Whill of Agora
Book 8
Dark Echoes of Light
Michael James Ploof
Copyright © 2017 Traveling Bard publishing
All rights reserved
Table of Contents
Dark Echoes of Light
Table of Contents
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Map of Agora
Map of Drindellia
Chapter 1
Gor’Enstal
Chapter 2
The Winter Rose
Chapter 3
The Power of Old
Chapter 4
The Drekkon
Chapter 5
The Pikes
Chapter 6
Orrian’s Tale
Chapter 7
The Army from the North
Chapter 8
Know Thy Enemy
Chapter 9
Into the Deep
Chapter 10
King Gnawrok
Chapter 11
The Wolf’s Revenge
Chapter 12
The War Song o’ Kly’Erndar
Chapter 13
Enemy at the Gates
Chapter 14
The Rise of Vresh’Kon
Chapter 15
The Fate of the Father
Chapter 16
News from the East
Chapter 17
The Disease of Vengeance
Chapter 18
Bad Tidings
Chapter 19
A Dark Gift
Chapter 20
The Portals
Chapter 21
In Search of the Drekkon Lair
Chapter 22
Trouble at Home
Chapter 23
The New Queen of Elladrindellia
Chapter 24
The Caverns of Olgen’Dy
Chapter 25
Unbridled Power
Chapter 26
A New Hope
Chapter 27
The Legend of the Hillmen
Chapter 28
The Prison of the Gods
Chapter 29
The Sleeping Giant
Chapter 30
The Undying Flame
Chapter 31
The Dwarf Kings
Chapter 32
Nowhere to Run
Chapter 33
Dark Echoes
Chapter 34
Between Worlds
Chapter 35
The Spies Return
Chapter 36
Inner Light
Chapter 37
Laying Traps
Chapter 38
The Test
Chapter 39
A Gift of Light
Chapter 40
Chieftain Soaringsong
Chapter 41
The Assassin
Chapter 42
The Fall
Chapter 43
Attack on Rhuniston
Chapter 44
The Price of Betrayal
Chapter 45
From Darkness into Light
To be Continued in Whill of Agora Book 9
Coming in 2018
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Other Books
By
Michael James Ploof
(Legends of Agora Novels)
Whill of Agora
A Quest of Kings
A Song of Swords
A Crown of War
Kingdoms in Chaos
Champions of the Gods
The Mantle of Darkness
Talon
Sea Queen
Exodus
Blackthorn Rising
(Orion Rezner Chronicles)
Afterworld
(Epic Fallacy Novels)
Champions of the Dragon
Beyond the Wide Wall
The Legend of Drak’Noir
The Mother of Zuul
Visit Michael’s Amazon Author page for links
Special thanks to all my awesome Whill of Agora 8 Proofreaders: Beverly Ellerbe Leonard, Ken Howell, Nana Meg, Lindy Kreger, Scott Gale, Elaine Smith, and Michael L. Cole.
Edited by Holly M. Kothe, https://espressoeditor.com/
Cover Art by Daniel Kamarudin
Map of Agora
Map of Drindellia
Chapter 1
Gor’Enstal
Kellallea watched Eldarian as he stared out over the waters of Lake Venzalla. It was here, thousands of years ago, that they had first confessed their love to each other. The eons had changed things, and now the lake was much bigger than she remembered it. The tower that once stood overlooking the waters was now rubble beneath their feet, buried by time. Majestic willows that had once leaned over the shoreline, dropping their purple petals in the water, were now gone, replaced by a young forest of birch and ash.
Upon bringing Eldarian here, Kellallea had hoped to spark the memory of love. She had hoped to rekindle the passion he had once shown for her, but like everything else she had tried on him, it had failed. Eldarian remained as distant and seemingly unfeeling as he had been since she had helped to free him of his eternal prison.
“What did you hope to accomplish, bringing me here?” he asked, turning from the cerulean waters.
“I know that something still remains of the elf you once were,” said Kellallea, striding forward. She touched a hand to his face lovingly. “I will help you to find it once again.”
He ignored the touch. “And if I do not want to find it, then what?” he said.
She felt as though she were looking at a stranger. “Eldarian, my love—”
“Love?” he said, backing away from her and scowling. “Do not be so trite; it does not become you.”
“Eldarian, give it time. I know that you have been through a lot, but now you are free. Now—”
“Free? No, I am not free. I feel as though I have been torn from my mother’s womb. I yearn to return, to take up the mantle once more, to be truly free. When I defeated the dark one those thousands of years ago, I thought I was saving the world. But the world does not need saving, Kellallea; the world needs to be reborn. I understand that now.”
“The Eldarian that I knew would never say that,” Kellallea replied.
“I am not the Eldarian that you knew, just as you are not the Kellallea that I knew. I have watched you these many long years. I have seen you do things that you never would have thought of doing. You would say that it was all in the name of love, and you would be lying. You did it for power.”
“That isn’t true!”
“Isn’t it? You took it all, not once, but twice. I have always been your excuse, nothing more.”
“And what of the gods? They did this to you, to us. They—”
“The gods are the gods. They owe us nothing. This world, this universe, it has a life cycle like any other living being, and that cycle must someday come to an end. It is the way of the gods, the way of eternity. For no one world can last forever, and none should. It is not a death, Kellallea, but a rebirth. This world will burn, but from the ashes will grow another world, a new world with new life and new wonders to behold.”
“And what of the progress we have made here? What of the struggles and the toil of all who have lived before us? Is it all for naught?”
“Kellallea, how can you be so naïve? Nothing is a waste, and nothing is wasted. Everything that is, and everything that has e
ver been, has existed for the amusement of the gods and nothing more. The time came for this world to end, and in my arrogance, I interfered. I bought this world a few thousand more years, and at great cost. Now, it is time.”
Tears spilled down Kellallea’s cheeks, and Eldarian caught one with the end of his finger. He blew on it, and Kellallea watched as it evaporated.
“Soon, your pain shall end as well,” he said. “But first you must help me.”
Kellallea was shaking her head before she meant to.
“Yes,” he said evenly. “You will.”
“Eldarian, please…”
“You have ascended higher than any before you, Kellallea. You have become a goddess, and still you do not see that this is inevitable?”
“This is madness!” she said, feeling great power behind her anger. “I have not spent these eons trying to free you so that you could become the harbinger of death. I would rather kill you before I would let that happen.”
He cocked a brow at her, unafraid. “You do not understand the power that flows through me, Kellallea. For I am death.” He unsheathed his blade, the ancient relic that she had helped him find during the God Wars, and the sight of it made her cower.
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “You recognize it, don’t you? Gor’Enstal, our people called it. Godsbane. With it, I defeated the dark one. And with it, I shall destroy the prison containing the mantle.”
“The gods will not allow it,” said Kellallea.
“Now you have faith in the gods?” he said, looking amused. “They have done their part. In creating the prison anew, they agreed not to intervene, and so they shall not. But you will. You will help me to free the mantle, and together we shall usher in a new world.”
“And if I refuse?” she said, standing tall and strong before him.
He raised the tip of Godsbane until it was an inch from her chin. At length, he smiled and lowered the blade. “When have you ever been able to refuse me?”
“There is one who could stop you,” she said, offering him a smirk of her own. “He is as powerful as a god. More powerful than you or I.”
Eldarian scowled at her. “Yes, your pet, Whillhelm Warcrown. Fret not, my dear. I have plans for him.”
Chapter 2
The Winter Rose
Whill awoke with a start and shot a blast of magic at the phantoms of his dreams. In an urgent moment of lucidity, he realized that he was awake and had just released a fire spell inside his home. As it spread throughout the room, darkening wood and scorching fabric, he pulled it back and absorbed it into his palm. Whill sat up, shaking, and looked to the crib beside the bed where Abe and Arra were sleeping soundly.
“Whill?” came Avriel’s gentle voice behind him, and he felt her soft hand on his shoulder. “It is alright, you were just dreaming.”
“I know…I’m sorry. I…” He got up and wrapped himself in a robe before heading out the door. Thankfully, Avriel did not follow. Whill was drenched with sweat, and he could still hear Lunara’s words echoing through his mind.
Why have you forsaken me?
Whill rubbed his shaking hands together as he looked out over New Cerushia and the Drindellian coast beyond. The view was that of new construction, renewed hope, and new life, but all that Whill could think about was death. He ignored his newfound powers during waking hours and rarely slept. For when he did so, the power of the mantle, that of darkness and death, assaulted his mind with a vengeance. In his dreams, he saw Lunara suffering for eternity, consumed by darkness. He saw the deaths of random people and creatures throughout the world. Worst of all, however, was what he saw upon waking. For death lingered and followed him into the waking world. Everything he looked upon was dead, rotting and decayed. The wood of the new buildings that the elves had erected was rotten and bug infested. The people going about their business in the streets below were ragged skeletons, their flesh hanging from oozing wounds. When he looked upon the sea, he saw only a dusty pit full of dry, cracked earth, shipwrecks, and sun-bleached bones.
He squeezed his eyes tight, not wanting to see it anymore.
“Whill?” Again, it was Avriel.
“Just a moment,” he said, his voice quivering. He did not want to look upon her with the eyes of death.
He felt her waiting behind him, as she had done for the last six months.
Daring to open his eyes, Whill was relieved to see that things had returned to normal. Elven and human vessels came and went from New Cerushia’s harbor. The people below were lively, their skin smooth and their breath coming in plumes in the cool late-winter air. The buildings were once again adorned with unpainted green wood. In the distance, the pyramid of stone that had been erected during the winter was no longer broken and crumbling, but smooth, shiny, and new.
“Are you alright?” Avriel asked.
Finally, Whill turned toward her and lifted his head to smile upon her reassuringly. “Yes,” he said. “It has passed.”
She let out a slow sigh. He knew her mind, and indeed, he would feel sorry for her if it were the other way around. But Whill did not want pity, for pity only solidified the existence of the problem, and this problem he would rather ignore.
“I’m going to spend the morning with Lyrian,” he told her.
Her smile showed her relief. “I’ll make a carravossa for lunch.”
“My favorite.” He turned from her in fear that his sight might change, and rather than her glowing skin and perfect smile, her pearl-white cheekbones and broken teeth might accentuate her expression.
Whill took his time as he strode from their abode in the new palace to the city streets below. He required no guard; even so, Ragnar Hillman followed him everywhere he went. Whill didn’t mind the young man guarding his back, and so he had allowed the strange compulsion. In Ragnar, he saw an eagerness akin to Tarren’s and a dedication akin to Roakore’s. He also saw Abram’s patience and Rhunis’s good-natured joviality, but also his crude efficiency.
Lyrian would likely know that he was coming, and so when Whill reached the gate leading to the pond, he didn’t bother to knock. A chill rode on the air, but Whill didn’t mind; it helped to clear his head, and the robe he wore held in the heat well. He walked through Lyrian’s garden, admiring the hearty foliage that was already beginning to bloom, even though it was weeks away from spring. Lyrian had likely helped it along with a bit of floral magic. The stone walkway ran from his simple hut, through the gardens, and finally came to the small pond. And as expected, there sat Lyrian, sitting on a flat stone and staring out over the water.
“Hello, Whill,” said the elf without turning to look.
“Good morning, Lyrian,” said Whill, sitting beside the elf and crossing his legs to mirror the meditative pose.
Lyrian smiled blissfully as he watched the still waters, and Whill envied the Morenka his placid mind. A former student of the Watcher, Lyrian Vosk was not as ancient as the master had been, but he was still old. At over six hundred, he looked to be in his late sixties. Like most elves, he had no facial hair, and his head was shaved daily, which only accentuated his long, pointed ears. His face was smooth, with laugh lines in his cheeks and forehead, and his deep-green eyes seemed to always be smiling. Whill had been introduced to Lyrian by Avriel a few weeks after they moved to New Cerushia, and the two had become fast friends.
“I have a special task for you today, one that I think you will enjoy,” said Lyrian, turning his serene gaze upon Whill.
“I’m up for anything,” said Whill, even as his mind echoed Lunara’s pleas.
Lyrian nodded. He turned away from Whill and produced a single winter rose in a pot and set it on a stone in front of them. He gave no instruction, but only stared at the flower as his smile grew. Whill looked from the rose to Lyrian, waiting for his instructions, but none came. Instead, Lyrian continued to stare happily.
“So, what is my task?” Whill asked.
Lyrian raised his chin, nodding toward the flower, but said nothing. Whill was reminded h
ow frustrating it could be working with a Morenka, but he trusted the old elf, as he had trusted the Watcher. And so he stared at the rose, wondering. His mind drifted back to Lunara often; he saw her sitting upon the broken throne littered with skulls, heard her pleading voice begging him to help or accusing him of abandoning her. All the while the rose remained unmoving before him, and beside him, Lyrian continued to smile.
An hour later, Lyrian let out a long, satisfied breath and regarded Whill. “Now, do you understand?”
“No, Lyrian, I don’t understand at all. What was I supposed to get out of that?”
“Look again. What do you see?”
“A rose.”
“Look closer.”
Whill switched to mind sight and watched as the shimmering ribbons of energy that made up the rose slowly traveled through the stems, leaves, and petals. “I see life energy,” said Whill at length.
“Indeed, life,” said Lyrian. “Like you and I, the flower is alive, yet, it does not fear. The rose is not jealous, it knows no regret. It does not hate. The rose simply is.”
“It knows no fear because it does not think,” said Whill.
“Doesn’t it? If it does not think, then how does it know to search for water at the bottom of its pot? Why does it close its petals at night and lean toward the sun during the day?”
“But it has no brain like you or I have. It is a simple lifeform.”
“I know not one lifeform that could be called simple, my friend.”
“Next you will tell me to be like the flower, to clear my mind of all that troubles me, and to simply exist. And I would gladly do that, but I am not a flower. I have children, a wife, and people who depend on me. I have nightmares of the mantle. I see darkness all too clearly.”
“We only see that which we seek,” said Lyrian, not for the first time. “Do not look outward. Do not look inward. Do not look at all. Let the noise of the world fall away. Let your fear, anger, and regret fall away. Be like the flower.”
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