Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  Tarren, in his new hat and uniform, turned to Zerafin for approval.

  “I must say, young man, you do look as though you are ready for the vigorous duties before you in the Eldalon army. What is your opinion of that of which we have been speaking?”

  Tarren’s mouth twisted up in thought. “I know that the Elders you speak of are older than dirt-well, so Roakore said. And they must be very smart, being so old. So if they are so smart, they can only agree with what you say about the need for war.”

  Zerafin laughed. “You see, sister? The purest of truths can be found in the young.”

  Roakore climbed the mountain pass he had traversed so many times before. The memory of his many weeks alone patrolling this very face flashed through his mind. He had time alone to ponder, to relive that last battle over and over again. The fall of his brothers, of his father, the words upon his father’s bloody lips sang to him now in the spring wind. Finally, after twenty long years, the time had come for he and his dwarves to take back what was rightfully theirs. The spirit of his father would be released and take its place within the Hall of Kings.

  He came to the same door he and Whill and Abram had entered not a month ago, this time to bring word to his people that the time had come. The time for redemption was upon them. The time for war was near.

  Zerafin sat opposite Whill in the garden in silence for a time unknown to Whill. Whill used the time to do as he’d been instructed, to meditate. But he also used his new mind-sight to look for the gem that lay within Zerafin. He saw the many rings teeming with energy upon the elf, the bracelets of power, the belt with its many gemstones of energy, the very studs upon his ears. But he could not detect any gemstone embedded beneath the flesh.

  “I know what you seek,” said Zerafin. Whill opened his eyes to find the elf staring at him. Whill feared he had offended him.

  “Relax,” said Zerafin. “I would be more insulted if you hadn’t been using your new abilities. The truth is that you cannot find my gem because of the enchantments I have put upon it. You will learn such enchantments when it is time. Each elf, upon coming of age, has his gemstone embedded in a place of his choosing, a place that only he or she knows of. But first a month must be spent enchanting the object with an energy command, words to hide it from prying eyes. It should weaken your opponent to the brink of exhaustion to find your inner gemstone, therefore ensuring your own victory.”

  He rose. “As is the way of our Elders, so is our way. One should not have a single teacher but many. Avriel will continue where I have left off while we are in Eldalon.” He gave a small bow and quietly left the gardens.

  Whill did not know what to do, what Zerafin meant. Was Avriel coming now to continue his teachings? He did not move, waiting, and meditated as he had been taught. He let his mind be at ease, his body become still and focused upon itself and all around him.

  Some time had passed when he came back to the world, revitalized and alert. He could sense something, a presence. He recognized it at once, though he knew not how. It was Avriel. He stood and surveyed the garden but saw nothing.

  Suddenly a stone came hurtling out of nowhere and struck him in the forehead, drawing blood. Then came a voice he knew, but not in any form he had thus heard. She laughed like a child playing a prank, and then another stone stuck him in the hand. Whill looked wildly from one end of the garden to the other, rubbing his forehead. Another stone came, too fast to duck, and struck him in the shoulder, and then another in the chest, and yet another on the back of his head. Whill drew his sword, fuming. This time five stones stuck him hard enough to break his arm. He dropped his sword and spun about. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Avriel chuckled. “Do you wish for the rocks not to strike you?”

  Another stone hit Whill right between the eyes and he fell to the ground. “Of course I wish the bloody stones not to hit me!”

  “Then use what you have learned from my brother and stop them, Whill of Agora!”

  Two more rocks came hurtling at Whill as he stood. Instantly he used his mind-sight. The world of color before him fell like a curtain as the world of energy rushed forth. He saw the stones coming at him clearly, shimmering like diamonds with the residual energy Avriel used to propel them. Whill lifted his hand and produced a globe of energy that (to his astonishment) surrounded him. He did not know how nor why, but he did not care; he simply wanted the rocks to stop striking him. The stones struck the energy wall and fell to the ground. Two more followed, then four more, and finally a volley of more than a dozen stones. Each one weakened his feeble shield slightly. Then the barrage stopped and Avriel appeared.

  Whill had never before seen her with his mind-sight, as he now did. She came forward slowly from behind a magnificent rose bush. She was very much like, but at the same time so different, from Zerafin’s energy form. As soon as Whill’s mind’s eye fell upon her energy form, his own energy shield faltered and diminished. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. Radiant pulses of pristine white and silver light pulsed and danced about and from her. She glowed from within like a sun, the core being the purest and most radiant light Whill had ever witnessed.

  A rock stuck his forehead.

  He was knocked unconscious for a moment. The next thing he knew, Avriel’s sweet breath was lightly teasing his neck. A blue light surrounded him and healed his many small wounds. Her breath moved to his ear as his vision came into focus. “You have just seen me as no one ever has in my many years of life. What you have witnessed is reserved solely for the mind’s eye of one who is loved by the observer.”

  They locked eyes, their lips as close as could be without touching, and there she lingered. Whill was paralyzed. His heart screamed for action yet his mind bade him wait, for he had a feeling that what was being shared at this moment could not be enhanced by anything, even a kiss.

  Avriel retreated and sat across from Whill as Zerafin had done. He shook his head and breathed deeply. What spell had come over him? He took up the meditation pose. For many minutes they did not speak but simply stared, unblinking, unyielding. Finally that sweet melodic voice, so much like a symphony to him, spoke, not with words but within his mind.

  You have learned well the ways of Orna Catorna. You have shown an aptitude for not only that which you have learned, but that which you have yet to learn. This, I must say, is unheard of within the world of my people. My brother suspects that this alone is the reason for my love for you, and he alone should know me so well. But I do not know and do not care for the reasons I have read in not only elven scripts, but also that of human and dwarf. I should not tarry with the reasoning, for when it comes to love it seems there is none. At least, none that apply to logical thought.

  Whill listened intently, exuberantly, exhilarated by this sudden admission of Avriel’s love. But he also simply listened.

  You must understand, Whill, that the feelings I have for you, and those which I know you hold for me, are dangerous ones. I have been warned so; history teaches about such matters. We have a pressing duty before us, one that eclipses what we feel and want and need. We have a duty to do what we can for this cause, first and foremost, and to the death. We must not be hasty in our pursuit of love, but mindful and steady in the pursuit of the cause we serve.

  A smile crept onto her face, and a single tear hung but did not drop from her eye. Blessed will be the day when we can rightfully declare our love aloud. Until that day, when the Draggard no longer leave their stain upon our shores, and the curses of the Dark elves are but a distant memory, we shall remain silent in our hearts’ desire, and strong in our resolve.

  Then until that day, Whill told her, know what I feel now. That since the first time I saw you in that feverish dream, since the first hint of your scent left my mind, since the first sounds of your beautiful voice filled my ears, I have loved you.

  Avriel smiled in such a girlish way that Whill for a moment doubted her centuries of life.

  And I you, Whill. And I you.

 
; Avriel held her head high and looked to the heavens. Whatever mental bond there had been was broken.

  “It is for those reasons, my duty included, that I present you with this. I know you will object, but it must be done for the good of the cause. This I foresee.”

  Avriel then untied her blouse and let it fall upon her arms. Her naked breasts heaved with her every breath and shone in the sunlight. Whill watched in dumbfounded awe as the skin above her right breast heaved and finally broke as a radiant red gem floated from the wound. This, he knew to his sudden horror, was her inner gem. The gem floated between them as Avriel’s wound healed and she retied her blouse. A bubble of water floated from the nearby garden stream and encapsulated the gem, washing it of Avriel’s blood. The gem then pulsed with a radiance that had before been hidden, even in its previous beauty. Before Whill could protest, Avriel spoke.

  “This gem was presented to me by my seventh-great-grandmother, who was a member of Elladrindellia’s Elder Council, before the fall. She and my other grandmothers had been storing their energy in it for twenty years since my birth. Such a gift is bestowed upon all elf children upon their coming of age. And I now present it to you.”

  Whill began to protest once again but was silenced by Avriel’s mind voice. If you love me, if what you feel is true, then do not argue this with me. It would be seen as the greatest insult.

  He nodded his reluctant agreement. Then she produced a dagger. “Choose the placement,” she said.

  Whill pondered the situation for a moment, and realizing he would not win the fight, obliged. He tore his shirt to expose his chest and pointed above his heart.

  Aviel raised the dagger to his skin. Deep the blade went, but it was followed by a constant blue light that swallowed any pain Whill might have felt. The gem floated to the wound and found its new home within Whill’s chest.

  “The same enchantments I once put on it will hide it from your enemies,” she explained. “I only ask that you use its power in only the most dire of situations, and be wary of its power.”

  “I promise.”

  From high above, Zerafin turned from the window.

  Avriel, my dear sister, what have you done?

  Whill was surprised to enter his room and find Tarren and Abram there, Tarren in his cadet uniform, which was clean and pressed, blue and purple.

  “Well!” said Whill. “You look as ready as I imagine any new recruit has ever been.”

  Tarren beamed. “I am, sir.”

  “I do not doubt that you will make a fine soldier when your time comes. Though I hope you will never be needed in the war we face this day.” Tarren’s shoulders drooped and he scowled. “Do not misunderstand me, son. I only hope that this terrible business is done by the time you become a man ready for combat.”

  Tarren puffed out his chest. “I am ready now!”

  Whill knelt to Tarren’s level. “Tarren, do not hasten into battle with revenge in your heart, for it has been shown through the ages that this is surely the way to one’s own defeat. Be ready, be prepared, train hard, but do so with the intention of protecting the innocent, not exacting your own vengeance. Those who did you wrong are dead, by my and Abram’s blade. That business is done.”

  Tarren managed a half-smile. “Yes, sir.”

  Tarren had gone to his first day of training, a brutal and dangerous affair within the Eldalon Army, Whill knew. But he was glad of it nonetheless.

  “I have informed the king that I wish Tarren to be schooled intensively throughout his years in the academy. His thirst for knowledge will go beyond the sword, I do not doubt, as will his compulsion to right the wrongs of this world.”

  “Hmph. I wish him good luck in that endeavor.” Abram lit his pipe and looked out onto the sunset upon the horizon. “I wonder, Whill, did your own words spark any familiarity within you this day?”

  “What words?”

  “Your words to Tarren.”

  Whill sat upon a heavily cushioned chair. “Ah, that. Well, Abram, my father’s killer remains at large at the moment and being that he is the one who must be slain to ensure victory, it seems that I am left with a most monumental situation. For that which my sense of vengeance deems necessary is that which the cause requires also.”

  Abram chuckled at Whill’s cleverness. “Yes, my friend.” Smoke from his pipe encircled his body, causing a strange effect of light in the sunset. “You know well the difference between the compulsion of emotions and of duty. I beg you forget them not in this matter, and, I must say, in that of Avriel.”

  “I shall not soon forget, sir,” Whill said.

  Roakore burst into his soldiers’ training room, sweat dripping from his brow, a wild look in his eye. At his entrance the shout went out: “The king returns! Roakore has returned!”

  The proclamation echoed throughout the hall of over two thousand fighting soldiers and all came to a sudden halt. Roakore gasped and put his hand upon the nearest dwarf for support as he caught his breath. Only a moment passed before he spoke.

  “Me friends, me sons, me brothers, me great warriors, the time has come. I come from Eldalon with the word o’ King Mathus. We and the humans, and even the elves, shall fall upon the shores o’ Isladon. There we shall liberate the people and fight the Draggard scourge. We’ll be takin back the mountains o’ our fathers. We shall finally be knowin redemption!”

  The hall erupted into a frenzy of cheers that seemed to test the very structural integrity of the mountain itself. Roakore raised his arms for silence.

  “Yer training is done. Go home, love yer wives, spend time with yer children, do what ye will. Fer the next time ye raise yer weapons in combat, it’ll be against the hell-born Draggard bastards. We leave for battle within the week!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Drums of War

  The time had come. Word had arrived from Ky’Dren: the dwarf armies of both Ky’Dren and Helgar would be poised to strike at sunrise two days hence. The elven army of Elladrindellia had set sail a week prior and were already among those ships that waited within the Eldalon harbor.

  As promised, Freston and his sons were at the docks at sunrise with Whill’s ship. He greeted Whill and gestured to the vessel with pride. “It is my pleasure to give to you Celestra,” he said.

  Whill was in awe, as had been many men who had looked upon the ship that morning. She was beautiful. Abram patted Whill on the shoulder and simply laughed, at a loss for words.

  The day was mild, the sun shone through thin clouds, and on the air floated the Eldalon farewell song. The elves had arrived, as had Rhunis. It was time to depart.

  With goodbyes said, and Whill’s great ship turning from the harbor to face the endless ocean, he finally got a look at the full scope of the fleet that would carry the army to foreign shores. Though the sight of his allied ships should have given him solace, there had been a foreboding in his heart since his vision of the coming battle. So vivid had it been that he could still remember the smell of burnt earth and flesh. He knew logic dictated that he should have no part of such a war, so important was he to the grand scheme. But another part of his mind urged him to go. Why, he could not explain; it was like a name in smoke, a face in the blowing leaves.

  He looked at Avriel. The sight of her, with the sunlight upon her beautiful face, for a moment made his stomach fall like the first time he had ever sailed. Then Avriel came into his mind. He had noticed the difference; the feelings he got when Avriel and Zerafin had spoken in his mind had been different. His stomach fell again as he seemed to fly like smoke through an open window into her mind. For a brief moment he could access every memory, explore every feeling and fantasy, hear every thought, and the thoughts behind every thought. He felt the feelings attached to the memories and thought. He could have plumbed the depths forever but did not have time to, so brief was the experience, for as soon as his mind had gone to hers, it became scared, and in its fear it thought urgently of itself. So when Whill’s mind entered Avriel’s, he thought of himse
lf through her mind, and the thought of himself through her mind was not a thought at all but a feeling. He felt love, as deep and intense as the sea upon which they floated.

  He blinked and was himself again-the sea breeze on his face, the sun at the bow, and everyone staring at him.

  “What’d you do this time, Whill?” asked Abram with a smirk.

  “It seems Whill has just had his first attempt at mind-sharing,” said Avriel.

  “It was an accident, I wasn’t trying to. It just happened…”

  “We find that these things first happen when one is not trying,” Zerafin said. “Which is why much of the training can have disastrous results.”

  Avriel chuckled. “You mean like when you were first training, brother, and you were first learning to move things with your mind?”

  Zerafin looked to the heavens with a laugh. “Not that story.”

  Rhunis egged her on. “Ha! Tell it me, lady, what did he do?”

  “When Zerafin was first learning to move objects with his mind, he couldn’t get the image of tomatoes pelting monks out of his head. No monk within my brother’s sight was safe for a month. One would come walking through the village pondering the song of the birds and splat, out of the nearest home or garden would come a tomato.”

  The men bent over with laughter. “I had to have a trainer near me at all times for a month to counter my skills,” Zerafin admitted.

  Whill was relieved that the subject had been diverted. Even as he laughed with the others, he enjoyed a private happiness, for he had seen what he could never otherwise have known for certain or fully. He knew how Avriel really felt about him.

  Roakore couldn’t help but smile. Before him, many miles away, lay his mountain home, awaiting his return, and, he also knew, his father’s spirit. Behind him walked two thousand of the finest dwarf soldiers this land had ever seen, their sole purpose for living for the last twenty years having been preparation for this moment. And their sole purpose in dying would be victory. Each and every one was a master of his weapon. Muscles bulged from years of mining, hands were strong on their hilts from years of training, minds were bent and eyes set on one thing.