After a long meal, Whill invited Gretzen to speak privately in his chambers. He offered her a drink, but she declined and took a seat beside the fire.
“I have dreams of an elf engulfed in the blue flames of the hells,” said Gretzen as she stared into the fire. “He wears a mantle of darkness and sits upon a throne made of a thousand skulls. Upon his head sits a crown, churning with darkness…”
Whill had frozen in the pouring of his wine, and he slowly put it down on the bar.
“Have you come to talk me out of it?” he asked, turning to face her.
Gretzen’s gaze remained locked on the fire. “No, I have come to tell you that I am going with you. This too I have seen in my dreams.”
Whill moved to her side. “What else have you seen?” he asked, though he was reluctant to hear the answer.
“I have not seen your fate,” said Gretzen, finally looking at him.
Whill was well aware that Kellallea could be listening in, and he took note to guard his tongue.
“It is my destiny to take up the mantle.”
She glanced around the room, seeming to know that he feared to speak candidly.
“The goddess might hear any spoken word. But can she read our minds?”
Whill grinned at the clever elf.
No, I do not believe that her power is that great, he said to her mind.
Tell me of your plans, then. Surely you do not intend to take up the mantle.
I am at a loss, he said, taking a seat across from her. It seems as though this is the only way.
Gretzen nodded gravely. I spoke truthfully when I said that I do not see your fate. But I believe that perhaps together, we can find a way to thwart the goddess.
I cannot ask you to undertake this perilous journey with me.
You do not need to ask, I have offered. Azzeal wishes to come as well.
But we may never return. I cannot in good conscience—
We are coming with. That is the end of it, said Gretzen firmly.
How did you learn of this? Whill asked, wondering if this was perhaps a last-ditch effort by Avriel.
Spirit world, said Gretzen.
Whill found that he believed her. He had intended on making the journey alone, but the prospect of someone going with him appealed to him. Gretzen was right, he did intend on trying to somehow thwart Kellallea, though he had yet to think of anything. Perhaps, as she had said, they would be able to think up something together.
We will speak of this more later, said Whill. He added vocally, “I’m glad that you came to marry Avriel and me. It is a great honor.”
“The honor is all mine,” said Gretzen, rising to stand.
Whill helped her to the door, and she stopped to face him once more. She stared into his eyes for many long seconds before she finally let out a sigh and touched his cheek with her gnarled hand.
There is always a way, Whill of Agora. Perhaps we shall find it.
Chapter 16
A Hero’s Welcome
“Bring us down ye blasted bird, ye done enough showing off!” Roakore howled over the rush of wind buffeting his face.
Behind him, Arrianna laughed like a sixteen-spring lass.
Silverwind had circled the city five times and seemed to be reveling in the attention that she and the other silver hawks had gotten. Men, women, and children alike pointed and cheered far below, to which Silverwind replied with a fierce cry that no doubt echoed throughout the city, waking everyone who was not an early riser.
After a night camping at one of Roakore’s favorite haunts, they had started out before sunrise in order to make it for breakfast, which Roakore had promised his wife would be “fit fer a dwarven queen.”
Arrianna was quite taken with it all. She, like most dwarf females, had never ventured far from the mountains of her birth. Indeed, the longest journey she had ever been on was the trek from Ky’Dren to Ro’Sar, after the great reclamation nearly a year before.
“Oh, Roakore,” she said with a laugh. “Let her fly by one more time.”
“Bah! Fine! But I ain’t guaranteein’ no hot breakfast if we keep on dillydallyin’,” said Roakore, glancing back with a stern scowl. Arrianna didn’t notice; she sat waving at the gawking humans. Roakore couldn’t help but be moved by her happiness, and rather than one more pass, he allowed two. He had twenty-something wives back home who were likely angrier than a bear awakened before spring, and he had enough sense to cherish the favor of one.
When they finally touched down in the castle’s courtyard, Whill was there to meet them. Avriel and Tarren stood beside him, the boy waving jubilantly.
“Easy now, Silverwind,” said Roakore, steadying her as Arrianna climbed down from the saddle.
Once he was down and had relieved Silverwind of the burden of his wife’s many bags, he waved the bird off, allowing her to fly free. Philo and Helzendar’s mounts followed her into the sky and east over the castle.
“Roakore! I’m glad to see you made it in one piece,” said Whill, slamming his fist to his chest and giving a deep bow, which was mimicked by every guard in the courtyard and those high up on the battlements.
“I wouldn’t miss yer weddin’ for nothin’,” said Roakore, shaking his hand. “Ah,” he said, “the beautiful Avriel. Ye be beginnin’ to show!”
He laughed and looked at Tarren, who stood beside Helzendar, playfully comparing heights. “Now who be this fine young strappin’ lad, eh? And where be Tarren?”
“Hello, King Roakore,” said Tarren, straightening and slamming a fist to his chest.
“Ah, there ye be. Didn’t hardly notice ye.”
“Ah-hem!” Arrianna coughed beside him.
“Aye, Whill, Avriel, Tarren, this be me wife and mother o’ Helzendar. Arrianna.”
“Well met, Queen Arrianna,” said Avriel, placing her hand over her chest and bowing.
“Queen Avriel,” said Arrianna, offering the same gesture and showing nothing of her kind’s well-known prejudice against elves.
Whill greeted her in kind and invited them into the castle, promising breakfast.
Roakore winked at his wife, who looked absolutely overcome with enchantment. She squeezed her husband’s arm as they were led into the human castle and marveled at the architecture, which she had to admit had been crafted by skilled hands, though not dwarven hands.
Knowing that Roakore was a self-proclaimed connoisseur of pork, Whill ordered the cooks to prepare a breakfast of pork belly and side pork, along with eggs, Eldalonian goat cheese, and fish. Breads and fruit were laid out as well, accompanied by a soft red table wine that had been aged in rum barrels for five years.
The conversation was boisterous and the merriment infectious. Tarren and Helzendar had a lot of catching up to do, and Arrianna seemed to Roakore to have no end of questions for Avriel and Whill. She was quite curious about the pregnancy, and her questions were so up-front that Roakore’s face flushed more than once at her audacity, though neither Avriel nor Whill seemed to mind.
They were interrupted by a guard, who hurriedly marched across the large dining room to bend and whisper into his king’s ear. Whill’s eyes lit up when the messenger spoke, and he rose to his feet. “The army has returned from the north.”
Dirk and Krentz rode into the city at the head of the army of five-thousand. Word had spread quickly as they approached, and now it seemed as though the entire city had come out to greet the victors. Men cheered their comrades, and women threw flower petals and blew kisses to the valiant warriors. Dirk noted a man standing above the crowd on a shipping crate, holding a paint brush and thumbing the approaching army. Dirk stopped and motioned Krentz to do the same. He indicated the painter and sat up straight in his saddle, lifting his chin to the heavens. After a moment he continued, and the soldiers started on once again toward the castle. Dirk flipped the painter a gold coin as he passed and yelled to him over the tumult, “I want to see it when it is done.”
The painter caught the money and offered Dirk a nod
of understanding.
“That painting will sit in our castle for a hundred years,” he told Krentz.
Minstrels had gathered before them and kept pace as they played a jubilant tune. Bards sang of the deeds of the warriors, and how General Dirk Blackthorn had secured the north. Dirk had of course ordered the painter, and the minstrels as well. He had even gone as far as to write the words that the bards sang. Dirk knew that in a world where most villages got their news from traveling bards and the like, it was essential that the entertainers’ palms be crossed with silver. The Magister of Secrets had seen to it that stories, songs, and plays of Dirk’s victory in the north had reached the ears of people in every town, village, and city in Uthen-Arden, and other kingdoms as well. At the same time, the magister had been spreading word of the wealthy lord known as The Wolf. Once it was revealed that they were one in the same, Dirk doubted that he would have any trouble beating the nobleman Jonathon Gelding.
When they arrived at the castle gates, Dirk found Whill standing high atop the arch above the open gate. Dirk stopped, as did Krentz and the soldiers in turn, and all eyes went to their king.
Whill raised his hands, and when he spoke, his voice echoed loud throughout the packed streets leading to the castle’s northern gate.
“General Dirk Blackthorn!” said Whill, with all the authority befitting a king. “What news from the north?”
“My king!” said Dirk. “Nigh on a tenday we slew the last of the necromancers of the north! The undead army has been eradicated!”
Cheers went up in the streets, and the soldiers stood proud—even those grinding their teeth against the pain of their wounds.
“Good people of Del’Oradon,” said Whill. “I declare this day a holiday, from this day and forever. Let it be known!”
Whill let the crowd cheer for a full minute before raising his arms to quiet them.
“General Blackthorn. I entrusted you with a great task, and you have not let me down. As reward for your great accomplishments, I hereby name you Magister of War.”
The crowd cheered for Dirk, and Krentz eyed him sidelong with slight suspicion for Whill’s motives.
Dirk let the crowd settle and offered the king a bow. Whill nodded knowingly, thinking that he had thwarted Dirk’s plans. In reality, he had only made the timing of the announcement all the more perfect.
“Good King Whillhelm, you honor me with such a title. But alas, I must humbly reject your offer.”
The crowd took in a collective breath and looked to Whill. He kept his composure, though his eyes were like daggers. “Explain yourself,” he said.
“As a magister of your highness’s court, I would be ineligible to run for governor.”
Dirk let the crowd chew on his words for a time, all the while holding Whill’s stare.
“You see!” Dirk yelled, silencing the crowd. “I am the one known as The Wolf, and I hereby declare my intentions to run for governor!”
Whill’s eyes boiled. The crowd at first seemed shocked, but then one by one they began to cheer.
“Long live The Wolf, Dirk Blackthorn!” one man cried, and upon repeating it, a dozen others joined him, until the chorus was taken up by all.
I would have words in my quarters, came Whill’s voice in Dirk’s mind. He offered the king a nod as he waved at his admirers.
Whill turned on his heel in a flourish of robes and disappeared down the stairs on the other side of the wall.
Dirk walked past the standing guard and stopped at the threshold to Whill’s chambers.
“Sire,” he said with a bow.
Whill stood by the bar, pouring wine. “Shut the door,” he said without looking at Dirk.
Dirk complied and waited with hands crossed behind his back.
“Give up the charade,” said Whill. He walked to a lounging area by the balcony and offered Dirk a glass.
“My respect for you and the crown is no charade.”
“Sit,” said Whill, though he remained standing. He even began to pace.
Dirk complied and sat back, crossing one leg over the other as he sipped his wine leisurely and studied Whill, trying to make out his mind. He seemed angered, that much was apparent, but he also seemed to be considering something for the first time.
“What is your motivation?” Whill asked, still pacing.
“The good of the people,” said Dirk.
That gave Whill pause, and he looked on Dirk as one might a lying child.
“Is it so hard to believe?” Dirk asked.
“Anything for certain about you is hard to believe.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“I did not ask you here so that we might spar.”
“I thought that I might have gained your trust.”
“So you test it by campaigning in secret under that ridiculous name?”
“Such methods where necessary to ensure victory. Surely you can respect that. Don’t tell me that you want that pompous arse Jonathan Gelding winning the governorship.”
Whill considered this and did not speak for many moments. Finally, he took a seat across from Dirk and took a newfound measure of him. “What would you do if you were me?” he said finally.
Dirk laughed. “I would never have brought the vote to the people. I would not be in your position.”
“You think that my new government is a mistake, yet you say you wish to attain its highest seat.”
“I see opportunity,” said Dirk. He sipped his wine and put it on the low table before uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. “When I was a boy, I lived for a time here in Del’Oradon, and just about every other city in Agora. I was raised by a drunkard named Thad, a man of many talents and many vises. I grew up on the streets, I understand the common man. In this governorship, I see an opportunity to help the people and the country in the coming years of peace that you have ensured.”
“I did not go through the pains of creating this new government so that you might destroy it,” said Whill.
“I fought for the cause in the battle of the Ky’Dren Pass. I saved Carlsborough and your remaining kin from Eadon’s assassins. I warned you of Eadon’s plans, and paid for it with death. As a disembodied spirit, I hunted down necromancers and undead with Krentz and the dwarf princess Raene the Goldenheart. I fought alongside Gretzen Spiritbone in Volnoss. You saw fit to name me general, and in your name I secured the north and destroyed the last of the necromancers. Yet you still do not trust my intentions?”
“I believe that you are a good man at heart,” said Whill. “And I also believe that you have a great appetite for power. If you win the election, I will bless your seat. But understand this, if you destroy what I have created, I will have your head. That is a promise.”
“Understood,” said Dirk. “Your blessing in this matter means a lot to me, Whill. I will honor your name and your wishes, and the country of our forefathers. Under my rule, your father’s great kingdom shall flourish.”
Dirk left Whill’s chambers and grinned to himself. Whill’s acceptance had been the single greatest hurtle standing in his way to attaining the governorship. Now it was only a matter of time before he sat upon the throne. He knew that Whill’s threats were shallow, for he would soon be traveling to Drindellia, never to return.
Chapter 17
Raining Gold
The morning of the wedding brought with it clear skies and sunshine. Although Whill had declared the weekend a holiday, many smart shop owners remained opened to take advantage of the influx of visitors to the city. Every inn and lodge in Del’Oradon was filled to capacity, and the markets bustled with excited activity. Traders came from all around to sell their wares, and jugglers and bards performed in the town square, delighting children and adults alike with their tales of the Draggard Wars. Some spoke of King Whillhelm and his defeat over the evil Eadon, others told of Dirk Blackthorn and his magical wolf. There were yet stories of the brave General Marshall and Justice Walker, men who had given their lives for the cause.
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Whill stood on the balcony overlooking the city and smiled to himself. Despite his looming fate, he found that he was as happy as he had ever been in his life. Soon Avriel would give birth to their child, and for a time he would be a father. He reminded himself that his sacrifice would ensure the safety of not only his new family, but indeed the rest of Agora as well.
Avriel had slept in a separate room, far away from Whill, so that they might not accidentally see each other before the ceremony began, which was an old human custom. The elves had their customs as well, and so Whill had spent much of the night sitting at his desk, trying to compose his vows, which the elves called De Amoreth Vin Mein—the promise of self. The promises were a sacred pact in elven society, and all who bore witness to them were then charged with the responsibility of helping the couple uphold said vows. The penalty for breaking the vows was exile for a time determined by the elder council. Offenders were encouraged to think on their crimes and decide if they wanted to continue to be a part of Elladrindellian society. The telling of one’s sins was a common practice among the elves, who strove always to be pure of spirit, heart, mind, and body.
When the bell for the seventh hour tolled in the cathedrals, Whill drank down the rest of his tea and dressed in the wardrobe that had been laid out for him by the tailor’s boy. The old tailor—a round woman with rosy cheeks who always seemed to be humming—had suggested a frivolous ensemble complete with dove’s wings and a cloak of pure white that trailed some twenty feet behind him. She had suggested an ivory crown as well, and pauldrons set with shining pearls.
He had declined.
Whill was not one for pompous posturing and chose instead for his afternoon attire a dark brown leather outfit and cloak of wolf fur—his small warning to Dirk Blackthorn.
Tarren met him in the corridor, wearing his white cadet uniform, complete with a braided green sash that told his ranking.
“Good morning,” said the lad, beaming at Whill.
The Mantle of Darkness: Whill of Agora Book 7: Legends of Agora Page 7