Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords

by Michael Ploof

  Whill dug into the memory of the tome of Gnenja and began practicing one of the many sword-fighting forms. The Koresnian method was first. Focusing on balance and defense, it was a valuable way to protect against attack, though in a tight spot it would not be useful, as it demanded space to move in. For an hour Whill went through the curving blocks and brilliant feints it offered. He could not believe how good it felt to work with the sword; it seemed to meld to his body so that he did not so much wield it as dance with it. Together he and the blade twirled and struck like a viper, only to leap seven feet landing in a crouch with a sidelong slash.

  Far below, someone in the city noticed Whill there upon the falls silhouetted in the giant setting moon. Word spread quickly and elves came in droves. Soon the entire riverside was packed with elves mimicking Whill’s forms. Anyone of the Gnenja discipline and even farmers and elves of the market came to watch Whill. But there, high above it all, Whill did not notice. He saw only the form, knew only his body and the blade. Across from him the Other had materialized, but Whill ignored him. The Other mimicked his every move flawlessly though he held no sword.

  Long into the night Whill performed the forms. He put the Other out of his mind and began yet another form. This, the Derzarrian, focused upon nothing but offense. It was a powerful form of heavy strikes and sweeping slashes. The blade became a blur of singing death in his hand.

  Morning came with the sun and the first of the beams hit Whill there high upon the falls. Below, upon the banks of the river where the sun had yet to shine, the elves looked up at their savior of legend, brilliant as the sunrise, and many believed.

  Whill executed the forms flawlessly, twirling, spinning and leaping with a grace few humans could match. His body had been made whole again by the blade and the elven care. He was once again in his prime. He could hold impossible positions due to his strength and newfound skill. He could linger in a leap or come down like lightning if he chose.

  After the sun had been in the sky for many hours, Whill finished the last routine, brought the blade to his face, and breathed deeply. He knew he had yet to understand fully the wealth of power within the blade. In truth he had barely scratched the surface of what he knew to be possible with it. He felt as though the sword could move mountains without noticing a depletion of power, and it scared him.

  Whill sheathed his blade and found what seemed to be the entire city staring at him from below. Whill ran and leapt from the stone out and over the river. He fell slowly and traveled quickly across the water. He came down next to the dwarven living quarters and found them all outside, armor-clad and in formation. Elves there were too, and Whill marveled that half the city had armored and prepared overnight. Before him stood an army of elves, and he recognized all of the schools of magic represented there. All of the masters were present, as well as many of the elders. There were droves of druids in animal form, from bear to wolf and great cat. Zerafin split the crowd on horseback and rode to face Whill. He wore full elven plate armor of silver with gemmed buckles and straps, with large shoulder plates that glowed from behind the cracks with a blue brilliant light. Zerafin looked like a true elven king of legend, as had never been seen upon the shores of Agora.

  “The elders, and the masters, and the elves of Cerushia have decided,” said the king for all to hear. “You are worthy of legend, Whill of Agora, and we will fight alongside you to the ends of the earth if need be. For we shall be victorious in this fight, or we will die trying!” The elves and even the dwarves cheered agreement.

  “It is good to know that I am not alone in this,” Whill told the crowd. “I thank you.”

  “It has been decided that we will strike Fendora together, today,” Zerafin announced.

  Whill looked across the ocean of stoic elven faces. “I intended to infiltrate Fendora alone.”

  “There is no need for infiltration. We are attacking and taking the rock. It was lost to our cause long ago. It is now a desolate breeding ground for draggard and a dark-elf naval base, and it must be taken. It shall be the first of many offenses. We have already sent word to the dwarves of Helgar.” Zerafin gestured to Roakore.

  “Aye, laddie!” Roakore grunted. “I been in touch with the king o’ Helgar. It seems the elves gifted the dwarf with a speaking stone a while ago. I don’t know why he trusted the thing, bein’ as suspicious as any dwarf about the elves. But I spoke to him while you were doin’ your dance on the falls. It took an hour and many questions from both o’ us before we believed it was each other, but it turned out to be a trustworthy trinket. I told the king we meant to take the island, and he agreed to it. It be in the interest o’ the Helgar dwarves to take the island outpost. Already they fight to keep the eastern edge o’ Uthen-Arden clear between mountain and sea. They fight for the beach even now.”

  “Yes, we will rendezvous with the dwarves upon the western coast, and from there we will wipe out the enemy,” Zerafin said.

  Whill wanted to scream with excitement. Finally something was happening! If he could get elves and dwarves to fight together for Fendora, he could do anything.

  “To Fendora!” Whill screamed, pumping his fist.

  “To Fendora!” the crowd bellowed.

  Chapter 37

  Kell-Torey Siege

  It took the dragon-hawk a little less than two days to reach Kell-Torey. The beast did not stop for rest; if it needed any, Dirk assumed that it did so while gliding upon warm currents. Neither did it hunt. Dirk called the dragon-hawk Fyrfrost when he got tired of calling him dragon, and the name stuck.

  When Kell-Torey came into view, Dirk sat up, alert, and gasped at what he saw. A dark storm hung over the city and a strange tear like a knife wound cut from the heavens to the earth. The rift wore lightning like a wreath, and within, stars could be seen dancing in darkened space. From the rift poured armies of draggard and massive dwargon, and draquon flew from the portal in droves. The city was under siege, and it was not going well for the Eldalonians.

  Coming in from the north over the nearby lake, Dirk could make out massive siege weapons. Rams and catapults rolled out of the rift and already missiles were being hurled at the outer wall of the city. Three of Kell-Torey’s outer walls had already been breached, and smoke billowed from three rings of the city.

  “To the castle, Fyrfrost!”

  The beast flew under the cover of its ever-changing wings, over the smoldering outskirts of the city. Many draquon circled the city, diving down at leisure and plucking scurrying people from the streets at will. They easily dodged the spears and harpoons, though Dirk noticed that a few soldiers had been successful at netting one of the beasts. As he flew silently overhead, he watched as they hacked and chopped at it in a rage.

  Over rooftops and high walls the dragon-hawk came to the sealed castle grounds. Dirk steered Fyrfrost to a high tower and steadied the beast to circle.

  “Look for me in the windows,” Dirk told his mount and leapt to the tower. He threw his grappling hook and caught a small windowsill at the center of the tower. He swung and landed upon the tower’s winding outer stairs. With a flick of Dirk’s wrist the hook fell and wound quickly into his belt. He caught it and clipped it secure. In a crouch he surveyed the castle grounds from on high. Through his hood, night was like day, and he saw that nothing moved upon the rooftops or high walls. The courtyard below was busy with shuffling soldiers, but up here nothing stirred.

  Dirk took from his pocket the timber-wolf trinket. He studied it for a moment, debating whether or not he should summon the spirit. He found himself scared that Chief might not return after the blow he had taken while still in physical form.

  “Chief,” he finally whispered, and held out the carving.

  He grinned when the mist appeared and spiraled from the trinket. Arching up like a snake, the smoke shimmered and circled Dirk as it grew. Dirk felt Chief graze his back and turned to find the spirit wolf staring at him from only feet away.

  “Before you get upset, hear me out,” said Dirk ho
lding up his hands defensively. Chief showed his teeth and his displeasure. “If I hurt you I am sorry, it was an accident. I thought you would have…gone ghost when the pillar fell. I meant you no harm.”

  Chief stared at Dirk for a long time and finally wagged his tail and took in their location. Dirk smiled and chanced a stroke of the wolf’s back. “We have no time for stealth. It looks as though we are too late. Bigger things are going on here besides the assassination of a king. The entire city is under siege. There is some kind of rift in the valley below, no doubt leading to Drindellia and Eadon’s legions. We go to find the king. Let no one stand in our way, human or dark elf.”

  Chief growled low in acknowledgement and followed Dirk silently into the castle. They slipped into a darkened room through the window, and Dirk saw it to be a small library. Chief became translucent and drifted through the wall. He remained in that form as he silently stalked to the door and out the hall.

  Dirk waited by the door for Chief to return. When he drifted in, he looked at Dirk, pawed his nose, and looked to the door.

  “Smell, stink…is it draggard?” Dirk asked. Chief shook his head and Dirk laughed quietly. “You’re a smart one, eh, Chief? Well, then, let’s kill ourselves some draggard.”

  Dirk opened the door silently, the enchantment in his gloves muting the hinges. To the left the torchlit hall led to a staircase and to the right there was a long hall and a bend. Dirk listened intently and his enchanted earrings complied.

  Below, far below, came faint sounds of struggle—a scream, crashing wood, breaking glass. Dirk darted for the staircase with Chief at his side. They went down the winding staircase tower seven floors before coming to the main hall. Chief ran ahead of Dirk, sniffing the floor and the air around him. His hair stood straight along his spine and he whine-growled to Dirk.

  “Show me the way,” Dirk bade him and the wolf was off running down a hall. Dirk followed at a silent jog, noting the doors to his left and right. The arrangement and size of the open doorways suggested he was passing the main kitchens on his left. To the right he assumed the dining hall sat, its five service doors spanning a long section of hallway.

  Farther into the keep, Dirk came to the armory. The mangled bodies of many soldiers littered the floor. There were a few dead draggard , but where there was one draggard body, there were five men. Chief went through a wall and Dirk followed, turning a corner at the end of the armory and coming to another stone hallway draped in shadow and dead. The sounds Dirk had heard before were no more. Nothing moved within the castle but him and Chief, it seemed.

  Chief came to a painting at the end of the hall and clawed at the stone below it. Dirk touched the stone with his gloved hand and felt a small breeze through the sensitive gloves. He pushed on one of the bricks and the wall turned in upon itself. Chief took up the trail once more down a wide, winding staircase and Dirk’s unease only intensified.

  After what Dirk guessed to be three floors, they came to an opening littered with dead Eldalonian soldiers. At the opposite wall a large iron door had been blown out of its frame. Beyond lay a torchlit room. Chief began to growl at the doorway and he crouched low as if stalking his prey.

  Chief charged into the room and disappeared from sight. Dirk followed cautiously and grimaced when he heard Chief’s yelp and the crackling of lightning. He dove through the threshold into what had once been a siege shelter but was now destroyed and riddled with bodies. These were not soldiers, nor were they servants. Here was the tomb of the royals of the kingdom, their golden buttons and fine, bloodstained clothing giving them away.

  Dirk ducked behind an overturned table after tossing three darts into the darkness. They hit with a bang and their light brightened the entire room. Chief growled and metal sang from its sheath. Dirk dared a look over the table and saw Krentz standing there in the light.

  “Down, Chief, wait. I would have words with this one,” he said, standing.

  “I see you have a new pet, a spirit wolf. Very Dirk Blackthorn,” said Krentz.

  “What have you done?” Dirk asked, seeing the children among the fallen.

  “What you could not,” she answered quickly and took a step toward him. Dirk noticed something hanging in her grasp, a severed head. Upon its wide-eyed head sat a crown of gold.

  “Then it is done,” he whispered.

  “It is done; my father’s will is done. Whill is now the rightful heir to Eldalon, for after this night, none of his line lives.”

  “Now what?” Dirk asked, coming closer; he could almost reach out and touch her. The glow of his fire darts waned, and the light danced upon Krentz’s tears.

  “Now you let me pass,” she answered in the voice he loved.

  “Or?”

  Krentz lifted her chin. “I cannot go against my father’s will,” she said with pain.

  “Fight it!” he screamed.

  “I will die!” she answered with a cry of pain from fighting the fealty spell and not attacking Dirk. She unsheathed her sword and slashed at him in a blur of movement. Dirk’s dagger and short sword were out in an instant. He parried a slash and deflected a stab and together they danced their familiar fighting rhythm. They separated and held a sword’s length between them.

  “Let me pass,” she begged.

  “I cannot.”

  “Then kill me now, for I cannot!” Krentz bent in pain at the waist. “Or else let me pass, and forget me. Do not seek me out; do not come for me…I cannot…” she stammered and fell to her knees in pain at her defiance. She would be dead soon unless she fought her father’s enemy.

  Dirk sheathed his blade and looked at Chief. “There is another way.” He looked back to his beloved and bent to kiss her quivering lips. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I…” She shuddered as pain wracked her body.

  “Now, Chief!” Dirk yelled, and the spirit wolf attacked and clamped on to Krentz’s wrist. Her shields were down for Dirk and the wolf drew blood.

  “Back to your realm, Chief,” Dirk cried, desperately holding out the figurine and hoping against all hope that his plan would work. Chief began to dematerialize, and his contact with the dark elf brought her with him. Both elf and wolf turned to mist and smoke, which swirled up and into the trinket. Chief had brought Krentz to the spirit world through it. Dirk squeezed the timber-wolf figurine tightly and pocketed it, hoping that Krentz would survive.

  He surveyed the dead nobility, numbering over a dozen. To his credit, the headless King Mathus held a sword in hand. Apparently he had gone down with a fight.

  Dirk left the dead and went back to the roof the way he had come. From the tower window he surveyed the city beyond. There was no way to tell how long the siege had been going on, but by the looks of it the city had been surprised by the attack. The fact that three defensive walls had been compromised was not a testament to the length of the siege, but rather the efficiency of the dark elves. No army in the history of Eldalon had ever breached every wall—this would be a first. Knowing the relationship between Eldalon and the Ky’Dren dwarves, Dirk knew that they would rush to help as soon as they received word of Kell-Torey’s plight, but help would come too late. Kell-Torey was doomed.

  The squawk of the dragon-hawk told him that the beast had returned. It came into view as it flew toward Dirk. He leapt from the window and landed upon the large saddle. The dragon-hawk became camouflaged and together they flew out over the city once more. The draggard and dark-elf armies had taken the fourth wall already. Explosions of multicolored spells followed the soldiers as they retreated to the fifth wall. The sky was littered with draquon who had taken the fight to the inner defensive walls of the city. Many of the larger winged beasts carried dark elves who dropped down into the city and wreaked havoc.

  Dirk circled the city, flying high above the swarms of draquon that stalked their prey. His dragon-hawk mount growled low in his throat. Dirk shared the sentiment. He had no stake in this fight, but seeing his fellow man being destroyed by the draggard hordes gave h
im no pleasure. Anger welled in him as he watched the city burn, one he knew well. The screams and cries of the desperate people of Kell-Torey rang out into the night, and he could not ignore them. The dragon-hawk veered into a descent, wanting to join the fray. It was all Dirk could do to rein it in.

  “This is not our fight!” Dirk yelled against the wind, the smoke from the burning city choking him. The scent of burnt flesh rode on the smoke, and Dirk cursed to himself.

  He looked to the portal and the still-marching armies pouring from it. “There is nothing but death here, dragon. If you want to hurt the dark elves, let us go to the portal. I have a plan.”

  The dragon-hawk immediately changed course and headed toward the rift a mile away. They flew over dark, seething armies of nightmarish beasts, some large enough to pull a catapult behind them. The war machines were like nothing Dirk had ever seen. One in particular would be suitable for his plan. He watched as a mammoth half-dragon, half-dwarf dwargon pulled back the lever and unleashed a boulder-sized projectile into the sky. It sailed over the outer walls and hit the city, taking out an entire building in a giant fireball.

  The dragon-hawk flew the mile quickly, and the closer Dirk got to the portal, the more his dread grew. Through it was a starlit sky, like a lake turned upright. Dirk and his mount were dwarfed by the rift, which was twice as tall as Kell-Torey Castle’s highest tower. It hummed and vibrated with chilling notes that turned Dirk’s blood cold. For some reason the rift reminded him of a recurring nightmare in which he cowered under the head of a needle so large that it blackened the sky.

  “There!” Dirk pointed to a war machine a hundred yards from the rift. “Fly me low over it.”

  Dirk unbuckled himself from Fyrfrost’s saddle and crouched upon it. “You are a dragon, Fyrfrost, let’s have a ring of fire around that machine!”

  As if waiting to be unleashed, Fyrfrost roared and banked hard left. He circled wide of the war machine and unleashed his breath upon the draggard armies. Dirk leapt from his mount as it connected the circle and banked over the war machine.