“What have you done, you son of a bitch?” he cried.
Eadon let out a long laugh. “As much as I looked forward to your services, assassin, Krentz made me an offer I could not refuse.”
Dirk shook his head in denial and tears found his dark eyes.
“You are free, Dirk Blackthorn. I release you from your oath.”
As the words were spoken, Dirk felt the difference within him immediately. His vision cleared, and as he slowly neared the portal, he could see Krentz standing behind her father, beyond the rippling threshold. Here form shimmered and wavered, but it was she.
“Krentz, no! What have you done?”
“Enough out of you!” Eadon roared. He raised a hand and Dirk was lifted from his feet and held in midair by the throat. His cries were choked as his hands clawed at the phantom noose that held him.
“You are free, but if ever we cross paths again, you will be mine even after your death.”
He let Dirk drop to the dirt and turned to the portal. Dirk sprang to his feet and sprinted after him. As Eadon stepped through, it began to shimmer. Krentz lifted a hand in farewell and Dirk screamed. The portal closed as Dirk dove and he went through the empty space only to land on the other side in the grass.
Dirk got to his feet and screamed in rage. He then noticed the dozens of beasts that still guarded the portal. He was cornered. He planted his feet and drew his short sword and mind-control dagger. He threw the dagger at the closest dwargon, and when it stuck in the monster’s thigh, Dirk yelled, “Kill them all!”
The dwargon roared in compliance, having no will to fight the power of the persuasive blade. The creature attacked the draggard to his right, grabbing its tail and with powerful arms swinging it to smash into the one next to it.
“The draggard are attacking your brother!” Dirk yelled to the other confused dwargon. The mammoth abominations were thick-skinned like a dragon and strong like a dwarf, but they shared the intellect of neither. Eadon didn’t like his creatures thinking too much, which worked to Dirk’s advantage. He went to work on the closest draggard. Using his enchanted cloak to ward off glancing spear and tail attacks, he rolled and twirled and danced around his attackers. He knew the beast’s weak spots and he took every advantage. He hamstrung those he did not kill and threw darts into the eyes of others.
He caused such chaos that he was able to slip quickly out of the deadly ring of thrashing monsters. He retrieved his dagger from the dead dwargon and sprinted west toward a distant mountain range and away from the fighting guardians of the portal. He knew not where he was, but he knew that if Krentz had sworn fealty to her father, Eadon would give her Dirk’s mission. That meant she would soon be in Kell-Torey. No matter which mountain range was before him, Eldalon would be west of it.
As Dirk ran, he retrieved a dart from his belt and jabbed it into his forearm. He felt the effects immediately as his heartbeat surged, his head cleared, and his lungs drew in twice as much breath. He doubled his pace as the drug coursed through his veins. He ran faster than a horse out of the woods and through a long field of golden wheat, but he knew he would soon need to find a horse if he was to make it to Kell-Torey in time to stop Krentz. He prayed that the far-off range was the Ky’Dren Mountains as he made haste to save his love from the beckoning of her mad father.
Chapter 7
The First King of Elladrindellia
When Whill left the cottage, he was greeted by Avriel. Her dragon smile would have killed a deer from fright, but to Whill it was beautiful. She moved her head to the side to show Whill the large saddle upon her back. Thick leather straps wound before and behind her front legs to hold the large saddle in place.
“Where did that come from?” Whill asked as he stepped closer to inspect it.
Mother made it. You could fill a dwarven vault with the things she has made. Do you like it?
“I do indeed. No offense, but your scales are not the most comfortable to sit on.”
She laughed, surely startling any nearby animals. None taken. Come, try the new seat, I have much to show you.
He didn’t hesitate and stepped through the rung hanging from the saddle. The seat was well padded and soft, with flaps hanging from the sides to protect the legs. There were also a number of possible handholds upon the horn of the saddle. He took hold. Avriel leapt, beat her strong wings, and took to the sky.
Twilight was upon them as they climbed higher above the city. Far below Whill saw the constellation of lights aglow atop the many pyramids. The sun had just set, but its light had not. Rays of sunlight could still be seen gliding atop the encroaching twilight. Whill and Avriel soared gently on the warm autumn air; they flew between the heavens and the earth, between day and night. They existed for a moment between worlds, and Whill could have stayed there forever. Here his destiny could not find him, his pain was forgotten; his worries could not climb this high, and his cares could not follow.
What if we never return? he asked Avriel, absentmindedly gazing upon the last rays of light, like pillars to the heavens.
What do you mean? she asked, as if the thought had never occurred to her.
“I mean what if we were to leave Agora forever, find another place to live, a place far from this constant strife? I never wanted any of this. I was quite content with my life up until…” He paused and thought about when his life had started to spin out of control. It was when I learned of my parents, within that vault, he thought, and then felt guilty for it.
You would not leave Agora forever. For you would ever wonder of its fate, and when finally you were driven mad by wonder and guilt you would return to find a smoldering wasteland.
Whill knew her to be right. He could not abandon Agora if there was any hope that he might be able to help defeat Eadon. It seemed there was nowhere to go anyway; the elves had escaped only to be discovered a world away in Agora. The same nagging feeling of helplessness came back to him. He knew he stood no chance against Eadon. What could the elves possibly teach him in such a short time that would help him against a master of every school of elven magic? How could Whill possibly hope to defeat him?
Together he and Avriel flew over the Thousand Falls and beyond by moonlight. For nearly an hour they flew north over forests and streams, valleys and fields. Flying low to the ground they suddenly came to an end to the land. It dropped off to crashing waves and ocean spray. Whill howled as they broke through a foaming wave as it smashed against the rocks. Salt water fell from them like threads of silver in the moonlight.
Avriel rose above the waves and twisted in flight to face the land once more. She glided down gently toward the jagged rocks and through them into the mouth of a wide eastern-facing cave. Whill’s breath was taken away as Avriel landed not far from the entrance. Crystals of all sizes and shapes protruded from the walls and ceiling. Even in the dull moonlight he could see the spectacular array of colors within the luminescent depths of the crystal. He dismounted and explored the nearby formations.
This and similar crystal mines are littered throughout the land, Avriel purred, and the crystal resonated with her dragon voice. If only I had my voice, I could show you how the crystal sings.
“Are these natural?” Whill asked as he glided his hand along the smooth surface of a crystal larger than he.
No, these are not. We helped them to grow long ago. They are used in many of our tools and weapons.
“It is beautiful,” said Whill.
Avriel hummed in agreement and the crystal sang with her. It is one of my favorite places to meditate.
They remained within the cave throughout the night. They talked and rested, enjoying each other’s company. When morning came, Whill was awakened with a gentle nudge from Avriel. She stared at the entrance of the cave in anticipation.
The sun rises, she purred, and there beyond the mouth of the cave the waters of the great ocean blazed to life as the sun rose into the morning sky. The first of the sun’s rays shot across the ocean and onto the coast, and they shone on t
he crystals within the cave, illuminating them in a cascade of sparkling color. Whill could not help but laugh with joy as they seemed to bathe in color and light. Avriel’s white dragon scales radiated with dancing, multicolored brilliance. She looked to Whill like a dragon goddess of lore.
Soon they began the flight back to Cerushia. The air was crisp and the day clear. As they passed over a clearing, Avriel’s eye was drawn to a group of deer. She swooped down as silent as death and caught one in her jaws. Whill held on tight as she shook her head and broke its neck, and then choked back the deer whole. Then she took to the air once more.
“What is it like?” Whill yelled over the wind.
Eating deer?
Yes, he answered, this time in his mind. Well, eating deer as a dragon.
She hummed. It is not the same as eating with fork and spoon.
“Obviously,” he chuckled.
The flavor is different. My dragon body craves…
Whill sensed her hesitation; it was not for lack of words. She was embarrassed by it.
Blood, she finally confessed. The warmth of it, the bittersweet taste. I tried to eat like an elf might at first, but dragon teeth were not made for nibbling, and the use of silverware would be simply ridiculous.
Whill burst into laughter at the thought of Avriel as a dragon, sipping soup with a huge spoon.
“What is so funny?”
He projected the image as hard as he could and soon Avriel had joined in his amusement. She laughed in Whill’s mind in her elven voice, but she also laughed as a dragon. The dragon laughter, however, came out as a strange growl, which made it all the funnier to them. They laughed until Avriel’s flying became erratic and she begged him to stop chuckling on her back like a chipmunk. That mental image only made things worse. They laughed until Whill’s cheeks were sore and he was left panting as he leaned upon her smooth-scaled neck. She purred and glided along on a particularly warm current of air.
Midday arrived and the day had turned out to be pleasantly warm for that time of year, Will thought, then realized that he was used to the chiller climate of the north. Elladrindellia was at the very southeastern part of Agora, and therefore it would be warmer. He wondered if they had snow; he did not recall it in any of the books he had ever read on elves.
They reached Cerushia shortly thereafter, and Avriel flew to their abode on the edge of the city. There they were met by a messenger. They were summoned to the Summer Star, a pyramid named after its heavenly twin.
They took to the air once more and flew directly to the Summer Star. Once there they went inside, the door of vine and stone opened wide like a behemoth’s mouth to accommodate Avriel. As they entered the pyramid, Whill saw that the capstone of crystal illuminated the space as if it were daylight. He saw too, the group of elves sitting in wait for him at a table in the center.
He knew the queen, who sat in the middle, and recognized a few of the elders who had sat with her before. They and other elves Whill did not know sat at the large round stone table. There were twenty-seven elves in all. His eye caught that of Azzeal and the elf offered him a friendly nod.
Whill strode to the table and looked around at the gathering of strange-looking elves, one of whom he could have sworn had an animal bone through his nose, and pointed ears split down the middle to form two points. There were male and female, some clothed in flowing robes of silk or gowns of vine. A few wore the armor of warriors, and the dirt upon their faces and their weary stares told Whill enough of their story.
A reflection of light from the queen’s crystal crown caught Whill’s eye. She stood and the others followed suit, and they followed her in a bow. Whill bowed back, his mind scrambling to remember something of elf custom that would pertain to his situation, but he came up empty. So he greeted the elves like he thought a king might—he was, after all, recognized by the elves as the king of Uthen-Arden, albeit the uncrowned king.
“Hello, good elves,” he said at a loss for words more fitting his position.
They all looked at each other and shared whispered words. The queen’s eyes watched the mouths of the others. “Thank you for coming so soon, Whill. Please do sit with us, as we have come to an impasse.”
Whill took a seat and laced his fingers on the table. “Impasse?”
“Yes,” said the queen as she too sat, followed by the others. “Some among us have suggested something which you must have a say in, for it concerns yourself.”
Whill looked at Avriel beside him. She gave him a mental shrug. “What is it?” he asked.
“First you must meet the members of our gathering; it is small enough in number to warrant pleasantries.”
The queen introduced each elf by name and title. The entire process took nearly a half hour. Aside from the members of the elder council and various representatives, Whill met masters of the various schools of elven magic, or Orna Catorna. He was not surprised to learn that Azzeal was a master druid, or Ralliad, as the elves called it. The other factions—that of Aklenar, seers of the future; Morenka, monks of peace; Arnarro, the healers; Krundar, the elementals; Gnenja, the warrior class; and Zionar, or psionists—were all represented as well. The was no Kennarra, or master of all schools of magic, as they had all stayed behind to fight for Drindellia, and none had yet attained that rank since.
Once all were introduced, the queen took her seat once again. “What we are here to discuss is the possibility that you could be given the knowledge of all schools, by each of the masters, and become a Kennarra.”
“Kennarra?” Whill gasped. “A master of all schools of knowledge? How is that possible?”
The elf the queen had introduced as a master of Zionar spoke. His booming voice resonated throughout the temple in such a way that it seemed as though he spoke from all directions.
“It is possible, though it is shunned, for one to be given all the knowledge that another possesses. Only under certain…circumstances is it accepted.”
“What circumstances?” asked Whill.
“Death,” said the Zionar master. “One can pass on their knowledge at death to whomever they choose. Though mastery in an art is not granted until many trials, even then one must prove himself through the evidence of time and growth beyond the gift.”
Whill shook his head as he began to understand. “No one is dying to give me their godsdamned power. I don’t even want the power I have!”
“There are those of us who have wished to move on to the next life, to no longer hold death at bay,” said a female elf, a master monk. “I would give my life to give you the gift of my knowledge. I would see you healed, mind and soul, for you carry so much pain and rage. You wear your scars like armor, and you revel in your pain.”
Whill only sighed, tired of hearing of his rage and pain. They didn’t understand.
“I am the one meant to find this blade,” he said. “I am the one tasked with defeating your brother. I think I have a good understanding of power. The sword calls to me constantly, or I call for it, I do not know. But I know its power, I can feel it in my grasp, and I see no limits. I know that my imagination is the only limit, and it scares me, to know what I could do. I need your help, but I will not allow another to die so that I may gain more cursed power.”
“Then you truly are an anomaly, Whill of Agora, to shun that which most hearts yearn for,” said the queen.
Azzeal stood and bowed slightly to Whill. “There is one thing I believe we should all share knowledge of, a story that came to us from Kellallea herself.” He looked at Whill, but Whill could not judge his feline eyes. “The ancient Kellallea told a tale of Adimorda that may be Eadon’s greatest secret. Her story was thus. Eadon is Adimorda. In the ancient days of prosperity, long before the draggard wars of Drindellia had begun. Adimorda looked into the future with his great gifts of power and saw himself rise to power as the dark elf lord Eadon. He saw the very reality that he would set in motion to become so.”
The elves stirred upon their seats. Exclamations and question
s poured from the shocked gathering. “Please, this is but the beginning of the tale,” Azzeal bade them with raised hand. “Kellallea spoke of an ancient spell, created in the days of the elven dawn, created by the gods themselves. This spell told of a way that one might attain the power of a god, and ascend to sit upon a heavenly throne. Two blades the spell named, the Sword of Power given, and the Sword of Power Taken. It was said that if one were to collect both of the blades, they would become a god. Eadon now has the greatest power taken, and he set into motion long ago a means to one day possess the greatest power given. He named the sword Adromida, the Blade of the Savior, only to convince others to do his bidding. The ancient one believes that the legend of Whill of Agora is but another fable created by Eadon.”
Azzeal finished his tale and avoided Whill’s eyes. The queen remained in her chair, motionless. The crowd was silent, none moving as they pondered what they had just heard. Finally an elder stood. “This tale, however unpleasant to comprehend and accept, carries with it the sound of truth.” He looked at Whill. “The greatest puzzle we have recently faced is thus: Why did Eadon not kill you? Many would say that he sees in you a great apprentice, while others would state that Eadon needs you to transfer the great power of the blade to him. He asked you as much, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Whill nodded. “But whether the prophecy is true or a lie, Eadon would see me give him the power.”
“Indeed,” said the elf as he pondered. “But this spell of the gods, truth of it sparks in a far-off corner of my mind. I would need many days to explore my knowledge of this, though the truth of it may be lost to the destroyed libraries of our homeland.” He looked to the others. “Have any of you heard of such a spell?”
Everyone looked around but none answered, until an elven woman stood. Whill could not guess her age, but if she were a human he would have said thirty. She wore a long gown of blue flower petals, which contrasted as the sky might against the snow, so white was her skin. Her eyes seemed to dance with deep blue flames, and when she spoke, she spoke as though in a trance.
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 6
