The Mantle of Darkness: Whill of Agora Book 7: Legends of Agora

by Ploof,Michael James

  The crowd cheered, clapped, and stomped with renewed vigor.

  “It would please me a great deal,” he said, gaining a newfound respect for the man. “And I would help you to distribute your gift, if you would like.”

  “I would indeed,” said Ragnar.

  Whill nodded and turned to the basket of gold coins. “Dump them out on the sand,” he told the astonished soldiers.

  They did as they were told, and when they were done, everyone marveled at the beautiful heap of gold coins lying at Whill’s feet and nearly coming to his knees. Whill reached out a hand, mentally grabbed ahold of only the gold, and caused the coins to rise into the air in a ring above the heads of the cheering onlookers.

  “By the grace of the good Sir Ragnar, let it rain gold!” he said to the crowd, who barked and screamed, raising their hands to the heavens and the shimmering coins.

  Whill let his hands drop, releasing the coins, and making it rain gold.

  Chapter 18

  Ragnar

  “I ain’t likin’ this, I ain’t likin’ it at all,” said Roakore, following close behind Whill as he made his way through the secret tunnel back to the waiting carriages.

  “What don’t you like?” Whill asked, not wanting to be the one to acknowledge what everyone was thinking.

  “I…Bah! I don’t like people thinkin’ that…that…that human be havin’ dwarven powers. That he be a descendent o’ Ky’Dren.”

  “You can’t stop people thinking what they think.”

  “Sure ye can, with a swift boot upside their damned heads!”

  Whill stopped when he got to the carriages and looked to Roakore. “What if…” He stopped when he saw the fire in the dwarf’s eyes. “He’s probably just some kind of magical anomaly,” he said quickly.

  “You be dammed right he be an anomaly. Somehow he’s got elf powers, that much be apparent,” said Roakore with an adamant nod of his head.

  “I intend on sharing his company for lunch. Care to join us?”

  Roakore’s eyes went wide, and he nervously glanced away and stared at the ground, shaking his head. “I dare say that me wife couldn’t handle it. She be wantin’ to sample the city’s wares anyway.”

  “Well, don’t disappear. You’re my best man, you know.”

  “Best dwarf,” said Roakore, looking exhausted.

  Soon Arrianna arrived with Helzendar in tow and got in the carriage without looking at Whill.

  “What you gonna ask him about, eh?” Roakore whispered conspiratorially.

  “I have many questions for Ragnar. I will be sure to relay his answers to you if you wish.”

  Roakore’s nostrils flared, and he glanced at the carriage and his waiting wife. “Aye, aye,” he said before getting in.

  Whill closed the door, wondering what indeed Ragnar would have to say about his power.

  “I heard ye tell Roakore that you plan on having Sir Ragnar for lunch,” said Tarren as they got in the next carriage. “You mind if I go too?”

  “Sorry, Tarren, but I need to speak to him privately.”

  Tarren nodded his understanding, looking crestfallen. “You think…I don’t know; you think that he’s really half dwarf?”

  “After everything I’ve seen, Tarren, I wouldn’t be all that surprised if he was.”

  When he arrived at his personal dining room, Whill was glad to find Ragnar waiting for him. The man wore the same clothes as before, though he carried himself differently.

  “My king,” said Ragnar, bowing as Whill arrived.

  “Thank you for joining me,” said Whill before walking to the man and offering his hand.

  Ragnar seemed unsure of himself and took Whill’s hand slowly.

  “You must be hungry after your fight in the arena,” said Whill, gesturing to the table. “Please, sit.”

  “If it pleases you, my liege.”

  Whill told one of the guards to tell the cook to bring out a ham roast, and then turned to regard Ragnar. The man was obviously not used to being around royalty, and he seemed out of place in the city in general. His face was young. Whill guessed eighteen or so. But his eyes showed that he was a man who had seen war.

  A server poured them wine, and Ragnar stared at his glass, unsure if he should wait for Whill to drink.

  “Please,” said Whill jovially. “Make yourself at home, drink, eat at your leisure.”

  “Thank you, my liege,” said Ragnar, though he did not pick up his glass.

  “A toast, then. To winning one’s weight in gold.”

  Ragnar lifted his glass to this and tapped it against Whill’s.

  “So,” said Whill, once they had drunk, “tell me more about yourself, Ragnar. The crier said you were from the hills east of here.”

  “Yes, my liege. From the hills between White Lake and the Elgar Mountains.”

  When he did not elaborate, Whill went on. “Your people have many dealings with the dwarves.”

  “We have for centuries. Good folk, them Elgar dwarves.”

  “Ragnar, I must be blunt. The power that you exhibited in the arena, the power to move metal, can you tell me about it?”

  Ragnar glanced around at the guards and the servers who were coming in with steaming dishes. When they had put the dishes to table, Whill thanked them and asked everyone to leave the room.

  When they were alone, he opened his hands. “Now you may speak freely.”

  “I can only tell you what my father told me, and what his father told him. There isn’t a way to know now for sure.”

  Whill loaded his plate and listened, letting the man talk. Ragnar took Whill’s lead, and loaded his plate with ham, potatoes, bread, and cheese.

  “My father said that our power comes from the dwarves. In the past, though, it only consisted of being able to move stone. But recently…now I have other powers.”

  “The ability to move anything with your mind,” Whill speculated.

  Ragnar nodded and bit into a big piece of ham.

  “But that power, it is said to be a gift from the dwarven gods. Do you have any other powers aside from that of a dwarf?”

  Ragnar shook his head.

  “And what did you mean, the power comes from dwarves?”

  “Family legend has it that one of our descendants took himself a dwarf wife. We’ve all sworn to our fathers before us to never divulge the secret to anyone, or let anyone see the power that we inherited, and we’ve all kept the secret, all but me.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  Ragnar tore off a piece of bread and hurried to chew and swallow. “I’m the last of my people. If the secret gets out, there’s no one’s neck on the line but mine. Also, well, Queen Avriel is about to give birth to your…mixed child. I figured that if you could be so brave, then I would follow your lead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that your family is gone. Unfortunately, I can relate.”

  “Is alright, they died well,” said Ragnar, who had almost cleaned his plate in the short time they had been talking, while Whill hadn’t touched his.

  “But if you have the power to move objects because your ancestor took a dwarf wife, she would have had to be a descendent of Ky’Dren.”

  “Aye,” said Ragnar, reminding Whill further of a dwarf. “And you can imagine how the dwarves would feel about that, a princess of Elgar running off and having a family with a human. They guard their females like they guard their diamonds.”

  Whill hadn’t wanted to be rude by insinuating that the dwarf female had been taken and impregnated against her will, but he couldn’t imagine a dwarven princess eloping with a human. “You must tell me of this dwarven princess,” he said, intrigued.

  “Father said that her name was Syrah, daughter of the dwarf king Brak’Dar.”

  “His reign ended more than three hundred years ago,” said Whill.

  “Indeed, that is how long we have kept the secret, though rumors abound. But there were no rumors back in those days, not for a few generations at least. But I ge
t ahead of myself. Her name was Syrah, and my ancestor’s name was Sven.”

  “Good old Arden name, that,” said Whill, drinking and enjoying the story.

  “Aye. Sven was a trader, and he had many dealings with King Brak’Dar. They say he was invited to the dwarf king’s table more than once, and that is where Syrah caught his eye. They say that it was love at first sight,” said Ragnar with a chuckle. “Can you imagine that? But I swear Sven didn’t press the issue. Had too much respect for the king. And who wants that kind of racial trouble anyhow?”

  Whill laughed ironically, and Ragnar suddenly paled, realizing that he was speaking about a mixed relationship to a man who was about to wed an elf.

  “No offense, my liege…”

  “None taken,” said Whill with a staying hand and reassuring smile. “Please, continue.”

  Ragnar drank from his glass. “Well,” he said, more cautiously this time. “They fell in love, and like I said, Sven tried to fight it, even went as far as not visiting the king for five full years. But a wise man doesn’t keep a dwarf king waiting long, and so he was finally forced to visit the Elgar Mountains once again. And then…well, that’s when it happened.”

  “It?”

  “You know,” said Ragnar, shifting uncomfortably. “Dwarf woman can be just as pig-headed as the men. When they get it in their heads that they want something, they get it. Well, Syrah wanted Sven, and she got him. After it happened…a few months after, Syrah was beginning to show. She sent a message to Sven, and he gave the king a surprise visit. Syrah came to him in his chamber and told him the news.”

  “What did he say?” Whill asked, enthralled.

  Ragnar gave a painful smile. “He suggested that they take care of it with what they used to call purging tea.”

  Whill groaned.

  “Indeed,” said Ragnar. “She slugged him so hard he woke up a half hour later.”

  “And I bet that changed his mind. So then what? She insisted that he take her away?”

  “Yes, sir. Syrah knew that her father would never allow such a union, and would likely have Sven killed. Knowing this, and being in love as he still was, Sven had no choice. He fled with Syrah in the dark of night and brought her to the shores of White Lake.”

  “They didn’t get as far from Elgar as they could?”

  Ragnar laughed and shook his head. “In her wisdom, Syrah said that the best place to hide from a dwarf was right under his bulbous nose.”

  “What was the child like?” Whill asked, thinking of his own unborn mixed child. “Looking at you, I assume it was…normal?”

  “Together they had five children,” said Ragnar. “And I guess you could say they were normal, aside from their strength and the ability to move stone with their minds.”

  “Incredible,” said Whill.

  “Aye, and their children had children, and so on, and here I am, the last of my people.”

  “But what happened to Syrah? Surely she outlived Sven.”

  Ragnar shook his head. “She died a week after he did, on what would have been his hundredth birthday. They say that she had no ailment that could be tended to, but died instead of a broken heart.”

  “How did she go so long without being found? And right there in the shadow of the mountain?”

  Ragnar smiled proudly. “She was a clever one, her. My father said that she walked around on stilts for years. Just short ones, mind you. She was a tallish dwarf to begin with. And she kept her red hair dyed oil black, even went as far as to straightening it with hot irons every morning. If dwarves were ever sent to White Lake to look for her, they never found her.”

  “But Sven, surly he had to keep up appearances for the king.”

  “Oh, he had dealings with the king for years, though it tore at his heart to deceive the king so, he had to do it for his children. Brak’Dar never suspected anything, mind you, just thought that his daughter had run away. They say that she had threatened it enough times. Didn’t like how dwarf females were treated and sought to change it, that one.”

  Whill shook his head, amazed at the story. “I must say, Ragnar, that is the most entertaining story that I have heard in a long time.”

  The knight’s face darkened. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Oh, I do. I do. My words are quite sincere,” said Whill, checking the clock and giving a frustrated grunt. “Ah, but the hour grows late. I am expected for another lunch at noon.”

  Ragnar rose from his chair when Whill did and gave a small bow.

  “I would like to speak with you more. Report to the Magister of War in the white tower. He will show you to your lodging and give you proper armor. I see that you already have a sword.”

  “Thank you, my liege.”

  “Please, when we are alone, call me Whill.”

  “Thank you…Whill.”

  “Eat and drink from my table to your fill. I will speak with you again soon.”

  Chapter 19

  White Wedding

  The ceremony took place in the gardens of Del’Oradon Castle at six o’clock that night. Whill and Avriel had considered having a larger wedding in the town square or the arena, but in the end they had decided upon a smaller affair with a small guest list. Roakore had been chosen to be Whill’s standing witness, and Avriel had chosen her sister Zilena as hers. Teera and Whill’s sisters were in attendance as well, along with Helzendar and his mother, Tarren, Azzeal, and Alrick Dupree, who was more than a little flummoxed to not be the one performing the ceremony. Instead, Whill had asked Gretzen to do the honors.

  Whill stood upon the raised dais to the right of Gretzen. The old Vald witch wore long furs, and upon her head was the skull of a timber wolf, intricately fastened by her white and gray braids. In her hands she held an ancient-looking tome, with one fine feather marking a page. Roakore stood beside Whill, his highly polished silver armor reflecting the light of the setting sun.

  Butterflies erupted in Whill’s stomach when the music began, and all eyes turned to the arch of roses leading from the bridge spanning the pond. Tarren came walking through the archway. He moved slowly, timing his steps to the music and holding a small chest in both hands.

  “Steady, lad,” said Roakore, out of the corner of his mouth. “Remember to breathe.”

  Whill let out a pent-up breath and smiled at his friend.

  Tarren was followed by Zilena, who wore a flowing green gown and matching emerald earrings hanging low from the tips of her pointed ears. Tarren and Zilena took their places upon the dais, and Whill’s heart leapt to see Avriel walking slowly down the aisle. The small gathering rose to their feet as the bards played a slow melody with flute, guitar, and fiddle as the sun began to set in the distant west.

  Avriel’s gown shone with inner light, no doubt illuminated by her magic. She had enchanted the garden as well, and flowers opened their petals as she strode by gracefully. The white veil still shrouded her face, but Whill could see a smile through the thin lace. He smiled as well and reached out a hand as she climbed the steps to the dais. They came together before Gretzen, and the old woman raised a hand.

  The music stopped.

  “Friends and family members of the promised, thank you for joining Whill and Avriel on this, their most important of nights. You stand with us today, not only to help celebrate this union, but also with the understanding that it is your duty to help this new couple keep the promise of their vows. Too often it is those closest to us who become a wedge between ourselves and those we love. If there is anyone among you who cannot make such a promise, leave now, or forever hold your peace.”

  She waited for a moment, but no one rose from their chairs to leave.

  “Very well, then let us begin. I believe that Magister Dupree would like to bless the marriage before the human gods.”

  Alrick, who had been sitting with the other magisters, rose from his chair and raised his chin high, trying but failing to hide his indignation. He—along with many others—had thought it blasphemous that Whill would
choose a barbarian witch doctor to perform the ceremony.

  He climbed the stairs to the dais without so much as looking at Gretzen. She stepped aside respectfully, taking with her the tome from the podium. Alrick had a tome of his own, and he slapped it down on the podium. He cleared his throat as he found the page and opened it.

  “Lord of Light, creator of the heavens, the earth, the wind, and the waters, bless this man of Uthen-Arden, the last king of his name. Bless this union, and the children that come of it. Bless all who stand as witnesses to this union, and all who speak of it with a praiseful tongue. Lord of Light, creator of the heavens, the earth, the wind, and the waters, bless this man, the last king of Uthen-Arden.”

  The magisters, along with Tarren, Teera, and Whill’s sisters, made the sign of the Holy One. Whill followed suit, more out of respect than faith, and shook Alrick’s hand, thanking him. As Alrick made his way back to his seat, Gretzen took her place once again.

  “This union represents not only the love between Whillhelm and Avriel, but also the bond that has been forged by all races of Agora. We have been tested, every one of us. We have known loss and defeat. Yet we have persevered, and are now stronger and closer than ever before. Let their everlasting union represent that of the races, and may Agora know peace forevermore.”

  The small gathering gave a cheer, and Gretzen gestured to Tarren. “Do you have the rings?”

  Tarren carefully opened the small box, and Gretzen took from the small pillow two rings. She held them both to the heavens and began to chant slowly, deliberately. When she was done, she handed the rings to Whill and Avriel.

  “Whillhelm, are you prepared to make your promise?”

  “I am,” said Whill, and he faced Avriel. He swallowed hard, surprised at how nervous he was. “Avriel, you came into my life during a time of great turmoil. You were a shining beacon of hope in a dark world. I am humbled that you have chosen to be my wife, and I hope that I can honor you until the end of my days. I promise, from this day forth, to cherish and love you always. To be the husband that you deserve, and the father that your child deserves. Before those gathered here today, and before the gods, human, dwarven, and elven, I promise myself to you now and forever.”