Whill of Agora: Epic Fantasy Bundle (Books 1-4): (Whill of Agora, A Quest of Kings, A Song of Swords, A Crown of War) (Legends of Agora)

by Michael James Ploof

  Whill nodded. “No longer will the Black Dragon be a menace to the great seas of Eldalon.”

  The guard eyed Whill, who stared at him straight-faced. Finally the guard smiled. “It seems as if you bring good news in bad times. The king will be very pleased to hear of this. As you must know, there is a large bounty on Cirrosa’s head.”

  Abram spoke up. “I will tell the king personally soon enough. But I wonder, good sir, could you tell us what has happened within Isladon as of late? Has war started there?”

  The guard’s face became solemn. “No one has been able to enter Isladon yet. The Arden navy has claimed the waters surrounding the coast. This may be something better discussed when you see the king. I am not at liberty to speak of such things to—excuse the label—strangers.”

  Abram nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”

  With that the guards returned to their posts; the three travelers unloaded their things from the ship and went in search of lodging.

  Beyond the harbor, the town spread out upon a slight hill. It was a relatively small town, with a butcher, a blacksmith, a town hall, and stables. The buildings, including homes, were made mostly of logs. Beyond the main street, rolling hills spread out as far as the eye could see.

  There were few people about the street, most of which gave no notice whatsoever to the new arrivals. The town smelled like most port towns did; the sweet scent of the ocean was everywhere. It reminded Whill of Sidnell. He hadn’t seen Teera and her daughters in over two years—since he and Abram had last visited—and had a feeling he wouldn’t see them again for a long while still.

  As they ventured into the heart of the town, Tarren pointed out a small Inn. Much like the other buildings, a log structure, it was two stories high with many small chimneys perched on its roof. The sign above the door read HAGUS’S INN. Tarren led the way and opened the main door for Whill and Abram. Inside, the room was filled with smoke. More than a dozen fishermen and other locals sat at the bar and surrounding tables, drinking and talking loudly. At one table sat six Eldalonian soldiers talking in hushed whispers and eyeing them suspiciously. There was also a group of women dancing in the middle of the room and, in the far left corner, a small band consisting of a fiddler and two guitarists; in harmony they sang:

  By the ocean’s water or dragon’s fire

  The end shall come at long last;

  So light up your smoke so fast you choke

  And drink your beer down fast!

  Whill was familiar with the old drinking song, for he had heard it in countless other taverns and pubs. He hummed along as he looked around the room. It had a high cathedral ceiling; stairs on the right led to the second-floor balcony, which boasted many doors but no windows. Abram led them to the bar, and many eyes followed. The bartender was a stout, rugged-looking fellow with a white beard down to his belt. He wore a fisherman’s cap and brown overalls with a white shirt. He smiled at their approach, and his leathery skin seemed to stretch uncomfortably as he presented a toothless grin. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who did a lot of smiling, and Whill could see that this one was rehearsed.

  “Good day, good day, friends! Name’s Hagus. What can I do for ya?”

  Before Abram or Whill could respond, Tarren spoke up. “We’ll be needing a room for the night, three cots if you have ’em, and hot baths if you could.” He grinned at Whill and went on. “We been at sea for a long and dangerous haul, and need bath and good food. I can still feel the pirate scum on my skin.”

  Abram laughed, and Hagus frowned. “The boy’s name is Tarren,” Whill said. “I’m Whill, and this is Abram. Tarren is right, we could use all he requested. The room we’ll need only for the night—if you have one available.” He mussed Tarren’s hair.

  Hagus maintained a steady frown as he pondered on something, and in the absence of teeth, his bottom lip touched his nose. “Pirates, says you. Is the boy one with a wild and fibbin’ imagination, or does he speak true?”

  Abram gave Tarren’s shoulder a slight squeeze. “The boy has a good imagination, yes, but a liar he is not. I’m afraid it is a long one, but if you could get us what we need, we will tell you the tale of Cirrosa’s demise—over some Dragon’s Brew, of course.”

  “Cirrosa!” Hagus yelled, catching the attention of half the room. He bent low and whispered, “That scum hasn’t been spotted in these waters in over a year.”

  Whill bent low to match the bartender’s stance and, after an animated look, said, “Seen him we have—and his blood dries upon my friend’s sword as we speak.”

  Hagus’s bushy eyebrows seemed in danger of leaping from his face. “No!”

  “Yes. Would you like to be the first on land to hear the story, or can you not accommodate us at this time?”

  Hagus fumbled for some glasses. “No, no! No—um, Dragon’s Brew you said? Comin’ right up, and—oh—Sheria! Sheria!” he called towards the door at the back of the bar.

  A woman of about fifty emerged carrying two bowls of stew. She wore a long brown dress with orange trim, and a brown handkerchief upon her head held back her long grey hair. She was pretty, with a more natural smile than Hagus’s.

  “Sheria,” Hagus said hastily, “after you’ve served those, get our guests a room ready. Make it the north room.” He poured the Dragon’s Brew from a large barrel mounted on the back wall. Sheria nodded and began on her way as Hagus burst out again, “Wait, woman, I’m not done! Have three baths prepared, and see to their luggage—and horses, if they have any.” He turned to Whill as he set the beer in front of them. “Do you have horses?” Whill shook his head in amusement. “No horses? Never mind—em, ah—and have Jenna cook up the special—three orders, right? And not today’s special, the special special.”

  Sheria didn’t move. She merely stood and deadpanned her husband. Though Whill thought it impossible, Hagus blushed and gave a weak smile, “Please, my love?”

  Sheria nodded, satisfied. “Of course, dear.”

  She gave them a small bow and went on her way. Hagus let out a long breath. “My wife, she’s a doll. Jenna, our daughter, she’s the cook in the family. My other daughter—Oreona—she works with us also. Now, uh, where was I—oh, yes—young lad, could I interest you in some cider?”

  “Please, sir!”

  Hagus got Tarren a tall glass of cider and excused himself, retreating to the back.

  Whill chuckled. “Have you ever seen anyone so excitable?”

  Abram took a long swallow, then turned to Tarren, who had just taken a seat on a large stool. “Listen, my boy, when we tell our version of the story, keep quiet about getting your throat cut and Whill healing you.”

  “Aww, but that’s the best part!”

  “That may be,” Whill said, “but I don’t want the trouble of having to explain powers I don’t understand. And that kind of stuff makes people nervous. Just don’t mention it, alright? For all our sakes.”

  “I guess,” Tarren huffed.

  “Promise?” Abram asked.

  “I Promise,” he said reluctantly.

  Tarren looked very disappointed, so Abram smiled and patted him on the back. “I tell you what. If you can keep quiet about it now, I’ll let you tell the whole story to the king when we get to Kell-Torey.”

  Tarren lit up, and Whill thought the boy’s eyes might pop out of his head. “The king, really? You really mean it, Abram? You have my word!”

  Hagus returned and set two more beers on the bar. His expression was a little easier now. “Your rooms will be ready shortly. You can leave your luggage with me and it will be seen to. Your baths are ready as well, and food will follow. So whenever you’re ready, go ahead. The bathing room is up the stairs, first room on the right.”

  “Thank you,” Whill said. “I think I’ll do just that.” He retrieved two gold coins from his pocket and set them on the bar.

  Hagus looked at the gold in amazement. “Good sir, the room, meal, bath—well, the cost for all is no more than twenty in silver.”

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nbsp; Whill leaned in and said, “Yes, but we will need more of your services before we leave. Consider this advance payment. A man’s silence is a costly thing at times. I trust we will not gain any unwanted attention by entrusting you with our story. Not, that is, until we are far from here.”

  Hagus was adamant. “Yes, sir, mum’s the word! You can count on me!”

  “Good.”

  Whill made his way upstairs, and Abram and Tarren soon followed. The bathing room consisted of four large tubs, three steaming with hot water. Next to each tub there was a small table with towels, soaps, and scrub brushes. A large fireplace roared with four large kettles of boiling water above it.

  Whill soaked in the hot water long after Abram and Tarren had finished. His muscles still ached from the incident with Tarren. The hot water and fire had almost lulled him to sleep when a girl, who must have been Oreona, entered the room. She instantly looked at the floor.

  “Begging your pardon, Whill, sir, but your food is ready and your friends await you downstairs.”

  “Thank you. Tell them I will join them shortly.”

  She nodded and left as Whill got out and dressed in clean clothes.

  Downstairs the band had taken a break, and there were about half as many people as before. Abram and Tarren sat at a large table; they had waited for Whill to begin. The table was set with a blue velvet cloth and fine dishes. A large pot of steaming stew sat at the middle with two loaves of marbled bread, a small plate of butter, white cheese, and an assortment of fruits. There was also a pitcher of beer with two Tankards, and a smaller pitcher of cider with a mug for Tarren. Whill grabbed a Tankard and toasted with his friends.

  “Lelemendela.”

  Tarren asked what it meant and Whill explained, “To life.” Tarren insisted that they do it again so he could join in.

  They ate and made little conversation. Whill was surprised by his own appetite; he had three helpings of stew and finished off a loaf of bread by himself—along with half the brick of cheese.

  When they were done, Abram lit his pipe and sat back, content. “While you were bathing, Hagus told me of an excellent blacksmith where we can purchase some fine arrows,” he said.

  Tarren lit up. “Do you think I could get my own sword? I might need it if we run into villains on the way to the mountains.”

  Abram and Whill eyed one another.

  “Tarren, Abram and I must venture to the mountains alone.”

  “But, Whill—”

  “Let me finish. In your father’s absence we must do as he would wish. I do not think your father would permit you to go into the mountains. You will stay here in town until we return.”

  Tarren’s eyes watered. “But who will I stay with? Wouldn’t I be much safer with the two of you? What if the pirates come back for me? Please let me go, please!”

  Will knew exactly how the boy felt; he had felt the same when Abram left those many times in his youth. Now he saw himself in Tarren—a scared child trying desperately to act tough; not understanding why he must stay; wondering if he was unwanted.

  “I know you want to come, Tarren, and I would love to have you with us, but this is not a decision we can make on your parents’ behalf. When we return, you will journey with us to Kell-Torey. Let there be comfort in that at least.”

  Tarren’s shoulders sank. “How long will you be?”

  “It will take us two days each, there and back again,” Abram said. “How long we will be in the dwarf city, I cannot say, but it should be no longer than a few days.”

  Tarren looked no happier with this information. He slumped back in his chair and stared at his empty plate. Whill stood. “Would you like to come with me to get some supplies for our trip?”

  Tarren could not help but smile as he got up from his chair. “Aye.”

  Abram said he would stay behind to speak with Hagus and reminded them of some of the items they would need. Together, Whill and Tarren left the inn.

  They spent most of the afternoon gathering supplies for the following day’s journey. At the blacksmith’s they purchased four dozen arrows and, to Tarren’s delight, a small knife that could be hung from the boy’s belt. From the town store they bought bread and cheeses; meat, Whill explained, would be acquired in the wild.

  As they ventured up the main street, Whill took in the pleasant sea air once again. It was a beautiful late afternoon. Faint white clouds hung in the sky, seemingly unmoving, as the sun bathed the world with warmth. They passed many log homes, a few with stone walls. People were busy with the day’s chores but still had time to offer a “good day” or a “heya” as they passed. A butcher was busy preparing a hog for sale, while a young lad sat on the porch of the butcher shop, plucking a headless chicken. On the opposite side of the street a woman swept dirt from a doorway. She gave Tarren a wink as she hummed a jubilant tune.

  They headed towards the healer’s house on the outskirts of town. As the buildings thinned and the forest trail came into view, a woman ran past with two soldiers following. They went straight to the healer’s house and were greeted by urgent voices which Whill could not decipher. He began to jog toward the home and Tarren followed suit. As they neared the building, Whill began to make out the urgent words emanating from the open windows and doors. A woman was screaming in a way that made him cringe.

  “No! No! My baby, my baby! Do something, please! Can’t you? Why won’t she breathe, why won’t she breathe? Let me see her, damn you, she won’t—” Her voice trailed off into a deep, breathless sob.

  Whill and Tarren reached the door, the room was bright, but the scene was a dark one. A woman lay on a blood-soiled bed, being comforted and held down by three older women. One, who Whill sensed was her mother, held her tight and cried hard into the young woman’s shoulder. A man of about twenty stood with a dead stare—and watering eyes—aimed at a bundle on the foot of the bed. An elderly man and woman, whom Whill suspected to be the town healers, huddled over the dying infant, trying urgently to revive it. Whill could hear nothing but his own heart. It pounded in his ears steadily, faint hues of red flashing before his eyes with every beat.

  There is no injury, he thought. I can do this. She only needs enough to start her heart.

  Whill faintly realized that all were now watching him as he advanced into the room toward the infant. He wondered why they did not try to hold him back. Then he saw what they saw; from the palm to each fingertip of his outstretched hand, blue tendrils of light convulsed and danced. The mother had stopped sobbing and stared in wonder. The healers made way for Whill and stepped to the sides, never taking their eyes off him. The infant laid upon the blanket—small, weak, unmoving—a blue hue to its skin. The look on her face was that of great discomfort, not peace. She wants to come back, he thought.

  As Whill bent and put his hand upon the baby’s head, he instantly felt her presence. Her faint spirit stumbled into his as a blind man might do, lost in an unknown place. The tendrils from Whill’s hand spread across the limp infant’s body, becoming ever brighter. Her spirit clung strongly to Whill as he tried desperately to monitor the transfer of energy. Then suddenly he felt a great urgency, a desperate struggle to hold on to life as it slipped away. He felt the baby’s simple emotions—the need for what he gave her. Before he could break contact, a sudden jolt surged through his body, dropping him to his knees. He stiffened as her desperate spirit drained from him all the energy it could. Whill was no longer in control. Unable to stop, and fighting hard to break contact, he saw now that the baby had lost her blue color. Through the energy bond, he felt the baby’s heart begin to beat. It pounded faster and faster, stronger with every beat. Her spirit devoured the energy pulsing from him. He mustered his strength and told her spirit kindly to let go.

  Suddenly he felt a sense of recognition and understanding, and then great knowledge and a vast intellect, within the spirit’s consciousness. A wisdom of countless years resided within; memories, like waves, crashed into him. He saw strange lands and strange people; o
ceans, forests, and streams where he had never ventured. Mountain ranges, foreign to him, loomed before his mind’s eye and disappeared. He watched as an entire life played out before him. There was a flash of light, and another set of memories, faces, and feelings began. It ran its course and ended in another flash. Again and again—faster and faster—the cycle repeated until the lives of this ancient spirit poured into him like an avalanche. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Now a landscape he recognized spread out before him. The Ky’Dren Mountains, Lake Eardon, and Drakkar Island flashed before him. He saw the Castle of Del’ Oradon, and felt great love. Now oblivious of his physical surroundings, he had no conscious link to the world around him. There was only this spirit, and its memories. He was not afraid; rather, he felt great comfort and trust. As he watched the life memories of the spirit unfold, something caught his eye. It had only been for an instant, but he asked to see it again. The spirit obliged and he saw in greater detail the form he sought. It was Abram, and he was a young man in his mid-twenties.

  Another vision flashed before him—a long corridor hung with great banners. Through the spirit’s memories, Whill watched as the view turned to face a grand mirror. In the reflection he saw a stunningly beautiful woman. She seemed to be in her late twenties, with long black hair and a flawless face. Whill knew then, for the first and last time in his life, he was looking upon his mother. She gazed at herself and then at her large belly. She gave it a few loving strokes before continuing down the hall. Whill urgently tried to make her turn, but the vision faded. Now all was black—but he was not alone. The spirit, that had at one time been his mother, coddled him as if he were the infant. Without words, she told him that she loved him and was very proud, as was his father. She made him understand that the baby he had saved was a new life and would have no memory of him. She told him not to be sad, but thankful that they had shared this rare experience.