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

  Chapter 30

  The Dragonlance of Ashai

  Guided by Azzeal, Aurora's boat was steered wide of Fendora Island. The days at sea went by slowly as her anticipation grew to unbearable levels. Aurora did not like the vast never ending ocean. There was nowhere to go and little to do. She spent the time on deck practicing with the mighty dragonlance or sparring with the elves. Her nights were spent with Azzeal in her quarters. She and the elf often discussed the implications of her vow to Eadon.

  "The fact that you can no longer feel his power within you means little." said Azzeal, to her dismay. She hoped beyond reason that she was somehow free of the curse of her promise, but Azzeal assured her that she was not.

  "But you can still defeat the chief and lead your people."

  Aurora was confused by it all, spells, curses, magic. She did not like it. Better that you saw your enemy for what they were; better to fight with but a blade. She considered magic a coward's weapon.

  "As we speak I conspire against Eadon's will, yet I am not pained as I was in Del' Oradon. Doesn't that speak to the possibility that the curse is lifted?"

  "Not necessarily." Azzeal cautioned. "Spells of this sort tend to depend greatly upon the resolution of the swearer of the pledge. The less your promise is held in your heart, the less affected you may be."

  Aurora thought she understood. The promise had never been close to her heart. She was passionate about securing her people's fate, and she had been faced with the alternative of death. The future of the barbarians was all she was worried about. She would surely die in the coming days or weeks, she had accepted that now. But she was determined to die honorably, and for her people.

  Azzeal told her the legend of the Dragonlance of Ashai. It had been created by its namesake many centuries before. The story of the dragonlance was one of loss and sorrow, despair and regret. Ashai was an elf that had been a master krundar and gnenja.

  "We elves had been expanding throughout Elladrindellia for a century. Ashai and his large family had migrated to the southern most tip of our new country. There they began what is now known as the city of Elwrenden. But there at the rocky coast, nestled among the many large caves beneath the cliff, slept a dragon. The industrious elves eventually woke the beast that had slumbered for centuries there within the deep recesses of the coastal cliff."

  "The day the dragon awoke, the ground heaved and a deep growl echoed forth from the earth. Ashai was there at the seashore below the cliff, and he alone saw the dragon arise from its slumber. It is said that a one-hundred foot cliff was torn asunder as the silver dragon emerged from it as if it were an egg. The waters boiled and raged, animals fled from the coast in droves, and for miles around the cry of Kryshra pierced the air." said Azzeal with a hand through the air. Aurora listened enthralled by the tale.

  "Ashai was badly injured by the blast that marked the dragon's rebirth. Burnt and bloody he watched helplessly as the great silver dragon spread his impossibly large wings and took to the skies in the direction of his village. It wasn't until the next morning that he was spotted by elves returned from fishing. Among them was one skilled in healing, and he was made well again. Together they ventured wide the destroyed and smoking cliff and made all haste toward Elwrenden. They found the village in ruin.”

  “Anguished, Ashai frantically searched the smoldering waste that had been his home. Inside he found the charred remains of his family. They like so many others had died seeking shelter from the rampaging dragon. Time passed and the village was rebuilt, and eventually the story of Kryshra the Silver passed into history. But Ashai never forgot, he never let go. The elf poured himself into his studies for decades, single-mindedly focused on one thing, revenge. He became a master gnenja, ralliad, and pzionar. Ashai's father-in-law and master metalsmith Krel D'orren made for him a dragonlance with which to avenge his daughter. Into the cold enchanted iron was poured strength and great magic."

  Azzeal stroked the rough surface of the coal-black dragonlance with a far-away stare.

  "Seventy-five years passed and Ashai became strong, but no word came of the great silver dragon. Ashai gathered all the wealth he had amassed since the cursed day and offered his fortune for any information about the dragon. The years passed and the reward that had so excited the human fisherman and merchants slipped into legend. Then one day word came to Ashai of a sighting out to sea. Ashai set sail immediately and after weeks at sea he caught the trail of Kryshra."

  "Did he find the dragon?" Aurora could not help but blurt out.

  Azzeal smiled at her shaking his head. "Yes, upon an island nearly five-hundred miles to the west of Agora. He found the dragon, and he faced it there upon the rocky beach. He killed the beast, and was never seen again. The dragon was found with this lance through its heart, and no sign of Ashai."

  Aurora looked to the dragonlance with renewed awe. "What happened to him?" asked Aurora.

  Azzeal shrugged, "likely he was disintegrated by dragon fire.

  Aurora thought of the story of the dragonlance often the remainder of the voyage. The lance had been crafted with vengeance in mind. With it, she would have hers. After nearly a week at sea they came upon Volnoss from the west.

  Immediately Aurora knew that trouble awaited them. A storm had gathered above the island, and far off on the horizon dancing lightning hinted at a great disturbance. Aurora looked from the spectacle to Azzeal's knowing eyes.

  "What is it?" Aurora asked.

  "It is a rift, a portal not unlike the once we traversed once." said Azzeal.

  "Where does it lead?"

  "You know where."

  "Drindellia." Aurora whispered as she looked once again. She could feel Azzeal staring at her still; she imagined his mind searching hers.

  "The dark elves come for your people, they come to destroy your homeland." said Azzeal and turned her to look at him with a strong hand. "You can rally your kin against this invasion, it is your destiny."

  "You knew about the portal, you have come to see that I do not side with Eadon." said Aurora and Azzeal nodded.

  "This is the way to your redemption. Help us destroy the portal and your honor will be restored."

  Chapter 31

  A Favor to Ask

  With the arrival of Roakore and Tarren, and the transformation of Avriel, Whill no longer sought solitude. He moved from his Thousand Falls cavern and took up with the dwarves. The rugged dwarves did not put up with crowds around their doors and were not shy about shooing gawkers. Whill was able to go to and fro much easier with the thick-muscled dwarves clearing the way.

  Lunara too stayed with the dwarves. She and Tarren had grown quite close, and Whill had the feeling that they would remain that way if either of them had a say in the matter. Whill watched her watching Tarren, and in her face he saw motherly love. He understood then why Abram had left him with Teera for the better part of ten years. It was for this reason that he sought to be alone with Lunara.

  Her room within the dwarven quarter was to the left of the main chamber and down yet two more tunnels. The elves had melded stone and crystal to create a large dwarf-like mountain abode. From the outside it was a large pyramid, but inside were stone tunnels, chambers, and halls. It had been fabricated after the Ro’Sar Mountains.

  Whill knocked on her thick wooden door and she answered as if she had known he was there.

  “Hello, I was…may I come in?” he asked.

  Lunara nodded with a smile and opened the door farther, gesturing him in. After he passed, he noticed her slight hesitation at the door as she seemed to ponder whether or not to close it. She closed the door and turned to greet Whill.

  “What brings you to my room?” she asked with the faintest of devilish grins. Her eyes were drawn to his sword, as were everyone’s. Whill remembered Roakore saying that she was his age, and he thought he could tell. There was a light in her eyes that he had not seen in many of the elves, the look of curious adolescent excitement that many humans shed by their fourteenth year. Whi
ll felt a kinship to her because of it.

  “I have come to ask a favor, one of the utmost importance,” he said, wringing his damp hands.

  “Well, then.” She beamed. “This calls for tea! Please have a seat.” She led him to the small low table upon which sat a white teapot with swirling golden inlay. They each took a seat on soft cushions and Whill watched silently as she prepared the tea.

  From a similar covered dish she scooped crushed tea leaves with an ornate silver spoon. Into the pot she dropped three spoonfuls of tea and returned the spoon and dish lid with delicate, practiced movements. She smiled at Whill from across the table.

  “I have made great progress this last year in what would you call…water weaving? Watch.” She set a red crystal upon the table and whispered to it. The crystal hummed and suddenly sprouted a high flame. “Deklen en!” she proclaimed dramatically and laughed at Whill’s surprised smile. The flame shrank to half its size and burned steadily.

  Lunara blew her silver hair out of her face and extended her right hand palm down toward a water basin. She turned her hand up, and out of the basin rose a slowly churning serpent of water. The water grew out a foot and broke apart from the basin. She guided the water serpent toward the table, and once there gave Whill a quick pensive grin and began waving her hand slowly back and forth. The water serpent began to move in a circle over the flame. Fire licked water as the small water serpent formed a circle, seemingly swallowing its own tail. It continued to churn and circle the flame like a wheel of water until it began to bubble and boil. With barely contained excitement for her work, Lunara directed the water into the teapot without so much as a splash. With a wide smile she covered the teapot and lifted it by the handle. With her other hand she took a small strainer that matched the set and poured Whill a cup of tea over the sifter. She tipped the teapot back until only a drop hung from the spout. She carefully moved to pour for herself, making sure the drop found her cup. Once her cup was half full, she stopped and laid the teapot on its tray. She looked up at Whill with anticipation and turned her cup around so that the handle did a full cycle. Then she looked at Whill’s cup. Thinking she meant him to mimic her and hoping he was not ruining some tea ceremony ritual, he turned his cup as she had hers. Lunara gave a smile and a small laugh and raised her cup with Whill and drank. She closed her eyes as if savoring the flavor. Whill thought he saw her lips make words as she returned her cup to its saucer. Whill did the same.

  Lunara opened her eyes and blinked as if she had been daydreaming. “What favor would you seek? Ask it of me and it shall be,” she said with a smile and eyes that never left his.

  Whill leaned forward onto his arms. “My path is one of war and death, my quest likely suicide. I would see to it that Tarren is looked after, that he is loved in my stead. I would ask that you watch over him.”

  Lunara’s eyes glistened and her nostrils flared as her breath came to her quickly. Her hand found his across the table and she squeezed. “You would ask this of me, to be as mother to your child?”

  “His guardian, yes,” Whill clarified gently.

  Lunara straightened. “And should you return, as you doubt—when he has become used to me as his nurturer, you would take him then?”

  Whill squeezed her hand back and could not help but smile at her hopeful gaze. “You would remain as you were, until he is a man of his own mind to choose.”

  Sobbing laughter escaped Lunara as she answered, “Yes! Yes of course. It would be my honor.”

  Whill sat back, happy that he had one less thing to worry about. “The lad loves you already, and there are things you can teach him that I cannot,” he said, and suddenly heard the same words from Abram. He turned toward the sound and found himself in his childhood cottage. Abram and Teera were talking by the fire.

  “He loves you already, and you can teach him things I cannot,” Teera said, looking nervously in Whill’s direction. He followed her gaze and saw that there in a swath of elven cloth was an infant. “This child…I must know.”

  Abram turned away from her as if it were an old question.

  “It is best—”

  “The fallen king of Uthen-Arden. My brother disappears for ten years to become a knight of another kingdom. Letters come few the first year and rarely after that. I read your tales of adventure and folly, how you were rising through the ranks of the Uthen-Arden army. Assigned to the king’s very own guard, you said. And then you return to me on the heels of news of the assassination of King Aramonis.”

  Teera jerked Abram around to face her. “Brother,” she pleaded. “What trouble have you gotten yourself into?” She glanced at the infant Whill. “What trouble have you brought upon us?”

  The memory froze and the Other walked out of the shadows behind Abram.

  “He leaves after this conversation, not to return for a year.”

  Whill looked around bewildered and then angry. “What game is this?” he demanded.

  “Game?” The Other looked around, his blood- and grime-soaked hair whipping. “There is no game here. I simply wanted to share with you my fondest early memories. We cannot forget from where we came.” The memory around him swirled into smoke and became utterly dark.

  Whill groped blindly and his hands found nothing but thick liquid and warm flesh. Muffled noises surrounded him, along with a steady, thunderous heartbeat. There was a jolt to his surroundings and he felt the jar of a fall. The heartbeat slowed and skipped, beat four more laborious times, and was still.

  Muffled voices screamed outside of the womb and there was an explosion that shook all things. Silence followed. Whill floated there terrified, longing for the soothing heartbeat that had been his world. There came a long slice in the darkness and light poured into Whill, jolting his senses. Hands came for him and pulled him from his mother and he was lifted into the cold biting air. Pain hit him for the first time and he heard himself let out a gut-wrenching cry.

  “That was the moment of my birth,” said the Other, “and I have been with you ever since.”

  Whill was thrust back to Lunara’s room and the biting cold followed him.

  “Whill?” came a concerned, muffled voice. “Whill!” Lunara came into focus across from him. He sat up straight quickly and looked around, confused.

  “I…sorry, I have…what happened?” he asked.

  “Nothing, you just trailed off for a moment. What was it? It looked as if you remembered something important.”

  “How long?” he dared ask.

  Lunara shrugged with a frown. “Just a few moments. Are you all right?”

  Whill nodded and sipped his tea, hoping she did not think him insane.

  Whill? Avriel’s voice entered his head.

  Lunara perked up as if Avriel spoke to her as well.

  “Of course, Princess, please enter,” said Lunara brightly.

  The heavy wooden door opened and Avriel strode into the room. She stopped abruptly and Whill followed her eyes to the teapot and cups. She looked from the set to Lunara with an arched brow. Across from Whill, Lunara straightened and lifted her chin. Whill looked from one to the other, knowing he was missing something. Nothing was said of it, however, as Avriel smiled and walked forward.

  “King Zerafin requests your presence,” she said to Whill.

  He nodded, finished his tea, and rose with a smile at Lunara. “Thank you once again. I am forever in your debt.”

  “It is my honor,” she responded with a sweet smile.

  Whill and Avriel walked down the hall and through the main room without a word. Whill could sense something bothering her. “Did your brother say what this is about?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.

  Avriel shook her head. “The tea ceremony—did she say what it represented?”

  “No.” Now he was curious. “I assumed it was just tea.”

  Avriel gave a short, forced laugh. “It was a ceremony of offering.”

  “Offering what?” asked Whill hesitantly.

  Avriel stopped and f
aced him. “An offering of self. Lunara has given herself to you.”

  “What! She didn’t…we didn’t!” he stammered.

  “I know. To you it was just tea. But to her it was…she will give herself to no other.”

  “But it was just tea!” he blurted.

  “To you, but to her it was sacred.”

  “But doesn’t she know…I mean you and I…”

  “I have not made my feelings known to anyone. I have been a dragon as of late, if you recall.”

  “Of course,” said Whill. “I didn’t know if elves had a different way of…knowing or making these things known.”

  They left the dwarven abode and strolled through Cerushia toward Zerafin’s home. At some point Whill took Avriel’s hand and together they talked and laughed through the brilliant afternoon.

  Chapter 32

  The Looking Glass of Araveal

  Whill and Avriel strode into the pyramid at the edge of the city and found gathered there Roakore, Holdagozz, and Zerafin. The main hall was set up like a war room. At the center was a circular table with a low bottom and edges that rose up, the kind of table found at any bar in any tavern in Agora. Roakore even had a mug in hand as Whill and Avriel approached.

  “Welcome. Please have a seat,” Zerafin bade them.

  The closer Whill got to the strange table, the more his curiosity grew. He came to the edge and looked within the lowered center. What he saw caused his breath to skip and his eyes to widen. “This is amazing,” he uttered in admiration.

  The table dipped to the center and flattened out again into a giant map of Agora. But it was more than a map; it was as if they looked down upon Agora from the stars. Whill stared in awe at the lifelike map. It had moving clouds and rain, rippling oceans, and even ships out to sea, tiny dots upon the vast blue ocean.

  “Is this actually real?” Whill asked, astonished.

  “Ain’t it the damnedest thing you ever seen, lad?” said Roakore dreamily.

  “It is real,” said Zerafin, joining them at the table. “In a sense, it is the accumulated memory image of hundreds of elven druids who looked down upon the world from the clouds. This, the Looking Glass of Araveal, is my mother’s doing. She fabricated it and set into motion its creation. It has been and will be a critical tool in the war. Let me show you. Choose a town in a kingdom.”