Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  “An honor to make yourself like a dog? I know the traditions, but I will never understand them.” He picked up an apple from the fruit basket.

  Avriel went to the wardrobe, disrobed and began dressing herself in her chosen garments. “You think that Eadon will try to reach Whill through possession?”

  “I do. If I were Eadon and knew that Whill was here in Kell-Torey, so well hidden and protected, I would resort to possession to kill him. The boy Tarren, for example, would be a perfect subject.”

  Avriel appeared fully clothed from the wardrobe with a look of disgust. “Sometimes you are very morbid, brother. Morbid, but brilliant. Tarren, you say?”

  Zerafin nodded as he ate his apple.

  “I have a thought you might find compelling, though it is not mine alone-Mother voiced it to me first,” she said. “What if…what if Eadon does not want Whill dead?”

  Zerafin swallowed his last bite hard. “Go on.”

  “Put yourself in his shoes, as they say. If you were Eadon, and you knew that Whill of Agora existed-the very one spoken of in the prophecy, the one who is destined to wield the sword Adromida-would you want him dead? Would you gamble that his human uncle could wield the blade in his place? And what if Addakon does find it? How long do you think he will put up with Eadon once he has such power? Evil will turn on evil, so it is written.”

  Zerafin thought for a long moment. “I do not think that Eadon wants either of them to gain possession of the blade. If Whill does, then his plans will fail. If Addakon does, then he will surely be betrayed. I do think, however, that Eadon wants Whill to find the blade, and I think he plans to be there when it is found.”

  “That makes sense. So you believe that Eadon wants Whill captured.”

  “Yes, I do, which is only another reason we should watch him that much more closely.” He gave her a sly look. “Which I doubt you will mind doing.”

  Avriel rolled her eyes. “That again.”

  “What? I do not try to mock you. I only speak the truth. Sister….”

  “What is it?”

  “I know you feel for Whill deeply. I am glad for it, believe me. I have not seen you smile so many times in so few days since you were a child, since Drindellia. He makes you happy. I understand. He has awakened a dead place in your heart that not time, nor I, nor elven love interests, have been able to. He is mortal, a mere human, yet you see him as a legend. Not an equal, but as a superior. You see in his eyes the last hope for our people, the redemption of our father, our homeland. Is this why you love him, Avriel?”

  Avriel averted her brother’s gaze. After a moment she looked up into her brother’s eyes, her own wet with tears that had not fallen. “He looks at me in a way that no one else does. I see lust, yes, and the recognition of beauty that I am aware I possess. I have seen this in other men, human and elf-even dwarf, for that matter. But there is something more, something that poets of old could only hint at. When he looks at me I am a little girl again. I, an elf warrior of 650 years, a princess to her people, am reduced to childhood in his eyes. He disarms my heart with but a glance, and lights a fire within me that the oceans could not quench. I do not know why; I do not care. I feel more alive than I have in centuries. If it is due to his title, the prophecy, I think not. I am not infatuated with him, as you might hint. Infatuation and love branch the same tree, but they bear two very different fruit. I love him for who he is inside.”

  Zerafin embraced his sister. “Then you have my blessing.” He held her at arm’s length and peered into her still-tearful eyes. “Do not be afraid, my Avriel. I also feel that this is all very right. You have never in your many centuries taken a lover, though you have had countless volunteers, a fact that made Mother very nervous.” They shared a small laugh. “But know now and always that you have my blessing in this. As you shall Mother’s.”

  Avriel embraced her brother and finally let her tears fall onto his shoulder, though they were now tears of joy.

  Abram sat smoking his pipe; rings still lingered in place many feet above. They had long ago finished their meals and were now simply chatting. The king was telling Whill one of the many stories of Abram’s heroism during the Draggard battles that had taken place since he was but a lad. Whill was enthralled but also slightly sickened by the many stories of near death. He wasn’t sure whether he was more impressed or angered by the tales, realizing just how close he had come to losing the only father he had ever known.

  The king finished his latest tale, sat back, and enjoyed a large gulp of wine. Then he put down his drink and set his gaze upon Whill. Instantly Whill got the impression that the king’s next words would not be light-hearted, for his face had become grave, as if he had finally decided upon something most unpleasant.

  “You seem to know I have bad news,” Mathus said. “You are indeed perceptive, Whill.” He sat up. “I have news of the lad Tarren’s father, and family.”

  Whill let out a breath and held a faint hope that what he thought would come next would not.

  “It seems that when Tarren was kidnapped by Cirrosa, his family was murdered, grandfather, father, mother, and two sisters.”

  Whill put his head in his hands. He felt the king’s hand on his shoulder. Abram began to curse. “By the gods! That wretched scum of a man! Never have I wished I could kill a man twice!”

  The king’s arm fell from Whill’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Whill, but it seems the boy cannot return to Fendale. Nothing awaits him. I have had my men look into his family tree, and it appears those who perished were all that was left of his line. The inn also is gone, burned to the ground.”

  Whill fought back tears, rage, shame, and sorrow. Again it had been his fault; again good people had died because of him; his parents, the slave men of Eldon, the people of Sherna, and now this. He felt something shift within him, within his soul. He thought he might explode. He began to tremble.

  Abram let his pipe fall to the floor. Whill’s teeth made an audible sound as he gritted them in anger; his hands had become fists that pulled at his hair. Abram rose quickly and moved around the table to Whill. Into the prone young man’s ear he spoke, calmly and soothingly.

  “Control yourself, Whill. Do not let it build, do not let it consume you. Fight it.”

  But Whill barely heard the plea, so consumed was he with pent up-rage. He had caused the deaths of too many, had learned too much in the last few days. The pressure proved too much. He saw behind his closed eyes the great pyre upon the beaches of Sherna, the hundreds of smoldering bodies. He saw the slave men he himself had cut down in battle, the face of Tarren streaked with tears. He stood and clutched his stomach as if some demonic beast was trying to claw its way out. He screamed.

  Abram’s voice managed to break through Whill’s consuming rage. “The table, Whill, focus it all on the table! All of it! Let it go!”

  Mathus backed away as Whill focused all his rage, all his shame, everything, sending it from his mind and into his fists, slamming the large oak table before him.

  There was a deafening boom as the table exploded into a million pieces. King Mathus and Abram were blown backwards by the shockwave that followed Whill’s release. Whill looked down upon his bloodied hands in awe. Hundreds of splinters had sunk deep in his hands, body, and face. He felt his knees buckle and he slumped to the floor, thoroughly spent. He heard Abram and King Mathus yell his name in unison and saw Zerafin and Avriel rush into the room.

  Then his eyes closed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Orphan

  Whill found himself floating high above a battle. The land was charred and smoldering, the sky above choked with smoke, and the ground itself seemed to bleed. Below, a great battle surged. Whill was horrified as he looked upon the warring masses. Draggard swarmed upon the field, greatly outnumbering their enemies. The scene was a slaughter; men, elves, and dwarves alike lay dead or dying. The remaining armies of Agora were being devoured as the deep and menacing horns of the Draggard sounded, rising into the smo
ke-filled sky like the evil moan of a demon of death.

  “Dohr la skello hento!”

  Whill was jolted conscious as a surge of energy coursed through his body. Zerafin spoke again in the elven language, and the hundreds of splinters were pulled from his body by an unseen force. Then came the blue light, enveloping Whill’s body and healing his many wounds.

  Avriel was at Whill’s side in an instant. “Are you alright?”

  He looked into her eyes but could not speak. The memory of his dream was like a phantom hand upon his throat. He looked around wildly, wondering where he was. Before him what had been the table was now nothing but kindling. The chairs had all been blown back, and the many banners upon the walls were riddled with holes. Zerafin went to the king and Abram in turn and extracted the splinters and healed their wounds.

  Whill saw the blood of both and was sickened. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I-”

  “We know, Whill,” said Mathus. “It is no matter.” He got to his feet with Zerafin’s help.

  “I’m afraid it is. And a dire matter at that,” Zerafin said. “Once again you have nearly killed yourself, Whill. Your training cannot wait until we reach Elladrindellia. For your sake, and for the sake of those around you. Your training starts today. You must learn to control the energy.” He looked towards Avriel. “And the emotions within you.”

  Whill sat in the garden across from Zerafin. The sun had descended beyond the castle walls, but not the unseen horizon. The sky was dark blue, with hues of red and orange announcing the oncoming dusk. No breeze stirred within the garden; it was as silent as a tomb. Zerafin sat looking at Whill for a moment. He was seated on the grass, legs crossed one over the other in a meditative stance. His hands were together, fingers and thumbs touching at the ends pointing outward, all but the index fingers, which were curved in towards his body with fingernails touching. Whill mimicked Zerafin’s posture and stance and awaited his command.

  “All creatures possess emotion,” the elf began. “Some more than others and some more intensely than others. You, my friend, seems to possess a great passion, which is neither good nor bad. But if you cannot control those emotions, and you continue to let them manifest into uncontrolled energy, then you will become a danger to everyone around you. Do not despair, Whill. You are human, after all, and we have come to learn that humans not only let their emotions run wild, but thrive on them as well. You could say that you humans are addicted to your emotions.”

  Whill listened intently, though he did not quite understand what Zerafin meant.

  “Close your eyes, Whill, and think of nothing. Focus on your breath and nothing more. You see how shallow and quick it is. I would like you to breathe as deeply as you can, slowly, ever so slowly. Now hold your breath there for a moment before letting it go, slowly, ever so slowly. That’s it. Breathe in, breathe out. Clear your mind. Straighten your back, raise your chest, lower your shoulders. Relax the mind and body. Let yourself be at peace.”

  Whill did as he was told, and a feeling of great peace overcame him, freedom from his troubles, emotions, and responsibilities.

  “This is called trendela ohr ne tolla, or the earth pose,” Zerafin said. “We elves use this pose for reflection, to calm the mind and body and create unity throughout.”

  Zerafin said nothing more for some time as Whill continued to relax his mind and body. After a time he spoke again. “Now slowly open your eyes, and come back to the garden.”

  Whill reluctantly obeyed. He opened his eyes to find Zerafin smiling at him.

  “How do you feel?”

  Whill thought for a moment. “I feel…refreshed, calm, relaxed.”

  “As you should, my friend, as you should. We will delve deeper into the many stances and meditation techniques of the elves in the future. For now I would like you to practice this stance daily, for as long as suits you, from this day forth. Now. Close your eyes again.”

  Whill did so and waited further instruction. Moments passed, and then suddenly Zerafin slapped him across the face hard enough to make it hurt. Whill opened his eyes suddenly and broke his stance. “Why did you do that!”

  Zerafin laughed. “Why, indeed? Focus on your emotions now, Whill. How do you feel?”

  Whill put a hand to his cheek. “Angry, of course.”

  “But why are you angry? Did you decide to be angry?”

  “No, I did not decide to be angry. You slapped me and that made me angry!”

  “Ah. So I have the power over you to make you feel as I wish. By my actions, I can determine how you feel. Is that what you mean?”

  Whill knew Zerafin was getting at something, but did not quite know where he was going. Minutes passed as they stared at one another. At last Whill proved the more impatient. “No, you do not have that power over me. I feel the way I wish to feel.”

  “Really?” asked Zerafin, and slapped Whill hard again. “So I did not just change your attitude, your emotions? Do you feel no different now?”

  Whill was fuming, his nostrils flared, his fists clenched. He could not deny what Zerafin implied. “Alright, yes, you made me mad. So what? Anyone would be angry after being slapped.”

  “Would they, now?” He leaned back onto one elbow. “Now I ask you, did I make you upset, or did you decide to be upset when I stuck you?”

  Whill thought for a moment. “You made me upset.”

  “Wrong, my friend, wrong. You, or the world around you, have taught your brain through your life experience that you must become angry when someone slaps you. You are reacting to the world around you through a set list of responses you have chosen for yourself. You are no more in control than a sailor in a storm. And with the power you now possess, and the power you will soon gain, that simply will not do.”

  Whill realized Zerafin made perfect sense, and he could not help but feel a little embarrassed. He decided to test the elf’s theory. He pretended to be pondering, then quickly brought his hand up to slap Zerafin. But the elf proved the quicker and stopped Whill’s hand inches short of its destination.

  Zerafin laughed. “When you can do that, I will have no more to teach you.”

  Roakore sat in his room upon a couch that was too soft, answering the questions of a boy who was too curious. He was glad to hear a knock upon the door. “Come in, me friend, please do!”

  Whill peered in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “No, no, do come in an’ sit down a bit. We were just chattin’ is all.”

  “Roakore was just telling me how the dwarves use the dirt and stone from the tunnels they dig. I always wondered where it went.”

  “A good question indeed,” Whill agreed. “Roakore, would you mind if Tarren and I had a word?”

  Roakore stood. “No, not a bit. Was ’bout to get a breath o’ fresh air, anyhow, need to stretch the legs a bit. I ain’t used to being cooped up like this.”

  Tarren gave Roakore a confused look. “But haven’t you lived most of your life in caves?”

  Roakore could only give a weak laugh at being caught in his contradiction. “Right, then, ye two talk. I’ll be about.” With relief, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Tarren began to speak but Whill silenced him with a raised hand. Whill got control of his emotions before facing the boy, and then took a deep, long breath. Before he could speak, Tarren asked, “What is it, Whill?” His demeanor had changed. His face was flushed, his eyes haunted. “Is it my family? Please, what is it?”

  “Yes, Tarren, it is. It seems that when the pirates took you, a fight must have broken out, you see. Word has come from Eldalon…”

  Tarren shook his head. “No, no, no, please say it’s not true, please, no. I saw the smoke, I saw the fire-when they were rushing me off to the docks, I knew something bad had happened, but I thought-hoped-”

  His shoulders shuddered as silent sobs racked his body. Tears began to slowly fall from his nose. Whill leaned closer and spoke softly. “Cirrosa’s men killed your family
, Tarren. None survived the fire. I am sorry. Oh, dear boy, I am so sorry.”

  Tarren looked up at Whill with eyes that pierced his heart. “You can save them. You can use your powers. Bring them back, Whill, please, bring them back!”

  Whill pulled Tarren to himself and held the sobbing boy as Whill’s own tears fell. He rocked Tarren as his muffled voice pleaded, “Bring them back, bring them back.”

  Whill pulled away and held him firm. “I cannot, Tarren, no one can. My powers are limited to the living, not the dead.”

  “But that baby! You brought the baby back! You did!”

  Whill shook his head. “The baby had only just begun to pass. Her spirit still held to this earth. That is why I could help her.”

  Tarren was left unable to speak. Whill pulled him close once again and held him

  long after the sun had set beyond the window. The only light within the room now came from the torches in the courtyard below. Tarren had fallen asleep, though silent sobs made his body jerk every few seconds. Whill stayed there with him, not wanting to let him go. Eventually he fell asleep also.

  Avriel sat in her room in her meditative stance. She had extended her consciousness outside of herself, and had witnessed the exchange between Whill and Tarren. She withdrew to give them privacy during this moment. She slowly opened her teary eyes and returned her attention to herself. She had been witness for more than six hundred years to the cruelty and pain life so often dealt, yet it had not hardened her to the point of apathy. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. “The poor boy.”

  The morning sun slowly rose, its rays spreading across the world and finding their way to Whill’s closed eyes. He awoke to find Tarren upon the thick stone balcony rail, silently overlooking the courtyard. Whill sat up but did not stand. He did not know how to approach the lad. Tarren sat like a statue, unmoving, seemingly lifeless, and Whill knew only too well the pain the boy felt, if not as deeply.

  Whill found his words at last and went out onto the balcony. Despite the early hour, the courtyard below was bustling with activity. Soldiers marched past in groups of four, while others sparred or practiced at the archery range. Though there were countless things to see below, Whill could see that Tarren focused on nothing before him. He simply stared forward, unmoving, distant.