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

  “You were not born with magic?” she asked Zander.

  “No.”

  “And you were taught by Eadon?”

  “He awakened dormant parts of my brain,” Zander explained.

  “Why did the Elves of the Sun find offense?” she asked.

  “Are you familiar with the relationship between the practitioners and the Enta?”

  “I have been told the Enta offer their power to the gifted ones. Theirs is a symbiotic union.”

  “Union,” Zander scoffed. “It is slavery. The Elves of the Sun know the gift can be shared, and they are threatened. Eadon freed us from our bondage. He empowered us to be more than energy slaves, constantly being leached of our inner strength.”

  Aurora reminded herself to be weary of the dark elf, but she found herself believing him. An idea came to her then.

  “If elves not born with the gift can be taught… can humans be taught also?”

  Zander did not hide his pleasure. “Yes, you could be taught the ways of the Orna Catorna. The sun elves know this as well, yet they do not help any but themselves. In five hundred years, how much has their magic helped your people?” he asked.

  Aurora did not have to search long for the answer. The elves remained strangers to the barbarians of Volnoss. From what she had gleaned from her time with the other races, they were strangers to all of Agora.

  “Would you teach me?” she asked. Though she hated asking the dark elf for anything, she was tempted by the idea of wielding magic.

  “I can awaken your mind, but the art does not come quickly. I have studied the arts for hundreds of years, and I have only mastered three of the schools.”

  “Could I live so long?” she asked.

  “With the power to be gained through the practice, you might be Chieftain of the Seven for a thousand years.”

  Aurora’s heart leapt at the prospect. She imagined the grand empire she might build with the power of the elves. She would have many daughters, the empresses of the Seven. The barbarians would grow strong once again, and never would they be defeated.

  Many grand fantasies kept Aurora occupied the remainder of the journey. By nightfall, the city of Orenden rose beyond the distant valley. The many lights of the city illuminated the thick dark clouds that had blanketed the sky all day. In the valley before the city, a sea of tents emerged. Many banners hung in the still night air.

  Azzeal stood like a statue looking out over the valley as Aurora and her armies arrived. She was loath to speak to the lich, and slowed enough so Zander led by half a horse length. As they reached Azzeal, he turned to regard them with a dead stare. His head sat perpetually cocked slightly to the side, and his gaze sent shivers through her body.

  “Report, lich!” Zander ordered.

  Azzeal turned his head slowly with jerky spasms, and his gaze captured Aurora. “Lady of the North,” he said in a wet, rasping voice that gave her chills. “The Shierdon army awaits.”

  “Lead us on,” she uttered, feeling sick.

  Azzeal took many long moments to turn from her. He floated an inch from the ground and on down into the snow-covered valley. The glow from the clouds above the city cast the lich in an eerie light, but Aurora found herself unable to turn away. She realized Zander had been staring at her.

  “That…thing, is never to address me again. Do you understand?” she ordered Zander.

  “As you wish,” he replied.

  Ahead on the road leading to the valley and stretching fields, a horseman had stopped next to Azzeal. Soon, the lone figure came galloping toward them. Aurora ordered the armies to stop as he approached. As the horsemen drew near, she realized it was not a man at all, nor human. The dark elf female stopped a horse length from her and Zander and saluted them with an open palm over her heart and bowed.

  “Zander, and…Aurora Snowfell, Chieftain of the Seven Tribes of Volnoss,” she said, bowing once again.

  “Veolindra,” Zander greeted her in kind.

  “What is your title?” Aurora asked.

  Veolindra tossed her long, flowing hair over her right shoulder. Black armor, made of a multitude of overlapping bones, gleamed beneath a sleek flowing cloak. She raised her chin proudly.

  “I am Lich Lord of the Western Shierdon Army,” she proclaimed proudly. “I command three regiments of ten thousand.”

  “The human soldiers of Shierdon? They follow a dark elf?” Aurora asked, confused.

  The smile of the necromancer stretched across her face and became a maniacal grin. “The armies of Shierdon are dead. They have been raised to better serve our master. They are now my death knights; they feel neither fear nor pain. Settle your army and join me for a meal. Many things shall be explained.”

  “Very well,” said Aurora.

  The dark elf put her hand to her heart once more; silver tattoos swirled and danced upon her dark skin. “Chieftain.” she bowed.

  “Lich Lord,” said Aurora.

  Camp was made, and soon fire pits sprouted up throughout, the firewood having been gathered from the nearby forest surrounding what had once been wheat fields. The city sat bordered by farmland on all sides but the eastern, where long rows of apple trees covered rolling hills leading to the forest. The Draggard armies kept a good distance away from the barbarians and horses, but still too close for Aurora’s liking.

  By the light of the small fire at the center of her tent, she rummaged through her old trunk. Her mother had seen to it that her personal items made it to her wagon. Aurora was grateful for the thought, but none of her old furs would do for the Chieftain of the Seven. She reminded herself to have a new wardrobe made, and armor would not hurt either. Frustrated, she flung a dark-red fox fur dress to the bed. The barbarians would view it as advocacy of Fox Tribe. She didn’t need anything causing strife between the tribes now. She decided on wolf fur, being that she was from Wolf Tribe. The skirt sat low on her round hips, and though it reached her knees, it was slit nearly to the top. The shirt had only one sleeve, with a thick strap running over one shoulder. She fought her left breast under the fur and adjusted herself. She blew her hair out of her face and scowled at the foggy mirror in disgust.

  “You look like shyte,” she sighed, and grabbed her fur boots.

  Outside, fluffy snowflakes fell lazily from the dimly illuminated clouds. What little wind remained danced around the heavy snowfall piling quickly upon the fields. If the snow didn’t let up soon, the going would be slow tomorrow. Aurora’s guards came to stand beside her. She ignored their presence and stiffened when she noticed the lich Azzeal standing before her.

  “This way, Lady of the North,” he croaked as he stared with unblinking eyes. Even after he turned, she could feel him watching her somehow. She looked around for Zander so that she might scold him, but he was nowhere to be seen. She reluctantly followed the lich through the barbarian camp.

  Azzeal floated over the snow leaving a line of frozen ice behind him. Through the camp they went, across a short gap between armies, and into the Shierdon camp. The smell of rotting meat permeated the air. None of the regular chatter or activity filled the camp, and soon Aurora knew something was wrong. The cook fires burned low and none of the soldiers sat outside. Sentries stood guard, but even they seemed odd, standing eerily still at their posts, with none of the men conversing. The silence was haunting; not even the sparse wind made a sound. It was like walking through a graveyard. Following a lich only made it worse. To her relief, Azzeal stopped before a large black orb the size of a house, its surface reflecting the landscape around it like ice. Aurora soon forgot the lich as a door was formed and the ice melted away before her. She stepped through the threshold and turned to watch it reform behind her, sealing her inside. No fire burned within, but the strange orb was warm, and a soft orange glow cast evenly across the surface of the dome. At the center of the dome sat a large, four-poster bed made of what appeared to be dragon bones. Dark blue silk sheets folded over a blanket of white fur, and fat pillows of the same fur lay piled at
the head. At the foot of the bed sat two beautiful chests, with identical inlay of pearl throughout panels of dark cherry wood. To Aurora’s right, a long table stood with four chairs to a side, and upon the table a three-tiered candleholder, made with the bones of Draggard fingers, burned bright. Other odds and ends that would be found in a commander’s tent were present. Maps on smaller tables, stacked books upon a writing desk, dressers, chests, and a liquor cabinet.

  Veolindra greeted her at the center of the large dome, and to her utter surprise, the dark elf pulled her down and kissed her on the lips. They remained that way for a long moment in which Aurora’s wide eyes stared at Veolindra’s closed ones. When she released her, the lich lord kept her eyes closed and bit at her bottom lip, savoring the kiss.

  “You have a fire in your soul that is seldom found, Aurora Snowfell,” she said, holding Aurora’s hands in hers.

  “Come, sit, and let us drink.”

  She led Aurora to a heavily cushioned lounging chair and guided her to sit. Her hair spun in a flourish as she went to the liquor cabinet.

  “What is your drink?” she asked as she eyed the contents.

  “The road has been slow and uneventful. I want fire in my stomach.”

  Veolindra hummed hungrily and returned with two small crystal glasses and a dark red bottle. The dark elf poured them each a half glass and raised hers.

  “To the Chieftain of the Seven: together, we shall conquer Northern Agora in the name of our master.”

  Aurora nodded as they clanged glasses. She had asked for fire, and fire she got. The liquor went down like lava, and she did all she could not to choke. The drink was stronger than any of the barbarian spirits, stronger still than any concoctions of the dwarves she had ever had. The drink hit her stomach and spread warmth throughout her body. Veolindra refilled her glass and sat in the large fur-covered chair beside her.

  With a murmured word, a small cage of stone, set upon the low table, came alight with dancing flame. The lich lord sipped her drink and surveyed Aurora’s long form. She was accustomed to being gawked at, but not often by women.

  “What is it called?” Aurora asked, raising the glass.

  “This drink is Kronosh. It is as old as my people.”

  “It is the strongest I have found,” said Aurora, studying her glass in the light.

  “And likely the strongest you will ever find. I would have offered something sweeter, but this seemed to be what you wanted,” said Veolindra. “But enough of spirits; you had asked about my death knights,” she said with a devilish grin.

  The door melted open once again, and a soldier walked inside to stand before them both. He stood, heavily clad in silver plate mail, with a sash of purple over one shoulder. At his hip sat a long, thick sword sheath, and upon his helmet a plume of brilliant silver feathers, that of the silverhawk. He came to attention with a click of the heels and took off his helmet to address his mistress. Aurora expected the same milky white eyes as the lich Azzeal’s; instead she found green, glowing orbs set deep in a sunken face.

  “Mistress,” he said in many voices, one deep and gravely, another unnaturally high but faint, and yet another, cold and menacing.

  “They are much more useful in this form. Not long ago, the soldiers, and then captains and generals, began to ask too many questions. The humans became suspicious, and we would have soon lost control. Lord Eadon saw to the work himself. He is yet a master of arts unknown; his work is marvelous,” said Veolindra. Aurora could only nod, disturbed by necromancy.

  “Does anything of the person they once were survive?” Aurora asked quietly.

  “Sometimes. Depends on how much fire they held in their hearts,” replied Veolindra with a grin. “Their most primal emotions live on, scattered memories. Rarely do they rebel against their bondage, and, when they do, they are made example of.”

  “What is your name?” Aurora asked the death knight.

  “Seven, of ten.”

  She turned from the death knight to Veolindra, confused.

  “Seven of ten. Each of the ten command one thousand. I dictate to the ten, and they down to the others. They will do anything I say. Watch,” she said, and pointed a long black fingernail at the knight’s dagger.

  “General Seven, remove your left glove and stab yourself in the hand.”

  Seven took off his glove, unsheathed his curved dagger, and buried it to the hilt through his hand. He stood unflinching and held out his hand; no blood fell to the ringed carpet at his feet.

  “They feel not pain, they know not fear,” said Veolindra.

  “Leave us!” she ordered Seven.

  The death knight commander saluted Veolindra and left them. Aurora was glad; she was no more comfortable around the death knight than the lich.

  Veolindra seemed to sense her unease. “They take some getting used to.”

  “Indeed,” said Aurora. “Though I am anxious to see them in battle.”

  The lich lord smiled at that. “Soon, my friend.”

  Chapter Eleven

  General Mick Reeves

  Krentz did what she could for the Eldonians. They had sent their women and children into the heart of the Burning Mountains and built defenses. Krentz laid wards inside the mountain, rather than out, as the dark elves would find any magical workings suspicious. Dirk would have stayed to help them defend, if not for Krentz’s determination to move against her father. She would not be swayed, and Dirk let the argument go.

  They left the next morning and flew north from Eldon Island toward the shores of Eldalon. The wind had picked up throughout the night, and now large waves distorted the waters below. Upon Fyrfrost, they would be all but invisible to anyone below. The channel between Eldon and Eldalon was quiet, with not a fishing boat nor Eldalonian naval vessel to be seen. This did not sit well with Dirk. Emptiness permeated the air, lending a foreboding quality to the blustering wind. The capital city of Kell-Torey had fallen, and the land was without a king. Dirk knew nothing but murder and mayhem awaited him in the kingdom.

  “Do any of Whill’s line survive? Is there an heir to the Eldalonian throne?” he asked Krentz over his shoulder. After a pause, she answered, her voice carrying the weight of sadness.

  “I left none alive,” she said in a low voice.

  “The twins…was it just you three set to the task?” he asked.

  “No. I was set with but one task: the King and his immediate family…I…It is likely the other assassins succeeded,” said Krentz.

  “No, the twins failed. I killed them both. Lord Carlsborough yet lives, or so I left him.”

  “Whill remains the heir, either way,” said Krentz, her voice somehow unaffected by the wind as was Dirk’s. “Unless Lord Carlsborough is of closer relation than the king’s grandson.”

  “He is the late King’s third cousin, or so he says,” Dirk confirmed.

  “Then, your Whill of Agora is heir to two falling kingdoms.”

  “May the Gods pity he who hath the world,” said Dirk reciting an ancient elven proverb. Krentz finished it for him.

  “For he has nothing more to gain, but loss.”

  The coast came into view before the noon sun, and soon, the ground was speeding past below them. The winds from the sea pushed them on for many miles during which Fyrfrost only glided. Dirk had long ago learned to keep his hood tight to his ears, lest the wind pound them deaf. The weather had turned colder since his last long flight. His cloak did much against the chill, but any exposed flesh felt the bite of the wind. Krentz sat behind him and often leaned forward to hold him tight, but she was not a source of heat in her spirit form. She possessed the ability to conjure such an inner warmth, and she would if asked, but Dirk did not want to remind her of her lack of warmth and, therefore, her condition.

  “Fyrfrost tells me of movement ahead,” said Krentz, and Fyrfrost growl-cooed the affirmative.

  “Can’t you teach him to speak?” Dirk asked.

  “With time, but dragon speech at its best is nearly im
possible to understand. The massive teeth tend to hamper pronunciation.”

  Fyrfrost turned into a spiraling descent to bring them closer. They were still too far for Dirk to make anything out, even with his enchanted hood.

  “He says there are Draggard ahead.”

  “How many?”

  “Twenty, twenty-five. A dark elf is among them, their handler,” said Krentz.

  “Handler? They usually command hundreds, thousands,” Dirk replied, intrigued.

  “Yes. Either they are on a mission of importance, or there are more dark elves within Agora now.”

  Dirk pondered the situation as the group finally came into view. Fyrfrost’s color-changing feathers would not hide them from the dark elf’s mind sight. He just hoped the elf didn’t use it.

  “They are a small enough group for a bit of practice. Shall we?” he asked over his shoulder. Krentz was not there. She had turned to a wisp and suddenly solidified, straddling his lap. Her hair blew rapidly, leaving them in its shelter. For a moment, only her eyes existed, and then her lips as she kissed him softly, and they were warm. For a fleeting moment, Dirk wondered if she had read his mind, and the moment was gone.

  Krentz dissolved as Fyrfrost flew over the marching group and bathed their flanks in dragon fire. As screams of pain and warning rang out, the attackers banked left to circle around once more. Fireballs erupted from the Draggard ranks, but missed as Fyrfrost turned.

  “Fly high, Fyrfrost. When she gets the caster’s attention, bring me in low,” said Dirk.

  The Draggard began to spread out wide, increasing the target range. No barked orders rang out, however. Krentz once told him the dark elf handlers controlled their groups with but a thought.

  At the southern edge of the group a noticeable disturbance began, and he knew it to be Krentz. From his pocket, he took the wolf figurine and yelled to Fyrfrost. “Fly me around to the left flank, keep well away from the caster, and get the runners.”