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

  Avriel hummed in agreement and the crystal sang with her. It is one of my favorite places to meditate.

  They remained within the cave throughout the night. They talked and rested, enjoying each other’s company. When morning came, Whill was awakened with a gentle nudge from Avriel. She stared at the entrance of the cave in anticipation.

  The sun rises, she purred, and there beyond the mouth of the cave the waters of the great ocean blazed to life as the sun rose into the morning sky. The first of the sun’s rays shot across the ocean and onto the coast, and they shone on the crystals within the cave, illuminating them in a cascade of sparkling color. Whill could not help but laugh with joy as they seemed to bathe in color and light. Avriel’s white dragon scales radiated with dancing, multicolored brilliance. She looked to Whill like a dragon goddess of lore.

  Soon they began the flight back to Cerushia. The air was crisp and the day clear. As they passed over a clearing, Avriel’s eye was drawn to a group of deer. She swooped down as silent as death and caught one in her jaws. Whill held on tight as she shook her head and broke its neck, and then choked back the deer whole. Then she took to the air once more.

  “What is it like?” Whill yelled over the wind.

  Eating deer?

  Yes, he answered, this time in his mind. Well, eating deer as a dragon.

  She hummed. It is not the same as eating with fork and spoon.

  “Obviously,” he chuckled.

  The flavor is different. My dragon body craves…

  Whill sensed her hesitation; it was not for lack of words. She was embarrassed by it.

  Blood, she finally confessed. The warmth of it, the bittersweet taste. I tried to eat like an elf might at first, but dragon teeth were not made for nibbling, and the use of silverware would be simply ridiculous.

  Whill burst into laughter at the thought of Avriel as a dragon, sipping soup with a huge spoon.

  “What is so funny?”

  He projected the image as hard as he could and soon Avriel had joined in his amusement. She laughed in Whill’s mind in her elven voice, but she also laughed as a dragon. The dragon laughter, however, came out as a strange growl, which made it all the funnier to them. They laughed until Avriel’s flying became erratic and she begged him to stop chuckling on her back like a chipmunk. That mental image only made things worse. They laughed until Whill’s cheeks were sore and he was left panting as he leaned upon her smooth-scaled neck. She purred and glided along on a particularly warm current of air.

  Midday arrived and the day had turned out to be pleasantly warm for that time of year, Will thought, then realized that he was used to the chiller climate of the north. Elladrindellia was at the very southeastern part of Agora, and therefore it would be warmer. He wondered if they had snow; he did not recall it in any of the books he had ever read on elves.

  They reached Cerushia shortly thereafter, and Avriel flew to their abode on the edge of the city. There they were met by a messenger. They were summoned to the Summer Star, a pyramid named after its heavenly twin.

  They took to the air once more and flew directly to the Summer Star. Once there they went inside, the door of vine and stone opened wide like a behemoth’s mouth to accommodate Avriel. As they entered the pyramid, Whill saw that the capstone of crystal illuminated the space as if it were daylight. He saw too, the group of elves sitting in wait for him at a table in the center.

  He knew the queen, who sat in the middle, and recognized a few of the elders who had sat with her before. They and other elves Whill did not know sat at the large round stone table. There were twenty-seven elves in all. His eye caught that of Azzeal and the elf offered him a friendly nod.

  Whill strode to the table and looked around at the gathering of strange-looking elves, one of whom he could have sworn had an animal bone through his nose, and pointed ears split down the middle to form two points. There were male and female, some clothed in flowing robes of silk or gowns of vine. A few wore the armor of warriors, and the dirt upon their faces and their weary stares told Whill enough of their story.

  A reflection of light from the queen’s crystal crown caught Whill’s eye. She stood and the others followed suit, and they followed her in a bow. Whill bowed back, his mind scrambling to remember something of elf custom that would pertain to his situation, but he came up empty. So he greeted the elves like he thought a king might—he was, after all, recognized by the elves as the king of Uthen-Arden, albeit the uncrowned king.

  “Hello, good elves,” he said at a loss for words more fitting his position.

  They all looked at each other and shared whispered words. The queen’s eyes watched the mouths of the others. “Thank you for coming so soon, Whill. Please do sit with us, as we have come to an impasse.”

  Whill took a seat and laced his fingers on the table. “Impasse?”

  “Yes,” said the queen as she too sat, followed by the others. “Some among us have suggested something which you must have a say in, for it concerns yourself.”

  Whill looked at Avriel beside him. She gave him a mental shrug. “What is it?” he asked.

  “First you must meet the members of our gathering; it is small enough in number to warrant pleasantries.”

  The queen introduced each elf by name and title. The entire process took nearly a half hour. Aside from the members of the elder council and various representatives, Whill met masters of the various schools of elven magic, or Orna Catorna. He was not surprised to learn that Azzeal was a master druid, or Ralliad, as the elves called it. The other factions—that of Aklenar, seers of the future; Morenka, monks of peace; Arnarro, the healers; Krundar, the elementals; Gnenja, the warrior class; and Zionar, or psionists—were all represented as well. The was no Kennarra, or master of all schools of magic, as they had all stayed behind to fight for Drindellia, and none had yet attained that rank since.

  Once all were introduced, the queen took her seat once again. “What we are here to discuss is the possibility that you could be given the knowledge of all schools, by each of the masters, and become a Kennarra.”

  “Kennarra?” Whill gasped. “A master of all schools of knowledge? How is that possible?”

  The elf the queen had introduced as a master of Zionar spoke. His booming voice resonated throughout the temple in such a way that it seemed as though he spoke from all directions.

  “It is possible, though it is shunned, for one to be given all the knowledge that another possesses. Only under certain…circumstances is it accepted.”

  “What circumstances?” asked Whill.

  “Death,” said the Zionar master. “One can pass on their knowledge at death to whomever they choose. Though mastery in an art is not granted until many trials, even then one must prove himself through the evidence of time and growth beyond the gift.”

  Whill shook his head as he began to understand. “No one is dying to give me their godsdamned power. I don’t even want the power I have!”

  “There are those of us who have wished to move on to the next life, to no longer hold death at bay,” said a female elf, a master monk. “I would give my life to give you the gift of my knowledge. I would see you healed, mind and soul, for you carry so much pain and rage. You wear your scars like armor, and you revel in your pain.”

  Whill only sighed, tired of hearing of his rage and pain. They didn’t understand.

  “I am the one meant to find this blade,” he said. “I am the one tasked with defeating your brother. I think I have a good understanding of power. The sword calls to me constantly, or I call for it, I do not know. But I know its power, I can feel it in my grasp, and I see no limits. I know that my imagination is the only limit, and it scares me, to know what I could do. I need your help, but I will not allow another to die so that I may gain more cursed power.”

  “Then you truly are an anomaly, Whill of Agora, to shun that which most hearts yearn for,” said the queen.

  Azzeal stood and bowed slightly to Whill. “There is one thing I belie
ve we should all share knowledge of, a story that came to us from Kellallea herself.” He looked at Whill, but Whill could not judge his feline eyes. “The ancient Kellallea told a tale of Adimorda that may be Eadon’s greatest secret. Her story was thus. Eadon is Adimorda. In the ancient days of prosperity, long before the draggard wars of Drindellia had begun. Adimorda looked into the future with his great gifts of power and saw himself rise to power as the dark elf lord Eadon. He saw the very reality that he would set in motion to become so.”

  The elves stirred upon their seats. Exclamations and questions poured from the shocked gathering. “Please, this is but the beginning of the tale,” Azzeal bade them with raised hand. “Kellallea spoke of an ancient spell, created in the days of the elven dawn, created by the gods themselves. This spell told of a way that one might attain the power of a god, and ascend to sit upon a heavenly throne. Two blades the spell named, the Sword of Power given, and the Sword of Power Taken. It was said that if one were to collect both of the blades, they would become a god. Eadon now has the greatest power taken, and he set into motion long ago a means to one day possess the greatest power given. He named the sword Adromida, the Blade of the Savior, only to convince others to do his bidding. The ancient one believes that the legend of Whill of Agora is but another fable created by Eadon.”

  Azzeal finished his tale and avoided Whill’s eyes. The queen remained in her chair, motionless. The crowd was silent, none moving as they pondered what they had just heard. Finally an elder stood. “This tale, however unpleasant to comprehend and accept, carries with it the sound of truth.” He looked at Whill. “The greatest puzzle we have recently faced is thus: Why did Eadon not kill you? Many would say that he sees in you a great apprentice, while others would state that Eadon needs you to transfer the great power of the blade to him. He asked you as much, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.” Whill nodded. “But whether the prophecy is true or a lie, Eadon would see me give him the power.”

  “Indeed,” said the elf as he pondered. “But this spell of the gods, truth of it sparks in a far-off corner of my mind. I would need many days to explore my knowledge of this, though the truth of it may be lost to the destroyed libraries of our homeland.” He looked to the others. “Have any of you heard of such a spell?”

  Everyone looked around but none answered, until an elven woman stood. Whill could not guess her age, but if she were a human he would have said thirty. She wore a long gown of blue flower petals, which contrasted as the sky might against the snow, so white was her skin. Her eyes seemed to dance with deep blue flames, and when she spoke, she spoke as though in a trance.

  “The seventh scroll of the ancient telling of Ardruin, verse nine-seventy-two, A Song of Swords: ‘All eyes ever seek the heavens, all hearts their mystery. And so they will have a ladder to attain so high a dream, albeit one of two pieces, each got at great pain, each got by none named. The attainment of one shall be through great giving, the other through the taking of. That which is given cannot be taken, as that which is taken cannot be given. Let it be known that any who would seek such power, such a place among the gods, would do so with ill intent, as the son who desires the throne of his father.” The elf sagged as she finished, and then became alert; her face was one of puzzlement.

  “It is not true!” shouted a white-robed elf. He paused as the talking died down and he was noticed. “We have awaited the coming of Whill for thousands of years! Everything told in the prophecy has come to pass. Now, here he stands before us. Shall we let a rumor, spoken by one we do not see, cast shadow of doubt upon our faith? Shall we forsake our savior so easily, now, when he stands yet before us?”

  Many elves stood in agreement. Others argued of logic and reason, blind faith and sound judgment.

  “No!” yelled the elf over them all. “We shall not forsake Whill, for he is but our last hope.”

  Whill shifted uncomfortably and looked up to Avriel for support. Her dragon eyes relayed annoyance, and a hint of a snarl found her snout.

  “Please! Please, I beg of you. Let me set foot past threshold before the argument begins, for I have yet to speak enough to offend.” Zerafin’s voice rose above all, and swallowed their words. Silence fell upon the gathering and everyone found their seat as the elven prince entered the pyramid. Zerafin was fully healed now, Whill could tell. He stood tall and proud, walking with strength and purpose. He made his way around the circle to his mother’s side. With tearing eyes the queen put a hand to her healed son’s cheek and kissed his forehead.

  “Mother,” he said with a smile. He looked up at the dragon eyes of his sister and smiled. “Sister.”

  Zerafin raised his hands to the gathering and eyed them all. His mouth opened as if to make words but then closed quickly as if the words eluded him. Finally he began slowly.

  “My friends, my fellow elves.” He looked to his mother once more. They shared a moment, and Whill was sure they had conversed. The queen nodded with a smile. Zerafin went on.

  “My good elves of Elladrindellia, children of the sun, wielders of Orna Catorna, survivors of the exodus. With the blessing of my mother, and hopefully with your blessing as well, I have come to you to announce that I, Zerafin, son of King Verelas, do so from this day forth claim the throne of my father.”

  Whill was shocked, as were many in attendance. Through their constant if not always marked connection, Whill felt Avriel’s surprise also, and then quickly he felt her swelling pride. Zerafin had for centuries refused the crown of his father, saying that Verelas would one day return to them. Whill watched Zerafin, and for but a second their eyes met. Whill understood then that Zerafin had only now accepted his father’s fate, he had let go. Whill quickly shifted his mind from thoughts of Abram. His throat tightened and he chastised himself for being weak. He stood quickly to distract himself and began to clap. He looked around at the elves, wondering suddenly if elves clapped also, or did they have another way of showing cheers? Whether they were familiar with clapping or not, they stood one and all and clapped as well. Whill smiled to himself as whistles even pierced the drumming.

  Zerafin raised his hand. “Thank you,” he said and bowed.

  Eventually the cheers died down and Zerafin was free to speak. “I have heard the tale of Kellallia, as you just have.” He searched the faces of all in attendance, Whill’s most of all. “As you also know, my family is of the order of Adromida, as are many of you.” The elves who believed the prophecy religiously nodded their heads victoriously. Those more skeptical by nature stirred restlessly, feeling a verdict on the matter forthcoming from their new king.

  “I will not rule out the possibility of the ancient one’s tale. It has been confirmed to me from my sister and also the wise Azzeal that indeed it was she.”

  The tension in the room shifted and the believers’ smug faces were taken by the skeptics.

  “But as Whill said earlier, it matters not; either way, Eadon must force Whill to give him the blade voluntarily. The task of defeating Eadon remains. I feel in my heart that Whill shall be the one to finish this, prophecy or not.”

  Many elves nodded in agreement. Eadon remained the problem at hand. Whether or not the prophecy was a lie, the sword of Adimorda had been returned to the elves of the sun, and there was yet hope.

  “We have yet a problem that must be spoken. While I was under the afflictions of Eadon’s rotting curse, one which we shared as result of my counterspell, I shared a sort of connection with the dark one.”

  Avriel growled almost inaudibly, and many elves shifted uncomfortably at the thought.

  “It was not a connection to mind but to body. My counter affliction spell bonded us together in sickness while the curse lasted. I was able to sense his, though he is many hundreds of miles off. Nevertheless, it was strong enough for me to notice strange shifts in the sensation beneath the pain. I have come to the conclusion that Eadon has discovered the secrets of teleportation.”

  The room was as silent as a tomb as everyone’s mind ev
entually followed the train of thought. If Eadon could travel to any location at the command of his will, then he could also travel an army. It seemed the extent of his power was limited by only his imagination.

  “We have hid from our destiny long enough, my friends. We hide no more. We have brought the destruction of our fallen brothers upon the innocent of Agora. Every day we have drawn breath upon this continent we have done so by the blood of children, human and dwarf alike. I am shamed by our shadow of defeat, always hunting, always breathing down our throats!”

  Zerafin slammed the table and Whill jumped, so enthralled was he by Zerafin’s flowing speech, and the promise of action that it echoed.

  “I have seen my path. It is not one of running, or hiding. It is time for the elves of the sun to awaken, to rise as before against the darkness of tyranny and death, to strike out once and for all, with the armies of men and dwarves at our side. Together and only together”—Zerafin found Whill’s stare and held it—“shall we be victorious!”

  The gathering erupted in applause for the new king. To Whill’s surprise, applause sounded as a dull roar outside and all around them, the words spoken by the king somehow reaching those outside and around the city.

  “I call to arms every elf within Elladrindellia! We shall move as one, joining with the armies of dwarf and man, and we shall strike at the heart of Eadon’s empire. With us shall go the blade of power given.”

  Whill cheered with the rest of them, and though he still bore the weight of responsibility in defeating the dark lord, he now had the beginnings of an army at his back. He smiled to think that he was beginning to bring the races of Agora together as one.

  Chapter 8

  Chief

  Night had long past fallen, and with it came a hard rain. Dirk paid it no mind as he approached the small town. He soon discovered it to be long deserted, given the destruction that remained. Most buildings had been burned to the ground, and all that remained of some were the skeletal remnants of their wooden frames.