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

  “Roakore, ye be sayin’? It ain’t wise to be utterin’ lies with the name o’ me king tied to ’em,” Dar’Kwar warned.

  “He is a wide-shouldered dwarf, about this tall. Wild brownish red hair, big axe, kind of moody.”

  Dar’Kwar scowled, obviously not finding the dark man funny. Dirk pulled his arm loose and mounted Frostmore. “What will it be, good dwarf, shall I be given passage or nay? If not, I must go now with all haste around the mountains to the sea, possibly to the cost of your king’s allies, and Whill’s line.”

  At the mention of Whill’s family line, the dwarf perked up and his scowl disappeared. He knew as well as any other Ro’Sar dwarf the high esteem in which Roakore held Whill, and the friendship they had forged. It had been for Whill that the king had left his mountain.

  “I will see you through the pass meself,” Dar’Kwar said.

  The dwarves waited behind for the Uthen-Arden soldiers to withdraw as Dirk headed for the pass.

  “Assassin!” Straun bellowed from the border. His soldiers had given him the antidote and he stood in the rain shaking his fist. Dirk and the dwarf turned to regard the furious man.

  “I will not soon forget you, Dirk Blackthorn!” Straun bellowed.

  “Thank you! I usually only get that reassurance from the ladies!” Dirk retorted, and turned once again for the pass.

  Chapter 19

  Dwarves at Sea

  The dwarves awoke with the sunshine and groaned one and all. The ale had flowed freely the night before, as had the elven spirits. And even though Roakore himself felt as though a dragon were kicking him in the temples, he roused the others. He kicked dwarves in the shins and hollered orders.

  “If you be feelin’ like shyte, it be ’cause ye can’t be controllin’ yerselves and that be your own doin’! Get your lazy arses up, we got a boat to catch!”

  After a breakfast of fish and bread, the company stood before a great fin-sailed elven warship. It had been sent to await the dwarf king’s arrival. Roakore admired the ship with awe. He noticed Tarren at his side looking quite ill and patted the lad’s shoulder. “Mark me words, boy, I be gettin’ me one o’ these.”

  Tarren had seen that wide-eyed look before, when Roakore had promised him that he would one day own a silver hawk. But the boy too stared at the great ship in wonder. With such a vessel he could chase down any pirate of the sea. He could rid the world of them all. Tarren imagined himself and Helzendar, maybe even elves, sailing the seas of Agora and beyond, hunting down the murderous scum.

  “C’mon, Silverwind!” Roakore yelled to the sky. Two fingers disappeared under his dark beard and he whistled. “There be room enough for ye on the ship!” But the silver hawk did not appear.

  The dwarves made their way onto the ship, many of them grumbling low and eying the vessel beneath them suspiciously. The deck was not planked but seemed to be made of a single piece of wood, black and polished to a high sheen. The rail was three entwined vines as thick as oak branches. The three masts seemed to grow out of the deck, and from them long sails billowed in the wind.

  Roakore was the last dwarf on board and he whistled to Silverwind one last time. Still the bird did not appear. “Bah!” He turned, grumbling about stupid birds, and boarded the ship.

  “Have you sailed before?” Nafiel asked as they began to turn out of the harbor.

  Roakore looked for rowers or any explanation as to how they were moving. “Aye, I sailed plenty, but never on an elven ship.”

  “Ah.” Nafiel smiled. “Then you should enjoy this.”

  The warship left the harbor slowly and was soon sailing northeast across the Gulf of Arden. Tarren and Helzendar joined Roakore and Nafiel at the front of the ship. There was little wind and the elven ship moved along at a slow pace as the group looked out over the waters.

  Roakore looked at Nafiel with an arched brow. “Be this all she got?” he asked, unimpressed.

  Nafiel grinned at that and hollered to the captain, “The good dwarf king Roakore wishes to see her best speed.”

  The captain nodded and bellowed a command in Elvish. From below deck came four elves who quickly made their way to the stern and stood shoulder to shoulder. Roakore looked on curiously, as did the rest of his men.

  “I suggest you find a grip upon the rail,” Nafiel warned as he himself wrapped an arm around it. Roakore scoffed at that and waited for the four elves to do something.

  The elves began chanting in unison and raised their arms to the heavens. What wind had been at their backs died and Roakore laughed and shook his head. His men joined in and released the rail, now feeling silly for having held onto it. But then the wind picked up, slowly at first, then growing until the sails were full and the ship was speeding through the still waters. Still the dwarves did not see the need for the security of the rail. Nevertheless, Roakore nodded to Nafiel, pleased.

  Roakore was about to say that the speed of the ship left much to legend when a huge gale took his breath away and the ship lurched forward as if something had slammed into it. The elves chanted all the louder and the gale doubled in strength. Roakore was thrown, slamming into a cannon with a ping. He got to his feet laughing, and using the rail he fought the momentum of the ship and returned to Nafiel. Tarren was still laughing, and Nafiel tried without success to hide his smile.

  “Now this be sailin’!” Roakore roared over the gale as the ship sliced through the waters at breakneck speed.

  “Your bird seems to have changed her mind,” Nafiel yelled over the conjured wind.

  Roakore spun his head back and forth and spotted Silverwind behind the ship. She gave a squawk and pumped her wings to catch up.

  “Fly, girl, fly!” Roakore laughed, but his words were drowned by the wind. “Nafiel, let’s slow her down a bit an’ let me bird catch up, eh?”

  The elf turned and motioned for less speed. Everyone lurched forward as the wind wielders let up on their spell work. Silverwind caught up quickly and circled the ship. The dwarves cheered and coaxed her to come aboard but she would have none of it. She squawked angrily and disappeared, changing the color of her feathers to match the sky above. There was a delighted murmur from the elves aboard and laughter from the dwarves.

  “I think yer bird be pissed!” Philo laughed and took a long drink from a frothing mug.

  Roakore scowled at him and slapped the mug from Philo’s lips. “No drinkin’! Ye be on dut—”

  Roakore suddenly flew over the rail and sailed through the sky, out over the dark waters of the Gulf of Arden. “What ye doin’, ye damned crazy bird!” he bellowed and beat upon invisible talons.

  Silverwind changed back to her natural color and the dwarves and elves alike laughed to see such a spectacle. Roakore hung kicking and screaming from Silverwind’s claws. The bird circled the ship and dropped unceremoniously Roakore into the water.

  “Dwarf overboard!” yelled Philo.

  “Bah, he’ll be all right. He ain’t wore no armor since we entered Elladrindellia, he ain’t about to be sinkin’,” said Holdagozz as Nafiel scrambled to keep Roakore in sight as the ship passed by.

  “But can he swim?” asked Tarren, concerned.

  “Yer damned right, me king be a swimmer. Look!” Helzendar pointed and everyone looked. The ship had slowed to a stop and the dwarves cheered their king on as he swam to them.

  Nafiel went to the stern and almost fell overboard as Tarren bumped into him.

  “Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly.

  Nafiel only smiled and pushed back the right sleeve of his lokata. He extended his hand toward Roakore and the swimming dwarf was thrust up onto the suddenly bulging water. The water rose beneath Roakore and snaked up and over the ship. Roakore landed with a splash at the bow of the ship to the many cheers of the dwarves.

  He got to his feet, soaking wet and swearing. Silverwind flew overhead and gave a cry. The wind wielders began their chanting anew and the ship set off once again for Cerushia.

  Tarren stood at the bow long after th
e dwarves had been shown to their quarters below. A barrel of ale had gone with them and already the boat shook to the rhythm of stomping feet. He could not wait to see Whill again. The last he had seen of him had been seven months ago in Kell-Torey. Nafiel had informed him that the ship would make it to Cerushia by early morning. For Tarren, it would be a long and sleepless night.

  Chapter 20

  The Greatest Enemy is Thy Self

  Whill would not tell Avriel about the Other. He could not, not yet. He still had to work out what in the hells was going on for himself. He convinced her to let it go after too long, telling her he only wanted to fly and to rest his mind. She looked at the open tomes and projected her smile.

  “Come then, we shall explore the rivers,” she bade him, and lowered her shoulder.

  Thankful for her understanding, he climbed up and strapped in. When she was sure he was secure, she took two leaping steps and dove over the balcony and fell with the waters of the falls. To Whill’s shock, she did not extend her wings at all and dove straight into the cool frothing waters. They dove deep, and when finally Avriel emerged, she swam up swiftly and shot out of the water and into the sky. Water fell from her glowing white scales like rain as she soared toward the moon.

  For nearly an hour they flew in silence. Avriel gave Whill the space she knew he needed, and he was grateful for that. He wondered if he was crazy, and laughing at that he wondered how crazy he was. Could the Other truly be more than a delusion? Could he have his own sense of self outside of Whill? The Other believed it, and the implications of this did not escape Whill. But the thought remained: what if the Other was somehow created or implanted inside Whill’s mind? The Other might not even know it—or worse yet, he did know it and was meant to betray Whill. If Whill gave in to the Other, and together they somehow took from Eadon the sword of power taken, would the Other then destroy Whill’s mind and betray him? This and many questions filled his mind as they flew out over the jungle.

  Sensing Whill’s tired weight, Avriel flew them back to their abode. Whill climbed down, exhausted, and found his bed easily. He was soon asleep, within the realm of the Other.

  The nightmares found him quickly, and memories of his torture troubled his sleep. In one his legs were hacked off by a swinging pendulum, only to be healed as the blade swung away and then returned swiftly. But the worst dreams were the memories of what he had done. Men and women alike were put before him, and the dark elves’ promise of an end to the pain should he himself take up the tools of torture. Whill had not been able to resist long.

  He awoke in a cold sweat with a strangled cry to the soothing voice of Avriel.

  It is all right, Whill, I am here.

  “Avriel!” he panted and looked around wildly.

  You were dreaming. It is over now, the Other is gone.

  “What did you say?”

  You spoke a name in your sleep—the Other.

  Whill shivered. “What did I say?”

  You said…you said that he did terrible things. “He killed them,” you said over and over.

  Whill put his hands to his hair in manic frustration. “What is happening to me?” he pleaded, realizing that the Other was exercising control over him. These were the Other’s thoughts and feelings, not Whill’s. He cleared his mind and fought for control, and eventually he found it. Long, deep breaths brought him back to himself and calmed him. Avriel looked on with worry etching her scaled brow.

  “I need to eat.” Whill forced a smile and squinted at the bright morning light. “How long have I slept?”

  The entire day and night. I was worried you would not wake.

  “I am all right now,” he assured her and went to the vast pantry. After a large meal of vegetables, fish, and tea, he felt more himself. He had needed the rest, as fitful as it was. He still had the books to study and now only four days left to do it in. He returned to his place among the tomes and began anew the book of the Ralliad. Avriel curled up near the balcony ledge and slept lightly while he studied.

  Against the advice of the Watcher, Whill had tampered with his own mind. He had somehow inadvertently freed the Other from his mental prison. But he had also been successful in expanding his own memory and capacity for learning. The tome before him came alive in his mind. He flipped through pages quickly, gleaning all of the information with but a glance. It was not even dark when he finished the book of the Ralliad. Excitedly he tore into the next in line, The Way of the Warrior.

  Whill absorbed every word, saw clearly in his mind’s eye every technique and form, and soon had devoured that tome as well. It went the same for the remainder of the books. Page after page flew before his eyes as he scanned them. He called upon his sword when he felt the ache of such long sitting, or when his focus wavered. By the end of the next day he had finished all seven tomes, and his head swam with the great amounts of information he had gained. He was exhilarated to learn that he could call upon any chapter or page from the tomes at will, seeing the words anew with but a thought. He could not wait to practice his newfound knowledge.

  Avriel had left early in the afternoon, but Whill had been too absorbed in his trance-like study to say goodbye. Now she returned and Whill ran to her.

  “I have finished them all!” he proclaimed joyfully.

  How can that be?

  “It is not important right now,” Whill answered, dodging the question for the time being. He was not sure if what he had done to his mind would be frowned upon. “I think I can help you return to elven form. But you must know something before you consider it.”

  Over the next hour Whill explained to Avriel what had happened. He told her about the Other, and the offer he had made. Avriel listened intently, interrupting with only a few questions here and there. Whill was afraid she would think him crazy, and rightly so. But he had to tell someone, and he was glad he had. Avriel did not stand in judgment; rather she looked upon Whill with concern.

  This…Other, she began. He says that he is the reason for your abilities since your torture? And he claims to know the spells necessary for my transformation?

  “Yes, that is his claim,” Whill concurred. “Do you think that this is a trick of Eadon’s?”

  Avriel thought long on that. It is hard to say. He tortured you those long months for a reason, it would seem, beyond his hoping to instill a murderous hatred for him. Likely his plans are twofold. It is possible that Eadon intentionally split your mind in two in hope that the Other would eventually take control.

  Whill nodded his agreement. Avriel went on. If what the Other says is true, and together you can defeat Eadon, take from him the blade of power taken, I cannot see the Other’s acquisition of the blade ending well.

  “Nor I,” Whill admitted. “I should speak of this with the Watcher.”

  Can you control the Other?

  Whill remembered how easily the Other had left him a babbling mess, with only a few mental projections of his tortured memories. “I do not know,” he answered. “If I cannot…I possess Adromida, and therefore so does he.”

  And this Other, you say he is the embodiment of your ego?

  “Yes—no—it is possible that he is the embodiment of my tortured self, the…pain body.”

  Avriel looked out beyond the balcony in silence. Whill sensed a shift in her mind, a sorrow. He guessed she was contemplating the transformation, what it would mean to her dragon form. Whill walked to her side and laid a gentle hand upon her muscled shoulder. Her scales were smooth as glass beneath his hand. He noticed her tears and gazed out over the city with her.

  What will become of this body when I am gone? Avriel asked the night.

  “I do not know,” said Whill. He sighed quietly, wishing he had all the answers, wishing for once he could help her.

  We shall see. We do not even know if you can do it. I must think about this. Avriel stood. The dragon-lore masters seek my presence as always. Do you wish to come with me?

  Whill looked at the tomes he had devoured. He mentally f
lipped through pages in his mind at random and knew that he had retained it all. He shrugged and stepped up into the saddle. “I would love to hear your tales.”

  Chapter 21

  Through the Ky’Dren Pass

  Dirk followed Dar’Kwar through the many miles of the Ky’Dren Pass. He was pleased that the dwarf had heeded his words and pushed his dwarven horse at a good pace throughout the night. Soon the sun rose behind them and Dirk saw far off in the distance the mouth to the pass and Eldalon beyond.

  The night had been a dark and cloudy one, the thunderstorm having played out, leaving the world wet, dark, and silent. Wind barely stirred here between the high mountain cliffs, where at their highest the walls of the pass reached a thousand feet. Dirk knew that below him ran hundreds of tunnels connecting the two mountains. Legend even had it that beneath Agora ran thousands of miles of tunnels connecting all three dwarven kingdoms. Many, however, doubted that claim, arguing as they always did that the dwarves were known to make the long aboveground journey to see their kin, and if they had underground tunnels to travel, why use the roads? But every time a sinkhole was heard of somewhere in Agora, people thought it was proof of dwarf tunnels.

  Dirk imagined having to live or travel through those tight spots and enclosed spaces on a daily basis. The idea caused him to shudder. He was a man who always had an escape plan. Before Dirk even entered a building, he liked to have two escape routes, if not three. Being trapped under those low ceilings with only forward or backward to go would be maddening for him.

  Now that the sun had come up, Dirk could see clearly what had only been hinted at by the occasional far-off lantern along the pass wall. He had drawn his hood over his face and, in looking through it, had seen the pass walls occasionally, but he was not going to strain the magic within it with hours-long use. It was much too great a tool to be misused. With his hood he could hide his face from any, while being himself able to see clearly through it, night or day.