he knew, was a high god of the dwarves, and this was one of the many ways they paid homage. As they ventured across the bridge, the door began to open, the hinges emitting a dull moan. As it swung open in two parts Whill could see that each side was at least five feet thick. Beyond, the great city of Dy’Kore awaited.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Whill had read countless books about the dwarves. He had learned their language, customs, and history. As a child in Sidnell he had dreamed of exploring the immense caves and caverns of the Dwarf Mountains. Now he was in the ancient dwarf city of Dy’Kore, a place few men had ever ventured. Within these stone walls slept remnants of his past, and his future awaited. A chill ran down his spine and a tear welled in his eye, though he did not know why.
The city was more than he could have imagined, and the few drawings he had seen of it did not begin to capture its beauty. Before him was a great hall with high ceilings easily over one hundred feet. Eight great pillars ten feet around and beautifully carved extended from the floor to the ceiling. Dozens of tunnels opened into the hall, and dwarves filled the great room, busy in their duties and daily travels. The floor, he noticed, was of highly polished white marble, and the walls, though not marble, were exquisitely carved and decorated with beautiful banners.
Roakore stopped a passing dwarf and whispered something that made him eye Whill and Abram with wonder. He nodded to Roakore and quickly ran off down a tunnel to the left. Roakore looked up at Whill and Abram with a smile. “I told him who ye be, an’ that ye wish to speak to the king immediately. If ye wait here, a guide will come to take ye to him. I got me own things needin’ attention.” His face turned serious. “’Twas an honor fightin’ with human warriors such as yerselves, go well, friends.”
“Go well, King Roakore,” said Whill.
Roakore eyed Whill with a look of sorrow. “That title be mine when them words echo throughout my mountain. Until then I be just a dwarf waiting to fulfill his destiny.”
Whill felt foolish. “Go well, friend,” Abram said, and Roakore turned and walked away.
“Will we see him again?”
“I imagine we will, lad. I imagine we will.”
Soon the messenger returned with a well-dressed dwarf in tow. They approached Whill and Abram and stopped. The dwarf who had come to greet them wore a blue hooded robe with a silver chain over his portly stomach. He was elderly, with a grey beard and hair. In his right hand he held a silver staff as tall as himself, set with a large sapphire at its crown.
“Abram, me friend, ’tis good to see ye again.” He slammed his fist to his chest and looked to the ground. He had a deep, gruff voice like Roakore’s, yet it was melodic and fluid. Whill assumed that this was a dwarf of high stature who could turn a crowd with his words alone.
Abram returned the gesture. “It is good to see you as well, friend.”
The dwarf turned to Whill and to his surprise gave him the same greeting he had given Abram. “I am Fior, high priest o’ the Dy’kore clan. ‘Tis good to meet you Whill.”
Whill instinctively returned the gesture of respect, hoping he was not making a mistake. He assumed a bow would be expected, given Fior’s title. To Whill’s relief, Fior smiled and turned to Abram. “Ye have a good one here, ye do. Now, I hear tell o’ a Draggard attack this day’s eve outside these very walls. I shall want to hear o’ that in detail, indeed, But not afore the king. I understand ye have things to attend to.”
“That we do,” answered Abram
“If ye will follow me then.” Fior turned and began crossing the great hall. “I know yer able to find yer way around Dy’Kore, Abram, but the state o’ things being what they are, ’tis best ye have an escort with ye at all times as not to alarm anyone, or stir up rumor.”
“I understand.”
They followed Fior across the hall and into another large tunnel. They walked for a minute in silence before turning left onto a large marble stair, which spiraled downward for about fifty feet before opening into a large room. The room was larger than the hall had been, considerably larger. It had a floor of black marble and walls of stone that shimmered in the firelight. Torches hung every ten feet along the mineral-rich walls, giving a goodly amount of light. The reflection from the walls cast a beautiful spectrum of color on the room, which Whill would have marveled at had he not known what they were here for. This was a vault, and behind one of the many doors set between the torches, his secrets waited to be revealed.
Fior turned to them, and in the light he looked like a dwarf sorcerer. “It is door number twenty-seven, on the left. I will wait here.”
He handed Whill a large key. Whill gazed at it, the key to his past. He looked to Fior, then to Abram, then to the distant door. Without Abram’s aid, he walked into the room and toward door number twenty-seven. Abram followed. The light swirled throughout the room as the torches flickered, like a dream landscape. Whill worried for a moment that maybe this was all a dream, that maybe he was still in I am’s house of healing, fighting a high fever. He feared he would open the door and find nothing but an ever-growing mountain, his parents atop, waving happily as they aged before his eyes and turned to dust.
He jerked as Abram put a hand upon his shoulder. How long had they been standing there? A few seconds, minutes? Abram handed him one of the wall torches, He looked again at the key in his hand. Then he inserted the key in the lock and turned the large brass handle. He heard the sounds of many locks and bolts disengaging, and then silence as the door opened.
The vault was dark. Whill entered slowly and raised the torch high so that he could see beyond it. The light shone on walls bare but for an unlit torch on each. At first he saw nothing. But as he walked to the center, he began to notice furniture: a large iron chest, two wooden chairs, a small, circular table. He turned to Abram, baffled.
Abram took the torch from Whill and lit two others upon the walls. He replaced the last torch with the one in his hand. “Have a seat, Whill.”
Whill took the chair to the left and eyed the chest curiously as Abram retrieved his tobacco bag and lit his pipe. He puffed softly, eyeing the chest.
“Long I have pondered how best to present you with this story,” he began. “How to begin, where to begin? And I have determined I cannot tell any part of the story without first telling you who your parents were.” He took another long drag from his pipe. He sat in his chair seemingly relaxed, with one leg crossed over the other, while Whill sat literally on the edge of his seat.
“I don’t know any other way to say it, Whill, so I’ll just come out with it. Your father was King Aramonis of Uthen-Arden, and your mother was Queen Celestra.”
Of all the things Whill had anticipated, this was not one. He sat in utter shock. “King Aramonis? How can that be? I thought all perished in the ambush that killed the king and queen of Arden. She was with child at the time, but-”
He stopped as he comprehended what he had just said.
“Yes,” said Abram. “She was pregnant, with you.”
Whill’s mind raced. The gravity of reality bore down on him as he realized what this meant. “Then that means that I…I am…a prince?”
Abram shook his head and blew smoke into the air. He sat up in his chair and looked Whill straight in the eye. “No, Whill. This means that you are heir to the throne, rightful king of Uthen-Arden.”
Whill stood in disbelief and began pacing. “King? I’m no king. If I am King Aramonis’s son, why was I not
