Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  Whill awoke the following morning to the smell of pork and eggs drifting on the still-smoky air. He turned his head from the sky and saw Roakore and Tarren sitting by a fire, Tarren no doubt asking more questions of Dy-Kore. Roakore noticed that Whill had awoken and took the opportunity to break conversation with the young human.

  “Aye then, finally. Thought ye might sleep through the day, lad. The boy here’s got more questions then there be stars. Says he never seen a real dwarf, he does. I tell him I ain’t ever seen a fake one.”

  Whill chuckled and made his way to the two and accepted a hearty share of breakfast. All around him were similar camps, with similar fires. Families and groups of soldiers were all now starting their day.

  Soon Abram arrived with Avriel, Zerafin, and Rhunis, each leading a horse. Rhunis helped himself to a piece of pork and ruffled Tarren’s hair. “So here we all are. This is good.”

  Rhunis gestured behind him to a knight leading a black stallion and a pony. “These are for you,” he said with a smile as he addressed Whill and Roakore. “We have many miles before us, and I for one would prefer to ride.”

  “I had assumed we would journey to Kell-Torey by water.”

  Abram gestured towards the sea. “Old Charlotte has been destroyed. And Rhunis’s vessel must stay docked here for protection. We could wait for a royal escort, but that would take a few days.”

  Whill nodded. “Days that we don’t have.”

  Just then Avriel whistled and threw Whill the sword of his father. Whill caught it and looked it over quickly, he could not tell by sight or touch whether the blade had been used as he had intended. A slight nod and smile from Avriel answered that riddle for him. Whill smiled at his new companions and looked to the west. “Well, then. The road awaits.”

  Soon they left the still-smoldering Sherna behind. A group of fifty soldiers from a nearby town had made station at dawn, and a small fleet was expected within the ten-day. Whill knew that the townspeople were in good hands, and he doubted they would see any more trouble. The Draggard had only attacked the town because he had been in it. The best thing he could do for Sherna was to leave.

  Though he had recently learned that he was heir to the Uthen-Arden throne, and had just witnessed and been part of a horrible battle, and though death and destruction seemed to follow him like a morbid shadow, Whill was in good spirits. With the ever-inquisitive Tarren riding with him, his old friend Abram, elf and dwarf royalty, and a legendary knight of Eldalon at his side, Whill felt good indeed.

  They headed west along the old and seldom-used road leading from Sherna to Kell-Torey. They rode for many miles, Tarren talking many of those, until the sun crested the midday sky and it was time for the first rest.

  The riders dismounted and made camp next to a small creek. The horses and pony were left to drink and graze, and Roakore, the most hungry of the group, started a strong fire.

  “Got me some good meats from one o’ them towns-women,” Roakore boasted as he took from his pack a half-dozen slabs of venison. “Said it was the least she could offer for me help.”

  Avriel put her hands upon her hips and gave Roakore a look. He huffed and pulled as innocent a face as he could muster. “What was I to do? I may have insulted the poor human if I said nay!”

  Everyone had seen the exchange, and none could help but have a good laugh at the poor dwarf’s expense. Roakore threw up his arms and tended to his cooking. The only ear he found was in the form of a young curious lad who had joined Roakore to learn the secrets of dwarf cooking. Roakore put an arm over Tarren’s shoulder and looked back with a scowl at the rest of the group, which caused another small fit of laughter. “Bah. Forget them, laddie. They can think what they likes. Let ’em have their dried meats and their stinkin’ cheese.” Tarren only smiled.

  Avriel and Zerafin had taken up a conversation with Rhunis as the elves brushed their stallions. Abram took the opportunity to talk with Whill, who was sitting on the ground, sharpening his own retrieved sword.

  “We will be in Kell-Torey soon, eh?” He packed his pipe and took a seat next to Whill.

  “Sherna to Kell-Torey, let me think…five hundred miles or so, I figure.” Abram nodded as Whill went on. “The horses carry us twice as fast as our legs would, so I would say we can make Kell-Torey in sixty hours’ travel time, figuring in eight hours’ sleep and two hour-long rest stops per day.” He looked to the sky briefly as he made the calculations. “So we should reach Kell-Torey in four days, around eight in the evening, just in time to find lodging and drink.”

  “Exact in all regards, my friend. Well done.”

  Whill stopped sharpening his blade for a moment and smirked. “Please, that was child’s play. I figured those estimations before we left Sherna.”

  Abram chuckled as he exhaled smoke from his pipe. “I know, I know. Just making sure the old skills remain as sharp as that blade.”

  Whill huffed through his nose. “Better come up with something better than that, old man!”

  Abram took a long pull from his pipe and blew it into the mild wind. “Alright then, answer this riddle.”

  Whill laughed. “You have no riddles left for me, I fear, Abram.”

  “Oh, I have one! One that you may never find the answer to.”

  Whill stopped his work, intrigued. “Out with it, then.”

  Abram cleared his throat. “How does one keep his mind on the mission at hand when he has fallen helplessly in love with an elf princess?”

  Whill said nothing. For a long and silent while he and Abram simply stared at each other. Finally Whill laughed and went back to sharpening his blade, and Abram to smoking his pipe. After more than five minutes, Whill stopped and set aside his sword.

  “I am not in love with her.”

  Abram tapped his pipe on a nearby rock and regarded Whill with one raised eyebrow.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Whill said.

  “What look?”

  “You know what look”

  “I did not know I was giving a look. It must have been subconscious.”

  Whill let his gaze wander to Avriel. What he felt upon simply looking upon her, he could not deny. “Alright, you win, Abram. As always, you have seen into my mind and soul.” He took a deep breath and asked in a surrendering tone, “What do I do?”

  Abram let his victorious smile fade and pondered for a moment. “I do not know what will become of this. History tells us nothing of human and elven romance, or the ramifications. But I know this: your feelings will be used against you, whether she shares your feelings or not. Your enemies will target the ones you love. It is hard to understand, but you must bury your feelings deep, Whill. She must not know. Though she may already suspect, you must not speak of it. You must not think it, though you feel it.”

  Whill thought for a long moment. “And what about you, Abram?”

  “Me? What of me?”

  Whill laughed. “And so the wise man does not see.” He shook his head. “You old fool. What about you? I love you as I would love my father, as I love no friend, as I would a brother. Should I hide that also?”

  “That is different.”

  “How so?”

  “The feelings a man has for his first love are more powerful than any he will ever know. This is written by both men and elves. I may die in the upcoming wars, but you will survive. You will have others to lean on.”

  Whill shook his head as if he thought the notion absurd. Abram grabbed his arm. “Listen to me, Whill.” His tone and demeanor demanded Whill’s attention. “I may fall, Tarren may fall-any may fall and you still will be alright. You will be hurt, mind and soul, but you will survive. If your love is lost, however, you may become that which you strive to defeat. This I say as a warning and nothing more. You are the rightful king of Uthen-Arden. I have not trained you these long years to see you fall. I only say these things to protect you.”

  Whill looked at Abram, then at Avriel and the others. “I understand. But I think you put too much
on me alone. You treat me as some kind of savior. I am but one man. One man! I can not be held responsible for the fate of Agora! I will not! The elves will fight without me. The humans will fight without me. And the dwarves will fight till the end without me. Yes, I intend to try to take back my father’s throne. But if I fail it will be of no large consequence to the cause!”

  “You are wise, Whill, but there are many things you do not know. I blame you not for that which you are blind to. But I ask you: ask Avriel, or her brother, for that matter. Ask them what part you play in all of this. I assure you it is no small one.”

  Whill was tired of hearing of himself in such ways. He was but a man, after all. He had accepted the fact that he must take back his father’s throne, but the liberator and savior of Agora? It was all a bit too much.

  He got up, put his sword in its sheath, and stormed over to the fire without a word more. Abram simply puffed on his pipe and left it all to the gods.

  Roakore and Tarren were in deep discussion about dragons and dwarf gods when Whill slumped down next to them.

  “Just tellin’ yer boy Tarren here ’bout the dragon gods,” Roakore explained. “Meat’s got a little while to go, though.”

  Tarren piped in with his usual enthusiastic demeanor.

  “Aye, Roakore told me all about the dragon and dwarf gods. It’s really good stuff, Whill, you should hear it! All about the Prophet Ky’Dren and-”

  Whill cut him off and recited the old tales. “Ky’Dren came to the dwarves at a time when they were lost. They had no religion or social structure other than that of the nomad. Ky’Dren told them he had been sent from the dwarf gods to lead them, to give them a better life, to show them their purpose. Ky’Dren could move stone with his mind, they say, as can his direct descendants still. He was a god among dwarves, a god among all.”

  Roakore nodded in approval at Whill’s summary. Tarren became jubilant. “Whill, I didn’t know you knew so much of the dwarves! What else do you know?”

  Roakore patted Tarren’s leg. “A great deal about all things, I imagine. A great deal.”

  Whill spoke to no one the remainder of the break. They all ate their share of the venison, packed up, and headed out once again. Tarren, however, asked to ride this time upon the pony with a less-than-enthusiastic dwarf. They rode the remainder of the day and briefly into the night along the old road leading to Kell-Torey. They met no one along the way but a group of one hundred soldiers headed for Sherna. Rhunis informed them that he had been in charge of the reconstruction of the town, but had handed the task over to his second-in-command on account of other more important duties. After a short briefing the soldiers were off once again and the riders made camp for the night.

  Roakore made a large fire and went about cooking the remaining venison, with the help of one tired but eager lad. Whill took the time to speak with Avriel and her brother. He found them tending to their horses. Not being in the mood for small talk, he walked up and simply said what was on his mind.

  “Abram tells me I have a larger part in all of this than I know. Though I cannot think how my part may become any greater, I trust you will enlighten me as to his insinuations.”

  Avriel and Zerafin stopped what they were doing and looked at the faraway silhouette of Abram, and then at each other. They seemed to share a silent communication and finally nodded. They put down their brushes.

  “Sit, then, and we shall tell you the tale,” said Zerafin.

  Whill sat upon the ground, as did the elves. Twenty yards away the fire burned, casting faint orange light upon the two storytellers.

  Avriel began. “More than five thousand years ago there lived within Drindellia an elf prophet by the name of Adimorda, our great-great-great-grandfather. He was a skilled fighter and healer, but he was best known for his foresight.”

  “Foresight?”

  “Yes,” Zerafin said. “Adimorda is now known as the greatest elf prophet to have ever lived, which is no small feat, considering that our history dates back more than seven hundred thousand years.”

  Whill lit up. “Yes, now I remember reading of him. Vaguely, however; I was a child then, and the books I had of the elves spoke little of him. I remember them saying that he could see into the future.”

  Avriel nodded. “He used his powers unlike any before him. When first he looked into the future, and then later events proved him right, he became obsessed. He spent year after year pouring his energy into his blade, and he used the stored power to strengthen his mental abilities.”

  Zerafin took over without missing a beat. “As more and more of Adimorda’s predictions came true, his followers increased. They would travel from hundreds of miles around to give him their stored energy in exchange for a glimpse of the future. With so much energy at his disposal, Adimorda began looking farther and farther into the future-decades, hundreds, even thousands of years.”

  Avriel’s eyes shone wet in the faint firelight. “Then Adimorda saw something that terrified him, something that would change him forever and drive him into a lifelong obsession. He saw the destruction of Drindellia. He saw the rise of a purely evil elf lord, the creation of hideous beasts, the fall of his homeland. We know now that elf lord was Eadon, and the creatures the Draggard. Adimorda knew he must do all he could to prevent this from happening. He devised many plans, and began to carry them out. But he soon found that with every plan he attempted, the results would be the same or worse.”

  Whill cut in. “He looked to the future to see how he had helped?”

  “Precisely,” Zerafin said. “And he found that nothing he did would help. He could not alter a future so far away.”

  Whill’s mind hurt as he thought of the possibilities. He put both hands through his hair and let out an exasperated breath. “Then what did he do?”

  Avriel sighed. “Some say that he went mad.”

  “Others, the true believers, like myself and my sister, think he did all he thought he could, his last attempt to save Drindellia.”

  “Yes,” Avriel said. “Adimorda decided that Eadon’s rise to power was inevitable, that all he could do to help was create a weapon to counter the powerful Dark elf.”

  Whill lit up. “He created a weapon?”

  Zerafin nodded and let out a laugh. “Yes, his own blade. He thought that if he could store enough energy within it, with the help of his followers, then the wielder would have a chance at defeating the Dark elf. But his plan backfired. He looked once again into the future, only to discover that the Dark elf himself would get his hands on the sword, and all would be lost.”

  “But that was not all,” Avriel said. “Adimorda would not give up so easily. To see to it that the Dark elf would never use the sword, he made it so that no elf could ever wield it. He created the Order of Adromida, a group of his followers who would dedicate their lives to his cause.”

  Zerafin took his turn. “Adimorda disappeared shortly after that, and was never seen or heard from again.”

  Whill was shocked. “Was he murdered?”

  “No one knows,” Zerafin said. “Some speculate that he poured all of his life energy into the blade, leaving himself none. Within his study his followers found three words written in blood.”

  The intensity of their combined stares made Whill uncomfortable. “What did it say?”

  “Alorna mai Agora.”

  “Whill of Agora,” Avriel translated.

  “Whill of Agora?” Whill.

  Just then Abram joined them. “You speak of Adimorda, I see. His followers pored through his many scribblings and scrolls and found one of great importance.”

  Avriel concurred. “The last scrolls of Adimorda spoke of one who would wield the blade Adromida, one who would rid the world of the Dark elf Eadon and his many legions. Whill of Agora.”

  Whill now saw it all clearly. Though he was reluctant to believe he had such a part to play, the evidence was undeniable. “The sword Adromida cannot be wielded by an elf.”

  “Correct,” said Zera
fin.

  “So it is up to me. I alone must wield the blade and destroy Eadon.” His voice held little enthusiasm.

  Avriel looked from her brother to Abram and finally to Whill. “There is one other who could wield the blade.”

  Whill knew before she had finished. “My uncle Addakon.”

  Abram nodded. “Addakon.”

  “Where is the sword?” asked Whill. “Was it brought from Drindellia?”

  Avriel shook her head with dismay. “No. We do not have it, nor do we know where it is. For more than four thousand years the Order of Adromida did what they had been sworn to do. The Order was composed of hundreds of monks, and each and every elf poured their life energy into that blade. Every day, all day, there was always someone within the temple, strengthening the blade, for four thousand years.”

  Avriel paused and stared at Whill, scrutinizing his reaction. When he only stared back, she let out a huff. “Whill, do you understand the great power that Adromida possesses? Having been given the energy of so many for so long?”

  Whill thought on it for a moment. “No, I cannot. It is unimaginable. The wielder of such a blade would be like…like a god.”

  “Yes. And can you imagine what Addakon would do with such power?”

  Whill knew then that if Addakon ever got his hands on the great elven blade, all would be lost. Whether he liked it or not, he, it seemed, was truly the only hope.

  Abram lit his pipe and blew out a puff of smoke. “Now you begin to see. This is why I think that Eadon has come to Agora-he is in search of the blade, but also its wielder. It seems that he has found Addakon. And together they will stop at nothing to acquire Adromida. I believe that is indeed why Addakon killed your father. With your father and his unborn child dead, the only man with the power to wield the blade would be himself.”

  “And now he knows that I live. The throne is but a minor issue, is it not? Addakon wants me dead so that I cannot find the sword first.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then why are we heading for Kell-Torey when we could be looking for the sword? Do we have any clues to where it may be?”