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

  “Please, join me,” Whill bade them all with open arms.

  When everyone was seated, Whill looked to each of them in turn. He was not striving for dramatic flair; he simply did not know where to begin.

  “We have seven days,” said Whill, “and I am at a loss.”

  “I says we march our arses right to this…Felspire, and kill the dark bastard right now,” said Roakore, jabbing his stubby finger with the last four words.

  “I couldn’t agree more my friend, but how do you suggest we accomplish the feat?” Whill asked.

  “Ye got the damned sword o’ power, ain’t ye? It be time to quit the lollygaggin’, and lay that devil low.”

  “It isn’t that easy,” said Whill.

  “It be written in the prophecy o’ old that you be the one doin it, with the bloody blade at your hip. Me damned mountain, and the mountains o’ me kin been invaded!” Roakore suddenly exploded with rage and slammed the table as he stood from his chair. “It be time for you to be fulfillin’ the prophecy.”

  “Writings of old are oft as lies of old,” Whill said calmly.

  Roakore heard the words from the Book of Ky’Dren once more, and in his mind’s eye he saw the massive timber that he had moved. He became so angry that he began to shake; his words came forth, tinged by restraint, as if a hurricane was building inside the dwarf king.

  “I have no time for idle talk,” said Roakore, and pointed a shaking hand at the elven masters. “Agora shall burn thrice over before you lot get off your tree huggin’ arses and do anything useful. I…Bah, I be wastin’ me breath! Come on!” he said to Philo, and stormed to the door.

  “Roakore!” Avriel begged.

  “King!” Zerafin yelled, and Roakore stopped at the door.

  “We need you,” Whill told him.

  “Me people be needin’ me, and I be needin’ them,” said Roakore over his shoulder. After a time in which it seemed he might talk himself into staying, he stormed out of the room with Philo in tow.

  “Excuse me,” said Whill to his guests, and got up from the table.

  “Give this to the dwarf king, so that you may contact him…should he leave,” said Avolarra En’Kayen, a master seer. She handed him a large circular crystal, chiseled with so many edges that Whill saw dozens of reflections. He pocketed the trinket and left the room. In his haste, Roakore was nearly across the great hall when Whill came down the stairs.

  “Roakore!” he called, but the stubborn dwarf king did not stop.

  Whill sped across the great hall in a blur of motion and stood before his friend, causing him to stop abruptly.

  “Please, speak with me for a moment,” Whill asked.

  Roakore took a deep breath and his rigid shoulders sagged. He looked tired, and haunted. He nodded to Philo, and the dwarf took the cue. When Philo was well out of earshot, Whill regarded his friend with concern.

  “What is it?”

  “What be what? Roakore replied.

  “Cut the shyte, Roakore. Something has been eating at you since the fall of the crystal fortress. I know that you are anxious to learn of your mountain’s fate, but there is something else.”

  Roakore puffed up as if to make an argument, but he deflated with a long sigh. Looking around suspiciously, he pulled Whill to the corner where they might have more privacy.

  “During the battle in Drindellia,” Roakore began, but paused as if searching for the words or the courage to speak them. He licked his dry lips and continued.

  “One o’ them blasted dark elves sent a large stone sailing through the air. I didn’t see it right well, but Philo yelled something about a boulder. I thought it was a slab o’ stone, and I sent it flying back at the devil. But…when the dust settled, I saw that it was no stone at all, but a piece o’ lumber broken off a catapult arm.”

  Roakore had begun to shake, not with rage, but as if he were very cold. The deep curve of his brow spoke of loss and regret. Whill had never seen the light in his friend’s eyes shine more dimly. The dwarf king’s haunted eyes searched Whill’s, asking if he understood the severity of what he had said.

  “I moved wood with me mind, as though it was stone!” said Roakore in a strained whisper. “The Book o’ Ky’Dren be true. The elves didn’t help Ky’Dren’s dwarves in Drindellia, and there ain’t no help to be found from them now. The stories o’ the dwarf gods be a lie as well.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Whill interjected reassuringly, but Roakore would not hear it.

  “Our religion be based on the fact that me line can move stone! It be a gift from the gods and proof of their existence. And it be a lie! It be nothing but an elf trick.”

  “That does not disprove the existence of the dwarven gods.”

  “It ain’t provinʼ they be real either,” Roakore argued.

  “You told me yourself that you saw your father’s spirit float free of his bones when you reclaimed the mountain,” said Whill.

  “That proves that there be some sort o’ life after death; it says nothing o’ gods and the like. Besides, I could have been hallucinatin’.”

  “Do not cheapen that moment with your doubts, you know as well as I do that what you saw was real. I saw…hell, I spoke with my father, and saved the infant life of my mother’s reincarnated soul. What you saw was real; there is some kind of life after death.”

  “That ain’t changing the fact that me ability ain’t cominʼ from the gods. And, if there be no gods, there be no mountain o’ the gods,” Roakore insisted.

  Whill sighed and patted the distraught dwarf on the shoulder.

  “The truth of the past, the answers of the grave, these things cannot be known with surety. All that we know for certain is that we know nothing for certain.”

  “One thing I be knowin’ for certain be that me dwarves need me, and me mountain needs me. This battle be one o’ powerful casters and magic trinkets. It ain’t no place for a dwarf.”

  “You have a magic inside of you too Roakore. If you can control wood, you can learn other-”

  “I ain’t wantin to be learnin’ no elf magic; it ain’t right, nor be it rightly natural. A warrior be as good as his heart, his mind, his brawn, and his skill. Spells and magic be devilʼs work, don’t ye be doubtin.”

  “Devilʼs work or not, it exists, and it can only be defended against by like force,” Whill told him.

  “Bah, ye fight a devil with devil tools, ye best be fightin yerself. You humans got such a sayin’ ain’t ye? Best ye heed the works o’ yer people. But, for me, I’ll be havin’ none o’ it.”

  Whill had never seen Roakore like this. Sure, the temperamental dwarf had his moods, but detached resignation had never been one of them. Whill could feel Roakore’s emotions emanating from him, so powerful were they that he could not help but sense them. The more Whill wielded the ancient elven blade, the more in tune they had become. As a result of the constant connection, his senses had been quite keen as of late. Had he not been so tested by the Other, he didn’t think that he would be able to control all of the strange new sensations that bombarded him. He felt Roakore’s anger, his fear, and his resolve; Whill knew then that his mind would not be changed.

  “I don’t know if I can do this without you, Roakore,” Whill told him.

  It was Roakore’s turn to pat a shoulder. “Bah, Laddie, ye done grown into a powerful warrior this last year from that whinny bitch I met atop Ky’Dren Mountain.”

  Whill could not help but laugh, and, though Roakore fought it hard, he too erupted into rolling laughter. Their laughter became contagious to one another, and, soon, they were leaning on each other, holding their sore sides. Whill was overcome then by fear at the thought of going forward without Roakore. Their laughter ebbed, and a smart silence filled the great hall.

  Again, Roakore gave Whill a pat on the back and a brotherly hug. With a sniff and a nod, he quickly looked away. “You be doing just fine, Laddie. You be a god among men with that blade,” said Roakore, and looked to him once more. “M
ind what kind o’ god ye become.”

  Roakore turned on his heel and marched through the great hall. Whill meant to say something to him, but ʽgood luckʼ sounded to cryptic, and ʽfarewellʼ too final.

  He said nothing, and Roakore slipped through the sliver of light at the end of the great hall, and was gone.

  Chapter Twenty

  To the Ky’Dren Pass

  Eadon’s words faded, but the weight of them remained long after. The earthquakes subsided, though no one moved from under cover. They waited and listened, but Eadon’s words came no more. Dirk did not doubt Eadon’s ultimatum had been heard by all of Agora. The dark elf’s power seemed to have no limits. Dirk put Eadon’s every word to memory. The speech spurred many questions in Dirk’s mind: What and where was Felspire, and why was Eadon attempting to lure Whill?

  Hours had passed since the battle by the river, and the wagon train was slowed by the destruction of the bridge. They soon found a narrow expanse to cross, and got back on the road quickly. Even at their slow pace, Orington was less than an hour away.

  Scouts had searched for any sign of Fyrfrost, but to no avail. Chief and Krentz would be able to find the dragon-hawk, but he did not dare summon them yet; he wanted to give them time to recover from the dark elf necromancers’ attack.

  Reeves ordered the wagon train moving again. Slowly, they started out once more northeast. Many of the wagons had been ruined beyond quick repair, and many of the sparse supplies had been destroyed. The refugees were weary, having been on the road the better part of a week. The attack of the dark elves and the raising of their dead had shaken them all. Eadon’s claim of a seven day respite did nothing to quell the mounting despair. Even if the dark elf forces stood down for a week, there was still cold and hunger to deal with.

  Dirk rode ahead with the forward scouts to spy the road to Orington. The clouds had begun to part, but little warmth was gained from the sun which set fast behind them. Judging by the day’s weather, the night would be below freezing. No matter what condition they found the village in, at least shelter would be found. He hoped the rift he had seen outside of Kell-Torey had been the only one. If so, it was possible the dark elf armies had not made their way this far east.

  The forest stood tall and thick in these parts, and the road often ventured beneath heavy bows of everpine trees, creating a tunnel of sorts. Good place for an ambush, Dirk reminded himself as he scoured the quiet forest. The thick forest abruptly ended, and he looked out over a wide valley of rolling hills lined with snaking streams and rivers. The waters ventured from the high hills to the east that began the vast expanse of the Ky’Dren Mountains.

  Orington was found intact, its stacked-log walls standing high, and the smoke from hundreds of cottage chimneys hung in the twilight promising warmth. The small city was alight with the glow of lanterns, torches, and scattered bonfires. Dirk noted the watch was out in force; many men stood guard upon the walls, and no doubt the towers were likewise full of watching eyes.

  Dirk raced back and informed Reeves of his discovery. Word spread quickly, and the mood and pace improved dramatically. The last stretch of mile seemed the longest to the hundreds of cold and starving refugees. Together, Reeves and Dirk rode ahead to the city’s western gate, and were met by two Eldalonian soldiers and two members of the city guard. When they noticed the general, the four men stood at attention and saluted their superior.

  General Reeves was the highest ranking member of the Eldalonian army in the city, and therefore, the command was his whilst he remained. The gates opened wide, and the city began to prepare for the influx of refugees. Every inn and tavern on every street was ordered to ready their empty rooms and spare cots, to the annoyance of more than a few innkeepers. Hot tea and bread was brought to the refugees as they continued to pile in, and, after nearly an hour, the city gates swung closed.

  Dirk remained outside when the gates closed; the time had come to summon Chief and Krentz. He rode his borrowed horse back to the edge of the forest from which he had first eyed the city, and drew the wolf carving from his pocket.

  “Come forth, Chief, I summon thee!”

  Silver mist swirled out of the trinket and solidified into the spirit-wolf Chief. Dirk patted his leg, and Chief strode over to stand at his side. He lifted his chin and accepted a vigorous scratching behind the ears.

  “Now, there’s a good fellow, how you feeling boy?” Dirk asked.

  Chief gave a single bark.

  “What of Krentz, is she ready?”

  Again, Chief barked. Dirk stood and summoned Krentz to his side. To his relief, she solidified before him looking as good as she ever had. She glanced around searchingly, as if expecting trouble to be afoot. When she saw nothing, she turned her gaze to Dirk.

  “What happened?”

  “The dark elves are dead, as is the Draggard horde. The people are safe for the time being in Orington, just west of here,” said Dirk, pointing in the direction of the city. “However, Fyrfrost is lost to me. One of the elves turned out to be a shifter. The last I saw of him, Fyrfrost was fighting an aerial battle. He might have gone down anywhere between here and the bridge.”

  “I will find him,” Krentz assured him.

  “What of you? What were the dark elves doing to the two of you?”

  Krentz gave Chief a scratch on the ribs, and his back leg kicked the air. “They were necromancers,” she said with disgust. “Attempting to take control of our spirits. If you hadn’t dismissed us when you did, I don’t know how much longer we would have lasted.”

  “One of them raised a dozen dead soldiers’” Dirk told her.

  “Yes, they are quite powerful,” Krentz nearly whispered. Her distant gaze told Dirk she was deeply troubled.

  “You’ve told me little of such sorcery.”

  “Had little to tell until now,” said Krentz, looking out over the city of Orington. “Eadon has unleashed his most powerful weapon: the undead.”

  “How does it work?” Dirk asked.

  “That is a long tale, and we’ve precious time to find Fyrfrost if he is injured,” she said abruptly.

  “You are right. Are you sure you’ve recovered? You may need to travel far from the trinket in your search.”

  “I will be fine,” said Krentz as she bent to Chief’s level and petted his head. “We search for Fyrfrost; he may be injured, so we must be swift.”

  Chief barked, and together they turned to mist and flew off in separate directions. Dirk began down the road, leaving the city behind him. He was not sure if he would return. If the dark elf armies came this way, Orington would surely burn. It seemed to matter little now, since Eadon’s ultimatum. In seven days, Whill would be forced to face Eadon. Dirk had little faith that Whill could defeat him. If he had his way, he and Krentz would leave this land forever. Agora was doomed. However, Krentz had a mind of her own on the matter, and she wanted to help in the fight against her father

  More than an hour passed before either of them returned to the road. Dirk had not seen any sign of the dragon-hawk, as he had expected. He could only see so far through his enchanted hood, and nowhere did he see any sign of Fyrfrost.

  Chief came flying out of the forest in spirit form. The horse reared, startled, and nearly threw Dirk from his saddle.

  “Whoa, boy, whoa!” he said, calming the beast. “Chief, have you found him?”

  Chief barked and spun in a circle.

  “Lead me to him.”

  Chief leapt into the forest and turned, waiting for Dirk to follow. Dirk knew the horse would only slow him in such dense woods. He tied his mount off on a birch and trailed Chief through the heavy snow.

  He followed Chief for what felt like hours. The going was slow. A lot of snow had fallen in these parts the last few days. Even where there were no drifts, the snow came up to Dirk’s knees. Chief avoided the worst of it however, keeping under the weighted bows that caught much of the snowfall.

  Chief danced a circle and barked as they neared Fyrfrost in a l
arge clearing. Dirk quickened his pace and caught up with Chief. As he got closer, he realized this was not a natural clearing. Many trees had been snapped in half and lay strewn about, while others laid on their sides, their roots having pulled with them large clumps of earth. Beyond the initial destruction, lying on his side amid the felled lumber, was Fyrfrost. Krentz knelt beside him.

  Fyrfrost’s breathing was slow and labored. Blood pooled around him, turning his silver feathers red. Many deep cuts and gashes riddled his still body. One wing lay mangled and broken, splayed out across the snow; the other was simply gone. His left hind leg was broken; jagged bone protruded from his thigh, leaving the leg dangling awkwardly. All along his slowly heaving chest, feathers had been burned away, and the scorch marks from spells marred his once beautiful scales. The gravest injury however, was a thick piece of broken tree branch that had impaled him during the crash landing.

  Dirk walked a slow circle around his mount, his foreboding growing with every injury he found. He turned to face the dying dragon-hawk and saw tired resignation in his large eyes.

  “Can you heal him?” he asked Krentz.

  “Yes, but his injuries are extensive. I was weakened more than I first thought by the dark elves; it will take some time before he is in any condition to fly.”

  “You told me you would be fine,” said Dirk, concerned. He and Krentz didn’t keep things from one another.

  Following his train of thought, she waved a dismissive hand his way. “I said I would be fine, and I shall.”

  “Chief, set a wide perimeter; let none pass through,” said Dirk. Chief whined for Fyrfrost and reluctantly left his side to keep watch.

  “I will collect what deadwood I can find. If the last few nights have been any indication of the weather to come, tonight will be a cold one.”

  Krentz only nodded at him, having already begun her inspection of Fyrfrost’s injuries beyond the surface of his flesh.