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Whill listened intently as Abram spun his story. He had many questions but held his tongue. Abram again tapped his pipe on the wooden chair and sat down.

“The day your parents died, I was there, I was with them. Your mother was eight months pregnant at the time, with you. Your parents were on their way to Eldalon to visit your mother’s parents, the king and queen. They were very eager for a grandchild, and the unity a child would bring to the two kingdoms.

“We traveled north from Del’Oradon towards the Ky’Dren Pass, but two days into our journey we were ambushed by a great host of Draggard. They came in the morning and our small camp was overrun. Traveling with us were eleven of the greatest knights of the time, and forty other soldiers. But the Draggard numbered over three hundred. The fight lasted less than an hour as the soldiers and knights fell. They protected their king and queen valiantly until the end, but we were hopelessly outnumbered. They had managed to kill a great many Draggard, but over a hundred remained. Your mother was killed in the fight by a Draggard arrow.”

Abram looked at him, his eyes shimmering in the torchlight. “It was quick, Whill. She did not suffer. The Draggard had circled us and stood waiting, as they do when they are sure of victory. Your father held your mother in his arms and wept, unable to heal her.

“I was hit also.” He pointed to his upper right chest. “Though I knew I would die, I was ready to give my life defending my friend, my king. Your father, however, stopped me from attacking the beasts in my blind rage. For as the Draggard waited, a man came to us from their ranks. It was Addakon.

“Your father was crushed. Holding his dead wife, he said to his brother, ‘Why, brother, why would you do such a thing? Have I not been good to you, have I not loved you all these years?’ Then he stood and cried, ‘Is your thirst for power so great that you would see your own brother die at the hands of these beasts?’ Addakon told your father he was a fool and would die a fool’s death. Then Aramonis spoke to me for the last time. He told me to take his child away, to see to it that you one day took back the throne.

“Then he turned to Addakon and said, ‘If I am to die today, brother, then you will die with me.’ He raised his sword high and spoke the words of the elves: ‘Ortho min brensa las enna, engrona de lementho brydon.

“Addakon knew what he was doing and ordered the Draggard to shoot Aramonis. Arrows took flight but were stopped in midair inches from us as your father bellowed the elven chant of death. Addakon knew what was to come and ran away as fast as he could.

“I will never forget what happened next. Your father drove his sword deep into the ground. A great boom and flash of light exploded through the air, and every last surrounding Draggard fell to the ground dead, as did your father.”

Abram reached over the table and put his hand on Whill’s shoulder. Tears slid down his cheeks. “He died to save you, Whill.”

Whill could not meet Abram’s gaze. He stared at the floor, a lump swelling in his throat. Abram stood and stared into the torchlight. “Your father performed the Orrona Dekarra, the sacrifice of life, the most powerful elven attack. He used all of his energy and all the energy left in his sword to kill over one hundred Draggard. When the Draggard fell, I watched in horror as he died too.

“There was no sign of Addakon, though I suspected that he survived. I did what I knew I had to do, Whill, I took your father’s sword and cut you from your mother. You were alive due to your father’s attempt to heal your mother, but I knew you would die if I did not seek help. I mounted the closest horse and rode as fast as I could to Elladrindellia, seeking the help of the elves. For two days I rode, knowing that hell itself was at my heels. When I finally reached the elves you were barely holding on, and I feared the worst. But Queen Araveal healed you that day. And now here you are, a man by every measure, one whom your father would surely be proud of.”

Abram went to the large iron chest. He produced a key from his pocket and disengaged the lock. Whill watched intently as he opened the chest and retrieved a small object from within. He held it in his fist and turned 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

The Dwarf King

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. Why, brother? Why would you do such a thing? He heard his mother’s final screams, and the sounds of battle. Abram’s voice joined in the chorus. He died to save you, Whill.

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.