Time slowed to a crawl for Whill, and in the ocean of elven faces he saw the grinning apparition of his tortured self. “What would you do without me?” the Other asked.
Time surged forward and sound crashed into Whill. He unsheathed Adromida and the thunder was devoured by the vibrating hum of the blade’s sheer power. Whill raised his free hand and the lightning hit an invisible globe of energy and shot back at its wielder. The blade at his back was blocked and driven into the ground by Roakore’s massive axe. The fire was absorbed by a black globe that swirled in Ralliad master Flouren En Fen’s outstretched hand. Whill raised his arm and the four assassins were lifted into the air to slam together and then violently smashed to the center of the stone circle. Elves quickly parted from the four assassins as they slammed to the ground. There was an ear-piercing roar and fire rained down from above. Avriel landed and impaled one of the dark elves with a razor-sharp talon. She trapped another with her other clawed foot and with a snap of powerful jaws bit his head off. The crowd reeled in shock and the dwarves gave battle cries. Hatchets flew through the air only to freeze mid-spin by Roakore’s command of the metal blades.
“Stop!” commanded Queen Araveal and Roakore in unison, and the dwarves froze in their charge.
“She is my daughter!”
“She be princess Avriel!”
At mention of her name and title, the white dragon Avriel seemed to realize what she was doing. She flung the lifeless body of the dark-elf assassin and pawed her bloodied lips as if to hide them. Not able to stand the gawking of the crowd, she sprang shamefully into the air and took flight toward the Thousand Falls.
One of the two assassins still breathing unsheathed his blade and charged Whill in a blur of motion, but Whill was faster. He blocked the attacking blow with Adromida, and on contact the assassin’s blade disintegrated to ash. The assassin slammed into Whill’s energy shield and his head snapped to the side as Philo barreled into him with a crushing tackle. Underneath, Philo the elf cackled and proclaimed in Elvish, “Lord Eadon take you all!”
Zerafin, sensing what was coming, reached forward and mentally pulled the dwarf from the dark elf. The Krundar master Arngil stepped forward and with a clapping boom caused stone from the circle to heave like ocean waves and wrap around the elf. There was a great muffled explosion as the assassin blew himself up. The stone from the circle shot out in every direction, and so too did the hands of a dozen elves and Roakore. The flying stones stopped in midair, reversed direction, and slammed back on themselves. With so much force applied by Krundar earth movers, the stones could only collapse in on themselves, entombing the remains of the assassin forever in a smooth, round boulder.
All eyes went to the last assassin and everyone froze. The dark elf stood among two dead elves of the sun who had been trying to protect his hostage. Tarren looked at Whill wide-eyed as the dagger pressed to his throat drew a trickle of blood. Whill flashed back to the same scenario upon the pirate ship. Tarren would have died then. It seemed to Whill for an eerie moment that death had returned to claim Tarren, as it had first meant to those many months ago.
“Tarren!” Lunara shrieked and with a clawing hand shot a spell of green multicolored light, but it was absorbed by the staff of the Watcher who seemed to suddenly appear.
“That way ends badly,” he warned Lunara, who was held back by Holdagozz.
Ten feet away from Tarren, Whill held Adromida with both hands. No blood came from the bare hand that squeezed the blade. His gaze bore down into the dark elf and the elf began to shudder. Tarren was released and the dagger was dropped. The boy slammed his short staff into the dark elf’s face. The assassin squeezed his head painfully as he dropped to his knees.
“Tarren, come away from him!” Lunara yelled as his mother might, and the boy staggered backward.
In agony the dark elf glared at Whill. Blood ran from his nose and ears and he shook violently. Through clenched teeth he growled, “Sun elves do not…invade…another’s…mind…aagh!” He screamed as Whill stepped closer and scowled.
“I am not a sun elf,” Whill answered.
The dark elf ceased in writhing convulsions as Whill bore down on him with his mental assault. The Other was in control now, and he tore through the dark elf’s mind. Whill sent more power surging through himself and the dark elf screamed in anguish.
“Enough!” commanded the queen. “Release him!”
Whill looked at the queen, and for a moment the insane eyes of the Other regarded her. Then Whill blinked and released the dark elf.
“We must learn what he knows. He must be questioned,” said the queen.
“I know all that he would tell,” Whill informed her. He sheathed his blade and regarded the whimpering assassin. “He is of no value alive or dead.”
The queen regarded Whill with apprehension and turned to her guards. “Take the prisoner away; he will be dealt with later.” She then addressed her help. “See that this mess is taken care of. The festivities will not be interrupted!”
Whill went to Tarren and put a hand to his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Tarren did not look too shaken from the incident. Rather, he looked furious. “I am fine…thanks, Whill.”
“Come,” Zerafin bade Whill and Roakore. “We must speak in private.”
Whill looked at Tarren with worry.
“I will watch over him,” said Lunara.
Whill smiled at her gratefully and followed Roakore and Zerafin to the carriage.
They were brought to Zerafin’s pyramid in short order. Inside, the place looked more like the interior of a castle than anything. Zerafin led them into a large library at the heart of the structure. He gestured for them to take a seat at a round table at the center of the room. “Cider, wine, ale?” he asked from a small cabinet as he poured himself a glass of wine.
“Ale,” said Roakore.
“The same,” Whill concurred.
Zerafin brought the drinks and joined his friends. He handed them each glasses and lifted his own.
“To Abram and Rhunis!” he said.
“To Abram and Rhunis,” Whill and Roakore repeated and clanged glasses.
Zerafin drank deeply and put his glass down. His demeanor changed in an instant. “This tale of Kellallea the Ancient One, do you believe it?” he asked Whill.
Whill took a deep breath and sighed. “I do not know what to think anymore. I have thought it over for a long time now and am no closer to revelation.”
Zerafin nodded but Roakore scoffed. “Bah! That old elf was crazy! Whill be the one to defeat Eadon, don’t ye be doubtin’.”
Zerafin nodded with Roakore’s every word. “That may be true, and it may not. Either way, the elves of Elladrindellia and the humans of Agora need hope. They need something, someone to believe in, and that someone is you, Whill.”
Whill began to argue but Zerafin cut him off. “Think about your people, your father’s people!” He slammed the table. “By the gods, man, your name alone stirs hope in the hearts of men. You have not seen the world these six months. Agora has been tortured by the dark elves right along with you, my friend. Your father’s people need you, they want you. For nineteen long years they suffered under Addakon’s rule, and now they suffer under Eadon’s. You—”
Whill slammed the table and it jumped, causing the drinks to teeter. “Do not speak to me about my father’s throne and my responsibilities to my people! It has taken you five hundred years to claim the throne of your father. I am twenty years old! I cannot be held responsible for the fate of an entire continent, I will not!”
He found himself looming over the table, his knuckles white as he leaned on them. The sword at his belt hummed and vibrated.
Zerafin looked at the sword and Whill. Roakore silently looked from one to the other as he slowly sipped his beer. Whill closed his eyes to calm himself and sat back down. Quietly he spoke. “I do believe Kellallea’s tale. Eadon wants me to try to kill him. He wants me to give him the greatest power giv
en, and he wants to become a god.”
Silence followed his words and for a time no one spoke. Zerafin set his laced fingers upon the table.
“I ask much from you—we ask much from you. I cannot imagine the burden you carry, but I would help you bear it.”
“Aye, as will I,” Roakore declared. ‘You be what gave me the strength to be facin’ me haunted mountain again. I said to meself, if this lad be findin’ the strength to face his rotten fate, then so too I be. You ain’t alone, laddie. We be much alike, we three, one an’ all redeemin’ our fallen fathers and lost lands. We three be kings, and we three be havin’ to lead. Ain’t none of us likes our lot—we would rather it were someone else had our problems—but there ain’t no one else. Our people be lookin’ to us, and I for one ain’t for lettin’ ’em down!” He guzzled back his beer, walked to the cabinet, and poured another from a small barrel. Returning to his seat he took a long pull and slammed down the mug. Froth leapt from the mug and wet his beard.
“So who gives a good godsdamn about the prophecy bein’ true or false? Whether you be the son o’ a king or living happily in Fendale playin’ trouser sticks with a fair lass, you still be livin’ through this war.” Roakore scowled at Whill.
“Well, I would rather be…playing trouser sticks!” Whill yelled and his face twisted in laughter. Roakore gave a bellowing laugh and the three burst into fits of laughter. None could form the words “trouser sticks,” and with each attempt it only got worse. Whill laughed until his sides hurt and his cheeks were sore. After a time they settled down and, parched, they raised their glasses.
“Don’t say it!” Whill warned Roakore.
The dwarf grinned, threatening to send them back into hysteria. “To bein’ in a sinkin’ boat with good friends,” he said.
“Hear, hear!” They clanged glassed and drank.
They talked for more than an hour about everything and nothing at all. Roakore sat back with his pipe, and the familiar Eldalonian tobacco smoke reminded Whill of Abram. He could just imagine him sitting there across from him, leaning back after a good meal, of which he had savored every bite, pipe hanging from between his teeth, causing him to grin as he held it. To Abram, life had been a thing to be enjoyed. He always found the good in a situation, and he wasted not a moment. He rolled with bad fortune and never expected more than he earned. Whill knew that he shamed Abram’s memory with his behavior. Abram had not raised him a warrior so that he could feel sorry for himself, and he had not raised him to be selfish.
Whill was reminded of a time when he was just twelve years old, and Abram had brought him to a mission in Brindon, west of Lake Eardon in Shierdon. Abram had made Whill volunteer with him for three days, tending to the sick and dying. He had forbidden food for the duration, for both Whill and himself.
“Here the skills of healing that Teera has taught you will be tested, but so too will your compassion. We will not eat for three days, and we will test our selfishness,” Abram had told him.
Whill never forgot those three days. He helped to bandage festering sores, tended to children sick with the barking cough; he made comfortable the dying, and spent endless hours sponging fevered foreheads. After the first day, the hardest part was feeding the sick. He became frustrated with the infirm who left the precious food dribbling down their chins. Abram too helped and he watched Whill closely.
By the second day, Whill was sick with hunger. He began to feel like those he helped to treat. His stomach felt sunken, and he was occasionally wracked by hunger pangs that left him panicking for food. But he kept it to himself as those around him did. If the four-year-old girl coughing herself to death could starve with dignity, then so could he.
By the third day, Whill had become accustomed to the burning emptiness in his belly. He moved slowly, weakened as he was. He drifted along the dozens of beds, tending to people’s needs on a schedule he had become accustomed to. He learned what people needed by watching their eyes, and he was well liked by all. The tending Mothers of the Flame said that he had the bedside manner of a saint, and he began to take great pride in his work.
Whill saw so much senseless pain and suffering that he became outraged at any god who would allow it. The Mothers of the Flame had tried to comfort him with their dogma and their explanations for such things. They spoke of the great plan of the father of the gods, but to Whill, any god whose plans included the suffering of innocent children was neither a loving god nor one to be praised. The Mothers blamed the devils for sickness and death, and praised the father when someone turned around and got well. Little credit was given to the efforts of the healers for miracles of health. Whill had learned from Abram that the lack of simple cleanliness caused most illness, not devils or demons, and though the use of boiled water during treatment and surgery had been shared by the elves hundreds of years before, most healers did not practice it. Agorans were slow to change.
Whill made it through the third day and spent the fourth eating frequent small meals and resting under Abram’s supervision. The Mothers and healers feared he had contracted something, but after a day of replenishment and rest, Whill insisted on getting back to work. They remained there at the mission in Brindon for six months, and Whill made many friends and helped many people. He also lost a lot of friends, young and old alike.
Now, sitting with Zerafin and Roakore, Whill looked at the ancient blade of power at his hip. With it he could heal legions. He smiled at Roakore’s pipe smoke and was thankful for his old friend. Whill knew what he had to do.
“I can help, therefore I must,” he said aloud, stopping Zerafin and Roakore’s conversation. He looked at them with the renewed vigor of resolution. “I accept now that my life is forfeit. I will give myself for this cause. The people’s pain will be mine; together we shall fight against death.”
“Together,” Roakore agreed.
“Together,” Zerafin said with a smile.
Chapter 26
Carlsborough
Dirk pushed his horse hard that night. He had injected it numerous times with adrenaline and knew that it could not take much more. He had stopped administering the shots to himself. He needed real rest. He had other useful trinkets and the like that could restore strength, ease pain, and enhance endurance, but there was no replacement for real sleep and dreams, at least none Dirk had yet found.
He soon came to a small farmhouse that looked to have been long abandoned. One half of the building had been burned out, and the fields had not been tended to in a season. Draggard attacks were not as frequent here in Eldalon; this place had been an exception, it seemed.
He dismounted and retrieved the timber-wolf figurine. “Chief!” he said loudly. Swirling smoke poured forth and Chief was soon standing before him, awaiting orders. “Check the house and then the barn. If nothing is found, take to the woods and keep the perimeter clear of any intruders.”
Chief barked once and sprang off toward the farmhouse. After a few minutes the ghost wolf had decided the house was clear and began his inspection of the barn. Dirk tied off the horse and ventured into the house himself. He found what he had hoped he might find within: a bed. Kicking off his boots with a groan, Dirk produced a headband with a single green crystal at its center. He had not had a good night’s sleep since leaving Eadon’s crystal palace, and if he wished to have any chance of stopping Krentz, he would need all the rest he could get. Dirk put on the headband so that the dream crystal was at the center of his forehead. He lay back on the old down bed and instantly fell into a dream-filled sleep. He would sleep for an hour and then take to the road once more.
Chief stalked the perimeter of the farmhouse, following the scent of a deer. He followed it to the woods but stopped when it traveled too far from the territory he had been tasked to watch.
Returning to the farmhouse, Chief sensed the nervous horse’s fear. He resisted the urge to attack it, though he could sense that the animal was exhausted and would soon die. His instincts told him to strike, but his loyalty to the holder
of the figurine stayed his animalistic urge. He looked at the window of the farmhouse in which he knew his new master slept. His master. He had known many over the centuries—humans, elves, and even a dwarf for a time. Many of his previous masters had fallen to a new one. He was intrigued by this new master, a cunning hunter and able fighter. Chief was eager to see what trouble they might get into together.
Dirk awoke an hour later, feeling alert and mentally refreshed. The soreness was out of his body and he felt strong. He left the farmhouse and swore to himself when he saw the dead horse. Chief trotted over and sat on his rear and held his head high, sniffing. Dirk gave him a look of accusation. The wolf sneezed and pawed at his nose. Shaking his head, he trotted to the dirt road and waited.
“More likely ’twas I who killed the horse. Damn!” Dirk said to Chief and joined him on the road. Dirk gave a big, reaching stretch and took a full deep breath.
“All right, then, boy, it is less than ten miles to Carlsborough. Let’s see if we can beat the sun. C’mon, Chief!” he yelled and took off in a run. Chief barked and chased the black one.
Dirk ran down the darkened road with Chief at his side. All the while, Krentz would not fly from his mind. His thoughts drifted to the years they had spent together. They had known true freedom then, and though they’d had droves of draggard and dark elves on their heels, they felt alive. They trained daily, and Krentz forced Dirk to master all weapons. She lent him her magic, and Dirk became a master of his weapons quickly. He remembered the endless hours spent throwing darts at flies, which at the time he’d found ridiculous. He never hit the damned things, but still she pushed. When finally he succeeded and tacked a fly to the wall with a dart, he leapt in celebration, or meant to. Instead he found himself paralyzed, with Krentz holding a clawed hand toward his head, a look of concentration twisting her beautiful face. Her tattoos swirled and shifted and Dirk felt his mind tingle and buzz.
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) Page 91
