Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  To his amazement, it subsided. He opened his eyes to find Roakore lying still before him. Abram, Rhunis, and an amazed-looking Tarren stared down at him. Whill lifted the sword of Avriel and looked upon it with in wonder. Leirva, the sword of the elf maiden of Elladrindellia-he had wielded it. Avriel and Zerafin came over to him.

  Avriel offered Whill a smile. “I knew you could do it.” She extended her arm to take the sword.

  “You did well, Whill, very well,” said Zerafin.

  Whill handed over the powerful blade. “What of Roakore?”

  Avriel and Zerafin both regarded the dwarf. Avriel laughed. “Well he seems to be fully healed, and then some.”

  “Yes, our gruff friend should be awake any moment and full of dragon piss.”

  The last word had not escaped Zerafin’s lips when Roakore’s eyes popped open and he jumped to his feet. He jerked his head in all directions, eyeing each of them. He frantically felt his chest and his ribs.

  “What in dragon’s hellfire happened here, eh?” He snorted and spat. “No blood, me side don’t hurt, and why do I feel I might explode from within?”

  Whill waved off the others, who were starting to giggle. He put an arm around the dwarf and walked him away.

  “Roakore, do you remember nothing?”

  Roakore eyed the others over his shoulder with a scowl. “I remember-I don’t know. I remember stopping fer a rest and then-”

  Whill stopped him. “I offered to help you and you accepted. You did not ask for help, and probably didn’t need it. But I felt obliged to do what I could and I tended to your wounds, minor as they were.”

  Roakore felt his ribs again. “I agreed?” He looked back at the others. “Is this the work o’ those two damned elves? They think they need to look over me-aye, me!”

  Whill shook his head. “No! No! They did nothing, I swear to you on the blood of my father. I alone tended to you, I alone.”

  “That damned Dark elf sent me own weapon back at me. Took a good hit, I did.”

  “A hit that would have killed a dragon,” Whill agreed.

  Roakore’s scowl slowly left his face. “Yer a good healer,” he said, and went to join the others.

  Whill knew that in his own stubborn way, Roakore had just said thank you. A smile spread across his face as he followed the dwarf.

  Rhunis and Zerafin were leading the horses back from their drink at the brook. Abram and Tarren had started a small fire and were preparing what was left of the venison. Whill walked over to Tarren and took the boy by the shoulder.

  “Listen, Tarren, I ask a favor of you.”

  “Anything.”

  Tarren’s tone was so serious, it almost made Whill laugh out loud. He composed a serious face to match. “Do not tell Roakore what you saw. You may not understand, but trust me and give me your word.”

  To Whill’s surprise, Tarren winked. “Oh, I understand. If Roakore knew he was healed by elven ways, we wouldn’t hear the end of it. Don’t worry, Whill, your secret’s safe.”

  He laughed out loud and rustled Tarren’s hair. “Good lad.”

  After a quick meal, the companions were off again. They were many hundred miles from Kell-Torey and had days ahead of them. But the mood was light, the talk merry.

  They had passed a few roads leading to this town or that town, but they did not venture down any. Trouble had followed Whill since Fendale, and he did not intend on bringing any to anyone. Danger was a shadow that wrapped itself like a cloak around Whill of Agora. He did not know how he could possibly live up to the prophecy. He had barely wrapped his mind around being the son of a king. At moments it was all too much, and he found himself having to mentally stomp out the fires of fear and doubt. It was in those moments that he thought of his new-found friends. If any good at all had come out of the last few days’ revelations, it was the company he now kept. Never had he met dwarf nor elf; never had he seen such fierce warriors.

  “You are not such a bad warrior yourself, Whill of Agora,” Avriel stated softly as she rode by.

  Whill smiled at the compliment but quickly realized that Avriel had read his mind. He quickened to ride beside her. “I thought you would not read my mind without permission.”

  “And I have not.”

  “But what you said-it was along close lines to what I was thinking.”

  “I did not read your mind as much as you did the telling.” She smiled. “You were projecting your thoughts towards those you thought of. Unintentionally, it seems.”

  Whill blanched. “You can hear my thoughts if they’re…about you personally?”

  Avriel slowly moved her horse closer to Whill’s. “If you are thinking intensely enough about me, or someone, it is sometimes hard for that person to ignore.”

  Whill looked away. Great! he thought. She probably already knows. This is so unfair. Damnit, she’ll hear you. Right, relax, Whill. Don’t project, don’t think it. Not that word. Choose another. Dragons! Yes, dragons-big ones, small ones. A dragon flying through the midnight sky against a full moonscape….Avriel astride the dragon upon a velvet saddle, as naked as-damn it, man, shut up!

  Whill fell back, thinking of nothing but witch’s warts as he came to ride next to Zerafin.

  “You have to teach me how to not project,” he said.

  Zerafin smiled. “If you wish. Why? Are you afraid of offending naked dragons?”

  Whill gulped and slowly fell back again. It was safest it seemed, to ride beside Abram.

  They rode on for the remainder of the day. As night fell, they stopped and made camp once again. They had eaten the remaining venison, to Roakore’s dismay. He had not had it in quite some time and had a keen liking for it. He strode up to Whill and patted him on the back. Whill was almost knocked over by the strong hand.

  “C’mon then, lad, let’s get us all some dinner.”

  Whill tied off his horse and retrieved his bow. “Night hunting?”

  Roakore scoffed. “Is it night? I see fine no matter the light. I was raised within a mountain, ye remember.”

  They ventured into the dense forest under faint, cloud-covered moonlight for more than ten minutes. Roakore was, Whill discovered, following a game trail. He came to a stop, lifted his broad nose in the air, and took a long slow sniff.

  “Hmm. Somethin’s about.” He went left and Whill followed. After a minute they came to a small clearing where a small herd of deer sat in the grass. Roakore crouched and cursed the wind under his breath.

  “No time fer stealth, lad. The wind’ll give us away soon, don’t ye doubt.”

  Whill strung his bow and took aim at the closest deer. Roakore grabbed his arm gently.

  “Let me, laddie,” said Roakore, and he started his stone bird a-whirling.

  The deer became aware of the hunters as the soft whoop of the weapon resonated through the night air. The stone bird came in with a blur as the deer got to their feet and began to bound into the woods. The stones caught one round the neck, a buck with a magnificent set of antlers, it fell to the ground and moved no more.

  “Bahaha! Now that’s how it’s done, laddie!”

  They returned to camp to find that a fire had been started. Roakore found a suitable stone to work on and washed it off before spreading salt upon it. He hung the deer from a tree and skinned and butchered it with the help of Tarren, who was more than eager to use one of the dwarf’s hatchets.

  From the woods Avriel had gathered handfuls of leeks, herbs, onions, and a few wild potatoes. She laid them out next to the fire and began washing them.

  Roakore nodded in approval. “If only we had a pot we could get a bit o’ warm stew a-brewin’.”

  Avriel rose purposefully and went looking around at the surrounding stones. Roakore and the others watched with interest as she found one she liked, a large one the size of Roakore’s head. She lifted it with ease and brought it near the fire. Avriel stood before the rock with the firelight catching her raven hair. She put a hand to the hilt of her blade and extended a
hand to the stone. Suddenly the rock began to indent in the center until it was almost flat. Then the edges of the flat stone rose while the center remained upon the ground. Avriel took a look at her work. Roakore looked on in awe at the large stone bowl she had just created.

  “Will that do?” she asked.

  Roakore only nodded with an approving smile.

  Water was gathered and in no time a hot venison stew was brewing. Around the fire everyone sat, except for Zerafin, who was walking the perimeter on guard duty.

  “’Bout another twenty minutes, the food’ll be done,” said Roakore as he found a suitable rock to sit on.

  “Sure smells good,” Tarren piped up. “Say, Roakore, why didn’t you make a bowl like Avriel did? You have powers over stone, don’t you? Or so I’ve overheard.”

  “Bah, I coulda. I can do more than that with stone, boy. Why, half me chambers are covered in me own creation!.”

  “Really! What can you do?”

  Roakore stood and pointed to the rock he had just been sitting on. “Sit there, lad, if ye dare.”

  Tarren sat. Roakore lifted his hands in Tarren’s direction and began to chant softly. Tarren yelped and held tightly to the stone as it began to rise into the air. Around the fire and over everyone’s heads the stone circled slowly. Tarren began to giggle. Faster and faster he circled on the stone until he was laughing hysterically. Roakore made the stone go so fast that eventually Tarren could not hold on. With a yelp the boy went flying through the air over their heads, end over end, and slammed into the ground with a thud.

  If he was hurt he did not show it, for he ran back to the group, cheering, “That was great! Oh, boy, wait till I tell my sister I met a dwarf who can make people fly on stones!”

  “Bahaha,” Roakore laughed as he slowed the stone and brought it to its place.

  Avriel looked at the dwarf, intrigued. “It is amazing, the skill you have with the manipulation of stone, good dwarf. I have heard rumors that you dwarves have powers akin to our own. I see perhaps they are true.”

  Roakore’s eyes lit up. “Akin to yours? That I doubt. ’Twas a gift given to Ky’Dren and his line by the gods. Do your powers come from the gods?”

  “Our powers come from ourselves. But Roakore, you must be able to manipulate more than just stone.”

  Roakore scoffed at that. “Bah, what else is there fer a dwarf, lady elf, but stone? Why would I want to be manipulatin’ anythin else?”

  “You may be right; the manipulation of stone would be the most prudent power for a dwarf to possess. But I wonder, can you move…this tree limb, for instance?”

  Just then a small limb from the wood pile floated into the air and rested at Roakore’s feet. He scowled at her.

  “Now listen, elf, I ain’t needin’ to prove nothin’ to ye.”

  Avriel put up her hands defensively. “I do not mean to insult you, good dwarf. I simply believe that the powers you exhibit over stone can be used on anything.”

  Roakore settled a bit. “Well I simply don’t. I believe I can move stone, and so I can.”

  “Ah, but if you believed you could move that limb, could you not do it?”

  “But I don’t.”

  “But what if you did?”

  “I don’t be knowing ’cause I don’t be believing!”

  Suddenly Tarren spoke up. “I believe I can move the branch, Avriel. But see?” He scrunched up his face and concentrated on the wood. Finally he gave up with a puff of breath. “I believe, but I can’t.”

  Roakore kicked the branch. “Well, lad, that’s ’cause no gods gave ye or yer kin the powers.”

  “It is because that part of your mind has not been awakened, Tarren,” said Avriel.

  Tarren gasped. “So I could be taught? Could you teach me?”

  Just then Zerafin approached from the shadows. “No, we cannot teach you. It is forbidden.” Avriel scoffed and leaned back on the grass. “Though many of us, including my sister, do not agree with the law, it has been laid down by the elders.”

  Tarren sulked. “It sounds like a stupid law.”

  Zerafin found a seat next to the boy. “It may sound stupid, but there is reason behind it. The elders fear teaching humans our ways. Such power in the wrong hands can lead to disaster, as is the case of Eadon. Many pure of heart have been corrupted by the power that our ways bring. It must never be abused, and it can never be used for personal gain, lest corruption and greed overwhelm the soul.”

  “That’s the last thing we be needin’-a bunch o’ human Eadons walkin’ around,” Roakore said.

  “The elders’ sentiments exactly.”

  Whill had been listening keenly and something occurred to him. “What do the elders think of me, of my training in the elven ways?”

  “Many are against it, but it is part of our dept to the kings of Uthen-Arden,” answered Avriel.

  “What about the prophecy?”

  “Many do not believe it,” Zerafin said.

  “Really.”

  There was a long silence, which was finally broken by Abram.

  “Well, I believe it.”

  “So do I,” said Tarren

  “I always have,” Avriel agreed.

  Rhunis gave Tarren a little shake. “I think with friends like these, anything is possible.”

  Everyone laughed, Whill included, though he noticed that Zerafin had not concurred.

  You were projecting again, Whill. Whill’s eyes moved to Zerafin. Yes, I also believe the prophecy.

  Whill nodded, feeling foolish. I really need to learn how to stop doing that.

  Roakore announced that the stew was done, and everyone filled a traveling cup and enjoyed the hot meal. After many helpings Abram sat back against a tree stump and lit his pipe. He looked up at the stars as he patted his belly.

  “Ah, Mallekell is bright tonight.”

  Both elves looked to the heavens at the elven constellation of Mallekell.

  “Where’s Mallekell?” Tarren asked.

  Avriel pointed. “There. You see those three stars? They are the center. From there you can make out the arms and sword, and that one there, the brightest one, is the eye of Mallekell.”

  Roakore scoffed. “That there, those three an’ that one? That be the stars o’ Ky’Dren, ain’t no elf.”

  “For you, good dwarf, it is of Ky’Dren,” Zerafin said. “But to us elves, it is of Mallekell.”

  Roakore only scowled and shook his head. “That brightest star there, it’s the gateway to the Mountain o’ the Gods, it is, an’ nothing else.”

  Whill knew nothing could be said to the dwarf about his belief, and no more was said on the subject by the elves. Tarren, however, cared not. He had learned already the history of Ky’Dren.

  “So who is Mallekell?”

  Avriel looked to the boy and smiled at his innocence. “He was the first elf to become enlightened since the ancient years, our first teacher in the ways of Orna Catorna. He gained enlightenment exactly 10,091 years ago. That is when the age of enlightenment began, and the reckoning of years that we use today.”

  Roakore seemed jealous of the lad’s attention. “Our reckonin o’ years began with the settlin o’ the Ky’Dren Mountains. ‘Tis why it’s the dwarf year 5170. That’s also the human reckonin’, ye know, since ye humans never bothered with the reckonin o’ years till ye met us dwarves.”

  Tarren ignored him, so interested was he about the first enlightened elf. “So-ten thousand years ago, eh, Avriel? What is enlightenment, anyway?”

  “Enlightenment is a human word for a state of mind seldom reached. The Elvish translation is Orna Catorna. Our written history dates back hundreds of thousands of years, through many ages. The enlightenment of Mallekell ushered in the age of enlightenment, though it is said that we elves had such powers tens of thousands of years before.”

  Zerafin took up the telling. “Of the many ages of the elves, there is one called The God Wars. It is written that elves had gained power as had never been seen upon Keye-K
eye being the elven name for our world. The ancient elves had grown into two factions, and war had begun, much like what we have seen with the Dark elves and the Elves of the Sun.”

  Avriel scoffed. “Exactly alike they are. We are repeating the past as we speak; the struggle of good and evil wages on. While some use the power to help others and advance our people’s quality of life, others only use the power for themselves. But once one goes down the path to personal power, he shall seldom return. The ego is a ravenous beast, and will stop at nothing to gain more.”

  Tarren was enthralled. “So who won? Who won the War of the Gods?”

  Zerafin bowed his head, a great sorrow showed in his stoic face. “No one. Both sides lost.”

  Tarren looked disappointed. “But how can both sides lose? Didn’t good defeat evil? Didn’t the heroes win?”

  Avriel shook her head. “No one won. Hundreds of thousands died, cities burned. The age of the Wars of the Gods went on for nearly one thousand years, until there was nothing left to fight for, until all had been destroyed. At the end of the wars less than a thousand elves remained. The most powerful of all elves was Kellallea. She had finally defeated the armies of her enemies. After the final battle she stood before her followers and gave her last order.”

  Firelight shone upon her face as she spun her ancient tale. She seemed to Whill like a goddess among men, so beautiful was she. Not only her face, but her hair, her eyes, her smile, her words. Every mannerism was a compliment to her being, every gesture intoxicating. In a panic he did not show, he wondered if he were projecting. It did not relieve his fears when Avriel looked his way as she told her story.

  “Kellallea ordered her followers to never again practice the ways of Orna Catorna, to abandon all memory of enlightenment. It was argued that only greed and evil had destroyed so many lives, that goodness and love could now thrive. But Kellallea would hear none of it. She had decided what she must do.”