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

“I think you need to work on your landing,” a voice called. Startled, he looked in the direction of the sound and found the Watcher meditating on a lone rock jutting out of the raging water.

  Whill sighed to himself. “I was looking for a place to be alone,” he murmured, thinking the rushing water had drowned his words.

  “If you were looking for a place to be alone, why did you land by me?” asked the Watcher.

  Whill was speechless. He looked back toward the city and thought of Avriel. He now regretted ignoring her.

  “I was about to get some lunch anyway,” said the Watcher. “You shall have the privacy you sought.” The Watcher turned as if to leave but stopped. “Unless you are hungry.”

  Whill’s stomach growled at the mere thought of food.

  “Well, then,” said the Watcher. “At least there is a part of you that knows what it wants. Come.” The old elf changed before Whill’s eyes into a huge raven and flew off toward his small river island. Whill slowly elevated himself and floated clumsily to the island. The cottage of his youth was gone; he doubted it had been more than an illusion. In its place was a small pyramid made of what looked to be rocks from the surrounding river.

  Inside, the pyramid had no walls, and Whill could find no binding element between the stones. It looked as though they had melded together.

  “Do you like it?” asked the Watcher. “I made it in a dream.” He chuckled as he added two large fish to the pan upon glowing coals. “You can imagine my surprise when I awoke and saw it had become real.”

  “You made it in a dream?” Whill asked, astonished. He ran his hand down the perfectly smooth, angled stone. “How is that possible?”

  The Watcher regarded Whill. “How is it not possible?” he said with genuine curiosity. Shaking his head when no answer came, he went back to his cooking.

  “It is amazing,” Whill admitted and took a seat at the table.

  “Yes, quite,” the Watcher agreed. “I call it the house of dreams. I did not make the house to look as it did when you visited last, you did, or rather your subconscious.”

  “Why that house?” asked Whill.

  “Why indeed?” said the Watcher. “Ask yourself that question. Those I have brought here, or who have come to visit, have conjured up many different abodes. Some from imagination, others memory, but always it is a place of great significance.”

  Whill nodded in understanding. “It shows you your dream home, then?”

  “No,” said the Watcher, his bushy eyebrows nearly coming together as he scowled over his cooking fish. He looked up at Whill and his expression changed to sympathy. “When you look on the house of dreams, your deepest desires are shown to you.”

  Whill cocked his head and pondered, looking at nothing. “My deepest desires are my old cottage?”

  The Watcher only sighed and stood from the fireplace with the pan in hand. Upon two wide leaves he put the fish. He set marbled bread upon the small table, and poured two glasses of wine. Seeing no utensils, Whill dug into the fish, and before his mouthful was swallowed he was breaking bread. Wine washed down the fish with a fruity finish. The fish was excellent, and the sour bread added a fine balancing element to the meal. The Watcher knew how to pair food and drink. They ate for a time, and when the Watcher recognized Whill’s distracting hunger was sated, he went on.

  “It is not the cottage that you dream of, but what the cottage represents.”

  “What does it represent?”

  “You tell me,” replied the Watcher with a small laugh. “It is your subconscious.”

  Whill thought for a moment as he absently chewed his bread. Waving the piece from the loaf with his right hand, he surmised, “The cottage represents my childhood, my aunt Teera, the girls…but not Abram. He was always gone when I was little.”

  “Until…?”

  “Until…until I left with him.” Whill’s interest in the food was lost as he again thought of his old friend. “The cottage represents a time before my days upon the road began with Abram. A time of safety and security, a time of…” Whill stared off pensively.

  “A time of innocence,” the Watcher finished for him.

  “I suppose,” said Whill, and finished the last of his wine. “But what does it matter what my dreams are? All of that is behind us now.”

  “Indeed,” the Watcher agreed. “Then why is it at the back of your mind? Why did you not conjure your family’s castle, or one of the many other places that you have lived throughout your life?”

  Whill pondered the question as he played with his food, not meeting the Watcher’s gaze. “I do not seek my father’s throne, or any throne. I want only peace and quiet, and a simple life. One in which I might come and go as I please, invisible to the world.”

  “Ah,” said the Watcher. “You wish for a life that is not your own. You hold your happiness hostage until the world changes to accommodate your wishes, is that it?”

  “No, I—”

  “Why not simply leave this land, then? You have the great blade Adromida; surely you can live the life you have just described.”

  Whill met the Watcher’s eyes and anger found his voice. “You know that I cannot do that.”

  “Why?” asked the elf.

  “Because people depend on me.”

  The Watcher raised his brow. “Then you care more for the people than you do your own wants.”

  Whill thought for a long while, and finally answered. “Yes. I have a duty to help those whom I have the power to help.”

  The Watcher smiled and resumed finishing his meal, leaving Whill to ponder what had been said. Whill finished his food also and gratefully accepted another glass of wine.

  “Who are you, Whill?” the Watcher asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who are you?”

  Whill’s gaze moved here and there as he searched his mind. “I am the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, I am the supposed savior of the—”

  “No, I did not ask who others think you are. Who do you think you are?”

  “I do not know,” Whill answered in a near whisper.

  “Good, that is a start.”

  “How is that good?”

  “Without labels and boundaries, there is room to grow,” the Watcher answered. “What is important to you? What would you die for?”

  “Justice,” Whill answered without thinking.

  “Justice for you?” the Watcher asked. “Or justice for all?”

  Whill thought about it a moment. “Justice for all.”

  “Interesting.” The Watcher appeared to ponder something. He nodded his head as he thought to himself. “That is quite a different answer than you gave me earlier. I thought you wanted a peaceful and simple life.”

  “Before…” Whill began, trying to find the words. “Before, I spoke…selfishly.”

  “Yes, you did,” the Watcher agreed.

  “Ugh!” moaned Whill as he set his head in his hands and weakly clawed his hair. “What is wrong with me?”

  The Watcher laughed heartily and Whill raised his head to scowl at the mockery, but he found none in the Watcher’s sympathetic face.

  “What is wrong with you, my young friend, is that you were tortured for six months by a maniacal dictator. Don’t be so hard on yourself. The brain storms I showed you when last we met are the reason for much of how you feel. You have the answers you seek, but your painbody refuses to let you see them.”

  Whill nodded, frustrated that he had learned so much from the elves, and yet lacked the strength to act upon his knowledge.

  The Watcher became solemn and gazed upon Whill with vacant eyes and mournful words. “Eadon has shattered your mind and put it back together again. When I look upon you, I see two within one.”

  The fine hairs upon Whill’s arms stood straight and a chill passed through his being that forced a shudder with the Watcher’s every word. These were words of truth, a truth that Whill knew at his core, deep within the recesses of his scarred mind. There was a beast l
urking within him, one that would devour him should the chains that bound it fail.

  Whill realized that the Watcher had been speaking but had stopped; the old elf now looked at him patiently. “I am sorry, what did you say just now? I was—”

  “You were thinking what I was trying to explain. You can feel the…Other inside, yes?”

  Whill gulped and lowered his voice as if to hide his words from this…Other. “Yes, I feel him.”

  “Hmm.” The Watcher clasped his hands across his belly and sat back. “This is good. Now you can begin to see the difference between your thoughts and actions, and this Other’s.”

  “Yes.” Whill smiled, a spark of hope beginning to form as he began to attribute his moods and emotions to not one, but two parts of himself. His mind exploded with rapid thought as he began to see clearly how the Other had been feeding off of him.

  “It is like a parasite,” Whill said.

  “Indeed.”

  Again Whill lowered his voice a bit, though he knew how silly the idea was that the Other could not hear him, considering it was privy to his thoughts.

  “But doesn’t it know that I am onto it now? Won’t it try to retaliate? Or hide?”

  “No, it is quite sure of its supremacy over you. Remember, it is a part of your mind; it has been with you since your violent birth. If anything, it loves the attention we give it, no matter the context.” The Watcher raised the bottle of wine. “Another?”

  “Yes—,” Whill began, but then came to a realization. “No,” he said covering the glass with his hand. “I have had enough and…” He scowled at the floor and then swiftly locked onto the Watcher’s gaze. “It…wants me to.”

  “Very good, my young friend!” the Watcher clapped, genuinely delighted. “When one becomes intoxicated with this particular drug, the veil separating them from their Other is weakened, too much of it, and they are possessed altogether.”

  Whill’s eyes widened and he gave slow, exaggerated nods as revelation bloomed within his mind. Question then shadowed his mirth. “But you drink still when I have refused; do you not worry about your Other?”

  “No,” said the elf and took a slow sip of his wine. “My Other and I have an understanding. Over the centuries a healthy relationship forms if nurtured diligently. It is only one’s survival instinct become conscious, after all, but all too often we are tricked by it to believe it is us, and we are it.”

  Silence filled the room as the Watcher sipped and Whill considered. It was a comfortable silence found between friends.

  “What did Eadon hope to achieve in…splitting my mind?” Whill asked.

  “He hopes that the Other will consume you. He has planted a seed that will be nurtured by you yourself until it outgrows its shell and devours you.”

  Whill tried to mask his sudden horror as images of his inner demon tearing free and his body falling like a discarded husk plagued his mind. He teetered upon the brink of terror as he imagined his Other wielding the blade Adromida.

  “I am a fool.” He looked suddenly to the elf, gratitude filling his heart. “If you hadn’t helped me to see this, to recognize the Other…thank you, Watcher.”

  “You are welcome, Whill of Agora, and thank you.”

  Whill was baffled. “Thank you for what?”

  The Watcher leaned forward and patted Whill’s hand. “For needing me.” He smiled.

  As Whill walked to the door, the Watcher stopped him with a warning. “Be careful, Whill. The Other within you is very powerful. There will be a reckoning.”

  Chapter 10

  The Road to Elladrindellia

  Roakore and his company made good time the first day. They took the less-traveled road that wound through the Uthen-Arden Kingdom from the Ro’Sar Mountains to the Elgar Mountains. The first of the towns they came upon was deserted as they had guessed it would be. Like so many others, it had been burned to the ground. Human and draggard bodies littered the landscape, rotting where they had fallen. It seemed as though no one had survived to bury them.

  They made camp next to a small stream far from the road and the night went by quietly. Morning came and Tarren opted to skip breakfast, determined to fly with Roakore without puking.

  “So you think you be ready to try again, eh, lad?” asked Roakore as the company readied their mounts to depart.

  “I be thinkin’ I can’t be pukin’ up what I don’t eat.”

  “All right, then, mount up and keep your food to yerself.”

  Lunara waved happily as Silverwind took to the sky. Roakore took it easy, ascending only high enough to graze the treetops.

  “There be a trick to it, lad. You can’t fight it; it ain’t like being on the ground. You gotta just go with it, be one with the bird.”

  They flew ahead of the group and checked the road. All was quiet as they flew above the trees in the morning sunshine. The air was crisp with the smells of autumn as they glided along on a soft current.

  “How you doin’, lad?” Roakore asked.

  “A lot better. I think I got the hang of it.”

  They traveled steadily east on the mountain road the rest of the day. Tarren dared a small lunch and managed to keep it down the rest of the flight. Night came and they made camp again far off the road under the bows of the everpine. A thick fog had gathered around the world, and heavy clouds hid the heavens in shadow.

  The company of dwarves had brought with them enough food for fifty, and as much ale. The mood was light as they dined next to a blazing fire. Ale flowed freely and laughter spilled out into the night. Holdagozz noticed Lunara’s discomfort and moved to sit next to the elf.

  “What is it, lady?” he asked as he offered her a pint. The dark dwarven ale had grown on her during her time in the mountain. She took it with a smile.

  “The large fire and merrymaking, it is a bit of a ruckus, don’t you think? We could attract unwanted attention.”

  “Bah,” exclaimed Holdagozz. “Ain’t none but trees to be hearin’ us out here. What unwanted attention be there, anyway? That o’ the draggard?” he scoffed. “Bring it on, says we!”

  “What’s that, Holdagozz?” asked one of the dwarves by the name of Philo.

  “Lunara here be wonderin’ if we be makin’ too much noise and ruckus and such. Says we might attract unwanted attention, she does.”

  “Bah!” Philo roared and stood with mug in hand. “How’s this for a ruckus?” he bellowed and guzzled his entire beer. Foam and drink poured down his red-tinted brown beard and he belched long and loud. From the fire he took hold of a branch burning at one end. “An’ if that ain’t enough to attract unwanted attention, maybe this’ll be workin’.” Philo turned and bent at the waist. He put the burning branch at the center of his backside and let rip a dwarven fart of epic proportions. A flash of flame blazed forth and his pants caught fire. The group roared with laughter and took turns lighting their flatulence.

  Lunara rolled her eyes and tried hard not to laugh. Holdagozz stood up as if to join in.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” She giggled as he reached for a stick.

  “Wouldn’t I?” he laughed.

  Just then Roakore landed and Silverwind’s wings stirred the fire to leap high and bright. “Shut yer yappers, all o’ ye!” he roared as he slid from his saddle, followed by his son Helzendar, who was nearly as tall. Dwarves grew to full height by age thirteen, but they grew thicker with every passing season. Roakore was twice his son’s width. “I be hearin’ ye for miles and then some. What, you think this is a party?” With the last word he grabbed the mug from a dwarf’s hand, guzzled the contents, and smashed it over the dwarf’s head. “Ye get a chest full o’ fresh air and ye all go bat-shyte, eh? We be escortin’ an elven ambassador o’ Elladrindellia. Have some godsdamned respect, ye buncha dragon turds! Ruby group set a perimeter and quick as quick got ready. Move! Move!”

  Five of the dwarves scattered to comply. He gathered the others round. “This be a stealth mission, and don’t ye be forgettin’ it. And ye b
e in the midst o’ a lady elf o’ the sun. Save the fart-lightin’ for the taverns.”

  All were ordered to bed, as they would set out before the coming of the sun. Roakore slept in only short spurts, his ear always on the wind. He had seen something in the moon as he flew with his son after nightfall. Before the clouds captured the entire sky, he had seen a bloodred moon hovering there like the sapphire goddess herself, being swallowed by a wave of cloud.

  The prophetic vision had not escaped his son; Holdagozz had pointed it out as Roakore too saw it.

  “Sapphirian,” he had breathed in disbelief.

  If they had been on land they would have fallen to the nearest stone in reverie. As it was they could only bow forward in their saddles and pray.

  “The gods be with us, Father,” Holdagozz said tearfully.

  “As they always be, son, as they always be. Such signs are always there for us to see. But ye gotta be lookin’. The gods be with us, all right, and they be warnin’ us. There be bloodshed comin’ on the morrow, best we make sure it ain’t ours.

  “Thank you, oh goddess o’ the ancient stone,” he offered to the moon as it was overtaken by star-killing clouds.

  Later, as he lay by the hot coals of the fire, he smiled at the memory.

  “Bloodshed on the morrow…bloodshed…” Roakore heard Helzendar mumble in his sleep, and he felt the fear that every parent feels. He reached in the darkness and patted his son’s back reassuringly.

  “Best we make sure it ain’t ours,” he answered.

  Just then a song came to mind, and he sang it softly to the night. Many dwarves heard the song that night, and they sang it for years to come. The voice of the king, deep and strong but hushed as in lullaby, rose up into the night sky, and a tear came to Holdagozz’s eyes.

  There be bloodshed on the morrow, best we make sure it ain’t ours.

  There be bloodshed on the morrow, I seen it in the stars.

  There be bloodshed on the morrow, the bloodred moon doth bode.

  There be bloodshed on the morrow, death be somewhere down the road.

  Long before the sun took back the heavens, the company was fed and on the road once more. At Roakore’s orders they drove the horses hard into the afternoon. It was not until then that they stopped before a bridge. Roakore led Silverwind to a stream. The horses would have moved away were they not so thirsty.