Whill laid the back of his hand upon Avriel’s cheek; it was warm. Tears came to his eyes and threatened to pour forth like the Thousand Falls. Avriel bent and gently nudged Whill’s shoulder. With his free hand he touched her dragon cheek.
“I am sorry, Avriel; I do not know how to help. I have all the power I need, yet I am powerless.”
Avriel mentally smiled upon him. It is no fault of your own. I have a body, one given to me by the dark one. One day he will wish he had killed me; he will wish he had killed us both.
Whill nodded in agreement and moved to stand before her brother. Zerafin’s skin rippled and bubbled slowly. Here and there it browned and then blackened, but quickly the rot receded. The constant efforts of the healers were the only thing keeping him alive. Whill nodded to each of the dozen healers in turn and offered his thanks. One, an elf who looked no older than a child, stepped forward with a bow. “It is true, then? The One has come to us at long last?” “I am he,” Whill said confidently.
“Then let us see the healing powers of the one who wields the blade of legend. Surely with the blade you can help your friend.”
Whill looked into the elf child’s eyes, wisdom and age far beyond his delicate features looked back. This elf was no child, Whill realized. More likely he was a great healer of untold years.
Whill set his jaw with determination and laid a hand upon Zerafin. He nearly jumped when Zerafin suddenly spoke. “Ah, Whill,” he said with a cough. “You have made it here alive. I can rest easy now.”
“We found the blade, don’t you remember? With it I can—”
“No!” Zerafin cried with an effort that visibly drained him and the healers. “No, you cannot attempt to heal me. The bond that was created by the backfire spell I used is too dangerous. Eadon will feel your presence.”
“There must be a way!” Whill protested.
“Go!” Zerafin stiffened with pain. “He knows…he feels you even…now…aaahhh!” He convulsed and began to shake. Whill reached for him but his hands were held fast by the elf boy’s strong hands.
“He is being possessed…” The elf’s eyes widened as Zerafin floated many feet above the bed, thrashing and frothing at the mouth, fighting the influence of Eadon through their connection, a connection that afflicted them both as one.
“Fight him, brother!” Avriel screamed in their minds.
“Please! I can help!” Whill shouted as healers began pouring into the room. Zerafin spun to stand upon the bed and his hands shot out to either side, sending the elves flying into the walls of vine. His eyes rolled back to show only bloodshot whites, and a voice that was not the elf’s spoke.
“You can help him, boy, what are you waiting for?” said Eadon through Zerafin.
An elf flew to Zerafin’s outstretched hand and was held by the throat many feet off the ground. Zerafin’s face twisted into Eadon’s maniacal grin. “How many more must die, boy, before you embrace your destiny?”
Knowing what was coming, Whill reached out to the air and cried, “No!” as Eadon used Zerafin to snap the elf’s neck. The body of the healer then burst into flames and disintegrated to ash. Zerafin’s face contorted in a scream of rage and he said in his own voice, “Kill me now! Quickly before he—” His voice was cut short by a scream of anguish as Eadon gained control once more. With an extended hand he lifted the weakened body of Avriel. In dragon form she roared as Eadon held her elven body by the throat.
Three healers attacked Zerafin with a host of multicolored spells. They were easily deflected and counterattacked by the possessed elf. Eadon blasted a hole through the chest of one and tore the head from another with the flick of a wrist, the elf’s energy shield destroyed in a shower of sparks. The third elf was blasted through the wall of vine with such force that a large hole was torn in the living wall. Zerafin screamed in a deafening, booming voice, and the vines that created the house of healing withered with blackened death.
“Which will it be, hero? Your beloved Avriel, trapped forever in the body of a beast, or the warrior prince of Drindellia?”
“Let them go! It is me you want!” Whill screamed.
“Kill him or she dies!”
Whill frantically tried to think of something, anything that would help. Zerafin’s white eyes and evil grin stared at him with sick satisfaction. Rage boiled within Whill and threatened to destroy him. The sword at his side hummed with power, he had but to reach for it.
“Decide, boy! Who shall die for you this day?” Eadon roared as flames rose up in a ring around the blackened house of healing. Whill unsheathed his blade, Adromida, with a cry of rage. Eadon’s victorious grin spread across the face of Zerafin. Whill could not stand idly by while Avriel’s elven body was destroyed. He had hidden and run from Eadon for too long. Now he held the greatest power given. The blade glowed white in his grip and the power it possessed poured into Whill, leaving him vibrating with energy. Before Whill could strike, Azzeal leapt through the flames and shot three glowing arrows at Zerafin in rapid succession. The arrows were deflected easily, and with his free hand Eadon shot writhing tendrils of black energy at the elf.
Whill summoned a shield around Azzeal, deflecting the energy attack. Azzeal extended a hand and yelled to Whill over the tumult, “Lend me the strength!”
Whill took the elf’s hand and through their contact sent a rush of teeming energy. The surge caused Azzeal to stiffen straight and he gritted his teeth against it. With extended hand Azzeal hit the possessed Zerafin in the chest with a beam of purest white light. Whill poured power into the elf, and likewise Azzeal into Zerafin. Avriel’s body was released and dropped to the ground. Zerafin’s head snapped back and his body began to convulse. In his rage Eadon was trying to kill Zerafin through their spell connection. Azzeal redoubled his efforts, and a surge of power passed through Whill like none he had wielded before. Zerafin was lifted high, arms and legs extending straight out as he screamed, “Be gone from my vessel!” and fell to the floor.
In an instant it was over. Azzeal broke contact with Whill and ran to the side of his friend. Zerafin pushed him away weakly and crawled over to his sister’s limp body. He looked up to the white dragon and smiled. “Your body lives.”
Whill slumped to the floor of the destroyed house of healing and a smile crept across his face. “We beat him,” he said to no one.
“He was not destroyed,” said Azzeal. “I only freed Zerafin of his mental grip; with your help I destroyed the spell that bound the two.”
“He may yet live,” said Whill. “But there is hope. He has been beaten.”
You are cured, brother!
Zerafin looked to his sister’s dragon form while holding the head of her elven body in his lap. The fires that had circled the house of healing had died down, and healers and other elves rushed to the scene. Whill could not help but smile to himself. He had lent his power to Azzeal and they had successfully defeated Eadon, at least for a time. His mind spun with the implications of this new method’s uses. He looked at Azzeal and caught the elf’s eyes lingering upon the blade in Whill’s hand. Azzeal met Whill’s gaze but no guilt showed upon the elf’s face. He nodded slightly and then set about helping Zerafin to his feet. Whill quickly joined to help, and together the three ferried Avriel’s body away from the smoldering house of healing.
Whill,
If you are reading this I am no longer of this world. I hope that you have reached Elladrindellia safely. There you will be able to continue your training and learn things that I could have never taught you.
I pray that you have found the sword Adromida. With it I believe that you will fulfill the prophecy and bring an end to Eadon and his minions. I believe now, as I always have, that you will be victorious. You have been a wonderful student and dear friend, and I am thankful to have known you. Remember all you have learned and apply what you know. I am confident that one day you shall be a great king like your father before you.
I am sorry that I could not remain at your side. But take heart
that you are not alone in this. You will always find allies, as you have found in Roakore and the other companions. Tarren is strong in mind and body, and I am confident that with your guidance he will become a man of virtue as you have. Be true to yourself, my friend, and remember what you have learned. Do not worry about that which is out of your hands, and do not attempt to bear the entire weight of your destiny alone. Look to your friends.
If it is in your power to do so, please send word of my fate to my sister Teera. She worries about us both as always. If you are able to pay her a visit, she has possessions of mine that I have willed to you. She will be delighted to see you after so many years. Send her and the girls my love, and ensure her that my death means little given the grand life that I have lived.
One day you will rid Agora of the evil of the dark elves, and it shall know peace once again. This I believe with all my heart and soul. So go forth, my friend, knowing that I am with you always. You will never be alone, for we cannot all be alone together. Go forth and know that I love you as a son. You are a man beyond worth. I am honored to have shared the adventure of life with you.
Goodbye for now, until we dine with the gods…
Abram
Whill read the letter a second time with wet eyes and trembling hands, after the third time he rolled up the letter and put it away. He had been given it by Avriel’s mother, whom Abram had entrusted it to. From his balcony within the vine-covered elven city of Cerushia, he sat and gazed absently upon the waterfalls that poured forth from the towering ridge to the west. Avriel was out there somewhere hunting, morning being her favorite time to seek out her meals. He sat alone in his meditative stance and reflected upon the past year. Not even a year ago he had been a carefree ranger of Agora, with Abram at his side and not a worry to be had. He had defeated a knight of Eldalon and won a fortune in gold, and he had seen his dream ship built by a master of the craft. He had fought pirates and freed slaves and torn a child from the clutches of death. Fame followed him and fortune smiled. Elves called him savior and dwarves named him friend. He was the son of a fallen king, hidden from the world for nearly two decades. He led men to victory and wielded great power. His legend was whispered throughout the kingdoms as his feats grew. He chuckled at the memory of the bar fight when the group had been together. Thinking back on the companions’ time together, he longed for those days. Whill laughed at the irony of longing for a time in his life when he had been so confused and scared. He had been dealing with the truth of his lineage, and the prophecy. Looking back now he did not recognize his younger self. He had changed so much in such a short time. Eadon had seen to that. The torture was now a distant memory, one he refused to let his mind drift to. It was a constant struggle, keeping the demons from his mind. He fought uncontrollable fits of rage and quickly descending bouts of depression. His mind, if left to its devices, would have torn itself asunder. Therefore Whill had become the warden of his mind, and constantly had to keep at bay the plethora of maddening thoughts.
He thought again of Abram as he breathed deeply through an episode of particularly disturbing vulgarities and rage directed at him from a tormented inmate of his mind, one of the multitudes of self-hating phantoms. Love was the only thing that worked for him. Whill concentrated on pure love, imagined it washing over him and radiating from him. He pictured his spirit glowing forth like a sun, the energy around him connecting and pulsing in a megalithic tide of love. He smiled brightly and breathed deeply and focused upon the reality he had chosen. He had learned much from the elves, and already their techniques were helping him immensely. He was in possession of the greatest elven power likely ever created, Adromida, and he needed to be in complete control of his mind if he wished to wield it. Whill had set out to become a master of his self, and to learn as much of the magic he wielded as he could.
Abram had always believed in Whill, and knowing that the prophecy might be a lie left him feeling cold. If Kellallea had spoken the truth and Eadon was indeed Adimorda, the very elf who had predicted the rise of a dark lord, Whill did not know how he could ever beat the dark elf. Whill had been reasonably confident that he could defeat Eadon when he had believed the prophecy without doubt. Now he was not so sure. To think that he had been created by Eadon terrified him. He knew not how the dark elf could be defeated if indeed the blade Adromida was his, for it could not be used against him. Though the question remained as to why Eadon would make a blade of power that he himself could not wield, this question only gave credence to Kellallea’s tale. If the legend of power taken and power given was true, then Eadon had to be given the power of Adromida, as he had already attained the greatest power taken.
Avriel came soaring down to land upon the balcony. Good morning, she crooned and set to grooming herself.
“Good morning,” Whill replied with a smile.
He was amazed at her cheery mood since her return to her people. Even upon seeing her comatose body she did not react as Whill thought she might. It seemed that Eadon’s words were true, and none but he could restore her soul to her body. The elves had been searching for an answer for more than six months, utilizing every text and their collective knowledge, some had even contacted the spirits, but to no avail. Eadon’s magic was foreign to them, and it seemed that Avriel might never be helped. Even with the great power Whill possessed within the blade Adromida, he could not begin to understand what to do to help her. Whill had arrived in Drindellia in bad shape. He was malnourished and had lost a substantial amount of muscle mass. Though the elves could heal much with their magic, nothing could replace proper rest, food, and exercise. He had finally begun to get enough of each as of late. He felt safe here among the elves, as he had not in a long while. And though he had only been within Elladrindellia for two days, he was at home here. Autumn was upon the world, and the elven city was like something out of a dream. Native trees there were, their leaves covering the ground in a cascade of vibrant fall colors. Many of the different plants and bushes had been brought from the elven homeland, as had many varieties of trees. There were leafy ones as well as pines, and others such as the kornalla tree, which grew draping canopies of long leaves.
It did Whill’s tormented heart good to behold such beauty after his nightmarish imprisonment for those six long months. He could hardly wait to explore Elladrindellia with Avriel. He did not leave his abode often, and he could not. Hundreds of elven followers had crowded the city for a glimpse of him. These were true believers, those who saw Whill as the savior of their people. He looked down at them from on high now and again, but mostly he remained in a high tower within a vine-and-stone building near the outskirts of the city. From one balcony he viewed the lush jungle, and from the other he saw the vast city. From all directions crowds of elves could be seen. When he peered out of his window they cheered; some flew by the windows and even landed upon the balcony to meet him (after asking permission). He had been visited by many of the elders, and the queen, Avriel’s mother, came daily.
The barbarian Aurora Snowfell stayed in a room just below him. They had seen little of each other, however, due to Whill’s seemingly endless meetings with a variety of elves. His least favorite ones were the grovelers; indeed, he favored skeptics and nonbelievers over these blubbering fools. They treated him as though he was a god, and he found it quite disturbing. Most other young men his age would have seized the power offered them, would have basked in the adoration of their followers, but Whill wanted none of it. The queen had told him this was what made him worthy; she also explained that had he been raised in such an environment as he now knew, he would have become a very different person. Perhaps it had been best to be raised as a normal Agoran.
He and Avriel had flown out and around Cerushia a handful of times. Gliding over the city of vine and stone, Whill marveled at the beauty of the elven creation. They melded wood and stone, vine and earth, to create an ever-changing living city of splendor. Large crystals hummed with stored power from the day’s sun, and vines acted as conduits, drawi
ng the power from the crystals and spreading it throughout the city. Similar crystals were used to collect the rays of the moon. The gathered energy was used mainly in fortifying the many wards and spells about the city. Not only did the elves build upward, but they also utilized the earth beneath them, building tunnels and caverns and passageways the likes of which would make a dwarf proud. If it ever came to it, the elven city of Cerushia could hold out against an enemy attack indefinitely. To break through its spell defenses would take a power unknown. Never, even within Drindellia, had the elves ever concentrated so much power. Cerushia hummed with life. Breathing in the very air lifted the spirits and cleared the mind. In comparison, Whill could only think of the smell of the forest in spring after a hard rain. He had been truly impressed with the elven city. He had expected to find wispy creatures glowing with inner light and living in huge tree houses; instead he’d found hard-working people who were quick to smile and quick to laugh.
Whill could not tell from looking at an elf whether or not it knew magic. He knew that a larger percentage of the population had no skill in the practice of Orna Catorna whatsoever, and were no more magical than the average human. Those who were not skilled in the arts were masters of other crafts—one did not have to be magical to create amazing things or accomplish extraordinary feats. Indeed, most things, be they sculptures or paintings or woodworks, were appreciated even more if created using no magic at all. The wisest of the nonmagic elves said it was because the gods had given them hands to do the mind’s work, and that hands had a magic all their own, a special link to the mind and soul. It was after all from the hands of the casters that their spells poured.
The sun had grown in the sky, emerging from its morning cocoon of blazing fire, and now shone through the mist from the east. Whill looked out over the balcony. The elves below were dressed in a wide array of styles, but the basic theme was one of seasonal colors and even foliage and feather. Many others were not dressed at all, even those not in animal forms; lithe and beautiful they shone in the morning light. Whill blushed, though he had no audience. He doubted he would get used to that part of elven society.
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 2
