Whill spoke, but his words cracked. “They were...”
Avriel lowered herself to her belly and shifted her body to the left. Whill crossed his right leg over her body and slid down her scales and plopped on his ass. He looked up at Roakore with watery, haunted eyes. Dark rings gave his sunken face a deathly pallor. “They were alive the whole time,” Whill muttered.
Roakore took a deep, calming breath and knelt next to Whill. He took Whill’s face in his hands. “What happened to him?”
“They were alive the whole time. They survived.”
Roakore shook him and raised his voice. “Tell me what ye know!”
Whill made a mewling sound, and a strangled growl escaped his throat. He turned his head, but it was snapped back as Roakore forced Whill to look at him. The Dwarf slapped Whill in the face and screamed, “Where the bloody hell is Abram?”
Whill screamed back and pushed Roakore off of him. His rage and the power of his father’s sword lent to his strength, and Roakore was thrown back twenty feet. He tumbled and finally stopped. Everyone looked on silently as Roakore got to his feet, dusted himself off, and walked back to Whill, who had gotten to his feet. Whill shook his head.
“Abram was injured. But I healed him. He would have died, but I saved him. We flew away, and I had him, my hands...” His voice trailed off as Whill stared down at his hands. When he looked upon Roakore once more, tears streamed down his soot-covered face.
“We were jolted by a spell, but I caught him. I had him by the wrist, but then Eadon…a black spell hit Abram. He smiled at me...And he blew away in the wind.”
Whill eyed Roakore strangely and looked to Avriel with a confused look upon his face, and then he looked to Zhola and Dirk and Aurora. When he spotted the leaf-clad, Ralliad-master Elf Azzeal, he snapped.
“This isn’t real!” he screamed and pointed at Roakore and the others. “You are not real!”
Roakore put up his hands, palms out, and walked to Whill.
“Stay back!” Whill hollered and backhanded his friend. Roakore was thrown back several feet and landed with a thud. “All of you! Stay back!” he screamed as he unsheathed his father’s sword. He turned left and right and screamed at the air. “Where are you, Eadon, you son of a bitch? No more games! No more!”
Roakore slowly pushed up onto his hands and knees and got to his feet. “Ye crazy son o’ rock moss, I be Roakore, for Ky’Dren’s sake. You be knowin’ it. We met on the side o’ Ro’Sar Mountain. You and Abram and me, we killed many Draggard that day,” he pleaded.
“Enough of your mind games. Get out of my head!” Whill screamed and charged Roakore, sword leading. Roakore braced himself, but Whill was intercepted by Azzeal. The Elf darted across the grass and produced a staff, seemingly from thin air. He steered Whill’s blade up into the air and tripped him as he passed. Whill landed on his chest and slid. In a rage, Whill stood up and attacked Azzeal. His sword cut through the air with a thin whoosh again and again. Each blow was meant to kill, and each blow was deflected by Azzeal’s staff.
Whill chopped at the Elf’s side, but rather than block the blow, Azzeal changed into a tangle of roots that dropped to the ground under the attack and quickly disappeared beneath the dirt. Whill stabbed the ground, but his sword stuck. He pulled at it, but it would not move. Finally he growled like a bear and ripped the sword from the ground. With it came a tangle of roots and piles of falling earth. The roots sprang from the sword and wrapped themselves around Whill’s face and body. They wrapped so tightly around him that Whill was powerless to move and fell like a tree.
Azzeal changed to his Elf form, squeezing Whill tightly with his legs. With one arm, he held both of Whill’s at bay; with the other, he choked him. Whill screamed, and Azzeal squeezed until no sound came from him. Whill’s sword glowed brightly, and from it, electric arks snaked out and encased the two in a ball of lightning. Their hair stood on end, and Whill jolted in agony. He screamed through Azzeal’s choke hold. “Let me die!”
Lightning shot out from the two and threatened to hit the others. They stepped back as Roakore yelled for Whill to stop.
Azzeal countered Whill’s rage-filled energy attack with an orb of light that surrounded them both. The lightning was concentrated into one bolt, which arched up and was absorbed by the orb. Electrical charges cascaded down the curves of the orb and were grounded.
Azzeal grabbed Whill’s sword and threw it outside the orb. The lightning ceased, and the orb withdrew. Whill had stopped struggling and just lay there, spent. Azzeal pushed himself off and stood, looking down at the broken man. “This is the savior of us all?” he asked Avriel with disgust.
“Best be watchin’ your mouth, Elf! Me stone’ll smash your rooted arse in a heartbeat!” Roakore warned.
Azzeal looked the Dwarf king over, unimpressed. “I have watched roots split stone for centuries, Dwarf.”
Roakore walked over to Azzeal and scowled up at him. “I ain’t needin’ but a few minutes.”
“Enough of this ridiculous banter!” Zhola yelled in all their heads as a roar and flame came from his mouth. Everyone stopped and looked to the great red dragon.
“Leave the boy and go! I grow weary of this, and I am hungry.”
Roakore forgot Azzeal and turned on Zhola. “If ye think I’ll be leavin’ Whill with a bloody dragon, you be out o’ your mind!”
Azzeal retrieved Whill’s sword and looked to him. Whill still lay where he was, looking up at the clouds. The Elf turned his attention to Zhola. “You mean to bring him to the sword of Adimorda?”
Dirk perked up at the mention, and though he seemed to be absentmindedly flipping his dagger in the air, from behind his enchanted hood his eyes watched, and he listened keenly.
“I mean to be done with this business,” answered Zhola.”Be gone when I return,” he said as he eyed them all, especially Roakore. He leapt high into the air and took to the sky. He flew out over the ocean. Avriel looked to Roakore. Watch over Whill, she bade him mentally and flew off after Zhola.
Whill had sat up and was watching the two dragons dive into the ocean like seabirds. They came out with fish between their massive teeth. Roakore approached Whill cautiously. He sat down next to his friend and looked on, worried. “I don’t know what they did to you, lad, and can’t imagine the horrors you seen. But you be amongst friends now; you be gone from that place.”
Whill watched the dragons. He wore no expression. “They were alive, Roakore. They were alive the whole time, and I just rotted in that cell, helpless.”
“Bah, what could you have done, Whill, against the likes o’ Ead—”
“Exactly!” Whill interrupted. “What could I have done? What can I do now? So what if I find the sword—then what? What good will all that power be if I cannot wield it? I have barely learned to use magic; Eadon has had thousands of years! He has created dark spells no one has ever seen.”
Roakore looked to the ground, wondering of the answer, but he had none. “I don’t be knowin’ such things, lad. All I know is I don’t know nothin’. All I can do is have faith that Eadon can be defeated, and we may as well be the ones to be doin’ it.”
Whill shook his head, wearily. “I never wanted any of this. I don’t want this responsibility. I do not want to be a king or a warrior; I have seen enough death already.”
Roakore nodded in agreement. “None of us wanted it, Whill. But it has come to pass.”
Just then Whill perked up, alert. “What of Tarren? What has become of the boy?”
“He lives; he be a guest in me mountain. Taken a keen interest in all things Dwarf, he has,” Roakore said with a chuckle.
For the first time since Roakore had seen him again, Whill smiled.
“The reclamation was successful then? You freed your father’s spirit?”
Roakore nodded, and his eyes watered a bit. “Aye, me father be free, and the mountain be ours again. But much has happened since you...left. Thousands of Draggard poured from me mountain and spread out across Ag
ora. No one outside of a city is safe from the beasts.”
Whill listened to the news without expression. They both looked out over the sea.
“What of your uncle, Addakon? What happened after you left with Eadon?”
Whill recounted the battle with Addakon. He told how his father’s spirit had possessed his body and had killed his father’s brother. He mentioned nothing of his torture.
Aurora and Dirk had joined them near the cliff; they had heard most of the conversation. Aurora greeted Whill with a nod, but she ignored Roakore. “I must thank you for getting me out of that place. You led us to victory bravely.”
Whill nodded. “Now you may return to your people; good luck to you.”
Aurora stayed where she was and searched for her words, her accent thick. “I have heard much of the legend of Whill of Agora. Even upon the frozen plains and forests of my home, Volnoss, your name is known.”
Whill did not respond; he watched the hunting dragons. Aurora knelt down so that she blocked his view. “Let me remain at your side. I would fight alongside the man of legend—for we share common enemy.”
Roakore got to his feet and looked up at Aurora with a scowl. “You be from Volnoss, eh? We be needin’ no help from barbarian scum the likes o’ yourself. Your kind were driven from Agora for a reason, you be knowin’. If not for the fact that you fought beside Whill in the arena, I would kill you meself.”
Aurora made no move to respond to the threat. But anyone could see her temper flared at such harsh words against her people. “Was it not the Dwarves that first made war with the barbarians? You invaded our lands, burned our villages, and claimed our mountains as your own. And when you could not defeat us alone, you called upon Eldalon to do your dirty work.”
Roakore moved to argue more but was stopped by Whill’s hand to his forearm. Whill looked to Aurora. “What do you hope to gain from this?”
Without hesitation, she answered, “I would see an alliance between Volnoss and Uthen-Arden.”
“Alliance?” he asked.
“Yes, you are the rightful king, are you not? My people will help. In return, I ask for an alliance.”
Whill thought for a moment. “You have the authority to speak for your people?”
“I do,” she lied. “Or I will. With word of you as an ally, I can sway the tribe’s favor.”
Roakore scoffed at that and grumbled inaudibly, but Whill ignored him. “You fought well in the arena. Your people will make great allies, no doubt. But I must warn you, my path is one of death. You would do well to leave now, before I lead you too to your death.”
Aurora studied Whill for a long moment. “You speak as though you have given up. Do you not believe as the rest of us do?”
“Course he believes in his own self,” Roakore interrupted. “He been through hell and back the last six months is all. Don’t be worryin’ ’bout this one.”
Whill looked to his friend and was grateful for his words, though he did not agree. Abram was dead; Rhunis was dead. Avriel’s soul was trapped within the body of a dragon, and for all he knew, Zerafin had died from his affliction. He didn’t want anyone else to die for or because of him. Whill wished that they would all simply go away and leave him to his cursed fate. But he knew that they would not, least of all Roakore, who seemed misguidedly loyal to no end.
Dirk nodded to Roakore and addressed Whill. “I, too, would follow you on your quest to destroy Eadon.”
“Course you would,” Roakore chimed in with a disgusted glare. He turned to Whill. “What? We be in league now with dragons, barbarians, and assassins? I don’t trust none of ’em!”
Whill smirked at his gruff friend. “You didn’t trust me or Abram either.”
Roakore stuttered over his reply, aghast.
Whill addressed Dirk once more. “You are obviously skilled. I watched you closely against the gladiators. What does a blade for hire want with such a perilous quest as I have before me? We will all likely die in this endeavor.”
Dirk nodded, conceding the point. “True, but if you are successful, I would have the favor of the king of Uthen-Arden, would I not? Besides, if you are not successful, there will be nothing but death and destruction at the hands of the tyrant Eadon. If I can aid in his destruction, I will.”
The gravity of Dirk’s words weighed on Whill’s mind. He wanted to scream. He considered pitching himself over the ledge, but instead he sighed. “Then we have gained a valuable ally,” he said and reached out and shook Dirk’s hand. Dirk nodded, his face cast mostly in the shadow of his large hood. Through the enchanted hood, Dirk studied Whill. He determined that the man suspected nothing of his true mission.
Whill used the handshake to pull himself up. He looked from Dirk to Aurora and then to Roakore at his side, and finally to Azzeal. “What about you, Elf? Do you want to join the ‘we are going to get our arses kicked club?’
Azzeal cocked his head to the side like a curious dog. “You find this funny, then? This is funny to you?”
“Actually, it is hilarious,” Whill responded.
“You are a human brat that is too weak for this task,” Azzeal spat.
“Indeed I am weak, and I am human!” Whill screamed as he pushed past Dirk and got closer to the Elf. “We are weak. We are stupid. We are selfish, and we are slow.” He pointed his finger at Azzeal’s chest. “Your people brought this Dark Elf plaque to our lands, because your entire nation was not strong enough to defeat Eadon! And you bastards expect me to clean up your mess because some old, dead Elf prophet said I would? You hide behind a prophecy and spend your days talking to trees, while my people die by your brother’s hand. You left me to wander the countryside, clueless, with Abram, the only one man enough to attempt to help me.”
Whill’s voice cracked at the memory of Abram and their years of adventure, back before his world had been turned upside down. He shook with rage and tried to hold back the mounting pressure. He jabbed Azzeal in the chest hard. “Let this be known to your people, Elf! When I attain the sword, when I go to face Eadon, I want the might of the entire gods damned Elven empire at my back. You bastards are going to face your fallen brother, or you are going to die trying. You owe it to the humans; you owe it to the Dwarves, and you owe it to me.”
Whill saw movement peripherally and turned to find Avriel had landed. With feline grace, she approached them. “You have so much anger in your heart, so much pain. I am sorry, Whill. Your words are true. We have failed you, and we have failed you all.
“I am not angry with you, Avriel.”
“I am an Elf, and, therefore, you are. You are a victim to your anger, a slave to your rage. It holds you back from your full potential. If you cannot let go, it will destroy you.”
Whill could feel the rage still boiling within him, like an explosion contained within his core. It pulsed out in waves from his center and electrified his being. Through a clenched jaw, he spoke, “All I have left is anger.”
“No, all that you still cling to is anger; you have forsaken all other emotions. You dare only feel rage, because you think that it is the only one that cannot be taken from you.”
Whill looked down and to the side, shoulders sagging, as tears spilled from his eyes.
“Love, hope, happiness. You do not dare feel these things.”
Large tears welled in Avriel’s dragon eyes, and she came closer until her snout lifted Whill’s chin and their eyes met.
Remember love.
Her voice whispered in his mind, and he was once again within the meditation garden of Kell-Torey. The sun shone down upon Avriel in Elf form, sitting across from him, legs crossed. Her raven hair took on a bluish sheen in the light, and her smile warmed the darkest recesses of Whill’s empty heart. Warmth that he had since forgotten spread over his body, and waves of contentment crashed over him. Whill reached out to touch her beautiful face, and her skin was hard and smooth.
Whill opened his eyes and looked into Avriel’s dragon eyes. The living memory of the garden faded
, but the feeling remained. Whill smiled at Avriel and laughed to himself.
Thank you.
She purred, and her deep humming caused the ground around him to vibrate.
Zhola landed and the ground shook. Spewing flame into the air, he mentally hollered. “Why do you remain idle?”
Whill walked to stand between Zhola and the group. “They are coming with us, all of them. Let us tarry no longer. If you mean to show me to the sword of Adimorda, then let us be off.”
Zhola clawed out the earth, sending piles of dirt and rock flying. “Fool boy, do not presume to command me! I have not lived thousands of years to listen to your childish prattle.”
Zhola’s roar echoed for miles as flames shot into the sky. The great red dragon bent until he was face to face with Whill. His nostrils flared, and smoke blew back Whill’s hair.
“We go to the sword alone,” Zhola growled.
“No, we go together, or I go not at all,” Whill answered stubbornly.
Zhola growled and showed teeth that were as long and wide as Whill’s legs. Whill showed his own and growled back.
“I should kill you myself and be done with this foolishness!” The ground rumbled with Zhola’s deep voice.
“Then be done with it!” Whill screamed.
Zhola roared in Whill’s face, and though no one could hear him, Whill screamed right back. The dragon looked around at the group. All brandished weapons and were ready to fight him; Avriel, too, was ready to pounce if need be. Roakore bounced on his toes, eager to carve a new cloak out of the dragon.
Zhola moved back from Whill and raised his head to his natural height. Looking down at Whill, he spoke, “Perhaps there is something to you after all, Whill of Agora; perhaps you are all a band of fools.
Everyone but Roakore relaxed their grip on their weapons. Whill nodded. “Perhaps.”
Zhola turned his massive head to look to the sun; he then looked to the west. “Where we go, there is no game to be found. There are no plants to eat; there is no water to drink. Where we go, there is only silence and death. Hunt what you will, and bring what you can. We leave at nightfall.
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) Page 60
