Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords

by Michael Ploof

  The assassin fell through the air and landed upon the dwargon that had been pulling the catapult. Before the beast could react, Dirk plunged his dagger, Krone, into its neck while landing upon its back. “Do you understand Agoran speech?” he demanded, twisting the dagger.

  An unintelligible mumble was the beast’s answer, but Dirk could hear confusion along with the fear and rage.

  “Elvish, then,” said Dirk in the elven tongue and got a positive groan. The heat from the fire was nearly more than Dirk could bear. Without his enchanted armor and cloak he would not have been able to stand it. The dwargon, however, seemed more afraid of the fire than hurt by it.

  Three draggard that had been lucky enough to be close to the machine noticed Dirk, and like a pack of wolves they circled him and the dwargon. They looked curious as to why the beast had not killed him yet.

  “Kill the draggard quickly and turn this machine around,” said Dirk. He rode the dwargon with an arm around its thick neck and the other hand clutching the dagger. He braced himself for the fight and the dwargon made short work of the much smaller beasts. The dwargon then did as Dirk had ordered and turned the machine around. The circle of fire around them, at first twenty feet high, had burned down to ten. Over the circle flew many draquon, their hateful eyes boring into Dirk.

  “Hurry up,” Dirk said anxiously in Elvish. The beast redoubled its efforts and soon had the war machine turned toward the portal. Dirk counted the reserve bombs in a holding bin on the side of the catapult. Ten.

  “Load this thing up and fire short!” Dirk ordered, and by the dagger the dwargon was forced to comply. He turned a wheel and secured a heavy rope around a lever. From the bin he lifted the large bomb with ease and dropped it into the basket.

  “Fire!” Dirk yelled as a draquon swooped down toward him with reaching claws. The bomb flew through the air only a hundred feet and exploded with a ground-shaking boom. Draggard and dwargon alike flew in all directions near the portal.

  “Duck!” Dirk warned, and as the beast did so the attacking draquon missed him by inches. Dirk leapt from the dwargon. “Fire them all at the base of the rift!”

  The draquon circled Dirk within the slowly waning circle of fire. He unsheathed his short sword and opened his arms to the beasts. “Come on!” he challenged and the draquon answered. The beast dove at Dirk and a dart found its eye. The dart exploded on impact and the headless flying draggard fell into the flames.

  The catapult fired again and Dirk watched the flaming boulder disappear into the portal. There was no vibration from the impact, but from the portal came fire and draggard bodies. He had stopped the dark-elf advancement for a time, but he had also gained the attention of the surrounding armies.

  “Time to go, Fyrfrost!” Dirk yelled to the sky.

  Two more draquon dove toward him as the lever clicked again and the huge stone of the catapult dropped, sending another bomb flying. Dirk engaged the nearest draquon as it landed and with a roar charged with its trident. Dirk dodged the strike of the ten-foot nightmare and darted under the weapon. As the draquon pulled back the weapon, it also struck with its spear-like tail. The tail struck like a snake and Dirk rolled to the left, letting the tail glide off his enchanted cloak. His boots carried him along so quickly that no sooner had the draquon missed with both trident and tail than it was slashed by a stinging blade across the back of the legs. Dirk stabbed the legs of the beast with both dagger and sword, and by the time he had passed, the beast had been forced to take to the sky.

  Dirk leapt and did a half twist to face the retreating beast. He threw an explosive dart at its belly and dropped a smoke bomb at his feet. He barely was out of the way when another attacking draquon charged, flying blindly through the smoke. The retreating beast exploded, and the distraction and smoke was enough for Dirk to land a killing blow. With a quick and powerful blow to the back of the neck with his short sword, Dirk severed his attacker’s spinal cord. The draquon landed in a tumbling heap and rolled into the now-five-foot-wide flames.

  “Fyrfrost!” Dirk cried, not caring if he attracted unwanted attention. He already had it. Scores of draggard and dwargon hissed and growled just beyond the flame. The catapult clicked and launched again, but the projectile exploded only twenty feet from it. Dirk saw a purple dark-elf spell hit the bomb, and then he saw no more.

  Chapter 38

  Fendora

  The elven army made for the northern coast of Elladrindellia along with the small dwarven force. Avriel stubbornly refused to stay behind, and she flew upon Zorriaz at the head of the group above her brother and his mounted elves. Regiments of elven armies joined them at the beach from both the east and west. Whill was awed by the hundreds of elven ships that waited offshore. Fleets there were with hundreds of warships and rammers, each manned by powerful elven masters.

  Upon his elven horse, Whill gave Zerafin a look. “You did not gather this force overnight. You planned and set this into motion days ago.”

  “Yes,” said Zerafin. “I have been planning this attack for a long time. Fendora is a prime target.”

  The elven armies poured onto the many battleships that would carry them to the beaches of Fendora. High above, Roakore circled with Silverwind. A strong breeze came up over the beach and high waves crashed steadily onto shore. Far to the north, a darkness of cloud gathered.

  “They prepare for our arrival,” Zerafin noted as he and Whill watched the armies load.

  “Let them prepare. They cannot know what is coming for them,” said Whill, hearing the voice of the Other and no longer caring.

  Zerafin’s gaze lingered on him as if he had sensed a change in Whill. “The elders and masters were impressed by you yesterday. Until then the vote had been split concerning your worth.”

  Zerafin watched his sister circle overhead upon Zorriaz. Whill laughed. “All I had to do was chastise the elders and masters.”

  “Elven culture is…polite. Oftentimes we use small lies to avoid confrontation. We do not often speak so directly to others, only those closest to us. Your straightforwardness gained their ears.”

  “Then this is the beginning of the end,” said Whill, looking off to the north at the gathering darkness. A smile crept onto his face. “I would see light pierce the darkness.”

  “Then let us pierce it,” said Zerafin.

  The two rode to the harbor and boarded a warship. Whill had seen the design in books, but in life the ships looked much barer. There was neither harpoon nor cannon, no catapults or crossbows mounted to rail. Upon the elven warship, the only weapons were the elves.

  The deck was flat and rose slightly toward the middle. Dotted along the smooth dark wood were large flat crystal circles. These were the power source behind the elven casters. The crystals held large amounts of stored energy, and it was a great honor among the elves to be chosen to harness that energy. These casters were chosen from the best of each school.

  The ships cast off, and telepathically the captains steered the fleets out. Krundars upon every ship wove the wind into the fin-like sails and rushed the currents along beneath, and soon they were traveling faster than it seemed possible. The fleet cut through the waves with ease as they sped faster still. The concentration of air weavers and water weavers caused huge gusts and northerly swells that lifted them up and rushed them on toward Fendora.

  The fleets made it to the island in two hours, and brought with them a tidal wave. As they approached the island the darkness grew, and the closer they got, the more dramatic the disturbance became. Now, sailing toward the island at breakneck speed, Whill could begin to make out a swirling storm of lightning and clouds of darkness. If it was a portal, it was quite unlike the one he had traveled through previously. If looked rather like a tear in reality, and through it a starry sky could be seen beyond the storm.

  “It looks like the gate to the hells, laddie,” Roakore yelled over the torrent as half of the ships veered left along the coast of Fendora and the other half went right. Behind them the ocean
wave hit the coast with devastating effect. Orbs of pulsing light came alive under the flood, the shields of dark elves who had been lying in wait. Lightning crackled and struck one of the ships. A cascade of multicolored sparks shot into the air as the blast was deflected by the warship’s shield. Spells suddenly began to pour from the left side of the island as Whill’s ship and the rest of the fleet sped by. The water swelled beneath them once more as the Morenka water weavers strained to cause another wave. The island seemed to sink from Whill’s perspective as the ships rose with the water. Quickly the water turned and they were falling and a wave shot out from beneath them and ravaged the coast. Anything within a few miles would be washed out.

  Spells continued to rain down upon the shields of the fleet, but they held steady. Now high walls and castles could be seen on the island, where the water could not reach. The fleet barreled into the harbor, and he began to think that the elves meant to crash the coast. Here the rocks were few and the beaches stretching. Whill held firm the rail and waited for the collision. But it never came.

  An order was shouted from every ship, and as one they slowed until they had all packed into the harbor. A horn blew and the elves stormed the beaches, running and leaping along the many boats to reach the shore. Whill and his group were the first upon the beach, and soon Roakore and Avriel landed as well.

  Far inland there was a loud blast and a sudden silence. A strange sound echoed through the air for a long moment before a stone the size of a castle tower came shooting through the sky. It barreled down upon the center of the fleet, and many shouts of “Shields!” went up. Roakore lifted his hands to the sky and strain furled his brow as he pushed against it. Elven Ralliads too raised their hands to it and the stone began to slow. Whill stepped forward and lifted his right hand. The stone stopped dead and floated for a moment above them. The Ralliad nearby watched in awe and lowered their hands. Whill brought back his hand and the monolithic stone moved with it. He then heaved and it flew back the way it had come. None breathed as they waited and listened. The boom that erupted shook the ground beneath them and the elves cheered.

  “Roakore, my friend. I would offer my strength to you and your men,” Whill said, leaning in close to the king.

  “And we would be acceptin’,” he said with a grin.

  Whill called up what he had learned from the tome about multiple spell targets. He scanned over the regiment of dwarves as elves rushed by. They looked to their king as they bounced impatiently on their toes. Whill built the spell in his mind and shot out his right hand before him. Painless blue lightning cracked the air and a snaking arc hit each dwarf in turn. There were alarmed shouts and protests but then a sudden quiet as the dwarves perceived the incredible energy they had just been given. They looked wide-eyed at Whill and to their king; it was painful for them to stand still.

  “Charge!” Roakore bellowed, and the dwarves joined the elven charge up the beach and over the high bluff. Whill took to the sky and beheld the island. Sporadic clumps of forest speckled the mostly stone island. Tall, thick walls surrounded nearby castles and fortresses. Deeper inland he saw a huge dwarven force battling hundreds of draggard. Beyond them swirled the shadow rift. Whill was shocked when he looked to where the rift met the ground. Armies of draggard, dwargon, draquon, and unnamable beasts filed through. The lines of marching nightmares branched out like ant trails to the many harbors and their dark elf warships. Whill was horrified to think that this rift had been opened for a week or more. The seas would be swarmed by the fleets of dark-elf-led draggard armies. Whill had to close the portal.

  That rift, how can it be closed? Whill asked Zerafin with his mind.

  I do not know. This dark sorcery is beyond any of us. Eadon’s greatest threat is that he has no boundaries; there are no limits to what he will do or create. He is heedless of the gods and nature. There was disdain in Zerafin’s mental voice.

  Whill flew over the charging elves and dwarves and headed toward the army of Elgar dwarves that was making slow progress toward the nearest castle. They bent under shield and used the scant cover to advance against torrents of flying stone and spells. The frontline of the assault pressed stubbornly against a thick draggard mass. Whill landed among the frontline dwarves and blasted a group of draggard away from them. He unsheathed his sword and slammed his fist to his chest. The Elgar dwarves cocked their heads and relaxed their arms as Whill turned, raised the sword, and pointed it at the advancing hordes. He opened himself to the sword and released massive amounts of energy through Adromida. Blinding, pure white light lit the day as if it had been dark. Everyone was forced to turn their eyes from the light as the sword hummed with a power that made the nearby dwarves’ teeth chatter.

  Then suddenly it was over. The dwarves turned slowly to see what had happened, and they gasped when they beheld a sea of stone beasts. Whill turned and saluted them once again. “Let’s give ’em hell!” he shouted in Dwarvish, and the armies went berserk. They charged toward the castle in a rage as Whill flew on. Spells shot through the air and Whill dodged many. He reinforced his shield with the humming power of Adromida and the spells blew up on contact. He sent a massive fireball at the fortified door and the explosion shook the ground. The dwarves cheered and charged into the castle.

  Soon Roakore’s dwarves and the elves caught up and charged through the field of stone draggard, leaving them crumbling in their wake. Whill marveled at the array of spells that curved up and slammed into the draggard masses. The elves unleashed such a powerful assault that the dwarves were soon charging past the castle and into the main body of the dark-elf force.

  In the distance the rift swirled with lightning and blackened clouds. A horn blew and many more answered the call as the dwarven and elven armies clashed with the dark elves and their hellish creations before the shadow of the rift.

  Whill yelled to the elven healers to focus on the leading dwarf charge and they complied. The frontline dwarves plowed through the draggard and did not slow as the casters made up the sides of the phalanx, and rained down spells of fire and ice. The draggard were considered animals, and so the Zionars were free to use their gifts. They intruded the draggard minds and instilled numbing fear into their hearts. Many attempted to run, others clawed themselves to mutilation. Whill shivered when he saw what those like Ornarell could do.

  Zerafin led the elven charge upon his white horse, hewing draggard with his blazing sword and screaming “For Drindellia!” with every kill. Soon shouts of “For Ro’Sar!” and “For Elgar!” rang out as the dwarves too joined in. Roakore and Silverwind were a devastating pair against the draggard and specifically the dwargon. Silverwind’s talons easily pierced the thick, scaled hide of the draggard and crushed them like prey. Her razor-sharp beak sent heads rolling in the blink of an eye. Roakore rode her as if they were one. Those draggard that his axe did not reach, his stone bird did, and to devastating effect.

  Helzendar and Philo and his fifty dwarves overtook a castle and routed the occupants, and draggard and dwargon alike fell from the castle walls to the stone below. In the wake of the elves and dwarves, the castles were left smoldering.

  Whill flew high above the battlefield and studied the armies below. With his mind-sight he scanned the auras, looking for the dark elves. They had yet to show their faces.

  “What if this is a trap?” asked the Other, who was suddenly floating there next to him.

  Whill gave a start and cursed under his breath. “I don’t care anymore. If Eadon is here, so be it; if he is not, I will destroy his entire army.”

  “You? What have you done?” the Other asked. “You read a few tomes and you are a master? I would show you things beyond your wildest dreams.” He stared at Whill with a gleam in his eye. The darkness cast by the rift of the starlit sky on the other side made his sunken face the more haunting.

  Whill convulsed and suddenly was not controlling his movements. He fought for control but was met with a mental assault of pain and dark, blood and chains. Whill fought th
rough the visions but could not keep his focus. Fear became his only thought, pain his only emotion.

  The Other flew Whill to land atop the hill that the armies had just taken. Below, a valley led to where the churning portal met the ground. Thousands of beasts and abominations had gathered to face them. Still there was no sign of dark elves.

  Avriel landed next to Whill and a bloody-mouthed Zorriaz stared keenly at the portal as if hypnotized.

  “They number in the tens of thousands; reinforcements join us from all sides of the island soon. Shall we hold our ground?” Avriel asked Whill and Zerafin, who came to stand next to Whill.

  Silverwind gave a squawk and landed next to the dragon. Roakore gave the beast an uneasy glance and then looked at Whill.

  “What’s that, lad? You be injured,” he asked, pointing at Whill’s face. Blood trickled from his nose and ears, eyes and mouth. His armor was suddenly dirty and dented; cuts and scrapes covered his exposed flesh.

  The Other did not answer but ignored them all. He strode to the highest point of the hill and opened his arms out wide. Whill fought within his mind for domination. He called to the blade and it answered, but as it answered him, the Other gained strength also. His fortress of pain intensified the more he fought, and he soon found himself writhing in mental agony. Whill was hit by the memory of the chains. He could feel the pain of the barbed chains being pulled through his arms from hand to shoulder, and there the spikes held them in place. Whill had hung from those chains for a month as rats slowly ate away at his feet. He screamed in agony but there was no one to hear but the Other, who smiled.

  The Other bellowed into the stormy heavens before the rift, and the ancient elven words echoed across the island for miles. He unsheathed the blade Adromida and stabbed it to the heavens. Lightning exploded from it and parted the dark clouds above. Through the hole in the clouds sunlight poured and seemed to swirl around the blade. Again the Other bellowed in ancient Elvish, and the clouds above exploded and rain and fist-sized hail began to fall upon the draggard armies in and around the portal. The Other ended the long spell with a low guttural growl and everyone watched in awe as the very rain caught on fire, and the hail became streaking purple fireballs. The purple fire-rain fell upon the armies and burned through scale and hide, bone and tooth. The shrieks and screams of thousands of dying beasts filled the air and added to the chaotic tumult. The rift swirled and the wind blew the deadly fireballs across the land swiftly. Soon the entire valley below was aflame with dancing purple fire.