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

  The people looked on, waiting for the words to come. For they had all heard the legend of Whill of Agora; the recent incident in the gladiator arena had only strengthened the people’s hope.

  “I have been hidden from you for twenty years,” he said, and many women wept with hands over open mouths. Men looked on with strong set jaws, shoulders pulled back, and necks straight, as if Whill’s words lifted them from where they stood.

  “The lost prince of Uthen-Arden has found his way home. I defeated my murderous uncle six months ago; he has since been replaced by the dark elf Eadon. For the dark one can wear the skin of another, to the knowledge of none. After months of torture, I was sentenced to death; many of you saw me fight in the arena,” he said, raising a hand toward the burnt out coliseum at the center of the city.

  “I have since been across the ocean in Drindellia. It was there that I found this.”

  Whill unsheathed Adromida and held it high for all to see. It shone with a bright, white light that forced all to cover their eyes. Whill finally willed it to dim. When the crowd looked again, the sword had found its sheath.

  “I, Whillhelm Mathus Warcrown, son of Aramonis Warcrown, wielder of the ancient elven blade Adromida, claim by birthright, the thrown of Uthen-Arden!”

  “Long Live King Whillhelm!” Alrick cried, and the call was taken up by all. Seven times it was cheered. On the faces of his people, Whill saw victory. That he had dared lay such claim in the midst of the booming voice of the devil Eadon, helped the people find their own courage.

  “I shall meet the dark one at Felspire in seven days…” Silence filled the air once more as everyone hung on his last word. Even Avriel looked on in anticipation.

  “And I shall lay him low!” he finally growled. The crowd erupted into growls of their own, and, for the first time in many years, the streets of Del’Oradon were alive with happy faces and cheering crowds.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Elven Stones and Dwarf Kings

  Roakore led his mounted dwarves through the city, passing droves of people heading in the opposite direction toward the echoing voice. All the way out, Roakore listened to Whill’s speech, and he could not help but tear up a bit. More than once, he almost turned around, but the images of Draggard inside of mountain halls stayed his course. When Roakore went out of the city gates, he and his men stopped to listen to the rest. When Whill’s proclamation had finally echoed away, Roakore slammed his fist to his chest and bowed low; his dwarves followed suit.

  “Give him hell, Laddie,” Roakore said to himself, and tears found his eyes.

  The gruff dwarf king wiped at his eyes and hid it by cupping his hands to yell to Silverwind. He scanned the sky, calling out all the while, but to no avail; the silverhawk was nowhere to be seen. Philo stayed at his side, even after Roakore had waved his dwarves off.

  “What ye thinkin we be findin’ when we get home?” Philo asked as he too scoured the sky for Silverwind.

  “I ain’t for knowin,” Roakore mumbled, his gaze still upon the low clouds.

  “Silverwind!” he bellowed to the heavens. He motioned for Philo to follow, and they spurred the dwarven horses on.

  “Blasted bird be pickin’ the worst times to be rebellious,” he told Philo.

  They caught up to the dwarves, and Roakore pushed them into a quick gallop down the road leading out of the city. The Ro’Sar-Arden road connected their namesakes, and had been used for centuries as a trade route between them. No trade had moved between the two kingdoms in twenty years, but the road was still well-worn with other uses. They hadn’t gotten much snow yet in those parts, just a light coating that didn’t hinder the horses. Roakore was happy enough that mounts had been brought through the rift. The march back to the Ro’Sar Mountains would take them the better part of a week on foot. To Roakore, the days it took on horseback were still too many. He spent more time looking to the sky than he did the road; he needed Silverwind now more than ever. He needed to know what was happening inside his mountain.

  An idea occurred to him then, and he cursed his stupidity. He had communicated with King Du’Krell of the Elgar Mountains with the speaking stone the elves had given him. If he could get ahold of the dwarf again, he could at least know the fate of Elgar. If a rift was not within those mountains, the Ro’Sar Mountains were likely safe.

  He fell back and urged his dwarves on. Philo slowed with him. Soon, the mounted dwarves had passed. From a deep pocket, he took the apple sized speaking stone and held it near his lips. “I wish to speak to Du’Krell o’ the Mountains Elgar.”

  Philo gave him a curious sideways glance. “What that be for?” he asked, reaching for the smooth crystal.

  Roakore waved him away dismissively and commanded the stone once again. As before, nothing happened. If the other dwarf king was not near his speaking stone, he would not hear it to answer. After a long wait, Roakore tried again.

  “Roakore to Du’Krell, Roakore to Du’Krell, you be ʼround, king?”

  *

  Ky’Ell, Dwarf King of the Ky’Dren Mountains, held his breath as he listened. No sound came from the tunnel, but he knew the Draggard were about. Their scent rode on the air: a stench that burned his nose and turned his stomach. Behind him, filling the city of Tsu’Dar was an army of five thousand dwarves. The rift had opened inside of Northern Ky’Dren, and the estimation of invading Draggard grew daily. The two mountain ranges of the Ky’Dren Mountain Kingdom had been cut off from each other, and fighting over the Pass raged. Ky’Ell had found himself cut off in the far-northern reaches of the mountains, and, for two days, he and his growing army had been fighting their way south toward the pass.

  Tsu’Dar had seen many casualties; it was the third such city Ky’Ell helped to liberate. The Draggard, draquon, and hulking dwargon had been driven steadily south since the dwarves had regrouped from the initial invasion. The beasts still controlled the northern mountains from the Pass to Tsu’Dar, which was located at the center of the northern range. The city had held its own, but to great loss. Those dwarves still able to fight joined the main force, which grew by the minute as dwarves from all over found their way there.

  He grumbled to himself as he looked upon the evidence of dark elves; a massive carved stalactite had been dislodged by a spell and dropped on the buildings below, destroying dozens of them. But, like their chambers and hallswhich had been carved by ancestors over the centuries−the dwarves endured.

  Ky’Ell accepted a mug of dark ale from Fior, allowing his gaze to leave the distant tunnel for only long enough to down the drink. He and Fior stood upon a high balcony overlooking the southern entrance to the city; below him, the army rested.

  “We be ready for another advancement within the hour,” the dwarven priest informed him.

  “Aye,” Ky’Ell nodded, wiping his mouth with his long beard.

  The booming voice of Eadon had sounded even in the Ky’Dren deeps, and Ky’Ell replayed every word in his mind for hours. Felspire…given the name, and the great earthquake that preceded Eadon’s speech, he guessed it was created by the dark elf. At the mention of Whill of Agora, the king smiled. He was glad to hear the lad still lived, and was apparently giving the dark elf hell. He had heard news of Whill’s capture, and his glorious escape with the help of Roakore. Ky’Ell knew whatever happened at Felspire would determine the fate of Agora. Reports had come in from the eastern lookout towers along northern Ky’Dren; a large contingent of barbarian and Shierdon soldiers, and a horde of Draggard led by dark elves, were moving south toward the Pass. Ky’Ell knew he was in a race against time, a race he was determined to win.

  “Roakore to Ky’Ell…Roakore to Ky’Ell…ye be hearin’ me King?” said a voice that made Fior jump and look every which way.

  Ky’Ell hastily discarded his ale and fumbled in his pockets for the speaking stone. He found it in one of his inner pockets and nearly dropped it over the balcony in his haste to answer.

  “Aye, this be Ky’Ell,” he answered.

&nb
sp; “See, you dolt. It be a speaking stone, and it be working,” said Roakore.

  “Excuse me?” Ky’Ell huffed.

  “Not you king, was talkin’ to someone else. I tried to contact King Du’Krell, with no success. Must be he ain’t got the stone on him.”

  “Well, I have answered. What news?” Ky’Ell asked, eager for any information of the wider world.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” said Roakore. “I ain’t heard from me mountain in days…were you attacked?”

  “Ye ain’t been home for days? Where in the hells else would ye be at a time like this?” Ky’Ell asked.

  “I be explainin’ later. Have you been invaded or nay?”

  “Aye, a bloody rift opened up deep within the northern mines. Northern and Southern Ky’Dren be cut off at the Pass. I ain’t for knowin if there be another one to the south.”

  A long silence, and Ky’Ell wondered if the connection had been lost. Finally, Roakore’s strained voice came again.

  “Then, me mountain has been invaded as well.”

  Roakore told Ky’Ell why he had been away from his mountain. He had been escorting the human boy, Tarren, and an elven ambassador to Elladrindellia. The elves and Elgar mountain dwarves had planned an attack on Fendora Island, and he and his dwarves had taken part. Ky’Ell was glad to learn the rifts had been destroyed for good; at least the numbers they faced would not increase.

  “And what of this Felspire?” Ky’Ell asked. Beside him, Fior noticeably leaned forward in silent anticipation.

  “I ain’t for knowing nothing but the name. But, I be guessin it be just what the name be saying: another filthy abomination o’ the dark elves, rising up so high to be stinkin’ up the heavens.”

  Ky’Ell grunted agreement, and was about to ask about Whill’s presence in Del’Oradon, when an explosion rocked the tunnel. The cavern shook, and many loose stones−shaken from their place of eons by the earlier earthquake−came down, crashing into the city. A fireball slowly grew in the depths of the dark tunnel, and a shockwave blasted through the cavern, raising dust and debris. Braid and beard were blown back by the hot blast, and the call to arms rang out in many voices.

  “Keep me posted. Ky’Ell out!” he yelled into the stone amid the rumbling and clamor of a city being shaken to its roots.

  “To your station!” Ky’Ell ordered Fior, and leapt over the balcony.

  “Father!” yelled one of his sons, Dwellan, as he came running with two of his brothers in tow. The boys, ranging from fifty years to two hundred, came to their father’s side, bearing shield and arms.

  “They block the way!” Kelgar, the eldest of the three yelled, pointing at movement beyond the dust and smoke before the mouth of the tunnel.

  The tunnel began to cave in; large chunks of stone rained down from above, scrambling any dwarves stationed too close, and killing those who were not fast enough. When the dust began to settle, the tunnel was no longer there. Among the broken slabs of stone, one of the pillars that held the curved arch jutted out like a broken bone. Many fallen dwarves lay among the rubble, their blood pooling with the dust.

  Ky’Ell marched forth and began bellowing commands. His sons followed, seconding the orders. When they reached the pile of rubble, Ky’Ell kicked the nearest stone with a growl.

  “What o’ the secret passages ’round this choke point?” he asked any who would answer.

  “Six tunnels lead ’round to the south, and a few narrower ones.” said Ky’Ro. “Tsu’Dar had to close ʼem’ up. They ain’t no secret no more, me King.”

  “We ain’t needin’ to be goinʼ around, we need to be going through it,” said Raene, and Ky’Ell turned to regard his daughter.

  Raene stood behind her brothers in full plate armor; two dark-red braids shot out of the top of her silver helm and fell over her heavy pauldrons. Her sixty years were not apparent on her delicately-featured face, but her fierce green eyes showed the knowledge of her age.

  “Raene! I ain’t for tellin’ ye again, the battle-”

  “Battlegrounds be no place for a lass. Yes, o’ course father,” she said dismissively. “But I see no battle, only a heap o’ rubble need be moved, and right quick. Best we gather the priesthood, we five be needin’ the blessin’ o’ the gods to be movin’ that much stone.”

  Ky’Ell stammered over his own words at his daughterʼs disregard. Raene smiled brightly and, on tiptoes, kissed her father’s cheek, disarming him in an instant. “It’s all right, Papa. I be a mover o’ stone right well as me brothers. Ain’t no harm in a little stone movinʼ.”

  “Bah, c’mon then, you four,” Ky’Ell said to his children.

  Dwellan sent Raene a mirthless glare as he turned to follow the king. Her twin brother Ky’Ro, whose braided beard and hair was the same red as hers, shook his head, chuckling at his sister. “You gonna be givinʼ Pa a heart attack.”

  “I can’t help if his outdated sensibilities cause him grief,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “Bah, outdated or no, yer one o’ the best stone movers the family got. We be needin ye for this,” Ky’Ro admitted.

  “One o’ the best?” she teased, and her brother’s raised eyebrow told her not to push it.

  Fior had gathered his priests, nearly two dozen of them; they stood before the rubble, bent in prayer. Behind them, dwarves had begun to gather for the prayer ritual. Ky’Ell and his kin moved to stand between the priests and the destroyed tunnel. The three sons and Raene spread out beside their father, and each nodded that they were ready and took a knee, their backs to the priests.

  “Begin!” Ky’Ell yelled to his dwarves, and hundreds of them dropped to their knees. Each dwarf reached forward and placed a hand on the shoulders of the two in front of them, and began to chant. The gathering of kneeling dwarves narrowed toward the priests, and hands were laid upon their shoulders, as they in turn laid hands upon the shoulders of Ky’Ell and his children. A chanting began and rose steadily as the deep voices of the praying dwarves hummed throughout the chamber and vibrated in their bones. Pebbles began to dance on the floor, and small stones jostled among the rubble.

  “O’ Ky’Dren, great and powerful king of kings, lend us your strength in this task before us,” Fior began.

  “On my mark,” Ky’Ell reminded them.

  Raene felt the surge of energy coursing through the group. For a moment, she was overwhelmed by the power, and the instinctual thought to release built in her quickly. But she fought the urge as she shook, waiting for her father’s command. She tried to forget the struggle within her, and focused only on her intent, picturing the broken stone and rubble being blasted back through the caved-in tunnel. When it was too much to bear, her father’s words came to her through the overwhelming humming sound.

  “Release!” he bellowed, and his children were eager to comply.

  The five descendants of Ky’Dren unleashed the pent-up energy into the stone, and, with their minds, they willed it back. Raene’s legs wobbled and nearly faltered as the power coursing through her threatened to overwhelm her control. To her dismay, nothing happened.

  “Focus!” Ky’Ell yelled at them all, and every dwarf redoubled their efforts. The stones began to shift as the energy given by their kin flowed through them. The king raised his hands to the ceiling as he chanted furiously, his voice rising with every word. Raene felt the power building within him, and waited for the moment of release. When it finally came, Raene and her brothers lent all they had. Ky’Ell shot his open palms out toward the rubble, and the heavy slabs of stone began to slide noisily across the floor. The seconds it took for the rubble to be forced into the next chamber seemed like hours, but, soon, the way was clear.

  Raene and her brothers remained on one knee, panting; her head swam and she felt as though she might throw up. But she stubbornly stood before either of her brothers, although not before her father.

  “Got to be a showoff, ain’t ye? Oh! There she goes,” said her twin brother, Ky’Ro, as Raene stumbled
three steps one way and two the other. She held her ground and gained her senses with a force of obstinate will.

  Laughing, Ky’Ro rose as well and walked drunkenly toward her. Dwellan was up then too; he hefted his massive war hammer over a shoulder and scowled as he stopped beside the twins. “You two best be getting your shyte together. This ain’t no game; this be an invasion.”

  “Shove it up your arse, Dwellan,” Raene said and walked as straight as she could to the side of her father.

  Ky’Ell was giving the dwarves a few minutes to recuperate from the ritual; they had each lent large amounts of energy to it. The king looked sidelong at his daughter with a happy smile, and, to Raene, he looked like a god.

  “Thank you for helping with the ritual, Eeny. I need you to help the mothers secure the-”

  “You need me to fight,” she said. “I be too good at killin’ Draggard to be helpin’ the wives with menial tasks.”

  “No task is menia−”

  “You know what I mean,” she interrupted him for the third time.

  “Listen lass, ye cut me off again, and I be putting ye on yer arse like I would yer brothers, whether ye be a lass or nay,” he warned her.

  “I be glad you be treatin’ me no different than me brothers,” she said with the smile that disarmed his heart, again.

  “No different,” he agreed.

  “Ain’t no different,” Raene went on, and Ky’Ell’s eyes squinted with suspicion. “And just like me brothers, I be raisin me blade to our invaders.”

  Ky’Ell’s nostrils flared as he realized the trick. “Ye ain’t fightin with the boys, that be final!”

  Without warning, three hulking dwargon came barreling through the newly cleared tunnel. Their massive, scaled shoulders sparked against the walls as they pushed each other to be the first at the dwarves.

  “Barrage!” Ky’Ell commanded, and instinctively moved between the beasts and Raene.

  She looked around him as hatchets rained down upon the smashing hulks like locusts. Hundreds of hatchets fell on each dwargon, and they were stopped dead in their tracks by the initial attack. The dwarves’ aim was impeccable, their strength was legend, and, thus, their hatchets had flown true. The dwargon reeled and clawed at the hundreds of hatchets that had been embedded all along their heads and necks, leaving them looking as though they might have porcupine in their blood.