A Crown Of War (Book 4) (18 page)

Eadon
paused, and Whill stood beside Zerafin and Avriel. Zerafin’s face was void of expression, but his eyes darted anxiously as he waited for Eadon to go on. Avriel hid neither her anger, nor her fear. Whill noticed many of the dwarves had been nodding, or sharing glances, testing each other’s resolve.

“
The dwarves of Agora have lost much for these elves, and for what? Have they shared with you their great secrets, their power? Have your lives been enriched by their presence? I would end this war, before any more blood is shed.”

“
Lyin’ son o’ bitch!” Roakore screamed into the sky. His face was beet red, and his hands wrung his axe handle so hard it seemed his white knuckles might pop. Many of the men and dwarves jumped at the exclamation, having been pulled from the effects of Eadon’s voice; more than a few of their faces reddened with the guilt of their thoughts.

Far
away, upon the southern oceans of Agora, Tarren and the others heard Eadon’s words. Helzendar mumbled profanities as he clenched the rail facing north. Lunara held a hand over her mouth as deep tears pooled in her eyes. The Watcher however simply stood and listened; his face shone neither fear nor anger. Tarren wondered if this was the end of all things.

“
I have come to Agora seeking only my brethren,” Eadon continued, “I have no fight with dwarves or humans. I want only what was stolen from me long ago. I seek only the ancient blade. One among you is in possession of this blade; one among you can end this war: Whill of Agora! Your name remains the last secret hope of the masses, and you are my last hope as well. The Elves of the Sun would let Agora burn out of sheer stubbornness. They have done nothing to stop this war. You can. You can end it all.”

Humans,
dwarves, and even elves looked to Whill then. In some of their eyes was accusation; in others, hope. The Uthen-Arden soldiers glanced at the blade in wonder. The legend of Whill of Agora had suddenly come to blazing life before their eyes. A small, rumbling shudder coursed through the earth once more, and cries rang out in the city as everyone prepared for another series of violent earthquakes, but they never came. Once again, Eadon’s voice echoed from all directions.

“
As a show of faith to all of Agora, I shall give you seven days of peace. If Whill does not come to Felspire with the ancient blade by the seventh sunset, I will be forced to destroy you all.”

Eadon
’s last word echoed throughout the land, through every tunnel in every dwarf mountain. It was heard by every man, woman, and child, every dwarf, and every elf in Agora.

The
Del-Oradon Castle courtyard was utterly silent. All eyes were on Whill, waiting for him to do something, anything. He avoided the waiting gazes and turned to Alrick.

“
Bring me to the castle war room,” he told the bishop, and with a nod to them, Roakore, Zerafin, Avriel, and Justice Walker followed him.

Whill
had imagined his glorious return to his family’s castle many times; reality held none of the romantic luster of his daydreams. He had solved one problem, only to find another waiting for him. Seven days. Whill’s mind raced as he tried for the thousandth time to think of a way he might actually defeat the dark elf. To his surprise, Eadon’s ultimatum came as a bit of a relief to him. In only a week, it would be over. For better or worse, it would be over.

Alrick
led them from the bailey and through the thick double doors of the castle. He ushered them swiftly into the great hall. Whill felt a pang of sorrow upon seeing the beauty of his family’s castle. The great hall was twice as long as wide, with a long, dark table of highly polished wood that could seat more than a hundred. The long table, however, was dwarfed by the room’s high wooden arches of dark red and gold that seemed to grow like webs from the walls. Banners and flags hung all around, along with paintings of kings of old and artwork depicting battles won and beauties sought. Axes, swords, daggers, and war hammers ornamented the walls as well. A large map of Agora hung on the southern wall. At the middle of the eastern and western walls, twin stone fireplaces burned low fires; their chimneys towered to the ceilings and became lost in the web of arches. The floor was a highly-polished dark wood that hid well the heavy footfalls as Whill and the others moved through. Curved molding along the walls led to lighter brown, recessed panels, curving out from the center in an X-pattern. The wooden panels gave way to walls of mineral-rich, rough-surfaced stone. Light from the tall and narrow windows−which reminded Whill of long talons−sent the walls dancing with fractured light as he moved through it.

Many
doors led off from the great hall, but the group took none of them. At the end of the hall, Alrick led them to the left and behind a wall that had been hidden from view until now. Behind it, a wide staircase brought them to a set of large double doors. Alrick opened the doors and bowed before Whill as he entered. Many of the elven masters had come with their king; likewise, Holdagozz and Philo came with Roakore. Walker had brought one man with him. Whill took a moment to search the man’s mind, and he found nothing of import.

The
war room looked as though it had not been used in decades. Cobwebs draped chandeliers like curtains, and a fine layer of dust had settled upon everything. Alrick swiftly went to lighting the many torches, but, with a lazy wave of Krundar Master Arngil’s hand, all of the torches blazed to life.

“
This room ain’t been used in an age!” Roakore grumbled.

“
No, it has not been used since the days of King Aramonis. Addakon took what items he found useful, and moved them to one of his underground chambers. He seemed always to be down in those dark chambers,” said Alrick.

“
Food and drink please, Alrick. We have had a long journey,” said Whill, sitting down at the round table.

“
Of course,” Alrick bowed, and swiftly left the room.

Whill
blew the dust off of the table, and began wiping at it with his cloak. Walker joined him, and soon a map of Agora−with a large, blown-up map of Uthen-Arden within it−shone brightly beneath the table’s clear surface.

“
Please, join me,” Whill bade them all with open arms.

When
everyone was seated, Whill looked to each of them in turn. He was not striving for dramatic flair; he simply did not know where to begin.

“
We have seven days,” said Whill, “and I am at a loss.”

“
I says we march our arses right to this…Felspire, and kill the dark bastard right now,” said Roakore, jabbing his stubby finger with the last four words.

“
I couldn’t agree more my friend, but how do you suggest we accomplish the feat?” Whill asked.

“
Ye got the damned sword o’ power, ain’t ye? It be time to quit the lollygaggin’, and lay that devil low.”

“
It isn’t that easy,” said Whill.

“
It be written in the prophecy o’ old that you be the one doin it, with the bloody blade at your hip. Me damned mountain, and the mountains o’ me kin been invaded!” Roakore suddenly exploded with rage and slammed the table as he stood from his chair. “It be time for you to be fulfillin’ the prophecy.”

“
Writings of old are oft as lies of old,” Whill said calmly.

Roakore
heard the words from the
Book of Ky’Dren
once more, and in his mind’s eye he saw the massive timber that he had moved. He became so angry that he began to shake; his words came forth, tinged by restraint, as if a hurricane was building inside the dwarf king.

“
I have no time for idle talk,” said Roakore, and pointed a shaking hand at the elven masters. “Agora shall burn thrice over before you lot get off your tree huggin’ arses and do anything useful. I…Bah, I be wastin’ me breath! Come on!” he said to Philo, and stormed to the door.

“
Roakore!” Avriel begged.

“
King!” Zerafin yelled, and Roakore stopped at the door.

“
We need you,” Whill told him.

“
Me people be needin’ me, and I be needin’ them,” said Roakore over his shoulder. After a time in which it seemed he might talk himself into staying, he stormed out of the room with Philo in tow.

“
Excuse me,” said Whill to his guests, and got up from the table.

“
Give this to the dwarf king, so that you may contact him…should he leave,” said Avolarra En’Kayen, a master seer. She handed him a large circular crystal, chiseled with so many edges that Whill saw dozens of reflections. He pocketed the trinket and left the room. In his haste, Roakore was nearly across the great hall when Whill came down the stairs.

“
Roakore!” he called, but the stubborn dwarf king did not stop.

Whill
sped across the great hall in a blur of motion and stood before his friend, causing him to stop abruptly.

“
Please, speak with me for a moment,” Whill asked.

Roakore
took a deep breath and his rigid shoulders sagged. He looked tired, and haunted. He nodded to Philo, and the dwarf took the cue. When Philo was well out of earshot, Whill regarded his friend with concern.

“
What is it?”

“
What be what? Roakore replied.

“
Cut the shyte, Roakore. Something has been eating at you since the fall of the crystal fortress. I know that you are anxious to learn of your mountain’s fate, but there is something else.”

Roakore
puffed up as if to make an argument, but he deflated with a long sigh. Looking around suspiciously, he pulled Whill to the corner where they might have more privacy.

“
During the battle in Drindellia,” Roakore began, but paused as if searching for the words or the courage to speak them. He licked his dry lips and continued.

“
One o’ them blasted dark elves sent a large stone sailing through the air. I didn’t see it right well, but Philo yelled something about a boulder. I thought it was a slab o’ stone, and I sent it flying back at the devil. But…when the dust settled, I saw that it was no stone at all, but a piece o’ lumber broken off a catapult arm.”

Roakore
had begun to shake, not with rage, but as if he were very cold. The deep curve of his brow spoke of loss and regret. Whill had never seen the light in his friend’s eyes shine more dimly. The dwarf king’s haunted eyes searched Whill’s, asking if he understood the severity of what he had said.

“
I moved wood with me mind, as though it was stone!” said Roakore in a strained whisper. “The
Book o’ Ky’Dren
be true. The elves didn’t help Ky’Dren’s dwarves in Drindellia, and there ain’t no help to be found from them now. The stories o’ the dwarf gods be a lie as well.”

“
You don’t know that for sure,” Whill interjected reassuringly, but Roakore would not hear it.

“
Our religion be based on the fact that me line can move stone! It be a gift from the gods and proof of their existence. And it be a lie! It be nothing but an elf trick.”

“
That does not disprove the existence of the dwarven gods.”

“
It ain’t provinʼ they be real either,” Roakore argued.

“
You told me yourself that you saw your father’s spirit float free of his bones when you reclaimed the mountain,” said Whill.

“
That proves that there be some sort o’ life after death; it says nothing o’ gods and the like. Besides, I could have been hallucinatin’.”

“
Do not cheapen that moment with your doubts, you know as well as I do that what you saw was real. I saw…hell, I spoke with my father, and saved the infant life of my mother’s reincarnated soul. What you saw was real; there is some kind of life after death.”

“
That ain’t changing the fact that me ability ain’t cominʼ from the gods. And, if there be no gods, there be no mountain o’ the gods,” Roakore insisted.

Whill
sighed and patted the distraught dwarf on the shoulder.

“
The truth of the past, the answers of the grave, these things cannot be known with surety. All that we know for certain is that we know nothing for certain.”

“
One thing I be knowin’ for certain be that me dwarves need me, and me mountain needs me. This battle be one o’ powerful casters and magic trinkets. It ain’t no place for a dwarf.”

“
You have a magic inside of you too Roakore. If you can control wood, you can learn other-”

“
I ain’t wantin to be learnin’ no elf magic; it ain’t right, nor be it rightly natural. A warrior be as good as his heart, his mind, his brawn, and his skill. Spells and magic be devilʼs work, don’t ye be doubtin.”

“
Devilʼs work or not, it exists, and it can only be defended against by like force,” Whill told him.

“
Bah, ye fight a devil with devil tools, ye best be fightin yerself. You humans got such a sayin’ ain’t ye? Best ye heed the works o’ yer people. But, for me, I’ll be havin’ none o’ it.”