Page 11 of Revenge of the Elf Lord

“There’s a greeting? Where? All I see are childish scratches.”

Cyran frowned at the young dwarf. “You don’t read runes?”

After a glance at his brother, Niall shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know what runes are.”

Cyran exhaled. “If youth aren’t taught the ancient languages, they will continue to die and be forgotten. All that history—gone.”

“Why should we learn languages no longer spoken? And history? Phhhh.” Niall scoffed as they walked along the stone pathway to the village center. “History doesn’t teach us anything. Our daily experiences teach us all we need to know.”

“No, my friend, history is everything.” Cyran stopped in front of the most prominent house and turned to the brothers. Only when you know and understand history, not just one side but all sides, can you make better decisions for the future. Without knowing what came before, you have no idea how to deal with what is yet to be, as history tends to repeat itself, no matter what realm you are in.”

“He is correct, my sons. Listen to him, for he is educated and intelligent. So many are not these days.”

Cyran turned to an older version of the brothers. Their father’s reddish-brown hair was sprinkled with gray, and he had a few wrinkles on the outsides of each eye, but the heavy mustache and beard threw him. Few elves ever wore facial hair, but somehow, it suited this man.

He gave the older dwarf a slow nod and held out his hand. The dwarf wrapped strong fingers around Cyran’s wrist in the ancient Elven tradition, then released his arm. “I am Torrel Valnan, leader of this small village. You are?”

Cyran tilted his head. “It is nice to meet you, Torrel. My name is Cyran Daralei. I have been sent from the co-regents of Alfheimr to enact an ancient tradition as the interim healer.”

Torrel smiled, one thick brown brow rising as the older dwarf studied him. “So, Lamruil and Ailuin, too, know their history. I approve. Let us go inside, sample some of my recent vintage, and discuss this ancient tradition.” He stepped away from the open doorway and motioned for Cyran to enter.

He walked into the hut, thinking it to be modest, but was surprised to see it decorated much like his mother’s home. Various animal hides graced the stone floor, which was a magnificent shade of dark green that reminded him of an emerald.

A warm fire crackled in the simple stone fireplace, which occupied most of the living room wall and was shared with the dining room on the other side. A rustic table and chairs were visible through the open back. The furniture was hand-carved, and the tapestry cushions were worn from decades of use.

He sat in one of the two single chairs, surprised to find it quite comfortable, and glanced around the room. Various pictures hung on the walls, mostly of children, who had to be Siall and Niall as youths with another male, possibly an older brother or cousin, from the facial resemblance. Soft landscape watercolors in blues, greens, and pinks were scattered throughout the ample space.

Tarran sat in the chair opposite him while his sons dropped onto the sofa, Niall using the table in front of him as a footrest. “So, young Cyran, the twins are beginning their endeavor to unite our people.” It was a statement, not a question, but it held the same importance.

“Both Lamruil and Ailuin want to right the wrongs of their forefathers. They are good regents and even better friends. They are like my brothers.”

Tarran studied him a moment, then nodded. “That is good. I have waited centuries to hear those words. Long have I prayed that I would see a good king ascend the throne during my lifetime. One or two, in this case, who listen to all elves, no matter their ethnicity. Although our forefathers broke with Elven tradition and began calling ourselves dwarves, I have always been an elf in my heart. My three sons are elves and need to know their history.”

Cyran smiled at Niall. “On the way here, we were discussing that very thing—history, weren’t we, Niall?” The young dwarf stared at him with a raised brow but kept silent.

“What else are you here for, Cyran?”

Cyran liked Tarran, and the man was beyond wise. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that. Back in Asgard and Alfheimr, I am surrounded by people who always seem to know what I’m thinking before I do. It’s annoying. Back to your question, though. I was also sent here to find two young women who disappeared near the border village. The one that burned to the ground not long ago. Shalendra Elasalor is the daughter of Émilien Elasalor, whom you may know as the guardian of the Shadow Lands, and his wife, Hel.”

Siall sat up a bit taller, his eyes wide. “NottheHel—as in the queen of Niflheimr?”

Cyran met his brown gaze. “The same. And before you ask, she is as fierce as the stories say. Worse, when someone she loves is in trouble. Hel is an incredible woman and loyal to a fault when it comes to those she holds close to her heart.”

“I’m more interested in hearing about Émilien,” Niall said. “Are the stories true—that he is part wolf and part elf?”

“They are. He is the first of all werewolves. I have never seen his equal in battle.”

“Whoa.” The brothers sat back against the sofa, their faces expressing amazement and awe.

“The other woman is Shalendra’s childhood friend, Soliana Tornorin.”

“I knew her grandfather, Luthais. He was a hard man, but just. If I remember correctly, he had two sons. One son died during the Great War, but the younger son lived. Durothil, I believe his name was.”

Cyran chuckled. “You know more than I do. I was told she was Shalendra’s best friend and to find and bring them both home.”

Tarran leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I remember someone named Daralei. Tell me, young elf, are you, in fact, a healer?”

Cyran saw no malice or judgment in the older elf’s gaze. “From your question, you know of Haman Daralei, the previous healer to the black king. While he may have taught me the trade and called himself my stepfather, I was not his son.”

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