Behind her, heavy footsteps followed by victorious laughter stalked towards her. She could just picture Icethorn raising his sword high over his head. She fumbled and clutched the dragonlance shaft and tucked it under her burnt arm so that it stuck out behind her. Through her blurred vision she saw a shadow loom and a sword raised high.
There was a coward at her back.
Aurora touched a gem upon the shaft and the lance doubled in size as a pointed end shot forth and hit with a thud. Aurora's vision had begun to clear, the world stopped spinning. The shadow before her dropped its sword behind it and reached for the shadow of the protruding dragonlance.
Aurora stumbled to her feet and the sights and sounds of the world came rushing back to her. Icethorn was raging like a bull as he slowly extracted the dragonlance from his chest. The man's eyes bulged and his mouth frothed with blood, but he kept pulling the lance through. Aurora took up Icethorn’s axe and walked to stand before the impaled barbarian. She set a heavy foot on the shaft where it met the ground at a slant and Icethorn howled. He clawed at the thick dragonlance that had made a hole in his chest the size of a fist and cursed Aurora.
"You maggot with your elf magic, die, die, die squealing like your fa--"
The battle axe cut through his neck and sent the head flying in a spray of blood. The body remained frozen in place, propped up by the lance. Aurora took the head of the former chieftain and held it high.
"I am the chief of the seven. If any challenge my claim, come forth now!" she yelled and tossed the head of Icethorn. The elves, as spirit animals, stalked forth to create a ring around Aurora, the dragons, hawks, and eagles took to the sky and circled above her. The barbarians of the seven tribes began to chant the name of their new chief of the seven. The name Aurora Snowfell echoed over the snow covered hills, through the city and forest beyond. It even reached the ear of the lone dark elf that stood at the base of the storming rift.
Chapter 35
Meeting of the Masters
Roakore was nowhere to be found when Whill left his room that morning. He was greeted by the dwarves and especially by Lunara, but nothing was asked of him about Roakore, and Whill did not ask. Dwarves didn’t get into other people’s business, and for that Whill was grateful.
He left the mock mountain and made his way to the pyramid in which he was to meet with the masters. It had been a week since he had been given the books, and today he was expected to answer their quizzing. He smiled to himself as he went over books at random, seeing them perfectly in his mind. He could just imagine the looks he would get when he answered their questions.
Entering the pyramid, he found the masters seated as they had been before. But this time there were neither test items nor queen. Zerafin, however, was present. Present also were many of the elders he had seen before. Although he felt prepared for the task ahead, he still found himself nervous.
Whill strode forward into the meeting hall and stopped before the gathering. Crossing his arms, he bowed slightly and waited. The elves rose as one and returned the bow. The king remained standing while the others sat. Something in his eye reminded Whill that Zerafin did not approve of his and Roakore’s running off into a portal.
“Now that we are all here, we may begin,” he said dryly. “When last we met, you performed tests from each master. The masters would like to give their rating of your skill levels and ask what you have learned from the tomes.”
“Am I allowed to sit whilst I answer?”
Zerafin blinked at him and stared; before he could respond, Angril of the Krundar arose.
“Make yourself a chair,” he said, gesturing to the stone beneath Whill.
Whill looked at the stone and then at Angril. “You make a chair. The tests were last week, remember? I am the rightful King of Uthen-Arden, the kingdom that gave you this land. All I ask for is a godsdamned chair.”
Whill could not believe the words that had come out of his mouth. He sounded just like the Other—his pained inflections, the sneer; he could almost hear the blood in his mouth. He looked wide-eyed at the elf master as everyone stared at him, some showing their thoughts and some not.
“Please,” Whill muttered and looked at the ground. He tried not to think of the Other. The ground shifted below him and he turned to watch a smooth, curving chair grow out of the stone. He turned back to the Krundar master, who only bowed and took his own seat.
“Thank you,” said Whill as he sat, not meeting Zerafin’s eyes.
“The first of the masters, please. You have the hall,” said the king, taking a seat.
Master Libratus of Arnarro stood and directed his attention to Whill. The blue tendrils upon his robe seemed to swirl around the sleeves of his lokata. “You, my friend, have baffled my understanding of the learning process. As I am sure many of my fellow masters will attest, you have abilities that no elf under one hundred years of age has. It may even be a new form of Orna Catorna that you are using, something yet unseen until now. While we must learn everything about the part of the body we are healing, you have not. While we must understand how the body heals itself, you do not. Yet you can.” He waved a hand absently at the air. “My final evaluation is that I do not know. To me it seems a testament to the prophecy.”
The elves stirred, both believers and nonbelievers of the prophecy. “I will speak no more of it.” Libratus waved them away. “Did you read much of the art of healing?” he asked Whill.
“Yes, I found it quite interesting. I have always had an attraction to the art. I consider the power to heal the greatest of all gifts.”
“Indeed.” Libratus smiled with a raised chin. “And how far did you get?”
“I read the entire tome,” Whill said with pride.
Libratus nodded slowly. “I see. Very well. What is the center bone of the human hand called?”
“In elven or Agoran speech?” Whill asked.
“Elven,” Libratus replied, sounding intrigued.
“It is called the astellarden.”
“And what is the tendon that runs above it from knuckle to wrist?” Libratus pressed.
“Minnetus,” answered Whill.
Libratus looked to the ceiling in thought. “Quarts of blood in the elven body?”
“Five.”
“Which god strand is responsible for the body’s healing?”
“Number twenty-seven.”
“How do healing stones work?”
“A frequency is given to the smoothed crystal that the body of the wounded responds to. This frequency is determined early in elven culture and shared with few. Usually healing stones are carried by those they are meant to heal. There are others as well, however, such as Krenolian rubies and Shadrol emeralds, which can be used on anything with the guidance of the wielder,” Whill answered with a smile.
“Page seven hundred nine, paragraph six, third word in the first sentence,” said Libratus with a scowl.
Whill grinned. “Blood.”
Defeated, Libratus laughed to himself and clasped his hands before his chin. “Are we to assume that you can recite all of the tomes so?”
“Yes, I can see them all clearly,” Whill confirmed.
There was a rustling of masters and elders as murmured discussion abounded.
“Is this a new ability?” asked Libratus.
“Well…yes, it is. I turned my mind-sight inward and enhanced the parts of my mind that control memory and learning.”
Libratus nodded to himself, looking disappointed. Many of the elves seemed to share his sentiment. “You do know that this type of meddling is shunned by the elves of the sun?” he asked.
“I am not an elf,” Whill reminded them. “I need to learn all that I can as quickly as possible if I am to face Eadon. Or do you all have a better plan?”
“These rules are set in place for a reason. Past abuses have dictated the necessity for such ways,” said Libratus.
Whill rose from his chair and addressed them all. “I am done discussing elven rules. Does any
one have anything to offer in the form of help? Or are we to sit around talking about what I should and should not do?”
Zerafin rose from his chair with a scowl. “You should show more respect for this court.”
“I have respect, my friend, but do the elves? Maybe Kellallea was right when she caused the elves to forget magic. What good has it done Agora? You have not shared your gifts with man nor dwarf; sickness still plagues the world. Life has not been made easier by your magic—it has become a nightmare. You are strangers to men and despised by most dwarves. Perhaps if you had shared your magic with Agora, we would now stand a better chance.”
He turned as if to leave but whipped back on them. “Perhaps I should not be the one being tested here. Tomorrow I will strike a blow to Eadon’s armies that he has never felt: tomorrow I wage war. If you would join me, then do so, but do not get in my way.”
Whill turned from them all, went through the sunlit entrance, and never looked back.
Outside of the building he was met by a huge crowd of elves who had come to see him. He stopped before the blocked path and sighed with frustration. Next to him the Other looked at the crowd of groveling elves with disgust.
“And here we always thought the elves so mysterious and special. They act like groveling swine.”
“Shut up,” Whill told him. To the crowd he spoke for all to hear. “Here I am!” His voice boomed over them as he stretched his arms out wide. “The one named in prophecy. The one foretold to rid the world of Eadon. I am Whill of Agora, I am legend. I am prophecy and death. Look at me now and look no more. If you would heed my legend, then heed my word.”
The city had grown dead quiet as Whill’s words echoed throughout, enhanced by the sword at his hip. Everyone waited for the word of Whill of Agora; the prophecy’s lore masters waited eagerly for his gospel. Maidens and males alike looked on in eager anticipation. Whill let them wait, let the tension build until he knew he had everyone’s complete attention.
“I am not a weapon, I am a man, and I will not help those who do not help themselves. Decide if you will flee or fight, and do it soon, for I grow weary of those who would see me save them.”
The crowd suddenly parted frantically as a white dragon landed before Whill. Upon its back sat Avriel. Whill cocked his head at the strange image of Avriel riding the dragon she had once possessed. He climbed the white dragon Zorriaz and Avriel smiled back at him before coaxing the dragon up. Zorriaz spread her magnificent wings and the crowd parted further. Her legs rippled with muscle as she leapt thirty feet into the air and began to slowly climb up and away from the temple. Looking back, Whill realized that many of the masters and elders had come out of the pyramid at some point in his speech and were now among the thousands who watched them sore over the city.
“I am going with you into the portal,” Avriel said over the wind and in his mind at the same time.
“The portal likely leads to the horrors of the hells. It makes no sense for the princess of the elves to do such a thing. You will remain with your people,” Whill argued without passion, as if that was simply the way it would be.
Avriel turned and gave him a furious look. “I will? You command me now?”
“No,” he said, staring back at her. “I speak as the king of Uthen-Arden. A war zone is no place for someone so important to her people.”
Zorriaz gave a screech and suddenly dove straight down. Whill was forced to cling to the saddle he and Avriel shared. The dragon leveled out and abruptly turned skyward as it beat its wings forward to land. Zorriaz came down on her hind feet and Avriel gave Whill a shove that sent him flailing from the saddle. He would have hit the ground hard had he not quickly slowed his fall. Avriel leapt from her dragon and came around the front to face Whill.
“So a battlefield is no place for women?”
“Avriel, I didn’t say—”
“A princess of the elves should sit home and look pretty for her people and be gushed over all day?”
He laughed. “Now you are just making things up.”
She shoved him. “But my brother the king, he should risk his life in battle? Is he not more important to his people? You are a king, yet you fight.”
Avriel pushed until Whill’s smile was gone. She shoved him again but he caught her wrists. Avriel pulled back but he held her firm. She tried to speak and he kissed her. Her protest became a whining moan as she pulled herself forward and their embrace sent them to the moss-covered stone below.
Zorriaz snorted as if annoyed, and when it was apparent the two would not part soon, she leapt and flew off. Avriel and Whill’s kiss began slowly as they savored the moment they had both dreamt of. Soon it turned urgent and frantic as they both were driven mad with passion for one another. They rolled upon the moss between the raging falls and laughed between kisses. Avriel pushed Whill down and with a wry grin raised her hands. The vines along the rocky falls nearby climbed up and over them, forming a dome that let only small light inside.
Chapter 36
Whill Rising
Later that night Whill ate dinner with the dwarves at the large table in the main hall of the mock mountain. Some fifty dwarves there were, along with Avriel, Lunara, and Tarren. The feast was had and pipes were lit, and soon talk turned to the possibility of portals within the dwarven kingdoms.
“How in the hells did the portal get inside me mountain twenty years ago? That’s what I be wonderin’,” said Roakore.
“Maybe the dark elves disguised themselves as dwarves or something,” Tarren offered through a mouthful of food.
“It is possible,” said Lunara. “No matter how they did it, it was done. Now the possibility exists that there may be more in the other mountain kingdoms.”
Roakore nodded. “That’s what I be thinkin’. I had me dwarves search every inch o’ Ro’Sar, but no sign o’ a portal was found. Word was sent for the other kings to do the same. When we left Ro’Sar, no word had come back by falcon.”
“All I know for sure is that the longer we wait, the more time Eadon has to prepare. I am done waiting,” said Whill.
“Hear, hear!” cheered Philo and drank down his beer. It seemed that the dwarf used any excuse to drink down a beer. He cheered just about everything anyone said.
Whill nudged Tarren and motioned for him to follow. The boy followed Whill to his room. Whill turned within the threshold and was about to speak when Tarren did.
“I know,” said the lad. “Lunara will be watchin’ over me while you are off fighting.”
“Are you happy with the arrangement?” Whill asked.
Tarren scrunched up his face as if Whill were crazy. “Well, no, I would rather you didn’t have to risk your life for everyone. But I don’t mind bein’ with Lunara. She is a good person.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you think you can stop him?” asked Tarren quietly.
Whill did not want to lie to the boy. “No,” he answered truthfully, and Tarren bowed his head.
“But you have the sword of power. Can’t you kill him with it?”
Whill shook his head. “It is complicated. The sword may actually be Eadon’s, and if that is true, I cannot kill him with it. Elves cannot be killed by their own sword.”
Tarren looked confused. “Can’t you use the power in it to kill him?”
“I don’t know,” said Whill. “But one thing I do know is that I can use the sword against his armies, and I intend to. I will crush them all.”
Tarren smiled up at him. He seemed convinced that Whill could do what he said. Tarren had to believe that Whill would be all right. It had worked before.
“Between Lunara and that Holdagozz dwarf, you will be safe,” he said.
Tarren shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
Whill smiled and picked him up in a bear hug. “One day life will be normal again, Tarren.”
The boy laughed, returning the hug. “No, it won’t.”
Whill put him down and Tarren looked up at him with a grin. “I am the
ward of Whill of Agora, my best friend is the son of a dwarf king, and I have an elven godmother. Life will never be normal again,” he said with a brave smile.
Whill could not help but laugh.
He did not sleep that night. He did not need to. The sword and the anticipation of what he might find on Fendora gave him all he needed to stay wide awake.
Whill left Avriel and the rest of them and quietly snuck out of the elf-made cave. He unsheathed Adromida and with a thought he willed himself up and into the sky. He flew steadily to the falls and landed upon one of the many outcroppings of rock that split the raging waters. The moon was a looming mass in the clear night sky. Only a few long clouds passed slowly, like whales in an ocean of stars. Moonbeams like rays of light piercing though water fell across the land and illuminated the already glowing city.
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 30
