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 returned to the bedroom and walked out onto the balcony and gazed at the courtyard below. The morning sun had risen and its bright light now fell upon a marvelous garden of early-blooming flowers of every color.

  Beautiful, is it not? Said a voice within his mind, the voice of Avriel. Whill turned right, then left, and saw her twenty feet away, standing on her own identical balcony. Gone were her traveling clothes, replaced by a thin white silken robe opened slightly in the front, revealing more than Avriel may have intended. Whill was left speechless, mind and mouth alike, at the sight of her. He felt his face flush and a strange heat overcame him as he looked upon the elf maiden. The sun’s light pierced the robe, making it all but translucent. Whill was paralyzed in the midst of Avriel’s well-proportioned beauty.

  I spoke of the garden, came Avriel’s voice with a laugh. Embarrassed, he turned his head quickly to regard the flowers. When he looked once again to Avriel’s balcony, she was gone.

  After a bath and change of clothes, Whill was led by Johanah to the king’s dining room. The room was no less than Whill would expect from the dining hall of the king. Massive chandeliers hung from the cathedral ceiling, and the floor was highly polished. The walls were of wood—detailed and masterfully carved; swirling patterns bordered intricate artwork. The table was no less beautiful, long and thin, with large, well-crafted chairs. It could seat more than twenty comfortably, though only two were seated there this morning: King Mathus and Abram.

  Johanah bowed to the king. “I give you Whill of Agora, my good king.”

  With that he turned and left, closing the large oak door behind him. King Mathus rose from his seat and walked towards Whill. Abram remained seated to the left of the king, pipe held between grinning lips

  “Whill. How eager I have been to meet you.”

  “And I you, King Mathus.”

  The king shook Whill’s hand firmly for a moment and looked over his features. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he said. Then he released Whill’s hand and gestured to the seat at his right.

  “Please, you must be famished. Have a seat and we shall dine and talk. A grand adventure you have had since your stay in Fendale, I hear.”

  Whill took his seat, as did Mathus. With a snap of the king’s fingers, a door opposite the one Whill had entered through opened. Two female servants entered. One pushed a wheeled cart of many covered dishes, while the other one brought a variety of beverages. The servant with the food removed the lid of each serving plate before putting it on the table. Whill’s mouth watered as he realized how hungry he really was. Upon the table was laid fruit, boiled eggs, thick red steak, pork belly, bread, and white cheese. The servant with the beverages then added pitchers of milk, cider, water, and wine. The servants gave a low bow.

  “That will be all,” said the king with a nod and a smile, and the servants exited. He poured himself a glass of milk. “Please help yourselves. I would have them serve us our plates, but I would rather be alone just now.”

  Whill took a little of everything, and was relieved when Abram and King Mathus did the same.

  “Rhunis tells me that you had a run-in with a Dark elf, of all things. Can you imagine, in Eldalon?”

  Whill swallowed his food and cleared his throat. “That among other things.”

  The king nodded. “Yes, among others. Rumor has it the two of you defeated Captain Cirrosa. I must hear that story.”

  Whill raised an eyebrow at Abram, who was enjoying a bit of steak. “Abram is the storyteller, I’m afraid.”

  “That he is indeed,” Mathus agreed.

  Over the next hour Abram, with Whill’s help, recounted the many days since they had so hastily left Fendale; the fight with Captain Cirrosa, the journey to the mountains, the meeting of Roakore, and the battle with the Draggard. Then had come the battle of Sherna and the meeting of the elves, and finally the fight on the road to Kell-Torey. The king listened intently, asking few questions. He seemed angered by the battle of Sherna, and joyous to hear of the Draggard defeat. Finally the tale was over. Abram sat back and lit his pipe.

  The king sat in contemplation for a moment. “It is a miracle that you all made it through unharmed, especially the boy Tarren. Not many ever see a Dark elf and live to tell about it—nor the Black Dragon, for that matter. Your deeds these last few weeks alone ensure that your names will live on in song for generations. Yet you are not even twenty years old!” He leaned forward, elbows upon the table. “The question is, what do the two of you plan to do next?”

  Abram shrugged. “I will follow Whill’s lead, wherever it may take us.”

  “Good king,” Whill said, “I had thought such talk would be better suited for the meeting, but I may tell you now—I intend to aid Isladon in whatever way I can. And if I may—I understand I have been invited to the meeting, and I am honored, but I don’t understand what place I have there.”

  King Mathus laughed. “What place, you ask? You are the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, my boy, as I am sure you know. You have as much right as I to attend.”

  “I understand. But I have no army, no followers. My own kingdom does not even know I exist.”

  Abram spoke up. “But you do have followers, and you will have an army. You rallied those men at Sherna and led them to victory. You have a strength that you underestimate, my friend. And do not forget the power of the spoken word—news of the Battle of Sherna beat us to Kell-Torey. Your people know of you, do not doubt. Those whispers have been floating on the breeze for a long time now. Your people want you to be real. They need you to be. You seem but a myth to many, a legend. But soon you will show them that the legend is flesh and blood, that the myth is true.”

  Mathus spoke, his voice serious. “You plan to learn the ways of the elves, do you not?”

  Whill was shocked. “Yes—yes I do, in time—”

  “And do you think it wise to risk your life in the inevitable battle within Isladon?”

  “How did you know?”

  King Mathus finally smiled. “Do not forget, I am your grandfather. There were no secrets between my daughter and I. Do not fret, your family’s secret is safe with me, grandson.”

  Whill felt a lump build in his throat. Grandson. All his life he had yearned to know his true lineage and now before him sat his grandfather.

  “Thank you” was all that he could say.

  King Mathus sensed Whill’s emotional state, for he simply smiled and turned to Abram. “Do you think Whill should fight?”

  Abram stroked his beard and looked up at the ceiling. “Let us see what comes of the meeting. It may be that the elves will elect to go also. Either way, Whill is now a man and must decide what is best for himself.”

  Roakore stood at his door, scowling at the young man before him. “What do ye want, anyway, wakin’ me at this hour?”

  The young man bowed low. “I apologize, good dwarf, but it is three hours after sunrise and I thought you might want your breakfast.”

  “Me breakfast, eh? What if I do?”

  The young man nervously scratched the back of his neck. “I will bring you whatever you desire, sir. If I may. My name is Ithellio of the house of Noranan. My family has served the kings for more than two centuries. I have been appointed as your servant for the duration of your stay.”

  Roakore traded his scowl for a grin. “Servant, eh? Well, then, Ithellio. What do ye offer?”

  “Offer?”

  “Fer breakfast, lad! What do ye offer fer food?”

  “Ah. Anything you desire.”

  “Good then. Bring me a pound o’ bacon, greasy but crunchy, a pitcher o’ goat’s milk, a half dozen eggs sloppy, and a good fresh loaf o’ bread. And don’t be skimpin’ on the butter.”

  The lad bowed low once again and stepped backward. “Very good, sir. I shall return shortly.”

  Roakore slammed the door before the lad had finished speaking. His room was the same in design and layout as Whill’s, and soon he discovered the large tub with its two waterspouts a
nd hand pumps. He scratched his head and investigated the balcony. Below he saw the vast gardens with their many fountains and pools. To many humans such a sight would inspire awe, but to the gruff dwarf the flowers seemed a waste of space. Instead he looked past the gardens to the castle walls. It was upon looking at the cold, well-shaped stone that the dwarf was awed.

  Zerafin entered his sister’s room without knocking; he had contacted her through his mind, and she had bade him enter. Avriel sat upon a well-cushioned and pillowed sitting couch, combing her long hair. She wore a white silken robe. Elves lived many centuries, and had beliefs and ways very different from those of humans. Within elven society, shyness and self-consciousness did not exist. Zerafin found nothing strange about the way his sister was dressed; it was morning, after all, and the castle was warm, the silk comfortable. Avriel’s servant, however, though well trained, was unable to hide his blushing face.

  Zerafin looked at the man. So you have one also.

  Yes. I find them quite handy, actually. Are you still not used to the idea of human servants? You have visited human royalty many times in the past.

  Have you seen into him?

  Avriel let out a chuckle and spoke aloud, startling her servant. “Of course I have, brother, do you really think me so unprepared?”

  “Leave us now,” Zerafin told him.

  The middle-aged man was visibly scared but did not move. “My lady?”

  “Yes, leave us,” Avriel said. “Thank you for awaiting my instruction.”

  The servant bowed low and exited the room without looking or speaking to either of the elves. As the door closed, Zerafin shook his head. “Why anyone would let themselves be reduced to that level is beyond my comprehension.”

  Avriel stood and returned her brush to her nightstand. “You know as much as I of the history and traditions of humans. It is considered an honor to them.”

  “An honor to make yourself like a dog? I know the traditions, but I will never understand them.” He picked up an apple from the fruit basket.

  Avriel went to the wardrobe, disrobed and began dressing herself in her chosen garments. “You think that Eadon will try to reach Whill through possession?”

  “I do. If I were Eadon and knew that Whill was here in Kell-Torey, so well hidden and protected, I would resort to possession to kill him. The boy Tarren, for example, would be a perfect subject.”

  Avriel appeared fully clothed from the wardrobe with a look of disgust. “Sometimes you are very morbid, brother. Morbid, but brilliant. Tarren, you say?”

  Zerafin nodded as he ate his apple.

  “I have a thought you might find compelling, though it is not mine alone—Mother voiced it to me first,” she said. “What if…what if Eadon does not want Whill dead?”

  Zerafin swallowed his last bite hard. “Go on.”

  “If you were Eadon, and you knew that Whill of Agora existed—the very one spoken of in the prophecy, the one who is destined to wield the sword Adromida—would you want him dead? Would you gamble that his human uncle could wield the blade in his place? And what if Addakon does find it? How long do you think he will put up with Eadon once he has such power? Evil will turn on evil.”

  Zerafin thought for a long moment. “If I were Eadon I would try to bring Whill to my side, and somehow gain the power of the blade.”

  “You believe that Eadon wants Whill captured.”

  “Yes, which is only another reason we should watch him that much more closely.” He gave her a sly look. “Which I doubt you will mind doing.”

  Avriel rolled her eyes. “That again.”

  “What? I do not try to mock you. I only speak the truth.”

  “What is it?”

  “I know you feel for Whill deeply. I am glad for it, believe me. I have not seen you smile so many times in so few days since you were a child, since Drindellia. He makes you happy. I understand. He has awakened a dead place in your heart that not time, nor elven love interests, have been able to. He is mortal, a mere human, yet you see him as a legend. Not an equal, but as a superior. You see in his eyes the last hope for our people, the redemption of our father, our homeland. Is this why you love him?”

  Avriel turned from his gaze. After a moment she looked up into her brother’s eyes, her own wet with tears that had not fallen. “He looks at me in a way that no one else does. I see lust, yes, and the recognition of beauty that I am aware I possess. I have seen this in other men, human and elf—even dwarf, for that matter. But there is something more, something that poets of old could only hint at. When he looks at me I am a little girl again. I, an elf warrior of 650 years, a princess to her people, am reduced to childhood in his eyes. He disarms my heart with but a glance, and lights a fire within me that the oceans could not quench. I do not know why; I do not care. I feel more alive than I have in centuries. Is it due to his title, the prophecy, I think not. I am not infatuated with him, as you might hint. Infatuation and love branch the same tree, but they bear two very different fruit. I love him for who he is inside.”

  Zerafin embraced his sister. “Then you have my blessing.”

  Avriel hugged her brother and finally let her tears fall onto his shoulder, though they were now tears of joy.

  Abram sat smoking his pipe; rings still lingered in place many feet above. They had long ago finished their meals and were now simply chatting. The king was telling Whill one of the many stories of Abram’s heroism during the Draggard battles that had taken place since he was but a lad. Whill was enthralled but also slightly sickened by the many stories of near death. He wasn’t sure whether he was more impressed or angered by the tales, realizing just how close he had come to losing the only father he had ever known.

  The king finished his latest tale, sat back, and enjoyed a large gulp of wine. Then he put down his drink and set his gaze upon Whill—who got the impression that the king’s next words would not be light-hearted, for his face had become grave, as if he had finally decided upon something most unpleasant.

  “I have news of Tarren’s father, and family.”

  Whill let out a breath and held a faint hope that it was good news.

  “It seems that when Tarren was kidnapped by Cirrosa, his family was murdered.”

  Whill put his head in his hands. He felt the king’s hand on his shoulder. Abram began to curse. “By the gods! That wretched scum of a man! Never have I wished I could kill a man twice!”

  The king’s arm fell from Whill’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Whill, but it seems the boy cannot return to Fendale. Nothing awaits him. I have had my men look into his family line, and it appears those who perished were all that was left. The inn also is gone, burned to the ground.”

  Whill fought back tears, rage, shame, and sorrow. Again it had been his fault; again good people had died because of him; his parents, the slave men of Eldon, the people of Sherna, and now this. He felt something shift within him. He felt he might explode, and began to tremble.

  Whill ground his teeth in anger; his hands had become fists that pulled at his hair. Abram rose quickly and moved around the table to Whill. Into the prone young man’s ear he spoke, calmly and soothingly.

  “Control yourself, Whill. Do not let it build, do not let it consume you. Fight it.”

  Whill barely heard the plea, so consumed was he with pent up-rage. He had caused the deaths of too many, had learned too much in the last few days. The pressure proved too much. He saw behind his closed eyes the great pyre upon the beaches of Sherna, the hundreds of smoldering bodies. He saw the slave men he himself had cut down in battle, the face of Tarren streaked with tears. He stood and clutched his stomach as if some demonic beast was trying to claw its way out. He screamed.

  Abram’s voice managed to break through Whill’s consuming rage. “The table, Whill, focus it all on the table! All of it! Let it go!”

  Mathus backed away as Whill focused all his rage, all his shame, everything, sending it from his mind and into his fists, slamming the large oak table before him.r />
  There was a deafening boom as the table exploded into a million pieces. King Mathus and Abram were blown backwards by the shockwave that followed the release. Whill looked down upon his bloodied hands in awe. Hundreds of splinters had sunk deep in his hands, body, and face. He felt his knees buckle and he slumped to the floor, thoroughly spent. He heard Abram and King Mathus yell his name in unison and saw Zerafin and Avriel rush into the room.

  Then his eyes closed.

  Chapter 22

  The Orphan

  Whill found himself floating high above a battle. The land was charred and smoldering, the sky above choked with smoke, and the ground itself seemed to bleed. Below, a great battle surged. Whill was horrified as he looked upon the warring masses. Draggard swarmed upon the field, greatly outnumbering their enemies. The scene was a slaughter; men, elves, and dwarves alike lay dead or dying. The remaining armies of Agora were being devoured as the deep and menacing horns of the Draggard sounded, rising into the smoke-filled sky like the evil moan of a demon of death.

  “Dohr la skello hento!”

  Whill was jolted conscious as a surge of energy coursed through his body. Zerafin spoke again in the elven language, and the hundreds of splinters were pulled from his body by an unseen force. Then came the blue light, enveloping him and healing his many wounds.