Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  The attacking pirates stopped where they were, and Whill watched as the rage drained from their faces and was replaced by intense fear. There was a thud as Abram let the last of his attackers fall to the deck, having stabbed him through.

  “You useless scum can’t do anything right,” The captain yelled to the men below.

  Whill ran a finger down his bloody blade and pointed it at Cirrosa. “If you want more of your men to die, then by all means, send them down the ropes. And if you want my diamonds, sir, then come down yourself and try to take them. But I promise you that you will bleed.”

  Cirrosa gave a hearty laugh, as did his men from above. The men below did not.

  “You have a fighting spirit, young Whill! Good for you. But in fact you have killed none of my men. Those you have slain are slaves, nothing more.”

  Whill looked at the men who cowered as the captain spoke. They stood with their arms at their sides, heads down, shoulders hunched. It seemed to Whill that their failure to kill him and Abram had in some way condemned these men.

  Again Cirrosa laughed. “I told them that if they could kill the two of you, I would set them and their women and children free. If not, they would die.” The crew began to cheer and whistle.

  Abram stepped forward. “You always were a heartless killer, Cirrosa.”

  The captain’s face lit up. “Abram, my old friend. It’s been a long time. I see you also have abandoned the Arden empire. We have something in common after all.”

  Abram ignored Whill’s puzzled look. “For one, Cirrosa, we are not friends. And second, if you do not leave now, you and your men will all die today. Twelve men remain on our ship-slaves, you would call them. But I call them free men who will fight alongside us to free the women and children you speak of.”

  Cirrosa laughed again, but cut his laughter short, and instead of a smile bared his teeth. “I fear that you and your friend have not counted on one thing.” With one swift movement, he produced a long knife and pulled a child close to himself, putting the knife to the child’s throat. Whill recognized the boy immediately. It was Tarren.

  “No!” Whill lurched forward but was halted by Abram. Cirrosa ran the blade teasingly along the terrified boy’s throat.

  “You have something I want, and it seems I have something you want. Give me the diamonds and the boy will go unharmed.”

  Whill began to curse the captain, but Abram spoke over him. “If we give you the diamonds, you will kill us anyway, and the boy, along with these men’s families. We find no comfort in the word of a pirate.”

  Cirrosa shook his head and grinned. “So be it. We will kill you all and take the diamonds anyway. Shame, really. I could have gotten good money for this boy.” With that he slit Tarren’s throat and let the boy fall to the deck below. Whill could hear nothing but his own screams as Tarren’s body fell. He ran to the boy’s limp body as real pirates now made their way down the ropes.

  Cirrosa spoke again, this time to his men. “Kill them all, and one hundred coins to the man who retrieves the diamonds!”

  The pirates descended the ropes. As Whill held the dying boy in his arms, he heard Abram yelling to the slave men, “Fight for me, bleed for me, and I swear your families will not perish!” The slave men answered with a primal scream that could only be produced by the truly oppressed, those who have given up hope for themselves and fight only for the lives of those they love.

  As if through a long tunnel, Whill heard faintly the sounds of swords clanging and men fighting. He could not take his eyes off Tarren, who lay in his arms, bleeding from the neck, body broken from the fall. As he watched the boy die, he could distantly hear Abram calling his name, yelling something about getting up. Whill’s head began to churn as if the tides were locked within. His rage alone was enough to make him dizzy. Anger welled within him-anger at Tarren dying, anger that the men he had killed had been slaves fighting for freedom, anger that he might die today without learning his true heritage. The injustice of it all sent him into a trance-like state. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand covered Tarren’s throat.

  As his flesh made contact with the young boy’s blood, Whill felt a strange sensation run through him. It was as if his energy and life force were suddenly being sucked from his body. Tarren’s chest heaved as a great wave of energy coursed through Whill and into the boy. Whill became dizzy and disoriented as men fought around him and the boy in his arms. He became aware of nothing but Tarren and himself and the bond they now shared. A strange blue light was all Whill could see as tide after tide of energy pulsed through his body and into Tarren’s. As the blue light faded into blackness, Whill was suddenly jolted out of his trance and slammed to the deck as the sounds of the world came rushing in. He saw blood and bodies and fire and Abram looking down at him as a red dragon flew overhead.

  Abram shook Whill but he would not respond. He was unconscious and would remain that way for sometime, if he snapped out of it at all. The fighting had slowed as many slaves and pirates stood dumbfounded by what they had seen. Abram rose. There was nothing he could do for Whill now but win this battle. He turned to the slaves.

  “Behold, men, your gods fight with you! Go forward without fear, and may the blessing of the gods lead your strikes!”

  The slaves’ cheers grew into a primal scream. The pirates upon the deck did not live more than ten heartbeats after that. The slaves were heading up the ropes when suddenly an explosion hit the pirate ship, deafening all nearby momentarily and shaking many from their feet. From the ship Abram saw the source of the carnage: a massive red dragon. The distraction was enough to ensure that the climbing slaves could make it up the ropes to the deck of the pirate ship, with Abram right behind them. He hit the deck and was engaged by a pirate wearing all black, with only a thin slit revealing his eyes. He brandished two daggers and came in hard, slashing with one and stabbing forward with the other. Abram barely avoided the slash but was ready for the stab. When it came he spun away from the strike and jumped up onto the rail, knowing that the pirate would go for his ankles with those deadly weapons. Abram jumped backwards from his perch and brought his legs up high, tucking his knees and then came down with a powerful slice. The pirate swiped at his legs with both blades but missed. He had a glimpse of his leaping enemy and a shining blade, and then he saw no more.

  The slave men were tearing into the pirate force with reckless abandon. The ship was aflame, and the dragon repeatedly swooped down on the battle and scooped up a pirate in his huge claws or maw. Down into the battle the dead and bloodied pirate would drop, usually on top of one of his comrades. This horrible image alone sent many pirates scrambling for the rails and into the ocean. Abram had his suspicions as to why the dragon seemed to fight for him, he did not care. It was enough. The slave men had already begun opening the many iron doors upon the deck that led to the slave quarters, setting their families free.

  “Get them onto my ship and set sail!” Abram ordered. “Do not wait for me-look for me in the waters!” He spotted Cirrosa making a run for the lower decks and he followed. Through a door and into a small stairwell went the most wanted pirate in two centuries, whose scrolled list of crimes against the peoples of every kingdom in Agora would have fallen to the floor. Murder, theft, kidnapping, rape, torture, and many, many more vile and heartless acts-Abram wanted this man dead out of sheer duty if nothing else. He followed Cirrosa slowly into a large room below. It seemed to be the mess hall for the sailors; there was a door to the kitchen on the right, and three doors to the left.

  He knew the Dragon’s style of ship, so he knew to take the door to the right. Upstairs and into the captain’s quarters he went cautiously, and there he found Cirrosa and a flying dagger. Abram rolled as he hit the landing, a blade whizzing by his head. Then he leapt to his feet and charged at Cirrosa.

  “Come on!” The pirate taunted as he brought up his short sword and a long curved dagger. Abram came in hard with a slash to the left that was deflected by the short sword. The dagger
came in. Abram spun out, keeping his distance from the blade. Cirrosa went into a slash-and-stab dance that kept Abram on his toes in the close quarters. Cirrosa worked the two blades like a master, but Abram was prepared. He knew the pirate’s fighting style well, for they had been friends for a time in their academy days. Cirrosa had perfected his art long ago, and now he fought similarly, but better. Abram kept pace but knew he needed to get one of the blades out of the fight. He deflected the short sword up and high to the left, coming in close to Cirrosa, knowing he would go for the gut. A bare moment before Cirrosa thrust with the dagger, Abram was already pulling back from the strike. Down his blade came from the short sword parry; straight came the thrust of Cirrosa’s blade. In an instant Abram sliced deep into Cirrosa’s forearm, nearly severing it. It swung sickeningly from the pirate’s arm. Cirrosa let out a howl of pain and spun away from Abram. The Dragon was rocked again and lurched to the side. Abram and Cirrosa were thrown to the wall. Abram got his footing as quickly as possible and came at the injured captain. Cirrosa’s eyes went wild with pain and rage. He lunged with his blade, but Abram easily blocked it. The pirate was too weak from his injury to fight, but he kept trying, and Abram knew he wouldn’t stop until the bitter end. Cirrosa would never allow himself to become a prisoner, nor to see the inside of a courtroom. For Cirrosa, being caught meant being killed.

  There was no time for speeches. The ship was falling apart around them. Abram deflected another feeble slash and stabbed Cirrosa through the heart.

  Cirrosa jolted and his body froze. Then he found Abram’s gaze and grabbed his shoulders. Blood poured from his mouth as he spoke. “I’m glad it was you. I’m glad it was you,” He said, and then his eyes went blank.

  “So am I.”

  Abram watched Cirrosa fall. Then he fled to the empty and burning deck above, climbed the rail, and dove into the ocean.

  CHAPTER NINE

  An Ocean of Mystery

  Whill awoke to more pain than he had ever known. He was sure that he was dead or dying. Every fiber of his being ached to a point that it was almost unbearable. He was not sure if he were actually awake or asleep. A fog blurred his vision as strange shapes loomed over him and spoke to him in a language he could not understand. He tried to move but could not; he tried to speak but found he could not remember how. He lay in fear-fear of the seemingly endless pain, fear of the shadows which spoke to him in such a strange tongue.

  Once again he blacked out and slipped into the world of dreams. He could see a man and woman standing upon a small hill. Though he did not remember ever seeing them, he knew they were his parents. Joy flooded through him as he ran toward them, ready to finally embrace the mother and father who had been stolen from him. But as he ran the hill grew bigger, and his parents’ smiles withered. The faster he ran, the higher the hill grew until it was a mountain before him, and his parents’ faces smiled skeletons’ grins.

  Whill screamed as he awoke and sat up. His vision was still blurry and the strange figures grabbed at him. He tried to fend them off but they soon subdued him. Vaguely he recognized the boy Tarren sitting next to him, smiling. He knew then that he was dreaming again, for Tarren was dead. He struggled to wake. As his vision grew clearer, he could now see that with Tarren sat many women and children he did not know. He tried to move and was almost rendered unconscious as pain jolted through his body. As his vision blurred again, he saw Abram walking towards him. Then blackness found him again.

  He lay in great pain while the voices spoke soothingly but strangely. Then the blue light returned, slowly at first, dancing along the edges of his vision. As it became stronger, his pain finally left him and he found he could sit up. He was surrounded by the blue light, and now he saw a figure, a person, standing before him. The figure drew close enough that he could tell that it was a woman. She came and knelt before him, the most beautiful woman Whill had ever seen. Her hair was so long that when she knelt it touched the ground. It was brown and shone with a great radiance, as did her body. Her face was a picture of pure beauty, her skin smooth as silk. Her eyes were bright blue, the irises ringed in a darker shade, and within them Whill sensed great compassion and kindness, and wisdom beyond mortal understanding. He thought he must be dreaming of his mother again until he noticed the ears. They were pointed ears, and protruded from under her hair. He knew at once that he was in the presence of an elf. As he stared in wonder, she simply smoothed his hair back and spoke in an almost humming tone the same words over and over: “Endalla orn, Whill, elan orna menon, lelalda wea shen ora.”

  He was lulled into a deep and peaceful sleep, one without pain or fear. As the elf woman’s voice slowly faded, he felt more at peace than ever he had been.

  The bed beneath him rocked slowly, and Whill could feel a wet cloth being applied to his forehead. His body ached and his throat burned, but he had enough strength to open his eyes and see clearly. He was in the sleeping quarters of Old Charlotte, where more than two dozen women and children sat staring at him with strange expressions. Instantly he surveyed the surrounding crowd for the elven beauty, but to no avail. The only women in the room were human, and none of them resembled the woman he had seen. Perhaps he had been dreaming after all…except that she had seemed more real than these women did now.

  “Please, my good lady,” he said to the woman sponging his forehead. “Where has the elven woman gone?”

  She gave him a queer look. “I’m sorry, lad, there is no elf here. You still have a fever. You should rest some more.”

  Whill ignored her request and swung his legs over the side of the cot. Dressed only in his pants, he quickly grabbed a shirt and threw it on. Again he surveyed the surrounding people. They wore ragged clothes, and their hair was dirty and matted. They looked as though they had not bathed nor eaten in weeks. He assumed that these were the families of the men who had first attacked Abram and him. But how had they gotten onto his ship, and where were the pirates? He needed to find Abram.

  With the woman’s help, he stood and made his way to the stairs. As he stepped on deck and into the open air, he instantly began to feel better. The cool wind and saltwater mist bathed his face as he stepped onto the deck. The sun hung low in the east; it appeared to be a little past dawn. Abram was at the wheel, talking with a young slave boy. Four of the slave men were on deck also, and they gave Whill friendly smiles. Whill simply nodded, feeling a little ashamed that he had killed their friends, though he knew he’d had no choice.

  Abram turned, as if sensing Whill’s approach. The boy turned too. When Whill saw the child’s face, he froze. It was Tarren.

  “Whill, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Abram with a warm laugh.

  Tarren stood smiling, seemingly oblivious to what had happened to him. Whill reached out to touch his head and peered at the boy’s neck. There was no sign that it had ever been cut.

  “Are you feeling better, Whill?” Tarren asked.

  “Uh, yes…yes, I feel better.”

  “That’s good, you gave us a good scare. And thanks, Whill. Thank you for saving me.” There were tears in his eyes as he flung his arms around Whill’s waist. Whill returned the hug and patted his back. There were a million questions on his tongue, but he bit them back behind an awkward smile.

  “You’re welcome, Tarren, you’re welcome.”

  Tarren released Whill after a few moments and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  Abram broke the silence. “Tarren, lad, do you think you could steer the old girl for a while so I can talk to Whill?”

  “Yes, sir, I sure could!”

  Abram put his arm on Whill’s shoulder and led him to the front of the ship so they could talk privately.

  “Abram, what’s going on? How can Tarren be alive? What happened to me back there? Where are the pirates?”

  “Relax, Whill, relax. It can all be explained. First off, you have been in a feverish sleep for two days now.”

  “Two days!”

  “Yes. You would wake up screaming an
d flailing about. I assumed you were having nightmares. You have been running a high fever up until this morning, How do you feel now?”

  “I’m hungry as all hell, but otherwise I feel alright. Why, what happened?”

  Abram studied Whill for a moment as if trying to read something of his health. “You don’t know what you did?”

  “No. After Tarren fell I took him in my arms, and then everything went strange, and I blacked out.”

  “You healed him, Whill. You saved his life.”

  Whill shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “When you went to Tarren, I was rallying the slave men to fight. Everything happened at once. The pirates attacked again; down the ropes they came and we began to fight. But you would not move. I screamed to you to get up, to fight, but you were not with us, not in mind, anyway. You just stared at Tarren, and then you put your hand upon his throat.” Abram stopped and looked at the slave men and at Tarren.

  “When you touched Tarren’s throat, Whill, your hand began to glow with blue light. It was faint at first, but then it grew until it was hard to look directly at it. So bright it was that it took the attention of all who were near. The pirates who had just joined the fight stared in awe, transfixed by what they were witnessing, as did the slave men. Having seen an energy healing before, I knew what was happening-and what danger you were in. As fast as I could I ran to the two of you and pushed you back to break your contact with the boy.”

  Whill took in what he had just heard. “So I healed Tarren with my own energy?”

  “Yes, but you didn’t know what you were doing. If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have poured all of your life force into Tarren and dropped dead on the spot.”

  “But how could I have done that? Only elves have the power to heal with energy. Everyone knows that it is not a human gift.” Then he remembered the elf from his dreams, and how he had at first mistaken her for his mother. “Was my mother an elf? Is that why I was able to heal Tarren?”