Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  Of the fifty men of Sherna, fewer than ten remained; of Rhunis’s two hundred soldiers, fewer than sixty stood, most bleeding from more than one nasty wound. The Draggard backed off a bit and the fighting ceased. The Draquon came down from the sky to take command of the diminished Draggard force. The remaining men stood together at the very steps of the town hall, along with Abram, Rhunis, Whill, and a very eager, blood-soaked dwarf.

  The Draggard force had taken fewer casualties than the humans, but not many-less than one hundred of the beasts remained, along with eleven Draquon, each of which, to many folks of Agora, could be counted as ten Draggard. The men were outnumbered; the many dead lay about them as a sobering reminder. But they did not fall into despair, they did not give in, could not!

  The cry was taken up by none other than Whill, who, despite the fact that he bled from many wounds, showed upon his face not defeat but determination.

  “Good men of Sherna!” he bellowed. “Before you stands a host of beasts bent on destroying all that you hold dear! All that you live, breathe, and die for!” He strode towards the Draggard band, lips curled in a snarl, sword held high. The Draggard gnashed at the air, hissed and growled, but they did not advance.

  “Shall we lie down and die from our wounds?”

  “No!” the crowd answered in unison.

  “Shall we leave our women and children as playthings for these wretched monsters?”

  “No!” the crowd answered again, and Abram found himself to be one of those many voices. He beamed at the sight of Whill.

  “Shall we let these damned creatures take what is ours without a fight?”

  “NO!”

  “I say then, man to man, shall we make these foul Draggard wish they had never set foot on our beaches?”

  “Yes!” the men responded, weapons held high.

  “Then come with me now, brothers of Eldalon, and let them know the rage of man!”

  “YES!” they cried, and joined the charge taken up by Whill and a certain crazed dwarf.

  Before the Draggard could begin to counter, the men pressed in, charging full tilt, death be damned, hearts bent on victory. Whill led the charge with Roakore, Abram, and Rhunis at his heels. He met the front line with devastating effect, taking down three Draggard in one mighty swipe. On he and the men charged into certain death or into victory, it did not matter. The men were focused on one thing and one thing only: the destruction of every last beast upon their beaches.

  As the men began to effectively rout the Draggard, the Draquon took to the sky and again began their attack from above. Down they dove into the ranks of men, and up they came, holding their victims in their wicked claws. One such victim, one such man, though he bled from the gut profusely, managed to bring his blade to bear upon his captor. With a great heave Rhunis impaled the Draquon through the neck, and together they fell twenty feet to the sand below.

  Roakore brought his axe around in a great swoop, into the torso of one unlucky beast as Abram chopped wildly at another. Before them Whill steadily cut through the Draggard ranks. Suddenly, to Abram’s horror, Whill left the ground, nabbed by a descending Draquon. The beast had Whill firmly by the shoulders, claws sinking deep, wings lifting them high into the air. With one great slash of Sinomara, Whill severed the arms of the flying beast and fell to the ground.

  Abram blocked a spear and pushed aside his opponent as he tried to watch Whill’s descent. To his shock and amazement he saw Whill fall twenty feet only to fall upon a Draggard, driving his father’s sword straight through the monster’s head and body and into the sand.

  Roakore hadn’t been bothered with any of the surrounding fights, for he was fully enthralled in his own. As he swung he saw the great walls of his homeland, the many chambers of his great mountain. Rage beyond reason drove the stout dwarf as he cut through the beasts before him. His great axe claimed the lives of many unfortunate beasts that day, and as they died, one after another, the last thing they heard was the battle song of the dwarves.

  In the midst of the battle, in the light of certain death, few saw the arrows hit the many Draquon, few saw them fall from the sky, and few saw as the elf warrior made her way into the heart of battle.

  Abram was hit hard, and to the ground he went. The Draggard came over with its spear, meaning to impale him. Abram rolled to his side as the spear tip hit the ground where he had just been. Taking no time to consider his luck, he thrust his sword up and into the groin of the monster, which had retracted its spear and drove it down hard into Abram’s hip.

  Roakore planted his axe firmly into one Draggard’s head. Then he tugged hard, freeing his weapon as he spun on another beast. The axe cut halfway through the monster, but at the same time the Draggard thrust its tail at him. Through his thick clothing and chainmail the tail sunk, embedding many inches into Roakore’s side. The hardy dwarf only roared as he freed his axe and cut down another monster.

  Whill knew no pain, he knew no fear. His only emotion made itself clear in the long line of dead Draggard he left in his wake. He spun and twirled, dodged and countered, and no beast could stand for more than an instant before him. All around him men were dying, but so too were the Draggard. Men were falling fast around him, and still a score of monsters remained. He did what he could, all he could do-he fought on. Then suddenly he noticed that the monsters’ attention had shifted from the thinning line of the human resistance to the beach to the south. There, upon a steed of black, sat a lone warrior, firing arrow after arrow into the sky and into the Draquon. Those that were not hit by the skilled and deadly bow-man flew high and flew far, wanting nothing to do with the deadly creature.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Maiden of Elladrindellia

  The Draggard were hunted down and killed within the surrounding woods of Sherna, mostly with the help of the two elven warriors. The Draggard ship was quickly destroyed by the catapult crew of the great Eldalonian ship Thunder. Then the doors to the town hall were opened, and the many frightened women, children, and elderly looked upon their ruined town.

  Whill pushed through the crowd as he ran up the steps to the town hall.

  “Tarren! Tarren!” He searched the crowd frantically. For a moment he thought he saw him, until the boy turned around. Through the crowd he searched, yelling Tarren’s name. Whill felt sick; hope began to wither as he searched to no avail. He reached the back of the building and turned in despair. He could not find the boy. Had he not made it? His head spun as he grabbed child after child, begging, “Tarren! Have you seen Tarren?”

  “Whill!”

  The voice rose over the crowd and reached his ears like sweet music. Tarren came running, arms wide. Whill caught him in a tight embrace and held him at arm’s length.

  “I thought you dead,” he said with a sigh of relief.

  “So did I!” Tarren said.

  Rhunis lay broken, having been slashed viciously in the gut and fallen some twenty feet. Abram nursed a nasty spear injury to his hip. Roakore bled profusely from his side, though he insisted it was nothing more than a flesh wound. Whill also showed signs of the great battle, with more than a dozen deep red slashes on his body, including several deep claw gashes upon his shoulders. But they had won the day-they had defeated the Draggard army bent on devouring the innocent, and to each of them that was all that mattered.

  Abram limped over to Whill, who was busy tending to Rhunis, though he needed tending to himself.

  “How is he?”

  Whill replaced the blood-stained cloth upon Ruinis’s gut with a grimace, and spoke under his breath. “Not good, Abram. His body is broken. He has lost too much blood.”

  Abram nodded, but his face showed no sign of sorrow. “I know your skills as a healer are great, but I bid you witness the power of the elves.” With that he stepped aside and bowed slightly as the elf maiden stepped past and, ignoring Whill, looked upon Rhunis.

  Whill moved back as the elf bent over the broken man and unsheathed her sword. Thinking she was about to put
an end to his misery, he stepped forward and began to object, but Abram grabbed him. “Watch!”

  She raised her sword slightly and put her other hand upon Rhunis’s chest and began to chant. Whill’s eyes widened as tendrils of blue light emanated from her extended hand and encircled Rhunis. She focused her attention upon the dying man’s stomach, and the wound began to heal before his eyes. Then she ran her hand over the entirety of his body, chanting all the while, as the blue light encircled him.

  With a flash the light was gone, and the elf maiden stood with sweat-covered brow. She gave Whill an encouraging smile and said in elvish, “He will be alright.”

  It was the same melodic voice he remembered from his dreams, the same wonderful voice. Abram bowed slightly and said, “Whill, I give to you the elf princess, the daughter of Verelas and Araveal, the lady Avriel.”

  Whill could not find his voice. A part of him knew he should make some profound statement, some lasting impression. But all that came to his mind, the only word that found his lips, was “Hello.”

  Avriel nodded and looked at Rhunis, who had sat up and looked around quite confused.

  “It looks as though he will do fine. Once I tend to those near death, I will help with your hip, Abram.” And with a nod to Whill and Abram, she turned and walked away.

  “That was her, Abram, that was the woman from my dreams!”

  Abram patted him on the shoulder. “I know, Whill. I know.” He gestured to the confused-looking Rhunis. “It is a good thing she and her brother Zerafin found us when they did,”

  Rhunis looked utterly confused. “What happened? I remember falling and then…” His face twisted as he tried to recall the events that had led to the state in which he now found himself.

  Whill helped the man to his feet. “You have just been revived from mortal wounds by the elf lady Avriel. We have won, the town is safe, the Draggard have been destroyed.”

  Rhunis gave Whill an odd smile. “Damn! That makes this the second time an elf has brought me back from death. Looks like I owe them twice over!”

  With that the three men shared a much-needed laugh. It was cut short by a gruff voice.

  “Bah! elves and their magic. All he really needs is some good dwarf mead an a big-breasted dwarf women to look after ’im.” With that Roakore fell to his knees and mumbled something as his face hit the sand.

  Whill and Abram rushed to his side. Rolling the dazed and mumbling dwarf over, they noticed a very deep wound on his side. Blood poured freely from it.

  “Abram, call Lady Avriel, quickly!” cried Whill. Roakore mumbled something about “Elves and their damned magics.”

  Some hours later, night fell on the ruined town. Whill walked among the many wounded within the town hall. Those with mortal wounds had been healed by the two elves, but dozens more lay on makeshift cots, bruised and bloody. Whill had been working without rest for hours, tending to the many wounded, and it frustrated him that the elves would not lend their powers of healing to these men. He had not seen Avriel or her brother in hours and assumed they must need a rest as badly as he did. They had, after all, healed more than a dozen dying men.

  He exited the stuffy hall and stepped out into the cool night air. Most of the fires had burned out, but dozens of torches cut through the black night. One fire burned brighter than all the rest, to the east and a few hundred feet from the town. Hundreds of Draggard corpses were thrown unceremoniously into the great pyre; wagon after wagon carried the bloody beasts to be destroyed.

  Abram and Roakore had been helping gather the human dead, but now the work was all but done. Whill walked over and took a seat on the grass next to Roakore.

  The dwarf nodded at the hall. “How are they doin’?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  Abram looked tired, and older than his fifty years. His clothes were blood-stained and his hands dirty, but he regarded Whill with the optimism he had always shown.

  “Why is it that the elves do not heal the wounded men within the town hall? Surely it is within their abilities,” Whill said.

  Abram glanced to his left. “I don’t know, Whill. Why don’t you ask them?”

  He followed Abram’s gaze and saw Avriel sitting alone under the shadow of the treeline. “I think I’ll do just that,” said Whill, and he stood and made his way toward the elf maiden.

  He walked at first with purpose, his steps sure, his facade stern. But the closer he got to the seated elf, the more his determination wavered. Before he knew it he was before her. She sat cross-legged, her eyes closed and her sword in both hands, the center of the blade resting upon her brow. Whill was once again struck by her great beauty. He meant to speak but again could not find his voice.

  Avriel’s eyes opened with a flash and the two stared at each other for what felt to Whill like hours. Finally she spoke in Elvish, letting her blade fall to the side.

  “Will you join me?”

  He took up the spot next to her without a word, sitting cross-legged as she did. Her eyes traveled from his sheathed sword to his eyes and back again. She smirked. “The way you first stormed over here, I assumed you had pressing business.”

  Whill was taken aback. “Um, well, yes, but…what were you doing just now?”

  She eyed Whill for a moment, and the scrutiny made Whill slightly uncomfortable.

  “I was just resting, a form of what you would call sleep. We elves have different ways of recuperating, as I’m sure you are aware.”

  “Were you using the energy within your sword?”

  She seemed to ponder this. “Not in the way you would imagine. You see, I am not injured, and so I did not call upon the stored energy of my blade. Rather I was seeing how much energy I have used in the fight and in the healing that followed.”

  Whill frowned. “You were seeing how much energy is left?”

  She sheathed her sword and turned slightly to regard him. “There is much you do not know, and many questions, no doubt. But for now I need to ask you a few things, if you don’t mind.”

  He shrugged, wondering what in the world an elf such as Avriel would need to ask someone like himself. “Ask away.”

  She took a much more serious demeanor. “Do you know what you were doing when you fought the Draggard today?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you not aware that you did not fight as a mere man-pardon the expression-but rather showed the technique of…certain elves?”

  Whill was at a loss. He remembered the fighting vividly, and knew he had done quite well, but he did not know what she meant. “I do not know what you ask me.”

  Avriel looked frustrated. “You are a mortal man endowed with the powers of elves. You should not have been able to use those powers until you were rightly taught. But you healed the boy on the ship, you saved the infant child from death, and you healed yourself within the dwarf mountain with your father’s sword.” She did not let her gaze waver. “Whill, did you not notice that your blade felled the Draggard a bit too easily? I watched you from afar, as did my brother. You cut through their scales as if it were cloth, does that not seem strange to you?”

  Whill let his gaze fall to the ground as he contemplated her question. Now that he thought about it, he realized that he had killed the Draggard with comparative ease. He had not been afraid, as he had been on the ridge with Roakore. He had been angry, so he assumed his rage had fueled his fighting. Now he knew that had not been the case.

  “So what are you sayin? That I used the energy within my father’s blade, as the elves do?”

  She shook her head. “No, Whill. What you did is forbidden by the Elves of the Sun. What you did today is a practice of the Dark elves.”

  He regarded Avriel with disbelief. “I couldn’t have, I-”

  “With your first kill you stole the life energy of the beast before you, and the second, and so on. Each came easier; each of your enemies’ deaths gave you more strength, or rather gave your father’s blade more strength. You did not let that
power lie idle-you used it, and to devastating effect. You killed well over thirty Draggard today. And still your father’s blade holds within it the life force of many of the beasts.”

  Whill was at a loss. “I didn’t mean to-I didn’t want-I mean, I didn’t know. I did not consciously do the things you speak of.”

  Avriel eyed him for a moment and finally smiled. “I know, Whill. But you must understand. it is the way of the Elves of the Sun only to use our own energy, or that which is rightly given. To take from another in such a way is not our practice. It is a path that can only lead to evil.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Unlikely Companions

  The collection of the dead continued throughout the night and into the morning. No one slept, even those who could have. For demons newly born see dreams as a playground, and with sleep can only come the remembrance of screams, blood, death.

  The morning sun shed light upon a village in ruin. Every building had been burned to the ground, save the town hall. The ground was so red with blood in some places it looked as though the earth itself were bleeding. The bodies of men, women, and a few unlucky children littered the village, all covered with cloth, awaiting the pyre.

  So with the rising and settling of the sun upon its midday perch came the burning of the deceased. Hagus the barkeep was among them, along with more than a hundred Eldalonian soldiers, and hundreds of villagers. The survivors-hundreds of widows and children, and a few lucky men-made a wide circle around the great pyre. Some hung their heads, while others looked to the heavens proudly. All wept. Someone in the crowd took up the Eldalonian funeral song as the flames were lit, and quickly the song was taken up by all. As the words rose to the heavens, and the voices of the many women and children grew stronger, tears found the eyes of the watching companions.