to Whill. “This, I’m afraid, is all I have to give you of your mother’s.” He laid a silver ring in Whill’s hand. Whill took the ring between thumb and finger and gazed at it. A pang of sorrow arose from his very core as Abram spoke again. “That ring has been in the Eldalon royal family for hundreds of years. It was made by the dwarves for the queen of Eldalon. It has been passed down from mother to daughter ever since. Celestra received it on her sixteenth birthday and cherished it dearly, for she wore it always.”
The ring was made of pure silver, a large pearl at the center circled by sapphires. Whill tried the ring on each of his fingers and found that it fit the smallest one. Abram returned to the chest once more and produced a sheathed sword. He presented it to Whill with open palms. “This was your father’s sword. It is called Sinomara.”
Whill took the sword by its hilt. Hot tears were in his eyes and he could find no words. This was the sword his father had wielded to save his son’s life. Slowly he pulled back the sheath and set it on the chair. He eyed the great sword with reverence. It was an elven sword, very much unlike the one that he himself carried. Its hilt was longer, twice as long, and bound with black leather and bright blue silk. The single-edged blade was three feet long and slightly curved. The hand guard consisted of a thick ring made of steel encrusted with small diamonds around the edges. Along the length of the blade on both sides were elven runes. They read, “This is the blade Sinomara, made for a king of men. May it protect its master in times of peril, and vanquish all that dare to stand before it.”
Whill inspected the sword in the firelight. It was the most beautiful and well-crafted peace of weaponry he had ever seen. Simply holding it in his hand gave him a sense of great power and strength, for it had been his father’s, and his father had been a great man.
“I will leave you now for awhile,” Abram said solemnly, and went to the door. Whill barely heard him close it, so transfixed was he by the sword in his hands. He looked at the ring and the sword in turn. Tears welled in his eyes and a dam of emotion broke within him. He was flooded by sorrow, and he fell to his knees and wept. Staring at the sword through blurred vision, he spoke to his long-dead parents.
“I will avenge you, mother. I will avenge you, father. With all the power I possess, I will hunt down Addakon and make him pay for what he has done. I will make him pay.”
Whill was overcome with grief, and his choking pain made his voice cut out. He wailed and gasped, shuddering in his crouch as he held the sword. Then his sorrow was replaced by a great rage, and holding the sword high with both hands he bellowed, “I will not rest until he is dead!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Whill stayed within the vault for a time unknown, chanting to himself over and over his promise of vengeance as he held the sword in his hands. His rage and sorrow did not ebb, for he focused on it intently, replaying in his mind the final minutes of his parents’ lives. His father’s words echoed through his head in a maddening chorus.
His head spun and his mind raced, He thought of the life he might have known, the life that had been taken from him, the scenes of a life never to be flashed before him-his mother’s laughter, his father’s smile. These too joined in the deafening chorus of pain that was Whill’s world. Exhausted, he passed out, holding in his hands his father’s sword, the sword of the king.
His dreams were filled with blood and screams and pain. He stood next to Abram as his father cradled his dead mother in his arms. Draggard soldiers were all around, hissing and laughing at them. Then Whill saw him, Addakon. He came from among the crowd of Draggard with a malevolent smile on his face. Whill drew his sword at once and charged. Addakon simply stood and laughed a loud and baleful laugh. Whill found that his sword was not his own but his father’s. Addakon also armed himself and met his attack. Whill sliced and hacked and jabbed at Addakon, but his uncle easily blocked every blow, laughing louder as Whill fought harder.
Suddenly Addakon raised his hand and Whill was paralyzed. He had no control over his body, and to his horror he discovered that Addakon controlled his every movement. He forced Whill to turn and walk toward Aramonis and Abram. Whill fought to stop himself but to no avail. Instead he found himself before his father. Addakon forced him to raise his sword against his kneeling father. As the blade came down, Whill awoke with a scream.
“No!” He sprang to his feet. At first he did not know were he was. He looked around the room bewildered, and then saw the sword in his trembling hands. He breathed a sigh of relief. He remembered he was in Dy’Kore. For a moment he stood unmoving, trying to shake the vision of his nightmare. He walked to the chair and retrieved the sword’s sheath and attached it to his belt. After one last glance at it, he put the sword in its sheath and walked to the door. He opened it and turned to look back at the chamber. He had come to this room a boy seeking answers. He left it as the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, a man with vengeance on his mind.
The door closed behind him with a soft thud as he made for the vault entrance. Abram and Fior awaited him at the stair. He approached them in silence. Abram looked solemnly at him and asked, “Are you alright, Whill?”
He simply nodded and tried in vain to fake a smile. Fior broke the silence with his deep and majestic voice. “I will lead ye to yer quarters.”
Whill and Abram followed Fior down the stairs and through a series of halls and tunnels in silence. Many dwarves stopped in their tracks as they saw the three, but Whill paid them no mind. His thoughts were elsewhere.
They reached their quarters shortly, and with a bow Fior left, telling them to rest well and the king would see them first thing in the morning. Whill silently went to his room and closed the door.
Abram respected Whill’s privacy, though he worried about him. He knew that it would be hard for Whill to accept his heritage. But Abram had prepared him for this day as best he could, and he had taught him all he would need to know to fulfill his destiny. Whill was wise beyond his years, a brilliant scholar, and his prowess as a fighter was masterful, But, Abram reminded himself, he was also still young, and the mind of a young man could be more tumultuous than the great sea. He understood how hard it would be for Whill. He walked to a wall mirror and stared into his own eyes for a long while. How quickly the time had passed.
“He is ready,” he said aloud, more to convince himself than as a statement. On that dreadful day almost twenty years earlier, he had made a decision: to forsake his own life for Whill’s. He had vowed on the blood of the king to care for Whill, and in his heart he knew he had done well. He had been utterly shocked by the recent display of Whill’s powers, but ultimately pleased by the revelation. But still, troublesome thoughts lingered in the dark recesses of his mind. Would Whill exhibit the same lust for power that had darkened his uncle’s heart? Or would he grow to be a great man like his father?
He felt guilty for even thinking such a thing, but he could not deny that Whill was indeed powerful, more powerful than even his father and uncle had been. Whill had used his powers instinctively, having never been trained by the elves, a feat never accomplished by his forefathers. Would such power corrupt the student Abram had dedicated his life to? If it did, what then would be Abram’s responsibility?
These questions and many more kept him awake for many hours. Then finally he drifted off into the much- needed realm of sleep.
Whill awoke to find that he no longer had a single trace of the wound upon his leg. As he lifted the bloody bandages from his thigh he found only smooth flesh, with not so much as a scar. Amazed, he leapt from his soft, feathered bed and quickly went to Abram’s room. He found Abram sleeping soundly.
“Abram, look at this!”
Abram jumped from his bed, instantly alert and brandishing his dagger. He looked around, puzzled, and then at Whill. With a sigh he plopped back down onto his bed. He rubbed his tired eyes. “What is it Whill?”
Whill sat next to him on the bed and rolled up his pant leg enough for Abram to see. “It was like this when I awoke. I swear I didn’t try to heal it, it just did it on its own.”
