Whill of Agora: Epic Fantasy Bundle (Books 1-4): (Whill of Agora, A Quest of Kings, A Song of Swords, A Crown of War) (Legends of Agora)

by Michael James Ploof

  Roakore crouched low and retrieved two of his hatchets. He looked to the pond, thinking of his ax. He was about to summon it when the girl’s laughter was replaced by her blood-curdling scream.

  Roakore bolted around the pond in the direction of the terrified child; his strong legs pumped him along at the pace of a swiftly galloping stallion. Silverwind took flight as Roakore’s stone bird left his hands and whirled to life, zipping straight ahead of him and high into the tall grass. The grass was mowed down by the weapon, cut down at four feet. The stones finally stopped as they hit the chest of a Draggard.

  The scales upon the beast’s chest audibly shattered as the creature was thrown back into the grass dead. Roakore then saw five more Draggard and a terrified, dirty little curly haired human girl of no more than three. Roakore’s blood boiled and rage filled his every fiber at the thought of these beasts touching the child. Roakore may have been tougher than Elven steel and more powerful than two bulls, but he had a soft spot in his heart for children, a tenderness and love equal in strength to that of his greatest rage.

  Roakore lifted a hand as he ran, and the wet sand upon the lapping bank of the pond rose like a snake with no tail and struck out at the Draggard’s faces. The sand traveled with such speed and force that the closest Draggard, who had not had time to raise an arm or turn its head, took the full assault in the eyes. The millions of minute stones that made up the sand buried themselves in its eyes and packed into its skull until it exploded. Time seemed to slow for Roakore during battle, as did his opponents, and he went into a fighting trance.

  As the remaining four Draggard covered themselves from the onslaught of the lethal sand serpent that constantly battered their heads, Roakore let loose his twin hatchets. Even as he leapt into the air and over the girl, his weapons twirled through the air with great force, embedding themselves into the heads of two of the beasts. Roakore landed on crouched feet not three feet from the remaining two Draggard as the sand stopped and fell to the grass.

  He hacked at the monster to the left of him with both blades aimed at the knee and hip. With a crunch, they contacted and the beast reared. Instinctively, its tail whipped around and shot at Roakore’s chest, but he had already backed out of reach and engaged the Draggard to his right.

  Roakore fought the beast unarmed, his hatchets still buried in the other screaming Draggard’s leg. The beast lunged forward with its tail to stab Roakore in the chest, but before it could, the furious Dwarf caught it and cracked it like a whip, causing the beast to spin where it stood. With the Draggard’s back to him, Roakore growled and ran up the scales of the monster and onto its back. It thrashed and reached behind it with its long claws but could not reach Roakore. Growling louder now, Roakore held on to the thickest spike upon the scaled beast’s back with his left hand and punched it in the side of the head with his right.

  Roakore’s knuckles were huge and knotted like wood due to his spending three generations of men punching hard stone as part of his daily personal training. That was exactly why he trained as he did—you never knew when you may have to smash the skull of a Draggard with your bare hands—and the training had paid off. After the third blow, the Draggard’s skull cracked, and it lost its feet.

  Roakore fell with the beast and rolled, remembering the other monster. He rolled out of the way not a second too soon as the Draggard jumped five feet into the air with one leg. Its eyes were enraged with pain and hate, claws reaching to fillet skin. Before Roakore could make the beast regret its courage, the huge claws of Silverwind buried themselves in the monster’s shoulders. Silverwind crushed the Draggard with her great weight and decapitated it with one peck of its sharp beak.

  "That was me kill, ye traitor!” Roakore roared.

  Silverwind gave out a defiant squawk, but the girl did not giggle. She stood at the water’s edge, whimpering wide-eyed at Roakore. Roakore held his arms out nonthreateningly and tried to calm the child as he walked forward. To his surprise, she ran to him and buried her face in his strong shoulders and soft Silverhawk cloak. Just then, he felt a jabbing on his armor.

  He twirled with the child and raised a fist, swiftly bringing it around at his attacker. His fist stopped a hair from a small boy’s face.

  “Let my sister go!” The boy hollered in Roakore’s face.

  Roakore’s expression went from one of rage to a wide smile. “Ye got a lot o’ heart, eh, boy? I could crush ye like a bug, ‘n’ still ye attack.”

  The boy put up his fists defiantly. "My father could crush you, Dwarf!”

  “Does that be so?” asked Roakore.

  “It be!” answered a man’s deep voice from behind him. He turned to see the speaker and met a large fist to the face. The girl was snatched from his grasp with the other hand as Roakore slammed onto the ground, hard enough to take his breath had he not known how to take a fall. He quickly got to his feet and shook his head then felt his chin.

  "Heh, you got one hell o’ a punch, human. Almost as hard as me grandma o’ three hunr’d years, reminds me the slap I got for tryin’ to sneak a biscuit at before dinner.”

  The man put down his daughter and squared off with Roakore. The two males stared each other in the eye, waiting for one to strike.

  “Loo da.”

  The men both stiffened at the noise, neither breaking the gaze.

  The little girl tugged on her father’s pants and pointed. “Loo da! You be goo.”

  The man put a hand upon his daughter’s shoulder and gently put her behind himself; she did not struggle but only said louder, “Loo da. He may ugly sleep.”

  The man dared break eye contact with Roakore for a quick glance at the dead Draggard. “Does she speak the truth?” he asked.

  “Do they look like they be sleepin’?” retorted Roakore.

  The man looked again. “They are dead.”

  “Well then, she be tellin’ the truth.”

  He looked to his son. “Did this Dwarf kill these Draggard?”

  “I do not know, Father. I found her a moment before you did.”

  Roakore lifted his arms and walked over to the water and crouched to wash the blood from his hands. “Who in the hells ye be thinkin’ killed them beasts? Eh? Ye thinkin the tot done killed em with cuteness? Did ye not notice the hatchets buried in them two’s heads?”

  The tall man looked from Roakore to the Draggard; he kicked the nearest beast. The man was tall, nearly twice the height of Roakore. He was a giant among men, as wide at the shoulders as Roakore was tall. His massive muscles tensed and bulged beneath the fabric of his shirt with every move. Roakore guessed he could best a half a dozen men single-handedly. He hadn’t been lying when he said the man hit like his grandmother— she was a strong Dwarf.

  The man walked forward to Roakore and extended a hand in a human greeting.“Name’s Tarragon. This here is my son, Nathaniel, and my littlest, Freesia.”

  They shook hands, and Roakore extended his to the pond, palm out. Nothing happened for a moment as Roakore chanted under his breath, but then his ax emerged and flew from the water into his outstretched hand.

  “Me name’s Roakore, king o’ the Ro’Sar Mountains.”

  Tarragon didn’t bat an eye. “I know enough of the Dwarven folk to know none would claim to be such if it were not true. What brings you to these parts, good king, so far from your newly reclaimed mountain?

  The fact that Tarragon knew of the recent Dwarven victory made his pride swell, as it did his chest. "I be on me way to help a friend and noticed the fire off yonder a ways and came to have a look-see.” answered Roakore.

  "Ah, yes, you saw it from the sky.” Tarragon eyed the now-grazing Silverhawk. “I did not know that Dwarves rode Silverhawks from the northern kingdom.”

  "They don’t,” suggested Roakore. "I do.”

  "Can I ride it, Dad? asked Nathaniel with excitement. He was no older than Tarren.

  "Be still, Nathaniel.”

  "Yes, sir.” answered the boy without pouting.

 
; Roakore looked again to the black smoke that was now receding. "Was it these damned dragon half-breeds what caused the fire?”

  "Aye, they came again last night, set fire to two buildings in town, and took twelve souls into the blackness of night, three children and two women among them. They will be back again with the coming of night.”

  Roakore pondered the situation; the more he thought about it, the more incensed he became. But he could not take the time to help these people—he was on a mission and had but a few days to get to Del-Oradon, not to mention find a way to free Whill.

  "How many people ye say ye got in yer town?”

  "Nearly two hundred souls. The town is called Elderwood.”

  "Elderwood, eh? Never heard o’ it.”

  "I don’t imagine you would have. Might I ask, good Dwarf…You are a king of Dwarves; you must have a cunning knowledge of military formations and attack strategies. Could a poor farmer offer anything in return for a few words of advice on how best to kill these beasts?”

  Roakore thought for a moment, and his stomach answered for him with a grumble. "A warm meal and I can offer some advice, but I got to be movin’ afore midday. Me an’ me bird got many miles to cover before nightfall.”

  At her mention, Silverwind squawked and took flight, flying far and out of sight.

  "Well, me and me feet got a lot o’ miles ahead of us anyway.”

  Tarragon shook Roakore’s hand vigorously. "Warm food it is, and I thank you for saving my little girl. I owe you a life.”

  Roakore nodded with a grunt. Inside, he was warmed by the thought of what he had done and the luck of being dropped in the pond. Maybe that bird be smarter than me be thinkin’.

  Roakore retrieved his two hatchets, cleaned them in the pond, and headed southwest with Tarragon and his two children. Silverwind was nowhere to be seen. The big man looked also to the sky. “That bird of yours. It is a Shierdon Silverhawk, is it not?”

  "Aye,” grunted Roakore.

  "A gift from the king?”

  "Nay. Had it smuggled in, I did. Hawks’ bane plants also, got me a garden o’ it on the side o’ me mountain.”

  The big man laughed. "It is one of Shierdon’s highest crimes to steal a bird or transport the plant out of the country.”

  "Bah.” Roakore spat. "They got them a Dark Elf posin’ as their king. The way I see it, they got other things to worry about.”

  "A Dark Elf upon the throne? I do not mean to be rude, good Dwarf, but that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”

  Roakore squared off with Tarragon, and they both stopped. "You be callin’ me a liar? I be knowin’ more about the workin’s o’ the world than a farmer from Uthen-Arden!”

  "Lumberjack.”

  "Whatever!” Roakore went on. "I be the direct descendant o’ Ky’Dren. I be king o’ the reclaimed mountain o’ Ro’Sar. I seen me people slaughtered by thousands o’ Draggard. I seen a dragon killed by a loan Dwarf. I seen Elves do things that you would never believe in a thousand years. You be livin’ here in your world, but I be livin’ in the world. There be a war wagin’ between the Dark Elves and thier crossbred killers and the rest o’ us. Or ain’t ya noticed the Draggard scourge roamin’ the land, killin’ for sport? Word has it that one-fourth o’ your human towns and villages have been destroyed by the beasts o’ the Dark Elves. And the same number in Isladon.”

  Tarragon looked gravely in Roakore’s eyes. “It is worse than even the rumors then?”

  Roakore nodded. “It be a nightmare, and no one wantin’ to be wakin’ up to it.”

  Chapter 13

  Thank Me in the Morning

  Whill lay upon his bed, not trying to sleep; he had given that up days before. It seemed that the last few weeks of his torture had been enough sleep for him. He had gone into a shell; he had gone deep into the cocoon of his inner mind. He became not Whill but simply…it. He no longer had an identity in that place, nothing that could tie him to Whill’s life and nothing that could hurt him. He felt not physical pain or emotional anguish. He was simply a being…being.

  What little light came through the window from the moon or the courtyard below played on the ceiling of his room, though he did not see it. He saw the explosion of his ship, the death of his friends. The only one alive was Tarren, and where was he now? How was he being treated?

  Where was Roakore? He had forgotten about Roakore. Had he reclaimed his mountain? Had he died in the battle? Whill had heard no news from the outside world. Being a captive of the Dark Elves meant being a captive from the entire world, from reality. His years journeying with Abram seemed like a fantasy, a long, drawn-out dream. His life with Teera in Sidnell, his childhood home, seemed like a dream within a dream. The final battle with Addakon was the only clear memory he had.

  He had faced his uncle, his father’s killer. He had been out skilled and facing certain death. But he had faced his uncle nonetheless, and he had won. His father’s spirit had fought through him and had defeated his murderous twin brother. The soul mates had become one. Repented and forgiven for their own sins, they had moved on. Whill’s mother’s spirit had moved on; the world had moved on without Whill, and so Whill had moved on.

  He no longer cared. He was due to be executed, and he did not care. For how could he be Whill of Agora, the one spoken of in prophecy, the son of a king, the wielder of an ancient blade? How could he be Whill of Agora if he was here, tortured for six months without rest? Disfigured and healed, mortally wounded and healed. The horrors he had faced he could no longer recall, for he had wiped them from his mind as soon as they happened.

  He existed now simply from that place which he had found. There was no pain, no struggle, only existence. His friends were dead; he had no people. He had nothing to lose, except Avriel, whom was already lost to him.

  Avriel was the anchor that grounded Whill. She was the only thing keeping the boy that had been alive inside the man that he had become—Avriel, his first and only love. She was like nothing he had ever seen. A maiden cast out by a dream.

  He pictured her hair cast by the wind, stroking her neck, her long, smooth, straight, strong neck, and her proud jaw and long ears, black hair tucked behind the left. Her head tilted slightly while she spoke. She spoke not with her throat but with her mouth. Every word extenuated by her mouth. She had lips made of sunrise and morning dew, eyes piercing and bright yet vulnerable and fierce.

  Whill was grounded when he thought of Avriel, the only thing left worth caring about on this entire miserable rock. Avriel his love, the lover that never was, his Avriel, the only thing keeping his spirit tethered to life.

  ***

  Far away in the castle Eadon turned from his focus on Whill’s despair and addressed the waiting guard. “Bring me the barbarian warrior.”

  Shortly after, she was brought to his chambers, and the door was closed. Eadon smiled as he took in the sight of her. She was the largest human woman he had ever seen, in all regards. She stood waiting, her fire-filled eyes never leaving his. Eadon offered her a glass of wine, and she did not move.

  “My beautiful warrior of the north, may I, as the Elven ambassador of my kind, welcome you to my newly acquired human kingdom? Your prowess has not gone unnoticed. And I wish to recruit you to the winning side of this battle in which we find ourselves…You are from the northern island of ice, Volnoss, are you not?”

  The barbarian woman nodded. She did not speak. Instead, she stood, arms crossed, left hip protruding. Eadon took this all in with a grin. “Do you wish to work with me, or do you wish to fight to the death in the arena for your crimes? Which, I am sure, are ludicrous accusations.”

  The barbarian woman scoffed. “If they are ludicrous, then drop the charges, oh great one. Great shadow from the east, manipulator of minds, oh great puppet master. Which title do you prefer, your worship?”

  “I see that we may disagree on some things,” said Eadon as he swirled his wine and put it down.

  From a box on the desk he retrieved a silv
er foot-long smoking pipe. The tip of his finger he used to light the intoxicating herb that burned and sent forth smoke into the room, finding the barbarian woman’s nose. It did not have any mind-altering powers; what it did carry was nostalgia. For what Eadon smoked only grew upon the shores of Volnoss.

  She knew then that this creature would not be defeated with the hand or the blade. And there was no hope in defeating his mind. She knew that any mental attack she would put forth would be feeble, like a mosquito attacking a man. So she listened.

  “I offer you this, good lady of the north. My Draggard and Dark Elves have been ordered to infiltrate and to expedite the cooperation of all locals of Agora, including your home of Volnoss. My armies will land upon your beaches and march into your towns. No doubt, your people will act with great pride and stand firm in their beliefs whilst fighting to the bitter end, and bitter it shall be if you let it happen.”

  He walked slowly closer to her as he spoke. “My lady of the north, you could act as the ambassador of Volnoss. Extend the olive branch to the Dark Elves, which will inevitably conquer this entire land. You can bridge the gap between our people. With your cooperation will come the safety and the prosperity of Volnoss. No longer will you sit in the cold darkness, expelled from Agora since the barbarian wars. No longer will you hear how your people were thrown out; no longer will you be put down, left to lick the boots and hide from the shorter, weaker Agorans. Your people can thrive and be prosperous, or you can simply be left to your iceberg; it is your choice.”

  Eadon again walked to the barbarian woman and offered her the wine. He noted that she did not tense at his nearness, a feat that few beings could claim. She took the wine. He went on.