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

  Next a young elf, bright-eyed and quick to smile, stood from the group. With her hands together under her long lokata, she bowed slightly to Whill, who responded likewise.

  “I am Avolarra En’ Kayen, master of Aklenar.”

  “Greetings, Master En’ Kayen,” said Whill and bowed once again.

  “Greetings, Whill.” She smiled. “Have you ever had dreams that came true?”

  “Just the once, I think,” Whill answered, trying to think. “It was during the spring, before…I dreamt of flying high over a battlefield atop a dragon. I saw the battles for Isladon and Ro’Sar before they happened. In the dream I watched the draggard hordes pour forth from the mountain, and in reality it came to pass.”

  “That is the only dream that has come to pass?” Avolarra asked.

  “It is all I can recall.”

  She nodded as if to herself. “Do you ever know things are going to happen before they happen?”

  “No…well, I don’t know. Sometimes in battle, I can sense what my opponent is going to do.”

  “Interesting, do you ever have visions? Or hear voices?”

  “No,” said Whill, trying not to think about the Other.

  “One last question for you, Whill. What will be my next question?” she asked.

  Whill frowned. How could he know? Was he supposed to guess, or was he supposed to know? He tried to remember the feeling of the dream that had come true. He listened, seeing if the words from the future could be heard. He heard only his own busy mind.

  “Nothing. You do not intend to ask another question.”

  Avolarra stared at Whill for a time and smiled. “That will be all.”

  Whill wondered if he had passed. What did his correct answer prove, anyway? Only Avolarra knew if she had intended another question.

  Whill sighed deeply, ready to be done with these trials. He knew that the only schools left were those of the Morenka and Gnenja. He thought he had a good idea of what the warrior test might consist of, but what would a monk, or Morenka, want to know?

  The Watcher stood and addressed Whill. “Greetings, Whill. You are familiar with my name as I am with yours. I have but one question for your consideration here today. If peace can be gotten through war, can war also be gotten through peace?”

  Whill looked from the Watcher to the other elves in turn. He sensed a tension grow inside the room. He knew that this had been debated and preached by the Morenka for millennia. Zerafin himself had alluded to it once. The monk class chose a life of nonconflict while the others fought their eternal wars. Whill did not know what the Watcher wanted to hear, and he didn’t know if there was a right answer. But he knew that his answer would lean toward one side or the other.

  “No, war cannot be got through peace, but neither can peace be got through war,” he answered. The Watcher smiled slightly. “War is born of conflict; it is the opposite of peace. Peace is born of harmony.”

  “Therefore,” the Watcher said with a grin at his fellow masters, “peace can only be attained through the practice of peace, through harmony. Do you agree, King Whill of Uthen-Arden?”

  “It isn’t that simple,” answered Whill.

  A brief shadow of disappointment crossed the Watcher’s old face but was replaced quickly by a smile. “Of course not,” he said.

  “If someone is trying to kill you, you kill them. That is the way of the world. You fight or you die,” Whill argued.

  “Thank you,” said the Watcher. “This is all.”

  He turned to take his seat but Whill shouted, “Shall I just lay down the blade at Eadon’s feet? Shall I live my life in laughter until Eadon and his minions turn Agora into the plagued death that has become Drindellia? You would advise that peace in this matter is the way to peace? We shall all be murdered whilst we meditate!”

  The Watcher smiled sympathetically. “I would see this world and all in it healed. When all embrace peace, all shall know it. In error, those who want peace think they must fight for it, when in truth they must simply practice it. Until we learn the difference, we shall not know peace.”

  The Watcher returned to his seat and silence followed him. Whill heard the ring of truth in the Watcher’s words; he felt it in his heart. He was saddened to think that he was simply feeding the fires of war, when there existed another possible path; he also regretted not being able to see that path.

  An elf stood and threw back his cloak. Beneath it he wore leather armor interwoven with golden mail, and at his hip hung a sword much like Whill’s. The elf looked to be in his twenties, but Whill knew better than to trust appearances. The elf had no hair to cover his pointed ears. His eyes were ice-blue orbs of focus. They bored into Whill as if his every flaw was on display.

  “I am called Thryn ‘De Bregeth. I am master of the warrior class.”

  “Greetings,” said Whill.

  Thryn nodded. “Are you prepared for your test in the art of the Gnenja?”

  “I am.”

  “We would ask that you not wield the ancient blade. Nor any at all,” said Thryn, regarding Whill with a steely demeanor.

  “I will not wield it, but neither shall I be without it,” Whill replied.

  “Very well then,” said Thryn. “Let the test begin!”

  From the entrance came a dozen elves. They split and made a ring around Whill. To his dismay he saw that they were all armed. They wore armor similar to Thryn’s, except that these warriors had black masks over their heads. So covered with the tight mail and leather armor were they that only their eyes could be seen. They faced Whill and withdrew their curved elven blades in unison.

  One of the fighters surged forward, sword drawn back as if to strike. Quickly Whill moved as to unsheathe Adromida, causing the warrior to take pause. Whill took advantage of the hesitation and kicked sand in the warrior’s face. Another fighter came at him from behind, his sword leading the charge. Whill kicked the sword out wide as the elf closed in. He got inside the elf’s guard and landed a fist to the gut while simultaneously locking the elf in a standing arm-bar that left his sword arm turned up at the elbow. Whill landed a punch to the elf’s face and received one himself. He spun the elf and himself around to face another attacker. Whill used the elf as a shield, keeping the others at bay while the elf struggled to break Whill’s hold. With a snap Whill broke the elf’s sword arm at the elbow and with a flat hand to the nose he sent him flying. The elf’s sword dropped to the sand as two more warriors charged. Whill scooped up the blade with a kick of his foot and leapt over an attacking sword. He caught the blade and blocked a sword meant for his head. Steel sang on steel as the weapons moved in a blur. Whill parried every blow meant for him, first fighting two, then three elves at once. They came on hard and a fourth attacked his blind side, leaving Whill with nowhere to run. He leapt high and twisted as he came down to land upon the masters’ table. He was forced to hop from the slashes at his feet and came down on one of the blades, pinning it. A kick to the face sent the elf reeling. Whill blocked and parried from on high, even scoring a grazing blow that left one of the warrior’s shoulders bloody.

  Whill leapt from the table, over an elf, and met the warriors head on. Deep within him something shifted. He felt the difference in him as the Other was awakened by the conflict. His senses became sharper, his reflexes faster, and he tore into the elven ranks with reckless abandon. Blades clanged in a chorus of speeding metal as Whill parried the attacks and kept the elves at bay. He received a hit to the leg that left a deep gash bleeding freely. His scream of rage echoed throughout the room, a scream Whill did not recognize as his own. He parried a blow so hard that the sword flew from the hands of its wielder. A kick to the knee bent the elf’s leg back unnaturally and he hit the floor in agony. Another got too close and paid dearly as his sword was sent wide and high by Whill’s parry. Whill slashed the elf’s exposed armpit, leaving the warrior’s arm dangling uselessly. Again an attacker came from behind, and Whill simultaneously blocked a blow at his back and retrieved yet anothe
r fallen blade. Whill took up the dual blades and sent them spinning in a blur of motion that sent the warriors back.

  Time seemed to slow for him as his attackers rallied and came on again as one. Whill slashed wrists and hamstrings, laying low any fighter who got too close. Blades came at him from all angles, but Whill was always a step ahead. Every parry flowed into the next as Whill began to feel the elves’ next move. A warrior came in hard from Whill’s left, forcing him to block as another struck also from behind, forcing him to block again. A third stabbed forward, and without a free sword Whill was forced to kick the blade high and to the side. Whill twirled out of the trap and ran to the entrance of the pyramid. There he turned and engaged his closest pursuer. They exchanged three blows before Whill cut his hand clean off. Whill left the elf to his pain and came on hard, screaming all the while. His barrage sent the remaining elves backpedaling as their swords became twisted with Whill’s parries.

  “That will be all,” said Thryn. But Whill paid him no mind. He heard only the movement of his opponents, the subtle change of their sword grip, the way their breath alerted him to a coming strike. He read their eyes perfectly and knew their minds before the strikes came. A boot to the chest sent another flying, and a twirling parry sent another blade through the air.

  “Enough!” screamed Thryn so unnaturally loudly that the words shook Whill from his fighting trance. Panting, he lowered his blades, as did the few standing elves. He looked around as if seeing the injured for the first time. Eyeing the two blades in his hands with a scowl, he dropped them to the sand and returned to face the masters.

  “Those of you with injuries see yourselves and your brothers to the houses of healing,” Thryn said. “You are dismissed.” He nodded slightly at Whill. “That will be all. Thank you for the demonstration.”

  Zerafin stood. “The masters will take the time to reflect upon what they have witnessed here. Thank you, Whill. That will be all for today.”

  Chapter 13

  The Hunter and the Hunted

  Aurora awoke to the soft song of lovebirds as they peered at her from the open window. Her sleep had been restless, haunted. In her dreams Whill's friend Abram, deformed and rotting from death, had croaked a cryptic song that played in her head still. She shook her head trying to clear it and forced herself to focus on something else, anything. But the song continued, steadily becoming louder. Even the birdsong somehow joined with it, then the faint breeze through the window. Aurora, barbarian of the frozen north, was chilled to the bone.

  Always there is a coward at your back, coward at your back, coward!

  "Stop it." Aurora pleaded as she began rocking herself.

  Always there is a coward at your back, coward at your back, coward!

  "Silence!" She yelled clamping her hands over her ears.

  Coward at your back, coward at your back. The voice hissed inside her head.

  "Stop."

  But it would not stop. She saw not the room before her but only the vision within her mind. She closed her eyes only to see the face, his face, the one she had wronged so.

  Coward.

  She had betrayed Whill and befriended him. She had raised her hand against his dearest friend; she had tried to kill him.

  Coward at your back.

  "I had no choice!" She screamed. "It was for the good of my people."

  Coward, coward, coward at your back...

  "Stop!" Aurora bolted upright in bed, the lovebirds flew from the sill startled, but the voice had stopped. It had been a dream within a dream. Knees drawn to chin she held herself for a long time, and she cried. In her despair she called upon her goddess, she who sees all deeds and judges them not, she of cold and wind, ice and snow. To her goddess Skadia she prayed for strength, she of the harsh winter. Her mind settled, her emotions abated, and her thoughts became as placid as a frozen lake. Weakness, doubt, sorrow and despair, these were the ways of death. Only the strong survived the unforgiving motherland. In her long exile from Volnoss, she had softened in the warm sun, had forgotten what it meant to struggle against the unyielding tundra. She had grown weak.

  The last few days in Cerushia had been pleasant. She had allowed herself to indulge in the pleasantries of the flesh, pampered and catered to like a princess. But no more, she must realign herself with her mission, her destiny, her fate. She had left Volnoss in search of an answer, a way to secure her people's future in the changing landscape of the world. And she had found it. Eadon had promised her title and treasure, and more importantly the ancient Agoran homeland of her people. In return, she had given her fealty. Whill had promised her people freedom, and a place in the new Agora. She knew that Eadon's offer came with the shackles of slavery, but she had already spoken, and promises made to Eadon where written in blood.

  She rose from her bed hungry from her slumber. The fruit and vegetables in abundance in her well stocked pantry would no longer do it. No matter how much of it she ate her hunger was never sated. No, she thought, it is time I hunt.

  The idea of a fresh kill invigorated her and she was roused to her feet. The abandoned the elven light flowing gowns and dressed in her furs. She rummaged through her many gifts and came up with a suitable bow. The string drew back smoothly and a good tension was held by the smooth dark hardwood. It was a longbow, but it would suffice. Satisfied she took up her belt and sheathed her sword and made her way out into the city.

  The day was mild and she wished it colder. She had never known a summer as hot as the season last. At first it had been pleasant, but soon the novelty of ever-warmth wore off and she found herself longing to see her breathe in the chill night.

  Outside elves seemed to be everywhere. She looked around past the pyramids and crystal formations to the trees beyond. The vast shelf of cliffs that made up the Thousand Falls loomed to the east, and Aurora considered scaling it. She quickly changed her mind when she looked to the jungle to the west. The long hanging bows and thick canopy offered her foreign game, perhaps even danger. She walked towards the jungle politely nodding and smiling at the passing elves. She was very tired of feeling new. When she saw Kreshna she quickly ducked behind a fountain and took the closest bridge. Though the bridge took her in the wrong direction, it brought her away from the inquisitive elf. She was in no mood to talk right now; she was in the mood for meat.

  Soon she was traveling swiftly down the vine walkways, some bringing her up and over the water, some down through moss lined tunnels. She came to the end of such a road and bounded into the jungle beyond. As soon as the thick foliage hid the city behind her she stopped and crouched low. She closed her eyes and breathed in her surroundings. Eyes open she took up the earth at her feet and smelled it. She sniffed the tree next to her, and the large red ferns that surrounded her. Her ears perked to the many sounds of the jungle. Random screeches and shrieks, singing birds and quick rustling of leaves played against a constant orchestra of whining heat bugs and a faint collective slither.

  Aurora did not recognize the sounds of any of the animals, and she was elated by the challenge. She sprang to her feet and she ran. Hunger fueled her and the promise of the kill beckoned. Her muscular legs pumped harder and her feet were eager to comply. She sped through the jungle as though her barbaric frame weighed half its two hundred fifty stones. Over streams and under tangled vine she went, her senses tuned to every sensation, her body in harmony with the hunting grounds.

  Soon she had found a game trail that began on the stony shores of a trickling creek. She sprinted down it deeper into the jungle. The tracks proved too small for her choice of game and she veered off the trail to run up the mossy bark of a fallen tree wide enough to allow two abreast. She charged up the log and where it had broken against another she leapt high into the air and with strong hands held fast a hanging vine. She fell for a few feet and was about to drop and roll when it caught. She kicked her legs and swung nearly to the ground and quickly up until she knew the vine was at its limit. Twenty feet up she released the vine to take anothe
r. She traveled this way until she found what she was looking for. She swung high and before her momentum turned at the top of the swing she grabbed hold of another vine and rode the two straight down to the jungle floor.

  Aurora crouched and listened to the watering hole she had spotted. The soft trickle of the water emptying into a wide pond told her that it ran from the east, likely a branch of the waters that flowed over the Thousand Falls and into the ocean. Life teamed everywhere in the elven jungle. She had been bitten by a host of insects, none of which it seemed where poisonous. A snake which she thought must have been the king of his kind had almost been mistaken for a vine as she swung, but its fat middle had given it away. Likely the bulge had been its latest meal, and judging by its size it could have been a goat. Such a variety of birds there were that Aurora was overwhelmed by the beauty of their pluming headdresses and brilliant tails. Some had long curving beaks of yellow and purple, others were all black with strange shaped color patterns on their tail feathers only. These birds were nothing like the hawks and owls of Volnoss, whose color range consisted of black, brown and white. Given the world of snow and ice from whence she came, the elven jungle was a banquet of colors.

  A variety of animal tracks both large and small dotted the muddy bank beyond the stones which mingled with the water. One in particular caught her eye, a split-hooved track that looked like that of a boar. She recognized also feline tracks nearly as large and knew that they belonged to an adult cat of some sort, perhaps a sabre. For the cat tracks to be dwarfed by that of the boar, it must have been large, and to survive as such a plump treat to the many predators of the jungle it had to be tough. Likely it had deadly tusks like curved blades with which it defended itself. She hoped to find out.

  Aurora went to the water's edge downstream from the pond and found suitable soil to use, dark wet mud. She put down her bow and lathered black mud all over herself. She rolled in it until she was sure every inch of her body was covered. Taking up her bow once again she doubled back to the pond and found a suitable tree and climbed it until she found a good perch from which to watch.