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, Abram, Rhunis, and the elves all shot arrows in unison as the Dark elf landed. Falling to one knee on impact, he lifted an arm and, with outstretched fingers, stopped the arrows in midair.

  Even as he let loose his first arrow, Whill knew they were all doomed, for as the Dark elf landed, Avriel gasped, and Zerafin uttered one word before firing:

  “Eadon!”

  All of the arrows flew true but then burst into flame, and only ashes blew into the wind. Eadon was an imposing figure. He stood over six feet—not a giant—but possessed an air that made him seem like a god. His armor was as black as the starless sky but reflected like ice. Upon his shoulders he wore a long cloak of long thick dragon feathers with look of polished silver. His long hair was a brilliant silver grey, turning black at the temples. Two elven blades hung at his sides, but he did not draw them. He leered at Whill.

  “When the day comes that I have to draw my blades, Whill, you will then be strong indeed.”

  Everyone knew they could not defeat Eadon; no one seemed to care. As he finished speaking, Zerafin flung an arm in Whill’s direction. He was instantly thrown through the air, high and fast, and suddenly stopped as Eadon lifted his own hand. He floated, frozen, two hundred feet above the ship, helpless as he watched the battle below. He could feel a strong pressure on his entire body and feared he would be crushed. Zerafin pushed while Eadon pulled as they battled over him.

  Whill was on the verge of passing out when finally he felt a release. One of them had ceased. Zerafin lunged forward in a flash, his sword cutting through the air as Avriel screamed a spell. White light jumped from her hand and was absorbed by Zerafin’s passing blade. The glowing Nifarez came straight down at Eadon’s head, but in an instant he produced his twin blades in a crossed block. They glowed black against Zerafin’s white-hot sword. Then Rhunis foolishly lunged forward with his blade. Eadon did not make a move, but yelled so loudly that it was deafening to Whill, who remained in the invisible grasp. The power of that yell was like an explosion in the air around him. Rhunis was blown off his feet and over the side of the ship, as was Abram. Avriel held strong the white energy that flowed into her brother’s blade, Zerafin held fast his sword, and Eadon held Whill in place while still keeping the two elves at bay.

  Avriel’s and Zerafin’s faces were twisted in concentration, but Eadon wore a grin. He closed his eyes and began to shudder. Avriel screamed. The white light that emanated from her grew brighter and more intense. Zerafin growled as he tried to pull his blade away from Eadon. Whill did not want to believe what he was seeing, but he knew that Eadon was somehow absorbing all of their power.

  I love you, Whill. The words came into his mind as tears came to his eyes.

  The deafening spell that ripped through the night, and through Whill’s very being, was the same spell his father had used to save him twenty years before. Avriel had brought down her blade into Whill’s ship, and the resounding explosion was blinding. A flash of the purest white light was followed by a fireball of flame that had been the Celestra.

  Throughout the destruction, Whill felt a shift in the energy that gripped him. As the flames receded and the waters took their place, whatever had held him let go. He fell through the air, screaming in despair—not at his own fate, but Avriel’s.

  Suddenly he was caught by a huge claw.

  The rumbling that shook the mountain subsided and every dwarf stood at attention. A horn blew from within the old ghost city of the dwarves, and the great doors opened. Before them waited a group of no more than ten thousand; they had expected ten times that many. No one waited for an explanation. As one they charged into the ranks of the Draggard army. Axes met spears, hammers met scales. The two armies came together, but the dwarves would not be slowed. The front line did not falter. A dwarf force the likes of which no army had ever fought plowed through the Draggard like a scythe through wheat. The Draggard lost their momentum altogether as their forces began to unravel. Those close to the back caves tried to run in retreat, while those unfortunate beasts at the front fell one after another. Hatchets rained down into the ranks, four for every dwarf not in direct battle. Draggard groans and screams of anguish echoed sickeningly throughout the cavern. Within a half an hour the army had been routed, and dwarf troops had already begun flushing the tunnels.

  Roakore raised his arm and, with a triumphant roar, shouted the name of his father. The victory cry was taken up by the thousands of dwarves around him. He yelled the name again, his arm pumping the air.

  “Hail, King Roakore!” shouted someone from the crowd, and the cry was taken up by all.

  He waited until the cheering had subsided, and then lifted his hands. “My good dwarves, the fight has just begun. He who brings me the head of the Draggard queen will be a dwarf of legend.”

  A cheer rose up in response. But it died and all heads turned as a slow but powerful clapping echoed throughout the chamber. Roakore turned with the others toward the destroyed mountain door. There, sitting upon a boulder, was a smiling, armor-clad Dark elf.

  Whill let out a scream of anguish as he was carried into the dawn sky. The red dragon’s grip was firm, but not crushing. He looked down upon the sight of his destroyed ship, and the dark waters now home to his dead friends.

  “Let me down, damn you, I have to go back! They need me!” Whill beat pointlessly upon the thick scales. “Goddamn you, beast, let me go!”

  The dragon responded with a growl, low and guttural, and continued to fly higher.

  Below him he could see that both the human and elven armies had begun storming the beaches, and beyond them, shadowed by the Ebony Mountains, burned the town of Drindale. The landscape was that of his dream—in vivid, terrifying clarity. What remained of the Isladon army fought hopelessly against the tides of Draggard that had emptied from the mountain. Thousands upon thousands stormed the beaches, but thousands more Draggard waited.

  “Roakore, is it not?” the Dark elf inquired as his clapping ended and finished echoing throughout the great chamber. “This is the part where I tell you to surrender peacefully, you spit in my face and say something valiant, and then we fight. Am I right?”

  Roakore remembered the Dark elf they had encountered in the forest, how he had sent his own weapon flying back at him with only a thought.

  Many o’ me dwarves’ll fall to this one.

  “I am Roakore, son o’ the fallen king o’ the Ro’Sar Mountains. I reclaim these halls, as is my birthright. And you, Dark elf, are trespassing.”

  “Ha! You do not—”

  “I ain’t done speaking, boy! Yer people have brought this scourge upon me doors, murdered our families, and taken our home. I wage war this day, and I speak fer every dwarf who ever lived when I say that from this time forth, ye shall be hunted, and ye shall be exterminated from this world. The Dark elves have wronged the wrong people. And it starts with yer death!”

  With these last words a dwarf broke from the ranks and charged the Dark elf. Raising his war hammer with a great howl, he charged in only to be lifted by an invisible force and slammed into the ceiling with a loud thud. As he fell, many more charged at once. The elf did not flinch, he did not move. Still they came, barreling at him, weapons held high: more than thirty dwarves. They were not more than ten feet away, and still the Dark elf did not move—not until the last second. Then Roakore watched in horror as the elf brought back his hand and then thrust it out before him with an open palm. A wave of energy blasted from him, engulfing the charging dwarves and sending them flying backwards. Roakore’s army watched in awestruck horror as the bodies of the dwarves disintegrated into dust before their eyes, their very life force ripped from their bodies and mingling with that of the force field. The Dark elf dropped his hand and the energy field retracted into it. He bent in ecstasy, his eyes rolled back, and his body shuddered as he gave out the kind of moan usually only heard by a lover. The armor and weapons of thirty dwarves fell to the floor.

  Whill was overcome with grief. He pounded the
dragon’s leg in a rage. Then behind him he glimpsed a flash of silver. It was Eadon and his dragon. His mind filled with rage; he saw the faces of the many who had fallen because of this Dark elf—his parents, the dwarves of the Ebony Mountain, the people of Sherna, men, women, children, Abram, Rhunis, Zerafin…and Avriel. He thought his head might explode from the pressure, the agony and torment. Pain wracked his mind and body; his very soul was aflame. All sense left his mind, and only one thought remained within that ocean of misery it had become. Revenge.

  The red dragon had noticed Eadon and dove swiftly as a ball of fire flew past, barely missing them. Eadon’s mount easily maneuvered to keep up and even gain on them. There was a terrible shout that cracked the sky like thunder, and the red dragon was hit with a shockwave of energy that blew it with great force to the side. It rolled and tumbled through the air, and dropped Whill. As he fell, he did not feel fear—only rage that he would die this way without a chance to exact his revenge. But then his chance came. Eadon’s mount dove after his, its great silver wings tucked in tightly. It ripped through the air unnaturally fast—or was Whill being pulled up towards it? He reached for his father’s sword. The red dragon, apparently forgotten, slammed into the other. The two great beasts tumbled through the air, claws ripping, teeth biting, as they each tried to get a hold of the other’s neck.

  A sudden blast of fire separated the two. The ground was almost upon him as Whill watched the battle above. The red dragon dove like a rock, smoke and blood trailing behind him like a comet’s tail as he descended. As Whill rocketed toward the ground, he knew he had only seconds to live. In his mind burned the faces of the dead, and he gave in to the darkness, sweet, silent, endless darkness.

  The red dragon dove fast and was soon slightly below him, coming in with great speed. Below him the ground rose quickly as the red dragon snatched him up with its claws and pulled him in tight. It spun over and crashed to the ground. Dust flew up into the morning sky as it hit like a rock and tumbled for more than three hundred yards before coming to rest in the shadow of the Ebony Mountains.

  “I see you have none powerful enough to defeat me. Shall we try the blade, then? It is so much more satisfying.” The Dark elf unsheathed his sword. “And when you reach your beloved halls, tell your gods that your army was laid waste by Farandelizon.”

  “Charge!” roared Roakore. The entire army descended upon the Dark elf. In a blur of motion Farandelizon cut through their weapons, armor, and bodies. Dozens fell in seconds. Roakore’s face hardened. The roar of his army filled his ears, accompanied by the screams of the dying. How could they fight such unnatural power? They were so close; they had reclaimed the halls, and for what? To be done in by a single Dark elf.

  No! Thought Roakore. He stopped in his charge and raised his hands above him. Drawing strength from those around him—how, he did not know or care—he focused his mind on a stalagmite above. So large was it that forty dwarves could have circled it. With a great scream he watched as it broke from its base and fell. Those closest to Roakore felt their strength drained from them for a moment as he guided the missile towards the elf.

  Farandelizon saw it coming as he fought the oncoming tide of dwarves, but he did not believe it. Unable to stop in his fight he could only watch as the great rock came hurtling at him, one word filling his mind as it crashed into him: How?

  Whill struggled out from under the dragon’s great claws. As the dust settled he looked around, trying to spot the damned Dark elf. He saw thousands of Draggard and knew Roakore and his dwarves had been too late—the mountain had emptied already. From the coast came the blaring of the war horn of Eldalon. It was followed by the trumpets of the elves. Both were answered by the hisses and growls of the thousands of Draggard.

  The red dragon’s huge chest heaved as it choked on the dust. Blood stained the ground as it coughed. It had broken a wing and had many bloody injuries upon its body, including a bone that had broken through the scales of its right front leg.

  “Eadon comes,” the red dragon growled. “He will kill us both. I have failed.”

  Whill unsheathed his father’s sword. “Let him come.”

  The red dragon lifted himself to his hind legs, breathed heavily and roared, belching flame above Whill’s head. “Fool! You face your death and care not. You, the great Whill spoken of in Adimorda’s prophecy! You are a sniveling weakling. Already your emotions consume you; already you walk in the darkness. You are not worthy of the knowledge of the sword of Adromida. Better it never be found.”

  “The sword!” Whill exclaimed. “You know where it is?”

  “I know, and no other ever will. The knowledge will go with my death.”

  “Tell me where it is! You must, it is the only way I might stop Eadon!”

  A puff of smoke issued from the great dragon. “Stop Eadon, you? You cannot even stop yourself! You are but a child, a mortal child wrapped up too much in your own ego. You think you have seen pain? You think you know suffering? No, child, you know nothing. I had hope for you. I had dreamed.” The dragon lifted its head as Eadon landed less than a hundred yards away. Swarms of Draggard had come to join their master and now circled them.

  “I see now my own folly,” the dragon went on. “Adimorda was mistaken. You are not worthy. And now I face my death. I will not live to see the darkness that will spread across this land, but you…”

  Eadon approached without sword drawn, a victorious smirk upon his face. Whill did not even bother to take up a battle stance.

  “Let us end this,” he said in a resigned voice.

  The Dark elf stopped ten feet away, and the red dragon rose proudly to his full height behind Whill.

  Eadon smiled brightly. “End? Now why on earth would I want to kill you, Whill? I have waited so very long to meet you. No, I think not, my apprentice. This is but the beginning.”

  Chapter 27

  The Dark Master

  Whill’s blood went cold. Everything had gone horribly wrong. He was supposed to be on his way to Elladrindellia to train with the elves. Now his friends were all dead and he was cornered. Apprentice, Eadon had said. Apprentice… Death seemed a sweet refuge to what would await him at the hands of this maniac. How could this be happening? He had to think of something, but there was nothing he could do. No one was coming to his rescue this time. No elf warriors, no burly dwarves, no mysterious dragon. He was alone.

  “You are speechless,” Eadon mused. “I understand. It is a great honor I offer you. I will forgive your rude behavior.”

  “Honor? You know nothing of honor!” The red dragon let out a roar as he descended upon Whill, huge teeth meant to engulf him. With a quick thrust of his arm Eadon sent a shockwave of energy at the beast, sending them both flying backwards more than twenty feet. Before Whill realized what had happened, Eadon stood before them once again.

  “No, my old friend, I will not let you kill my young apprentice. He has many great things to do before his life is through.”

  The red dragon tried to kill me, Whill realized as he looked into the ancient dragon’s eyes. They were filled with fear, pain, and pity, but not for itself. The dragon had tried to end his life in an attempt to spare him. Now Whill knew fear; now he truly knew despair.

  “I will heal you, dragon, and you will accompany me and our young friend here,” said Eadon.

  Now the dragon’s look of fear and pity were for himself. Flames erupted from its maw and deflected harmlessly to each side of Eadon, who looked truly amused. “Kill me and be done with it!” The dragon roared in Elvish

  “No, old friend, I know your secret. I know who you are. You alone have knowledge of a certain artifact that I have waited many, many years to acquire. You will come with us.” Eadon raised his palm to the dragon and blue tendrils of healing energy shot out and engulfed it.

  The dragon roared as its bone snapped back into place and its wing healed. Just as quickly as it had started, the healing was through, and Eadon showed no sign that it had taxed his power. The
dragon roared and thrashed, and flames shot forth from its mouth. They were harmlessly deflected from Whill and Eadon’s path.

  “Enough from you, beast! You have lost! You will only achieve greater pain should you choose to defy me!”

  Rhunis drifted into darkness—sweet, silent, engulfing darkness. His pain and worry were no more; he could rest now. He had been here before, in the cold embrace of this lover, death. From the distance came the sounds of battle, the ocean waves and screams of the dying. No more were these things his concern. No more...

  Something slammed into his chest, and again, and he heard a voice. Why couldn’t they leave him in peace? “Rhunis!” Again there came a slam to his chest; the bliss was replaced by pain, the silence with screams. “Rhunis!”

  Rhunis coughed up seawater as someone turned him onto his side and patted his back. The sights and sounds came rushing back to assault his senses.

  “Rhunis!”

  He swatted at his rescuer and struggled to sit up. A strong hand helped him. “Rhunis, my friend, I thought you for dead.”

  He caught his breath and spat. Shaking his head he looked toward Abram’s voice. They were on the beach. Water lapped up at their feet as an army of both elf and human soldiers stormed the beaches around them.

  “You woke me from the most wonderful dream,” grumbled Rhunis as he strove to stand. Abram helped him to his feet.