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.”
Abram eyed the healed skin with a worried glare. It was many moments before his eyes found Whill’s, and when they did, it was not with a favorable stare.
“You healed yourself, Whill.”
Whill shook his head and was about to speak, but Abram cut him off. “Yesterday in the vault, Your own anger. The powers you possess are based on energy; that is the gift of the elves. But energy resides not only in the body, but also the mind. Your anger was so great that without an outlet it acted on its own, and healed your wounds.”
He rose and paced the room, obviously distraught. Whill sat confused. Abram spoke again, this time looking at the floor as he paced. “This is why you must go soon to the elves. I have taught you all I can; I cannot teach you what you still need to know. You have great abilities, Whill, but without understanding them and controlling them, they could prove disastrous.” He stopped and looked suddenly to Whill. “Your father’s sword! Did you hold it long?”
Whill did not understand Abram’s urgency. He was the one who had given it to him in the first place, after all. “Yes, after you left I held it for a long while, but I did nothing…I…I passed out.” He bowed his head in embarrassment at his own weakness.
Abram spared him any explanation. He sat again on the bed and tried to explain. “The sword of your father has life once again, then. When you held it in your state of…despair, and anger, your energy poured into it. Not the energy of your body, but of your mind. This, you will learn, is a practice that the Elves of the Sun shun, but the Dark elves favor.”
Whill could sense the gravity in Abram’s words. He began to understand how little control he had over his own powers, and the thought scared him.
“It is not the use of the mind that they shun,” Abram continued. “It is the use of negative thoughts, and negative emotions, that they do not agree with. If one fills his sword with anger, hatred, and other negative emotions and energies, he soon will become consumed with these emotions. The elves know this, and that is why it is not practiced, though it can bring great power quickly. It can also destroy one’s soul and blacken the heart just as easily.”
He was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. “Yes?”
“It is I, Fior. The king requests breakfast with you an’ Whill in a half-hour’s time.”
“We will be ready.”
“I will return then.”
Abram turned to Whill once again. “We will talk of this more later. Now we should bathe and dress. The king awaits us.”
A half-hour later Fior returned and led Whill and Abram to the king’s quarters. Having been given quarters in the king’s guest wing, it was a short walk. The floors in this corridor were black marble, and the walls of the wide halls were adorned with many carvings. Great stone arches adorned the circular hall every ten feet. Years beyond reckoning had gone into the designs of this ancient lair, and for the first time since entering the king’s chambers Whill took in its great beauty.