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  Whill spoke softly, choosing his words carefully. “Tarren. I am sorry about your family. I could say that I feel somewhat responsible for it all, for merely coming into your life. But Abram, I am afraid, would prove one way or another that I am not. These things happen, he would say. They cannot be changed, and they cannot be altered. I do beg to differ.” He looked into Tarren’s distant eyes. When he did not look back, Whill gently grabbed his shoulders. “Tarren I was not strong enough to see. I did not know. If I had, I would have stopped it all from happening-know that I would. But believe me when I say-no, I vow-that no ill fate shall befall you again. So long as I am here and able to stop it, nothing will happen to you. I swear on my life.”

  At last Tarren met his gaze. “I miss them.”

  Whill fought a lump in his throat. “I know you do, lad. Of course you do. But take heart in the time you had together. Honor and remember them always, and you will have gained their approval forevermore.”

  Tarren hugged Whill but this time did not sob. “What will become of me now? Now that my family is gone?”

  How ironic life was, Whill thought. How often the parts we play are changed, whether we were ready or not. Seldom could one pinpoint when and how one’s life changed, when one had to step up and take on the unknown. But Whill knew at that moment that this was one of those times.

  “I shall claim you as my own, Tarren, as my ward. You have no family aside from those who perished, and therefore I have the right, as your recent guardian, to do so. You shall be named my ward, and shall be recognized by my remaining family who, I have just recently found out, is the royalty of Uthen-Arden and Eldalon.”

  Whill smiled as Tarren gave him the most puzzled look he had ever seen.

  Whill took the opportunity to speak with Abram and the king over breakfast. As planned, the meal was not served in the king’s grand dining room, which was under repair, but rather in Whill’s own room. The food was set on a small table on the balcony overlooking the bustling courtyard. Whill entered the room to find Abram and King Mathus already seated and waiting.

  “I am sorry for my tardiness, but I had pressing…issues to deal with,” said Whill as he took a seat at the circular table.

  “No need for apologies, Whill,” said Mathus. “How is the lad?”

  Whill shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I imagine.”

  “It is a tragedy indeed,” the king said. “His entire family…unspeakable.”

  Whill sat up and breathed deeply, trying to appear confident. “I have claimed him officially, to him and now to you, as my ward. It is my right as his last caregiver and I have taken it. I expect him to be welcomed into the Eldalon royal family, and that he will be treated as such.”

  Whill dared not meet Abram’s eyes and so instead he watched the king’s reaction. He was silent for a while. Finally he lifted his glass of orange juice, drank, put it down, and said, “So be it. I will have it seen to immediately. The boy Tarren is now your ward.”

  He took Whill’s hand. “I sincerely and openly welcome Tarren into our family, as I have you.”

  Whill finally looked at Abram, who only smiled and drank his own orange juice. “And let it be known to your sons and whomever else holds stock in my claim: I want only the Uthen-Arden throne as my own, and look forward to the bond we shall share as nations.”

  Mathus raised his glass. “To the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, my grandson, Whill of Agora.”

  As the door closed behind King Mathus, Whill finally let out a sigh of relief. Abram sat down and lit his pipe.

  “You never fail to surprise and impress me, Whill.”

  “Trust me. I thought it out, and I know what it entails. It was the only honorable thing to do. And I like the lad.”

  “You did right. I am proud of your decision and the way you handled yourself this morning. And I may be a fool, but I feel as though I have gained a grandson myself.”

  Whill smiled. “You have, my friend. Indeed you have.”

  Since only ashes remained of Tarren’s family, and they were hundreds of miles away, oak ashes were provided for Tarren in their stead. Once the ashes where recovered from the destroyed inn, placed in an urn, and sent from Fendale, they would fill an urn that would be given to Tarren. The funeral ceremony was held some miles outside of Kell-Torey, upon a hill of Tarren’s choosing. The king attended, as did Whill, Abram, Zerafin, Avriel, Rhunis, and Roakore. It was a symbolic ritual in which Tarren could say goodbye, spread the ashes, and honor his fallen family.

  The spring had only just conquered this stretch of land, but the air was mild. Tarren opened the urn and spoke bravely.

  “Goodbye, Father. Goodbye, Mother. Farewell, Grandpa, Gram, sisters. I will honor you always and try to remember you always.” Tears welled in his eyes, but he went on. “I will be a man soon, and although you have already been avenged, I offer the promise that I will be a good man and fight for those who cannot. I will be just and true, that you may forever look down upon me with pride.”

  He fell to his knees as he opened the lid. The faint spring wind carried the ashes high into the air, though it should have been too weak to do so.

  Whill stepped forward and put a hand upon Tarren’s shoulder. “I say farewell also, and promise to hold Tarren to his oath. I swear upon the name of my father that I will do all I can to raise this boy to become a man you would be proud of. I hope I do not fail where you have succeeded.”

  His words rose up with the ashes into the noonday sun, and there disappeared.

  Dinner that night was a solemn affair. Tarren stayed behind in his room, wanting to be alone. The remainder of the group ate with King Mathus and discussed the coming meeting, which was but a week away.

  Abram sat back in his usual after-dinner posture, pipe in hand, head back, hand in his pocket. “What numbers do you think we can expect from our neighbors to the north, King Mathus?”

  Mathus took a small sip of wine. “Hmm. Maybe five thousand.”

  “Five thousand!” Whill cried. “I’m sorry, Sire, but five thousand! Against the numbers we will face, that is but a small band.”

  The king frowned. “What do you know of the numbers we will face, Whill?”

  Whill glanced at Zerafin and Avriel. “I had a vision after the incident the other night.”

  King Mathus sat up in his chair and put his hands together. “Go on.”

  “I saw a great battle, possibly a hundred thousand Draggard, and thousands of Addakon’s soldiers. We were greatly outnumbered, good king, greatly. It was…it was a slaughter.”

  Mathus thought for a moment, then addressed Zerafin. “How well can such a vision be trusted?”

  “Such visions can be very reliable, depending upon the source,” the elf replied. Whill shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We elves have many seers of the future, some vaguely correct, and others known to be right on all accounts down to the last detail. Given what I know about Whill, the fact that he has not been trained but exhibits many elven abilities already, I would not dismiss his vision lightly. But I would not embrace it, either.”

  Whill let out a sigh and sank back slightly. Zerafin noticed this small objection. “Whill is going through a change that few can fully understand, not even we elves. Our powers come to us at an early age and grow with us. Whill, on the other hand, has been thrown into this new world with little knowledge of what is happening to him and even less control. He is already dangerously powerful, and will only get stronger. With the right training he will flourish, but for now we can only speculate on whether these visions are real.”

  Abram addressed the king. “I, for one, give heed to Whill’s warning, if nothing else for the fact that it makes sense. A Draggard queen has these many long years festered within the mountains, laying her thousands of eggs.” Roakore spit on the floor at the mention of the queen Draggard. Abram went on. “I believe that if we do not bring a force to meet the army that awaits us, we will indeed lose this battle.”

  The king raise
d his hands. “We shall talk of this no more. Save it for the meeting. I will take all that has been said and consider it over the next few days. When we meet with the king of Shierdon, we shall choose a path.” He stood, and the others followed suit. “And Whill, I want to be informed immediately if you have any more…visions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Whill said with a bow, and he and Abram headed towards their rooms.

  “He doesn’t believe me,” Whill said.

  “You must understand that this is all very new to Mathus. Yes, he knows of the elves and their many powers, but he is a practical thinker, not easily given to whims of fancy.”

  “I know, I know. But we don’t have time for speculation! The wrong decision at the meeting will mean the deaths of all who venture forth in this war.”

  Abram stopped. “The vision was that bad, eh?”

  Whill nodded solemnly. Just then Roakore caught up. “Eh there. Rhunis has invited us all to see the many pubs within the city, an’ I fer one could use a few pints o’ Kell-Torey’s finest. What say ye to meet us in an hour’s time in the courtyard?”

  Abram grinned. “Sounds like a plan, good dwarf.”

  “That it does,” Whill concurred.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Thugs, Brew, and Goodbye

  The sun had an hour past gone down beyond the walls of Kell-Torey. Whill, Abram, Zerafin, Avriel, Roakore, and Rhunis walked along the cobblestone streets of the great city. The streets were fairly quiet this time of night, as most of the shops were closed for the day. The few who did wonder the streets were the occasional beggar, soldiers, and the drunkards. Rhunis led the group to a small pub five minutes’ walk from the castle. Music spilled from the open doors, as did the sounds of many people talking. The Crooked Arrow, as it was named, was Whill’s kind of pub-small and not too crowded, with a long bar and pretty barmaids.

  Rhunis motioned for the group to enter before him. “This, my friends, was always my favorite pub when I was stationed within the city.”

  The Crooked Arrow looked like dozens of other pubs, with a long bar at the adjacent wall and many tables and chairs throughout. To the left was a small stage and dance floor where two fiddlers, a flute player, a man with many different-sized drums and other percussion instruments, and two female singers played an upbeat version of the old drinking song, “The Night I Gained a Cross-eyed Wife and Lost My Shoes.” Half the bar patrons sang, stomped, or clapped along with the tune. The atmosphere was pleasant, and laughter and song filled the air.

  Most of the many tables were occupied, so the companions made their way to the bar area. Surprisingly enough, the pair of elves did not get as many looks or stares as Whill had expected, nor hushed whispers, though he did notice one gruff-looking man nudge his buddy at the sight of Avriel. Whill was surprised when a rush of resentment welled in him as he saw the way the man eyed her.

  The bartender was a tall and lanky fellow with short, pitch-black hair and a thin mustache. He had a proud nose and eyes like a starless night. But the smile he wore put one at ease instantly-that is, until he spoke. The man had a loud voice, even for the noisy bar, and something in the tone made it sound as if he were talking down to everyone, whether or not that was his intention. Rhunis beat on the bar a few times and the bartender walked over, smiling wide with every step.

  Rhunis gave the man a nod. “Is old Harlod not working tonight?”

  “No, not tonight, nor any night, for that matter. The old bird retired, said he had enough of the bar life. Bought a boat, he did, said he was gonna spend the rest of his days lazin’ away at sea. Used to be in the navy, I guess. Anyway, Parpous Hellious bought him out ’bout a month ago. I just tend bar. Name’s Dirk, by the way, Dirk Magirk.” He extended his hand. “An’ you must be Rhunis the Dragonslayer, hard to mistake the nasty scar there. You’re quite a legend in this city.”

  Rhunis didn’t shake the man’s hand, but instead he motioned to his five seated friends. “I’ll have a pint of Torey brown ale. Give my friends whatever they want, on me.”

  Dirk looked down the row at the seated companions, past Whill and Abram, briefly at Zerafin and Avriel, and finally set his gaze on Roakore, whose chin barely cleared the bar. Dirk swaggered down to the dwarf. “And what can I get ya, master dwarf? A few thick books to sit on, perhaps?”

  Abram shook his head at Whill. “Here we go.”

  Roakore leaned in closer to the bar. “I’ll take a pint o’ whatever Rhunis ordered, an’ a shot o’ black rum.”

  Dirk chuckled and began to ask the others for their orders when Roakore interrupted. “And know this, ye gangly dragon turd. Make a joke about me height again an’ ye’ll be lookin’ me face to face as I beat ye with yer own legs.” He laid one of his four hatchets on the bar.

  Dirk gulped so hard his prominent Adam’s apple seemed to jump. The rest of the group gave a hearty laugh. Whill and Abram both ordered the same brew as Rhunis. Whill recognized the barrel of Dragon’s Brew by the insignia, but he dared not bring it to Roakore’s attention. The elves both ordered water, which earned them both a queer look from Dirk. Before the barkeep could get the water, Roakore stopped him.

  “Hold on, Dragon Turd!” Roakore set his gaze on the elves. “Now, ye two have healed me scratches without me permission. The least ye could do is share a pint o’ ale against your will.” Avriel began to speak but Roakore interrupted. “Eh, eh, before ye go tellin’ me some tree-huggin’ tale ’bout keepin the body clean, consider it yer duty as an embassador. Ye wouldn’t want to be pissin’ off dwarf royalty, would ye?”

  Zerafin chuckled, and Avriel pulled a straight face. “Very well, then. Mr. Magirk, We shall have whatever our friend here is having.”

  Rhunis turned to Abram and Whill as he took a drink. “Something here ain’t quite right.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Abram.

  Rhunis shifted closer. “I’ve known old Harlod since I was old enough to order a beer, and this story of Dragon Turd’s just don’t make sense. Harlod loved this bar. He used to be a slave, and when his master died some thirty years ago, he freed Harlod and left him this bar. I can’t see him selling this place to no one for nothing. I think I’m gonna need to have a talk with Parpous Hellious.”

  “You think maybe it was a gambling debt?” Whill asked. “Was Harlod that kind of man?”

  “No, he was not, and he had no vices to mention, either. No, knowing who Parpous is, I’d say that Harlod gave over this place quite against his will.”

  Abram took a drink and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. “Who is Parpous Hellious?”

  Rhunis scowled. “He is guild master of the largest thieving guild in the city, the Black Hand. And here he is now.”

  Parpous entered the pub with a swagger, followed by an entourage of thugs, twelve in all. They made their way to the largest table in the place and with a look cleared the seats. The tables’ former residents, along with all others in the bar, obviously knew who he was, and moved accordingly.

  Parpous was a large man, at least six-foot-five, with a barrel chest and a scarred face he no doubt was proud of. He was a creature of the streets, a cutthroat who had not only survived more than forty years among the scum of the city, Rhunis said, but had risen to the top of the heap. The two men seated to his direct left were his second and third in command, Torell and Malthious. Both of their lives had been saved more than once by Parpous, and as many times spared. They were loyal to the death.

  The band finished a song and instantly broke into the ever-popular “Kiss My Eldalonian Arse.” The bar erupted as all in attendance sang along. Roakore slammed down his beer, belched loudly, wiped his beard, tossed back his shot, ordered another, and stated with wild eyes, “Now this is me kind o’ music, ha ha!”

  “And this will be a wild night,” Abram muttered. To that Whill could only smile and hold his glass up in a cheers.

  Whill took a drink of his ale and eyed Rhunis, who rarely took his eyes off of Parpous. Parpous’s cronies had no
doubt noticed the attention and had surely informed their captain. Whill could only imagine what this might escalate into, but rather than being apprehensive about the confrontation, he welcomed it with excitement. He laughed to himself as he imagined what Zerafin might say about that. Then as if by magic, Zerafin, who was to his left, spoke.

  “You cannot stand the thought of injustice, especially towards this former slave, and have been all day long fostering great anger about Tarren’s family’s fate. You want nothing more than a reason to release your inner rage.”

  Zerafin proceeded to take a drink casually, as if he hadn’t just read Whill’s mind.

  “I thought you said you never invade someone’s mind without permission. I wasn’t projecting to you.”

  “One does not have to be a mind reader to know your thoughts at this moment, Whill. They must simply pay attention.”

  A barmaid came over with a tray full of drinks. “These are from the generous Parpous.”

  Everyone waited to see what Rhunis would do, even the ever-thirsty and seemingly carefree Roakore, for all had heard Rhunis’s story, and all stood by their friend. Rhunis accepted the drink with a nod, so the others did the same. Parpous nodded also and drank from his own glass. The motion caused his sleeve to fall back, exposing many jeweled bracelets to match his many rings. Rhunis slammed down his empty drink and rose from his seat. Before he could take a step, Whill stood. “Should we join you?”

  Rhunis eyed the companions one and all and simply nodded. Avriel looked at her brother for a moment and grabbed Rhunis’s hand before he stepped forward. “I must inform you, Rhunis, I sense a being below us, in the basement. He is old, frail, and in much despair. Possibly it is your friend.”