Whill and Avriel took up residence in the palace in Cerushia, but to his dismay, he did not find the peace and quiet that he had hoped for. The elder council of elves asked to meet with him repeatedly, so that he might relay to them what he remembered of their lost arts. He spent long hours every day with the council, reciting what he remembered of the ancient tomes, which, unfortunately for him, was everything. Unlike Avriel, who had only been a master of a few schools of Orna Catorna, Whill had used magic to memorize every word on every page of every book.
He was sitting with the council members, reciting the book of Ralliad, when Tarren burst into the chamber all in a huff.
“Whill,” he said, panting. “It’s time!”
“Avriel?” said Whill, suddenly excited and fearful at the same time.
“She’s with Lunara. Hurry!”
Whill left the chamber without so much as a glance at the council members and hurried through the city to the palace. He heard Avriel’s pained cries long before he arrived at the door to their quarters. He rushed into the room and found Avriel in bed, being tended to by Lunara and a handful of nursemaids.
“Avriel!”
“Whill, come here,” said Avriel with a smile, despite her obvious pain.
He rushed to her side and took her hand, glancing down at the thin cloth that blocked his view of Lunara. Avriel squeezed his hand as another contraction began.
“Let me ease the pain,” he said, concerned.
“No,” she said, between groans. “I want to have the children naturally. No magic.”
Whill watched on, feeling more helpless than he ever had, and offered her what support he could. He tried to quiet his worries, for this was the first half-elf, half-human birth on record, and there was no knowing what complications they might run into.
“Ahh!” Avriel cried.
“You’ve got to push!” said Lunara. “Now is the time, push!”
Avriel gritted her teeth and pushed so hard that the vein in her forehead bulged. Whill offered her what support he could and watched the covering sheet anxiously as Lunara disappeared behind it once more.
Again Avriel cried out, but this time it was met by the keening wail of a newborn. Whill’s heart skipped a beat as Lunara emerged from behind the sheet.
“It’s a girl!” she said joyously.
Whill looked upon his newborn daughter and instinctively counted fingers and toes—ten and ten. The babe had powerful lungs and continued to cry as a nursemaid swaddled her. A crop of golden hair puffed up from the center of her head, and unmistakable blue eyes peeked out behind puffy eyelids. The ears, he noticed, were not short like a human’s, but neither were they overly long like an elf’s; instead, they were somewhere in between.
“Arra,” said Avriel, taking her daughter from the nursemaid.
“She’s beautiful,” said Whill, offering the infant a finger with which to grasp. Arra latched on and squeezed, causing Whill to laugh. “And strong!”
Avriel gave a moan and shifted uncomfortably.
“You’re almost there,” said Lunara reassuringly. “One more time, you can do it.”
Both Avriel and Arra clutched Whill’s offered hands as his wife gave another great push. She breathed heavily, pushing with all her might.
“I see the crown,” said Lunara. “One more big push. Come on Avriel, you can do it!”
Avriel gritted her teeth and gave a groan as she redoubled her efforts.
“You can do it,” said Whill, pressing his head against hers. “One more.”
A look of determination crossed Avriel’s face as she leaned forward and PUSHED. Her cry ended in a growl of determination, and yet another crying voice filled the room.
“It’s a boy!” said Tarren, who stood off to the side, looking mystified.
Whill was unable to speak, overcome with emotion as he was. Through teary eyes he watched Lunara emerge and pass off the crying babe to a nursemaid. She swaddled the infant and handed him to Whill, who took his son in his arms delicately.
“Abe,” he said, voice cracking.
The babe had ears like his sister, and ten fingers and toes as well. But unlike Arra’s hair, Abe’s was jet black like his mother’s.
Whill lowered the child to Avriel’s bare chest so that she might cradle them both. The babies each latched on to a nipple greedily and closed their little eyes as they began to feed. Whill hugged his wife and children, nuzzling Avriel’s face and feeling their thin hair upon his other cheek. He cried tears of joy and relished the overwhelming feeling of love that he felt. For it washed through him like no emotion ever had, and all at once he was ecstatic, humbled, grateful, and terrified at the same time.
He knew then that he had to find a way back to them. No matter what. He had to find a way.
Chapter 28
The Tenth King of Ro’Sar
“Well I’ll be a bearded goat,” said Roakore, shaking his head at the scroll in hand and grinning fiercely. “Avriel had the twins!”
“Ah!” Arrianna screeched as she came running into Roakore’s den from the bedroom. His other twenty-six wives had collectively decided to punish him with the silent treatment and hadn’t joined him in his quarters since he and Arrianna returned from Del’Oradon.
Roakore found it not a punishment at all.
“Aye,” he said, holding up the scroll. “Word just came by pigeon. They were born two days ago. Arra and Abe Warcrown, they be named.”
His wife snatched the scroll and sat on his lap as she delightedly read it over, even sipping absently from Roakore’s mug.
“Ooh,” she said, putting the correspondence on the wide oak desk and turning to straddle her husband.
He knew what that feminine cooing meant, and sure enough she caught him with two sparkling eyes. “Let’s have another,” she said, smiling mischievously.
“Bah!” Roakore laughed. “We ain’t without more young’uns for lack o’ tryin’.”
“Then we best be tryin’ harder!” she said with a laugh and kissed him.
Two hours later, Roakore left his snoring wife and crept out to the den. After tossing another log on the dying fire, he poured himself a frothing mug of Ky’Dren Mountain red ale and settled in behind his desk. He neatly folded the scroll, stashed it away with others, and took out his large collection of maps, looking for one in particular. He flipped through the various maps of mountain ranges, underground railway systems, mines, human kingdoms, elven lands, oceans, and their many islands, even Drakkar Island, before finding what he was looking for. Deep in the stack was the ancient map from the Book of Ky’Dren.
He had destroyed the book in his rage after Nah’Zed’s suicide, but hadn’t had it in him to throw the old map in the fire. Now he regretted ever destroying the book, for it had been a link to the past that hadn’t rightfully been his, but belonged to all of dwarvenkind. He had decided that his penance would be to lead an expedition to the fabled mountain range, which was labeled on the map as Velk’Har.
Roakore held it up to the lamplight, his mind racing with wonder and thoughts of newfound adventure. What honor would await him in the Mountain of the Gods if he reclaimed the ancient home of the dwarves—the home of Ky’Dren himself? He would become like that greatest of kings, a god among dwarves.
Roakore had had his doubts about the gods and their heavenly mountain home, but the recent blessing of power had solidified his belief once more, and he was determined to prove himself to them.
Reclaiming the Drindellian mountain range would not only solidify his place in the Mountain of the Gods, it would also make him a legend among the living until the end of time. He would be remembered along with the other founding dwarves, Ky’Dren, Ro’Sar, and Elgar, who were revered above all others. Ro’Sar and Elgar had been dwarf kings who left their mountains to their sons and set out to accomplish the impossible, and so too would Roakore.
But which son should he leave in charge? They were all young, each one less than twenty years old, and the longest of
their beards barely reached their belts. With nearly one hundred sons to choose from, the choice wasn’t an easy one. He considered Helzendar, knowing that he would make a fine king. Helzendar was respected and even revered by the dwarves, being that it was he who was first blessed by the gods. But Roakore had intended to bring him with him on the adventure to Drindellia. Helzendar’s mother, Arrianna, intended on going with Roakore, for she had said so many times, and it stood to reason that she would want their son to go as well. He was barely a teen, after all.
If not Helzendar, then who? Roakore wondered.
He glanced out the window and checked the stars. It was only a few hours after dark. Helzendar would still be awake.
Roakore got up and went to the door. Outside, an armored guard stood rigidly. “Oye,” said Roakore. “Fetch me son, Helzendar.”
“Yes, me king.”
Roakore left the door open and paced until the dwarf returned with Helzendar in tow.
“Ah, me lad. Close the door,” said Roakore before moving to the bar. “Drink?”
“Dark rum, if ye got it.”
“If I got it,” said Roakore, chuckling to himself at the irony. He refilled his own mug and poured his son three fingers of rum. “Have a seat, lad. I got somethin’ important to speak with you about.”
Helzendar sat in one of the big chairs by the fire and Roakore took the one opposite and handed him his drink.
“What this be about, me king?”
Roakore thought for a moment, wondering where exactly to begin.
“As you be knowin’, I be plannin’ an expedition to Drindellia. But what you ain’t knowin’, and no one else be either, is that I be plannin’ a reclamation.”
“Reclamation?”
“Aye,” said Roakore, and he began to tell Helzendar all about the Book of Ky’Dren and the legendary mountain kingdom in Drindellia. When he was done, both of their mugs needed refilling.
“So you see, son, I be needin’ to take back Velk’Har. And I need one o’ me sons to take me place.”
“Ye don’t plan on returnin’?”
“O’ course I do. I be returnin’ one day. But like the kings o’ old who set out to claim a mountain, I be givin’ up the throne to one o’ me sons. For if I ain’t ever to return, the mountain still needs a king. And if I be successful, then I be namin’ meself king o’ Velk’Har.”
Helzendar stroked his thin beard with his good hand and stared at the fire, taking in all that he had heard. After many silent moments, he turned to his father.
“Ye be wantin’ my advice?”
Roakore shook his head, watching him closely.
Helzendar’s eyes widened with understanding. “Ye ain’t thinkin’ o’ namin’ me king o’ Ro’Sar, is ye?” he said, flummoxed.
“I be indeed, lad. But I wanted to run it by ye first.”
“Me, me king, father…I be honored.”
“But?” said Roakore, seeing the apprehension on his son’s face.
“Well, ye got dozens o’ sons older than me. Some o’ ‘em be proven commanders. Take Ergot, for example. He be more than qualified, and he’s killed more than one dragon already.”
“So have you, and you be the first blessed o’ the gods.”
Helzendar sighed. “I be honored, but…well, I had it in me mind to go with ye to Drindellia.”
“I know ye did, son. And yer mother would want ye to, as do I. But I think ye be the best dwarf for the job. Take some time to think it over if ye must. I ain’t wantin’ a replacement that ain’t wantin’ the position. Ye be young, and will likely rule this mountain for hundreds o’ years. If ye come with me to Drindellia, there will be adventure to be sure, which I know ye be cravin’. But here ye could be king.”
Helzendar nodded, his face grave with the weight of such a decision. “I be needin’ no time to be thinkin’ it over. I would be honored to replace ye as king o’ Ro’Sar.”
“Ha!” said Roakore, suddenly leaping to his feet. “That be me boy!”
He slammed his fist to his chest and gave a deep nod. Just then, however, a sleepy-eyed Arrianna emerged from the bedroom, pulling her furs tight.
“What all the commotion be about?”
Roakore grinned and glanced at Helzendar with a nod.
“Father has chosen me to replace him as king o’ Ro’Sar!”
Arrianna clutched her chest and covered her gaping mouth with one trembling hand. “Me son…me son be the tenth king o’ Ro’Sar?” she said, walking slowly toward him. She suddenly threw her arms around him in a big hug and cried happily. “Oh but I be a blessed dwarf indeed!”
Roakore smiled happily. Glad to see his wife and favored son so joyous.
Early the following morning, Roakore called everyone in the city to the caverns deep below the mountains. His wives arrived shortly before the crowd began to file into the cavern, though none of them spoke to him, save a few, which gained them deep scowls from their sister wives.
His many sons and daughters stood with their mothers, smiling brightly at him. The youngest waved, and one toddler even ran over to give him a fierce hug that gave him a laugh.
When the cavern was filled to capacity, Roakore looked out over his subjects standing among the towering stalagmites and hanging stalactites. He had last gathered the dwarves here to announce the blessing of the gods, and they waited with quiet anticipation for their king’s words.
“Me good dwarves o’ Ro’Sar. Long has been our journey, hard have been our struggles. But there now be peace in Agora, and the dragons o’ Drakkar have retreated to the east forevermore!”
The cavern rumbled and echoed with cheers and stomping feet. Roakore raised his hands to quiet them all.
“Know that there has never been a dwarf king more proud o’ his people. Ye waited twenty long years with me for a chance to take back our mountain home. Ye fought beside me during the reclamation, and ye turned away the dragon scourge that came to bathe our halls in flame. Ye be dwarves o’ legend, and ye be makin’ yer ancestors proud.”
The crowd cheered, and even his angry wives were moved by his words.
“I gathered ye all here today to make an announcement,” said Roakore, yelling over the clapping and chanting for Ro’Sar. “When I traveled to the elven homeland o’ Drindellia with Whillhelm Warcrown, I came upon an ancient tome, written by Ky’Dren himself.”
The dwarves gasped, and the cavern became still and quiet.
“The tome spoke o’ a great mountain kingdom in Drindellia. The home o’ Ky’Dren himself!”
The crowd hung on his every word.
“It spoke also o’ a dragon migration. One that wiped out our ancestors. T’was Ky’Dren alone who escaped the slaughter, and somehow found his way here to Agora.”
“Death to the dragons!” someone yelled.
Others made more lude proclamations, and the agitated crowd began to stir. Roakore raised his arms to silence them.
“I be feelin’ the same way as ye do! And I would see the ancient mountain home restored to its former glory! I mean to travel across the great eastern ocean with a fleet o’ ships and a thousand dwarves. I mean to find the mountain, and I be meanin’ to take it back in the name o’ Ky’Dren!”
“Here here!” many of the dwarves yelled. Others cried out to be taken along with him.
“But first!” said Roakore over them. “I be travelin’ with Whill o’ Agora, friend o’ dwarves, to the lair o’ the Lord o’ Darkness and Death. We might have won our peace here in Agora. But the gods they be stirrin’, and the god o’ death nearly be free o’ his ancient prison. If he ain’t defeated, there’ll be no mountain to reclaim. The seas will burn, and Agora and all the world will be cast into eternal darkness.”
The dwarves became deathly silent, their grave faces looking up at their king with furled brows.
“As was the way o’ the kings o’ old, Ro’Sar and Elgar, I be namin’ a new king to rule in my stead.”
Roakore noticed the shift in his gathered sons,
who glanced around at each other. The oldest of them stepped forward, puffing out their chests and praying to the dwarven gods to be chosen. Helzendar stood among them.
“I got me many worthy sons, and I be proud o’ them all,” said Roakore, looking to his many hopeful sons. “The choice was not an easy one, but I think that it be the will o’ the gods that I name the first o’ the blessed as me successor.”
The dwarves all looked to Helzendar, who stood proudly beside his mother.
“I name Helzendar Ironfist, first blessed o’ the gods, as the tenth king o’ Ro’Sar!”
The chant for Helzendar went up throughout the cavern. His brothers patted him on the back or shook his hand, some doing so grudgingly, and others proudly.
Helzendar stepped forward , and climbed the steep stair to the ledge , and took his place beside his father and king. Roakore nodded to Agnar the Holy, who walked forward, carrying a tome. The dwarf priest took his place between them and faced the crowd.
“Helzendar, son o’ Roakore, son o’ Ro’Din, first o’ the blessed, descendent o’ the first king o’ dwarves. Place yer hand on the tome and speak the words in the presence o’ the gods. I, Helzendar Ironfist.”
“I, Helzendar Ironfist,” said Helzendar, loud and clear for all to hear.
“Son o’ Roakore, son o’ Ro’Din.”
“Son o’ Roakore, son o’ Ro’Din.”
“Do solemnly swear to uphold the will o’ the gods, to serve me people to the best o’ me ability, and to always strive to emulate Ky’Dren.”
Helzendar repeated the words with his hand over the holy tome. Satisfied, Agnar nodded and retracted the tome.
Roakore lifted the crown from his own head, and Helzendar took a knee.
“By the power bestowed upon me by the gods and Ky’Dren himself, I name you, Helzendar Ironfist, first o’ the blessed, the tenth king o’ Ro’Sar.”
The Mantle of Darkness: Whill of Agora Book 7: Legends of Agora Page 13