Whill shook his head and closed his eyes once more. No.
Very well. See your own life energy again, and once more go beyond it. See what is before you, the life energy of the garden.
All around him was light, light in the form of life energy. He saw plants and flowers, trees and insects, all with their own distinct auras. At first it seemed like a blinding ocean of color, with no distinct shapes or features. But the longer he viewed the garden in this manner, the more clearly it all became. Unlike normal sight, mental sight had far fewer boundaries. Nothing was solid; rather, all things appeared to be translucent light. This being so, Whill could see beyond the large akella plant before him, and the rose bush beyond that. Then he gasped as he saw Zerafin, seated in the meditative position about twenty yards away. His aura was bright white at the center and gradually turned to yellow and then orange as it dissipated.
I see you.
“Very good,” said Zerafin aloud, as he rose and came toward Whill. “Now come back and see with your eyes. Mental viewing takes more energy than you think, especially from one such as yourself.”
Whill reluctantly pulled back with his mind and found blackness once more. He slowly blinked and rubbed his forehead as he became dizzy. “Yes, I guess it does. I am a bit worn out, and have a slight headache.”
“As well you might. I would suggest you get some rest, but there is another lesson I want to teach today. Here, this will help.”
Zerafin lifted his hand. Within his palm, a small ball of pale blue light formed as if from mist. He pulled back his hand slightly and then pushed the ball forward. It floated quickly through the air and hit Whill in the chest. Instantly Whill was revitalized. His headache vanished, and all weakness left his body.
“That was amazing. But…didn’t it weaken you? Giving me your own energy?”
Zerafin shook his head and raised his hand, pointing out the ring on his index finger. It was silver with a small blue gem the size of a cranberry at the center.
“The energy came from this.”
Whill reached out and touched the ring. “You can store energy in things other than your swords?”
“Of course we can. The energy from our swords is stored in the gems within them. Long ago we discovered that gems like this one could be used to store energy. When a sword is made for an elf warrior, a gemstone much larger than this one is stored within the hilt of the weapon. The stone within can hold an untold amount of energy, and so almost anything can be a host for the energy stones—swords, knives, axes, rings, bracelets, and so on. In fact, many elf warriors have gemstones imbedded within their own flesh, in case they are stripped of their weapons.”
“Have you done this?”
“Do I look like a fool?”
Of course, Whill thought. A warrior would be a fool not to do such a thing. “So…where is yours?”
Zerafin only smiled. “When you have practiced mind-sight a bit more, you will be able to find it yourself. For now I would like you to try something else.” He looked around the garden for a moment as if seeking something he had lost. “Ah, this will do.” He picked up a rock that was about the size of a child’s fist and set it between him and Whill.
“You have exhibited a vast amount of abilities and powers that most elves do not begin to acquire until they have practiced the ways of Orna Catorna for years, sometimes decades,” Zerafin said. “Now I would like you to try something else that I do not doubt you have the ability to do. I want you to move this stone without touching it.”
Whill awaited further instruction but none came. He shook his head. “But how do I…?”
“How did you heal Tarren? How did you heal the infant? Tell me, how did you use the energy within your father’s blade?”
Whill thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I just…wanted things to happen. I wanted Tarren to be alive, I wanted the child to live, I…I wanted the Draggard to die.”
“Well, then, there you have it. You must want to move the rock.”
Whill focused on the rock and envisioned it moving. Nothing happened. He asked it to lift. Nothing happened. He tried to rock it back and forth. Nothing, Zerafin only gave him a blank stare and lowered his gaze to the stone.
For more than twenty minutes Whill tried to move the stone, but to no avail. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he gave up. “I can’t do it. I—”
“Stop right there, before you say something foolish and ridiculous. You can do anything you believe you can. That is not some inspirational babble meant to give you confidence, it is the absolute truth. You, me, we—all beings possess the ability to do incredible things, but not many have the belief that allows it to happen. You humans are taught at a very young age by your elders the so-called laws of nature. All you have learned is what they have been able to do or not do. The possibilities are never practiced because a wall of doubt lies before your imagination. But what does it take for a possibility to become a reality? It takes one person doing it—and then, then, my friend, it is a law. It is real.”
Zerafin focused on the stone and instantly it rose into the air. It hovered above their heads, less than four feet off the ground, then slowly floated above Whill.
“Look at me, Whill.” As Whill did so, the rock fell and hit him on top of the head.
“Ow!” Whill protested as he rubbed the bump.
Zerafin laughed. “Now you know it is possible, else your head would not hurt.”
Chapter XXIV
The Meeting of the Kings
THE FOLLOWING DAY THE SOUND of trumpets assaulted the morning tranquility of the courtyard. Whill arose to discover what the noise was about. From his window he could see that someone had just arrived, someone of great importance.
“Tarren, come quickly, you must see this!”
The lad hurried to the window. “Is it the king of Shierdon? Has he arrived for the meeting?”
“I believe so.”
A small army of soldiers entered the castle gates, marching in a line five abreast and ten deep. They wore full armor, silver with a flowing purple cape that stopped at the knee. At each man’s side hung a great sword, with a purple-fabric-laced hilt and a purple gem set at the base. At the head of the troop walked two soldiers carrying the flag of Shierdon. The flag was also purple with a silver hawk at the center. The hawk, Whill remembered, was a beloved pet of the Shierdonians. They had taken the creatures as pets and hunting companions over six hundred years before. The hawks were used to send correspondence in times of war and peace. They could deliver a message in one quarter the time a horseman could; they could silently find prey miles away, and catch a fish twice its size at their master’s command. The great hawks could go unseen in the daytime as well as at night, for their feathers changed color to match their surroundings, much like a chameleon. They were named silver hawks because of all the colors, silver was the one they donned naturally when not trying to hide. One of Shierdon’s greatest strengths was its command of these great birds, which had been bred to reach the size of ponies, with wingspans of over ten feet.
The people of Shierdon had even trained a great number of these birds to carry the smallest of men, who were called the Hawk Knights of Shierdon. They were an elite army of specially trained soldiers, small but very strong and fiercely quick. In combat they carried a crossbow and a pair of long, thin daggers. Their armor was thick leather, three layers thick, with mail between each. Every inch of the knight’s armor was adorned with hawk feathers, and in this way the rider would change color along with his hawk, if the hawk permitted it. The knights were sometimes called the ghost assassins because of their ability to drop down on their enemies unnoticed and strike them dead in an instant. They could infiltrate enemy camps without so much as a sound. In battle they could rain hell from above.
The Shierdonians had such control over the great hawks because they had control over that which the hawks craved most, hawks bane. A purple flower that grows only in the northernmost regions of Shierdon, hawks bane is the favo
red treat of the great silver hawk. For that reason it had been made illegal many centuries past to export even the smallest amount of the plant to any other country. With an abundance of hawks bane, the Shierdonians had trained the birds to do a great many things. The most impressive by far was the ability of the master trainers and hawk knights to communicate with the birds through an intricate form of code tapped out on wooden blocks, the human with the knuckle, the birds its beak. A trainer needed hawks bane at his disposal to tame the beasts, but over time, once the bird learned the code and could virtually speak to its master, a great bond was forged, and the hawk served out of love and loyalty rather than simply for the flower it so desired.
Whill saw, as if out of thin air, and as silent as a mute’s cry, five Hawk Knights swoop down to the courtyard. He stared in awe at the legendary sight and was not at all disappointed. They had arrived virtually unseen because they had been as blue as the sky, hawk and rider. Four of the birds had landed on the grass and instantly changed to dark green, as did their riders. The other bird had landed on the cobblestone path, however, and had turned many shades of grey and brown. Being done with the mission, they now all in turn changed to their natural color, a most brilliant silver. Their feathers shone in the morning sun with the brilliance of a cloud’s lining. The great hawks folded their wings and settled to the ground as their riders dismounted.
Most of the hundreds of Eldalonian soldiers lining the courtyard took up clapping and cheering, only to receive a stern look from their respective generals.
Next in the entourage came a man on a brown steed, unmistakably adorned. This rider, at seventy-nine one of the oldest of his stature in the kingdoms, but riding like a man half his age, came King Ainamaf of Shierdon. Behind him followed his first general, three advisors, and fifty more soldiers.
“What’s all the ruckus about, anyway?” came a familiar voice from the guest room door. Roakore strode towards Whill and Tarren with all seriousness. But as he reached the window and his eyes caught the shining hawks of Shierdon, his voice failed him.
“King Ainamaf of Shierdon has arrived. The meeting will be this day at noon, as you know.”
“Why, yes, yes, o’ course, but—it’s just, do ye reckon—ye think them birds would become gold in me people’s halls—an’ like that o’ a diamond? I’ve heard o’ them plenty from me people. They can change color, ye know—never seen it, but it’s true, ye know. They been known to take on the ways of water if needed.”
Tarren was quick to concur. “Right, they can! They changed all kinds of colors they did, blue and green and grey and brown, it was amazing, and the knights too.” But Roakore seemed to not hear a word.
“I tell ye what lad, an’ mark me words—before my days are through, I aim to get me one o’ them hawks.” He suddenly lifted Tarren off his feet and began flying him across the room in his strong hands. “Can you imagine it, boy? Aside from a hell o’ a lot more muscle, I’m ’bout the same size as one o’ them riders. Them beasts’d carry me, no worries. Roakore the Silver Hawk Rider is what they’d call me, among other things.” He flew Tarren in circles and finally landed him upon the floor once again.
Whill smiled to hear Tarren laughing jubilantly, like he had before, like he would again. The lad can still find joy in this world, Whill thought. He will be alright after all. He would find despair in life, he would know grief again, but he had passed life’s cruelest of tests already, and he would be ready. He would survive.
The meeting of the kings commenced as scheduled at noon. It began with formal greetings and a feast fit for, well, kings. Whill was introduced to King Ainamaf by King Mathus. Ainamaf looked younger than his years, which rumors said was due to his dabbling in dark magic, but Whill knew better than to believe such things. A firm hand he had also, the grip of a swordsman, and a certain look about him when he met your eye, as if he knew something that remained a mystery to you. Whill was lost for a moment as he tried to discover just what that mystery might be, and was met with a laugh from Ainamaf.
“I have been told I have a knowing face, a…warlock’s grin, if you will.” He shook Whill’s hand. “I find it is quite handy in knowing what I wish. There are a numbered few who can lie to my face.”
Representatives from each of the ruling kingdoms of Agora were in attendance, aside from the war-stricken Isladon. With the feast and pleasantries over, King Mathus bid each in attendance to follow him to the meeting hall, a short distance from the dining room. The meeting hall was grand in scale and adorned with nothing but high ceilings and bare stone walls, so as not to distract anyone. At its center was a grand circular oak table, able to seat more than fifty. Mathus’ servants seated the many in attendance and then left the room immediately, closing behind them the great wooden doors.
King Mathus stood before his audience and spoke, his voice echoing loudly in the great room. “First I must thank you all for attending. I know the road was long, the notice short. I know you all have been introduced, but for the records, let me name one and all out who are here today. I myself, King Mathus of Eldalon. My most trusted advisor and general, Rhunis the Dragonslayer. King Ainamaf of Shierdon and his three advisors, General Sudden, the Fireblade, and the scholars Hellious and Bernoran. The Prince Zerafin and Princess Avriel of Elladrindellia. Roakore, soon-to-be king of the Ebony Mountains. Abram, former general, knight, and personal friend of the late king of Uthen-Arden.”
Mathus looked at Whill for a moment, sharing the knowledge that this was the first official declaration of Whill’s position. “And I give you Whill of Agora, son of the late king of Uthen-Arden, and rightful king of the Arden empire.”
Ainamaf eyed Whill as his advisors whispered at his side, He only raised an eyebrow and smiled that knowing smile.
Mathus spoke once again. “Now that we have all been introduced, I expect you all have taken notice of the absence of the kings of both Shierdon and Uthen-Arden, which is why we are here today. As you also know, war has broken out between these two nations. This meeting has been called to decide what, if any, action we shall take in this matter. “King Ainamaf, we have all had time to discuss what we know about this war. Would you please tell us what words have reached the north?”
Ainamaf looked up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “There are many rumors, of course. Word from Arden is that Isladon is in league with the Draggard, that King Addakon is at this moment fighting to ensure the freedom of all the good peoples of Agora. Strangely enough, there is no word from Isladon either to defend or deny this rumor. But the faint argument among the people is that Addakon is the one in league with the Draggard, and has begun his campaign to overtake this continent.”
Whill was disturbed briefly by Ainamaf’s complacency, his matter-of-fact speech. He could have been talking about the weather.
“Abram,” King Mathus said, “would you please tell us what you believe to be the truth is in this matter?”
Abram rose to his feet and nodded to King Mathus. “My idea of the truth is this: Addakon is indeed in league with the Draggard. He made the first strike against all nations of this continent in his siege of the Ebony Mountains, and now he has invaded Isladon. I believe if he is not stopped now, or at least met with strong resistance, he will succeed in his conquest.”
“What proof do you have of these accusations, Abram?” Ainamaf asked.
“Only a fair knowledge of Addakon’s personality. And the fact that upon journeying here, my party was attacked by a horde of Draggard led by a Dark elf. And that Whill, son of Aramonis, has been on the run with me for twenty years because Addakon killed his father. And that twenty years ago the Ebony Mountains were overrun by Draggard, who still grow in numbers within the great dwarf halls.”
Ainamaf sat as if waiting for more, his face emotionless. “A horde of Draggard led by an elf, you say?” Abram only nodded. Ainamaf chuckled. “I, for one, have never seen a Dark elf. As far as I know they are a strange tale told by a strange people. The fact that the elves led the h
orde of Draggard only suggests to me that you may wish to be more cautious in the company you keep. And as for young Whill here—well, how many stories are there of a fallen king, or betrayal for the sake of power? Addakon very well may have killed his brother for the throne, but that does not indicate that he wants domination of Agora.”
“I was there, good sir,” Abram said. “I was there when Addakon betrayed his brother, and I saw with my own eyes the Draggard army at his command.”
“Is that so? I had not heard of this before. Let me ask you this, Abram. If, as you say, Addakon has command of the Draggard, why would he not station them in the dwarf mountains within his own Kingdom?” He looked at Roakore. “Perhaps he saw the Ebony Mountains a weaker target.”
Roakore said nothing, but his nostrils flared and he shifted in his chair.
Ainamaf let the slightest smirk find his face. “Perhaps the reason the Draggard took the Ebony Mountains is because they are within Isladon, and the attack was ordered by the King of Isladon.”
Abram held out his hands. “I suspect you have more to say on the subject. By all means, go ahead.”
“To be blunt, sir, all of your so-called facts have no merit. Was this meeting called so that we may all assume the facts, that we may take the advice of a long-retired ex–personal guard who happened to become so only weeks before his king was slain? Should we be up in arms because Dark elves whom no one has ever seen are running amuck in Agora?
“I have a few ideas of the truth myself, if I may. The elves of Elladrindellia arrived here and took refuge. Then came the Draggard, whom the elves themselves admit to having created. The Draggard have inhabited the Ebony Mountains for twenty long years and Isladon has done nothing. Addakon has taken the first step in eradicating this unholy scourge, and we debate sides? Gentlemen, this is painfully simple. The elves brought the Draggard to this land; the elves control the Draggard, you said it yourself, Abram. The elves, it appears, are in league with Isladon and the Draggard.”
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 111