Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords

by Michael Ploof

  “Hear, hear!” They clanged glassed and drank.

  They talked for more than an hour about everything and nothing at all. Roakore sat back with his pipe, and the familiar Eldalonian tobacco smoke reminded Whill of Abram. He could just imagine him sitting there across from him, leaning back after a good meal, of which he had savored every bite, pipe hanging from between his teeth, causing him to grin as he held it. To Abram, life had been a thing to be enjoyed. He always found the good in a situation, and he wasted not a moment. He rolled with bad fortune and never expected more than he earned. Whill knew that he shamed Abram’s memory with his behavior. Abram had not raised him a warrior so that he could feel sorry for himself, and he had not raised him to be selfish.

  Whill was reminded of a time when he was just twelve years old, and Abram had brought him to a mission in Brindon, west of Lake Eardon in Shierdon. Abram had made Whill volunteer with him for three days, tending to the sick and dying. He had forbidden food for the duration, for both Whill and himself.

  “Here the skills of healing that Teera has taught you will be tested, but so too will your compassion. We will not eat for three days, and we will test our selfishness,” Abram had told him.

  Whill never forgot those three days. He helped to bandage festering sores, tended to children sick with the barking cough; he made comfortable the dying, and spent endless hours sponging fevered foreheads. After the first day, the hardest part was feeding the sick. He became frustrated with the infirm who left the precious food dribbling down their chins. Abram too helped and he watched Whill closely.

  By the second day, Whill was sick with hunger. He began to feel like those he helped to treat. His stomach felt sunken, and he was occasionally wracked by hunger pangs that left him panicking for food. But he kept it to himself as those around him did. If the four-year-old girl coughing herself to death could starve with dignity, then so could he.

  By the third day, Whill had become accustomed to the burning emptiness in his belly. He moved slowly, weakened as he was. He drifted along the dozens of beds, tending to people’s needs on a schedule he had become accustomed to. He learned what people needed by watching their eyes, and he was well liked by all. The tending Mothers of the Flame said that he had the bedside manner of a saint, and he began to take great pride in his work.

  Whill saw so much senseless pain and suffering that he became outraged at any god who would allow it. The Mothers of the Flame had tried to comfort him with their dogma and their explanations for such things. They spoke of the great plan of the father of the gods, but to Whill, any god whose plans included the suffering of innocent children was neither a loving god nor one to be praised. The Mothers blamed the devils for sickness and death, and praised the father when someone turned around and got well. Little credit was given to the efforts of the healers for miracles of health. Whill had learned from Abram that the lack of simple cleanliness caused most illness, not devils or demons, and though the use of boiled water during treatment and surgery had been shared by the elves hundreds of years before, most healers did not practice it. Agorans were slow to change.

  Whill made it through the third day and spent the fourth eating frequent small meals and resting under Abram’s supervision. The Mothers and healers feared he had contracted something, but after a day of replenishment and rest, Whill insisted on getting back to work. They remained there at the mission in Brindon for six months, and Whill made many friends and helped many people. He also lost a lot of friends, young and old alike.

  Now, sitting with Zerafin and Roakore, Whill looked at the ancient blade of power at his hip. With it he could heal legions. He smiled at Roakore’s pipe smoke and was thankful for his old friend. Whill knew what he had to do.

  “I can help, therefore I must,” he said aloud, stopping Zerafin and Roakore’s conversation. He looked at them with the renewed vigor of resolution. “I accept now that my life is forfeit. I will give myself for this cause. The people’s pain will be mine; together we shall fight against death.”

  “Together,” Roakore agreed.

  “Together,” Zerafin said with a smile.

  Chapter 26

  Carlsborough

  Dirk pushed his horse hard that night. He had injected it numerous times with adrenaline and knew that it could not take much more. He had stopped administering the shots to himself. He needed real rest. He had other useful trinkets and the like that could restore strength, ease pain, and enhance endurance, but there was no replacement for real sleep and dreams, at least none Dirk had yet found.

  He soon came to a small farmhouse that looked to have been long abandoned. One half of the building had been burned out, and the fields had not been tended to in a season. Draggard attacks were not as frequent here in Eldalon; this place had been an exception, it seemed.

  He dismounted and retrieved the timber-wolf figurine. “Chief!” he said loudly. Swirling smoke poured forth and Chief was soon standing before him, awaiting orders. “Check the house and then the barn. If nothing is found, take to the woods and keep the perimeter clear of any intruders.”

  Chief barked once and sprang off toward the farmhouse. After a few minutes the ghost wolf had decided the house was clear and began his inspection of the barn. Dirk tied off the horse and ventured into the house himself. He found what he had hoped he might find within: a bed. Kicking off his boots with a groan, Dirk produced a headband with a single green crystal at its center. He had not had a good night’s sleep since leaving Eadon’s crystal palace, and if he wished to have any chance of stopping Krentz, he would need all the rest he could get. Dirk put on the headband so that the dream crystal was at the center of his forehead. He lay back on the old down bed and instantly fell into a dream-filled sleep. He would sleep for an hour and then take to the road once more.

  Chief stalked the perimeter of the farmhouse, following the scent of a deer. He followed it to the woods but stopped when it traveled too far from the territory he had been tasked to watch.

  Returning to the farmhouse, Chief sensed the nervous horse’s fear. He resisted the urge to attack it, though he could sense that the animal was exhausted and would soon die. His instincts told him to strike, but his loyalty to the holder of the figurine stayed his animalistic urge. He looked at the window of the farmhouse in which he knew his new master slept. His master. He had known many over the centuries—humans, elves, and even a dwarf for a time. Many of his previous masters had fallen to a new one. He was intrigued by this new master, a cunning hunter and able fighter. Chief was eager to see what trouble they might get into together.

  Dirk awoke an hour later, feeling alert and mentally refreshed. The soreness was out of his body and he felt strong. He left the farmhouse and swore to himself when he saw the dead horse. Chief trotted over and sat on his rear and held his head high, sniffing. Dirk gave him a look of accusation. The wolf sneezed and pawed at his nose. Shaking his head, he trotted to the dirt road and waited.

  “More likely ’twas I who killed the horse. Damn!” Dirk said to Chief and joined him on the road. Dirk gave a big, reaching stretch and took a full deep breath.

  “All right, then, boy, it is less than ten miles to Carlsborough. Let’s see if we can beat the sun. C’mon, Chief!” he yelled and took off in a run. Chief barked and chased the black one.

  Dirk ran down the darkened road with Chief at his side. All the while, Krentz would not fly from his mind. His thoughts drifted to the years they had spent together. They had known true freedom then, and though they’d had droves of draggard and dark elves on their heels, they felt alive. They trained daily, and Krentz forced Dirk to master all weapons. She lent him her magic, and Dirk became a master of his weapons quickly. He remembered the endless hours spent throwing darts at flies, which at the time he’d found ridiculous. He never hit the damned things, but still she pushed. When finally he succeeded and tacked a fly to the wall with a dart, he leapt in celebration, or meant to. Instead he found himself paralyzed, with Krentz holding a clawe
d hand toward his head, a look of concentration twisting her beautiful face. Her tattoos swirled and shifted and Dirk felt his mind tingle and buzz.

  Soon she released him and he gasped. “What in the hells was that?” he asked angrily.

  “I captured your brain activity when you successfully hit the fly with the dart, and then I embedded that pattern onto the mental connections for that action,” she panted.

  Dirk shook his head, exasperated. “Come again?”

  “Just try and hit another fly.” She waved him off lazily. “My curious lover, try again.”

  Dirk sighed and rubbed his head. He spotted another fly and took a dart from one of the many ridiculous dart-filled straps she insisted he wear during practice.

  “No!” she yelled. “Do not take the dart out until you mean to shoot.”

  Dirk huffed and grumbled, “You know, you still owe me an apology for the invasion of will.”

  She opened her eyes and regarded him with a smirk. “See if you want one in a minute. Go on, try on the next fly.”

  “Who gives a good godsdamn about the fly?” Dirk yelled, and in his anger he reached for a dart and flung it in a violent outburst. There was a thump and a buzzing died instantaneously. Dirk stared open-mouthed at the newly tacked fly. He laughed, cocked his head to regard the insect, and laughed all the harder.

  “Holy dragon shyte,” he mumbled and eagerly searched for another fly. Thud went his dart through another fly and into the wall. Thud, thud: a dart from each hand hit a fly on the wall. Dirk laughed and spent all of the darts from his straps. When he noticed he was out, he reached for one of his sheathed daggers and threw it at a fly with joyous anticipation of yet another perfect throw. Clang! The dagger bounced off the wall.

  “You have yet to do that, therefore I cannot embed it in your—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Dirk spun his hand in circles. “You be ready, then. The perfect throw is coming up,” he said as he threw and missed and another dagger clanged to the floor.

  It was many days before he hit a fly with a dagger, but after that he never missed. Krentz had told him that the method she used was one shunned by the sun elves, and Dirk had thought them idiots.

  As the first rays of the sun began to shine above the pine trees, Dirk saw a village come into view. He slowed to a walk to catch his breath and inspected the village from afar. Few people were about at this early hour, and Dirk quickly spotted the stables of the small village.

  Sometimes the best place to hide was in plain view, so Dirk stayed with the road and headed straight for the stables. He quietly instructed Chief to go around the village and wait by the road without being seen. The spirit wolf faded until he was nearly invisible and quickly disappeared into the trees.

  Dirk slipped between the stables and an inn and came around back. Behind the buildings there were only foggy wheat fields, pastures, and piles of manure. A row of maples separated the fields from the property behind the buildings that made up Main Street. A few buildings down, a woman came into view and splashed the contents of a bucket into the thicket. Dirk slipped into the stable through the open back door. His hood was pulled down over his eyes, and through it he could see the heat aura of only six horses and one human. The stableboy was shoveling hay from the attic down into a wooden bin. Dirk chucked a dart up at the silhouette of the boy, and a soft thud told him that it had hit home. The boy would likely wake to a good lecture about falling asleep during chores.

  Quickly he inspected the horses. A tall white-and-brown-speckled mare caught his eye. He did not bother with a saddle and led the horse out of its stall.

  Stroking the horse’s neck, he spoke to it as he would a friend. “Will you run well for me, beauty?”

  He petted the horse for a minute and from his hand fed it oats from a bucket nearby. “The apples are fat this time of year, Beauty. How about we get some?”

  He leapt atop Beauty’s back, and grabbing a handful of his mane, he gave the stallion a soft kick. Beauty reared, shot out of the back of the stables, and with a leap cleared the small wooden fence. Dirk steered Beauty on toward the road on the other side of town. He knew that he was hours ahead of Krentz, and he had only a few dozen miles to go.

  Well before noon he arrived in Carlsborough, one of the many large towns dotted all over the Twin Lakes. Centuries past, this had been barbarian territory. And though the tribes had since been wiped out or run out, many of their monolithic structures still stood. Many of the thousands of giant stones had been scavenged to be used for nearby castles and buildings, but many more remained, too big to be moved. Strange patterns had been laid out by the barbarians, and weathered statues of foreign-looking humans with long heads could be found easily. While the barbarians could have used the stone to build impenetrable fortresses, instead they’d built monuments to their gods.

  Dirk stopped at the nearest inn and tied off his horse. The place was empty but for a man preparing the bar for the day’s business.

  “We don’t open before noon ’less you the king of Eldalon,” the man said as he stopped in his polishing of glasses and gave Dirk a once-over. “And you ain’t him.” He went back to his work.

  Dirk walked to the bar and put a small sack of gold coins on it with a clang. “No, but I spend like a king,” he said and took a seat.

  The man limped over to Dirk and appraised him with renewed interest. “I hope a man who carries that many blades is a friend to the lordship, or he ain’t welcome here no matter how much gold he be carrying.”

  Dirk toyed with the idea of stabbing the man in the heart. There was something about the bold man’s way of speech that irritated Dirk. He had a few old scars on his face, causing small patches in his red beard. Dirk guessed his limp was a result of battle also. Judging by the man’s righteous proclamations about the lordship, he was either a retired soldier or guard. There were enough of those around these days. More men than not ended up in the kingdom’s armies, and fewer came home every year. The draggard wars had raged on for two decades, and every village had its share of lost soldiers.

  “I am here with intention to thwart an assassination attempt on your lord, but first I must eat. Fighting dark elves calls for a big breakfast,” said Dirk dryly.

  The man laughed, but quickly his smile was smothered by uncertainty as Dirk opened one side of his jacket. The barkeep saw the dozens of darts, daggers, and gleaming throwing stars and gulped.

  “You’re serious, ain’t you?” the man asked, wide-eyed.

  “No,” said Dirk. “I am Whill of Agora. And I am hungry.”

  The barkeep looked perplexed. He ran a hand through hair that wasn’t there and brought it around to rest on his open-mouthed chin.

  “Whill of Agora. You don’t say.” He turned from Dirk and placed the glass he had been polishing with the others. He put a hand to a wide center beam as he bent to retrieve his dropped towel. “Now that is a tale worth a beer at least.”

  There were four quick thuds as four darts hit the wooden beam between his spread fingers and thumb. They hit in such rapid succession that it sounded as though a woodpecker were drumming away.

  “Please, good sir, I have no time for games. Two orders of your best breakfast dish for two gold coins and a story to tell.”

  Dirk had just begun his second plate when people started pouring into the inn. Dirk smiled to himself as he dug into his biscuits and gravy. His second glass of goat’s milk washed down a slice of pork.

  As he had anticipated, the barkeep’s story had spread like wildfire. Not an hour had passed since he rode into town, and he bet that everyone knew he was there. He needed to gain the audience of Lord Carlsborough, but he also needed to eat. By this route he expected to have his audience by the time he had finished his breakfast.

  And so it was not a moment before he washed down his last drink of milk that a guard arrived and came to stand behind him. Dirk regarded the soldier over his shoulder; the man raised his chin with an air of importance. The crowd that had been eyein
g Dirk with anticipation fell silent. The guard’s purposeful cough became the only sound.

  “Sir, Lord Carlsborough would have word.”

  Dirk stood and wiped his mouth. “Excellent in all regards, good sir,” he said to the barkeep, and left three gold coins on the bar.

  “Lead me to your lord,” he instructed the guard.

  The guard led Dirk on horseback up the winding hill upon which sat Castle Carlsborough. Dirk veered to the side of the road and off for a moment.

  “The castle is this way,” said the lord’s guard.

  “Yes, it is quite hard to miss. But I promised Beauty here some apples,” said Dirk as he plucked an apple from one of the many trees which lined the road to the castle. The land of Carlsborough was lush with growth of flower and fruit, the lake effect keeping the air moist and perfect for farming.

  Once Beauty had eaten his fill of the treats, they continued on. In short order Dirk stood before Lord Carlsborough. The old man looked to have had a rough morning. He sat upon the dais of the great room upon at a tall chair surrounded by guards—twenty of them, Dirk quickly counted. It seemed that the lord was scared.

  Dirk disregarded pleasantries and strode forward purposefully. He did not miss the faint flexing of many of the guard’s sword arms.

  “You have heard of your kin, then? Surely you do not guard yourself so heavily against word of Whill of Agora?”

  Lord Carlsborough took a measure of Dirk. Behind his bushy eyebrows and long nose, suspicious eyes regarded the assassin.

  “You are he?” he asked in a strong voice.

  “No,” said Dirk, shaking his head. “But I am a friend of the man, and I knew his name would gain me audience.”

  The lord cocked back his head and let out a pensive breath. “Who are you, then?”

  “Dirk Blackthorn.” He could have used one of his many other names, but he wanted Eadon and Whill alike to know what he had done.