Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (29 page)

“Good
question,
Lord
Mesthane,
and
for
that
we
trust
to
aid from
Mulldain.
 
As
I said,
Barlon’s
garrisons
on
our
side
of
the Monoliths
are
small.
 
King
Herzolt
has
enough
troops
to
defeat them,
especially
if
King
Tirmus
and
his
knights
ride
with
them.”

“Will
they
come?”
asked
several
of
the
elves in the crowd.

Sarona
looked
coolly
from
face
to
face.
 
“Who
knows
if
any human
will
ever
side
with
a Dark
Elf?
 
We
will
know
soon.
 
Our runners
should
have
made
it to Mull City by now, and our answer may already be on its way back.”

A murmur
of
questions
and
supposition
ran
through
the
crowd, only to be quieted
as
the
Queen
motioned
for
silence.
 
“What
of
the dragons,
Dragon King?”
she
asked,
staring
at
Uric.

Uric spoke without apology, considering each word carefully.  “I won’t ask
their assistance.
 
This
is
a matter
of
men,
not
dragons.
 
I stay involved
myself
only
out
of
love
for
my
long
departed
friend, Bartholomew.
 
I vowed
to
see
this
finished,
and
I will.”

Another
murmur
passed
through
the
crowd.
 
When
things quieted,
Abadis
cleared his throat loudly.
 
All
eyes
turned
to
him.
 
“What
of
the High
Elves?
 
Will
your
cousins
help?”
 

Sarona’s
mood darkened.
 
“As
you
know,
there
is
no
love
lost
between
us.
 
We will
not
humble
ourselves
before
them
.
 
In
any
case,
they
are
not eager
to
meddle
in
the
affairs
of
men
either.”
 
She paused and then added,
“Any
suggestions,
or questions?”

Uric
stepped
forward.
 
“Pardon
my
question,”
he
said deferentially,
“but
how
old
is
your
intelligence
on
Gorth’s positions?”

“Runners
arrive
each
morning
and
each
afternoon.”

“The
messenger
never
came
this
morning,
Your
Majesty,”
said
one
sheepish
noble.

“Perhaps
it
is
time
I went
to
see
for
myself,”
suggested Uric.

“I
agree,
Queen
Sarona,”
added
Abadis.
  
“Your
scout
is long
overdue.
 
Perhaps
Barlon
has
caught
some
of
them.”

“Maybe,” said Sarona coldly, “and I appreciate your concern for your granddaughter, but let us see what the afternoon runners bring.  Until then, rest, eat and prepare for the battle that cannot be far away.”

Uric nodded agreement.  Slowly the group
disbanded.  Several
elves
stayed
to
suggest
alternate
attack and defense strategies.
 
That
soon
broke
down
to
telling
stories
of
ancient wars
and
glorious
victories.

Gant, Uric and Abadis were escorted out of the War Hall by a young Dark Elf.  As they walked, Gant asked, “Why don’t they get along with the High Elves?”

Uric
answered.
 
“Long
ago,
there
was
only
one
race
of
elves. But
in
those
times,
Varg
and
his
kind
were
free
to
enter
this world as they chose.  In time he seduced a number of the elfin maids to his evil ways.
 
Their
offspring
became
the
Dark
Elves.”

“But
Batholomew
freed
them
from
Varg,”
interjected
Gant.

“True.
 
Their
hearts
are
no
darker
than
yours
or
mine but their
cousins
still
see
only
their
black
skin.”

“That's
stupid,”
said
Gant.

“No
more
so
than
a hundred
other
prejudices,”
said
Abadis.

At
that
point
they
were
ushered
into
a large
banquet
hall where
Zandinar,
Pris
and
the
other
Easterners
waited
impatiently.

“Where’ve
you
been?”
shouted
Pris,
bouncing
from
his
chair to
greet
them.

“Discussing
strategy
with
the
Queen,”
said
Gant,
smiling
at the
emperor’s
boyish
energy.

“Then
we’ll
be
going
to
war
soon?”

“Probably.”

“Great.
 
I’ll
get
to
go
west
of
the
Monoliths,
finally.”

“Probably
not,”
said
Gant.
 

“Why
not?”
 
Pris’
smile
faded.
 
“The
Mountain
Lord
has
taken the
Western
Kingdoms.  Won’t
we
be
attacking
him?”

“Pris,”
snapped
Gant,
“this
is
not
a game.
 
Gorth
will probably
attack
us.
 
First
Blasseldune,
then
your
Empire.”

“Yes,
of
course,”
said
Pris,
now
dead
serious.

Gant saw Captain Hesh and Kalmine exchange whispered comments.  Before Pris could ask any more questions, Gant walked over to where Uric and Abadis were talking softly.  At the same time, two elf maids brought in heaping platters of food, roast venison, steaming and dripping in its natural juices, and piles of steamed vegetables.  The succulent aroma made Gant’s mouth water.  The rest of the group headed for places at the table as another elf maid brought in a tray laden with fine wines. 

Gant touched Uric’s arm to gain his attention.  “What
did
she
mean
when
she
called
you
the
Dragon
King?”

“Just
what
she
said.”

“Are you a dragon?  If so, how come I’ve have never seen you except as the castle sage?”

“I never intended anyone to know.  Now it seems everyone does.”

“There are more of you?  I mean more dragons?”

“Yes,
there
are
still
a few
dozen
of
us
left,
but
only
two mated
pairs.  We
reproduce
so
slowly
it
may
be
a hundred
years
before
there
is
another
birth.”

“Then
why
won’t
you
help
us?”

“Hatred
dies
hard.
 
Long
ago
there
were
a lot
of
dragons. Men
feared
us,
hated
us,
mostly
without
reason, though
there were
some
dragons
who
deserved
that
hatred.
 
Heroes
sought
out dragons
to
kill
often
without
thought as to whether
the
dragon
they killed
was
evil
or
good.
 
And
though
we
are
powerful,
we
are
not invincible.
 
Many
of
us
were
killed
by men.
 
We moved
far
from
men,
living
in
self-imposed
exile.
 
Most
of
those
alive
today
had
loved
ones
killed by
men.
 
Hatred
fills
their
hearts.
 
I feel
for
them
and understand
why
they
will
not
help
men, even
good
men.”