CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Whill, Abram, and Roakore walked out into the early morning sun. They had exited through a different tunnel than the one they had previously entered through. They were a few miles south of that entrance, and closer to the shore. The railway had taken them to the base of the great mountain range, and from the small cave they had exited they could see the dense forest before them.
Whill led the way. Having spent so many years with one as knowledgeable as Abram, he could easily determine the direction they must go to get to Sherna. He led them at a pace almost as frantic as when had journeyed to the mountain. After more than an hour of hiking, Roakore sat upon a large stone, halting Whill and Abram.
“If the fear o’ Draggard on our tails causes ye to walk so fast, then consider that they would catch us anyway, an’ it would be better not to be exhausted if they do!” He pulled a piece of dried meat from his pack and ripped off a large chunk with his teeth.
Whill winked at Abram. “Good dwarf, I apologize if I set a pace too fast and grueling for you. How long do you wish to rest?”
Roakore’s eyes widened in rage and he began to stand, but then noticed the smirk upon Abram’s face. Seeing the teasing for what it was, he sat back once more and bit off another large piece of the meat. “Don’t ye go being a dragon’s arse, lad, I just don’t see the point in such haste. The meetin in Kell-Torey ain’t fer two weeks, an’ ’twill take us no more than ten days to get there.”
Abram regarded him, his smirk gone. “We believe that a friend of ours may be in danger-Tarren, the boy we told you of. If the Draggard followed us from Sherna, then we think it possible they may have caused more than a little trouble in the town.”
Roakore nodded as he stood, still chewing the meat. “Why didn’t ye say so?”
With that he took up the lead. The hardy dwarf surpassed their earlier pace, and indeed, the three were now running through the forest. After no more than fifteen minutes, Roakore abruptly stopped and turned to Whill with a strange scowl.
“How’s it that ye can run so, with the wound ye received to yer leg just two nights ago?”
Whill had forgotten about the wound almost completely after hearing the story of his parents. He had forgotten to act as if he still carried the wound, as Abram had warned him to.
His mind raced for an answer, but Roakore’s gruff gaze told him that lies were useless. “The wound wasn’t as bad as it seemed,” he said with a shrug, and began to walk past the dwarf.
Roakore grabbed him by the arm. “Let me see it.”
Abram intervened. “Can the inspection of Whill’s wound not wait until we reach Sherna? If Tarren truly is in danger, our pause may be detrimental.”
Roakore did not let go. “No, it cannot wait. If I’m to trust the two o’ ye on this long journey afore us, then I need an answer now-an answer that suits me!”
Whill pulled free and pulled up his pant leg, showing the area of his thigh where the wound had been. Where it should still be.
Roakore’s eyes widened and he gripped his axe all the tighter. “I should’ve known when ye made the argument about the elves with King Ky’Ell. Yer in league with ’em, in league with the Draggard! Well, Roakore will not be so easily fooled. Come on then, ye assassins, let’s have a row!”
Whill only sighed and rolled his eyes to the sky. Abram, on the other hand, held out his hands in truce. “Roakore, think about what you are saying. Whill’s parents were murdered by the Draggard. What is this lunacy that you speak?”
Roakore spat stubbornly. “Then let’s have the truth from ye! A gash that deep from a Draggard tail don’t heal in a day. It’s elf magic, I’m sure. What lie do ye have fer that one, eh?”
Whill looked at Abram. “We don’t have time for this.” He drew his father’s sword. Roakore made a defensive stance and scowled. “This is the sword of my father, forged for him by the elves. My family has a unique relationship with the elven people. And through that relationship we have obtained some of the elven powers. And though I have never even met an elf, I have many elven powers, like the one you see before you: the power to heal. That is the truth. Take it or leave it. And if you would judge me so for such powers, then so be that as well. You see the elves as enemies though you know not one; your kind curses the Elves of the Sun for what the Dark elves created. And that, my fierce friend, is simply stupid!”
They stared at each other for many long moments. Abram did not move, either, looking from one to the other.
“We will see if what ye say o’ the elves is true, young Whill,” Roakore said at last. “But know this, that it’d not be wise to ever lie to me again.” And cursing under his breath he ran off again.
Whill and Abram shared a look and raced after him.
They ran on for several hours, saying not a word. To their left the distant sounds of the ocean could be heard. It was nearing noon now, and Abram decided it was time for a break. Neither Whill nor Roakore argued the point.
They rested at the edge of a small clearing. Abram sat back against a thick oak tree and lit his long pipe, while Roakore found a suitable rock to sit on. Whill took a long and needed swig from his water skin and then poured the cool water over his head. Though it was still spring and the temperature was mild, the run had made him quite hot. Like the other two, he carried a large traveling pack, along with his quiver and recently repaired bow, and his two swords.
He took a moment to look over the magnificent blade that had been his father’s. It was much different from his own, which was longer and much heavier. His father’s blade was thin and curved and very light, though none of those attributes made it any less of a weapon. On the contrary, the blade he now held in his hands was perfectly balanced, with a razor-sharp blade, a testament to the elves’ prowess as weapon-makers.
He studied the sword for a long while: the way the sun shone off the powerful blade, the shimmer of the many small diamonds about the guard. His gaze then fell to the ring of his mother, pure silver with one large pearl surrounded by sapphires. He felt a strange bond within both, a connection he could not quite place. They seemed to help fill a long-empty part of his heart.
Whill was roused from his deep thoughts as Roakore walked over and sat next to him. “So that’s the sword o’ yer father, eh?”
Whill noted that Roakore was trying to sound impartial. “Its name is Sinomara, named after my father, Aramonis. The elves name their swords after themselves in reverse, out of the belief that the sword and warrior should be as one to find true harmony.”
Roakore studied the blade for a moment with a raised eyebrow. “I admit, the craftsmanship be flawless… though it looks a bit too pretty to be o’ any real use.”
Whill only grinned, amused by the stubborn dwarf’s realization and attempted cover-up of the fact that he had in essence just complimented the elves.
Just then a shadow swept past, quick as a flash but noticeable nonetheless. Whill realized that it had been too large for a bird, but too small for a dragon. He looked up, as did Roakore, but there was nothing to see but the sun high above. Abram was already on his feet and moving out into the meadow as Whill and Roakore followed.
“What’s it, then?” asked Roakore as the two came up next to Abram.
Abram only stared north, past the edge of the meadow, above the trees. He scanned the treeline for many moments before his eyes quickened. “There.” He pointed.
Both Roakore and Whill squinted as they tried to make out the large creature flying low above the trees, some four hundred yards away. Abram was already gently pushing them back to the cover of the trees when it struck Whill. He froze a moment in disbelief, but the closer the creature got, the more obvious its identity became.
