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

  She left her room as elves came on Kreshna’s order to have Aurora's things taken to the waiting ship. Soon she was standing before Whill's door. She knocked and waited nervously. It had been hard to quiet her mind in the presence of Azzeal, and it was no easier around Whill. The door opened and Whill was quick to offer her a smile and greeting.

  "Aurora, please come in."

  She ducked under the threshold and entered.

  "It is good to see you. Things have been so busy these days, I regret that we have not had more time to visit," he said as he moved to the table and offered her a seat.

  "Think nothing of it," she replied taking a seat that was to her as a child's.

  "Tea, water?" Whill offered.

  "Nothing, thank you. I have come to tell you that I will be returning shortly to Volnoss."

  "You intend to challenge your chief?"

  "He is no chief of mine, but yes, I intend to kill him. I am confident that I can defeat him alone, his dragon is a different matter."

  "His dragon?" Whill asked.

  "Yes, the very one that killed my father. I have no beast with which to challenge his, no one has. It is with his dragon that he has taken control of all tribes and named himself Chief of the Seven. If I can defeat him and become Chief of the Seven, then you will have the support of Volnoss. I promise you that."

  "And you need my help?"

  "Yes, surely with your great sword you can create a beast that could challenge the dragon."

  Whill shook his head and looked to the blade. "I wield it yes, but I have neither the knowledge nor skill to create such a beast."

  Aurora was disappointed and did not hide it. She looked on hopefully as Whill seemed to ponder the problem.

  "Perhaps a ralliad could be of use, Azzeal may agree to it."

  "No!" Aurora blurted but quickly composed herself. "I would not have any risk their lives for my cause. No, I could not ask it of Azzeal, or any other. I should not have asked such a thing."

  She got up to leave towering over Whill. "I must go."

  "Wait," said Whill standing too. "I will contact Avriel. Perhaps the elves possess an enchanted weapon for such a purpose."

  "I would be honored," said Aurora as she sat back down.

  She watched as Whill became distracted. He remained that way for some time and she assumed he was talking to Avriel. Finally he looked to her with a satisfied smile. "Avriel has told me of a weapon that will aid you in your fight, the Dragonlance of Ashai. She will see to it that the lance finds your boat."

  Aurora's smile grew wide and she sprang from her chair and wrapped Whill in a hug. His laugh was smothered by her large bosom as he patted her big back. "You are a true friend and ally Whill of Agora."

  She held him at arms length beaming. "I shall not fail you in rousing an army that will make the draggard quiver.”

  Chapter 17

  The Other

  Whill waited patiently for Zerafin to arrive. Avriel seemed not bothered by her brother’s lateness a bit as she sat at the entrance to their new home. Whill had requested new lodging, as he could not move a foot from his old abode without being confronted by a worshipper. He had chosen one of the many towers jutting from stone outcropping along the Thousand Falls. The upper level was wide and open, its balcony easily large enough for Avriel. The lower levels were more suited to human standards and Whill was grateful for the elves’ consideration. The inside of his quarters looked like any of the dozens of inns he and Abram had ever stayed in. All the accommodations were present. He had a small stove on which to cook, a pantry stocked with seasonal vegetables and fruits, even a bath fed by the waterfall, its water warmed by a sun crystal.

  The only way to the tower was by air, but one could leave by simply diving to the deep waters below. From the balcony the entirety of the Cerushia could be seen. The falls fed dozens of small rivers, all of which eventually connected with another larger river and those into one which led to the sea.

  Whill went out onto Avriel’s balcony and joined her as she lay gazing out over her city. Her deep hum vibrated in Whill’s chest as he placed a hand upon her head.

  “Were you sleeping?” Whill asked.

  Avriel projected the feeling of a smile onto Whill. No, she hummed in his mind, half sighing. I was caught up in dragon memories. There is so much to know, so much to see. In this form I can recall entire lives of the dragons of its line. I can sit for hours, lost in the exploits of the dragon’s kin. I feel their triumphs, I know their pains. Humans have been a nuisance for centuries, and the dwarves—they hate dwarves with a passion.

  Whill stared in admiration at the city glowing in the night. But Avriel saw it not; her mind saw the rolling hills of ages past, battles with dwarves, men, and even elves. She could look even to a time in Agora when the dragons ruled the land. And back farther still, to a time of long migration from a faraway land. Whill shared her vision through their mental connection.

  The dragon-lore historians have been delighted in my tales and insist on longer and longer hours of recital. I am convinced that they hope I am never gone back to my elven body.

  “Do you want to go back? Will you miss your dragon form?” Whill asked.

  I wonder who she was, this dragon, Avriel said solemnly as she spread a clawed foot before her and cocked her head, considering it. I do not feel her soul here. Without me it is empty. I fear that the body will die without me.

  “Your body will die without you,” Whill reminded her.

  I know this, she said with a hint of anger. I am the reason for it. I gave that life in your name, Whill, and I will give this one.

  “Stop talking like that,” said Whill, half annoyed with this worship of him, and half at the fact that she had tried to kill herself.

  But it is true.

  “I know, and I would give my life for you, but I do not need to be sav—”

  No, you cannot, Avriel blurted. You cannot die for me. I am nothing of importance compared to—

  “Please,” he pleaded.

  Just then she cocked her head and listened. Zerafin is here. I shall return.

  Whill backed up from her as she stood and took a step and leapt from the balcony. Whill ran to it and watched her fall to the gathering mist below, and after a heart-hammering moment, she suddenly broke through the mist, parting the fog with her gliding wings.

  It was only a few minutes before she returned with Zerafin on her back. “The masters have come to a decision, then?” Whill asked as Zerafin dismounted.

  “Didn’t you tell me that this one would learn patience?” Zerafin asked his sister. She hummed a dragon laugh.

  Whill stood before Zerafin, trying to convey patient waiting, but his tapping foot gave away the ruse.

  “This is the masters’ decision,” said Zerafin as he withdrew from the bags book after book and stacked them in Whill’s arms. There were seven books in all, with thick silver bindings.

  “These are the seven scrolls of the art of Orna Catorna. They contain the theories, spells, and science behind each school,” Zerafin explained.

  “I am to study them all?”

  “Yes. The masters wish for you to read them all and then appear before them again.”

  “How long do they expect that to take?” Whill thumbed through the huge Elvish volumes. Strange diagrams and formulas in a mathematics more advanced than any Whill had ever seen filled the pages. He was reminded of all of the rare books and scrolls Abram had insisted on him learning from as far back as he could remember. It had seemed Abram was always trying to prepare him.

  “You have seven days to complete them, one day for each volume,” said Zerafin.

  “Of course.” Whill laughed. “One day for each giant tome of ancient elven magic. I had hoped to get in a little light reading while I visited Cerushia.”

  “It is good to see you in high spirits, as you should be. As should we all. Together we will bring about a new age of men and elves, one of peace and prosperity.” Zerafin gave Whill
a pat on the shoulder.

  Avriel did not hide her pleasure in seeing her brother warm up to Whill in such a way. Zerafin stroked her snout and walked to the balcony ledge. “You had better get to work on those early, Whill. I would start with something light, perhaps the book of Zionics.” He grinned and leapt from the balcony to the waters below.

  Whill looked at Avriel with a sigh. “It looks like I have some work to do.”

  Long into the night he skimmed through the many tomes. He was amazed by what he saw, descriptions of such magic as he had never thought possible. Spells and potions and transmutation and healing, mind reading and wielding the elements—it all fascinated him. Whill’s appetite for knowledge and his love for learning and lore kept him up all night, until the sun rose once again beyond the balcony.

  Whill hardly noticed the morning and then day pass by as he delved into the first volume he had chosen, Arnarro, the Way of the Healer. In it were diagrams of the insides of bodies, from elf to man to horse and cow. The workings of the nervous, skeletal, and muscular systems were outlined in great detail. Also there were wards and spells, theories and assumptions, lists of herbs and roots and ointments and ales. When Whill finished the first tome past midnight that night, he felt refreshed. He had read stories of legendary healers who, at their strongest, were known to have healed hundreds of soldiers simultaneously. Some had even dared to bring back others from the dead, but that always ended badly.

  Whill dove into the next tome, the Way of the Ralliad. He soon was distracted by an idea he had come across in the last tome, in a chapter dealing with brain trauma. He recalled the Watcher’s warning of meddling with his own mind, but he ignored it. He turned his consciousness inward; he turned his mind-sight on itself. He studied the inner workings of his mind, watched the rivers of thought and the constantly firing connections. From the sword he pulled a steady flow of energy and focused it upon parts of the mind he had discovered to be the centers of learning and memory. He sent great tides of energy into his mind, deep within the web of lightning sparks.

  There was a great surge pulled from the blade, and Whill realized he had not intended it. Again a surge and a ripple ran through the entire web of dancing light that was his mind. Whill watched as a surge centered upon one area, and from it came a shadow of writhing black lightning. Another surge and it was gone. He pulled back from his mind and willed the blade silent.

  He opened his eyes and his hackles rose as his senses screamed. Before him, seated in Whill’s exact posture on the moonlit balcony, was the Other. He looked as Whill knew he must have looked during his torture. His doppelganger stared at him through bleeding eyes. His hair hung in filthy clumps of dirt and blood. His cheeks were sunken, his teeth like dried bone. Torn, scorched, and filthy, his clothes hung from him like rags. Gashes, bites, bruises, and burns covered his exposed skin, and a long cut from the left corner of his mouth left him with half a grin.

  It was not the appearance of the Other that scared Whill the most, it was when he spoke, for from his mouth came Whill’s own voice. It was pained and spiteful; it was venom to the ears.

  “Hello, Whill,” the Other hissed.

  A shiver ran down Whill’s back that did not go unnoticed by the apparition.

  “You are not real,” Whill said with strength and purpose. He closed his eyes and after a time opened them to find the Other still there. He too blinked and looked around expectantly.

  When nothing happened, he raised a hand. “Let me try.” He coughed. “You are not real!” he yelled and pointed at Whill with a bony finger and broken nail. The Other squeezed his eyes shut and waited. Mocking Whill, he looked around and finally quit the facade. “Well, then, I guess we are both real,” he said, bored.

  Whill stared, wide-eyed. “I am insane.”

  “Yes, my friend, you are, and you’re also a selfish bastard, and a coward,” spat the Other.

  Whill was confused. “How am I selfish?” He looked around. “And why am I arguing with an illusion?”

  “You left me there!” the Other screamed, and visions of his cell flashed through Whill’s mind.

  “I didn’t—”

  “You left me there! Alone, cold, beaten, bloody, starved, and dying, you left me. You turned away when the dark elves came. You closed your ears to my screams, and you closed your eyes to the horror.”

  Whill found himself sobbing as images of his torture, images of the Other shackled to the stone, flashed through his mind. “Stop…” he breathed, barely able to speak.

  The Other’s voice shifted to a strangled whisper. “And I was left to feel everything.”

  “No!” Whill mewled as pain shot through him and wracked his body, leaving him shaking.

  “I was left to see everything. I was left to hear my very bones snap, the rip of muscle and flesh, the festering of maggots and gnawing of rats.”

  “Stop it!” Whill screamed and sent a blast of energy from his hand that went through the Other and exploded against the far wall.

  “Of course you would attack me. You hate me. You hate yourself,” the Other spat.

  “Stop,” Whill cried weakly as anguish washed through him, leaving him lying on his side like a child, curled in utter misery, hiding from the world.

  “Without me, you would have never survived,” the Other sang through broken teeth. “And you shan’t be rid of me now.”

  The pain suddenly subsided and eventually Whill was able to sit up with effort. The Other stared absently at the floor as Whill knew he had for those long maddening breaks between sessions.

  “The Watcher warned me of you. You are the Other. You are Eadon’s doing.”

  “I am your doing!” the Other countered, annoyed. “You were too weak, as you are now. Get rid of me and you will cease to be.”

  Whill believed the truth in his words. He was too weak. The few memories the Other had shown him had left him babbling in tears. The Other was his tortured self, and he held the memories of it all. Whill suddenly felt bad for him.

  “While you were…away,” the Other began, “while I endured the torture for us, I also learned. I delved into our torturers’ minds; Eadon’s included, and learned a great many things, things you cannot know without me.” He looked at the many tomes scattered on the floor between them. “Even with your precious books.”

  “You are the reason for my unexplained powers?” Whill said breathlessly.

  “Our powers since then, yes. Our ability to perform Orna Catorna before the torture was the result of our father’s spirit working through his blade. What we have done since has been a result of what I gleaned from the dark elves. The battle in the arena, fleeing from Eadon, the test of masters—all me,” the Other boasted.

  “It is not true,” said Whill, thinking back. “Before I held my father’s blade I healed Tarren, and the infant in Sherna. That I did alone.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Other.

  Whill stared at his tortured apparition for a long while. His heart sank as he realized once again that he was having a conversation with himself. “What is it you want?” he asked.

  “I want what you want. I want to kill Eadon and destroy his dark armies. I want to see a million draggard heads staining pikes. I want the dark elves to pay for everything they have done!” he yelled, having worked himself into frenzy. Then his expression calmed and he added, “But I need your help, as you need mine.”

  Whill sat up at the confession, the Other’s first real sign of weakness. “My help with what?”

  “I want what you want: I want to exist. Help me to gain the blade of power taken, and we can become like gods.”

  “The blade—Eadon’s blade? I do not want what he wants, I don’t want to be like a god, I don’t—”

  “It is the only way! Don’t you see that now? The prophecy is a lie! We are not the chosen one! We are meant to give to Eadon the blade Adromida. It has been his plan for eons!”

  Whill thought about it for a moment, not agreeing with the Other, but at the
same time seeing no other plausible way. “What would you do with Nodae, the sword of power taken?” he asked.

  The Other lifted his chin. “I would manifest a body, and then I would leave you at peace and take your pain and your nightmares with me. You could reclaim our father’s throne, and claim our birthright.”

  “And you?” Whill asked. “What will you do?”

  The Other grinned knowingly. “I do not want to be you. I already am you. I could destroy you if I wanted.”

  “But you would be destroying yourself. You are my ego. Your entire existence depends on my safety.”

  The Other nodded, conceding the point. “Indeed, you need not fear me. I am your only hope.” He grinned. “And I have a gift for you, to help you understand what we can achieve together.”

  “Go on.”

  “I learned many things when Eadon was meddling with our mind; I was able to learn many secrets. I can help you to restore Avriel to her elven body.”

  The words slammed Whill in the heart like a stone and hope lit his heart. He believed the Other.

  Who were you talking to? came Avriel’s mental voice as she landed suddenly upon the balcony. The pages of the many tomes riffled under the wind of her wings.

  Startled, Whill looked from her to the Other, but he was gone.

  “No one,” Whill stammered, and stood on aching legs. He now felt the hours spent so long sitting.

  Avriel regarded Whill as she folded her wings. “You said that you could restore me to my elven body. Who were you talking to?”

  Whill’s eyes widened in terror.

  Chapter 18

  Heldensvargen