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 raised 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
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.
