The Heir Of Westfall [The Alurian Chronicles Book 1]

by Christopher W. Wilcox, Sr.

  Chapter 2

  Rory opened his eyes to find bright sunlight streaming through the open shutters of the room. He reluctantly climbed out of the huge featherbed. It had been the most luxurious night's rest he had ever had, warm and cozy. He just knew it would be chilly once he climbed out of the bed and put his feet on the stone floor. Oh, well, can't stay in bed forever. He slid out of bed and walked over to the washstand. He poured some of the water from the ewer into the basin and was surprised to find steam rising from the bowl. The water was hot. What was a reluctant chore had been transformed into something wonderful. But how had hot water been put in the ewer without waking me?

  His ablutions completed, Rory padded over to the wardrobe and opened the door to reveal many fine tunics and breeches, all in a dark forest green. He slid his hand over the fine fabrics. I can't wear these! They are much too fine. He looked around for his own homespun clothes but they were gone, taken, Rory presumed, by whoever had brought in the hot water. Since there was no choice in the matter, Rory picked out the least ostentatious of the tunics and breeches. He found thick hose in one of the drawers and he slid his foot gratefully into the dark green woolen sock. The breeches and tunic fit as if they had been made for him. He tied his long hair back using a thong he found in the wardrobe then started trying to find his boots. They, too, had vanished from the spot where he had placed them the night before. In their place sat a pair of dark green suede half-boots. Rory was no longer surprised when he discovered they fit perfectly.

  Rory went down to the second level and found the duke sitting in a chair by one of the windows. There was a table beneath the window and upon it were platters of eggs, rashers of bacon, several chunks of bread, and a pitcher of what smelled like spiced tea. “Sit down, boy, and have something to eat!"

  Rory drew up the second chair and helped himself to the food. As he ate, he looked at the man across from him, seeing him clearly for the first time. The duke was perhaps sixty or sixty-five years old, with hair of pure white still thick on his head and eyes of a piercing blue like that of a crisp, fall morning. While thin, Duke Richard appeared hale and sound of wind. For the first time, Rory saw the garnet signet ring worn on the duke's left hand, carved in the likeness of a dire wolf. Realizing he was staring, he glanced away and his gaze was arrested by the portrait of a young woman that hung on the wall behind the duke. She was incredibly beautiful, with long black hair that fell over her shoulders in waves of ebony. Her eyes were like the duke's and they were even more compelling by the contrast of the blue with the black hair. The low-cut emerald gown revealed a creamy expanse of throat and bosom, making Rory wonder how she could move without revealing more than she should. The long sleeves were close fit, hinting at shapely arms that ended in elegant hands with long, slim fingers. The gown's full skirt denied any indication of what lay beneath it, but Rory could tell the woman was perfect in every manner.

  "Yes, Rory, that is Abigail. That was painted just before she went to court to become one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting. She was just twenty years old then. I know it's unusual for a woman of her station to be unwed at that age, but my Abigail was of her own mind about such things. I had hoped that a season or two at court would allow her to find someone she could accept as a husband, so I reluctantly let her go.” The duke sipped his tea and then continued. “She was a big hit at court, as cultured and educated as she was beautiful. She soon became the queen's favorite and they were inseparable. Unfortunately, by being what she was, Abigail also attracted the attention of the wrong people and stirred up some jealousy among the other ladies-in-waiting. There was a scandal and Abigail fled the court, finding her refuge in the solitude of the Great Forest.

  "I knew none of this, of course, until I received a notice from the king that Abigail had been banished from the court. I was dumbfounded. I immediately traveled to Aluria and sought an audience with the king, but none was granted. Everywhere I went, there were whispers at my back. I grew increasingly distraught. One night, about a fortnight after I had entered the capital, I received a note from the queen granting me an audience.

  "At the appointed hour, I presented myself at the specified audience chamber and was admitted to see Her Majesty. The queen was a beautiful woman in her own right, although her coloring was the opposite of my Abigail's. Long blonde ringlets and green eyes. I could imagine what a striking pair the two of them had made. I bowed before her, waiting for her permission to rise. It was not long in coming. ‘Rise, Richard, Duke of Westfell. You must tell us what news you have of our dear Abigail.’ I explained to her that I had no news at all and I knew nothing of what had befallen Abigail since she had arrived at court. The queen looked at me and then dismissed her attendants to wait across the room out of earshot. The queen hesitated for a few moments, as if working up the courage to speak. ‘Your daughter was taken from the bed of her lover and imprisoned for a night while the king determined her fate. In the end, he ruled she would be banished from the court itself. Had she been a man, of course, the sentence would have been death.’ Now I was truly confused and it must have shown on my face, for the queen whispered, ‘It was my bed she was found in, Duke Richard. It took me many hours to convince my royal husband that our dalliance meant nothing and she should only be banished. He was very angry for he had planned to make a match between your daughter and the Duke of Eastfell, even though he knew Abigail loathed the man. I learned later the duke had been admitted to Abigail's cell in the dungeon where he raped her before she was sent from the castle clad only in the soiled nightdress she had been wearing when she was captured.’ I was openly sobbing by this point and the queen was quite moved. She went on to tell me that she had learned Abigail had traveled back to Westfell but had vanished at the edge of the Great Forest.

  "Once I had taken my leave of the queen and ultimately the court, I traveled back to Westfell. I contacted the Lords of the Great Forest and learned that Abigail had set up residence in a secluded glen near the western edge. I was also told she had no wish for any visitors and my every petition to see her has been denied."

  Duke Richard fell silent and after a few moments, Rory asked, “Excuse me, but who are the Lords of the Great Forest?"

  "The Great Forest may lie within Aluria, but it belongs to the elven folk. There has long been a pact between Westfell and the elves for our mutual protection. As long as there is a Westfell, the elves will guard our western border while we protect the Great Forest from the east."

  "I have lived in that forest my entire life and I have never seen an elf,” Rory declared.

  "I guess if you have never seen something, then it must not exist. Have you ever seen the Kendrahl Mountains?"

  "Well, no..."

  "Do you doubt their existence?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then doubt not the existence of the elven folk. They have watched over you your entire life. How else could a boy of eight have taken enough food to keep his mother and himself alive? How else would a strapping lad of sixteen have found his way directly to the one place in the world where he would be welcome?"

  Rory thought about this for some time as he stared out the glazed window. Could the elves have guided my steps here? As he recalled, whenever he had thought about changing direction in his travels, some game animal would appear just a little further down the path. It was subtle, yes, but the clues were right there in his memory. So if he accepted the presence of elves, it would explain much about this mysterious tower.

  "The elves take care of you here in this tower, don't they? It was the elves who took my clothes and left me the hot water. They were ones who made these garments so they fit me exactly and prepared this meal for us and keep the tower so immaculate."

  The duke broke into hearty laughter. “Now that would be a sight to see! No, son, it's not the elves who maintain this tower. They arranged for some of the lesser fey to do the work. Pixies and sprites, mainly. They aren't much company, but they sure do great work."

  The duke said,
“Stand up and let me look at you."

  Rory stood and walked over next to the duke. “You are going to be tall, lad, and time will fill out that slight frame of yours.” Comparing the boy to the painting, he said, “You are definitely Abigail's child. You have her features, you know. Your eyes are very much like hers and you have the same black hair, as mine was in my youth."

  "So if Abigail of Westfell was indeed my mother, who then is my father?"

  "As to that, son, there is the slight chance your father is the bastard of Eastfell and you're the product of his rape of Abigail in the dungeon at Aluria. I see nothing of him in your face, though, so I discount that possibility. I have no idea who your father is but I do know who your mother was, and that's my daughter, Abigail. As I said last night, that makes you my heir. One major clue to that is your name. She named you Rorrick, Rory for short, after my father. She loved her grandfather.” He shook his head sadly, then said, “Tomorrow we will leave for Westfell Keep. There is no reason for me to stay here any longer."

  Suddenly a small pixie appeared on the table next to the duke. It was perfectly formed, looking like a human female only six inches high and had golden wings on her back. Her tiny voice was as clear as the tinkling of small bells as she said, “Your Grace, the Lords of the Forest request that you speak with them in one hour at the edge of the Forest."

  "Very well. Please express my pleasure at their invitation and let them know we will be there at the appointed time.” The duke turned to Rory and said, “This is rare. It has been many years since they last spoke with me. It is very important for us both to be completely unarmed when we are with them. The elven folk do not like iron or things even containing a bit of that metal."

  Rory nodded his head. “Abigail used to tell me tales of the elven folk when I was little. Those tales included the fact that iron is an anathema to elves."

  * * * *

  Rory walked slightly behind and to the left of the duke as they followed the pixie past the edge of the forest. As they moved deeper into the woods, the quality of light penetrating to the forest floor seemed to change. Rory realized the very trees themselves were different; far older and taller than any he'd ever encountered growing up. They soon entered a clearing in which three elves stood waiting.

  The duke said quietly, “The one in the center is the Elven King, Alaric. To his right is his son and heir, Brightblade. I don't know the third one."

  Rory studied the elves. As a species, elves were taller than most humans, well over six feet in height. Their lean builds belied their wiry strength. They were garbed in the colors of the forest itself, various shades of greens and browns that blended into a harmonious pattern yet would camouflage them easily.

  The elven king raised one hand in greeting as he said, “Hail, Richard, Duke of Westfell."

  The duke came to a halt ten feet from the elves and said, “Hail, Alaric, King of the Forest Lords. It is an honor to stand in your presence once more."

  Rory realized the elven prince was staring at him, as if memorizing everything about him. He returned the other's look with one of his own. The elven prince was tall and darkly handsome. His long black hair was bound behind his neck by a silver clasp. He bore on his hip a single sheathed dagger and wore a scabbarded sword across his back. As he studied the prince, Roy was assailed by the feeling he had seen this elf before.

  "Duke Richard,” Alaric said, “please accept our deepest condolences on the loss of your daughter, Abigail. She was much loved by the elven folk and will be missed. Know that the four soldiers who murdered her have been dealt with and never left the Great Forest."

  Rory had caught a fleeting glimpse of pain in the eyes of the elven prince as Abigail's name was mentioned. The harsh set of the prince's mouth left no doubt in Rory's mind who had dealt with the soldiers.

  Alaric continued. “I see that Rorrick has found his way to your side."

  "Yes, Abigail's child has returned to his family. I have made him my heir. The pact between our peoples will continue for another generation,” Duke Richard said. “We will depart for Westfell Keep tomorrow so Rorrick can learn what he needs to in order to rule when I am gone."

  "Before you depart, we must come to an agreement, for there are things you do not know about young Rorrick. First, you must know he is not the result of his mother's terrible experience in the dungeons of Aluria. He is, in fact, the result of a loving relationship between Abigail and Prince Brightblade, which makes him not only Heir of Westfell and your grandson, but mine as well."

  Rory then said to the prince, “Why did you abandon my mother so I have no clear memory of you at her side?"

  Brightblade replied, “It was at her request. When she decided to masquerade as an old woman living with a foundling boy, she begged me to stay away so the ruse would not be discovered. I tried in vain to convince her that she need not fear while she lived in our forest, but time has proven that in this matter, she was wiser than I. I spent years watching over you both and, on that terrible day, I chose to follow you deeper into the forest than you had gone before. Her screams brought me back but I was too late; the curs had already killed her. I watched over you as you buried her and, while you slept, tracked down the four men and took my revenge.” His tone was cold and implacable as he spoke of tracking them down. Rory did not want to think about the grim deaths they had endured at the hands and blades of this elven warrior prince.

  Brightblade stepped forward and laid his hand upon Rory's shoulder. “I know not what strengths you may have gained through the mingling of our blood, but you are a child of both heritages. As you go out into the human realm, I would ask that you take a bit of your elven heritage as well.” With that, he slipped off the scabbard of the elven sword he wore and handed it to Rory. “This is Wolf Fang, a blade I made for you. It is forged of star metal without trace of iron and has been enchanted with runes of power. The blade will never shatter, nor will it ever dull."

  Rory drew the magnificent sword from the scabbard and exclaimed at the sheer beauty of the deadly weapon. The blade was almost four feet in length and was burnished as bright as a silver mirror. Delicate elven enchantments were incised into the metal itself, light traceries of script that seemed to flow along the length of the shining blade. The hilt was wrapped in straps of dark green leather while the pommel was topped by a snarling wolf's head. The matching scabbard was also of dark green, as was the chest strap that held the scabbard across the wearer's back.

  "Even a duke's heir cannot wear a sword at all times, but no one would think twice about a personal dagger. I want you to carry mine. It is, in all ways, as enchanted as the sword and made from the same materials.” As he handed over the sheathed dagger, Rory noticed this one was less ostentatious with a plain leather hilt and a small silver ball at the pommel. Drawing the dagger from the sheath revealed the exquisite craftsmanship on the blade. It, too, had the faint traceries of the elven enchantment sealed into the metal itself and the blade seemed to shine with an inner light.

  Returning the dagger to its sheath, Rory said, “I thank you for these magnificent weapons, but I must ask you one thing. They seem to shine. How do you do anything with stealth if your blades become such beacons?"

  Brightblade chuckled. “When you draw them outside this forest, they will appear as ordinary blades to human eyes. The fact you can see them shine shows elven blood is strong within you.” Turning to the duke, he asked, “Tell me, did you see the shine Rorrick spoke of?"

  "No, Prince Brightblade, I saw nothing out of the ordinary at all,” the duke replied.

  Alaric said, “And that brings us to another point. Young Rorrick must learn of his elven heritage as well as his human one. We would like you to take one of our warriors with you on your trip to Westfell Keep. He will serve as Rorrick's weapons master and teach him the elven ways of fighting and answer any questions he may have about his father's race.” Gesturing to the elven warrior, he added, “This is Swiftstalker."

  The duke studied
the warrior and nodded. “Lord Swiftstalker, I welcome your company for the road and your skills in training my heir. You do understand that most humans either no longer believe in elves or are afraid of them."

  The elf warrior gave a small smile. “Those who do not believe will think me just a tall human. Those who fear will avoid me or understand too well the reason they are afraid of elves.” To Rory, he added, “I have seen you use a bow and for someone relatively untrained, you have a good eye. I know you have no experience with a sword but that training will wait until we reach Westfell Keep."

  Alaric turned to Duke Richard, saying, “The pixies will continue to serve as our means of contacting one another. They are upset you are leaving the tower and are worried they have failed you in some manner."

  Brightblade said, “Do not be alarmed if I should happen to drop in to see my son. I would like to get to know him just as he should become acquainted with me."

  "You are always welcome in Westfell, Prince,” the duke said. “Please, assure the pixies that their service has been exemplary. If they should so wish, I would welcome them to continue to serve in Westfell itself."

  Chapter 3

  Rory had not expected the large escort of soldiers in dark green livery with the wolf's head on their banners. The master-at-arms and Swiftstalker had been like two stray tomcats when they first met; each sizing up the other in case they had to fight. The duke had settled that possible conflict quite thoroughly when he said, “Swiftstalker is the personal weapons master and trainer to my heir, Rorrick of Westfell. He answers to Rorrick and Rorrick answers to me. Is that understood by everyone?"

  The escort had brought three horses. Swiftstalker had already calmed his roan after removing the human saddle, bridle, and bit. He replaced them with a simple blanket pad and a woven halter. As Rory walked over to observe, Swiftstalker said quietly, “I know you have never before ridden a horse. You are in for an uncomfortable few days until you grow accustomed to it. However, I doubt this escort will press a hard pace since the duke is old and it has been long since he sat in a saddle."