Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings

by Michael Ploof

  Given the task of finding Whill and bringing him back safely, the Elves had endowing Zerafin’s blade with the power and strength of more than one thousand Elves—each having given their energy for more than four hundred years. Zerafin’s blade had been made more powerful than any yet known in Elladrindellia, a power truly unknown to anyone. The issue of the offering of power had been a great debate lasting more than a week. But Zerafin had proven himself time and again in the Draggard wars, and even when being tempted by the Dark Elves, he had proven righteous. Many had given their consent simply for the fact that he was the lost king’s son and heir.

  Zerafin looked upon his sister, his jaw clenching. He had come from the woods prepared for the task at hand. On this, the day before the offering of the blade and the beginning of his quest, he was ready; he was anxious, and what a curse it would be to stand against him in battle in the days and weeks ahead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Prisoner and the

  Assassin

  Whill had not eaten in months; he had drunk only his own blood. His captors kept him alive with the same energy they used to torture him and revive him. How long he had been within the dungeons he did not know. His life beyond the dark, damp dungeon walls now seemed a fantasy. These times of rest, alone in his small cell, were torture far worse than that of any blade. The silence was maddening, the anticipation of the torture to come, unbearable. They would not come for him sometimes for days, and other times, they would give him only a few hours’ reprieve. His anxiety outweighed his physical pain, which he had become accustomed to. The wounds would be healed before they killed him, but his mental pain was never healed.

  The torture was not always to his body; indeed, physical pain was a reprieve from the mental torture. The vicious Dark Elves were masters of mental torture, bombarding Whill’s mind with horrific scenes. Terrible illusions played out in his mind—images of himself killing innocent men, women, and children alike. In these twisted visions, Whill had seen himself commit the most heinous acts imaginable. But the most effective and painful torture was that of hope. Occasionally Eadon had created the illusion that Whill was with Avriel. Whill would awaken next to a stream within a forest of dancing light, and she would come to him. In her arms he found peace, love, and silence. For days the fantasy would play out, until finally, violently, the illusion would end.

  Now, Whill hung from his shackles, which cut sharply into his flesh. The only things within his dark, dank cell were the echoed cries of fellow prisoners. He did not feel the shackles burning into his skin, nor did he hear the cries. In his mind, he was within the gardens of Kell-Torey, seated across from Avriel and Zerafin. He had blocked his mind from the world completely, living within his meditation. After so many months of torture and mental probing, he had finally snapped. He created massive mental walls, a fortress of willpower, which, to his torturer’s surprise, was thus far impenetrable.

  Remember, it is not the rock that you are moving or the water that you are controlling at your will. It is the Keye within the vessel; it is to the spirit of energy within all things that we connect. Avriel had spoken the words, and Whill had taken them in, but he did not register their meaning at the time. Now, in his defensive coma, he took in every word. She spoke to him from her heart stone, which he now wore beneath his skin and muscle, against his breastbone.

  He remembered that her spirit had been taken by Eadon just before the great explosion that had destroyed his ship and killed his friends. That thought he could not bear, and he fled from it, returning his mind to the distant garden, to Avriel and the sun in her raven hair.

  “How long has he been in this condition?” Eadon asked Velkarell.

  The Dark Elf torturer turned his tattooed face from Whill to Eadon. “Nine days, lord. He has built a mental wall.”

  Eadon’s thin eyebrows perked. “Really? This is sooner than I thought.”

  Velkarell walked toward Whill and punched him in the face. Whill’s head flew back, and blood poured from his nose for a moment; otherwise, he did not respond. Instead, he laughed in his dream state. Velkarell presented his fist to Eadon. The Dark Elf’s knuckles were sizzling as if acid had been applied to them. The melted flesh dissolved from his knuckles all the way to his wrist. Velkarell did not grimace from the pain; instead, he closed his eyes, and in seconds, the skin returned to normal.

  “As you can see, the human has made pain pleasure, and his body has gone into a lethal, self-preserving mode.”

  Eadon smiled and took in a long breath. “How long did it take you to master the ways of self-molding?”

  The Dark Elf torturer looked to Whill with slow-burning resentment in his eyes, and grudgingly, he answered, “Fifty years.”

  Eadon walked close to Whill and studied his face. “And Whill is but twenty years old. Already he can heal himself and others; already he can drain the energy of his victims, and already he is as advanced as a five-hundred-year-old Elf.”

  Velkarell looked uneasily toward his master. He did not want to doubt his master’s plans or cunning, but he could not help but speak. “My lord, he should be killed. One such as he…” Velkarell lowered his eyes to the floor under Eadon’s gaze. “Forgive my ignorance, but I do not understand why you would allow the one named in the prophecy to live.”

  Eadon looked upon his servant and smiled as he lifted the Dark Elf’s chin with a finger. “There is much you do not understand, my worthy student. Why would I destroy my most brilliant creation?”

  Eadon turned from a confused Velkarell and walked to Whill. He took Whill’s chin in his hand and raised the battered man’s head. Eadon mentally extended his consciousness at and into Whill’s mind. “Wake up, boy!”

  Whill’s eyes opened wide, as if he had been splashed with cold water in the middle of a nap. He gasped for breath and looked around wildly. Finally his eyes rested on Eadon. Whill spit in his face. Eadon’s face did not so much as twitch as he wiped the spit away. “You have mastered pain, Whill, and you no longer have fear. Many Dark Elves do not survive what you have these last months, or their minds do not. You have been cleansed; now your training can begin.”

  Eadon said no more to Whill as he turned and walked out of the cell and in passing whispered something to Velkrell. The Dark Elf torturer turned to Whill with a menacing glare, took a dagger from his belt, and cut Whill’s chains, releasing him.

  It was legend that the assassin could sneak up on the moon and kill it, without the sun ever noticing. He was cloaked in shadow; under the darkness he wore a tight leather-wrapped war suit. The thick leather strips were wound around his tall, thin build. The suit covered his body fully. His midnight-black hair and full beard covered his face. Within both tight black leather-bound boots he carried a six-inch Dwarven steel dagger, jeweled with black pearls. Four bands were wrapped around each leg, holding eight three-inch darts, sixty-four in all. His belt held various small pouches containing herbs, poison elixirs, poison powders, powdered dragons’ breath, a cloth-covered grappling hook, twenty-seven feet of Elven silk rope, various smoke bombs and other small explosives, and many other tricks. Upon his belt from his left hip, he wore a two-foot short sword. Upon his right, he wore a two-and-a half-foot Elven killing sword; its name was Arelliune. In the small of his back a two-foot greatly curved Dwarven hook sword was holstered. Attached to each forearm was a hidden throwing-star holder that would produce a star in whichever hand was flexed a certain way.

  Over his weapons and suit, he wore a black dragon-hide tight-stitched cloak that was ankle length with a long, wide hood, in which his face could never be seen. Many more weapons and the like were concealed within the endless hidden pockets of the cloak. A great many of his items had been enchanted by Elves, both Dark and Sun.

  A chance encounter when he was fourteen years old had found him saving the life of a Sun Elf. He had been scouting for his father, a highwayman, outside of Kell-Torey when he stumbled upon a horrific battle scene. More than forty Draggard lay dead upon the road;
only one remained alive. The lone Draggard loomed over a badly injured female Sun Elf, who was without weapon or the strength to use one. Her face was resigned to serenity; she had accepted the moment.

  The boy had ran up on the Draggard as fast and quietly as a boy could, and he’d leapt at the beast with his mean, poison-tipped dagger arched back. He landed on the Draggard’s back and grabbed a horn with his left hand as he jerked his entire body into the blow. The dagger thrust into the beast’s eye up to the hilt. The Draggard reared violently and would have thrown off the boy had he not already leapt away. The beast staggered backward and then to the left and finally fell to its knees and heavily to its face.

  The boy had quickly run over to the body and gave it three kicks; it was dead. He’d then turned to the Elf, who was weakly calling him with her hand. She pointed but could not speak; her throat was slashed and bleeding badly, her face ashen. He followed her finger to a pouch thirty yards away. The boy rushed to the pouch and brought it back to the Elf. Her eyes fluttered, and she wavered. Frantically, the boy untied the pouch and reached inside and took out the only thing within it, a purple four-inch crystal.

  Getting no response or direction from the dying Elf, he had laid the crystal in her hand. Instantly, her hand clutched it, catching his hand in her iron grip. The crystal hummed like a thousand bird wings as a blinding blue light engulfed them for a few moments and then was gone. In that moment, healing energy poured from the crystal into the dying Elf and, through their contact, into the boy. She was fully healed of her wounds, and not only her strength but her vitality was returned, and her rings and necklace were recharged.

  Energy had also coursed through the boy, and, having nothing to heal, rather than killing him, the healing energy had caused him to grow. Not only into a man did he grow but into a tall, lean, strong man.

  He had stood in his ripped clothes staring down at his long, powerful hands. He’d looked to the Elf and laughed, and to his amazement, she’d laughed alike with a voice of such sweet music as he had never heard before. In that moment, he loved her and always would.

  “I am called Krentz.” The Elf said with a wide, beautiful smile.

  The boy responded, “I am called Dirk.” Not recognizing his voice, he coughed awkwardly. “Dirk Blackthorn.”

  In return for saving her life, the Elf had taken Dirk under her wing. They had disappeared east into the mountainous wild of Uthen-Arden, and there Dirk learned many things from the mysterious Elf maiden. Five years he spent with her, and then one day she had gone, as he knew she must.

  Dirk laughed to himself at the memory, but quickly stopped and mentally chastised himself for the idiocy. He gave himself back to the night upon his rooftop perch. He watched from the shadows of the building’s chimney, and he waited.

  Soon he saw the mark, just on time, come out of the saloon. The bald man staggered, danced a small jig, and waved to the unseen pub patrons. He staggered down Pleasant Street just below the watching assassin. When Dirk saw his quarry begin to turn left down Crow Street, he instantly sprang into silent motion. Dirk ran the length of the rooftop with little-to-no sound; while he ran, he kept low and prepared his cloth-covered hook. Dirk twirled and leapt as he reached the end of the roof; the hook was thrown even as its destination was lost to sight.

  Above the drunken man a shadow whispered into the night; the man staggered and looked up as the night slammed into him. He was wisked into the vicelike grip of death. He knew as soon as the cold, iron grip seized him with but one arm, that he was doomed. Through the back door of a closed shop they went, and the man was set upon the floor without a sound and gagged with a rag that had a strange, bitter taste of…

  “Poison!” the drunken man’s voice screamed into the rag, but it was too late. He became dizzy, and fear struck him until he smiled stupidly.

  Dirk knew by the man’s eyes that the drugged rag had done its work.

  He reared on the drunken man, and his eyes took the giggles from the man.

  “You are here to kill me, eh, eh? Aren’t you now? Why yer a demon, you are!” The man said with a muffled voice, and he began to whimper and cry.

  “Shut it, mate, or else I gotta take your tongue. I want answers from you. Now listen, and answer on thee life or lose it.”

  Dirk let out a breath and tensed. “Well then, nod if you understand.”

  The man nodded.

  “Now answer me this, who is Whill of Agora? Eh?”

  The drunken man looked puzzled.

  Dirk removed the rag with a threatening glare.

  “It’s just a myth is all, just a rumor.”

  Dirk smirked. Finally, he thought. “I like myths. Tell me more.”

  “Well…” The drunk man sat up and slumped. “He is the one that kicked Rhunis’s ass right here in Fendale. By the gods, he did. I was there; I seen it with me own eyes. Beat ‘im, he did, ‘n’ rightfully so. He got his own weight in gold as reward. Well, he was said to be about the city for a few weeks or so, and then he ups and vanishes. Rumor came on the wind that he got pirated by Captian Cirrosa of all pirates. He and his pal there, Abram, be credited with the killin’ o’ Cirrosa—got rewards owed ‘em by all the countries of Agora and that of the Dwarves to boot! Then comes word of some crazy Elf magic saving the life of some kid from here in Fendale; poor kid’s parents was killed in a fire said to be set by Cirrosa and his men, and now the lord admits they knew about Cirrosa bein’ in town and they didn’t want to alarm the people…gut rotten dragon shit!”

  Dirk’s hand covered the drunken man’s mouth with the speed of a viper. They both listened; Dirk’s eyes warned the man of sudden death should he make a sound. A minute passed as Dirk listened through the enchanted jewels in his earlobes. He found the song of the night. He heard a nest of rats thirty yards away in the adjacent street. A newsletter rustled in the faint breeze, and dogs fought over food three blocks away. Laughter spilled out of countless taverns. The night did not listen back, and they were alone.

  Dirk removed his hand. “Continue.”

  The drunken man gulped and whispered. “Well, also word come from Sherna of another strange Elven style healin’ done by Whill to some dyin’ infant; then he ups and leaves there. A few days later, the town was invaded by a fleet of over a hundred Draggard on their unholy winged masters. The battle of Sherna it is called. Already the songs are being sung of the victory. Why, Whill of Agora is the secret hero amongst the people, all the people, of every country.”

  The drunken man looked strangely at Dirk. “Why, you must know as much about the man, eh? Why the questions?”

  Dirk answered as he always did. “What I know is from questions. You know the answers I seek. What else have you heard about the Elven legend?”

  The drunken man lurched; he had hoped this question would not be asked, for to speak of it was death. But because of the drugged rag, he could not lie, and he grimaced and whined as he told the midnight-man what he had sworn a blood oath not to.

  “It is said that this Whill of Agora is some kind of Elven savior.” He winced and doubled over.

  “And?” Dirk insisted.

  The drunken man could not resist telling the truth. “There is said to be a sword, A…Ad…Adromida, the most powerful of all the Elven swords that have ever existed. This sword is said to hold the power of a thousand Elven lifetimes.” The drunken man gulped.

  “Why do you and your, associates, know so much about this Whill? Surely the sword story is just gibberish,” Dirk pressed, feeling that perhaps this time he would get a good lead.

  The drunken man whimpered and struggled against the urge to tell the truth—the words that would surely doom him to the brotherhood. Dirk punched him in the face, and the impact made the man’s head jerk and his neck crack. Nothing was broken, but it was a reminder and a threat.

  “We know that the story is true, because we know of the sword.” The drunken man violently blurted out, hating himself for being weak. “We are the brotherhood of the Red Dragon; w
e keep the secret and prepare for the day, as we have for four hundred years.”

  Dirk smiled to himself and took in the sweet, sweet smell of knowledge and victory and power. In his world, there was only power or the lack thereof. His interest was the attainment of power of every kind, ultimate power. He, like all of them, knew that the Draggard wars might surely destroy all of Agora. These were rough times, and Dirk’s fortune had tripled, because he was not only a survivor; he thrived in all conditions and prided himself in as much.

  The Dark Elves were an invisible threat, but their power was felt. The Draggard wars had waged for decades, Dirk did not remember a time before the wars. But if a war was being waged, Dirk had to do what was best to survive, and that meant siding with the most likely victor. Dirk had met many an Elf, Dark and Sun, and he had sided with neither as of yet. He used their power but took nothing from either theology. He was a man unto himself, casting off with disdain all attitudes and beliefs, rules and regulations, traditions and agendas. He lived and worked for himself and his kin only—to be Dirk’s friend was a rare, if not dangerous, honor.

  He would side with and make partners of the victor of the outcome, but recently he had come across information that might lead him to be able to affect the outcome either way. He knew that if the sword existed and if he could find it, then he could sway the battle the way of his choosing; he would have ultimate power, if for a moment. But he must decide which way to sway it.

  Dirk knew one thing and one thing only—if you could play any game, by anyone’s rules, without qualms or protests, then you could win any game, which meant you could win the big game of life. And Dirk was very good at winning this game, so far.