrets had a large network of spies all throughout Agora, and Dirk naturally took him under his employ, promising the man of whispers a seat on his council should he help him to procure the governorship. Larson had informed him that Whill still had no idea that Dirk was the mysterious philanthropist who was quickly gaining favor among the people and guild leaders alike.
Dirk liked it that way. Better to make a grand appearance, and what better time than the king’s wedding to do so.
“Did you hear what I said?” Krentz asked, and Dirk realized that he had completely tuned out Krentz and the looming problem.
“Yes, love. I heard you,” said Dirk as he indicated to a young soldier the spot to set up.
“I have an idea,” said Krentz.
She gestured for him to follow, taking him on a short walk so that they might be out of earshot from the soldiers setting up camp.
“What is your idea? And why do I have the feeling I won’t like it?”
Krentz let out a long sigh. “Your smartest course of action will be to marry a human woman.”
“What?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” said Krentz, seeing right through his façade as always.
“Krentz, you are the love of my life.”
“This isn’t about love; this is about attaining power.”
Dirk shook his head, though he knew that she was right.
“The people of Uthen-Arden will never accept me as their governess. Nor should they,” said Krentz.
“Should we abandon our goals?” Dirk asked, worried that perhaps he was dragging her into something that she didn’t want to be a part of. “If you ask me to, I will leave with you now. Find that little piece of land that we always dreamed of when we were on the run from Eadon. Say it and it will be so.” He caressed her cheek, holding her gaze to show his sincerity.
“No,” said Krentz with shimmering eyes of determination. “We have a chance to make better the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. You are uniquely gifted for this task, and I have no doubt that you will be successful.”
“Krentz, I once told you that I would burn the world for you. I would not give you up for anything. Not a kingdom, not the heavens.”
“You aren’t losing me. I will work my way into the heart of this woman as well. Together we will seduce her to our side.”
Dirk raised a brow, and Krentz couldn’t help but smile.
“It was figurative,” she said with a musical laugh.
Dirk laughed as well. It was a much-needed laugh.
“I’ll humor you then,” he said, arms wide. “Who do you have in mind?”
“The eldest daughter of King Carlsborough.”
Dirk took a moment to try and recall the name. “Mary Ellen?”
“Yes.”
“But she is barely a woman.”
“She is nineteen, a suitable birthing age for human females.”
“Yes, well, I’ve got some years on her.”
“And I have years on you.”
Dirk pondered the offer, reminding himself yet again just how sly Krentz was. “I did save him and his family’s life.”
“Yes, and you would be marrying into Whill’s family. Which will give you clout with the commoners.”
“As well as securing an alliance with Eldalon,” said Dirk, his mind racing as it always did when scheming.
“And,” said Krentz with a grin, “Carlsborough has no sons.”
Dirk jerked when the revelation hit him, and he grinned at his beloved. “You clever, clever elf.” He took her face gently in his hands and kissed her deeply.
Krentz parted from him slowly, and her deep dark eyes held him firmly in their magical gaze. “When Carlsborough dies, not only will you be the governor of Uthen-Arden, but you will be king of Eldalon.”
“But this woman, she will expect…”
Krentz shook her head. “It is little well known, but Mary Ellen pref
ers women to men. I believe that she will be quite pleased with the arrangement. You and I will not have to sneak behind her back, and she can be with whomever she wishes. When it comes time to create an heir to the Eldalonian throne, well, I’ll help with that.”
Again, Dirk couldn’t help a grin, but his smile soon sank as a new realization hit him. “But Whill is a direct descendent. He will never pass up the position if he knows that I’m to inherit it.”
“I have thought this through longer than you, and I have spies that you do not.”
Dirk watched her, waiting. “Well then! What do you know?”
“Whillhelm Warcrown will soon sail east to Drindellia to face the ancient Eldarian. Whill is being forced by Kellallea to take up the mantle of darkness.”
Dirk was taken aback. He shook his head. “That poor man has the worst luck in the world.”
“Be that as it may, his misfortune, fortunately, is our fortune,” said Krentz with a quick wink.
“I don’t know,” said Dirk. He began to pace slowly.
“Don’t tell me that you want to try and help him.”
“Surprisingly, yes, a part of me at least. But another part reminds me of all the obstacles that this young man has accomplished. He is a hero for the ages.”
“You think that he will somehow come out of this the victor?”
Dirk raised his arms in exasperation. “Do you doubt him?”
Krentz let out a frustrated sigh. “This isn’t a dark elf or a necromancer, this is the actual Lord of Darkness and Death, Eldarian, who defeated the dark god and was forced to take upon himself the mantle, or else unleash its power upon the world.”
“The man saved my life,” said Dirk.
“A life that was lost trying to help him,” Krentz reminded him.
“And if something goes wrong? If Whill is not able to defeat Eldarian and take up the mantle, then what? Darkness will spread across the world, and there will be no kingdoms for us to rule. No people left to help.”
“The goddess has plotted this plan for eons. Everything that has transpired in Agora has been of her design. Don’t you see? It is Whill’s destiny to take up the dark mantle. In the end, that is his fate. He is the first blessed human since the first Taking. He will defeat the Dark Lord, and he will take his place in the prison. And he will do it willingly. Because, like you say, he is a hero of the ages.”
Dirk’s emotions churned, and he was surprised to feel himself choke up for a moment. Whill was a good man, one of the few truly righteous men Dirk had ever met, and annoyingly so at times. He hid his eyes by looking up at the overcast gray sky. “The poor bastard,” he said.
“He has accepted his fate,” said Krentz. “He will do what needs to be done.”
Dirk conceded with a nod. “It seems as though the gods are finally smiling upon us.”
Chapter 10
Arrianna
“Where be me damned stockings?” Roakore bellowed as he threw clothes over his shoulder.
Helzendar’s mother, Arrianna, pushed her husband to the side with a plump, well-placed hip and opened the second drawer. “Ye losin’ yer mind? Ye got about a dozen pairs in there where they always been.”
“I got more than twenty wives, and more than twenty damned dressers,” said Roakore. “Can ye be given’ me a break?”
“Ye be so tense,” said Arrianna. She reached up and rubbed his stiff shoulders, causing him to drop the coveted stockings with a sigh. She steered him to the bed and pushed him down, helping him out of his trousers.
“I got to get ready—”
“Whillhem Warcrown can wait,” said Arrianna, busying herself.
A half hour later, Roakore finally put on his stockings and glanced at his red-cheeked wife. Although he was sure that she had been satisfied, she still had something on her mind.
“What?”
Arrianna curled a ringlet with one finger. “If I gave ye another son, would you take me to Del’Oradon with you?”
“Ye be carryin’ another o’ me sons?” Roakore asked, glancing at her stomach with eyes of joy.
“I said IF,” she reminded him.
“Bah, what kind o’ game be this?”
“Answer the damned question.”
“Arrianna, I got me—”
“Yeah, yeah, you got twenty-some odd wives. And ye done told me I be yer favorite.”
Roakore gave a sigh.
“So, what? You say that to all yer wives?” she asked with a scowling pout.
“No! I meant what I said.”
“Then prove it. Bring me to Del’Oradon.”
“Ye tryin’ to get me killed?” Roakore asked, aghast. “If I claim such a thing in public, or through an action like that, I’ll never hear the end o’ it.”
“Then bring us all,” said Arrianna.
“Bring ye all…” Roakore sputtered. “No, no, I plan on flyin’ there with our boy and me others who be hawk riders. There ain’t enough hawks.”
A fire lit in Arrianna’s eyes and she threw a pillow at him.
“Hey!” he yelled.
“Hey what? Ye’re a shite!”
“Arrianna…”
“Get out then. Go on and have adventures without me. I’ll just sit here and get fat while ye have yer adventures.”
“Don’t be that way Arri…” Roakore moved to embrace his wife, but she pushed him away.
“Go on. Don’t be wastin’ yer precious time with a silly wife. Ye got important things to be doin’.”
She rolled over, bringing a long goose-down pillow with her.
“Bah!” Roakore threw up his arms and turned, meaning to storm out of the room. But then he let down his shoulders, and the bluster left him in one long sigh. “Fine, I’ll take ye along to Del’Ora—”
“Do ye mean it?” said Arrianna, springing up from the bed suddenly and hugging him.
Roakore smiled at his wife’s happiness. “I be meanin’ it.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “But don’t be makin’ a stink about it, braggin’ and such.”
She frowned, but then nodded and smiled. “Yes, me king. Thank ye, me king.”
Chapter 11
Soaringsong
The morning was frigid. Ice had gathered in a thin crust on the top of the horse troths, and the first snow of the season had fallen a few hours before sunrise. With dawn came a quick melt, and by the time the camp had begun to stir, the only snow to be seen was that which lay in the shadows. Still, it had snowed; winter would soon hit the north.
Gretzen stood on a bluff by the shore, looking north over the Strait of Shierdon. She had been there since before the dawn. Sleep eluded her most of the time these days, and she found no more than a few hours each night. Her mind remained sharp, however, and her body had not failed her, but her spirit felt tired and stretched.
Soon it would be time to move on.
She would have liked to see Volnoss one last time before heading south, and had even intended to visit Eldon Island, which had been settled by her grandson, Talon Windwalker, some two hundred years ago.
Gretzen smiled when she thought of Talon, and she smiled more when she thought of seeing him again in the spirit world.
“Your heart weighs heavy this morning,” said Azzeal from behind her. “Would you like to take in the air alone?”
“No, no. Come, elf. Look north with me one last time and tell me the story of Talon Windwalker.”
Azzeal came to stand beside her, smiling his usual smile, one that instantly brightened Gretzen’s old heart. “That is a long story indeed.”
“We have time. Tell me about his stars.”
Azzeal obliged, and together they looked north across the ocean waters as he spun the tale, beginning with the day Talon met Akerri.
Azzeal sat by the fire across from Gretzen as she prepared her spell ingredients. She had performed six spells over the last six nights, and had created a powerful spirit blade each time, one for each of the tribes. The only tribe
yet to receive one was Eagle, and Gretzen had summoned Vardveizla Soaringsong for that very reason.
“Ancient one,” said one of Gretzen’s apprentices from the doorway. “The chieftain of Eagle tribe has arrived.”
“Let her in.”
Vardveizla threw back the tent flap and stood, blocking all but the smallest sliver of light from shining into the tent. Her eyes swept across the room, bouncing from Azzeal to Gretzen, to the fire and elaborate spell materials, and finally settling on the witch doctor.
“You called?”
“Yes, Vardveizla, thank you for coming so quickly. Please, enter.”
She strode into the room with the grace of an eagle and the strength of an ox. Bones hung from her boots and jacket, clanging hollowly as her big steps brought her to the fireside. She was clad entirely in the white leather of the snow buffalo. The thick white fur stuck out between wide seams stitched with thick leather cord. Covering her shoulders in a brilliant plume was a collar of eagle feathers. Another grouping of three feathers was stuck in her braided hair on the right side of her tattooed head. She had recently acquired tear tattoos, one for every member of her family killed in the war with the south. The tears ran from her right eye, down her cheek and neck, and continued beneath her clothing, all the way to her feet.
“I have heard of the great spirit weapons that you have bestowed on the other chiefs. My heart leaps to think that you have decided to honor me so.”
“Indeed, Vardveizla Soaringsong, chieftain of Eagle Tribe, you deserve such an honor. You have shown great resilience, strength, and wisdom.”
“But…” The chieftain glanced from Gretzen to Azzeal. “I have disagreed with you more than any of the others.”
“Yes,” said Gretzen with a laugh. “That is precisely why I have decided to entrust you with Aurora Snowfell’s figurine.”
Vardveizla was at first speechless. “I…you honor me, ancient one. But, why should it be entrusted to anyone? Where are you going?”
The Mantle of Darkness: Whill of Agora Book 7: Legends of Agora Page 4