Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords

by Michael Ploof

  There was a great surge pulled from the blade, and Whill realized he had not intended it. Again a surge and a ripple ran through the entire web of dancing light that was his mind. Whill watched as a surge centered upon one area, and from it came a shadow of writhing black lightning. Another surge and it was gone. He pulled back from his mind and willed the blade silent.

  He opened his eyes and his hackles rose as his senses screamed. Before him, seated in Whill’s exact posture on the moonlit balcony, was the Other. He looked as Whill knew he must have looked during his torture. His doppelganger stared at him through bleeding eyes. His hair hung in filthy clumps of dirt and blood. His cheeks were sunken, his teeth like dried bone. Torn, scorched, and filthy, his clothes hung from him like rags. Gashes, bites, bruises, and burns covered his exposed skin, and a long cut from the left corner of his mouth left him with half a grin.

  It was not the appearance of the Other that scared Whill the most, it was when he spoke, for from his mouth came Whill’s own voice. It was pained and spiteful; it was venom to the ears.

  “Hello, Whill,” the Other hissed.

  A shiver ran down Whill’s back that did not go unnoticed by the apparition.

  “You are not real,” Whill said with strength and purpose. He closed his eyes and after a time opened them to find the Other still there. He too blinked and looked around expectantly.

  When nothing happened, he raised a hand. “Let me try.” He coughed. “You are not real!” he yelled and pointed at Whill with a bony finger and broken nail. The Other squeezed his eyes shut and waited. Mocking Whill, he looked around and finally quit the facade. “Well, then, I guess we are both real,” he said, bored.

  Whill stared, wide-eyed. “I am insane.”

  “Yes, my friend, you are, and you’re also a selfish bastard, and a coward,” spat the Other.

  Whill was confused. “How am I selfish?” He looked around. “And why am I arguing with an illusion?”

  “You left me there!” the Other screamed, and visions of his cell flashed through Whill’s mind.

  “I didn’t—”

  “You left me there! Alone, cold, beaten, bloody, starved, and dying, you left me. You turned away when the dark elves came. You closed your ears to my screams, and you closed your eyes to the horror.”

  Whill found himself sobbing as images of his torture, images of the Other shackled to the stone, flashed through his mind. “Stop…” he breathed, barely able to speak.

  The Other’s voice shifted to a strangled whisper. “And I was left to feel everything.”

  “No!” Whill mewled as pain shot through him and wracked his body, leaving him shaking.

  “I was left to see everything. I was left to hear my very bones snap, the rip of muscle and flesh, the festering of maggots and gnawing of rats.”

  “Stop it!” Whill screamed and sent a blast of energy from his hand that went through the Other and exploded against the far wall.

  “Of course you would attack me. You hate me. You hate yourself,” the Other spat.

  “Stop,” Whill cried weakly as anguish washed through him, leaving him lying on his side like a child, curled in utter misery, hiding from the world.

  “Without me, you would have never survived,” the Other sang through broken teeth. “And you shan’t be rid of me now.”

  The pain suddenly subsided and eventually Whill was able to sit up with effort. The Other stared absently at the floor as Whill knew he had for those long maddening breaks between sessions.

  “The Watcher warned me of you. You are the Other. You are Eadon’s doing.”

  “I am your doing!” the Other countered, annoyed. “You were too weak, as you are now. Get rid of me and you will cease to be.”

  Whill believed the truth in his words. He was too weak. The few memories the Other had shown him had left him babbling in tears. The Other was his tortured self, and he held the memories of it all. Whill suddenly felt bad for him.

  “While you were…away,” the Other began, “while I endured the torture for us, I also learned. I delved into our torturers’ minds; Eadon’s included, and learned a great many things, things you cannot know without me.” He looked at the many tomes scattered on the floor between them. “Even with your precious books.”

  “You are the reason for my unexplained powers?” Whill said breathlessly.

  “Our powers since then, yes. Our ability to perform Orna Catorna before the torture was the result of our father’s spirit working through his blade. What we have done since has been a result of what I gleaned from the dark elves. The battle in the arena, fleeing from Eadon, the test of masters—all me,” the Other boasted.

  “It is not true,” said Whill, thinking back. “Before I held my father’s blade I healed Tarren, and the infant in Sherna. That I did alone.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Other.

  Whill stared at his tortured apparition for a long while. His heart sank as he realized once again that he was having a conversation with himself. “What is it you want?” he asked.

  “I want what you want. I want to kill Eadon and destroy his dark armies. I want to see a million draggard heads staining pikes. I want the dark elves to pay for everything they have done!” he yelled, having worked himself into frenzy. Then his expression calmed and he added, “But I need your help, as you need mine.”

  Whill sat up at the confession, the Other’s first real sign of weakness. “My help with what?”

  “I want what you want: I want to exist. Help me to gain the blade of power taken, and we can become like gods.”

  “The blade—Eadon’s blade? I do not want what he wants, I don’t want to be like a god, I don’t—”

  “It is the only way! Don’t you see that now? The prophecy is a lie! We are not the chosen one! We are meant to give to Eadon the blade Adromida. It has been his plan for eons!”

  Whill thought about it for a moment, not agreeing with the Other, but at the same time seeing no other plausible way. “What would you do with Nodae, the sword of power taken?” he asked.

  The Other lifted his chin. “I would manifest a body, and then I would leave you at peace and take your pain and your nightmares with me. You could reclaim our father’s throne, and claim our birthright.”

  “And you?” Whill asked. “What will you do?”

  The Other grinned knowingly. “I do not want to be you. I already am you. I could destroy you if I wanted.”

  “But you would be destroying yourself. You are my ego. Your entire existence depends on my safety.”

  The Other nodded, conceding the point. “Indeed, you need not fear me. I am your only hope.” He grinned. “And I have a gift for you, to help you understand what we can achieve together.”

  “Go on.”

  “I learned many things when Eadon was meddling with our mind; I was able to learn many secrets. I can help you to restore Avriel to her elven body.”

  The words slammed Whill in the heart like a stone and hope lit his heart. He believed the Other.

  Who were you talking to? came Avriel’s mental voice as she landed suddenly upon the balcony. The pages of the many tomes riffled under the wind of her wings.

  Startled, Whill looked from her to the Other, but he was gone.

  “No one,” Whill stammered, and stood on aching legs. He now felt the hours spent so long sitting.

  Avriel regarded Whill as she folded her wings. “You said that you could restore me to my elven body. Who were you talking to?”

  Whill’s eyes widened in terror.

  Chapter 18

  Heldensvargen

  The next morning Dirk awoke to a tongue bath from Chief. The wolf lay next to him as he was rousing, and when Dirk got up, the wolf remained.

  “Hmm, getting tired then, are we?” he asked with a gentle nudge to the lounging spirit wolf. “Ah, I bet you have a hell of a fight left in you.” He took out the timber-wolf figurine and gestured to Chief. “You did well. We will make an excellent team. Now go and rest
, back to wherever a spirit wolf calls home.”

  Chief panted happily and dissipated to mist that swirled up and into the trinket. Dirk put it away with a pat to his pocket and began his day’s journey.

  Well before the chill began to leave the air in the afternoon light, towns and villages began to become more prominent. This was old country, places that had been around for a thousand years and more, the human roots of the Ky’Dren Mountains.

  Here in the shadow of the great mountain range, and all along the mountain’s spine, was one of the greatest seats of wealth in all of Agora. The Ky’Dren Mountains touched all of the human kingdoms save Isladon, and trade with the dwarves flourished. Over the centuries more and more human villages and towns, even kingdoms, had grown around and along the mountain. As the dwarf population grew and the Ky’Dren kingdom was carved out within the range, so too did humans, who supplied nearly all dwarven food. The dwarves had carved halls and tunnels from the northern Icewind Seas to the Nordon Sea in the south, nearly one thousand miles long. They did nothing but toil away in their mines and tunnels; always did the fires of Ky’Dren burn.

  “Always a hammer falls in Ky’Dren” was a well-known Dwarven saying. The dwarves and humans thrived for centuries due to their symbiotic relationship. Humans grew food and raised livestock, and dwarves created masterful weapons and metalwork. Gems, jewels, and diamonds flowed from the mountains on rivers of gold and silver as payment for the food. The only other export of the Ky’Dren dwarves, and in its own right widely sought, was beer. Dark dwarven ale was the favorite of the humans.

  Dirk rode through the largest village he had yet encountered. It felt more like a city as he went. He knew his geography enough to know it to be Heldensvargen. He had never been here before, but he had met a few men from the region. They were easy to tell by their ridiculous accent and tendency to always sound like they were asking a question. The Heldensvargen accent spread far north and south of the Ky’Dren Pass, but curiously, their Eldalonian counterparts, who also traded with the dwarves, had no such accent.

  Dirk nodded to the women on the streets, which here in the center of Heldensvargen were cobblestone. Fine houses flanked both sides of the wide street, with the ditch at the center of the street and lined with mint and flowers. Stonework that could only be dwarven adorned the short wall set before the wooden homes. Great pillars, known to the dwarves and humans alike as the arms of Ky’Dren, supported most archways and the corners of homes and buildings. Aside from being known for its goats and its spirits, this was a land renowned for glassblowing, and it was home to a center for masters in the art. There were more than a few jokes about the wives of glassblowers, but if one were smart he would not utter such trifling words among the sharp-chinned people.

  Dirk paused before a pub called the Bearded Ram. He was contemplating stopping for a quick blond ale when a drunkard was pushed out of the swinging front doors by a much larger man.

  “I tell ye, I tell ye the truth, I saw it with mine own eyes as right as I see your ugly face now, Ortenfelth! You listen not to the words of a drunk, but godsdamnit, drunks have eyes too, ye know!”

  “All right, Koshker, all right! Enough of that. Even if you’re telling the truth and you did see a big winged beast overhead, so what? Strange things been creeping around the world for a time now.” Ortenfelth led the drunkard along the few steps to the road and turned him around.

  The drunken Koshker whirled back on him and nearly fell, and then, stumbling, came to rest against Frostmore’s shoulder. “We must prepare! It is a sign, I say.”

  The innkeeper waved the drunk away and turned back to his pub. “These be dangerous days, fortune-teller. We don’t need you makin’ ’em any darker with your babblings.” He turned at the door, tapped his nose thrice, and pointed a warning at Koshker.

  The drunk kicked at the ground and screamed vulgarities. “Don’t listen, then! Deny your heritage, deny my gift! But you will not be able to deny death when it comes for your nonbelieving arses.”

  He stumbled and lurched and again caught himself with Frostmore. Dirk patiently looked down at the man, coughed, and gave him a friendly smile. “What is it you saw, good sir? I would like to hear your tale.”

  “Tale!” said Koshker. “It ain’t no—.” He stopped, seeming to see Dirk for the first time. He peered closer and his eyes went wide. He whispered, “The man in black upon a steed of noble blood,” so quietly that if not for his enchanted earrings Dirk would not have heard. The man stumbled backward and fell but quickly sprang up again. He fumbled backward like a blind man and went in circles as might a caged beast.

  “I would hear your tale!” Dirk yelled after him as the man began to run for his life. Dirk kicked Frostmore into quick pursuit. The drunken man scrambled between two buildings and Dirk followed, the alley barely admitting his horse. Dirk leapt from his saddle and threw his grappling hook as Koshker attempted to climb a high gate. The hook caught hold of his pants, and with a yank from Dirk, Koshker fell flat on his back from on high. Dirk was upon him in an instant. “I would hear your tale—Koshker, is it?”

  The drunkard babbled and clawed at the ground as he tried to squirm away on his belly. “The man in black with the shadow of a wolf…poison in his touch and death in his stare.”

  Dirk grabbed him and spun him around roughly. A hard slap across the face sobered Kroshker quickly. “Enough of your riddles! How do you know me, what did you see?”

  Kroshker mewled and refused to meet Dirk’s gaze. “This mornin’. I seen it overhead, flying northwest, the winged beast from my dreams…and death rides atop.” The man was almost chanting.

  “Who is the rider? Is it Krentz?” Dirk asked.

  “She is the rider before the storm, the harbinger of death, the daughter of the destroyer…” Kroshker’s voice rose with every word, such terrible titles and twisted riddles that Dirk backed away, disgusted.

  A great shadow passed overhead and all at once a rumbling began, with a low hum that quickly grew. Screams and shouts of warning echoed throughout the village and the town bell tolled with an eerie reverberation.

  “They come at your heels, they come for us all, abominations of the dark one…” Kroshker stood as if pulled up by strings, and a creepy smile spread too far across his face, cracking his lips. “She is the harbinger of death! Death! Death…!” Kroshker chanted as his face contorted with every word.

  The rumbling had grown to the power of a small earthquake as Dirk ran and leapt atop Frostmore. The crazy fortune-teller followed, never stopping in his dark proclamations. The bell tolled and the screams swelled as Dirk quickly backed Frostmore from the alley. The rumbling swelled and shook the very earth as the screams became a deafening orchestra of terror. Dirk turned with a jerk to see what nightmare came crashing through the village. A horde of draggard and dwargon stretching far off to the horizon descended upon him, the sky was blackened by beating wings…Dirk was swallowed by the marching destruction and all was black…

  With a shuddering breath Dirk tried to scream but could not. He looked around the alley, bewildered, not knowing where he was. His head snapped to Frostmore and when he saw the horse blocking the alley where he had left him, he sighed with relief. It had not been real.

  “…she is the princess of darkness, the destroyer of hope. For you she will murder the world.” The drunkard’s voice came back to him with its eerily musical chant. But his face had returned to normal and his mouth no longer grinned so wickedly it threatened to split his head in two.

  “Enough of your poisonous tongue, trickster! Another word and I cut it out,” Dirk threatened, brandishing his dagger.

  “My tongue, my tongue you would take?” the man raged, spittle flying. “My tongue makes not the words true, murderer, remember that…remember that.” Kroshker gave him a maniacal grin.

  Dirk punched Kroshker in the mouth, snapping his head back. The drunkard stumbled backward and fell, clawing the wall as he went.

  “Beat me, kill me…kill
me now and be done with it,” Kroshker babbled through blood and tears. Dirk could see that he had split the corner of the man’s mouth badly with the punch. A shiver ran down his spine as he was reminded of the man’s splitting mouth and cheeks in his temporary illusion. Kroshker now groveled on his belly and tugged at Dirk’s pant leg.

  “Kill me now and spare me the sight of the village aflame, the blood and darkness and death that is surely to come. Do it! Do it now!”

  Dirk kicked the man’s clutching hand away and backed out of the alley. He left Kroshker crying and babbling. Dirk decided to go and get that beer after all.

  The pub was serving lunch at this time of day, but Dirk was in no mood for food. The well-polished bar was a square at the center of the large room. It looked able to seat more than fifty, with tall stools which at the moment were mostly empty. To the left burned a large fireplace, and many large, fur-lined chairs were set there, a perfect place for a weary traveler to warm his bones. But Dirk was not a weary traveler, he was a thirsty one.

  “A pint of the house ale,” he asked of the bartender wiping out fresh glasses from the kitchen.

  “Coming up, sir,” answered the man, though he was much older than Dirk.

  As the drink was being fetched from one of the many barrels that lined the inner square of the bar, Dirk scoped out the pub. At the bar sat three other men, each sitting alone at his own section of the wrap-around bar. They stared off into the distance or the inside of their mugs, unnoticing of their surroundings, much less Dirk.

  The ale was set before him with a frothing head that slid down the side of the mug to add to its appeal. Dirk offered a thankful nod and put back the beer with a long guzzle.

  “Another, if you would,” he said as he wiped froth from his mouth.