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

  Tarren was sorry he asked, given Helzendar’s reaction. “Yeah, I can see were there would be some bad blood. But we be needin’ their help against the dark elves.”

  “Bah! You mean they be needin’ our help to clean up their mess.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” said Tarren. He hadn’t thought of it that way before. He let the topic go and went back to his elven book. He couldn’t wait to see Elladrindellia. More so he couldn’t wait to see Whill once again. Thoughts of Whill led him to think of Abram. Tarren had been greatly saddened by the news of Abram’s and Rhunis’ deaths. They had both been men who’d seemed larger than life; he still couldn’t believe they were dead.

  His thoughts inevitably led him to frustration at his own age and weakness. He would give anything to be able to help in the coming battle. He could train with the dwarves all he wanted, but he would not be strong enough to be of help until he was grown. But one day he would be grown, and though the war would be over by then, there would still be evil in the world, and he had vowed to the spirits of his family that he would dedicate his life to fighting for those who could not. He would one day be a strong and powerful man with years of training behind him, and those of evil heart would quiver at the mention of his name.

  Lunara finished healing the last of the injured human refugees. She had been hard at work for nearly two days mending the many wounds they had received when their town was attacked.

  Holdagozz steadied her when she swooned from the exertion, and though she could have stood on her own she welcomed his support. He guided her to a chair within the makeshift infirmary and was quick to offer her a drink of mountain spring water, which she took thankfully. Though she used the energy within her staff to heal, her mind was thoroughly spent. She had spent countless hours in deep concentration mending bone and reconnecting muscle, and the work had taken its toll. Seeing this, Holdagozz offered to take her back to her room.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I would remain here, I may be needed…” she said softly as she was hit with another dizzy spell.

  “At least take a cot and get some sleep. We got a long road before us to your lands,” insisted Holdagozz as he led her to a cot and covered her with blankets.

  “You are coming with us, then?” she asked brightly.

  “’Course I be, me place is by me king. And I would see you and Tarren to Elladrindellia safely.”

  She smiled at that and closed her eyes to much-needed sleep. Holdagozz watched her and looked out over the dozens of people she had healed. He was awed by her healing power, a power that had saved his very life. And though he was a strong dwarven warrior, made stronger still by her very hands, he was humbled by her ability to reverse sickness and injury and steal from death its helpless victims.

  Not only did he marvel at her skill but also her beauty. He had never seen one who shone so with such radiating inner light. Her energy was that of a child, and she was filled with the wonder and awe of life usually beaten out of people by tragedy and age. Perhaps it was because she was young for an elf, young by all standards.

  Looking upon her, Holdagozz was reminded of the beauty of life. He was reminded that miracles did exist, and where there was darkness, there too was blinding light. She had saved him from the clutches of death, had given him a second chance at life. He would be forever grateful, and always in her debt and at her service.

  “Aye, Holdagozz, come share a drink. We have much to speak of.”

  He was jolted from his reverie by his king’s hushed voice. Holdagozz felt his face flush from the knowing look he got from Roakore. He got up and followed the king to the common room that was part of the humans’ quarters. Two large high-backed chairs had been set beside the large fireplace, and between them sat a small table and a bottle of black rum. They sat, and Holdagozz rubbed his hands together near the fire, waiting to hear Roakore’s reprimand. None came.

  Roakore poured two glasses of rum and together they cheered Ky’Dren and tossed the drinks back. Roakore poured himself and Holdagozz another and sat back to smoke his pipe and sip from his glass.

  “I be gladdened that you’ll be comin’ with us, Holdagozz. It ain’t the same out there without a good dwarf at yer side, I say.”

  Holdagozz took the compliment with a smile and lit his own pipe. “It’s gonna be a dangerous road, it is…”

  Roakore sniffed at the air and looked at his friend’s pipe. “What’s that ye be smoking, eh? That be no Shierdon leaf.”

  “Nah, it ain’t,” Holdagozz confirmed. “It be from the refugees you done saved from the shyte-eatin’ draggard. Their main crop it is, an’ it’s got a smoothness to rival the best.”

  Roakore quickly tapped out the cherry from his pipe and offered it to Helzendar with a lick of his lips. “Pack her full.”

  Holdagozz filled his king’s pipe and handed it back. Roakore puffed up the fire slow and steady. His cheeks bulged and he blew out a swirling silver ring.

  “Nah’Zed!”

  “Yes, me king!” she said as loudly, clearly annoyed at being shouted at though she was sitting three feet away.

  “See to it that a small barrel o’ this weed finds its way to Silverwind’s saddlebags. In return, give the humans a few pints o’ me twenty-year-old Helgarian sweet rum.”

  Nah’Zed wrote swiftly and sent a dwarf off with the request. Holdagozz blew a ring of his own and wore it like a halo for a long moment. “Think they got any weed o’ their own there, them elves?”

  “Bah!” answered Roakore. “You’ll never catch me smokin’ no elf weed. Who knows what them folk do to it. Probably have magic farts for a week.”

  Helzendar coughed his last toke and choked with laughter. “Haha, rainbow farts!”

  “Bwahaha!” laughed Roakore, and Nah’Zed joined in the mirth. Then Nah’Zed suddenly farted and gave an embarrassed “oh!” The squeak of a toot sent the two dwarves falling to the floor in convulsions.

  “Magic farts, bwahaha!”

  Chapter 3

  The Crystal Palace

  Dirk was awoken by a shift in pressure in the room. The grip on his dagger tightened and his eyes opened slightly; otherwise he made no movement. He smelled the intruder and knew it to be Eadon. He relaxed his grip and sat up.

  “I am done here. We return to Agora,” Eadon said. He looked Dirk over with searching eyes. “Are you ready to meet your army…General?”

  Dirk remembered his pact, reminded himself of his pledge of fealty. Such a pledge to Eadon could not be broken but on pain of death. Eadon had shown him how it worked by forcing a human prisoner to plead fealty, and then attempt to defy his will. He had convulsed and thrashed until finally, frothing at the mouth, he dropped dead. Dirk knew then that had he not told Eadon of Whill’s location, he would have died. Dirk had asked Eadon why then did Aurora live—he had guessed correctly that she too had sworn fealty. Eadon informed him that it was due to the fact that she had tried to kill Abram, and he would have died had Whill not healed him. She had not yet moved against Eadon in any way, and therefore would live.

  “We shall see how that feisty little icicle plays out,” Eadon had said, to his own amusement.

  He led Dirk through the halls of the tower of crystal. It jutted out in every direction and in every color, shining a thousand reflections in the midday sun. Within the mammoth crystal palace were rooms and halls, libraries and weaponries, servants and slaves, waterfalls and wine. Dirk felt like he was living in a waking dream, one as beautiful and mysterious as it was dark and disturbing. The crystal pulsed in unison with a low, almost soothing hum of power. The assassin had been given lavish quarters within the crystal palace. Krentz was even released to live there with him, though she still felt like a prisoner, they both did. But at least they were prisoners together, she had told him. Being with her brought him a peace he had not known without her. Whether they were ever freed from Eadon’s clutches, he did not at the moment care. He was with her again. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, shared stories of t
heir adventures since parting those years before. They made love and they watched the sun rise and set through the multicolored walls of the crystal palace.

  Dirk knew not how the thing might possibly work, and could not guess what great amounts of power it must have taken to do so, but the castle-sized crystal flew. He had been awed when he first saw the approaching crystal city, after he had been found and healed by Eadon. The thing had shot through the air at impossible speeds and come to hover over their heads. Eadon had grabbed him by the collar and flown them both up and into the crystal. Then the crystal shot off again in the direction it had come.

  Inside, Dirk found a fortress teaming with dark elves and his breath was taken away. It was not the number of dark elves, which he guessed to be in the hundreds, but their appearance: they were Eadon’s twins, identical in all regards except for the vacancy in their eyes, the lifelessness. The only others who lived within the crystal palace were select dark elves and women for Eadon’s pleasures.

  “They are me,” Eadon had explained of the identical dark elves. “I call them my Afterthoughts. If I think it, they do it. They are alive but have no minds of their own. They have no power but through me. They see to it that my will is done.”

  Dirk followed the self-absorbed elf out onto one of the long shards that stretched out like a bridge. Below them was a sight that took Dirk’s breath away like nothing ever had. An army of draggard, draquon, dwargon, and unnamable other beasts stretched for what seemed miles. They were in regimens of fifty, he guessed, and they must have numbered in the thousands.

  “I have three such armies,” Eadon said with great pride. “This one is yours.” He looked deep within Dirk’s eyes and drew so close it was intimate. He whispered in Dirk’s ear, “Follow me and lead my army and you shall be a king and my daughter Krentz your queen. Fail me and you will see her die forever.”

  Dirk did not react to the threat. He simply stared forward, eyes locked on the impossible sight below them. “King and queen of what?” he dared ask. “This barren wasteland or a charred and dead Agora? One cannot be king of nothingness.”

  Eadon’s head twitched. “Can’t he?”

  He let the unanswered question linger in the silent air of the crystal palace. After a time, as Eadon looked out over his magnificent creations, his pure killing machines, he said, “I will not lay waste to Agora. What happened here in Drindellia will not happen there. Here was a battle as you have never imagined.” He seemed to warm at the memory. “Yes, the elves of the sun fought well, but in the end they killed themselves trying to kill us. Imagine an explosion of such magnitude it was as if the sun collided with the oceans. The sun elves scorched this land, not I.” He turned once more to face Dirk. “If those on Agora surrender peacefully, I shall not have to unleash my army. But if they refuse, they must be convinced. I will be named king of all lands and the world will know peace.”

  “Until you find a new land to conquer?” asked Dirk.

  “Precisely.”

  “Until the world is yours?”

  Eadon grinned devilishly. “Until the world is mine.”

  Dirk resisted his body’s urge to shudder at the thought. He looked down at his impossibly large army of monsters. His eyes drifted to what he knew to be one of the lost Gates of Arkron. Where in Agora its twin gate was located he did not know, but through it the army would pour. Through it the dark elf armies could travel from Drindellia to Agora in an instant, covering the land in darkness.

  Dirk returned to the lavish room that he shared with Krentz and pondered the dark elf’s words. He took off his enchanted leather cloak, his boots, and his clothes and joined his tattooed lover in the silk sheets of the large bed. Outside their wall the world was dark, but upon the ceiling of their shard danced a million multicolored suns, the stars greatly illuminated by the smooth clear crystal wall with its dancing colors. They lost themselves to each other and found a place far from the death and destruction of the world, a place where they could know peace and be left alone, a place that did not exist but in their hearts. They danced in the ocean of empty space and sang the song of the stars. Only together did they know such peace; only together did they know such love.

  When they came down they held each other forever and thought of nothing, simply savored the glow, she with her pointed ears resting upon his chest, he with his arms and a leg around her. They remained as one while they slept, and when either stirred they danced yet again, long until morning.

  Chapter 4

  Training Begins

  Whill flew with Avriel from the city, and shortly they landed upon an outcropping of stone and grass and dirt. The island was surrounded by a rushing river. Upon it was nestled a small cottage, a garden, and a well-kept yard. It was seemingly undisturbed by the violence of the river around it, which fed the Thousand Falls.

  Avriel landed and Whill dismounted. He looked the place over and gave her a questioning glance. She spoke to him in his mind.

  The Watcher is…different. He knows things, things that others only guess at. He is the most enlightened of our elders, regarded by all but himself as the reincarnation of Mallekell, the father of the second age of enlightenment. He is a monk, and insists that he is a simple farmer. He does not preach, nor hold what you call sermons, yet he will speak freely with anyone.

  Whill swallowed hard and looked at the cottage with dread.

  “What will he tell me?” Whill asked.

  Only what you ask of him.

  “Does he have no questions?”

  None.

  Her white scaled head turned to the river and she licked her sharp teeth. I go to feed upon the river; his words shall be for you alone.

  Avriel leapt twenty feet into the air and extended her long dragon wings. They caught the wind as the sunlight caught her thousand scales, and the sight blinded Whill. He closed his eyes and called upon his mind-sight. He sucked in a breath as he beheld Avriel in true form, her spirit as grand as a dragon and as bright as the god of light.

  When she was beyond view, Whill reluctantly walked to the cottage. After a pause, he knocked on the door three times.

  “Where I am from, knocking on a door thrice means the caller would like to dance naked under the moonlight” came the musical voice of an old elf.

  Whill was taken aback by the statement. He was speechless. Suddenly the door opened inward and an ancient-looking elf, bent at the waist, cocked his head to look up at Whill from an odd angle.

  “So you want to dance naked, eh, boy?” asked the Watcher.

  “Uhh…,” Whill stuttered.

  “Hahaha!” The ancient elf laughed until he coughed, and coughed until he hacked. Finally he spat a hairball onto the doorstep. “Hmm.” He hummed as he inspected it. “Silver trout does it every time.” He pulled Whill’s sleeve and pointed at the slimy hairball. “When in cat form, do yourself the favor of eating a silver trout.” He turned abruptly and shuffled into the cottage. “Well, then, shut the door. Someone needs to try my newest batch of wine, and it may as well be you!”

  Whill, still speechless, closed the door and followed the odd elf into his home. The cottage was strangely familiar, and then Whill realized that he stood in the center room of his aunt Teera’s house, one he had lived in as a child. He marveled and went to the window to see beyond. There past the lawn the river raged, but not a sound found the room.

  He turned to the Watcher. “How?”

  “Why is the better question,” the elf countered.

  Whill shook his head. “Why?”

  “Why did I bring what, where, and when is the question, and you ask how. Hmm. Indeed, you are curious.”

  Whill shook his head as if trying to clear it. He looked around and smiled as nostalgia washed through him in waves. His shoulders dropped and his muscles relaxed. And for the first time in a long while, he was at ease, he was at home. The fire crackled lazily, and above it a pot of venison stew sent delicious scents riding on the air. Even the throw rug was the same, a pattern of m
oon and stars, symbols and glyphs.

  “Thank you,” said Whill.

  The Watcher nodded and pointed to a chair opposite him. Whill sat as the elf poured two small glasses of wine.

  “This wine is as old as you are, to the day,” he said as he swirled his glass. He put his long hooked nose into it, nearly dipping it, and took a long, slow sniff.

  Whill raised his own glass. “As old as I, to the day? Why?” He immediately regretted his words, thinking the word game would begin anew. To his relief, it did not.

  “Why?” the elf asked the ceiling. “Hmm, why indeed? I suppose I thought it would be ironic somehow. It is silly, I suppose.” He then lifted his glass in a toast. “Here is to your toe hairs: may they be curly and dry,” he proclaimed, and took a drink of the twenty-year-old wine. His bushy eyebrows shot up so high, they could have been mistaken for leaping mice. His eyelashes fluttered and a shiver ran through his body as he swallowed. “It seems the wine is dead on. Try it, try it.”

  Whill skipped the swirl and smell, the looking and listening, and just drank. Flavor exploded in his mouth, sweet at first but then slowly balancing out to a harmoniously delicious medley of flowers and meadows. Again the flavor shifted, now to one of such intense bitterness that Whill nearly spat it out. He swallowed the wine and his palate was left numb.

  “As old as you to the day, I daresay the hour.”

  “You know I was not…born, do you not? I was cut from my mother, I…”

  “Yes, of course, but you are here all the same. Did you like the wine?” the Watcher asked.

  Whill wondered for a moment and was about to say yes when a thought occurred to him. “Avriel told me that you asked no questions.”

  “How odd. I suppose I have never asked her a question.” He took another drink.

  Whill drank again. “It is bitter at the end.”

  “Many things of this world begin sweet and end up bitter, and others the opposite,” said the elf.