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

  Kelgar, the eldest of Raene’s brothers, rushed toward the dwargon with his wide, double-headed halberd held high. A battle cry escaped him and was joined by those of his kin. The other dwarves were already on their feet; they cheered on their prince and fell in behind him. Kelgar’s long, leather-wrapped braid reminded Raene of the tail of a swimming eel as her brother pumped his legs harder in his charge. The lead dwargon carried a tree in his right hand. The roots shot out in every direction, and red blood shown on those jagged roots. The tree was thick enough for two dwarves to wrap their arms around, but the dwargon handled it easily. The club came swinging at Kelgar, but he was quicker. As the tree-sized club swung by, he leapt on and clung to one of the many bloodied branches. The strong-but-brainless dwargon followed through with the swing, and looked shocked to find Kelgar was gone. He looked up stupidly, and it was too late for the dwargon. Kelgar came down with the spear-tipped end of the halberd and thrust it into the beast’s left eye. When his boots landed upon the dwargon’s shoulders, the spear had been sunk two feet straight down into its body.

  Kelgar rode the dwargon as it fell back toward the other two, dead. The other dwarves and Raeneʼs brothers charged forth to meet the beasts, and, all the while, Ky’Ell held her back with a firm arm across her shoulders.

  “Ye ain’t no warrior, Eeny. Ye gots to know yer place among yer people.”

  Raene knew he didn’t mean to cause her pain, but his words hurt. Even at her age, she had not stopped trying to catch his attention, to prove herself. She met her father’s eyes and stubbornly stared back at him, refusing to blink. Another dwargon coming through the tunnel caught her eye. In her anger, she reached out with her mind and took hold of a twelve foot high stalagmite. With a cry of effort and rage, she snapped the formation free from its flowstone perch and sent it flying with an extended hand. She guided the projectile with her mind into the chest of the dwargon. The stalagmite went straight through, leaving a gaping hole of dripping gore larger than the creature’s head.

  “Yes, Father!” she yelled at him. “You be right, this be no place for a delicate lass like meself.”

  *

  “Ky’Ell! Ky’Ell!” Roakore yelled at the stone, but the connection had been severed.

  “There be Draggard in our mountain,” said Philo with uncharacteristic gloom.

  Roakore shared his sentiment; he cursed himself for the hundredth time for ever leaving his mountain.

  “Silverwind! Come to me now, or never again!” he screamed.

  He and Philo looked to the sky for an answer, but none came. Philo’s head returned to the road long before Roakore’s did, but the king finally gave up hope. Beside him, Philo tossed back a shot from his flask. He wiped his mouth with a burp and handed off to Roakore; the king ‘tipped her long.’

  The road led them into farmland where the only trees were fruit trees, and the only bushes were berry bushes. Pastures abounded here, being home to the precious cattle. As such, many camps of soldiers guarded these lands, for they fed the city. Huge farms, run by four-generation families, dotted the landscape. The houses had been made as the land had been cleared, and the long wooden lodges were a marvel to behold, even for one of such craftsmanship as a dwarf king. Some of the houses were as high as four stories, with many large stone chimneys. Some looked like nothing less than castles of lumber. The barns too had been built to a grand scale. In the cold of the day, steam could be seen escaping the doors at the ends of the barns. The livestock of these parts was as varied as any, but they primarily raised cattle and horses.

  As they crested a high bluff, Roakore’s eyes followed the road that wound down and danced off into the horizon with a long lazy river. Far, far off to the northwest, a lone peak of the Ro’Sar Mountains was a hazy bump. Once again, Roakore cursed Silverwind and turned in his saddle to impotently scowl off in the direction they had come. To his sudden delight, she was there.

  Roakore reared in his horse and climbed down. Philo did the same, and together they watched her come in. She gave her telltale squawk and circled them before descending. When she landed, Roakore stalked up to her, about to give her a good right-for, but when he saw the dark Draggard blood dripping from her beak, he lost some of his fury.

  “Where in the hells ye been?” he asked as might a parent to a road-running child.

  The bird regarded Roakore for a moment and quickly seemed to forget him as she set to grooming beneath her right wing. Roakore watched with slight trepidation, thinking that she had been injured. He soon discovered that she had not, and was just being herself, stubborn and indifferent.

  “This blasted bird gots to be the most stubborn creature ever did exist,” he said to Philo.

  Philo’s brow shot up. “Hah! Then ye be makin’ a good pair, don’t ye be?”

  Roakore’s scowl wiped the smile from Philo’s face, but it could not be held, and soon the two were laughing at each other.

  “C’mon then,” said Roakore, as he mounted Silverwind. Philo grinned up at him and gave a laughing cheer.

  They took to the sky and quickly flew the few hundred yards to the front of the dwarven line. They landed before the dwarves, and none too soon. Philo scrambled off the saddle and puked before his feet touched the ground. He fell to his knees and hugged the earth as if he had not set foot upon the ground in ages. Roakore too dismounted and chuckled at the prone dwarf.

  “Takes a little getting used to,” he said.

  Philo could only groan.

  Holdagozz came to meet them; he stroked Silverwind’s neck high above him. “I see the silver-winged one has returned.”

  “Aye,” Roakore said loudly for the benefit of all near. “Anʼ I be hatin’ to leave ye all on the road, but I need be gettin’ to Ro’Sar, and right quick. Holdagozz, you be comin’ with.”

  “Aye, me king.”

  “The rest o’ ye ride as fast as ye can push them horses and get home. And kill every Draggard along the way. Once home, secure the mountain’s eastern and western doors if they need securin’.”

  Roakore and Holdagozz soon left. Silverwind took them high, and rode a current down into the valley below. In the distance, the lone peak grew as they ascended, and Roakore set his thoughts to clearing his mountain. He thought of his father, whose spirit had lingered within those halls, as was the curse of a king who lost his mountain. Roakore wondered if he would face the same fate, then he wondered if it was even real, and he cursed himself for wondering at all. His thoughts soon turned to Helzendar and Tarren. Cerushia had been attacked as well. Roakore could only have faith Lunara would keep them safe.

  He flew with Holdagozz toward Ro’Sar with uncertainty weighing heavily on his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Dark Places

  Whill returned to the mausoleum alone and took the hidden passage down the dark stairs and into the depths of the castle. Memories returned to him in the dark depths, and, though he lit the torches with a fire spell as he went, he could do nothing to light the dark recesses of his mind. The memories of the Other came rushing back to him, those six long months in which Whill had been torn apart: mind, body, and soul. He refused to linger on those thoughts and be drawn into the endless pain to which they led.

  Whill explored the depths for nearly an hour. He found the dungeons, but did not linger there long, lest the cries of his memory overwhelm him. He found many rooms where Eadon conducted experiments and dark magic. Vials of different colored liquids abounded, and jars of all sizes held various body parts of various creatures, including human, dwarf, and elf. Many of the jars−some large enough to contain a small child−housed hideously deformed creatures. One seemed to be a failed attempt at crossing a dog with a pig, while another seemed to be half-cat and half-goat. Yet another creature floating in murky blue liquid had the body of a spider and the curved tail of a scorpion. Whill shivered as he found other, more disturbing creatures. He was reminded of his first encounter with the dark elf lord after he was freed from the dungeons. Eadon
had been performing a powerful spell, and Whill had watched, horrified, as he put the fetus of a dwarf inside of a dragon egg.

  There were no limits to what the dark lord might attempt. He had no respect for the laws of nature, and, to him, nothing was sacred. Whill had an urge to destroy the contents of the many laboratories, to incinerate them all with a fire spell, but he did not. Something of value might be found among the various tomes and scrolls; even within the floating atrocities, clues to Eadon’s defeat might be found.

  “The last of the dark elves are gone,” Kellallea said behind him, and Whill jumped, startled.

  “I wondered where you had gone off to,” Whill said as he regarded her.

  “Where I go is not your concern,” she reminded him. “Come, I’ve something to show you.”

  Whill followed Kellallea through a tunnel leading from the laboratories and dungeons and into a large library. Books adorned every wall of the large room, the volumes stretching all the way to the fifteen-foot ceiling. At the center of the room, she waited beside a large table. Every torch upon the walls flared to life. The dancing light fell on a large map at the center of the table. He recognized Agora, and the landmass far to the east: Drindellia. West of Agora, Whill was surprised by another continent and a long string of islands that seemed to have once belonged to the mainland.

  “What is this place?” he asked, peering closer at the foreign land.

  “Many such lands are scattered across the ocean. This, like all others, is called by the elves the outer lands.”

  “The elves have traveled to these lands?” Whill asked, intrigued.

  “Long ago, the world was mapped by elven explorers. The elders banned any contact with the outside world beyond the borders of Drindellia.”

  “Who lives there? Humans, dwarves, other elves?”

  “There are a variety of creatures, including humans and dwarves. We had never settled in a foreign land until five hundred years ago, when your ancestor gave them Elladrindellia,” said Kellallea as she too studied the large map.

  “You seem to know much about Elladrindellian history, although this is your first time here,” said Whill.

  Kellallea ignored the probe and pointed to the many markers about Agora on the map. “Those are the locations of the rifts,” she said, and brought another marker to Whill’s attention. This one was hard to miss, for it jutted out of the center of the Thendor Plains, a twisted crystal spire higher than the nearby mountains.

  “Felspire,” Whill breathed.

  “Yes,” Kellallea acknowledged. “Eadon has chosen it for his ascension.”

  “Then, that is where I must go,” said Whill, staring at the spire.

  “That is where you will die.”

  “Then help me! Help your people.”

  “I have helped you,” she reminded him. “My offer still stands; I would free you of your burden.”

  “And become a goddess,” said Whill with a snide laugh.

  Kellallea found no humor in the conversation; she moved from her distracted study of the map and squared on him. “You will soon realize I am your only hope. The prophecy is a lie; you cannot hope to defeat Eadon. Should you bring this weapon to Felspire, Agora will burn.”

  “Agora will burn regardless,” he reminded her.

  “You know nothing. Wise that Eadon made the sword to be wielded only by humans. You are a weak-minded race! He will never see an opponent in you, only a puppet to be toyed with.”

  Whill turned from her, annoyed. She would not help him in the way he wanted her to. She would make sure he thought he had no chance so that he would turn to her to destroy Eadon. Whill had escaped from his imprisonment, had found the sword Adromida, and had taken his rightful place as king of Uthen-Arden, but he was no closer to an answer to his dilemma. Perhaps she was in league with Eadon, sent to confuse and disorient Whill to the truth. A thought had begun to grow in his mind; it seemed the only solution. Zerafin would not approve, and Whill did not know if he should even mention it to Kellallea. But if he was to learn the spell, only she could teach it.

  “What about the taking of power?” he asked.

  Kellallea’s head snapped toward him, and her eyes burned. With much effort, he held her gaze.

  “You think you can just take from Eadon? I can teach you a few lines of a spell, and your happy ending will play out? You understand nothing of magic.”

  “And if I die? You will do nothing to stop him, will you?”

  “Should he attain Adromida, there will be nothing to be done against him,” she said.

  Whill stared at the sword at his hip, wondering if it was powerful enough to defeat Kellallea. He had not thought so before, but he had been overwhelmed and intimidated by her display of power. Whill had no way of knowing what power he possessed in the blade. He dared not delve too far. Kellallea seemed to read his every thought, for she too glanced at the sword. Her eyes moved to Whill, and the air became tense. Any thoughts he had about challenging her quickly fled him.

  “Lend me your strength. Surely I would possess more power than Eadon,” he offered.

  “Lend?” she asked with a condescending laugh. “If between us enough power to defeat Eadon exists, you truly think that you should wield it?’

  “What is to stop me from taking what I want from you?” he asked, and her levity vanished.

  Kellallea circled Whill, her warm breath on his neck as she passed behind him. When she came into view, she was wearing a smile, though her eyes did not smile. They bore into Whill’s mind like daggers. She attacked, and Whill was caught unprepared, distracted by the light from her blinding eyes. Kellallea brought Whill to his knees with a mental assault, scrambling his thoughts and sending torrents of pain coursing through his body. For a moment, he forgot everything, even his own name. Only one thing came to him clearly: a spell of revocation in the pages of the Zionar tome. With a massive sap of Adromida’s power, Whill brought up a mental wall of such magnitude and strength Kellallea’s mind was forced out.

  His thoughts returned to him, but before he recovered, Kellallea spun a spell in the palm of her circling hands and released it with a scream of rage. The blast hit Whill’s energy shield and threw him backward into the wall. Whill retaliated with a scream of his own, as he unsheathed Adromida and recklessly pulled power equal to his fury. A blinding spell erupted from his hand as the power coursed through him unchecked. Whill thought for a moment he might not be able to maintain control, and all of the power contained within the blade might explode from him and tear the world asunder. Whill fought for control. Only after he thought of love−and not rage−did he gain the control he sought.

  Whill scoured the smoky room, ready for Kellallea’s counter-attack, but none came; she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he found a large cylindrical hole in the wall straight through to the surface. Whill flew through it and came out into the sunlight behind the castle. Kellallea’s voice came to him then from all directions.

  “Your only hope is to give me the power within the sword.”

  “We can work together to defeat him,” said Whill, circling as he tried to spot her.

  “Give me the blade, it is the only way,” she said, ignoring his plea.

  “Never. You would see the world burn in your pursuit of power. You and Eadon are the same.”

  Kellallea rose from the earth before him, her eyes aglow. She regarded Whill as one might an insect. “I will not allow you to bring the blade to him. You shall fail, and he shall ascend.”

  “You once stood for good…once walked in the light. You fought and defeated the dark elves of old. What happened to you? You abandoned your kin. You allowed the rise of Eadon, even when you knew his intentions,” he reminded her.

  “I endured,” she roared, and the earth shook with her wrath. “I did what I could against the dark one, and the battle ravaged the land, nearly destroying us both.”

  Whill did not know what to believe; he had no reason to trust the ancient elf. She strode forward, and he
backed a step, holding Adromida out before him. The blade of Power Given glowed white-hot and hummed in his grip. Kellallea eyed the blade and stopped her advancement. The rumbling in the ground subsided, and the fury of her eyes died out.

  “Do you wish to make me your enemy, as well?” she asked calmly.

  “You attacked me,” he reminded her.

  “You cannot fool me child, I hear your mind. You are confused, afraid, and overwhelmed. You cannot defeat Eadon. I offer you the only hope, and you turn from my help with scorn. The power of the blade calls to you, corrupting your reasoning.”

  She regarded his father’s sword. “You’ve broken the laws of the Elves of the Sun: you have taken power by force.” She closed her eyes for a moment as if in a trance, and Whill felt her at the edges of his mind.

  “The dark elves, you took their power so easily, and you had a mind to attempt the very same with me.”

  Whill turned from her, not able to meet her gaze. He had an urge to lash out at her with Adromida, to take her power, to take all power. He was tired of being a pawn of those more powerful.

  “Even now your inner mind tells you to strike me down,” she said calmly. “Abram tried to raise you to be good, to walk in the light. So one day, you might be able to deny the temptations the sword’s power would whisper to your heart, but it seems he failed.”

  “Do not speak of him!” Whill seethed.

  “He was quite efficacious in that regard. You have been able to fight the calling of power so far. But, it is only a matter of time before you give in. Already your resolve is failing, as is evident of your recent acquisition of power taken.”