ventured down the hall. The closer he got to the door leading off to the right the thicker the smoke hanging close to the ceiling joists became.
Whill stepped into the room and all talk abruptly ended. Six soldiers quickly shot to their feet and saluted him—the looks on their faces told him that they expected that they were in trouble.
“At ease, gentlemen.”
They slowly lowered their hands, but none dared take a seat. A bottle of whiskey sat on the table, along with six shot glasses, and the deck of cards spread across the table suggested that they had been in the middle of a game.
“I assume that you are all off duty. Is that correct, Harker?” said Whill, looking to the ranking officer.
“Yes, Sir!”
“Good, so am I. Pour me a shot of whatever you’re drinking and deal me in.”
For a moment no one moved, they only exchanged quick glances.
“Of course,” Harker finally blurted.
Whill took a seat at the table and the men followed suit. A drink was swiftly poured and set before him, and he raised his glass with the men.
“To the peace of the open sea,” said Whill.
“Here, here!” one of the soldiers cheered.
After four shots and a dozen hands of cards, Whill was feeling quite well. Sitting there in the mess hall with the soldiers he forgot his station for a time. He let go of his worries, enjoying the comradery that he had so missed since reclaiming the throne.
Soon he found himself telling stories of the draggard wars to the soldiers. They listened intently, awed by his tales. In his slightly addled state he held nothing back, telling them in detail what it had been like to wield the great power of the elves. The men seemed greatly impressed by this, and cheered their king often.
Eventually word of their merriment reached the ear of General Greyson, for he appeared in the doorway just as the men were raising their glasses once more.
“What in the blazes is going on down here?” he demanded. When he finally noticed Whill, he offered his king a curious gaze.
“Come, drink with us,” said Whill. “Surely you have some interesting tales from the draggard wars.”
“Not half as interesting as yours, I imagine, Sire.”
With some reluctance, the general took a seat at the table with the others and accepted a glass.
“To King Whillhelm Warcrown,” said Greyson.
Chapter 20
Cerushia
The fleet reached Cerushia on the morning of the fourth day at sea and were greeted by a crowd of cheering elves. Whill hadn’t thought much about what his appearance would mean to them. He was revered by many as a god among men—Kellallea’s champion.
As he was taxied to the shore by a rowboat, he watched the crowd of excited elves grow. Horsemen flying bright banners embroidered with a glorious sun came riding over the far ridge. He saw Zerafin among them. The king of the elves rode to the shore and dismounted as Whill’s boat landed. Whill jumped out and met his friend’s beaming smile. Zerafin’s soldiers ushered the crowd to the sides to make room for the two as they met on the beach and embraced like brothers.
“Whillhelm Warcrown, it is good to see you,” said Zerafin.
“It is good to be back,” Whill said with a smile.
The crowd called him the savior, the champion of Kellallea. The chant for Whill made it hard for him and Zerafin to hear each other, but the elven king laughed and smiled, raising their arms high to rouse the crowd further.
“You’ve come at a good time, Whill. It has been a hard winter for my people, and your presence does much to lift their spirits. Come, let us go somewhere we might have some peace.”
Whill and Greyson were offered horses and followed Zerafin and his soldiers up the beach and to the road leading to Cerushia. Whill’s guards hurried to keep up behind them, eying the strange elves and the strange land with a mix of apprehension and amazement. Many of them had never met an elf, let alone been on their land.
Whill’s excitement died when he
Whill stepped into the room and all talk abruptly ended. Six soldiers quickly shot to their feet and saluted him—the looks on their faces told him that they expected that they were in trouble.
“At ease, gentlemen.”
They slowly lowered their hands, but none dared take a seat. A bottle of whiskey sat on the table, along with six shot glasses, and the deck of cards spread across the table suggested that they had been in the middle of a game.
“I assume that you are all off duty. Is that correct, Harker?” said Whill, looking to the ranking officer.
“Yes, Sir!”
“Good, so am I. Pour me a shot of whatever you’re drinking and deal me in.”
For a moment no one moved, they only exchanged quick glances.
“Of course,” Harker finally blurted.
Whill took a seat at the table and the men followed suit. A drink was swiftly poured and set before him, and he raised his glass with the men.
“To the peace of the open sea,” said Whill.
“Here, here!” one of the soldiers cheered.
After four shots and a dozen hands of cards, Whill was feeling quite well. Sitting there in the mess hall with the soldiers he forgot his station for a time. He let go of his worries, enjoying the comradery that he had so missed since reclaiming the throne.
Soon he found himself telling stories of the draggard wars to the soldiers. They listened intently, awed by his tales. In his slightly addled state he held nothing back, telling them in detail what it had been like to wield the great power of the elves. The men seemed greatly impressed by this, and cheered their king often.
Eventually word of their merriment reached the ear of General Greyson, for he appeared in the doorway just as the men were raising their glasses once more.
“What in the blazes is going on down here?” he demanded. When he finally noticed Whill, he offered his king a curious gaze.
“Come, drink with us,” said Whill. “Surely you have some interesting tales from the draggard wars.”
“Not half as interesting as yours, I imagine, Sire.”
With some reluctance, the general took a seat at the table with the others and accepted a glass.
“To King Whillhelm Warcrown,” said Greyson.
Chapter 20
Cerushia
The fleet reached Cerushia on the morning of the fourth day at sea and were greeted by a crowd of cheering elves. Whill hadn’t thought much about what his appearance would mean to them. He was revered by many as a god among men—Kellallea’s champion.
As he was taxied to the shore by a rowboat, he watched the crowd of excited elves grow. Horsemen flying bright banners embroidered with a glorious sun came riding over the far ridge. He saw Zerafin among them. The king of the elves rode to the shore and dismounted as Whill’s boat landed. Whill jumped out and met his friend’s beaming smile. Zerafin’s soldiers ushered the crowd to the sides to make room for the two as they met on the beach and embraced like brothers.
“Whillhelm Warcrown, it is good to see you,” said Zerafin.
“It is good to be back,” Whill said with a smile.
The crowd called him the savior, the champion of Kellallea. The chant for Whill made it hard for him and Zerafin to hear each other, but the elven king laughed and smiled, raising their arms high to rouse the crowd further.
“You’ve come at a good time, Whill. It has been a hard winter for my people, and your presence does much to lift their spirits. Come, let us go somewhere we might have some peace.”
Whill and Greyson were offered horses and followed Zerafin and his soldiers up the beach and to the road leading to Cerushia. Whill’s guards hurried to keep up behind them, eying the strange elves and the strange land with a mix of apprehension and amazement. Many of them had never met an elf, let alone been on their land.
Whill’s excitement died when he
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