The dwarven descendants of Ky’Dren retained their ability to move stone, though they did not share this information with the elves. To Roakore, it was a welcome testament to the power of the gods.
There were few reports of Draggard or dark elves within the borders of Agora, and the barbarians had not pressed their initial invasion from the north. The winter went by slowly. Heavy snows fell that year, and the freeze lasted longer than usual. Just when the people had given up hope for spring, the weather turned, and the worst of the winter passed.
Springtime came to Agora, and the new age of peace was celebrated by all. The dead were properly buried, and the rebuilding process began. Nearly everyone in Agora, be they human, dwarf, or elf, had known loss due to Eadon and his dark armies. Many cities no longer existed, their people all but wiped out. New cities cropped up around the old, and people went on living. There were many births during the spring and summer. It was a time of healing and new beginnings.
Whill’s official coronation took place on his twenty-first birthday, one year to the day that Abram had given him the wolf-hide jacket while they sailed to Sherna upon Old Charlotte. So much had happened during the year that it felt as though it were a lifetime away. He thought of Abram often, and was comforted by the knowledge that his old mentor smiled down upon him.
Kellallea came to him the first night he was officially king, while he was reading by candlelight in his chambers.
“And so, the reign of Whillhelm Warcrown has begun,” she said as she suddenly appeared before him.
Whill jumped with a start. “What do you want?”
Kellallea walked around the desk with a frown. “You have a strange way of showing gratitude.”
Whill scoffed at that. “Had you helped when I asked, many lives might have been saved!”
“Likewise, had you handed me the power sooner,” she replied, and Whill turned from her, disgusted.
“Why are you here?” he asked as he gazed out the window at the still-gathered crowd standing before the castle. They were chanting “Long live Whillhelm Warcrown!”
He wished they would stop.
“You have spoken to me in your thoughts, and your prayers have been answered.”
Whill reeled around to face her. “I do not pray to you. You are not a god of mine!”
“Pity,” she said as she lazily caressed the back of the chair he had been sitting in. “With power such as mine, Tarren could be returned to his body, and Avriel…” she teased, and Whill hung on her words, “her memories could be returned to her.”
“If?” he asked, sensing she would not offer such things for free.
“You are a wise one, Whillhelm Warcrown. Ours shall be a glorious friendship.”
Whill was reluctant to enter into any bargain with the devious goddess. But he knew that she held the ancient knowledge of Orna Catorna, the loss of which had haunted him as surely as it did the elves. He thought often of the power he had once wielded, and Kellallea knew his heart. He yearned to once again wield power as he once had. He dreamt of teaching humans to use magic as the elves had, so that they would never fall victim to one such as Eadon ever again.
“A glorious friendship, indeed,” said Kellallea with a wry grin.
The story continues in Book 5
Dear Reader,
Thank you for purchasing this book. I hope you have enjoyed the adventures of Whill of Agora, what started twelve years ago as a story for my children has turned into an amazing ride and fulfilling career. I hope that interest in the Legends of Agora series allows me to continue the stories for a long time to come. If you liked the books, please tell everyone you know on Facebook and Twitter and so on. It is fans like you that make all of this possible.
I want to thank everyone who has helped to make this possible. To everyone who has told friends, tweeted, suggested Whill on Goodreads, posted on FB, left a review, and enjoyed my books, thank you. I would love to hear what you thought of the story, so please feel free to leave a review on Amazon.
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I am a self-published author and do not have the luxury of a team of promoters at my disposal. You are my team, and I appreciate your efforts and support.
I have recently published the next book in the Legends of Agora world. TALON, Book 1 of the Windwalker Archive, is now available on Amazon. I invite you to read the sample chapter provided in this book.
If you enjoyed Dirk and Krentz, you may also be interested in Blackthorn Rising. The book follows Dirk and Krentz on their adventures leading up to their very first meeting. Fans of Dirk and Krentz can expect an epic adventure filled with everything you’ve come to expect fromLegends of Agora.
Thank you once again for your support,
With humble appreciation,
Michael James Ploof
Sample Chapter
The Windwalker Archive
Book 1
Talon
Prologue
Plagueborn
As recorded by Azzeal, Ralliad of Elladrindellia,
Keeper of the Windwalker Archives
Born by a Dogstar Moon, shunned, they see only with their eyes. Righteous vengeance shall be his.
—Gretzen Spiritbone, 4975
Volnoss
Winter (Vetr)
4980
The wind blew across the frozen world, sending phantoms of snow dancing and twirling in the half-moon light. In the night the cry of the timber wolf echoed throughout the wood. Stars twinkled brightly in the clear winter sky. All but the hungriest of predators huddled in nest and burrow.
The cold of Volnoss killed men without shelter and fire; the freeze crept through stitched seams and clung to the bones. The winter was one of the coldest and harshest told by the elders, and none disputed their claim. The fall crops had long been eaten, and the ice grew thick upon the waters. Fishing spots had to be moved, often by more than twenty thrown stones. Every day the catch was less, partially due to illegal fishing near barbarian territory. Each season disputes erupted between the barbarians of Volnoss and the Kingdom of Shierdon, and every year the elders called for patience.
A sickness had taken hold of many of the children and elderly of the tribe. The terrible sickness had come with the harsh cold and, as such, had been named the Frozen Plague (Frjosa Mien). The disease came in the night with a high fever and nightmares that left victims thrashing in madness. By morning the victims slept as if dead, their skin cold to the touch. About their hands and feet started a discoloring of the skin like frostbite, which slowly crept across the body until death.
The sickness had taken hold of a tribeswoman by the name of Kvenna Windwalker, wife of circle member Kreal Windwalker. Kreal had been tending his sick and pregnant wife for nearly two weeks. The frozen plague had crept along her limbs to her shoulders and waist. Nothing the shaman or witchdoctors tried did anything to slow the sickness.
Kreal had been beckoned by duty to a gathering to address the issue. The women of the tribes had become furious in their demands for action, but the men remained impotent to do anything about the sickness. The people demanded answers from the chiefs, but they had none.
Being no good to his wife fretting by her side, Kreal finally took his old mother’s advice to go to the Samnadr. When he entered the long tent, he found his tribesmen in chaos. A few fights had broken out; men and women alike screamed and cursed each other, while others cried at the spectacle or clawed at their hair to announce their grief. Babies cried and children mimicked their parents. Teen boys full of wolf piss and fire pleaded to be sent to Agora on a quest for medicine; others promised they would bring back ships full of food, supplies, and medicine if only given a chance.
The elders, however, knew the truth. No help was to be found from any of the nations of Agora, and should they seek to steal its
resources, they would be met with devastating force. What trade agreements they did have with pirates and smugglers were tedious enough, and war with Agora—namely its most northerly nation, Shierdon—would break those trade ties. If Shierdon set embargoes on Volnoss, the kingdom would need only wait until the dead of winter, at which point the starved barbarians would be forced to return to the negotiating table. Once again they would sign an unfair treaty they must adhere to whilst Shierdon never did. Always the Agoran kingdoms broke treaty, and ever more the barbarians raged for war. No love for the barbarians was to be found within Agora; the wounds of the past were still too fresh.
Kreal looked upon his once-strong people now gripped with fear and panic, and he pitied them and was ashamed.
To gain the gathering’s attention, he grabbed the closest man and punched him in the face, sending him backward into the crowd. Charging across the tent screaming, he tackled two men who had begun fighting. He pummeled one unconscious, and as the other scrambled to get to his feet, Kreal pulled the man back down and beat him until his eyes rolled. With powerful arms and legs, he heaved them both into the crowd.
Kreal gained the crowd’s attention.
Most barbarians stood heads over any Agoran; even so, while the tallest of the mainlanders stood only to a barbarian’s shoulder, the tallest of the barbarians stood only to Kreal’s eyes. The man looked up to no one. His broad shoulders and thick arms were a testament to the might of Timber Wolf Tribe. Such was his size and strength that he could wrestle a snow bear to the ground and break its neck, as he had once done during a hunting trip in which two tribesmen had died. He wore the snow bear hide as a reminder to his kin and to other bears. Four long, deep scars ran the length of the left side of his face from brow to chin, as a reminder to him.
The room became quiet and all eyes fell upon Kreal. There were nearly three hundred in attendance in the Sudroen Hall on this night. At the center of the large tent, logs burned, sending smoke twisting steadily up and out of holes in the peaks. Bones of ritual hung from the high ceiling, along with other herbs and enchantments of the shaman. Each of the tribes was represented within the Sudroen. The skulls of the snow cat, timber wolf, bear, fox, and dragon hung, respectively, above each tribe’s designated space, along with the beaks and feathers of both eagles and hawks.
Kreal walked behind his chair at the circle of the seven tribes. Each tribe had seven seats at the circle, and in the center sat the seven chiefs. Each tribe’s people dictated to their seven members sitting in the outer circle, who in turn dictated to the chiefs. Men and women sat within the outer circle, though only men could be chiefs. Kreal eyed his chief, Winterthorn; as usual, the grizzled man wore no expression.
Kreal addressed the crowd with a deep, snarling voice that demanded to be heard.
“I too feel the pain of hunger; I too tend to dying kin; I too see no end to this winter of death. I feel as you feel, and I would feel it no more! Long have we sat waiting for this circle to decide upon a course that might lead us from our miseries, but neinn! More talk! We vote down measures that might bring us food and medicine. And why?”
The pain of his sorrow showed on his face and in his voice; he was a man come undone. He glared at the seven chiefs and pointed a shaking finger. “I am done waiting; I leave tomorrow to search for a medicine that will save our people, and I will not be stopped.” He eyed the gathering slowly; many eyes found the floor, unable to match the intensity of his gaze. “Any who share my mind would do well to join me—any from all tribes.”
Amid the howls and cheers of the people, Chief Winterthorn stood so quickly that the many necklaces of bone danced loudly against his barrel chest. Without gesture or word, he quieted the gathering. All eyes fixed themselves on him as he stared back at Kreal; there was no love upon his face.
“This matter is settled, Kreal Windwalker of Timber Wolf Tribe. The circle has spoken.”
“And the people have spoken! If the circle’s will were truly that of the people, we would not sit idle while we starve to death and die slowly from the Frjosa Mien!” Kreal yelled, and many of the barbarians nodded and cheered in agreement.
Winterthorn walked slowly and purposefully until he stood before Kreal. He was not as tall; his shoulders, however, were as wide as a pony’s body was long. The large tent fell silent for many breaths as the two stared each other down. Kreal wanted nothing more than to challenge his chief for his title and once again bring honor to the tribes. But he could not. Barbarian custom dictated that only a man with a strong heir could challenge a chief. Kreal’s wife was pregnant with their first child. Kreal had not yet a son, while Winterthorn had two grown sons. Winterthorn knew this, as did everyone else within the tribes. Kreal could not challenge his chief—at least not openly.
“You would defy the counsel of the circle and the will of the chiefs?”
“I would defy any who stand in my path, for I will find a cure, or I will not return to this land,” he promised.
Kreal left the gathering, followed by the cheers of the tribesmen. Those within the circle eyed each other. Few of them spoke; the people already had.
The next morning Kreal kissed his dying wife’s forehead for what he knew may be the last time, gathered his things, and left for the docks. He said nothing to his old mother but accepted a kiss upon his cheek when she pulled him down to her.
At the docks he was met by the cheers of nearly two hundred men and women. They boarded four icebreaker boats and headed south to the shores of Shierdon. Word had come from pirates to a man of Bear Tribe that a similar plague had devastated much of western Shierdon, and a cure had been found. Rumor held that the cure had been discovered by the distant Sun Elves of Elladrindellia; whether the rumors spoke the truth or not, Kreal hoped to find out.
He and his men were gone for three tenday and returned by the next crescent moon. They had been successful in their quest and brought back the plant that was used to make the cure, forever after it grew along the coast of Volnoss and was incorporated into many new remedies.
Kreal and his men had saved the tribes, yet he had not been quick enough to save Kvenna Windwalker. Just as he was returning to administer the elixir to his wife, she died. So close to seeing her alive was Kreal that he witnessed her extended hand fall to her deathbed even as he raced into the tent.
A wailing cry escaped the big man as he ran to his wife and took up her frail, discolored body in his arms. He sobbed into her chest and screamed with fury, cursing the gods and the women who bore them children.
A baby’s cry pierced the air, instantly silencing Kreal. He jerked his head and looked to his mother-in-law, Gretzen; in her arms she held a bundle wrapped in furs. From the top edge of the furs, a small, clenching fist shook with the baby’s wailing.
“It’s a boy,” said Gretzen, her dark, leathery hands holding the bundle tight. “Kvenna name him before death. He is Talon; your son.”
Kreal went to the infant's side quickly. The gods had taken his wife from him, but they had blessed him with a son, an heir who might stand beside him against Winterthorn and his sons. As Kreal looked upon his newborn son, the hope and awe on his face disappeared, and he was left horrified and quaking. Talon was born at only seven months and was small—too small. Kreal could have held him inside one palm.
Kreal backed away from the baby, shaking his head.
“That’s no son of mine; he’s a Throwback, a Draugr, a Skomm! He’s small, weak. This Draugr will never bear my name; he must die. He must be cast to the stones as was the way in the past!”
Searching around frantically, he finally found a skinning knife and turned back on Gretzen and her bundle.
“I seen his stars,” she said, turning the baby behind her defensively. “He was forced into world on night of Dogstar Moon!” Gretzen screamed, furious at his words.
Kreal began stalking toward them, staring at his dead wife. “Throw him into the ocean. We do not keep the weak.”
“I’ve right to keep him if
you refuse him. Until he stands for his Miotvidr,” Gretzen proclaimed. “His life be legend one day; I foreseen it. It in the bones and in the stars; he will do glorious things. Songs will be sung of man he becomes; mark my words, Kreal. Talon will make legend the name Windwalker!”
“Give him to me,” Kreal growled.
“Kvenna kiss him before she die; she smile on him, she loved him,” said Gretzen, circling around the tent away from him.
“Shut your mouth!” Kreal flipped over the small table in his way, stalking her.
“Would you kill child your wife loved?” she pleaded, reaching down quickly to scoop up the iron fire poker.
The fury died in Kreal and he hunched, defeated. To Gretzen he seemed small.
“Do what you will, old lady; I will not have him. He will not live to see the summer,” he said in a low, faraway voice and left the tent.
Gretzen wiped her grandson Talon with a soft cloth and sang the very song she had sung to his mother; she cried as she sang, yet she smiled as she cried.
End of Sample
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Table of Contents
Map of Agora
Other books by Michael James Ploof
Chapter 1
The Travelers
Chapter 2
Fendale
Chapter 3
Winter’s End Celebration
Chapter 4
The Tournament
Chapter 5
The Award Ceremony
Chapter 6
Plans for the Sea Maiden
Chapter 7
Farewell to the City of Light
Chapter 8
Diamonds and Greed
Chapter 9
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) Page 138
