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

  “A distraction!” ordered Zerafin, and the soldiers complied. The elves sent a glowing, multicolored volley of arrows at the queen as the dwarves launched their many hatchets. She lifted her hands, and every missile stopped in its course and flew back at the attacker. The elves pushed back with mental energy of their own in a stalemate.

  She screamed at her attackers and knew her doom. She could not stop the crazed dwarf without letting up on the missiles, but she could take this little bastard with her. She would wait until the last second to let down her guard, and then she would tear him apart.

  Roakore barreled in. The queen’s greedy teeth awaited him, but he came to a sudden sliding stop, not ten feet away, and slammed his fists into the floor. She was slammed with a stone tide as the floor erupted before her. Pebbles and chunks of rock alike riddled her flying body. Her attention shifted to her own pain, and the arrows and hatchets rained into her. She was dead before she hit the ground.

  “Hail, King Roakore!” Zerafin cried.

  All took up the cry. “Hail, King Roakore!”

  Roakore went to the fallen queen and, with his great axe, hewed off her head—just in case—and raised it to the crowd. The cheers swelled.

  “I have seen a great many amazing things in all my centuries. That was simply beautiful. You should be proud of your father,” Eadon said.

  Whill held his father’s empty sword and looked at him with disgust. “I need not be told that by one such as you.” He wiped the blood from Sinomara’s blade and sheathed it. “I will not be used by you. I will not help you find Adromida. I do not know what your plans are, or how you intend to stop the prophecy, but I will not be your puppet.”

  Eadon laughed, but when the laughing ceased there was no smile. He began to circle Whill. “Don’t you see? You have defeated your uncle; you are now king of all of Uthen-Arden. You need not fight me, for I am not your enemy. Never again will you have enemies if you follow me. You can have the world, Whill.”

  “I am the rightful king, that is true,” Whill said softly. The Dark elf smiled.

  “And as king I shall make you pay for all you have done. I do not want the world, Eadon, I simply want a world without you or the damned Draggard. I want a world of peace.”

  Eadon’s smile turned to a sneer in the blink of an eye. “I will teach you pain beyond human endurance. Should you defy me, I will make you beg for death before I am through with you. Every day you will be brought within an inch of it, only to be healed. You will bend to my will—me, your master.”

  “Never!”

  Before the word could leave his lips he was slammed into the wall with a flick of Eadon’s wrist. He got to his feet and unsheathed his father’s sword. It was ripped from his grasp by the Dark elf’s mind, and slammed against the wall. Whill lunged forward, but Eadon raised a hand and his body froze. The Dark elf lunged forward and dealt a double-fisted blow to his ribs. He was thrown backwards into the wall and landed with a thud, his ribs shattered. He could not draw breath; many of the bones had penetrated his lungs. He coughed blood, and Eadon was on him in a flash. Whill was lifted into the air only to be slammed against the wall once more. Then he was pulled through the air and caught by the throat in Eadon’s powerful grip. He brought his face close to Whill’s as he choked the life from him.

  “Yes, my friend. You know it to be true. You cannot win; you cannot defy me. The outcome can only mean loss for you.”

  Whill blacked out. Finally the pain ceased, and there was nothing—sweet, beautiful, warm nothing. He had been delivered by death from the clutches of the murderous Dark elf. But then—

  Sound, smell. He opened his eyes in time to see the blue tendrils of healing dissipate. His ribs and lungs were healed, and Eadon stood over him.

  “Thus begins your training, apprentice,” he said as he stepped aside. Another Dark elf approached, followed by two Draggard. Whill got to his feet and stood before them boldly.

  “This is Thazak,” Eadon said. “He will be your first teacher.”

  He was taller than Whill and slightly shorter than Eadon, with black hair and dark eyes. His face was adorned with intricate black tattoos. Whill’s body froze as Thazak grabbed his face by the jaw and inspected him. “I have practiced the art of torture for many years in anticipation of your arrival. Your pain will be legendary.” He smiled. “I promise.”

  Thazak proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life, and Whill thought that if he could somehow survive this, he could survive anything. His limp body was dragged down many stairs by the Draggard. They took him to the special dungeons far below the castle, from which no screams would be heard. The young man Whill had been would never return from those depths, even if his body did.

  Roakore entered the throne room, and there upon the throne he saw it, the skeleton of his father. The enemy had propped him up in the chair, crown and all. This had been meant as an insult, but to Roakore it now seemed proper. He raised his hands and tried as hard as he could to picture his father. With the image in mind, he commanded the stone and it obeyed. It rose up from all sides and encased the dead king and his throne. It fused together, but then the outer stone fell away revealing a sculpture of Roakore’s father. It was so perfect, it could not have been made by hand. When the clan had amassed its wealth once again, Roakore intended to encrust it with diamonds.

  He went down on one knee. “Father. I have done as ye asked. I have taken back our mountain. Let yer soul be free.”

  For a moment there was only silence, but then a draft picked up and blew through his hair. From the statue rose a silver mist. It lingered for a moment, and then spiraled up and disappeared into the ceiling. Roakore burst into tears of joy.

  He joined his new friends and looked out over the battlefield in the fading sunlight. They had all—elf, dwarf, and human—lost many lives this day. Abram looked to the sky and thought of Whill. Roakore knew his mind.

  “What has become of him?” Abram asked the faint wind.

  Zerafin looked at the ground. “He has been taken by Eadon. Our greatest fears have been realized. We have won today’s battle, but at a great expense. Without Whill, we cannot win the war. We have no other option but to try and free him from the Dark elf’s grasp.”

  “How do we free him from one so powerful?” Abram asked.

  Zerafin shook his head. “How indeed?”

  The End

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for purchasing this book. I hope you have enjoyed the adventures of Whill thus far. The Whill of Agora series is now complete, and books 2, 3, and 4 are now available on amazon. I hope that interest in Legends of Agora allows me to continue the stories for a long time to come. Fans like you make all of this possible, thank you.

  I would love to hear what you thought of the story, so please, feel free to leave a review. I read them all (some I read over and over, then run through the house showing the wife and kids). It only takes a few minutes and doesn’t have to be long, but it would make my day.

  I am a self-published author and do not have the luxury of a team of promoters at my disposal. You are my team, and I appreciate your efforts and support.

  If you enjoyed Whill of Agora, I invite you to read the following sample chapters of the newest addition to Legends of Agora; The Windwalker Archive, Book 1, Talon. Although Talon takes place 200 years before Whill of Agora, it can be read before or after.

  I also encourage you to join the mailing list for updates on future book releases, cover reveals, contests, giveaways, author blog and more!

  With humble appreciation,

  Michael James Ploof

  The Battle for the Ebony Mountains

  Twenty years before the birth of Whill

  The dwarf ran down the long tunnel. Screams and sounds of battle echoed off the walls and filled him with dread. He clutched his great axe, frantically trying to get to the fight. One hundred dwarves followed Roakore, holding similar axes or war hammers. The Draggard had invaded the mountain. The Draggard! T
he dwarves had not seen the attack coming, hadn’t even considered it a possibility. But now it was a grave reality. Roakore turned the corner of the great tunnel into a larger hall. Before him was a sight that would haunt his dreams until the day he went to the Mountain of the Gods. Hundreds of Draggard were within the hall, and hundreds of his kin alike. Roakore’s shock was short-lived, however, as a seven-foot Draggard came barreling at him with a long, mean spear leading the way. Roakore spun with the attack and came around with his axe in one smooth motion, burying the blade deep in the monster’s back. The Draggard fell to the floor, writhing and twitching in agony. All around him hundreds of similar battles played out. But it did not take the dwarf long to realize that most of the battles were ending differently. For in the great hall the dwarves were outnumbered three to one, and still more Draggard came rushing in through the tunnel they invaded from.

  Axes clanged, hammers fell, spears dove, and blood poured. Rage welled within Roakore as he watched his kin fall one after another, Draggard after vicious Draggard pouring into the room. He knew that this battle would soon be lost. The dwarves’ only hope was to go to the chambers of Erakknar, a series of tunnels, halls, and chambers used in the ancient days in times of invasion. Never before had the mountain been lost, for no army of foes could withstand the defenses set forth within the chamber of Erakknar. Roakore turned to his fearless band of dwarves and roared, “To Erakknar!” His companions repeated the command. The tunnel to the chambers, however, was at the other end of the great hall. Roakore led his group straight into the heart of battle with a war cry that echoed through the hall and grew as it was taken up by his fellow dwarves. The cry grew to such an intensity that for a moment the Draggard lost their momentum in the fight. The expressions on their lizard-like faces turned from rage and bloodlust to doubt and fear. Roakore and the others jumped at the hesitation. A wave of rage-filled dwarves barreled into the Draggard, relentless in their attack. Holding a tight V-formation as they went, and adding many to their ranks as dwarves who had been in the middle of the battle joined them, they made a steady charge for the tunnel.

  The Draggard fought violently, fighting with spears and teeth and claws and long, spiked tails. Roakore watched as the dwarf next to him went down as a pointed tail impaled him through the chest. Roakore swung hard with his axe and took the head off the shoulders of the attacking Draggard. Again he swung, and again and again until he was covered in the blood of his enemies. Before long he had led the band of dwarves to the tunnel. The Draggard army was considerably thinner, but as one Draggard fell, two more poured in from the tunnels. The deadly swarm followed closely behind the dwarves, picking off those at the end of the thick line. Roakore and the rest of the dwarves ran as fast as their stout legs could carry them down the tunnel. They did not run in fear, they did not run to save their own hides; they ran to meet with the rest of the dwarf population who had undoubtedly gone to the Chamber of Erakknar when the warning horn had blown.

  Light emanated from the end of the tunnel—blue it shone, telling Roakore that the defenses where ready. He and his men, fewer now, rushed into the first chamber. It was narrow at first but then widened with every step until it met the adjacent wall. The shape of the room resembled a smooth triangle, the tunnel they had come from being at one of the three points. Before them was a great staircase that climbed high but then zigzagged to a balcony landing. Atop the balcony Roakore was glad to see fifty or more dwarves holding great boulders over their heads, ready to crush the oncoming army. Roakore waited at the stair and rushed his men past, waiting for the last before he ascended. He quickly questioned his actions, however, as the last dwarf ran past, followed by an ocean of teeth and claws and spears.

  Roakore followed closely on the heels of his fleeing friends as the Draggard filled the chamber and also started up the stair. He knew that the defensive attack would not begin until he reached the first landing, but he wondered if he would make it. Claws scratched at his armor as a Draggard tried to catch him when finally he reached the landing and spun around with his axe. Whether it was his rage or the adrenaline rush or a little of both he did not know, but as he turned on the Draggard he chopped it clean in half with one mighty swipe. On cue the boulders began to fall like rain upon the Draggard as they ascended the steps. The Draggard were effectively cut off from the stair by the shower of rock. All but five were on the safe side, along with Roakore.

  One Draggard bounded at the dwarf foolishly and was met with an axe to the head. But the other four took the opening and charged, leaping after the dwarf as well. Roakore ran at the Draggard who were now in the midst of their long leap. Roakore used their momentum to his advantage, and as he passed under them he turned and chopped at the closest one. His mighty axe found the Draggard’s chest and tore through the scale armor and sunk deep, bringing down the vile creature but also Roakore. He bounded to his feet in a flash and struggled to free his axe as the other three Draggard landed. Unable to free his axe, Roakore removed the hatchets he had strapped to his outer thighs. He clanged them together as the Draggard hissed and growled at him. Roakore returned the growls with one of his own.

  “Urrr, come on!” Roakore roared in defiance. The Draggard again hesitated before the crazed dwarf—just what Roakore needed. He raised his arms and cried, “Ohn zrak kytho sjendi zwikor henin ty!” The Draggard hesitated no longer and advanced on the dwarf. Roakore made no movement to defend, he only repeated the chant. As the Draggard charged, two of the great falling boulders changed course and flew directly over Roakore’s head, smashing two of the Draggard hard against the wall. Before the remaining Draggard knew what was happening, the dwarf was upon it, hacking and chopping, fire burning in his eyes until all that remained of the Draggard was a heap of gore.

  “Come, Roakore!” came a voice from above. Roakore quickly retrieved his axe and ascended the stairs to the great balcony. Looking down upon the carnage that was the stairway and tunnel opening, he was not pleased. More than fifty dwarves continuously heaved great stones down onto the Draggard. This had stopped their approach so far but still the Draggard poured into the room. Roakore peered into the stone holding room and discovered to his dismay that only a few hundred stones remained. Also, upon turning back to the chamber, he discovered that dozens of Draggard had begun scaling the walls. To his left Roakore saw his three brothers and his father. They had begun the chant to the stone, and Roakore quickly joined in. As the dwarf before him tossed a great boulder, Roakore took control of its momentum with the power that only he and his family possessed. He sent the boulder smashing into one of the climbing Draggard, squashing it like a bug. The crushed and lifeless beast, along with the rock, then fell to the waiting horde below. Roakore and his brothers and father successfully kept up this attack until every rock had been thrown.

  The scene below was a slaughter. Hundreds of Draggard lay in waste, their bodies crushed and bloody among the rocks. But though the stones ceased to fall, the Draggard did not cease to enter. The tunnel entrance had been essentially barricaded with the rain of stone, but still gaps remained. Through the gaps in the fallen stone the horde of Draggard continued to pour.

  “To the next chamber!” Roakore’s father ordered. The dwarves retreated from the balcony and past the stone holding room. Beyond was a descending staircase and another chamber, the Chamber of Fire. Roakore stayed behind the group as the dwarves hurried to the end of the chamber and up another staircase. Unlike the other chamber this one was rectangular, with a high ceiling and a stone-tiled floor. Between each of the stone tiles was a three-inch gap, two inches deep. At the top of the staircase Roakore could see that the five large barrels of oil had been tapped. Oil poured forth down a circuit of stone gutters and onto the floor, filling the gaps between the stone. Fifty dwarves waited at the top of the staircase, which led to an arched doorway to the next chamber. In the chambers beyond, more than one thousand dwarves waited, armed and ready. Roakore, however, stayed within the Chamber of Fire, shoulder to shoulder wi
th his kin atop the staircase, waiting for the Draggard. The trap’s effectiveness counted on the dwarves’ waiting until the room filled with Draggard, which also meant that they had to hold them off for a while.

  Soon they came, hissing and spitting, shrieking and growling, slowly down the adjacent stair. On a perch high above Roakore stood a lone dwarf with a torch ablaze, waiting for the right moment. The Draggard were few at first, as it took some time for the horde to maneuver through the fallen stone in the last chamber. But quickly their numbers grew, as did their confidence. They filed onto the stairway and began to descend, eyeing the awaiting dwarves with fierce glares and vicious snarls. More than one hundred of them now descended the stairs as the front line came upon the oil-soaked floor. They stopped, inspecting the cracks in the floor suspiciously and sniffing about. The Draggard had a superb sense of smell and no doubt could smell the oil, for the vapors filled the room and burned the eyes of the awaiting dwarves. The Draggard were not stupid, however, and knew what lay before them. Roakore spat at the beasts and yelled insults and curses at them, trying to egg them on. The other dwarves followed his lead, mocking and challenging the lingering army.

  Though the Draggard at the front line thought better of the idea, those higher up on the stair snarled and hissed, pushing the group forward into battle. The whole of the Draggard upon the stair and in the room beyond suddenly charged, filing into the chamber by the hundreds down the stairs and across the wet floor. “Hold!” Roakore bellowed to his fellow dwarves. The army ran across the room now, some of the beasts on all fours, others erect. They snarled and hissed, drool falling from their open mouths, bloodlust shining in their demonic eyes. As the Draggard neared the stair below the dwarves, Roakore yelled, “Hatchets at the ready!” All fifty dwarves produced two hatchets each, one in each hand, and took a throwing stance. The Draggard reached the stair and bounded up, taking the steps two and three at a time. Behind them the room quickly filled with the demonic horde.