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

  The other Dwarf children looked on astonished; no one moved. The entire fight had taken less than twenty seconds. Helzendar twirled the spear around in a dizzying blur of perfection before letting it come to rest on the back of his neck, with both arms draped over it. “Next.”

  The trainer began to stomp his ax handle on the stone, and the Dwarves took up the applause.

  ***

  Zerafin stood before the council of elders, his mother seated at the center of the twenty-seven. The offering of power was held within the center forest city of Cerushia, which, much like other smaller dwellings of the Elves of the Sun, was made of earth and trees. In many ways it resembled a human city of wood and stone, and in many ways it was completely different. Where humans harvested earth and stone, the Elves encouraged growth. Rather than build, the Elves molded.

  Thick, gnarled trees made up the outer walls. They grew like vines entwined with one another in a knotting band around the perimeter of the city. And unlike inanimate human stone or wooden walls, these could be manipulated to attack anyone perceived as a threat or be molded to fit the needs of the dwellers.

  Within the city walls, the buildings and homes and temples grew together in the same manner. Rather than doors, the great vine trees would part as one passed through a threshold. Windows could be made with a word. Therefore, the tree vines that consisted of the city were ever shifting and changing. From the tree vines grew large leaves that thickly covered the massive web from which they came. The city was a mass of green-leaved walls and structures with thick knots of brown vines. Green, yellow, and red moss grew where needed to cushion the feet or body. Throughout the city, ponds and gardens abounded. Stone walkways led here or there, but they too were at the will of the Elves and could be manipulated as such. Most humans, upon setting sight on the forest city, wept.

  At the center of the city, within the great open-roofed temple of Suunlafen, Zerafin awaited his quest. Hundreds had migrated from every corner of Elladrindellia to witness the offering of power. They sat in silence within the circular temple that had been grown larger than usual, stretching upward to the sky in a half globe. At the center of the circle in a ring sat the council.

  “It has been decided by the council of elders, who for no other reason exist, to enforce the will of the Elves of Elladrindellia. You are charged with this quest, should you choose to accept. Find and retrieve he named by Adimorda, Whill of Agora.” His mother read loudly from a leaf scroll that she held in her hands.

  “Retrieve the soul of Avriel that she may be returned to her people.”

  Zerafin looked to his mother; her eyes were watery but strong and brave. She was more than a thousand years old, but life had not hardened her. She, like many Elves, had realized that enlightenment was not a state of detachment and apathy. It was a realization that pain was a part of life to be weathered, to be felt. Her eyes watered with fear for Avriel’s soul and worry for Zerafin’s fate. But her eyes were brave with her belief. The decision had been made; the outcome was left to the fates. If her son failed and her daughter was lost, she would lead an army personally to Eadon’s gates and die fighting; many knew her mind, and many would join her in the final battle.

  Zerafin stood straight and strong. “I accept the task offered me! It will be achieved, or I will not return…” He paused and met many eyes. “…alive.”

  Devarda, the elder of the council, the oldest of all Elves living within Elladrindellia, stood. He looked for a long moment into the eyes of Zerafin. The ancient Elf was master of all schools of knowledge, with proficiency in the way of the Ralliad. So proficient was he that he could shift into the form of any living creature, within the boundaries of his relative mass.

  Devarda did not appear as an animal. He appeared before his people that day as he always did, in his true form as an Elf within a cloak of thick, dark green leaves that grew from his being as naturally as did hair from a goat. He turned from his seat and descended the thick vine stairs to stand before Zerafin.

  “To aid you in your journey, we have endowed your blade with a collection of energy rivaled with none but the blade of Adimorda,” stated Devarda with a deep, booming voice. He reached down into the entangled floor, and from it, a hole opened. Devarda reached into the hole and pulled forth the blade Nifarez. Those Elves that were naive enough to look upon the sword with mind sight were blinded and screamed out in pain. Those that did not could sense the great power within the blade. All looked on in silent awe. Devarda regarded the blade not at all but quickly offered it to Zerafin with a small bow. His eyes never left Zerafin’s, and Zerafin’s eyes never left the blade.

  Zerafin’s hands tightened around the hilt of the blade that had been forged for him in Drindellia, the sword that he had wielded for centuries. He knew the blade as the blade knew him. The sword hummed quietly in his hands, and the power begged to course through his veins. Zerafin had a difficult moment dominating the urge to tap the energy. His face strained with sweat as he dominated himself and the blade.

  Devarda took three steps back, and all in attendance looked on in anticipation of Zerafin’s test of the blade. Zerafin raised his hand, and fierce tendrils of flame shot forth into the midday sky. They reached upward with blinding speed and parted the lowest clouds.

  Zerafin lowered his hand and stared in awe at his blade. He had not felt a dissipation of energy. His mind screamed of power, victory, dominance, overwhelming joy, fear, and warning. He dominated his emotions and focused on the task at hand. Zerafin allowed himself to not exist. He was a vessel of the power of the Elves. He had been given a gift. And he would fulfill his duty.

  “The council of humans and Dwarves within Kell-Torey has come to a decision,” said Devarda as he looked to the crowd and the elders. “To spare as many lives as possible, small tactical units will be unleashed upon our enemy. The peoples of the kingdoms of Uthen-Arden and Shierdon are not our enemies. Let this be known to all. They have been caught up in Eadon’s web of lies and deceit.”

  Devarda gave Zerafin another contemplative look over and nodded absently. He addressed the crowd once again. “This curse we have brought upon the humans and Dwarves of Agora. True it is that Eadon would have come to conquer Agora eventually, whether we had come here or not. But the blame falls upon us for not stopping Eadon in Drindellia. For that reason, we will give aid to our allies the humans and the Dwarves. We are bound by a common enemy, a common goal. Therefore, we will fight together. Within a week’s time, many hundreds of humans and Dwarves will come here from their respective distant lands.”

  The crowd of Elves murmured to each other and spoke in hushed whispers. Devarda waited until it died down. “These small tactical units will consist of Elves, humans, and dwarves. They will be made up of no more than twelve and no less than three. Together, we will strike at the heart of our enemy through stealth and unity. Though they do not possess the great powers that we, the Elves, do, there is much to be learned from the mortal beings. Do not doubt the ferocity of those that live a short life, for they are as a cornered badger in battle. Together, we will fight the Elves of darkness and the Draggard, and together, we will finally see an end to this sorrow.”

  Zerafin looked upon his kin and promised himself that he would see an end to Eadon, an end to this war. As would his sister.

  Chapter 5

  The Dark Creator

  Whill was taken from the dungeons and led to a room deep within the castle walls. He knew where he was. He was in the castle of his forefathers, Del-Oradon, built after the great war of Uthen and Arden.

  Del-Oradon was also the name of the city in which the castle stood. It was the largest city within Uthen-Arden. More than three hundred thousand souls called the city of Del-Oradon home, as did Eadon and a great many of his Dark Elves. Whill was pushed into a room as his guide took up guard near the door.

  “There is hot water, food, and clean clothes. My master bids you to enjoy the many comforts you have forgotten. When you are done, he wishes to see yo
u.”

  Whill stumbled and fell to the floor as the door closed behind him. After a moment, he raised his head to look upon a grand guest room. The room was lavish in design; the wall decorations contained more wealth than did his childhood town of Sidnell. An enormous four-poster bed took up only a small space. Three huge wardrobes spanned one wall; a balcony was centered in the middle of the other. Silks and tapestries of distant lands and highest quality lazily littered the room. The drapes before the balcony danced teasingly upon the sweet summer night air. Upon the breeze came the smell of roasted meat.

  Whill raised his head and drunkenly stumbled toward the smell. Drool fell freely from his mouth as hunger pangs dropped him to his knees. At the center of the room, upon a table set for one, but made for four, was a small feast.

  A roasted chicken took up the centerpiece, its skin browned and juices flowing forth to a bed of lettuce and cherry tomatoes. Set around it, like an army of delicious flavors, was a host of wonderful foods. There was water, tea, juice, milk, wine, and beer. There were baked potatoes, cobs of grilled corn, roasted peppers, beans, and carrots in butter. He saw succulent shrimps peeled and ready on a plate with a white sauce, crab legs by the dozens, and lobster tails by the pound. A side of beef glistened with dark juices. For dessert, there were cakes, pies, pastries, and more. Whill drooled like a drunken madman and lurched onto the table, devouring every steaming piece of food he could get his hands on.

  He gorged himself on a lot of everything, drinking it all down with milk and juice and beer. He had not eaten in months; he had forgotten what food was like. Upon sight of the meal, he had lost his senses, feeling a primal pang of hunger so ancient and strong it dropped him to his knees. Whill ate like he had not for so long. Then he suddenly bent at the waist in pain and vomited.

  Over and over, he purged himself of the food. Though he had eaten no more than he may have, indeed far less, his stomach was not prepared for such treatment after being so long unused. Once he was finally through and the heaves subsided, Whill returned to the food, and again, his body would not allow it. This continued until Whill passed out and found sweet oblivion.

  When he awoke, he dared not return to the food just yet; his stomach painfully reminded him of his folly. Instead, he stripped off his clothes and stumbled weakly into a large bathing room. Though he knew not how, a deep tub of steaming water awaited him.

  Naked, he gingerly lowered himself into the hot water. Instantly he fell into the routine of bathing, using soap that had been set within a dish. Whill bathed for so long that when he finally emerged, the sun had begun to rise, and his skin was pruned. He walked to a large mirror hanging upon a wall and smeared it with his palm until his reflection could be seen. But Whill saw no reflection. Instead, he saw the sunken eyes and face of a stranger.

  High and sharp cheekbones stretched the skin around them, and the eyes disappeared into shadowed pits of insanity. His hair was thin, his face gaunt, and many of his teeth were missing. The man before him appeared as an old beggar might.

  Though the Dark Elves had kept him alive with healing energy, they had not kept him whole. Without food or water, Whill’s body had begun to die slowly, though the Elves would not allow it to die completely. So instead it lingered, like some half-dead wraith. Whill turned from the mirror in rage and pain and stumbled, mumbling, to the bed.

  He suffered no dream, no nightmares. He had lived through so many at the hands of the Elves that none would enter his sleep now. Instead, they returned with waking. He ate what he could and drank what he could, and he slept. For countless hours and countless days, he ate, and he slept. Always was there fresh food, and always was there fresh bedding. Finally, after what felt like days, Whill reluctantly arose after sleeping, ate, and did not return to the void of sleep. He bathed and, once again, looked into the mirror. Some of himself had returned to his reflection—enough so that he recognized it again, though he was still frail and weak, having lost at least eighty pounds.

  Slowly the clouds within his mind parted, and he remembered Addakon and the fight. He remembered the explosion upon the ship and the Dwarven Mountain’s eruption. He remembered Eadon and…Avriel.

  Avriel?

  Her soul had been trapped by Eadon within an orb of light, her body…

  Whill’s mind screamed as he remembered that he was a captive and she lost; his friends were all dead. He thought of Abram, who was like a father to him; Rhunis, the bravest knight he had ever met; and Zerafin, his first teacher in the art—all dead. He was a captive, and Avriel was left to linger at the whim of Eadon for one purpose, control.

  Whill was overcome by rage and overturned the table and with a swiping blow, split one of the bedposts in two. Like a bull, he raged toward the door, which opened. A Dark Elf appeared in the doorway with an inquisitive look on his face; he was met with a foot to the chest that sent him flying five feet into the opposing wall. Upon impact, the Elf rebounded with lightning speed and slammed Whill in the chest with an opened palm. Whill was thrown back into the room to crash against the wall.

  “When you are ready, our master wishes to speak with you,” stated the Dark Elf as he slammed the door closed.

  Whill had dented the wall with his head and surrendered to slumber.

  Fresh food once again forced Whill awake. He stood painfully and sat himself before another feast. This time, he ate slowly, methodically. He could not succumb to his hunger, else he gorge himself. Instead, he imagined the act like sharpening a steel blade, slowly, purposefully. Within the wardrobe, he found clothes and sandals that fit. He strode to the door and knocked.

  He was guided down many halls and up many stairs until, finally, they came to a room. The Elf pushed Whill into it and looked at him with an arched eyebrow. The look meant immediate pain if opposed.

  Whill turned from his guide and saw Eadon. The Dark Elf lord did not sit upon a throne; he did not sit at all. Rather, he stood at the center of the room before a large stone table adorned with many gems and stones, rubies and crystals. The jewels glowed brightly, and power hummed within them.

  Upon the stone was a dragon egg and, to Whill’s horror, a pregnant Dwarf female. Images of the Draggard flashed in Whill’s mind, half-Elf, and half-dragon damnations of Eadon’s creation. Eadon meant to meld the unborn Dwarf fetus and dragon egg into a new monstrous damnation of nature.

  Whill hurried forward to the stone table and was stopped by a wall of energy no less solid than that of stone. He could do nothing but watch in horror as Eadon stood between the egg and pregnant mother with raised hands. From Eadon’s hands came great, blinding bolts of lightning that did not dissipate like that of natural lightning; instead, they remained constant.

  From each hand a bolt reached and struck the egg and the mother’s belly. Eadon brought his hands together as the precious stones glowed brighter than before and the humming intensified to match the crack and buzz of the lightning bolts. As Eadon’s hands came together, there was a loud explosion of sound and blinding light for only an instant, and then there was silence, so deep and complete that Whill thought himself deaf for a moment.

  When Whill regained his sight, he noticed that the mother was no longer with child and no longer lived. The dragon egg had changed in appearance. The egg and fetus had been forged into one, and from the egg would spawn a Dwarf’s nightmare, a Dwarf-dragon crossbreed.

  “Beautiful, is it not? She will be the first queen of her kind,” said Eadon.

  Whill could only look upon Eadon with murder in his eyes. “Why do you keep me alive? What have you done with Avriel?”

  Eadon gave Whill the look of a disapproving parent. “Please, Whill, do not answer a question with a question. How will we ever get anywhere?”

  Whill clenched his jaw and looked upon the dragon egg once again. “It is a hideous example of the evil lengths you will go to in your insane attempt to play a god,” spat Whill.

  Eadon chuckled, and the chuckle grew into a hearty laugh. He looked to one of his guards
that stood near the only other door. “This kid is good. He practically nailed it. But I must disagree on one point, my young friend. It is not hideous. It is life.”

  Whill shook his head. “Not natural life. It is an abomination of nature.”

  “Wrong!” Eadon yelled, his voice booming unnaturally loud within the room, rage contorting his face. “Nature is of this world! I am of this world, and I have created this beautiful life-form. Is it also not then natural? You see, if I created it and nature created me, nature created this being—just as nature created the Draggard,” said Eadon as he strode around the table to stand close to Whill.

  Whill unconsciously leaned away from the Dark Elf and took a step back. Eadon was no less impressive than Whill remembered. He radiated power in a way that the sun or the moon might, the way that a waterfall or mountain struck awe by their sheer presence. To look into Eadon’s eyes was to know that you were truly at his mercy, an object of his will. Whill knew he could never better the ancient Dark Elf; it was impossible. Agora would burn, and all those that knew a good life here would know it no more. The people and the land would suffer the same fate as Drindellia. Eadon and his monstrous army would eventually sweep the globe and leave nothing but a dark, smoldering planet. The world would become nothing more than another silent star among the heavens.

  Whill knew that there was something beyond life, for he had seen the reincarnated spirit of his mother and the ghost of his father. He knew that beyond this world there was another. He cared no more to remain within this one.

  Whill felt a throbbing at his temples and knew instantly that Eadon had been reading his mind.