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,

  If you are reading this I am no longer of this world. I hope that you have reached Elladrindellia safely. There you will be able to continue your training and learn things that I could have never taught you.

  I pray that you have found the sword Adromida. With it I believe that you will fulfill the prophecy and bring an end to Eadon and his minions. I believe now, as I always have, that you will be victorious. You have been a wonderful student and dear friend, and I am thankful to have known you. Remember all you have learned and apply what you know. I am confident that one day you shall be a great king like your father before you.

  I am sorry that I could not remain at your side. But take heart that you are not alone in this. You will always find allies, as you have found in Roakore and the other companions. Tarren is strong in mind and body, and I am confident that with your guidance he will become a man of virtue as you have. Be true to yourself, my friend, and remember what you have learned. Do not worry about that which is out of your hands, and do not attempt to bear the entire weight of your destiny alone. Look to your friends.

  If it is in your power to do so, please send word of my fate to my sister Teera. She worries about us both as always. If you are able to pay her a visit, she has possessions of mine that I have willed to you. She will be delighted to see you after so many years. Send her and the girls my love, and ensure her that my death means little given the grand life that I have lived.

  One day you will rid Agora of the evil of the dark elves, and it shall know peace once again. This I believe with all my heart and soul. So go forth, my friend, knowing that I am with you always. You will never be alone, for we cannot all be alone together. Go forth and know that I love you as a son. You are a man beyond worth. I am honored to have shared the adventure of life with you.

  Goodbye for now, until we dine with the gods…

  Abram

  Whill read the letter a second time with wet eyes and trembling hands, after the third time he rolled up the letter and put it away. He had been given it by Avriel’s mother, whom Abram had entrusted it to. From his balcony within the vine-covered elven city of Cerushia, he sat and gazed absently upon the waterfalls that poured forth from the towering ridge to the west. Avriel was out there somewhere hunting, morning being her favorite time to seek out her meals. He sat alone in his meditative stance and reflected upon the past year. Not even a year ago he had been a carefree ranger of Agora, with Abram at his side and not a worry to be had. He had defeated a knight of Eldalon and won a fortune in gold, and he had seen his dream ship built by a master of the craft. He had fought pirates and freed slaves and torn a child from the clutches of death. Fame followed him and fortune smiled. Elves called him savior and dwarves named him friend. He was the son of a fallen king, hidden from the world for nearly two decades. He led men to victory and wielded great power. His legend was whispered throughout the kingdoms as his feats grew. He chuckled at the memory of the bar fight when the group had been together. Thinking back on the companions’ time together, he longed for those days. Whill laughed at the irony of longing for a time in his life when he had been so confused and scared. He had been dealing with the truth of his lineage, and the prophecy. Looking back now he did not recognize his younger self. He had changed so much in such a short time. Eadon had seen to that. The torture was now a distant memory, one he refused to let his mind drift to. It was a constant struggle, keeping the demons from his mind. He fought uncontrollable fits of rage and quickly descending bouts of depression. His mind, if left to its devices, would have torn itself asunder. Therefore Whill had become the warden of his mind, and constantly had to keep at bay the plethora of maddening thoughts.

  He thought again of Abram as he breathed deeply through an episode of particularly disturbing vulgarities and rage directed at him from a tormented inmate of his mind, one of the multitudes of self-hating phantoms. Love was the only thing that worked for him. Whill concentrated on pure love, imagined it washing over him and radiating from him. He pictured his spirit glowing forth like a sun, the energy around him connecting and pulsing in a megalithic tide of love. He smiled brightly and breathed deeply and focused upon the reality he had chosen. He had learned much from the elves, and already their techniques were helping him immensely. He was in possession of the greatest elven power likely ever created, Adromida, and he needed to be in complete control of his mind if he wished to wield it. Whill had set out to become a master of his self, and to learn as much of the magic he wielded as he could.

  Abram had always believed in Whill, and knowing that the prophecy might be a lie left him feeling cold. If Kellallea had spoken the truth and Eadon was indeed Adimorda, the very elf who had predicted the rise of a dark lord, Whill did not know how he could ever beat the dark elf. Whill had been reasonably confident that he could defeat Eadon when he had believed the prophecy without doubt. Now he was not so sure. To think that he had been created by Eadon terrified him. He knew not how the dark elf could be defeated if indeed the blade Adromida was his, for it could not be used against him. Though the question remained as to why Eadon would make a blade of power that he himself could not wield, this question only gave credence to Kellallea’s tale. If the legend of power taken and power given was true, then Eadon had to be given the power of Adromida, as he had already attained the greatest power taken.

  Avriel came soaring down to land upon the balcony. Good morning, she crooned and set to grooming herself.

  “Good morning,” Whill replied with a smile.

  He was amazed at her cheery mood since her return to her people. Even upon seeing her comatose body she did not react as Whill thought she might. It seemed that Eadon’s words were true, and none but he could restore her soul to her body. The elves had been searching for an answer for more than six months, utilizing every text and their collective knowledge, some had even contacted the spirits, but to no avail. Eadon’s magic was foreign to them, and it seemed that Avriel might never be helped. Even with the great power Whill possessed within the blade Adromida, he could not begin to understand what to do to help her. Whill had arrived in Drindellia in bad shape. He was malnourished and had lost a substantial amount of muscle mass. Though the elves could heal much with their magic, nothing could replace proper rest, food, and exercise. He had finally begun to get enough of each as of late. He felt safe here among the elves, as he had not in a long while. And though he had only been within Elladrindellia for two days, he was at home here. Autumn was upon the world, and the elven city was like something out of a dream. Native trees there were, their leaves covering the ground in a cascade of vibrant fall colors. Many of the different plants and bushes had been brought from the elven homeland, as had many varieties of trees. There were leafy ones as well as pines, and others such as the kornalla tree, which grew draping canopies of long leaves.

  It did Whill’s tormented heart good to behold such beauty after his nightmarish imprisonment for those six long months. He could hardly wait to explore Elladrindellia with Avriel. He did not leave his abode often, and he could not. Hundreds of elven followers had crowded the city for a glimpse of him. These were true believers, those who saw Whill as the savior of their people. He looked down at them from on high now and again, but mostly he remained in a high tower within a vine-and-stone building near the outskirts of the city. From one balcony he viewed the lush jungle, and from the other he saw the vast city. From all directions crowds of elves could be seen. When he peered out of his window they cheered; some flew by the windows and even landed upon the balcony to meet him (after asking permission). He had been visited by many of the elders, and the queen, Avriel’s mother, came daily.

  The barbarian Aurora Snowfell stayed in a room just below him. They had seen little of each other, however, due to Whill’s seemingly endless meetings with a variety of elves. His least favorite ones were the grovelers; indeed, he favored skeptics and nonbelievers over these blubbering fools. They treated him as though he was a god, and he found it
quite disturbing. Most other young men his age would have seized the power offered them, would have basked in the adoration of their followers, but Whill wanted none of it. The queen had told him this was what made him worthy; she also explained that had he been raised in such an environment as he now knew, he would have become a very different person. Perhaps it had been best to be raised as a normal Agoran.

  He and Avriel had flown out and around Cerushia a handful of times. Gliding over the city of vine and stone, Whill marveled at the beauty of the elven creation. They melded wood and stone, vine and earth, to create an ever-changing living city of splendor. Large crystals hummed with stored power from the day’s sun, and vines acted as conduits, drawing the power from the crystals and spreading it throughout the city. Similar crystals were used to collect the rays of the moon. The gathered energy was used mainly in fortifying the many wards and spells about the city. Not only did the elves build upward, but they also utilized the earth beneath them, building tunnels and caverns and passageways the likes of which would make a dwarf proud. If it ever came to it, the elven city of Cerushia could hold out against an enemy attack indefinitely. To break through its spell defenses would take a power unknown. Never, even within Drindellia, had the elves ever concentrated so much power. Cerushia hummed with life. Breathing in the very air lifted the spirits and cleared the mind. In comparison, Whill could only think of the smell of the forest in spring after a hard rain. He had been truly impressed with the elven city. He had expected to find wispy creatures glowing with inner light and living in huge tree houses; instead he’d found hard-working people who were quick to smile and quick to laugh.

  Whill could not tell from looking at an elf whether or not it knew magic. He knew that a larger percentage of the population had no skill in the practice of Orna Catorna whatsoever, and were no more magical than the average human. Those who were not skilled in the arts were masters of other crafts—one did not have to be magical to create amazing things or accomplish extraordinary feats. Indeed, most things, be they sculptures or paintings or woodworks, were appreciated even more if created using no magic at all. The wisest of the non-magical elves said it was because the gods had given them hands to do the mind’s work, and that hands had a magic all their own, a special link to the mind and soul. It was after all from the hands of the casters that their spells poured.

  The sun had grown in the sky, emerging from its morning cocoon of blazing fire, and now shone through the mist from the east. Whill looked out over the balcony. The elves below were dressed in a wide array of styles, but the basic theme was one of seasonal colors and even foliage and feather. Many others were not dressed at all, even those not in animal forms; lithe and beautiful they shone in the morning light. Whill blushed, though he had no audience. He doubted he would get used to that part of elven society.

  Why do you blush? Avriel asked with a deep hum.

  Whill jerked his head toward her as if he had been caught at something. No reason, he said quickly. Come; let us be off, I begin training today.

  Avriel’s smile could make a damsel faint. Now she smiled widely.

  “What?” Whill asked aloud.

  Avriel huffed smoke out of her nostrils and shook her head but said nothing more, and to Whill’s relief she did not speak of his thoughts.

  Chapter 2

  Black Rum and Pipe Smoke

  Roakore thumbed through the book he had found within the elven library. He had yet to prove its authenticity, but he had a feeling. The elf Azzeal had ensured him that it had indeed been written by none other than the first Agoran dwarf king, Ky’Dren, but he was not about to take the elf’s word for it.

  He could not decipher a word of text, as it was written entirely in Elvish. Why would a dwarf write a book in Elvish? This was the burning question that filled Roakore’s mind.

  Upon his return to his mountain kingdom, he had immediately been bombarded with pressing issues. The human refugees he had sent to his mountain had arrived without incident and had been recovering from their journey. They had settled into one of the many vacant living quarters within the dwarf mountain and were doing well. They would hold out there until spring, when Roakore had vowed to help them rebuild their ruined town. Tarren had been particularly excited with the arrival of other humans, and had since been showing them around the mountain kingdom.

  Roakore had been overcome with pride to learn that his son Helzendar, along with his teammates, including Tarren, had passed their trials. They were now no longer children by dwarven standards, which meant that Helzendar would be allowed to make the dangerous journey through enemy territory to Elladrindellia.

  Tarren could hardly wait to set out to see Whill and the elven land, but before that journey could be made, Roakore was waiting to hear from the many search parties. He had sent them out to scour every inch of the inside of the Ro’Sar mountain kingdom. They were looking for a portal similar to the one that had magically taken Whill’s company to the lost elven country of Drindellia. Roakore had always puzzled over how the draggard had suddenly poured into Ro’Sar those decades ago when the mountain was taken. It made sense that they could have come through one of the seven pairs of Gates of Arkron, magical elven portals created during a time lost to history. He would not leave until he was sure that the gate no longer remained within his mountain. It was possible that they had been removed once their purpose was through, but it was also possible that they remained, waiting to be used again. Roakore had vowed that would never happen again.

  He pondered while he absently gazed upon the book. The only light within his personal quarters was a single burning candle. He had taken his late father’s quarters, and it was here that he felt the closest to his father and king. His father had spent many days and nights here and was never to be disturbed. Roakore knew it was because he had had a large taste for spirits but preferred to drink alone.

  Roakore raised a glass of wheat beer, a gift from the refugees, and offered cheers in the name of his father. He guzzled down the fine ale and chased it with a shot of black rum. There he sat through many more drinks, pondering the book on his desk until he finally passed out, mumbling of secrets and elven libraries.

  Roakore awoke to a light tapping upon his shoulder and a soft voice calling his name. He smiled to himself as he dreamt but was shaken awake.

  “Bah, what you want?” he grumbled and looked to see his royal brain, Nah’Zed, scowling back at him.

  “Your highness—”

  “I told ye a million times if I done told ye once, I be hatin’ them fancy-pants titles! Call me Roakore, or King, or King Roakore.”

  “Right then, King, your search parties have all reported back.”

  Roakore jumped to his feet and looked around aimlessly for his boots, all in a huff. “Why didn’t ye say so?”

  Two hours later, Roakore had heard the reports of the many search parties. Nothing had been found. The report did nothing to quench his nagging feeling of trepidation. He had immediately ordered a second, more thorough search of the mountain. He wanted to be sure before he left his mountain kingdom once more.

  Nah’Zed had not taken kindly to the idea of Roakore’s leaving again, and did not waste any opportunity to tell him so. The truth was that Roakore did not think he was cut out for the tedious work of being king. He did not enjoy sitting idle within the mountain, dealing with the never-ending workload that came with his position. He longed for the road as his axe longed for battle. It was the reason he had often volunteered for lookout duty outside of the Ky’Dren Mountains when his people had lived there after the fall of his mountain. It had been on such a patrol that he’d first met Whill and Abram.

  It was true that he was anxious to have his precious Book of Ky’Dren translated, and hear what secrets of his lineage it might hold. But the trip to Elladrindellia held other lures. He was curious to see the elven land, and he was worried about his elf friend Zerafin. The last he had heard, Zerafin was in a bad way, suffering from a rotting curse at the
hands of Eadon, and Roakore was worried.

  Roakore made his way to find a late breakfast, his many troubles following him down the dimly lit tunnels.

  “It is gonna be amazing Helz!” Tarren promised Helzendar as he flipped through the page of a book he had been given by Lunara.

  Helzendar eyed the colorful pictures of the elf land in the book with skepticism. “I don’t know, looks weird to me. Why in Ky’Dren’s beard did they cover all that pretty stone with them ugly vines?”

  “Bah, they ain’t ugly. Lunara says they actually strengthen the structures. And those, the crystals, they collect sunlight and power lanterns and things,” he said, drunk with wonder.

  Helzendar nodded. “Yeah, they got one o’ them crystals up atop the peaks o’ the Helgar Mountains. Powers the main city proper it does. A gift from the elves it was. They are a queer lot, them Helgar dwarves, usin’ elf magics and such.”

  “Geesh! Those are harsh words against your own. Helgar was a king of Ky’Dren, you be knowin’,” said Tarren.

  “Yeah, I be knowin’ me own history. I be son o’ the king, ain’t I?” said Helzendar. “What, you be likin’ every human o’ Eldalon?”

  Tarren thought about it. “No, I guess not.”

  “Besides,” said Helzendar, “I didn’t say I don’t like ’em.”

  “Yeah, well, the new door of Roakore that they put up last month was blessed with elf magic, you know. What’s the big deal with using elf magic? Why do the dwarves dislike the elves so much?”

  Helzendar was instantly flustered. “Why we be dislikin’, eh? What’s to like? They brought the dark elves here, didn’t they? You know how many o’ me clan died because o’ the elves? Not to mention me grandfather and uncles. Roakore be the last o’ his father’s children ’cause o’ them.”