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 slowly nodded. I trust you…

  “I…the Other read Eadon’s mind during the torture. I learned this spell also,” said Whill.

  Avriel shook her head. “But you do not remember it, the Other does. And if you are mistaken…I do not want to die like this.”

  “I can do it. I must. You are slipping away, Avriel, the dragon is taking hold. All day you recite your dragon memories to the lore masters. You hesitate for fear of your dragon form; what of your elven body?”

  Avriel sighed and the balcony vibrated. “It seems that if you cannot do it, then no one can.”

  “Then we fly. We do it now.”

  Whill rode Avriel to the house of healing in which her body was preserved by the ever-diligent healers. A line of elves stretched from the door and over a small bridge across a slow river, and still the line went around a corner from pathway to the cobblestone street. These elves were giving gifts of energy to their beloved princess Avriel.

  She circled the house of healing and landed upon the well-manicured lawn of clover. Her clawed feet sunk slightly into the earth and water pooled around her claws. Zerafin was there, as were the queen and a handful of elves. Avriel’s still form lay upon a silken white bed. Mesh curtains made up the walls of the house of healing, and they danced slowly with a light breeze. The sun was on its way down beyond the Thousand Falls, and the elven buildings and pyramids of the city had begun their soft nightly glow.

  “Both of Avriel’s bodies must be brought close together,” said Whill to the nearby elves. They looked to the queen for guidance.

  “How do you know the spell required to move her soul from one body to the next?” asked Queen Araveal, taking a step between Whill and Avriel’s elven form.

  “I do not understand how I know it, but I do,” answered Whill. “Avriel has decided… I must be alone for a moment, pardon me.”

  Whill left the house of healing and followed a winding garden path to a small stream. He knelt on the bank and sat on his legs. With a deep breath he closed his eyes and spoke to the Other.

  “I would have words with you now,” he said in his mind, and looked into the slow-moving water of the stream. The reflection of his tortured self stared back at him, and grinned.

  “You said you could heal Avriel. Is that true?”

  Slowly the Other nodded and smiled wider, cracking his chapped lips.

  “And in return for your help, you seek the sword of power taken?”

  Whill’s reflection moved on its own, leaning closer to the surface.

  “You know this all to be true. Do you wish to see Avriel restored? That is the only question. If so, give me control to do my work.”

  “No!” yelled Whill immediately. “Give me the knowledge that I must know to help her myself.”

  “I cannot,” said the Other, annoyed. “You cannot take knowledge from me unless you embrace every memory that I am. Are you prepared to remember those six bloody months?”

  Whill shook his head, as did the reflection of the Other.

  “No, you cannot bear the memories,” the Other agreed. “You are too weak.”

  Whill shuddered as he stared into the Other’s bloodshot eyes. He heard the chains and the whips, felt the constant ache of the cuffs.

  “Do what you must,” Whill said and closed his eyes.

  He felt nothing happen within. He opened his eyes and looked at his hands and realized he hadn’t willed his arms to move. He rose and turned back toward the house of healing, yet he did not command his legs. Whill tried to speak but found that he could not. All he could do was watch and listen.

  “Stop fighting it or my hand may slip,” the Other warned out loud. Whill calmed himself and focused instead on his connection with the blade. He could not stop fighting the invasion of his body, and he did not like where he was being kept. He saw through his eyes, but the view was down a long, strange tunnel. The sounds of the world became mangled, twisted and mixed with strange whispers and screams in the dark. He felt monsters at his back, always beyond the corner of the eye. Whill realized that this was the part of his mind in which he kept the Other.

  The voices became louder and the screams closer. Whill panicked, knowing that he could not get out, could not take control. If he fought for dominance, Avriel would not be helped. He tried to calm his mind and focus but he could not. The voices were now like booming explosions in his ears, the echoing unbearable. Whill mentally screamed and the Watcher cursed as he walked into the room.

  “Be calm!” the Other Whill yelled, and many elves jumped.

  Inside the twisted depths of his mind, Whill flew from the voices and the screams, the whispers and the sneers. He willed himself to not be in control, but out.

  There was a flash and Whill was standing across from the Other, who still controlled his body. A sparkling silver tether of twisting light connected Whill’s astral form with his physical. The Other Whill looked at him and grinned.

  Between them lay Avriel’s elven body and her dragon form. Avriel’s voice came into his mind, and to Whill she sounded scared. “You…there are two of you.”

  Whill looked from Avriel to the onlooking elves. He realized then that they could see his astral projection through their mind-sight. They looked at him curiously; the queen regarded him with concern. When she spoke, she did not address Whill’s body but his projected self.

  “Can you control…yourself?”

  Whill’s projection nodded.

  “Look!” An elven healer pointed. Whill looked too and watched as his body slowly began to change. Cuts appeared upon his bare arms and face; bruises and festering wounds sprouted from his skin. Blood trickled from his eyes, nose, and ears as the Other was manifested through him. His wrists split above his palm, and from the wounds, thick, barbed chains erupted. One wrapped itself around Avriel’s elven ankle, the other around her dragon leg. The barbs sank deep into each.

  The other unsheathed Adromida and held it above his head with both hands. Whill panicked, thinking that the Other meant to kill both Avriels. A gale struck the house of healing, sending the thin curtains flapping noisily as a whirlwind surrounded them all. Whill watched as the Other chanted in a language he had never heard before. His voice boomed, shaking Whill’s corporeal form.

  The Other pulled massive amounts of energy from Adromida and a surge coursed through his body and down the bloody chains. Both of Avriel’s bodies stiffened and heaved. Elves hurried to be out of the reach of the dragon’s thrashing claws and deadly tail. Again a surge of power rippled through the blade to the two bodies.

  As Whill watched, an elf gasped, and though her eyes were closed, Whill knew that with her mind-sight she saw what Whill saw. There at the center of Avriel’s dragon chest shone a bright white orb. The Other used the steady current of energy from the blade to capture Avriel’s soul with energy and slowly guide it out. The dragon roared and thrashed and the Watcher sent another surge of energy from Whill and into the dragon body. The encapsulated soul of Avriel rose from the dragon body and was guided across and into the chest of the elven body. There was a blinding surge of power and a humming from the blade Adromida. Avriel’s body convulsed and arched like a bow upon the white sheets and slowly floated above the bed. Then the chains suddenly receded and Avriel’s body fell back to the bed below.

  Whill watched as his body wavered and fell to the ground. Suddenly he was pulled forward as if an invisible wave had crashed into him. He returned to his body, gasping for breath. His wounds were gone, and there was no sign of the Other.

  “Avriel!” Zerafin called to his sister as he lightly tapped her cheek.

  Whill got to his feet and pushed through the crowding elves. “Is she alive? Did it work?” Whill begged as he pushed forward and watched as Zerafin and Araveal tended to her.

  “She is not breathing!” Zerafin said helplessly as he intensified his attempts to revive her. He surrounded her with blue tendrils of healing but her condition would not change.

  She wil
l die came a voice in his mind.

  “We had a deal!” Whill shouted and received many strange looks.

  You never agreed. I would have your word, said the Other.

  “You have my word! You shall have the blade Nodae. Now help her!” Whill pleaded.

  Very well, said the Other.

  Whill’s hand reached out toward Avriel, and from her a mass of black energy swirled into his palm. Avriel’s body arched and she gasped for air. She blinked, confused, and breathed the precious air into her lungs.

  “The dragon!” she screamed and fought those who held her down. “The dragon, do not let it die!”

  “The body of the dragon lives, fret not, sister,” said Zerafin as he stroked her sweat-covered brow.

  “Whill.” She smiled as he came close. She reached out and he took her hand. It was warm to the touch. Whill looked into Avriel’s elven eyes for the first time since she had tried to end herself so long ago.

  “You did it,” she said as tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you, thank you.”

  Queen Araveal took Whill by the arm and gently urged him aside so that they might speak privately. She smiled at him, but Whill saw slight apprehension in her eyes.

  “You have given me back my daughter. I am forever in your debt.” She squeezed his hands softly.

  “She is all right, that is all that matters,” answered Whill, hoping that she would not ask what he knew was on her mind.

  “May I ask—,” she began, but he cut her off quickly.

  “You may, but I cannot answer what I do not yet understand.”

  Araveal watched him closely and Whill could hardly bear her scrutiny. “I must know for the sake of my people, was that…other, was it the dark one?”

  “No,” he answered truthfully.

  After a time she smiled, but he could not be sure she believed him.

  “That language you spoke, do you know of it?” she asked.

  Whill shook his head. “I have, it seems, though I do not know the words.”

  Queen Araveal did not hide her concern. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Allow me to see Avriel,” he answered with a grin.

  The queen laughed. “Of course. Thank you once again.”

  Whill bowed to the queen and the bow was returned. Avriel had sat up but was still being checked by the many healers. Her elven body had been kept from wasting away by their constant vigilance. Still, blue tendrils surrounded her as the healers extended their consciousness out through the energy ribbons. After a time they were satisfied that she was well.

  “Yes, yes, I feel fine, spend your energies on…” She meant to say the dragon’s name, Whill knew, and he watched as her eyes wondered and she looked to be remembering something. “Her mother had intended the name Zorriaz,” said Avriel as she reached from her bed to touch the body that had contained her. The body of Zorriaz the White, daughter of Kyrayn, daughter of Knorr, daughter of a thousand dragons before her.

  “Zorriaz is her name. Zorriaz,” she said to no one as she leaned closer and stroked what had once been her snout. The body of the dragon breathed slowly and steadily, and the heart kept a constant rhythm. But there was no spirit within, no soul for the vessel to serve, and so it slept. Without the effort of the healers, it would remain motionless until it died of starvation.

  “I am sorry, Zorriaz,” Avriel said. “I am sorry that you were forced out of your body to save someone who tried to die. I would see the return of your dragon soul. I would see you live and fly high as a dragon can fly.” Her elven tears fell upon dragon claw.

  The inner glow that illuminated the house of healing wavered and pulsed randomly. The wind once again stirred the thin silken curtains, and many elves looked around apprehensively. Whill had just performed a spell no one had ever seen, and there was palpable tension in the air.

  Zerafin looked around. “The house of healing remains rich with psychic and spiritual residue. The energy of the magic performed hangs in the air like humid summer dew. Look with your mind-sight, Whill.”

  He did, and he saw what Zerafin had meant. Magical residue swirled in clouds of sparkling light all around the house of healing. But Whill did not understand the concern he had heard in Zerafin’s voice. Surely such spells let off residue.

  They do, said Avriel’s voice in Whill’s head. But the wielder of such spells is supposed to take back the leftover magic. You, it seems, did not.

  Is that bad? Whill asked.

  It can have some…interesting results.

  Why didn’t someone, I don’t know, absorb my leftover magic?

  Avriel looked from the surrounding magical discharge to Whill. Because that power is from the blade Adromida, and none would dare take it ungiven, for the legends say it means death to any elf who would attempt to wield it.

  Apparently Zerafin was privy to Avriel’s side of the conversation, for he turned to Whill with a pensive look. “You should absorb the leftover energy. Your spell is still alive in this place.”

  Avriel looked around with renewed wonder. “The very spell that helped me back to my body…”

  “No, sister. These things are not to be meddled with,” warned Zerafin, and Whill began to understand. Avriel meant to summon the lost dragon soul, Zorriaz, or somehow already was.

  “You may return now,” Avriel said to the high, ascending folds of fabric that were the ceiling.

  “Avriel! This is not something to be toyed with!” Zerafin yelled.

  The wind had picked up, and the air, thick with buzzing energy, became suffocating. Whill reached out with his mind and found resistance, but then Avriel let down her shield for him. When he made contact with her mind, he heard a constant chanting in a dozen Avriel voices. Whill realized she was chanting a spell, a big spell.

  Avriel glared at her brother as he took their mother by the shoulders and backed up with her as if protect her. The queen shoved off from her son’s guidance and stepped forward purposefully.

  “The laws of the elves of the sun forbid this form of Orna Catorna. Stop at once.”

  Avriel smiled to her mother and spoke a word. “Zorriaz.”

  With his mind-sight Whill watched as the swirling magical residue converged upon itself. Electric humming and snapping emanated from the quickly forming dense orb of power. The energy swirled into a speck no larger than a coin and suddenly shot forth blinding light. Everyone who had been watching with their mind-sight reeled back as if their eyes had been scorched. Whill held his head in pain and forced himself to look once more. All sound ceased, not a thing stirred within the house of healing, and all watched as a shimmering dragon soul drifted into the body of the dragon.

  There was an explosion of sound and action as the dragon soul returned home. The white dragon Zorriaz lurched to life, spewing flame that engulfed two stunned healers.

  Chapter 28

  The Assassin

  Late into the afternoon the townspeople scrambled to prepare for the expected attack. Water was pumped from the wells constantly as every bucket that could be found was filled and either stored away at strategic locations or used to wet the many thatch roofs. Lord Carlsborough had ordered every harpoon to the castle walls, though Dirk thought they would be of little use against the enchantments Krentz had surely laid upon her mount.

  He guessed that Krentz would use the same stealth she had shown in Bristle. If so, there was little to worry from the dragon mount unless she called to it for help. If she was alerted to the village’s anticipation of her attack, she would use the dragon to cause chaos. Therefore, Dirk’s plan was for the town’s preparedness to be as inconspicuous as possible. If he could lure Krentz into the keep after her targets, his plan might work.

  Dirk reminded himself that he was here for Krentz, after all; he couldn’t give a damn about the village. If she had not sacrificed herself for him, he would be the one to fear tonight.

  The day passed and the village was prepared as well as possible. The women and children were brought to t
he subterranean chambers of the keep; there they would not suffer the wrath of the dragon at least. These chambers had been built for this very thing, and had been needed at times throughout the centuries. As much as Dirk loathed the idea of being trapped in the catacombs of the castle, he knew he might very well have to make a final stand there.

  As twilight began to mark the end of the day, Dirk walked the parapet of Castle Carlsborough. He gazed down on the castle, memorizing its layout. He needed every advantage he could get.

  The castle sat high atop the largest hill, overlooking the distant lakes. The rolling hills on which the village was settled shared the same magnificent view. From this high perch Dirk still could not see the other side of the lakes before the horizon; they were two of the largest in all of Agora.

  Dirk took note of the high outer wall of the castle, and the still-higher inner wall. Many of the massive barbarian stones had been used in the making of these walls, and though this was not a large castle, its walls were made of huge solid slabs. It could withstand the bombardment of heavy siege weapons easily. A dragon could hurl itself against this ancient keep, which looked as though it grew out of the hill.

  Though there was no moat, there was a steep incline to reach the level castle landing. Boulders had been tethered against the side of the walls by many chains, boulders that could flatten a shed. When set loose, the stones could flatten enemy soldiers storming the castle from all sides. In a ring around the castle hill, under the well-kept grass, were thousands of pointed metal spears. Levers in the castle set in motion a chain reaction of gears and pulleys, causing the spikes to rotate on their hidden platform and stick out straight. The trap was tested monthly and kept well oiled. But all of these things would not stop a shadow, could not keep away one coming from the sky. The dragon harpoons would be enough to deter a normal dragon, assuming he was not out for revenge. But Krentz’s mount would be a gift from her father. Likely it would be one of his own creation, and powerful.

  Dirk made his rounds and attached an explosive dart to the tip of every harpoon spear. He had given the spearmen code names consisting of colors. On his command, the different harpoons would be shot off. The captain of the guard had personally ordered his men to obey Dirk’s command, though Dirk knew it begrudged him to do so. If the men obeyed his orders and did not misfire in a fit of dragon fear, they might at least be able to turn away the dragon. Dirk was not concerned; he cared only for facing the rider.