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 Dark Elf closest to the pyre scrambled to think of a defense and was forever quieted as Zerafin caused the stone below the Elf to throw him forward, and he met Zerafin’s blade, Nifarez. The sword cut through all defenses and was pulled upward, splitting the Elf in two from the chest up. Zerafin then hit the defenseless Dark Elf guard with a blast that blew its body into a million pieces.

  Zerafin had gauged the power of all in the room by then and had determined the guards to be of lesser power than he, greatly. Though one of them, their leader presumably, seemed a powerful foe. Even without mind sight, one could see a lack of fear within that Dark Elf’s eyes. With the great power within his blade Zerafin easily defeated the remaining dark elves, all but the leader. Sarrazon knew his foe to be beyond him and smartly ran for his life as Zerafin battled the others.

  Chapter 19

  The White Dragon

  Eadon eyed Whill from across the room. Night had fallen on the city, and the world was silent. Through one window the moonlit rain clouds seemed not to move, as if a curse had been laid upon the kingdom. This chamber Whill knew well, for it was the very same in which his father’s spirit had avenged his life.

  A multitude of torches burned upon the walls, as did dozens of candles scattered here and there. The many sources of light and shadow cast themselves as a cloak upon Eadon’s face. A dead man lay at the Dark Elf’s feet, the pool of blood creating a scarlet canvas for the dancing light of the candles.

  Whill returned Eadon’s stare. “I will not fall for your tricks, old one. This and every other victim’s death is on your hands. I will not be coaxed by you,” he said as he turned to spy on the unmoving clouds.

  “I can see that,” answered Eadon as he wiped the blood from his dagger and sheathed it. “Would you die then? Rather than learn how to live? Have you not learned to fight, to defend yourself? Have you not taken the innocent lives of the slave men?”

  Eadon waved a hand, and the corpse caught flame. The flame burned white hot until only ashes remained. Whill hated that nothing was sacred with this Dark Elf, and nothing was secret. His memories, thoughts, and emotions could be seen as easily by Eadon as Whill’s own face.

  “You are projecting, Whill,” Eadon sneered.

  Whill turned to look upon the hated Elf. “Why play these games if you know my mind? Why not make me a puppet?”

  “Puppets I have, young friend. Students are a much more rare acquisition; a worthy student, of strength and power and wanting, is rare indeed,” Eadon explained. “You will take the lives of men and Draggard, but not use their life force?” he asked.

  “It is not a practice of the Elves of the Sun,” answered Whill.

  “Ah. But you are not an Elf. You are not bound to their ridiculous laws. Why do you limit yourself? Simply to cling to some misguided doctrine?”

  Eadon strode toward Whill and offered him a glass. Whill took it. They eyed each other as they drank. Whill was not worried about it being poisoned. What would be the point? He returned to looking out the window.

  “You are set to die soon, yet you do not care?” said Eadon as he replenished his glass.

  Whill answered without taking his eyes off of the city, the kingdom of his forebearers. “No.”

  “But what of Avriel? You would leave her in her current state? You would not attempt to save her?”

  Whill did not answer.

  “You would give up without a fight?” coaxed Eadon.

  “I have fought!” hollered Whill. He mentally chastised himself for letting Eadon get under his skin. “I have fought, and I have lost. I will not be tempted to your side. I face my death in peace; I do not fear death as you do.”

  Eadon’s nostrils flared, and his eyes flashed for a quick moment, and the look was gone. “You cannot be convinced, I see. Perhaps there is another way. Come, I have something you must see.”

  Whill watched as Eadon walked to the chamber door but did not follow. Eadon gave Whill a look that dared him to disobey, and finally, Whill followed.

  Eadon led Whill through the castle corridors and halls. They came to a large iron vault door. The door, like the one within the vaults of the Ebony Mountains, held something profound for Whill. He could feel it. Whill knew, also, that Eadon’s last game piece was Avriel’s soul. He stared at the door and shook his head slowly.

  Eadon cocked his head and smiled, as if proud of Whill’s deduction of that which lay beyond the door. Whill shook his head more vigorously and took slow steps back.

  “No. I will not play your gods damned games any longer!” He faced Eadon and charged at him. He stopped and screamed in Eadon’s face, their noses nearly touching, “I will not be a part of your twisted games any longer!”

  ***

  The white dragon awoke from its slumber. It spread its wings and growled, bending low, stretching. Instantly, the beast’s senses alerted it to prey. It turned and eyed the nervous goat chained to the wall ten feet away.

  The dragon was hungry, and it was glad for the meal, though the meal lacked the thrill of the hunt. It longed for the open skies and long-stretching forests full of prey. Never had the dragon flown, nor had it hunted in the forest or upon the fields, only within the realm of dreams.

  The dragon sighed, a puff of smoke emanating from its snout, and pounced upon the goat. It took its time, eating one leg at a time and enjoying the satisfying crunch of the bones under the pressure of its strong teeth.

  It stopped in its feeding when it heard a ruckus outside of its cell. The dragon growled low in its throat when it recognized the voice of its hated maker. The dragon wanted nothing more than to feel the Dark Elf’s bones between its teeth. Eadon had created it, but he had also imprisoned the beast. Though it had only hatched a week ago, it had been forced to grow to full size in that short time, through Eadon’s dark magic.

  Though the dragon had never left the cell in its short life, it knew a great many things due to racial memory. Dragons were unique in that they were born with a vast amount of knowledge, passed down through the millennia.

  The dragon knew a great many things, and it recognized Eadon as a hunter of its kind and the creator of the Draggard. It had tried to kill Eadon as soon as it had attained the ability to breathe fire. But Eadon had easily avoided the flames and had made the dragon pay dearly for its attack.

  There was another with the Dark Elf outside the massive door that kept it locked within its cell, perhaps a minion of Eadon’s. The dragon readied its fire glands and watched the door.

  ***

  Spittle riddled Eadon’s face as Whill screamed, and his was a face of distilled rage. Eadon moved to backhand Whill, a blow that would have broken the young man’s jaw had it not been blocked. Whill brought his hand up as quickly as a cat’s paw and blocked the blow and grabbed Eadon’s wrist. The two shared a stare for many moments, neither moving. Eadon’s face was a picture of calm, while Whill’s was one of hatred and grim determination without a hint of fear.

  Something within Whill’s mind snapped. He had never wanted to hurt someone as badly as he did at this moment. He saw only red as the many possibilities of what lay beyond the door flashed through his mind. The rage drove him beyond reason, shores away from sanity. His mind dove into the deepest caverns of his psyche, the shadowed corners of his darkest side. He returned to that place within his mind where he had kept all of the pain and memories of his torture. There they had been kept locked up by Whill’s subconscious, as to not haunt him until he went mad. In his moment of murderous rage, Whill threw open the gates holding that side of his scarred mind at bay. Power surged through his body; he felt a change within, a shift.

  Whill extended his hand and screamed with murderous rage, and from his hand shot foggy black tendrils of dark energy. They slammed into Eadon’s extended palm as he blocked the blow. Steadily, they pulsed, and steadily, Eadon absorbed Whill’s attack.

  “You cannot begin to harm me, Whill. Your every attack will be absorbed by me and added to my power,” said Eadon wi
th a sneer.

  Whill screamed and pressed the attack harder. He could feel his energy quickly fading, though he cared not. He ended the energy attack. His frustration and rage at being so helpless against Eadon surged within him, and he dealt Eadon a double-fisted blow to his midsection. Eadon was unaffected, but Whill was thrown back many feet, his attack having been turned against him.

  Whill dragged himself up from the floor. His rage gone, his anger sated, he did all he could do—he laughed. His laughter echoed off of the walls and through the hallways, a laugh of pure mirth. Whill continued to laugh as he slowly walked toward Eadon. The Dark Elf simply smirked at him, amused. Whill’s laughter became maniacal. He tried to speak, but he could not. He pointed at Eadon as he laughed.

  “You…” he said between chuckles. “You are a coward.” Whill finished with a great fit of laughter. Whill had reached Eadon and stood before him. He lifted his arms and went in circles and spoke as though to a crowd.

  “I give you, Eadon, the coward.”

  Eadon’s amusement disappeared. Whill went on.

  “The king of lies, the murderer of his homeland, the creator of monsters with which he might hide behind. The Dark Elf of legend, the coward, Eadon of Drindellia!” laughed Whill.

  He turned on Eadon and spat in his face. The spittle did not hit Eadon, however, and instead dripped down the invisible energy shield just an inch from the Elf lord’s face. Whill laughed all the harder.

  “Behold, all ye, the great and powerful Eadon. His power is so great that he will not be spat on, nor shat on. None shall harm the great coward, but he will harm all.”

  Whill’s laughter was cut short as Eadon took him by the throat and lifted him off of the stone floor. Whill spoke without breath. “None...will...mourn...you.”

  Eadon threw him at a far wall, hard enough to crack the stone and a few ribs. Whill sucked in the precious air and got to his feet slowly. He opened his hands and clenched air as blue tendrils of healing energy quickly wove their way beneath his shirt, mending his ribs. He staggered, the healing taxing him. Bravely, he stood to his full height. “You are a coward, Eadon. That you cannot change, not with all the power in this world. You will die alone, and no tears shall fall, unless they be those wrought by pity. Like a crazed dog frothing at the mouth, you need to be put down.”

  “You will...” Eadon began.

  “I am speaking, coward!” Whill hollered and took steps toward the Elf. “Why not simply end it now and let me put you out of your misery? Because should you let me live, I will teach you the meaning of hell.”

  “Enough from you!” Eadon barked and shot forth from his left hand a ball of pulsing red energy. Whill extended a hand in defense, and the spell turned and slammed into Eadon’s invisible energy shield. Sparks and fire flew forth from the Dark Elf, none touching him. He looked on, wide-eyed.

  Whill staggered again, the magic taxing him greatly. He laughed once again and slurred like a drunkard. “Looks like I learned a new trick, eh, coward? For that shall be your name hence...forth.” said Whill as he slumped down against the stone wall.

  Eadon only smiled in wonder. “The prophecy has made you powerful indeed.”

  Whill chuckled to himself. This time his mirth was genuine and not brought on by lunacy. He had sent back the attack of Eadon, a defense Eadon had just used on him. The first spark of hope Whill had known lit deep within him, washing warmth throughout his body. Hope regenerated his spirit. He, it seemed, had the ability to mimic any spell used upon him. It had not occurred to him until he had sent back Eadon’s attack. Now it made perfect sense. He had been healed as an infant; therefore, he had the ability to heal Tarren. He had been attacked by the Dark Elf with some kind of pain attack, and he had known numerous such spells during his time of torture. If Whill could mimic those spells, he could mimic all.

  As if Eadon had been reading his mind, Eadon raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you can. But that is a far cry from being able to cast quick enough to be effective.”

  Quickly and violently, Eadon unleashed a barrage of multicolored energy assaults upon Whill that he could not begin to counter. Eadon had his turn at laughter as Whill was engulfed in a fireball and slammed into the wall. Eadon walked over to the charred and twitching Whill. He kicked him in the face, his boot taking an amount of skin with it. He allowed Whill’s breathe to become very shallow before healing him.

  Eadon walked to the door and turned with a flourish. He eyed the tattered Whill. “Enough of these games, perhaps another time.”

  He opened the great doors with ease and let them fall inward. A great wall of fire burst at his back harmlessly as he chuckled. A great white dragon roared behind him. Whill’s eyes went wide, and he prayed he did not look upon...

  “I give you the maiden of Elladrindellia, the beautiful Avriel,” said Eadon to Whill’s horror. Avriel reared as far as she could against the chains and breathed forth fire yet again.

  Whill cried in disbelief. Eadon laughed as the wall of fire dissipated against his raised hand. He hit Avriel’s dragon body with steady, pulsing dark energy that had her roaring and writhing in pain.

  “Stop!” screamed Whill as he ran toward Avriel, but he was stopped easily by Eadon’s strong arm. He was raised into the air by his shirt. With the other hand, Eadon continued to torture the dragon. He screamed into Whill’s face above the roar of the tortured Avriel.

  “Your fealty, boy, or there will be no end to her pain!”

  “Leave her alone!”

  “Your fealty, Whill of Agora!”

  Whill’s mind raced, and he stopped in his thrashing. “How do I know it is her?”

  Eadon released them both. Whill never took his eyes off of the white dragon. She curled up and breathed heavily, her murderous blue eyes watching Eadon’s every move.

  “Oh, it is her alright, though I have made her forget who she is. Or rather, her soul has not yet been awakened within her new body. That, I was waiting for you to witness firsthand.”

  Whill could only watch, horrified, as Eadon chanted low to himself and directed a hand at the dragon. A spot within her center glowed brightly and then subsided. The dragon stood and regarded the two with newfound interest. Her large blue orbs settled upon Whill, and recognition was within them. She then turned to Eadon and reared back in horror. She roared and suddenly stopped at hearing her own voice, that of a dragon. She looked down at herself as if puzzled. Extending a huge wing, she looked upon herself. She looked again to Whill and tried to speak. Rather than words, the sound was a chorus of strange growls and guttural noises. Then Whill heard the voice of Avriel faintly within his mind. He spoke to her as her voice floated up out of darkness and into his mind.

  Avriel!

  Whill?

  Avriel!

  Whill walked forward daringly into the cell and came within feet of her. She came forward also, until her chains would not allow it. Her head was half the size of Whill’s body, her eyes as large as his head.

  Whill? What has happened? I had died, and…what has he done? Why am I within this body? How?

  Whill could only extend a hand and touch her face. She turned on Eadon. This is your dark magic! Her mind screamed, and her mouth roared.

  Eadon laughed. “I should think you more grateful for my saving your life when you so unwisely tried to end it. Your soul needed a proper...host. Be glad it was not a Draggard queen, princess.”

  Neither Avriel nor Whill contested that fact; instead, they looked to each other’s eyes. Eadon watched the two with a grin. Avriel broke the gaze and bade Whill with her mind. Look upon me with mind sight.

  Whill did as she had requested. It took a moment, as he had not practiced it in some time. But once his mind sight was achieved, he gasped as he laid his awareness upon the spirit before him. Avriel’s soul looked like nothing he had ever seen. It shone from the projected corporal form of the Elf maiden with a brilliance that could have blinded his eyes. Her three forms, that of the iridescent dragon, Elf maiden, and sou
l, moved in unison and spoke as such. Whill focused upon Avriel as he knew her.

  “I see you,” was all that he could utter.

  A teardrop fell from the dragon’s eye; the soul pulsed brightly, and the phantom image of Avriel kissed Whill’s lips. It was the kiss they had never shared. Come back, Whill, came her voice in his head.

  He did so, and before him, once again, was the beautiful white dragon. A part of him was restored then, a part that had died when she had died, when they had all died. Avriel was not lost to him after all, and never again would she be.

  “She can never be restored to her body; none know the secrets to the art—none but me. I alone can restore Avriel to her true form.” Eadon bravely strode into the cell, within Avriel’s reach.

  “Give me your fealty, and she shall be restored. Together, we can bring peace to this land. Bring me the sword of Adimorda; pledge your fealty to me, and you shall live to be a king.”

  Before Whill could answer, Avriel’s mind screamed, and her mouth roared in defiance. From her mouth spewed forth liquid fire. It hit Eadon in the chest, driving him back through the door into the hallway beyond. Avriel relentlessly continued to douse the doorway and hall with her liquid fire. She suddenly stopped and began to choke and cough, like a dog that has eaten grass. Whill shielded his face from the flames with his arm and leapt behind a scaled leg.

  So great was the heat that the stone began to melt and, like lava, drip to the floor below. The hallway was an inferno. Avriel quickly ran out of fire breath and breathed heavily from the exertion; smoke bellowed from her nose.

  They both watched the doorway, but Eadon did not retaliate. It was quiet. Very abruptly, the temperature in the room changed from a melting inferno to below freezing. As Whill stood, there was less than a second’s warning to wonder what was happening. He and Avriel and the entire room were covered in thick sheets of ice. Whill was frozen still, though he was not frozen throughout. Avriel too was covered in a beautiful shroud of ice. They remained that way for some time, trapped within their ice tombs, unable to breathe.