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

  “You should step back.”

  Avriel took the blade in both hands and placed it upon her chest. Instantly she seemed more aware as she closed her eyes and wrapped herself in bright blue tendrils of healing energy.

  “The wounds are grave,” Zerafin said. “It shall take a moment. But she will be alright.”

  Whill looked at his bloody stump. “And you—can you heal such a wound?”

  Zerafin laughed. If he felt any pain he did not show it. “I could actually grow another if I needed. But simply reconnecting the original will take far less energy.”

  Whill could not shake the feeling that he was caught up in a strange dream as he watched the elf press the severed hand to his bloody wrist. The same blue tendrils encircled it.

  He left the elves to their healing and rushed over to check on Roakore. Abram was trying to keep the stubborn dwarf from getting up.

  “Let me up, ye damned fool, I don’t need no healing! I don’t need no help!”

  Abram cursed the dwarf. “Every rib on his left side is broken, and one must have punctured his lung, for he is coughing blood. Still the fool refuses the elves’ help and insists he is alright.”

  Roakore lay growling under Abram’s restraining arms. Whill shrugged. “Let him up, then. He says he is alright, and so he must be.” He winked to Abram on the sly. “Give the good dwarf his dignity.”

  Abram let go and Roakore got to his feet with much effort but not a sign of discomfort. He shoved Abram weakly. “At least the lad has some sense!”

  The three walked back to the fire and found Zerafin and Avriel waking a sleepy-eyed Tarren. Roakore addressed Abram out of the side of his mouth. “I thought ye said they was both badly wounded.”

  Abram looked down at the dwarf’s left side. “They are excellent healers, as you know.”

  “I’ll ready the damned horses,” Roakore huffed, and stormed off.

  Abram looked on, worried, as Whill watched Avriel’s every move. His visual scrutiny was cut short as Tarren woke and gave a shout upon seeing the many dead Draggard.

  “Shh, it’s alright, Tarren. They are all dead.” Avriel stroked his head.

  Tarren pushed her hand aside and made a disappointed face. “Aw, you let me sleep through it! I wish I could have seen it—what happened? Did they breathe fire like dragons, did those other ones really fly, did—?”

  “There will be time for questions on the road,” said Whill. “We still have a long ride, and we must leave now.”

  “Not until we have destroyed the remains,” Zerafin said. The elves went to work incinerating the corpses with a word and a raised hand.

  The others broke down camp quickly and doused the fire. As they walked the horses to the road, Avriel came up next to Whill, who was ahead of the others.

  “I’m alright,” she said. “Thank you for your help.”

  “I did nothing.”

  Avriel raised an eyebrow. “Really? Did you not care?”

  “Yes, of course I did! I—”

  “You did care—you cared enough to cry, and for that I thank you. You are a good friend, Whill of Agora.”

  He was at a loss for words. He was not embarrassed that she had seen him cry, but rather overjoyed that she had called him friend.

  “As are you, Avriel of Elladrindellia.”

  She smiled brightly and slowed to walk alongside her brother, who now had the overexcited Tarren as a passenger. Whill guided the group the rest of the way to the road with the widest smile he had ever known.

  Soon the sun began to rise in the east, sending red, orange, and purple light dancing through the thin clouds. The group had many more days to Kell-Torey, but they traveled now at a much faster pace than previously. They knew now that they were being followed, and an attack could come from behind at any time—or by ambush up ahead. That being so, Zerafin rode a quarter-mile in front of them, and Rhunis a quarter-mile behind.

  They traveled in this manner for hours, keeping the horses at a steady trot. Finally Zerafin stopped and let the others catch up to him.

  “The horses need a rest, as do we all, short though it will be.”

  Abram dismounted with a groan and walked over to Roakore’s pony. The dwarf was taking slow, labored breaths and sat slumped against his pony’s mane.

  “How is he?” asked Whill.

  Abram gave Roakore a small shove, but the dwarf did not move. “He is asleep.”

  “He is badly hurt.”

  “Yes, but the fool would not ask for help if he were on his deathbed—not from the elves.”

  Whill lit up. “Not from the elves, aye.” He walked over to Zerafin but found him busy answering Tarren’s many questions about the battle. He searched for Avriel and found her not far away, kneeling by a small brook and filling her water skin. He kneeled down next to her and dipped his own empty pouch in the cold water.

  “I ask a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  Roakore is badly hurt. But he is very stubborn. For whatever reason, he will not ask—or consciously accept—you or your brother’s help. Stupid, I know,” he added, worried that she might take offense.

  Avriel laughed. “No, no, not stupid. The dwarves are a stubborn bunch that much is true. But it serves them well. Without such will, they could not have achieved all that they have. They are tough as stone, as they say.” She leaned in closer, as if divulging a secret. Whill’s throat went dry. “But deep, deep inside, they are like any of us. They feel love, pain, and fear.”

  They stood. “So,” Avriel said. “You want me to help you heal Roakore?”

  “Yes. I mean, I healed Tarren on my own, but of course in my own healing I needed your help. I think that I can do this. I need to do this.”

  Avriel raised a hand. “I understand, Whill.” She paused in thought. “I will give you my sword. Beware, for it holds great power. Before my brother and I went on this journey to Kell-Torey, we were given gifts by many elves, gifts in the form of energy offerings. You must focus on Roakore, much as you did on Tarren. But you must not let your emotions get the better of you. Clear your mind. Think only of Roakore’s injuries. Do not let him take more than you intend to give.”

  “I understand.”

  She locked eyes with him for a silent moment. “Do you? Do you understand that if you give him too much, he will drain the blade and die? If you are not in control the entire time, you may kill the both of you.”

  If Avriel intended on scaring him, she had succeeded. He gazed back at her, now unsure.

  “Remember, Whill, give him only what he needs. Do not take from the blade for yourself, and focus on his injuries. You can do this. I have faith in you.”

  That was all Whill needed to hear. Together they walked the game trail back to the road. Rhunis had gathered everyone else’s water pouches. Upon seeing Whill and Avriel’s were full, he said, “That way, then.”

  Zerafin was dueling with Tarren, each with a wooden stick for a sword. Tarren waved happily. “Look, Whill, Zerafin is teaching me how to fight!”

  Just then the elf smacked Tarren atop the head with his mock sword.

  “Ouch!” the boy said with a scowl.

  “That is your first lesson, young one: let nothing distract you from the enemy at hand.”

  Roakore sat with Abram in the short grass at the side of the old road. They each sported a smoking pipe. The dwarf took his puffs with great care and tried to act as if nothing bothered him.

  Avriel handed Whill her blade with a nod. He could feel the power within it. He took long, slow, calming breaths and went over to them. He sat facing Roakore, the sword concealed behind him.

  “How do you feel?” Whill asked nonchalantly.

  Roakore puffed on his pipe and began coughing uncontrollably. Whill noted that he had bloodied the ground before him.

  “Do ye ask fer the elves or fer yerself?”

  “I ask as a friend, and I hope you would do the same.”

  “Bah, the pain ain’t nothin, just a few b
usted ribs is all. I ain’t gonna die from it, if that’s what yer thinkin. I know the elves are dyin’ to practice on me, but I ain’t asked fer help and I ain’t needin’ none.” He finished with a violent cough that produced more blood than before.

  Whill thought for a moment. “I was raised partially by Abram, as you know, but I lived the first years of my life with a great healer. She taught me many things.” Roakore eyed him suspiciously, but Whill only smiled. “Listen. You practically saved Abram and me atop that mountain against the Draggard. Let a man pay his debts the only way he can—let me help you. I know that you do not ask for help, but please accept that which I offer.”

  Roakore eyed Whill for a moment and then went into another violent coughing fit. When he was done, and had painted the grass with more red, he nodded. “Alright then,” he said, swooning. “What did ye have in mind?”

  “Lie on your back, if you will. And close your eyes.”

  Roakore wearily obeyed. Abram gave Whill a suspicious look. In his left hand Whill clenched Avriel’s blade. He let his right hand fall upon Roakore’s chest. At first he did not take from the sword, but rather he used his right hand and grazed Roakore’s chest in circular motions. He cleared his mind, focusing his entire being on his friend. Very slowly he tapped the energy within Avriel’s sword. He jolted slightly as he felt the first waves of power flow from the sword and into his body. He had the sudden urge to take from the sword for himself, but he closed his eyes and fought it back. He guided the energy through his body and into Roakore’s chest.

  Zerafin walked over to his sister, who was watching Whill from afar, and spoke to her with his mind.

  Tell me you didn’t give him your sword to heal the dwarf.

  Avriel smiled mischievously. You think he is not ready?

  Of course he is not ready! He has had no training in the ways of healing. Yet you give him your own blade!

  She kept watch over Whill, and did not turn to look at her brother. He has healed before. Yes, I know what you will say—he almost killed himself. But I believe he can do this. I believe in Adimorda, and so I must believe in Whill of Agora. He is our only hope, dear brother. You know this as well as I. And so we must let him do as he will.

  Zerafin did not take his eyes from his sister. He knew her heart better than any.

  “You love him.” He spoke aloud now.

  Slowly she met her brother’s gaze. Avriel could not lie to him, even if she wanted to. She smiled to herself and pondered his statement.

  “It seems I do.”

  Her brother breathed heavily. “You know what is said about such matters.”

  “But do I care?” she snapped back. “Nay. Many elves have forsaken love for law, but to what end? We have hid away for centuries in Elladrindellia, venturing from our given lands only to help in the wars. We—you and I, all of us—have met humans whom we liked, even loved.” She took his arm. “Yes, brother, remember even you have fancied a human woman.”

  Zerafin turned on his sister. “And now she is dead! Centuries lie in the wake of her last breath.”

  Avriel made her tone soft toward her anguished brother. “That she is, but had you been allowed to teach her, to show her our ways, would she not be here today? I fear we have erred in not allowing such unions. Elves and humans both would be better off now if we had shared more in the past.”

  “You forget, this is a law laid down by the elders, our mother among them.”

  “Laws change like the seasons. I will one day be an elder. Or you, Zerafin. You have only to take it and the throne of Elladrindellia is yours. Mother wishes it. ”

  “You know that I will not! Father may yet be alive, somewhere.”

  Avriel looked mournfully upon her brother. “Drindellia fell. Why do you hold on to this…?”

  “This what, fantasy? Has Whill not been your fantasy since childhood, a fantasy now come true? So allow me this: I know it may not seem logical, but I feel that our father is alive.”

  Whill dared not open his eyes. Behind his lids he could see the faint blue light. The power surged through him now; it came like a rushing river. The mental dam he had built had been overrun. Roakore’s damaged body was taking all that it could, more than it needed. The dwarf’s chest heaved and his body stiffened. Whill tried with all his might to let go, but he could not. He was but a vessel now, no more in control than a man in an avalanche. He gathered all his mental strength, summoned all his willpower, and with everything in him he screamed to the sword, STOP!

  To his amazement, it subsided. He opened his eyes to find Roakore lying still before him. Abram, Rhunis, and an amazed-looking Tarren stared down at him. Whill lifted the sword of Avriel and stared in wonder. Leirva, the sword of the elf maiden of Elladrindellia—he had wielded it. Avriel and Zerafin came over to him.

  Avriel offered Whill a smile. “I knew you could do it.” She extended her arm to take the sword.

  “You did well,” said Zerafin.

  Whill handed over the powerful blade. “What of Roakore?”

  Avriel and Zerafin both regarded the dwarf. Avriel laughed. “Well he seems to be fully healed, and then some.”

  “Yes, our gruff friend should be awake any moment and full of dragon piss.”

  Roakore’s eyes popped open and he jumped to his feet. He jerked his head in all directions, eyeing each of them. He frantically felt his chest and his ribs.

  “What in dragon’s hellfire happened here, eh?” He snorted and spat. “No blood, me side don’t hurt, and why do I feel I might explode from within?”

  Whill waved off the others, who were starting to giggle. He put an arm around the dwarf and walked him away.

  “Roakore, do you remember nothing?”

  Roakore eyed the others over his shoulder with a scowl. “I remember—I don’t know. I remember stopping fer a rest and then—”

  Whill stopped him. “I offered to help you and you accepted. You did not ask for help, and probably didn’t need it. But I felt obliged to do what I could and I tended to your wounds, minor as they were.”

  Roakore felt his ribs again. “I agreed?” He looked back at the others. “Is this the work o’ those two damned elves? They think they need to look over me—aye, me!”

  Whill shook his head. “No! No! They did nothing, I swear to you on the blood of my father. I alone tended to you, I alone.”

  “That damned Dark elf sent me own weapon back at me. Took a good hit, I did.”

  “A hit that would have killed a dragon,” Whill agreed.

  Roakore’s scowl slowly left his face. “Yer a good healer,” he said, and went to join the others.

  Whill knew that in his own stubborn way, Roakore had just said thank you. A smile spread across his face as he followed the dwarf.

  Rhunis and Zerafin were leading the horses back from their drink at the brook. Abram and Rhunis had started a small fire and were preparing what was left of the venison. Whill walked over to Tarren and took the boy by the shoulder.

  “Listen, Tarren, I ask a favor of you.”

  “Anything.”

  Tarren’s tone was so serious, it almost made Whill laugh out loud. He composed a serious face to match. “Do not tell Roakore what you saw. You may not understand, but trust me and give me your word.”

  To Whill’s surprise, Tarren winked. “Oh, I understand. If Roakore knew he was healed by elven ways, we wouldn’t hear the end of it. Don’t worry, Whill, your secret’s safe.”

  He laughed out loud and rustled Tarren’s hair. “Good lad.”

  After a quick meal, the companions were off again. They were many miles from Kell-Torey and had days ahead of them. But the mood was light, the talk merry.

  They had passed a few roads branching off from the main road, leading to other villages, but they did not venture down any. Trouble had followed Whill since Fendale, and he did not intend on endangering anyone else. Danger was a shadow that wrapped itself like a cloak around Whill of Agora. He did not know how he could possibly live up to
the prophecy. He had barely wrapped his mind around being the son of a king. At moments it was all too much, and he found himself having to mentally stomp out the fires of fear and doubt. It was in those moments that he thought of his new-found friends. If any good at all had come out of the last few days’ revelations, it was the company he now kept. Never had he met dwarf nor elf; never had he seen such fierce warriors.

  “You are not such a bad warrior yourself,” said Avriel as she rode by.

  Whill smiled at the compliment but quickly realized that Avriel had read his mind. He quickened to ride beside her. “I thought you would not read my mind without permission.”

  “And I have not.”

  “But what you said—it was along close lines to what I was thinking.”

  “I did not read your mind as much as you did the telling.” She smiled. “You were projecting your thoughts of us. Unintentionally, it seems.”

  Whill blanched. “You can hear my thoughts if they’re…about you personally?”

  Avriel slowly moved her horse closer to Whill’s. “If you are thinking intensely enough about me, or someone, it is sometimes hard for that person to ignore.”

  Whill looked away. Great! He thought. She probably already knows. This is so unfair. Dammit, she’ll hear you. Right, relax, Whill. Don’t project, don’t think it. Not that word. Choose another. Dragons! Yes, dragons—big ones, small ones. A dragon flying through the midnight sky against a full moonscape….Avriel astride the dragon upon a velvet saddle, as naked as—damn it, man, shut up!

  Whill fell back, thinking of nothing but witch’s warts as he came to ride next to Zerafin.

  “You have to teach me how to not project,” he said.

  Zerafin smiled. “If you wish. Why? Are you afraid of offending naked dragons?”

  Whill gulped and slowly fell back again. It was safest it seemed, to ride beside Abram.

  They rode on for the remainder of the day. As night fell, they stopped and made camp once again. They had eaten the remaining venison, to Roakore’s dismay. He had not had it in quite some time and had a keen liking for it. He strode up to Whill and patted him on the back. Whill was almost knocked over by the strong hand.