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

  Whill looked around Agora and spotted his hometown. “Sidnell,” he said.

  Zerafin turned his high-backed chair and put his hands upon two crystals that jutted from his place at the table. There was no physical sign that Zerafin had done anything; if he had made a command, it had been in his mind. Suddenly Whill felt as though he were falling as the map turned and shifted and the view zoomed swiftly down upon the land and to the upper right corner of Agora. Whill gasped as Sidnell was displayed to him in living clarity. It was the actual view from elven memory.

  “They flew over every last stone’s throw of Agora?” said Whill, amazed.

  “Yes, but there are places the memories do not show,” Zerafin explained.

  Once again the map backed up and dropped them in the middle of Uthen-Arden’s Thendor Plains, a few hundred miles north of Del’Oradon. There upon the ocean of grass was a strange rippling disturbance. The image contorted too much to be made clear.

  “What is it?” Whill asked.

  “A portal,” said Zerafin with a pensive frown. “Thrice we have sent scouts to discover the source. The first two groups did not return. The third reported back this morning. It is indeed a portal, or rather some sort of rift. The one survivor of the group said that from it marched an army of draggard.”

  “How many?” Avriel asked.

  “We cannot guess. The Looking Glass of Araveal’s images are replenished on a weekly cycle, and this disturbance appeared two weeks ago. There is no way to tell how long the draggard have been moving.”

  “Where do you think the portals lead?” Holdagozz asked. Whill knew the answer before it was spoken.

  “Drindellia,” Zerafin answered. “And there are more.”

  At Zerafin’s mental command the map panned out and once again the entire continent and its surrounding islands could be seen. “They are here,” he said as bulges swelled in the map, Whill realized its surface was water. There were six bumps in the map in all. There was one over the Thendor Plains, and also one in Eldalon, Isladon, Shierdon, the ancient Uthen-Arden naval outpost Fendora Island, and Volnoss, the northern island of ice, the very place Aurora was headed.

  “These may all be portals to Eadon’s hordes in Drindellia?” Whill said softly as he brought to memory the location of each.

  “Yes,” said Zerafin solemnly.

  “Then it’s settled! We need to be destroying ’em!” said Roakore, slamming the table.

  “Of course they must be destroyed,” said Zerafin, annoyed. “But we must use cunning and patience—”

  “Bah, I had about enough o’ patience! Patience had me sittin’ on me arse for twenty years afore reclaimin’ me mountain. Patience be the way o’ the weary, an’ dwarves ain’t weary,” Roakore spat.

  “He is right!” Avriel yelled over them all. Zerafin nodded in agreement, but looking at his sister, he realized that she spoke to him.

  “Roakore is right, we must strike these locations and we must strike quickly. The gods only know how long these portals have stood open,” she said to her brother.

  “That is what he would expect.” Whill shook his head and leaned forward to study the map. “They could be traps.”

  “Eadon would not have known that we have the looking glass,” argued Zerafin.

  “Wouldn’t he?” said Whill. “If Eadon has assassins here inside Elladrindellia, why not spies?”

  “You are right,” Zerafin conceded. “Spies there may be, and he may know about the looking glass.”

  “Bah!” Roakore bellowed and threw up his arms. “We need to be warnin’ Eldalon and Isladon. Trap or no trap, it bears lookin’ into.”

  Whill pointed at the Fendora Island disturbance. “From here to Fendora is what, a few hundred miles?”

  “Yes,” answered Zerafin hesitantly.

  Whill stared at the island for a time and finally nodded. “I must go there.”

  Zerafin and Avriel began to object immediately and Whill had to shout over them. “It is the only way to know the truth!”

  “And if it is a trap?” asked Avriel.

  “You cannot yet face Eadon,” added Zerafin.

  “I can never face Eadon!” Whill cried, and the room became as silent as a tomb. Avriel lowered her gaze and Zerafin only stared blankly. Roakore looked as though a reassuring word lay upon the tip of his tongue.

  “I know what you all would say, but it is not true. I cannot defeat Eadon—I was never meant to, and the prophecy is a lie. But what is true is that I wield the blade Adromida. I possess a great weapon in this war. And though I may not defeat Eadon, I can still defeat his armies.”

  Avriel shook her head in denial. “The prophecy is not a lie, I do not care what Kellallea claims. Perhaps she was a lie.”

  “True or not, we cannot rely upon a prophecy alone,” Whill argued. “If your beloved prophecy is true, it will matter not if I go to Fendora Island, for I will come to no harm.”

  Avriel sighed in frustration but said no more. Zerafin looked to Roakore, who scowled at the map.

  “What be your plan, laddie?” he asked, and all eyes went to Whill.

  Whill gazed down upon Fendora as a god might. “A full frontal assault. I am done running from Eadon and his minions.”

  “We will make it a coordinated effort, then,” said Zerafin.

  “No. I must do this alone.”

  “When would you leave?” Avriel asked, not hiding her displeasure.

  “I will see the Council of Masters, as I have been summoned, and then I will investigate this portal,” Whill said with finality.

  “I’m goin’ with ye, laddie,” Roakore interjected.

  “I said I—”

  “I be the godsdamned king o’ Ro’Sar! I be goin’ where I please!” yelled Roakore. “One o’ these damned portals was in me mountain, an’ this fancy-lookin’ glass don’t show what portals might yet be in our mountains.”

  “Very well,” said Whill, surrendering to the stubborn king. He looked at Zerafin. It was apparent that the meeting had not gone as planned.

  “And once through the portal? Likely there is an army waiting,” said Zerafin, eyeing Whill and Roakore.

  “If there be an army waiting, then we’ll kill ’em all,” Roakore promised.

  Chapter 33

  The Book O’ Ky’Dren

  Dirk urged the dragon-hawk on steadily east toward Kell-Torey. He knew that to try and pick up on her trail again was a waste of time. Dirk had no way of knowing how many assassins Eadon had sent after Whill’s family, but he did know that the elf lord would send his daughter after the biggest target.

  Dirk flew on into the morning, thinking of nothing but Krentz. Had she been the one to kill the mother and daughter after all? Had she killed others of the bloodline already? Had he been mistaken about Krentz being given this mission? Either way, he had to get to Kell-Torey. Whether or not Krentz was the weapon, he had to stop the assassination of the king and his family, if only to be a nuisance to Eadon.

  Traveling from the Twin Lakes to Kell-Torey by horseback would have taken him weeks, but he guessed that the dragon-hawk could do it in days. He hoped that his guess about Krentz was correct, and he would have a chance to intercept her in Kell-Torey.

  He used his time to refine his plan to stop her and take her captive. She had sworn fealty to her father and would not be able to disobey his will intentionally. Dirk would have to play his cards right if they were both to live through the confrontation. He was not sure if he could defeat her given the gifts that Eadon had likely bestowed upon her. His only advantage was his knowledge of her abilities and fighting style. Krentz was a powerful Zionar and warrior. Her ability to invade the minds of her victims had led to the creation of most of Dirk’s many weapons and trinkets. His hood had been enchanted to protect Dirk against such invasions, among other things, but he did not know how it would hold up to its creator.

  He pondered the possibilities and played out the fight in his mind as he fingered the timber-wolf figurine in his
pocket. He had not dismissed Chief during the last battle; the spirit wolf had simply disappeared when the heavy column had fallen on him and the dark elf. Dirk did not know if the spirit wolf would return when summoned, and he was anxious to find out. But he had no time to find out; he would have to wait until the dragon-hawk stopped to rest.

  They flew on into the afternoon under the cover of the dragon-hawk’s camouflaged feathers. Dirk had not gotten more than an hour of sleep in days and his eyes were heavy. Trusting that the dragon would not eat him if it hadn’t already, he tightened the saddle strap and quickly fell into a much-needed sleep.

  Whill was awakened by a banging at his door. He arose and threw on an elven lokata.

  “Who is it?” he asked, shuffling to the door.

  “Answer the damned door and ye be findin’ out!”

  Whill opened the door to his friend and the dwarf king rushed inside and went straight to the small circular table of thick wood.

  “Go on, then, close the door before someone finds me,” Roakore barked.

  Whill complied with a smile. “Are you hiding from someone?”

  “Someone? Bah! I be hidin’ from everyone,” Roakore answered as he laid a tome upon the table with a thud. “Can’t get away from curious elves ever since we got here. There be lore masters, historians, Ralliad masters, jewel crafters, nobles, elders, an’ every godsdamned elf in the city wantin’ to see me.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Whill, joining his friend. “I had to move to a cave in the thousand falls to get away.”

  “I be believin’ it.” Roakore stared absently at his book.

  “Can I get you anything?” Whill asked.

  “Ye got anythin’ to wet the whistle?” said Roakore, tonguing his mouth. “An’ ye best be openin’ a window if you got one.”

  “No windows,” said Whill, getting up to fetch a drink. “The elves even built dwarven wind tubes into this mock dwarf mountain.”

  Roakore eyed the room and walls with a scowl. “This ain’t nothin’ like a dwarf mountain.”

  Whill turned from the stacked gifts he had received as he inspected a bottle. “It is as good a copy as I have ever seen.”

  Roakore only grumbled and lit his pipe.

  “Elven cider?” Whill asked.

  “Cider? Lad, give me somethin’ that’ll be turnin’ me curlies straight.”

  Whill frowned at his friend and returned to the table with the cider, a bottle of dessyberry wine, and a brick of cheese. The elves had given him a pile of gifts, and he was thinking about getting a separate room for it all.

  “What is on your mind, Roakore?” he asked as he poured him a glass of dessyberry wine. “You cannot be this flustered over curious elves.”

  Roakore nodded thanks for the wine and gulped down the whole thing. He offered the glass and Whill pulled back the bottle stubbornly.

  “What is going on? Are you nervous about traveling through the portal?” Whill asked.

  Roakore moved his mouth as if to speak but could only stutter.

  “You can still back out,” Whill teased.

  “Back out!” Roakore finally stammered. “Nervous? I ain’t been nervous since the time it burned to pee. No, it ain’t that, it be this damned book. It be the reason I be here.”

  Whill focused then upon the tome of Ky’Dren and reached to touch it. Roakore flinched but let Whill take it up.

  “The one you found within the elven library. Of course, you wanted me to translate it then. Roakore, I had forgotten.”

  “You can read it, then, and tell no one what ye learn?”

  “Of course. What are you afr—what do you think you will find?”

  “I ain’t for knowin’, but I ain’t for likin’ the implications laid by that Azzeal. Says Ky’Dren was from Drindellia, an’ yer right for thinkin’ I be afraid o’ that book, if I was ever afraid o’ anything.” Roakore’s eyes never left the book; they seemed to look through it. His eyes widened and one twitched now and again.

  Whill filled Roakore’s glass and cut a chunk of cheese off the block. The dwarf just stared. “Don’t read it, then,” said Whill.

  Roakore’s incredulous eyes snapped to him. “I got to be knowin’. This be the word o’ Ky’Dren.”

  Whill laid the book on the table and straightened to the task. “Look at this writing.” He whistled. “It is beautiful…and long. Roakore, this will take all day to read.”

  “Then we be readin’ all day,” replied Roakore, snatching up the bottle and pouring himself the wine.

  “Wait!” said Whill, suddenly excited. “I changed parts of my…I can speed-read this book.”

  “Well, that don’t be helpin’ me to speed-hear it.”

  “No, but I may be able to share the experience.”

  “How about we just read it normal-like,” said Roakore, puffing on the pipe between his teeth.

  “No, I can do this. Move closer. Here.” Whill indicated to the left of himself and got comfortable. Roakore shuffled his chair over noisily and with a frustrated sigh. Whill laid the book out and put a finger under the first page, then placed his left hand upon Roakore’s forehead. The dwarf followed the hand apprehensively until he was cross-eyed looking up at it.

  “Don’t be fryin’ me damned brain!”

  “You have my word.” Whill took three calming breaths. He began to read slowly in his mind and mentally projected it onto Roakore. The dwarf gasped and laughed. “Faster!” he begged.

  Whill picked up the pace until he was scanning a page in a few seconds, the entire tale coming into view in his mind. A sweeping landscape of mountains deep and valleys long played out. Gold and silver and diamonds and jewels, thriving dwarven cities and a kingdom of peace stretched out before their imagination as a tale of glory and sorrow was spun. During those times, the dwarves named the elves friend, and from them they learned many things, including stone melding.

  Ky’Dren spoke of his line, for he named himself the twenty-seventh in the line of Du’Wrenden, and eldest son to the king. The dwarves had prospered for centuries and lived well from trade with the elves. The mountain kingdom of Du’Wrenden thrived until the arrival of the dragons. The elves called it the great migration; the dwarves called it a war waged by the gods. Du’Wrenden was overwhelmed overnight by thousands of dragons, and while the dwarves were as legendary fighters as any, the dragons were too many. The elves at first helped in the battle, but quickly their dead piled and their resolve waned. They drew back on the sixth day and offered to help the dwarves to retreat. The dwarves would have none of it. The dwarf king refused and the dwarves closed themselves up in their mountain. For more than a year they held out inside their mountain, and for more than a year the dragons waited. The beasts continued to arrive throughout the year, and soon their numbers doubled and then tripled. They marked their territory one hundred miles around the mountain in all directions, and killed any trespassers by the droves. The dwarven lore masters eventually agreed with the elves: this mountain, it seemed, was an ancient dragon breeding ground. The dragons were there to breed and lay their eggs, and they would allow no threat to their young. The elves took their losses and retreated from the shadow of the mountain, forced to bring their trade with them.

  Supplies were immediately rationed, but as the year wore on, the supplies dwindled and the dwarves slowly starved. Tunnels had been ordered dug, and some hunting came from the surrounding forests. But always the dragons sniffed them out. Dragon fire engulfed the tunnels and dragon claws dug them out all the way back to the mountain. No matter how many miles the dwarves dug, the dragons always found them. It was believed that the dragons could hear or feel the disturbance in the earth below. The beasts tunneled into the mountain themselves, burrowing deep and digging into the dwarves’ own halls and cities. Dragon fire decimated the dwarves, and though many dragons fell, they took with them hundreds.

  The dwarves lost city after city along the mountain range and poured, starving, into the deepest and most fortified capit
al city of Thengar. There they made their last stand, and there the dragons ignited a chamber of gas from the earth’s bowels. The blast was the end of the dwarves, and the dwarven mountain kingdom was conquered, the last of the dwarves defeated. Many lived on to starve or die fighting along the mountain range, but only a handful escaped. Ky’Dren had led that group.

  The tale ended the day they left, and Whill closed the book. He released Roakore and the dwarf king gasped for breath. He stood so fast that his chair skidded across the floor.

  “How in the hells did he end up in Agora, and why ain’t there any record o’ this from his gospel? It don’t make no sense. This be directly contrary to the scripture.”

  Whill stretched his sore muscles. Though he had speed-read the tome, it had still taken nearly an hour. “We do not know that this book is true. Perhaps the lore masters can help shed light on its authenticity.”

  “Shed light? I ain’t wantin’ no light shed on this…this…blasphemy. Be ye understandin’ what this would do to me religion, to me culture? If this be true, everything we live for be a lie!”

  “But it could be also seen as liberating,” Whill offered, trying to see the bright side.

  “Liberating?” Roakore spat.

  “Yes. If this is indeed true, if Ky’Dren learned stone melding from the elves, and you can do the same because you are of his line, then that means that you can move not only stone, but anything. It means that any dwarf can learn the elven ways.”

  “I ain’t for carin’ to learn the elven ways!” Roakore yelled as he paced. “Didn’t ye hear? The elves let the dragons wipe out me people.”

  “You said yourself we don’t know if it is true,” said Whill, at a loss.

  Roakore would not be consoled; nothing Whill said calmed him down. The dwarf king grabbed the bottle from the table and headed for the door.