Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  Roakore’s men crashed into the Draggard army, which consisted of legions stretching all the way back to the beaches. The mountain had been emptied. They had been too late, Roakore realized. Hundreds of thousands of Draggard had spread out into the world. Many stayed and fought, but many more had gone in all directions, a dark scaled plague let loose into the world.

  My grandchildren may not see the end of this war, Roakore thought.

  Zerafin, Rhunis, and Abram led the charge through the thousands of Draggard. They were less than two miles from the mountain. Zerafin held his sword high, and from it in all directions emanated the purest, brightest light. The Draggard cringed and yelped as the beams fell upon them. None could withstand the awesome, piercing light.

  Eadon strode up to Whill and looked him dead in the eye. Whill saw that around the black pools of Eadon’s eyes was a brilliant green, as if they were emerald specks. Within those orbs he also saw many millenia of life, knowledge, power. If Whill could have made a sound he would have whimpered, so humbled was he in the presence of the ancient Eadon. He felt a searing pain shoot through his head, as if ice-cold fingernails were scratching at his very brain. Depression, despair, and darkness filled his soul. Eadon leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

  “The battle you wage with me, child, will not be fought with muscle nor blade. You see, your mind is the battlefield. I can take your very sanity if I choose-if you choose. Resist me and I will show you pain beyond measure, beyond reason, beyond sanity. Follow me and you may find enlightenment.”

  With Eadon’s last word the pain vanished and was replaced with a mental pleasure just as intense. His body shook with spasms as his very skin, hair, and insides jolted in rapture. His mind was filled with energy, pleasure, hope, and willpower. Then Eadon released him. Whill caught his breath and raised his head. The elf lifted his hand, and in his palm sat a beautiful, swirling ball of light. Whill was mesmerized as he watched.

  “Did you think her dead?”

  Her? Whom did he speak of, what riddle was this? Then his breath shuddered. “What have you done?”

  Eadon pocketed the swirling ball. “I have simply evened the scales. You have something I want, and now I have something-or should I say someone-you want.”

  “Avriel? It isn’t possible! What have you done?”

  “Her body is alive, though it is but an empty shell. You really should thank me, Whill. She meant to die with that spell. A waste, really. She did have such a way about her walk, did she not?”

  Whill seethed, He wanted nothing more than to bathe in the blood of his enemy. His helplessness only fueled his rage. “I don’t believe you!”

  Eadon laughed. “You will soon enough-that is, if I allow you to see within the orb. But if you defy me you will see firsthand as I transfer your beloved’s soul into a Draggard, or better yet, a Draggard queen. Tell me, how do you think Avriel would like that existence? She, an elf princess, birthing my army.”

  What Eadon had said was repulsive, unimaginable, but, Whill knew, possible for this sick being. He had to do what he must to save Avriel’s soul. He hung his head in defeat.

  “I will do what you ask of me.”

  “Fret not, my friend, I repay loyalty and service. I am not such a monster as you think. Say the word and your parents’ murderer will die this day.”

  With his elf sight, Zerafin told Abram and Rhunis, he saw clearly the battle at the mouth of the mountain, watched as Whill and Eadon mounted the dragons and flew into the sky. He saw also the dwarves fighting through the mass of Draggard.

  “Eadon has taken Whill. The boy cannot resist one such as he-few can. He is lost to us.”

  Abram’s heart stopped cold for many beats as he registered Zerafin’s words. This was all wrong-this was not part of the plan. Surely it hadn’t been foreseen by Adimorda.

  “I’m sorry” was all he could say, all he could think.

  As they came to the mountain they spotted Roakore’s men fighting a mass of Draggard. Zerafin steered them towards the dwarves. Whill was gone, Avriel was lost to them, but a war still needed warriors. It was time to fight.

  Roakore saw too as Eadon and Whill mounted the dragons and flew off into the morning sky. The old dwarf knew better than to think him a traitor; he knew all too well the great power of the Dark elves, and he knew Whill’s peril.

  “May the gods be with you lad,” he said with a tear in his eye.

  His heart quickened as he saw the approach of Abram, Zerafin, and Rhunis, and the many skilled elf warriors. “Allies arrive, elves and men. Treat them as brethren, me boys! They fight with us against the Draggard.”

  A cheer erupted around Roakore. This would be a day to remember, he thought.

  Whill flew on the back of the red dragon as it followed Eadon and the eagle dragon through the sky, to what destination he did not know. Say the word and your parents’ murderer will die by your sword this day. Eadon’s words echoed in Whill’s mind. He was doomed and he knew it. The journey to Elladrindellia had turned into a nightmare. Rather than traveling to the elven land with Avriel and the others, he had been caught, and they killed. He lost a bit of sanity when he thought about it. One good thing would come of this: he would kill his uncle the traitor. That was all that Whill let himself think about, for the other thoughts haunting the dark corners of his mind were much too painful.

  They flew well into the afternoon. Whill knew now their destination: they were headed in the direction of his family’s castle, the center of the Uthen-Arden empire. The home he had never seen. Home. That word had little meaning for Whill. His home had been taken from him, his family, his kingdom-all of it taken. Addakon would pay.

  The eagle dragon led them to the northern tower of a great castle. So immense was it that the dragons themselves were dwarfed in its presence. They landed in the tower with ample room. Eadon dismounted as two robed figures approached.

  “See to it that the red dragon-Zhola, is it not? — see to it that Zhola is given proper lodging befitting a guest. Great dragon, I trust that you will find everything as comfortable as can be managed. You shall have a bull to eat, you must be famished after such a long flight.” Zhola growled and Eadon smirked. “I trust that was your stomach, my friend, because you would be ill-advised to refuse my will.”

  Whill dismounted, and Zhola and the eagle dragon were led down a great winding ramp. Without a word Eadon turned and exited down a hall to his right. Whill followed.

  Eadon stopped to face him. “You seek the blood of your parents’ murderer, do you not? What have you imagined doing to him?” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Your rage is that which even one as old as I rarely see. It pulses from you. To my mind-sight it is a supernova of energy. Dark energy.” They went on to a torchlit room.

  Whill barely heard Eadon, so focused was he on the face of his uncle, his father’s twin. The face of his father. But he did register the words “dark energy,” and the context thereof.

  Into the room he went, as if floating upon a dream cloud. Time slowed as Eadon stepped aside to reveal the figure before them.

  Roakore’s men roared triumphantly as the elves’ flaming arrows cut into the backs of the retreating Draggard. To be a Draggard upon that shore that day meant doom. The battle had raged into the afternoon and evening, and the casualties for all armies had been devastating. Of the thousands of dwarves, fewer than five hundred remained, and those were mostly Roakore’s hardiest men. Of the Eldalonian army, only five battalions of fifty still breathed. The elves had lost many to the Dark elf force of seven warriors. Many dwarves wondered at the battle they had witnessed of the elves, and most shuddered at the memory of the awesome power. Lightning had been pulled from the sky, tornadoes had tossed hundreds of Draggard miles into the air, the ground itself had pulsed and fought as a mammoth monster of dirt and stone. Trees had been torn from their roots and rained down on the battle. Living flames had devoured hundreds. The dwarves had witnessed the true power of gods that day.

  In
the end it was Zerafin who had claimed the final Dark elf kill with a stone monster from the very side of the mountain. It pounded the kneeling Dark elf into the ground, its boulder fists hammering the elf’s protective energy shield. With a final ground-shaking blast, the stone behemoth punched through the earth up to his shoulder and froze, and there it stayed, and all knew that the Dark elf was dead.

  At the end of it all Roakore stood with Abram, Rhunis, and Zerafin, staring out over the bloody battle-field. They awaited reports from their respective commanders. One such commander, a dwarf, ran up to them and slammed his chest.

  “Me king. Our scouts hear tell that the beasts that retreated south have been hunted down an’ slain.” He paused. “The Draggard queen…”

  Roakore and the others looked on expectantly. “Well? Out with it, laddie!”

  The dwarf straightened. “We have found her, Sire, in the lowest reaches o’ the mountain.”

  “Alive?” The dwarf nodded. “Then together let us end this bloody battle and call the day a victory. If you will, I would have ye accompany us in this last fight. Ye have all earned it.”

  Zerafin looked to the mountain. “A Draggard queen is not to be underestimated. They are not the mindless beasts you might think. They are highly intelligent, they speak, and they are skilled in the ways of the Dark arts. You must allow the elves to deal with her, my good dwarf.”

  Roakore stumbled over his words. “Let the elves handle it-the elves! If you had a chance to take back yer home land, would ye let the dwarves take care of it? No, my good elf, you would not! Am I to rob me fellows o’ the chance to take back their own mountain with their own might?” He slammed his axe hilt onto a large stone at his feet. It shattered into pieces.

  Zerafin did not speak, he simply sighed. Abram, for once, did not offer his thoughts, for they were with Whill. It was Rhunis who spoke.

  “Let us fight together in this venture, as you said, Roakore. The mountain has been taken back, your father’s soul freed.” Roakore’s eyes lit up at the recognition of his father’s soul’s fate. “Let our three races come together as one, as we did on this battlefield. Together we must stand.”

  “Whill would want it that way,” Abram said, head still bent as he stood apart from them.

  Zerafin nodded. “As would Avriel.”

  Roakore sighed and smiled. “As do I, then, as do I.”

  The four clasped shoulders.

  “But,” said Roakore, “the killing blows will be dealt by dwarves.”

  “Why? Why did you kill your own brother for this…this….” Whill motioned to Eadon with a weak hand. “This madman!”

  Addakon stepped forward into the torchlight, a long red cloak dragging behind him. His face, the face of his twin brother, was revealed. Whill sucked in his breath. This face, those eyes, that brown hair-Whill had seen it all before. He had seen it in a dream when he had been but seven, one of the many dreams of his parents. But his first dream of them had been real. It seemed that his powers had revealed themselves as early as that.

  Addakon spoke. “Why do we do anything, ultimately?”

  Whill waited. He was not about to participate in some lesson with this man. Addakon saw this in Whill’s face.

  “For power!” Addakon made a fist. “Everything we do is for power. I have learned that the quest for control, be it over nature, each other, death, or others, is always fueled by a need for power.”

  Whill shook his head. “No, not everything.” This time Addakon waited. “We do not love for power.”

  Addakon smiled, but his voice revealed his malice. “Do we not? Do we not feel power over those we love? Do we not love the powerful?”

  “Was it worth it, Addakon? Your betrayal, your tainted soul? Have you attained the great power you sought?”

  “I have attained more power than any human before me.”

  “You both know of the prophecy, I assume,” Whill said.

  Addakon lowered his eyes and quickly raised them again. Whill saw a spark of doubt on his smug face.

  “It is written that I will find the sword and destroy you, Eadon. This is written by the greatest seer that ever lived. This you cannot change.” Whill dared to say.

  Eadon shrugged lazily. “I could kill you with a thought.”

  “But you have not, and I know you will not, because you didn’t in Addimorda’s vision.” Whill’s mind raced. He believed he was right, he believed all of it. Somehow in this, his darkest hour, his moment of revenge, he believed for the first time that he really was the chosen one. That meant he would not die here tonight.

  Addakon began to pace. “The blade of Adimorda cannot be wielded by an elf. But we can wield it, Whill, and so could your father. And after I kill you, only I will be able to wield the great power within the blade.”

  “But you will not kill me. You cannot. For it has been written.”

  Addakon unsheathed his sword but did not strike. “You believe it, don’t you?” Whill only smiled. “So do you.” He eyed Addakon up and down. “You fear me.” Addakon said nothing. Then Whill looked into Eadon’s unchanging eyes. “But you do not.”

  Addakon erupted. “I do not fear you, boy! I will finish what I started twenty years ago this night. You are not the chosen one.”

  Eadon smiled. “Yes, he is.”

  Whill unsheathed his sword but did not attack. He could feel the power within, and the energy radiating from Avriel’s heartstone. It coursed through his body faster than his blood. He believed it all. He had been named by Adimorda, he alone. He would kill Addakon this night, and later, with the great sword, Eadon.

  Addakon raised his hand and a red tendril shot towards Whill. Whill raised his own hand and blue tendrils of healing energy shot forth, meeting the red. Sparks lit the room like lightning as the two powers collided. Whill did not know how he was doing it, somehow he just knew what to do. Something had been awakened in him, something that had been slumbering for quite some time. Addakon screamed and sent a huge blast through the red tendrils. The blue ones were devoured and Whill was hit with a gut-wracking blow of pure pain. He hit the floor and from there extended his hand once again. From it came a blast of energy directed at Addakon. Addakon redirected it to a bookshelf, which exploded as if hit by a tornado.

  Whill had risen even as the blast left him, and brought his sword down on Addakon.

  It took the army nearly two hours to reach the deep lair of the Draggard queen. They entered the ancient caverns of Baz’klon. At the bottom of a stair they encountered dozens of crudely built stables filled with cows, pigs, sheep, goats, and albilos, no doubt food for the great queen. Many wounded dwarves and more than a few dead ones littered the wide hall leading to the chamber.

  An elf maiden bent to see to one. Lunara, young even by human standards, was not as seasoned as the other elves, and had less tolerance for the suffering of others. She was still Ullestranna, or innocent, in the eyes of her people. It was an unspoken fact that over many years, even centuries of life, elves had to harden themselves to the pains of the world. Many elves did not reach an age of thousands of years, though they had the means; indeed, most did not live to see a millenium. They did not take their own lives, but they stopped prolonging them. Many also went into the unknown without fear, for they achieved wisdom beyond the grasp of any human, or dwarf, for that matter.

  “What is your name, good dwarf?” she asked.

  The dwarf, choking on blood and with closed eyes, answered, “I be Holdagozz, son o’ Holdagar. Who asks, good lady…?” He stopped mid-sentence and looked wide-eyed at Lunara. “I be dead then, and you be me godly escort to the Mountain o’ the Gods, for never on Agora have I seen anythin’ so beautiful.” He cleared his throat. “That is-have I made it into the Hall o’ the Gods?”

  Lunara smiled. “No, you have not, Holdagozz, but nor are you dead.” Holdagozz frowned, and so did Lunara. “But I’m afraid you soon will be.” She looked at his chest, where two Draggard tails protruded from his armor.

&n
bsp; “Bah this? This ain’t nothing.” Holdagozz burst into a coughing fit, and his gloved hand came away soaked in blood. He wiped his hand on his short cloak. “This is it, then. I go to me gods. Soon my deeds will be read.” He coughed again briefly and looked at his war hammer, Zlynock, forged by his great-great-grandfather seven hundred years before.

  “Have I done enough?” he asked Lunara, grasping frantically at her sleeve.

  “That is for your gods to answer, friend.” She looked around slyly. “Would you like to do more?”

  Holdagozz ignored the blood on his lips. “I would. But I cannot.”

  Lunara knelt beside him. “I am young, even for an elf. But we all have special gifts, things we are naturally better at than most. For some it is listening to the wind, or talking with birds; for others it is forging weapons or divining the universe. My gift is in healing. If you would allow me…”

  “Witchery! Black crafts!” yelled Holdagozz.

  Roakore pushed his way to the dying dwarf and elf lady. He addressed Lunara. “Is he demented? What is it?”

  “No, his wits are with him-well, some. I simply offered to heal his wounds.”

  An elf commander stepped forward. “You cannot heal every dying person you meet in war, Lunara. Your energy is priceless in times such as these.”

  Roakore turned to the tall Elf. “An’ what?” Roakore demanded. “Yer thinking dirty dwarves ain’t for healin’-waste o’ energy, eh?” He stepped so close that his belly bumped the elf’s thighs.

  Zerafin put a hand on each of their chests. “Stop this, please. I apologize for Shief, he must not know to whom he speaks. The dwarves in Roakore’s army are the most skilled warriors to ever come out of the stone. It would be a valuable investment into the future of this war to save any of them. I give my blessing on any healing.”