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

  ISBN 13: 9781482633580

  This book is dedicated to my wife, Melanie.

  You are the driving force in my life, and without you, I would not be half the man I have become.

  You have taught me the value of hard work, the importance of responsibility, and the meaning of true love.

  You have given me two impossibly amazing children and have made our house a home.

  Thank you.

  Prologue

  Dearest Sister Teera:

  I hope that my letter finds you and finds you well. It has been nearly six long months since the reclamation of the Ro’Sar Mountains and the rise of King Roakore, and though his people now thrive, the world has become dark, and war is now upon us. From the Ro’Sar Mountains poured an army of nearly a hundred thousand Draggard, and they have spread death and destruction throughout the kingdoms. I pray that the dark plague which is Eadon’s Draggard army has not yet reached you in Sidnell.

  Whill remains lost to us—a fact that holds captive my heart and burdens my days with worry. I have failed him, and for this, I cannot forgive myself. Would that I could wield power like the Elves and cause my will to be that of the world. But I am merely a man, and as such, I am often powerless against the magic of the Elves, to my great frustration.

  Rhunis remains at my side, and together, we search for any sign of Whill within Uthen-Arden. It is my belief that Eadon holds him captive within the castle of Whill’s late father. I know not whether he still lives, but I must believe that he does. If Whill is dead then we are truly doomed; he and he alone can rid Agora of the evil of Eadon—this I believe with all of my heart. He is a good man, as good as I have ever known. With your help, he has become a man of great strength and virtue, and I thank you wholeheartedly for all you have done.

  Eadon has successfully separated the kingdoms of men, Elves, and Dwarves. Like a wedge, he has divided us from one another in his acquisition of Uthen-Arden and Shierdon. Though I have tried to bring them together—man, Dwarf, and Elf—they remain too busy fighting off the hordes within their own lands to come together as a unified army. Even if they could, who would they strike? The human armies of Uthen-Arden and Shierdon are not truly in league with Eadon; they know not for whom they serve. They believe, as they have been told by their kings, that Whill is the master of the Draggard and Dark Elves do not exist. Eadon has even led them to believe that the Elves of Elladrindellia are the enemy.

  Eadon wants nothing more than full continental war; it is his very design. It frustrates me to no end to see clearly his plans unfolding, whilst I am not able to gain the ear of our allies. It seems that the best weapon against men is a well-told lie; we are ever the unwitting victims of such fables.

  Please send the girls my love. I hope to see you all again one day soon. Until that day, you remain ever in my thoughts.

  Your loving brother, Abram

  Chapter 1

  Roakore’s Door and Zerafin’s Blade

  Roakore focused his will on the stone. He channeled the energy of the nearby Dwarves and mentally raised the stone slab from its perch at the foot of the mountain. It had already been readied and fixed with great hinges and locks. Once put into place, it would serve as the new door to the Ebony Mountains.

  “That is gonna look amazing!” Tarren howled and stomped on the ground as the stone began to be laid into place. A startled Roakore jumped and, for the smallest of moments, let go of the great stone. His face grimaced under the pressure, and a few of his men passed out with the sudden energy sap. The slab was set upon its hinges with a boom. The cranks of the huge wooden pulleys were turned, and the five-foot-long and one-foot-wide bolts were moved into position; they hung from massive chains and were guided by Dwarven hands. Each of the six bolts slid through the greased hinges and made a soft boom.

  Roakore bent and almost fell as he released the door and the great weight was lifted from his mind. “By Ky-Dren’s bloody, dragon-killin’ ax, boy, can ye not be screamin’ when me and me boys ‘r’ up to such work?” he snapped.

  The look upon Tarren’s face made Roakore feel bad for his words, and he shook his head. “Bah, ‘n’ ye better be getting tough. Ye saw the raisin’ o’ the main gate. Now be getting on to yer trainin’ with Lunara; ye got a two-hour walk before ye.”

  Tarren straightened at Lunara’s name. “Now that is gonna be even more amazin’ than the raisin’ of the doors, it is.” said Tarren, beaming.

  Roakore had noticed a few months back that Tarren had begun to pick up Dwarvish during his stay with the Dwarves. He couldn’t help but smile at the lad. Tarren had lived and worked and trained as a Dwarf for the last six months, at his own insistence. Abram had granted the request, as he would be busy with the finding of Whill.

  Training with the Dwarf children was hard on the small lad; he was small even for a human. But, to his credit, he was quick on his feet and a fast learner. Lunara healed his daily wounds and breaks and instructed him in combat. He had begun to show much improvement in all aspects of his training, returning to his quarters each night with fewer wounds needing to be healed.

  “I’ll escort the lad Tarren to the lady, me king. If it suites ye, that is,” Haldagozz stated as he put a big hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  Roakore scowled a bit at that. “End I be wonderin’ which o’ ye be more happy for it, eh, yerself or the boy?” Roakore asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Haldagozz howled as if he were putting back a few pints at the tavern o’ the gods. “Bwahaha! The boy, I’m thinkin’. If he didn’t have the lady, he’d be dead by now, I’m bettin’.”

  “Ey’, en’ yerself too, no?” asked Roakore. Even as the words slipped his lips, he knew he had gone too far.

  Haldagozz took a step toward his king and looked him in the beard. “Ey’, it be true; en’ I allowed the healin’ at yer own word, me king,” a hurt-looking Haldagozz attested. “If I got feelin’s fer her, it ain’t none but respect and gratitude. I’d be in the halls o’ the gods by now if it weren’t for yer words, me king. But they let me stay en’ fight another day, a great gift from the lady Lunara, a great gift from the gods.”

  Roakore found the gaze of the Dwarf. “I know, I know, was kiddin’ is all. Go on, get the lad gone, ‘r he’ll be late.”

  Haldagozz and Tarren started off, but Roakore called out to them. “A gift it was indeed, friend, that I should have such a Dwarf at me side.”

  Roakore watched them go; they were the first to pass through the great doors. Roakore laughed to himself. Hah, a human boy and a Dwarf be the first to pass through Roakore’s door. Fittin’, I be thinkin’, the boy Tarren has become like a son to me, though I got enough o’ me own, en’ Haldagozz is sure to be one o’ me best soldiers. Bah, soldier, with his attitude en’ new strength, he should be a personal guard. I’ll make it so soon as I see Nah’Zed. I’m thinking the promotion’ll get him away from Lunara a bit; that’ll be a good thing. He can joke all he wants, but I see his heart. Ey’, the Dwarf’s in love, or I’m a bearded dragon egg.

  Roakore sighed and let his thoughts focus on the door. It loomed before him one hundred feet high, forty feet across, and ten feet thick. Every inch of the multicolored door had been polished to a perfect shine. It did not blend into the mountain; rather, it stood boldly before all onlookers as a strong testament to the Dwarves within the mountain. It seemed to say, “Here we are. We hide from no one, and we dare you to approach this door with ill intent...”

  Nah’Zed broke Roakore from his reverie as she approached with her ever-present quills in hand. She was Roakore’s royal brain. Every king needed a secretary, and Nah’Zed had been a gift from the king of the Elgar Mountains upon Roakore’s taking of the throne. She was, indeed, the smartest Dwarf Roakore had ever met, in terms of math and memory, and she was none too bad looking either, as Roakore had thought more than once. She was a little skinny for his liking, but that could be cured with many days in bed and many feasts.

  “Why do you laugh, sire?” Nah’Zed a
sked with a smile.

  Roakore pushed the thought aside and coughed. “Nothin’, nothin’, just admirin’ the door is all.”

  Nah’Zed instantly went to one of her many scrolls. “Yes, the door. Shortly a band of Elves, as ye know, will be here to gift Roakore’s door, as it is to be named from this day forth. They should be here a’fore midday, sire.”

  “Yes, yes, I be knowin’. It’s to be a great gift, it is, from me friend Zerafin. They say it’ll take more than a week, it will, en’ more than fifty Elves’ll be helpen’.” Roakore said with wide eyes as he continued to inspect the vast door.

  “Yes, sire, about the Elves, their lodging has been arranged and—”

  “Bah, I be knowin’. I told ye, don’t be tellin’ me everythin’ that be happenin’. I got me own worries and lists. If what needs to be done is gettin’ done, then ye be doin’ yer job, en’ I don’t need to be knowin’ yer doin’ it, ‘cause when you ain’t, I’ll be knowin’, understand?”

  Nah’Zed scribbled furiously on her scroll and nodded. “Yes, sire.”

  Roakore sighed. “And you don’t need to be writin’ down everythin’ I… bah, never mind.”

  ***

  Zerafin looked upon his seemingly sleeping sister as she lay upon soft silk cushions next to the quiet river. Their mother knelt beside her, gently stroking her unresponsive daughter’s forehead. Zerafin could hardly stand her gaze as she looked upon him from his sister’s side. Though it was a loving gaze, he felt undeserving of such affection; he had failed.

  He and his sister had faced Eadon, and Avriel had done what she felt was right in the moment to save Whill. She had tried to perform the dying curse. She had been successful in a sense; she had unleashed all of her power and utterly destroyed the ship while protecting those she meant to protect, and she had attacked Eadon with blinding power. But Eadon was not hurt, and he had even managed to capture Avriel’s departing soul and cause her body to remain alive.

  He is indeed powerful. What chance do we have against one such as he? thought Zerafin as he turned from his mother’s gaze.

  I know what you would say, sister: Whill is our chance. Whill shall defeat him, and we will once again be able to return to our homeland. But how? Whill is lost to us. For these last six months, there has been no word from our spies, not a whisper of his whereabouts. The enemy has him, and he is likely dead, and we are likely doomed to suffer the same fate as Drindellia, our homeland. Eadon and his horde will scorch this land and kill until nothing is left but ashes and smoke and the fires of evil.

  But if Whill is dead, why does Avriel remain alive? Eadon has no use for her other than to bend Whill to his own will. He could be saving her to force surrender, but, no, Eadon has no interest in surrender. He wishes only to defeat violently as he did in Drindellia. So the riddle remains—why is Avriel alive? The fact that the attacks have not yet begun in full and that Eadon has not presented himself to either the Dwarves or humans would suggest that Eadon has not yet succeeded. Surely he has not found the sword of Adimorda. Though neither have we.

  I believe the prophecy. I have to; without it, there is no hope. If the prophecy is to come true, then Whill must be the one to find the sword, and thus, Eadon cannot find it without Whill alive. But Eadon cannot wield the sword—no Elf can—it was made so that no Elf could wield it.

  This thought process had been played out by Zerafin for months and was being pondered by a great many wiser and older Elves than himself. Still, no one had come to a convincing conclusion. If Eadon’s only threat was Whill in possession of the sword Adimorda, why would he not simply kill Whill? Many conclusions had been thought up. The most popular was that Whill was dead and Eadon kept Avriel’s soul from departing and killing her body simply to confuse his enemy, and if that was indeed the case, it was working. Another theory was that Eadon wanted to use Whill to find the sword and somehow harness the great power within it. A new thought had come recently from his own mother—an idea so strange it would not leave Zerafin’s mind.

  “What if Eadon believes the prophecy as we do?” his mother had asked.

  Zerafin had looked upon his mother in astonishment and wonder. She’d stood before him with her back to the setting sun, beautiful even in her age.

  Zerafin’s mother, the queen of Drindellia, widow to the fallen king of the Elves of the Sun, had let herself naturally age since the passing of her husband. To a human, she would look about seventy but with a straight back and strong muscle tone. She had declared that her beauty was for her husband only and it would no longer exist if he did not. But Zerafin still found her beautiful, because beneath her gray hair and lined skin, he saw her strength, her majesty, and her great power.

  She had raised an eyebrow. “Well? Suppose that Eadon believes that Whill shall kill him, destroy him as the prophecy says. What if he believes it and also wishes it to happen?”

  Zerafin had thought for a moment, and his brow had shown his confusion. “But why would Eadon want the prophecy to come to be?’

  Why indeed? Zerafin asked himself, still staring at Avriel. The answer to that question is the answer to the riddle. If Eadon seeks death, he could easily find it himself as so many Elves have done before him. It makes no sense.

  One thing was clear to Zerafin. If Avriel lived then there was a good chance that Whill did also. It was time for the vigil to end. If Avriel was to be saved, Whill had to be found and freed.

  The elders had agreed that the top priority was the preparation for the final war and the finding of Whill. Zerafin had spent five months in isolation within the woods of Elladrindellia. He and his sister’s mission had been to bring Whill back to Elladrindellia alive, so that he might begin his training in the ways of the Elves of the Sun and become what he was meant to be, their last hope. In his despair upon arriving with the broken Avriel, Zerafin had begged the elders to give him an army and send him against Eadon and the entire might of the Draggard and Dark Elves. They had denied his request.

  Preparations for war had begun, such as had not been seen since the final battle of Drindellia. Elladrindellia was a vast land, home to more than twenty thousand Elves. All but a thousand were born there after the coming of the Elves across the great oceans. In those five hundred years, they had thrived. The once-barren land was now forested and rich and dense. The Elves thrived there as they always did, as they always would, due to their great relationship with the elements and nature.

  For more than four hundred years, until the recent Draggard wars, the Elves had lived in peace, storing their collective energy, waiting. Now the time had come. Their power was rested, their energy saved. Next to nothing had been used to fight in the recent wars in which they were always aided by humans. Soon the Dark Elves would know the power of the sleeping Elves of the Sun. All knew that though Whill was the supposed savior, the Elves of Elladrindellia would give the Dark Elves a fight not easily won, if won at all. Some elders dismissed the prophecy of Whill altogether, thinking they could win without him. Others thought they were doomed as they had always been and believed it to be a curse of the ancients.

  Of the more than twenty thousand Elladrindellia Elves, four thousand showed proficiency in the arts, and of those, more than three thousand were masters of at least one school of learning. The other fifteen thousand were no different than the average human, though with more advanced gifts and abilities. But they were the power behind the soldiers or Nanji, as they were called by the Elves. While the Nanji trained day in and day out, the others, the Enta, took one day out of three to pour their energy into the blades of the Nanji or the various stones and crystals used to harness such power. For more than four hundred years, the power had been accumulating to be used not only in the individual blades but also in one particular blade, Nifarez, the blade of Zerafin.

  Given the task of finding Whill and bringing him back safely, the Elves had endowing Zerafin’s blade with the power and strength of more than one thousand Elves—each having given their energy for more than four
hundred years. Zerafin’s blade had been made more powerful than any yet known in Elladrindellia, a power truly unknown to anyone. The issue of the offering of power had been a great debate lasting more than a week. But Zerafin had proven himself time and again in the Draggard wars, and even when being tempted by the Dark Elves, he had proven righteous. Many had given their consent simply for the fact that he was the lost king’s son and heir.

  Zerafin looked upon his sister, his jaw clenching. He had come from the woods prepared for the task at hand. On this, the day before the offering of the blade and the beginning of his quest, he was ready; he was anxious, and what a curse it would be to stand against him in battle in the days and weeks ahead.

  Chapter 2

  The Prisoner and the Assassin

  Whill had not eaten in months; he had drunk only his own blood. His captors kept him alive with the same energy they used to torture him and revive him. How long he had been within the dungeons he did not know. His life beyond the dark, damp dungeon walls now seemed a fantasy. These times of rest, alone in his small cell, were torture far worse than that of any blade. The silence was maddening, the anticipation of the torture to come, unbearable. They would not come for him sometimes for days, and other times, they would give him only a few hours’ reprieve. His anxiety outweighed his physical pain, which he had become accustomed to. The wounds would be healed before they killed him, but his mental pain was never healed.

  The torture was not always to his body; indeed, physical pain was a reprieve from the mental torture. The vicious Dark Elves were masters of mental torture, bombarding Whill’s mind with horrific scenes. Terrible illusions played out in his mind—images of himself killing innocent men, women, and children alike. In these twisted visions, Whill had seen himself commit the most heinous acts imaginable. But the most effective and painful torture was that of hope. Occasionally Eadon had created the illusion that Whill was with Avriel. Whill would awaken next to a stream within a forest of dancing light, and she would come to him. In her arms he found peace, love, and silence. For days the fantasy would play out, until finally, violently, the illusion would end.