greatest strengths was its command of these great birds, which had been bred to reach the size of ponies, with wingspans of over ten feet.
The people of Shierdon had even trained a great number of these birds to carry the smallest of men, who were called the Hawk Knights of Shierdon. They were an elite army of specially trained soldiers, small but very strong and fiercely quick. In combat they carried a crossbow and a pair of long, thin daggers. Their armor was thick leather, three layers thick, with mail between each. Every inch of the knight’s armor was adorned with hawk feathers, and in this way the rider would change color along with his hawk, if the hawk permitted it. The knights were sometimes called the ghost assassins because of their ability to drop down on their enemies unnoticed and strike them dead in an instant. They could infiltrate enemy camps without so much as a sound. In battle they could rain hell from above.
The Shierdonians had such control over the great hawks because they had control over that which the hawks craved most, hawksbane. A purple flower that grows only in the northernmost regions of Shierdon, hawksbane is the favored treat of the great silver hawk. For that reason it had been made illegal many centuries past to export even the smallest amount of the plant to any other country. With an abundance of hawksbane, the Shierdonians had trained the birds to do a great many things. The most impressive by far was the ability of the master trainers and hawk knights to communicate with the birds through an intricate form of code tapped out on wooden blocks, the human with the knuckle, the birds its beak. A trainer needed hawksbane at his disposal to tame the beasts, but over time, once the bird learned the code and could virtually speak to its master, a great bond was forged, and the Hawk served out of love and loyalty rather than simply for the flower it so desired.
Whill saw, as if out of thin air, and as silent as a mute’s cry, five Hawk Knights swoop down to the courtyard. He stared in awe at the legendary sight and was not at all disappointed. They had arrived virtually unseen because they had been as blue as the sky, hawk and rider. Four of the birds had landed on the grass and instantly changed to dark green, as did their riders. The other bird had landed on the cobblestone path, however, and had turned many shades of grey and brown. Being done with the mission, they now all in turn changed to their natural color, a most brilliant silver. Their feathers shone in the morning sun with the brilliance of a cloud’s lining. The great hawks folded their wings and settled to the ground as their riders dismounted.
Most of the hundreds of Eldalonian soldiers lining the courtyard took up clapping and cheering, only to receive a stern look from their respective generals.
Next in the entourage came a man on a brown steed, unmistakably adorned. This rider, at seventy-nine one of the oldest of his stature in the kingdoms, but riding like a man half his age, came King Ainamaf of Shierdon. Behind him followed his first general, three advisors, and fifty more soldiers.
“What’s all the ruckus about, anyway?” came a familiar voice from the guest room door. Roakore strode towards Whill and Tarren with all seriousness. But as he reached the window and his eyes caught the shining hawks of Shierdon, his voice failed him.
“King Ainamaf of Shierdon has arrived. The meeting will be this day at noon, as you know.”
“Why, yes, yes, o’ course, but-it’s just, do ye reckon-ye think them birds would become gold in me people’s halls-an’ like that o’ a diamond? I’ve heard o’ them plenty from me people. They can change color, ye know-never seen it, but it’s true, ye know. They been known to take on the ways of water if needed.”
Tarren was quick to concur. “Right, they can! They changed all kinds of colors they did, blue and green and grey and brown, it was amazing, and the knights too.” But Roakore seemed to not hear a word.
“I tell ye what lad, an’ mark me words-before my days are through, I aim to get me one o’ them hawks.” He suddenly lifted Tarren off his feet and began flying him across the room in his strong hands. “Can you imagine it, boy? Aside from a hell o’ a lot more muscle, I’m ’bout the same size as one o’ them riders. Them beasts’d carry me, no worries. Roakore the Silver Eagle Rider is what they’d call me, among other things.” He flew Tarren in circles and finally landed him upon the floor once again.
Whill smiled to hear Tarren laughing jubilantly, like he had before, like he would again. The lad can still find joy in this world, Whill thought. He will be alright after all. He would find despair in life, he would know grief again, but he had passed life’s cruelest of tests already, and he would be ready. He would survive.
The meeting of the kings commenced as scheduled at noon. It began with formal greetings and a feast fit for, well, kings. Whill was introduced to King Ainamaf by King Mathus. Ainamaf looked younger than his years, which rumors said was due to his dabbling in dark magic, but Whill knew better than to believe such things. A firm hand he had also, the grip of a swordsman, and a certain look about him when he met your eye, as if he knew something that remained a mystery to you. Whill was lost for a moment as he tried to discover just what that mystery might be, and was met with a laugh from Ainamaf.
“I have been told I have a knowing face, a…war-lock’s grin, if you will.” He shook Whill’s hand. “I find it is quite handy in knowing what I wish. There are a numbered few who can lie to my face.”
Representatives from each of the ruling kingdoms of Agora were in attendance, aside from the war-stricken Isladon. With the feast and pleasantries over, King Mathus bid each in attendance to follow him to the meeting hall, a short distance from the dining room. The meeting hall was grand in scale and adorned with nothing but high ceilings and bare stone walls, so as not to distract anyone. At its center was a grand circular oak table, able to seat more than fifty. Mathus’ servants seated the many in attendance and then left the room immediately, closing behind them the great wooden doors.
King Mathus stood before his audience and spoke, his voice echoing loudly in the great room. “First I must thank you all for attending. I know the road was long, the notice short. I know you all have been introduced, but for the records, let me name one and all out who are here today. I myself, King Mathus of Eldalon. My most trusted advisor and general, Rhunis the Dragonslayer. King Ainamaf of Shierdon and his three advisors, General Sudden, the Fireblade, and the scholars Hellious and Bernoran. The Prince Zerafin and Princess Avriel of Elladrindellia. Roakore, soon-to-be king of the Ebony Mountains. Abram, former general, knight, and personal friend of the late king of Uthen-Arden.”
Mathus looked at Whill for a moment, sharing the knowledge that this was the first official declaration of Whill’s position. “And I give you Whill of Agora, son of the late king of Uthen-Arden, and rightful king of the Arden empire.”
Ainamaf eyed Whill as his advisors whispered at his side, He only raised an eyebrow and smiled that knowing smile.
Mathus spoke once again. “Now that we have all been introduced, I expect you all have taken notice of the absence of the kings of both Shierdon and Uthen-Arden, which is why we are here today. As you also know, war has broken out between these two nations. This meeting has been called to decide what, if any, action we shall take in this matter. “King Ainamaf, we have all had time to discuss what we know about this war. Would you please tell us what words have reached the north?”
Ainamaf looked up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “There are many rumors, of course. Word from Arden is that Isladon is in league with the Draggard, that King Addakon is at this moment fighting to ensure the freedom of all the good peoples of Agora. Strangely enough, there is no word from Isladon either to defend or deny this rumor. But the faint argument among the people is that Addakon is the one in league with the Draggard, and has begun his campaign to overtake this continent.”
Whill was disturbed briefly by Ainamaf’s complacency, his matter-of-fact speech. He could have been talking about the weather.
“Abram,” King Mathus said, “would you please tell us what you believe to be the truth is in this matter?”
Abram rose to his feet and nodded to King Mathus. “My idea of the truth is this: Addakon is indeed in league with the Draggard. He made the first strike against all nations of this continent in his siege of the Ebony Mountains, and now he has invaded Isladon. I believe if he is not stopped now, or at least met with strong resistance, he will succeed in his conquest.”
“What proof do you have of these accusations, Abram?” Ainamaf asked.
“Only a fair knowledge of Addakon’s personality. And the fact that upon journeying here, my party was attacked by a horde of Draggard led by a Dark elf. And that Whill, son of Aramonis, has been on the run with me for twenty years because Addakon killed his father. And that twenty years ago the Ebony Mountains were overrun by Draggard, who still grow in numbers within the great dwarf halls.”
Ainamaf sat as if waiting for more, his face emotionless. “A horde of Draggard led by an elf, you say?” Abram only nodded. Ainamaf chuckled. “I, for one, have never seen a Dark elf. As far as I know they are a strange
