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 dodged spears and parried swords as he, too, engaged the front line. Everyone kept a wide breadth from Aurora and her swinging sword and bashing shield. The other nine men joined in the melee as the two groups of gladiators engaged in battle. With his first kill, Whill sapped the energy of his victim, strengthening his sword. He felt the familiar hum of the energy within the blade of his father. He did the same with the second and third, and with each kill, he gained more power. He had been a victim for six long months, always at the mercy of Elves that could render his body paralyzed with a glance. All of the anger, rage, and hopelessness he felt during his time in captivity burned hot within him.

  Dirk went into his familiar routine with his short sword and dagger. He took on multiple opponents easily as the power that Eadon had bestowed upon him hummed within his many trinkets. His enchanted boots allowed him to move with inhuman speed, and his gloves helped his arms to move with a blur. Men fell before Dirk before they even knew they had been engaged by the man.

  Aurora smashed aside an attacker with her shield and quickly punched out with it as another came at her from the front. The shield caught the man in the face, and he moved no more. She took up her blade in her shield hand and grabbed the fallen man by the ankle. With a heave, she sent his limp body flying into a group of opposing gladiators. Men looked on in awe of the beautiful warrior.

  “What’s wrong, boys? Never met a woman that hit back?”

  A man came at her from the right with an overhead chop of his sword. Aurora stepped into the attack and let the sword glide away as it was deflected by her shield. The man spun with the momentum of the block, as did Aurora. But the tall barbarian had more than a foot of a reach advantage and used it to stun her opponent with a sword to the chest as his own blade found nothing but air.

  Dirk landed in the middle of four men, and with a quick jab of his dagger between the closest man’s ribs, he laid him low. A quick spin and slash opened another’s jugular. He donkey kicked behind him, sending an advancing gladiator flying to the ground. Out came his short sword as he danced with death, always moving, always knowing the next move. Then a deep and powerful growl sounded, and many men parted to find less lethal opponents, leaving the path open for a giant of a man.

  Aurora hewed a shield in two and felt the crunch of bone beneath. A man came flying at her wildly and was met with a shield slam to the face. If Aurora had learned anything from the tribe’s battle master, it was that there was always a coward eyeing your back. She turned, and, indeed, the coward came with a trident meant for her. With a powerful strike, she knocked the weapon from his hands and booted him in the face. His neck snapped, and he fell limp. Then a growl sounded far to the left, a growl that Aurora knew all too well as the challenge of a traitorous fellow tribesman known as Beartooth. He had engaged Blackthorn with his massive five-foot-wide ax. Dirk was smart enough to keep his distance and dance away from the blow.

  Dirk sidestepped a blow that would have hewn a thick tree and shot a rapid succession of poison darts at the giant’s neck. With surprising speed, the man brought up a leather-bound forearm, blocking the missiles. Dirk learned what he had hoped of the man’s speed. He assumed the giant was akin to Aurora, and the quick block proved it true. Dirk had noted Aurora’s speed and her incredible reach advantage that many dead men had underestimated. The reach of the barbarian before him was even greater. Where Aurora stood well over seven feet, this bearded, wild man stood over nine. He wore furs of the north and had no armor but wrapped leather about his arms and legs. His ax was nearly as wide as Dirk was tall, and though it must have weighed nearly a hundred pounds, the giant of a man could recall the ax, midswing, with ease. Dirk circled the behemoth and threw a dart here and there, each one blocked by the shield-like ax. Dirk had not hit the man, but he had stopped him from swinging—the man having to use the ax against the darts. Dirk carefully calculated his next move, if he made the slightest mistake, he would fall victim to the massive ax.

  “This one is mine!” yelled Aurora from behind Dirk.

  The assassin nodded curtly. “By all means, ladies first.” Dirk turned and ran into the main body of the battle. He had no doubt he could kill the giant on his own terms. But an opponent that could knock out a bull with a punch was not someone he wished to fight...fairly.

  ***

  Abram watched as Whill began his familiar battle dance. A smile found the old man’s face as he watched his pupil of so many years fight like a man of legend. Whill and his fighters were clearly the better, but they faced more than a hundred. Whill smartly kept his men together in a fighting circle, so as not to be separated by the enemy, though the barbarian woman and the dark-cloaked killer fought their battles their own way. The barbarian woman was clenched in combat with one that looked to be of her people. The dark one ran around the outside of the attacking force, engaging and maiming his opponents while he ran. He slashed at the backs of thighs and ankles, hamstringing and dropping dozens. Others at the center of the group fell unconscious as Dirk leapt and sent a barrage of poison darts into them.

  Abram nodded to Rhunis. “It is time.”

  None in the frantically screaming crowd noticed them as they bathed in the rivers of bloodlust. Abram and Rhunis left the arena and went into the hallways below. The noise of the crowd down below was ear shattering, but the two did not need to share words. They had planned their mission for weeks and had infiltrated the coliseum disguised as workers. They took roundabout routes through the many halls and tunnels and passageways below the coliseum, until they came to the spot. Rhunis kept watch as Abram lifted two thick boards and crawled into the inner walls. Rhunis followed and put the boards back behind him. Abram looked up to what he knew to be the floor of the royal booth. The two quickly went to work, fastening the dragons’ breath bombs to the main beams of the overhanging booth.

  ***

  Eadon’s senses perked, and he looked to the floor. With his mind sight, he saw the two humans below. He turned back to Whill’s impressive display upon the sands and smiled to himself.

  “We have flushed out our prey,” he said behind a grimace of pain.

  To his right, the Dark Elf Arkrel nodded as he looked to the floor. “The boy’s mentor?”

  “Indeed, but more importantly, two of the most respected leaders of men,” Eadon stated with a satisfied smirk.

  “Should I kill them now, sir?”

  Eadon rolled his eyes, annoyed by his subject’s idiocy and lack of vision. “No, you idiot,” he hissed as the rotting curse ate his flesh, only to be repaired. “They must die before Whill’s eyes, and they will. The mentor, Abram, is taken care of.” Eadon gestured to the floor. “When those two ignite their bombs and attempt their pathetic rescue, you are to enter the arena and kill the scarred knight.”

  ***

  Aurora staggered back as the huge ax grazed her shield. She twirled with the blow but got a huge boot to the chest. As she fell back through the air and onto the sand, Beartooth brought his ax up and over in a mighty blow. Aurora had no time to roll to the side, and though she knew to never take a hit to the shield straight on, she had no time to tilt it. The massive ax came down with crushing power, knocking the wind out of Aurora. The shield held under the blow but dented enough for Aurora to feel a shooting pain in her forearm.

  She kicked up and knocked the ax from Beartooth’s grip. The barbarian let out that same nerve-racking growl and grabbed the shield with both hands and flung it, hitting one of the other gladiators in the head. Aurora stabbed out with her sword. Beartooth shifted to the side and caught it between his fur-hide-and-leather-covered forearm. With a twist of his body, he sent the sword flying from Aurora’s hands. He reached down and took her by the hair and pulled. Aurora grabbed at his hands as she was forced to stand. With his free hand, he backhanded her in the face. Aurora was spun around on her feet but held by her hair. Beartooth meant to slap her again, but Aurora caught his hand with hers and twisted it back violently, causing him to have to le
t go of her hair. When he did, she kneed him in the crotch. He recovered quickly, however, and punched her in the face. The two circled each other, waiting. Both had a taste of the other’s strength, but Aurora had not shown Beartooth what power still remained untapped within her.

  He came at her with a whooshing roundhouse, which she ducked, and when the predictable uppercut followed, she knocked the blow aside with one arm and landed a vicious elbow to the barbarian’s throat. Beartooth clenched his crushed throat, and Aurora swept his legs. The shocked warrior landed like a tree, and Aurora was on him like a cat. With her knees, she pinned his arms, and with her fists, she pounded his face. A scream welled up inside her and grew louder and louder still as she punched the beast of a man repeatedly.

  Aurora looked down at the unrecognizable mess that had been her enemy’s head. She looked to her bloodied hands and smiled, and then she laughed. She remembered her trainer’s words and turned quickly to find the coward at her back. There stood a man in a crouch, sword in hand, suddenly frozen in place. Aurora stood to full height and smeared the blood of her enemy upon her face. The man shifted on his feet, trying to find the courage to attack. When she picked up her sword, the man finally lost his nerve and turned to run but was stabbed in the heart by Dirk. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  “Are you going to fight or flirt?” he asked Aurora with a smirk.

  “Is there a difference between the two?” she replied with an arched eyebrow.

  ***

  Avriel flew toward the castle on a quick current with Azzeal upon her back. She had still to get used to her dragon form, but she flew steady and strong. When she thought of her Elf body a pang of sadness and fear gripped her heart. Her thoughts threatened to spiral her into madness if she thought about it for too long. But her dragon mind quickly quenched the fires of madness and calmed her. Her soul occupied the dragon body and mind, just as it had her Elven form. She was still Avriel, but not in body. Her dragon brain brought with it all of the characteristics and intricacies of the dragon, and she found that her thoughts moved in very different ways. Each thought had a broader scope and depth, and though thinking seemed slower, each thought was more precise and clear.

  Avriel flew so high that people on the streets looked like ants, but she could still hear the thunderous crowd in the arena below. Avriel thought of Whill and inwardly smiled to herself. She pictured him upon the sands, smiting all that stood before him, and she growled with pleasure. With a quick mental warning to Azzeal, she banked left and began her descent on the castle. Avriel set her eyes upon the tower that she knew held the red dragon Zhola. The feeling was akin to what she had felt when she reached out with her senses and felt the presence of other life-forms while she was an Elf. But this was different in that she did not have to try to feel him, she simply did. When she had mentioned this to Azzeal, he had simply nodded as if it were common dragonlore.

  Avriel gained speed and felt Azzeal shift atop her back. She dove quickly and leveled out near the tower. She flew as close as she dared, and Azzeal leapt from her back. She looked back to see him fly through the air and suddenly change into a knot of reaching roots. He hit the wall and clung easily to the stone. His roots crept down and, like so many searching fingers, found the small window. Avriel flew high and fast to the clouds, where she would await the freeing of the great red one.

  ***

  Whill killed the final gladiator and shuddered as the life energy coursed through his father’s blade and hummed within his very being. He had felled dozens, and with each kill, he had gained more power. The crowd cheered and whistled, and thousands of feet stomped the seats. Whill looked around at the piles of dead and then to the only survivors of his group. Dirk wiped blood from his dagger while Aurora stood proudly in the sunlight like a barbarian goddess of war. The others of his group had fallen.

  Whill looked to the sky, wondering if Avriel and the Elves would come to their aid. Surely Zerafin had brought an army with him. Surely someone would come. The gates opened once again, and the crowd waited in eager anticipation. Whill walked near to Dirk and Aurora.

  “Stand firm, friends, allies descend upon us even now. I am for leaving this hellhole.”

  “What’s the hurry?” asked Aurora.

  They all laughed and turned to face whatever nightmare was coming through the gates. To the crowd’s utter shock and horror, four spear-wielding Draggard entered the ring, and behind them came hulking beasts, the likes of which none had ever seen. Whill knew them to be Eadon’s latest abomination, the Dwargon. They resembled Dwarves with their thick, stocky build and massive muscles, but that was where the resemblance ended. They were more than nine feet tall, and rather than skin, they had thick scales like a dragon and faces from a nightmare. Small, spiked horns covered their heads; beady black eyes regarded the world with malice, and mouths too big for their faces drooled in anticipation of blood. Four of them, carrying huge clubs, came stomping onto the sand behind the Draggard as screams and squeals of horror erupted from the crowd. The Draggard crept dangerously near to the edge of the stands, hissing and snapping at the crowd.

  The cry of a hawk split the air, and all looked to the sky but saw nothing. Then came the battle cry of a Dwarf as Roakore suddenly came into view, as if out of thin air. He wore a magnificent coat of Silverhawk feathers and shone in the sunlight like a statue of silver. Ax in hand, he landed upon the sands between the humans and Eadon’s beasts.

  “A friend?” asked Dirk.

  Whill could only smile widely, with teary eyes, and nod his head. Roakore looked to him and gave a triumphant, “Hahaa! Can’t be lettin’ you have all the fu—” Roakore’s words were lost in his throat as he turned to face the Draggard and his eyes beheld the Dwargon. He knew instantly what they were, and his blood boiled. The idea of a dragon-Dwarf hybrid shattered the Dwarf king’s sensibilities. To think that a Dwarf woman had been...Roakore could not bear the thought. He let only righteous indignation fill his mind, and he charged the abominations, tears of rage spilling onto his beard.

  The crowd erupted as Roakore slammed aside a Draggard with the side of his ax and charged a Dwargon. The Dwargon swung low at the fast-approaching Dwarf. But the blow missed as Roakore dropped and slid under the beast. He brought his ax up as he slid between its legs and sank the blade deep into its groin. No sooner had the monster crouched in pain when Roakore gracefully stood from his slide behind it and buried his ax in its lower back.

  Whill, Dirk, and Aurora charged the Draggard as Roakore felled the Dwargon. Much of the crowd had frantically begun to exit when the monsters had been let into the arena; those that remained cheered and hollered, loving the show. Whill called upon the power within his father’s blade, and with his left hand extended, he shot a blast of energy at the closest Draggard. The blast hit the creature in the chest and slammed it into the stone wall twenty feet away.

  Dirk threw a smoke bomb between himself and a charging Draggard. He leapt high into the air and over his suddenly blinded foe. The gems in his earlobes allowed him to hear the quiet whoosh of the Draggard’s approaching tail. Dirk twisted and spun away from the spiked weapon and landed. With his short sword, he chopped the tail off at the base, and when the creature turned, it got a poison dark in each eye. Dirk turned away from the thrashing and twitching monster to face another.

  Aurora shield slammed a Draggard to the side and ducked the massive club of a Dwargon. Whill came in from the side, and with a powerful swoop of his thin blade, he cut open the side of Aurora’s foe. She finished off the screaming beast with a blow from her heavy broadsword that cracked open its head.

  An explosion ripped through the arena, and suddenly, the booth in which Eadon and his minions sat went up in flames. The crowd went berserk, and people started to frantically fight to get out of the aisles and to the exits. In the pandemonium, hundreds of fights broke out as people trampled each other to get away from the flames that were fast consuming the stands near to the inferno that was now the royal bo
oth. More Draggard and Dwargon filed into the arena as the booth came crashing down, spewing burning wood and banners everywhere. Whill tried to find the Dark Elf in the commotion, but Eadon was nowhere to be seen.

  Two men came rushing out of a different gate, men that Whill recognized. With a growl of frustration, he cut down a Draggard that blocked his view from the two. Whill’s eyes widened as he saw more clearly the two men fast approaching. Together, they took on an attacking Draggard and continued on into the fray. Whill’s heart leapt and his spirit soared as he watched the two ghosts come nearer.

  “Whill!” one of them screamed.

  “Abram? Rhunis?” answered Whill with a joy he dared not indulge in lest this be some kind of trap. Perhaps this was one of Eadon’s tricks; perhaps one of them was Eadon himself. Whill tried to deny what he saw, but he could not convince himself. He recognized their fighting styles and their mannerisms and knew them to be his lost friends thought dead.

  Whill fought to get close to them, but dozens of Draggard and Dwargon had poured into the arena. The heat of the flames was becoming intense as the arena blazed and threatened to crumble. People screamed and cried as the flames took many of them; hundreds fell onto the sands and were attacked by the beasts within the arena. The exits were packed with frantic men and women trying to escape the death trap that the great arena had become. Many of the Draggard had leapt up into the stands and were killing spectators at will.