Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  “Because your uncle wants you dead. That’s why.”

  Whill stopped cold in his pacing as Abram answered his many questions with one answer. He began to understand. “King Addakon of Arden, my father’s brother. Are you saying he had them killed? That he planned the Draggard attack that killed the queen and king of Arden, his own brother?”

  “Yes, but there is much, much more to it. Please sit, you’re making me nervous.”

  Whill sat back down in his chair, tense as a bowstring and shaking. His mouth had become parched and his head ached. He could hardly take in all that Abram had revealed.

  “This story goes back hundreds of years, to the coming of the elves to Agora.” Abram sat back once again and puffed on his pipe between sentences. “The elves, as you know, were driven from Drindellia by the Dark elves and the Draggard. Hoping to ensure his people’s survival, the elf king Verelas sent the queen and their children, along with hundreds of others, over the ocean. When they reached the shores of Agora over five hundred years ago, they were met by the people of Opalmist. Upon hearing of the refugees, the king of Arden quickly rode to meet them. Soon a great friendship rose between King Theorolus and Queen Araveal. By then he had learned of the elves’ strange powers and their ability to manipulate energy, which they called Orna Catorna The king made a deal with Queen Araveal: he would give to the elves forever the land now called Elladrindellia, and in return he asked that the elves teach him and his decedents Orna Catorna. The queen agreed and the deal was made, and with every new birth in the royal family, the elves have kept their word. At the age of twenty the royal children are brought to the elves to be taught for a year. This is a well-guarded secret, of course. Your father and your uncle were taught by the elves, as you shall be.”

  “Me? I am to be taught by the elves?”

  Abram nodded. Whill thought for a moment. “But how is it that I can have these powers to heal now?”

  Abram tapped his pipe on the chair arm, emptying the bowl. “You are a descendant of King Theorolus. You have in your blood hidden powers given by the elves. Though they usually do not come out before being taught, the ability lives in you. You really surprised me when you healed Tarren, you know. But in a good way.”

  “So that is how I did it.” Whill stared beyond Abram to a point not of this world. “What of my parents, Abram. Were you there when they died?”

  “I was. I’m getting to that. Now as you are aware, your father and uncle were identical twins, born only minutes apart; your father Aramonis first, and Addakon second. You must understand that your father treated Addakon as an equal. He loved his brother deeply. Addakon, on the other hand, harbored a deep and dark hatred for your father which he did not show. He was insanely jealous and felt that he had been cheated. He looked just like his brother, and in all aspects but the mind, he was the same. The fact that Aramonis would be king rather than he merely because he’d been born first-and barely first at that-angered Addakon deeply. And when they were sent to learn the ways of Orna Catorna, it only got worse. Addakon thirsted for power, and once he got a taste of it, his thirst could not be quenched. He wanted to be king at any cost, and he proved that no cost was too great.”

  Abram stood and began to pace slowly, his hands behind his back. “Your father was my best friend, Whill. I loved him and your mother deeply. They were the best people I have ever known.” He stared into the torchlight a moment before continuing.

  “I was a knight of Arden, and I met your father when he was sixteen. I was twenty-two at the time and trying to make a name for myself within the ranks of Arden. I fought in many battles on both land and sea against the Draggard, and soon caught the attention of your grandfather, King Armond. I was made a personal guard to the royal family at age twenty-five, and shortly thereafter King Armond died in battle on Fendora Island. As you know, the Battle of Fendora was the greatest Draggard attack on Agora to date. They came with hundreds of ships and their army numbered over ten thousand. It took the combined strength of all four kingdoms of men and the elves to defeat the enemy. Afterward your father became king, and I his personal guard and friend. He took as his wife the beautiful Princess Celestra of Eldalon. Years passed, and the kingdom of Arden prospered, as did its people. Your father was known as the greatest and most generous king to take the throne of Uthen-Arden, and his death was deeply mourned throughout Agora. As you know, the kings of Arden have been legendary warriors since the time of King Theorolus. Now you know that this is because they possess elven powers. Each king in your line has striven to become a greater legend than all before him. It has helped the kingdom to thrive, but it has also led to many untimely deaths. This thirst for power and fame, along with a boldness that comes with great power, has made you and Addakon the last in the line of Theorolus.”

  Whill listened intently as Abram spun his story. He had many questions but held his tongue. Abram again tapped his pipe on the wooden chair and sat down.

  “The day your parents died, I was there, I was with them. Your mother was eight months pregnant at the time, with you. Your parents were on their way to Eldalon to visit your mother’s parents, the king and queen. They were very eager for a grandchild, and the unity a child would bring to the two kingdoms.

  “We traveled north from Del’Oradon towards the Ky’Dren Pass, but two days into our journey we were ambushed by a great host of Draggard. They came in the morning and our small camp was overrun. Traveling with us were eleven of the greatest knights of the time, and forty other soldiers. But the Draggard numbered over three hundred. The fight lasted less than an hour as the soldiers and knights fell. They protected their king and queen valiantly until the end, but we were hopelessly outnumbered. They had managed to kill a great many Draggard, but over a hundred remained. Your mother was killed in the fight by a Draggard arrow.”

  Abram looked at him, his eyes shimmering in the torchlight. “It was quick, Whill. She did not suffer. The Draggard had circled us and stood waiting, as they do when they are sure of victory. Your father held your mother in his arms and wept, unable to heal her.

  “I was hit also.” He pointed to his upper right chest. “Though I knew I would die, I was ready to give my life defending my friend, my king. Your father, however, stopped me from attacking the beasts in my blind rage. For as the Draggard waited, a man came to us from their ranks. It was Addakon.

  “Your father was crushed. Holding his dead wife, he said to his brother, ‘Why, brother, why would you do such a thing? Have I not been good to you, have I not loved you all these years?’ Then he stood and cried, ‘Is your thirst for power so great that you would see your own brother die at the hands of these beasts?’ Addakon told your father he was a fool and would die a fool’s death. Then Aramonis spoke to me for the last time. He told me to take his child away, to see to it that you one day took back the throne.

  “Then he turned to Addakon and said, ‘If I am to die today, brother, then you will die with me.’ He raised his sword high and spoke the words of the elves: ‘Ortho min brensa las enna, engrona de lementho brydon.’

  “Addakon knew what he was doing and ordered the Draggard to shoot Aramonis. Arrows took flight but were stopped in midair inches from us as your father bellowed the elven chant of death. Addakon knew what was to come and ran away as fast as he could.

  “I will never forget what happened next. Your father drove his sword deep into the ground. A great boom and flash of light exploded through the air, and every last surrounding Draggard fell to the ground dead, as did your father.”

  Abram reached over the table and put his hand on Whill’s shoulder. Tears slid down his cheeks. “He died to save you, Whill.”

  Whill could not meet Abram’s gaze. He stared at the floor, a lump swelling in his throat. Abram stood and stared into the torchlight. “Your father performed the Orrona Dekarra, the sacrifice of life, the most powerful elven attack. He used all of his energy and all the energy left in his sword to kill over one hundred Draggard. When the Draggard fell,
I watched in horror as he died too.

  “There was no sign of Addakon, though I suspected that he survived. I did what I knew I had to do, Whill, I took your father’s sword and cut you from your mother. You were alive due to your father’s attempt to heal your mother, but I knew you would die if I did not seek help. I mounted the closest horse and rode as fast as I could to Elladrindellia, seeking the help of the elves. For two days I rode, knowing that hell itself was at my heels. When I finally reached the elves you were barely holding on, and I feared the worst. But Queen Araveal healed you that day. And now here you are, a man by every measure, one whom your father would surely be proud of.”

  Abram went to the large iron chest. He produced a key from his pocket and disengaged the lock. Whill watched intently as he opened the chest and retrieved a small object from within. He held it in his fist and turned to Whill. “This, I’m afraid, is all I have to give you of your mother’s.” He laid a silver ring in Whill’s hand. Whill took the ring between thumb and finger and gazed at it. A pang of sorrow arose from his very core as Abram spoke again. “That ring has been in the Eldalon royal family for hundreds of years. It was made by the dwarves for the queen of Eldalon. It has been passed down from mother to daughter ever since. Celestra received it on her sixteenth birthday and cherished it dearly, for she wore it always.”

  The ring was made of pure silver, a large pearl at the center circled by sapphires. Whill tried the ring on each of his fingers and found that it fit the smallest one. Abram returned to the chest once more and produced a sheathed sword. He presented it to Whill with open palms. “This was your father’s sword. It is called Sinomara.”

  Whill took the sword by its hilt. Hot tears were in his eyes and he could find no words. This was the sword his father had wielded to save his son’s life. Slowly he pulled back the sheath and set it on the chair. He eyed the great sword with reverence. It was an elven sword, very much unlike the one that he himself carried. Its hilt was longer, twice as long, and bound with black leather and bright blue silk. The single-edged blade was three feet long and slightly curved. The hand guard consisted of a thick ring made of steel encrusted with small diamonds around the edges. Along the length of the blade on both sides were elven runes. They read, “This is the blade Sinomara, made for a king of men. May it protect its master in times of peril, and vanquish all that dare to stand before it.”

  Whill inspected the sword in the firelight. It was the most beautiful and well-crafted peace of weaponry he had ever seen. Simply holding it in his hand gave him a sense of great power and strength, for it had been his father’s, and his father had been a great man.

  “I will leave you now for awhile,” Abram said solemnly, and went to the door. Whill barely heard him close it, so transfixed was he by the sword in his hands. He looked at the ring and the sword in turn. Tears welled in his eyes and a dam of emotion broke within him. He was flooded by sorrow, and he fell to his knees and wept. Staring at the sword through blurred vision, he spoke to his long-dead parents.

  “I will avenge you, mother. I will avenge you, father. With all the power I possess, I will hunt down Addakon and make him pay for what he has done. I will make him pay.”

  Whill was overcome with grief, and his choking pain made his voice cut out. He wailed and gasped, shuddering in his crouch as he held the sword. Then his sorrow was replaced by a great rage, and holding the sword high with both hands he bellowed, “I will not rest until he is dead!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Dwarf King

  Whill stayed within the vault for a time unknown, chanting to himself over and over his promise of vengeance as he held the sword in his hands. His rage and sorrow did not ebb, for he focused on it intently, replaying in his mind the final minutes of his parents’ lives. His father’s words echoed through his head in a maddening chorus. Why, brother? Why would you do such a thing? He heard his mother’s final screams, and the sounds of battle. Abram’s voice joined in the chorus. He died to save you, Whill.

  His head spun and his mind raced, He thought of the life he might have known, the life that had been taken from him, the scenes of a life never to be flashed before him-his mother’s laughter, his father’s smile. These too joined in the deafening chorus of pain that was Whill’s world. Exhausted, he passed out, holding in his hands his father’s sword, the sword of the king.

  His dreams were filled with blood and screams and pain. He stood next to Abram as his father cradled his dead mother in his arms. Draggard soldiers were all around, hissing and laughing at them. Then Whill saw him, Addakon. He came from among the crowd of Draggard with a malevolent smile on his face. Whill drew his sword at once and charged. Addakon simply stood and laughed a loud and baleful laugh. Whill found that his sword was not his own but his father’s. Addakon also armed himself and met his attack. Whill sliced and hacked and jabbed at Addakon, but his uncle easily blocked every blow, laughing louder as Whill fought harder.

  Suddenly Addakon raised his hand and Whill was paralyzed. He had no control over his body, and to his horror he discovered that Addakon controlled his every movement. He forced Whill to turn and walk toward Aramonis and Abram. Whill fought to stop himself but to no avail. Instead he found himself before his father. Addakon forced him to raise his sword against his kneeling father. As the blade came down, Whill awoke with a scream.

  “No!” He sprang to his feet. At first he did not know were he was. He looked around the room bewildered, and then saw the sword in his trembling hands. He breathed a sigh of relief. He remembered he was in Dy’Kore. For a moment he stood unmoving, trying to shake the vision of his nightmare. He walked to the chair and retrieved the sword’s sheath and attached it to his belt. After one last glance at it, he put the sword in its sheath and walked to the door. He opened it and turned to look back at the chamber. He had come to this room a boy seeking answers. He left it as the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, a man with vengeance on his mind.

  The door closed behind him with a soft thud as he made for the vault entrance. Abram and Fior awaited him at the stair. He approached them in silence. Abram looked solemnly at him and asked, “Are you alright, Whill?”

  He simply nodded and tried in vain to fake a smile. Fior broke the silence with his deep and majestic voice. “I will lead ye to yer quarters.”

  Whill and Abram followed Fior down the stairs and through a series of halls and tunnels in silence. Many dwarves stopped in their tracks as they saw the three, but Whill paid them no mind. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  They reached their quarters shortly, and with a bow Fior left, telling them to rest well and the king would see them first thing in the morning. Whill silently went to his room and closed the door.

  Abram respected Whill’s privacy, though he worried about him. He knew that it would be hard for Whill to accept his heritage. But Abram had prepared him for this day as best he could, and he had taught him all he would need to know to fulfill his destiny. Whill was wise beyond his years, a brilliant scholar, and his prowess as a fighter was masterful, But, Abram reminded himself, he was also still young, and the mind of a young man could be more tumultuous than the great sea. He understood how hard it would be for Whill. He walked to a wall mirror and stared into his own eyes for a long while. How quickly the time had passed.

  “He is ready,” he said aloud, more to convince himself than as a statement. On that dreadful day almost twenty years earlier, he had made a decision: to forsake his own life for Whill’s. He had vowed on the blood of the king to care for Whill, and in his heart he knew he had done well. He had been utterly shocked by the recent display of Whill’s powers, but ultimately pleased by the revelation. But still, troublesome thoughts lingered in the dark recesses of his mind. Would Whill exhibit the same lust for power that had darkened his uncle’s heart? Or would he grow to be a great man like his father?

  He felt guilty for even thinking such a thing, but he could not deny that Whill was indeed powerful, more powerful than even his father and
uncle had been. Whill had used his powers instinctively, having never been trained by the elves, a feat never accomplished by his forefathers. Would such power corrupt the student Abram had dedicated his life to? If it did, what then would be Abram’s responsibility?

  These questions and many more kept him awake for many hours. Then finally he drifted off into the much-needed realm of sleep.

  Whill awoke to find that he no longer had a single trace of the wound upon his leg. As he lifted the bloody bandages from his thigh he found only smooth flesh, with not so much as a scar. Amazed, he leapt from his soft, feathered bed and quickly went to Abram’s room. He found Abram sleeping soundly.

  “Abram, look at this!”

  Abram jumped from his bed, instantly alert and brandishing his dagger. He looked around, puzzled, and then at Whill. With a sigh he plopped back down onto his bed. He rubbed his tired eyes. “What is it Whill?”

  Whill sat next to him on the bed and rolled up his pant leg enough for Abram to see. “It was like this when I awoke. I swear I didn’t try to heal it, it just did it on its own.”

  Abram eyed the healed skin with a worried glare. It was many moments before his eyes found Whill’s, and when they did, it was not with a favorable stare.

  “You healed yourself, Whill.”

  Whill shook his head and was about to speak, but Abram cut him off. “Yesterday in the vault, Your own anger. The powers you possess are based on energy; that is the gift of the elves. But energy resides not only in the body, but also the mind. Your anger was so great that without an outlet it acted on its own, and healed your wounds.”

  He rose and paced the room, obviously distraught. Whill sat confused. Abram spoke again, this time looking at the floor as he paced. “This is why you must go soon to the elves. I have taught you all I can; I cannot teach you what you still need to know. You have great abilities, Whill, but without understanding them and controlling them, they could prove disastrous.” He stopped and looked suddenly to Whill. “Your father’s sword! Did you hold it long?”