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

  Soon she released him and he gasped. “What in the hells was that?” he asked angrily.

  “I captured your brain activity when you successfully hit the fly with the dart, and then I embedded that pattern onto the mental connections for that action,” she panted.

  Dirk shook his head, exasperated. “Come again?”

  “Just try and hit another fly.” She waved him off lazily. “My curious lover, try again.”

  Dirk sighed and rubbed his head. He spotted another fly and took a dart from one of the many ridiculous dart-filled straps she insisted he wear during practice.

  “No!” she yelled. “Do not take the dart out until you mean to shoot.”

  Dirk huffed and grumbled, “You know, you still owe me an apology for the invasion of will.”

  She opened her eyes and regarded him with a smirk. “See if you want one in a minute. Go on, try on the next fly.”

  “Who gives a good godsdamn about the fly?” Dirk yelled, and in his anger he reached for a dart and flung it in a violent outburst. There was a thump and a buzzing died instantaneously. Dirk stared open-mouthed at the newly tacked fly. He laughed, cocked his head to regard the insect, and laughed all the harder.

  “Holy dragon shyte,” he mumbled and eagerly searched for another fly. Thud went his dart through another fly and into the wall. Thud, thud: a dart from each hand hit a fly on the wall. Dirk laughed and spent all of the darts from his straps. When he noticed he was out, he reached for one of his sheathed daggers and threw it at a fly with joyous anticipation of yet another perfect throw. Clang! The dagger bounced off the wall.

  “You have yet to do that, therefore I cannot embed it in your—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Dirk spun his hand in circles. “You be ready, then. The perfect throw is coming up,” he said as he threw and missed and another dagger clanged to the floor.

  It was many days before he hit a fly with a dagger, but after that he never missed. Krentz had told him that the method she used was one shunned by the sun elves, and Dirk had thought them idiots.

  As the first rays of the sun began to shine above the pine trees, Dirk saw a village come into view. He slowed to a walk to catch his breath and inspected the village from afar. Few people were about at this early hour, and Dirk quickly spotted the stables of the small village.

  Sometimes the best place to hide was in plain view, so Dirk stayed with the road and headed straight for the stables. He quietly instructed Chief to go around the village and wait by the road without being seen. The spirit wolf faded until he was nearly invisible and quickly disappeared into the trees.

  Dirk slipped between the stables and an inn and came around back. Behind the buildings there were only foggy wheat fields, pastures, and piles of manure. A row of maples separated the fields from the property behind the buildings that made up Main Street. A few buildings down, a woman came into view and splashed the contents of a bucket into the thicket. Dirk slipped into the stable through the open back door. His hood was pulled down over his eyes, and through it he could see the heat aura of only six horses and one human. The stableboy was shoveling hay from the attic down into a wooden bin. Dirk chucked a dart up at the silhouette of the boy, and a soft thud told him that it had hit home. The boy would likely wake to a good lecture about falling asleep during chores.

  Quickly he inspected the horses. A tall white-and-brown-speckled mare caught his eye. He did not bother with a saddle and led the horse out of its stall.

  Stroking the horse’s neck, he spoke to it as he would a friend. “Will you run well for me, beauty?”

  He petted the horse for a minute and from his hand fed it oats from a bucket nearby. “The apples are fat this time of year, Beauty. How about we get some?”

  He leapt atop Beauty’s back, and grabbing a handful of his mane, he gave the stallion a soft kick. Beauty reared, shot out of the back of the stables, and with a leap cleared the small wooden fence. Dirk steered Beauty on toward the road on the other side of town. He knew that he was hours ahead of Krentz, and he had only a few dozen miles to go.

  Well before noon he arrived in Carlsborough, one of the many large towns dotted all over the Twin Lakes. Centuries past, this had been barbarian territory. And though the tribes had since been wiped out or run out, many of their monolithic structures still stood. Many of the thousands of giant stones had been scavenged to be used for nearby castles and buildings, but many more remained, too big to be moved. Strange patterns had been laid out by the barbarians, and weathered statues of foreign-looking humans with long heads could be found easily. While the barbarians could have used the stone to build impenetrable fortresses, instead they’d built monuments to their gods.

  Dirk stopped at the nearest inn and tied off his horse. The place was empty but for a man preparing the bar for the day’s business.

  “We don’t open before noon ’less you the king of Eldalon,” the man said as he stopped in his polishing of glasses and gave Dirk a once-over. “And you ain’t him.” He went back to his work.

  Dirk walked to the bar and put a small sack of gold coins on it with a clang. “No, but I spend like a king,” he said and took a seat.

  The man limped over to Dirk and appraised him with renewed interest. “I hope a man who carries that many blades is a friend to the lordship, or he ain’t welcome here no matter how much gold he be carrying.”

  Dirk toyed with the idea of stabbing the man in the heart. There was something about the bold man’s way of speech that irritated Dirk. He had a few old scars on his face, causing small patches in his red beard. Dirk guessed his limp was a result of battle also. Judging by the man’s righteous proclamations about the lordship, he was either a retired soldier or guard. There were enough of those around these days. More men than not ended up in the kingdom’s armies, and fewer came home every year. The draggard wars had raged on for two decades, and every village had its share of lost soldiers.

  “I am here with intention to thwart an assassination attempt on your lord, but first I must eat. Fighting dark elves calls for a big breakfast,” said Dirk dryly.

  The man laughed, but quickly his smile was smothered by uncertainty as Dirk opened one side of his jacket. The barkeep saw the dozens of darts, daggers, and gleaming throwing stars and gulped.

  “You’re serious, ain’t you?” the man asked, wide-eyed.

  “No,” said Dirk. “I am Whill of Agora. And I am hungry.”

  The barkeep looked perplexed. He ran a hand through hair that wasn’t there and brought it around to rest on his open-mouthed chin.

  “Whill of Agora. You don’t say.” He turned from Dirk and placed the glass he had been polishing with the others. He put a hand to a wide center beam as he bent to retrieve his dropped towel. “Now that is a tale worth a beer at least.”

  There were four quick thuds as four darts hit the wooden beam between his spread fingers and thumb. They hit in such rapid succession that it sounded as though a woodpecker were drumming away.

  “Please, good sir, I have no time for games. Two orders of your best breakfast dish for two gold coins and a story to tell.”

  Dirk had just begun his second plate when people started pouring into the inn. Dirk smiled to himself as he dug into his biscuits and gravy. His second glass of goat’s milk washed down a slice of pork.

  As he had anticipated, the barkeep’s story had spread like wildfire. Not an hour had passed since he rode into town, and he bet that everyone knew he was there. He needed to gain the audience of Lord Carlsborough, but he also needed to eat. By this route he expected to have his audience by the time he had finished his breakfast.

  And so it was not a moment before he washed down his last drink of milk that a guard arrived and came to stand behind him. Dirk regarded the soldier over his shoulder; the man raised his chin with an air of importance. The crowd that had been eyeing Dirk with anticipation fell silent. The guard’s purposeful cough became the only sound.

  “Sir, Lord Carlsborough would have
word.”

  Dirk stood and wiped his mouth. “Excellent in all regards, good sir,” he said to the barkeep, and left three gold coins on the bar.

  “Lead me to your lord,” he instructed the guard.

  The guard led Dirk on horseback up the winding hill upon which sat Castle Carlsborough. Dirk veered to the side of the road and off for a moment.

  “The castle is this way,” said the lord’s guard.

  “Yes, it is quite hard to miss. But I promised Beauty here some apples,” said Dirk as he plucked an apple from one of the many trees which lined the road to the castle. The land of Carlsborough was lush with growth of flower and fruit, the lake effect keeping the air moist and perfect for farming.

  Once Beauty had eaten his fill of the treats, they continued on. In short order Dirk stood before Lord Carlsborough. The old man looked to have had a rough morning. He sat upon the dais of the great room upon at a tall chair surrounded by guards—twenty of them, Dirk quickly counted. It seemed that the lord was scared.

  Dirk disregarded pleasantries and strode forward purposefully. He did not miss the faint flexing of many of the guard’s sword arms.

  “You have heard of your kin, then? Surely you do not guard yourself so heavily against word of Whill of Agora?”

  Lord Carlsborough took a measure of Dirk. Behind his bushy eyebrows and long nose, suspicious eyes regarded the assassin.

  “You are he?” he asked in a strong voice.

  “No,” said Dirk, shaking his head. “But I am a friend of the man, and I knew his name would gain me audience.”

  The lord cocked back his head and let out a pensive breath. “Who are you, then?”

  “Dirk Blackthorn.” He could have used one of his many other names, but he wanted Eadon and Whill alike to know what he had done.

  “Why have you sought my audience?”

  “I am here to make sure that you and your entire family is not murdered.”

  The lord smirked at the comment. “You alone?”

  “Yes,” answered Dirk seriously.

  Lord Carlsborough laughed and a few guards joined in.

  “With all due respect, Lord Carlsborough, these guards will be of no help to you. The one who hunts you will tear through them as if they were children. I assume you have heard what happened to your kin to the south. Their fate shall be your own lest you heed my words.”

  Lord Carlsborough shifted uncomfortably in his chair, considering what Dirk had said. “Yes, the horrible news reached me this morning. What are we up against?”

  “A dark elf, and possibly a dragon or some other nightmarish flying creature.”

  “And you have the skills necessary to fight off a dark elf and a dragon?” the lord asked, the humor having left him.

  “I do,” said Dirk.

  Lord Carlsborough mulled over his options for a time. “And why should I believe your tale? You have no credentials to back up your claim. It is possible that you yourself are a spy, or better yet, an assassin.”

  “If I had been sent here to kill you, sir, you would be dead.”

  “How dare you threaten the lord in his own keep?” yelled the captain of the guard and stepped forward, hand on hilt.

  Dirk did not let his gaze waver from Lord Carlsborough. The lord raised a hand, gesturing for his captain to hold. “A few weeks ago this Whill of Agora fought within the Del’Oradon arena. There are tales of a barbarian woman and a man in black who fought alongside him and escaped with him. Are you that man?”

  “I am he,” said Dirk with a nod.

  The captain leaned in and whispered to his lord. Dirk called upon his enchanted earrings and the hushed voices of the two became clear.

  “Sir, I do not trust this man. We have all heard the tales of the man in black who fights with Whill of Agora, but the odds that this man is he, sir…Furthermore, who alerted this man to the murders of your nephew and his family? How does he know it was a dark elf? I would advise strong caution with this one.”

  Dirk had heard enough. There was just no time for all of this. From his pocket he withdrew two darts and threw them in rapid succession. They exploded in a cloud of thick white smoke among the twenty guards and their lord.

  The captain’s warning echoed throughout the keep as Dirk brought up his hood. From behind it he could see through the smoke perfectly. He sprinted forward as the captain screamed panicked commands.

  “Protect the lord! To me! To me!”

  Dirk silently sprinted to the right through the smoke. The guards all looked like drunkards, blinded and coughing as they were. They were easy targets for his darts. He threw five consecutive darts on the fly and five guards fell to the floor. Alert to his fellow soldiers’ fall, the closest guard unsheathed his sword and came forward swinging. Dirk came under the ghost swing and hit the guard with a devastating uppercut that left him crumbling to the ground. Moving quickly behind the guards, Dirk came around and kicked the captain in the back, sending him sprawling on the floor through the smoke. The lord yelped when Dirk put his dagger to his throat and pulled him back against the wall.

  “Krellentia!” Dirk bellowed and the smoke from the dart-bombs began to fade. When it cleared enough, the captain of the guard saw that his lord was in mortal danger.

  “Hold!” he ordered his men.

  “Like I said, Lord Carlsborough, if I had been sent here to kill you, you would be dead,” said Dirk, loud enough for all to hear. He withdrew his dagger and released the man.

  Lord Carlsborough instantly felt his throat and moved away from Dirk. The lord scowled at him as he checked for blood but found none. He looked to the soldiers and back to Dirk.

  “They are sleeping, I assure you. Now, shall we plan our defense, or are you not convinced?”

  The lord waved away what fog remained before him and shouted to the ceiling, “Will someone open a godsdamned window? Captain!”

  “Sir!”

  “See that these men are tended to. I will speak privately with Blackthorn.”

  “Sir?” the Captain began to argue.

  “Then you will protect my family from a dark elf?” Lord Carlsborough yelled. The guard lowered his eyes impotently. “All right, then!” said the lord. “See to it that this castle is locked down for the time being. And put the village on alert.”

  The captain of the guard bowed, and with a quick “yes, sir,” he marched to fulfill his duty. But Lord Carlsborough grabbed him by the top of his breastplate and pulled him near.

  “We have known that the fight would come to us sooner or later. I am counting on you, Barldan. You are my best man.” He released the captain with a slap to the chest. Barldan forgot his passion and nodded to Dirk.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Dirk followed Lord Carlsborough to a door at the rear of the keep. The lord took a torch from the wall into the room with him. Once inside he bade Dirk close the door and lit three more torches along the wall. The firelight, along with a faint glow that came from three slits in the stone no larger than murder holes, lit the room. The lord motioned to a chair opposite a large oak desk with deer antlers melded seamlessly into the wood. Many volumes lined the walls, and stacks of papers strewed the dark-finished desk. Dirk realized that this was Lord Carlsborough’s personal study.

  “It is whiskey for me. What is your spirit?”

  “I hear good things about Twin Lakes white wine. Have you any?”

  “Of course!” said Lord Carlsborough, smacking his head. “Good call, sir. I have a bottle, vintage fifty-one forty-five, given to me by my brother.” He rummaged in the bottom of his wine cabinet. “Aha.” He blew dust from the bottle and wiped its label. “Twenty-five-year-old wine on the day I die,” he mused and seemed to lose himself to nostalgia. He shook himself out of the trance and smiled in grandfatherly way at Dirk. After retrieving a wine opener, he sat.

  “Ever had wine aged so?” he asked Dirk as the cork popped free.

  Dirk was reminded of the centuries-old wine he had shared with Eadon. “Neve
r,” he answered as the gold goblet before him was filled. Lord Carlsborough lifted a matching goblet and made a toast. “To Dirk Blackthorn, the only man to hold a knife to my throat and live.”

  Dirk nodded and touched goblets. He took a long, slow smell of the crisp white and drank. He sampled the wine slowly, letting it sit in his mouth for a time before swallowing it shallowly. The remaining wine danced on his tongue, and as he opened his mouth and took the air, the sweetness of spring exploded in it. A quick tartness followed and finished with a fruity tail.

  “I have drunk elven wine that could not stand up to this masterpiece.”

  “Indeed.” The lord nodded and followed the wine with a large shot of whiskey. He lit a pipe with faintly quaking hands and puffed the smoke, only to drink again from his goblet. Dirk watched him as he poured another shot for himself.

  “Lord Carlsborough,” said Dirk.

  “Hmm?” The lord jumped as if he had forgotten Dirk was there. The assassin had seen it before—men who thought they would not see the morning drinking themselves stupid.

  “This is the first time you have faced certain death?”

  The lord focused on Dirk and scowled as he put down his glass. “Of course not! I did my time for my country. I fret not for myself; I am an old man who has had a life of hard work and good fortune. It is for my family that I worry. This town is home to my two sons and their six children and wives.” He looked at Dirk with sudden brave determination. “What do we do?”

  Chapter 27

  Zorriaz the White

  Whill left Zerafin’s abode and used the sword to fly to his home in the Thousand Falls. He found Avriel there on the balcony, curled up and looking smaller than usual. Whill touched her consciousness and found it sad.

  “I can do it,” said Whill as he walked to stand by her. She raised her big head and regarded him through dragon tears. “Do you trust me?”