Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings

by Michael Ploof

  “What do you know of the whereabouts of the sword Adromida?” Dirk asked.

  The drunken man cowed, still under the spell of the drugged rag. “We do not know the whereabouts of the sword but that of the Red Dragon, the ancient keeper of the sword.”

  Dirk’s eyes gleamed with the unseen moonlight. “Where is he?”

  The drunken man bowed to the floor, thinking death would answer his words.

  “I do not know. A few select brothers know half the story, and half of those know more and so on, but I ain’t but a thirteenth-degree brother. Only the thirty-third-degree brothers know all, and there are but seven of them at a time.”

  He laughed at Dirk, not caring anymore, knowing his life was gone with the words he had been forced to speak. “You caught yourself a tadpole, sir; you need to be catching bigger fish if you are to fill your big appetite for trouble.”

  The man laughed manically after Dirk as he strode away, and Dirk could hear his laughter for three blocks, until the explosives set the building aflame in an instant. The man had given information that would see him dead anyway, and Dirk needed to make a statement, a little introduction of himself to the Brotherhood of the Red Dragon. What better way than to kill a thirteenth-level brother? He would climb the levels one by one and get to the top, and then he would find the Red Dragon, and through it, obtain that which tilted the scales in the coming power struggle. He would side with the winner; better yet, the winner would side with him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A People Divided

  Abram burst through the balcony doors. Annoyed, he packed his pipe and lit it with an Elven fire stone. Rhunis came and stood next to him, more annoyed and just as fatigued by the last three days’ politics. They had been round and round every topic and had gotten nowhere since the meeting had begun. In attendance were Abram and Rhunis; King Mathus of Eldalon; Arkthar, son of the fallen Fenious, and newly made king of Isladon, only twenty-two but tall and strong for his age; the Dwarf kings, Ky’Ell of the mountain kingdom Ky’Dren, which separated Eldalon from the rest of Agora, and King Du’Krell of the Elgar Mountains, the largest and richest Dwarf mountain kingdom—though all Dwarves conceded that Dy’Kore was and always would be the home of all Dwarves. Representing the Dwarves of the rebuilding kingdom of Ro’Sar or the Ebony Mountains was one of Roakore’s sons, Wrendar. The Elves had no representative, although it was accepted that Abram would know their mind on most topics and decisions.

  The Elves had not shared anything with the human kingdoms or the Dwarves, for fear that spies would know their mind. The Dark Elf Eadon had intercepted the fleet that had landed upon the shores of Isladon; he had laid in wait, and it had been disastrous. He and his Dragon-Hawk had laid waste to ten ships alone. There had been one or many spies during the last endeavor, so now the Elven policy was that they would not speak openly about the movements or plans of the Elven forces, but they would assist, with great force, any military action by either humans or Dwarves against Eadon and the Draggard.

  The mediator of the meeting was an elder from the small island nation of Eldon. He was a blind man of ninety-seven, but he had a mind sharper than a Dwarven axe. He was benign in all things, simply keeping order to the meeting and maintaining a ruling formed of pure logic. His name was Fracco.

  In the last six months since the battle for the reclamation of the Ro’Sar Mountains, where Elves, humans, and Dwarves had fought together and won, there had been many battles. Though they had won the day, many thousands of Draggard had escaped, and they had plagued all the lands of Agora ever since.

  Entire towns were destroyed, seemingly at random, in all the human kingdoms. The bounty for a single Draggard head was more than fifty pieces of silver, enough to feed most families for years. So far, ten thousand Draggard heads had been taken, but many remained.

  The Draggard Wars had dragged on for decades, and there had been countless battles, mostly upon the eastern seas or the fortress island of Fendora. Fendora had been lost and reclaimed half a dozen times. Always the Draggard came in waves and from only the east, until the weeks before the fall of the Ro’Sar Kingdom twenty years before. Until the invasion of Ro’Sar, the Dwarves had nothing to do with the Draggard Wars unless they were protecting their allies’ borders or their own.

  All of that had changed since the taking of Ro’Sar twenty years ago. Now, with the help of Abram and Rhunis and the legacy of Whill of Agora, a hero to all peoples and many Dwarves and Elves alike, the three races were beginning to work together, albeit slowly.

  The lines in the sand had been made and the enemy defined. Sides had been taken, oaths pledged. Humans and Elves and Dwarves had forgotten all their differences for the time being, be they land claims, gold and silver rates, trade disputes or the like. The kingdoms of Isladon, Eldalon, Ky’Dren, Ro’Sar, Helgar, and Elladrindellia had declared war on the Dark Elves, the Draggard, and the leaders, not the people, of Shierdon and the Uthen-Arden Empire.

  The human kingdoms of Shierdon and Uthen-Arden had been plagued with massive civil war for the last six months, during which neither kingdom did anything to aid in the fight against the Draggard, and both were rumored to be secretly ruled by the Dark Elves. Though it was true that Eadon, through his generals and minions, had infiltrated and now controlled Shierdon and Uthen-Arden, it was not always easy to decipher the truth of the outside world if you lived in a sheltered community.

  Many good people, whether a fisherman of Shierna, a blacksmith in the small town of Brinn, a barber in Del-Oradon or any one of the hundreds of thousands of citizens and patriots of the nation, sent their sons to fight the wars of the kings—regardless of the reason behind the war. Trust in the nation’s rulers and tradition led most minds. Almost all of the soldiers of the kingdoms of Shierdon and Uther-Arden thought that they were fighting against the Draggard themselves. The Dark Elves had long ago learned how to rule humans simply, with no force at all, so easy were the humans to manipulate with plays and newspapers and song and dance.

  Eadon had recruited the most esteemed men of all human sciences, giving them great wealth and power, and had learned all there was to learn of humans, for the last fifty years. Ainamaf, the king of Shierdon had been replaced by Travvikonis, Eadon’s son and a general of three hundred years. Although he was young for a general, only five hundred and sixty, he had mastered four of the six schools of Orna Catorna, that of the Ralliad or druid and all four disciplines of the Krundar/elemental, Gnenja/warrior, and Zionar or telepaths.

  The Uthen-Arden king, Addakon, Whill’s uncle, was being impersonated easily by Eadon. Both Eadon and Ainamaf could change their appearance at will, though many Elves had achieved this feat in the past. But unlike the others, these Elves could not be detected for what they were, even with Elven mind sight.

  Propaganda campaigns ran heavily in both kingdoms. Though many rumors of the truth lingered, they were dismissed mostly as the ranting of drunkards and crazies. Any talk or publication against the kingdom’s leaders had recently been outlawed as treason, punishable by death.

  False-flag attacks were run weekly by Eadon’s Dark Elves. Draggard would attack a town with small armies of humans dressed as Eldalonian or Isladonian soldiers. In would sweep the valiant knights of Uthen-Arden or Shierdon, and every soldier and Draggard would be killed. Entire cities had been wiped out by Eadon and blamed on the Elves, Dwarves, and humans.

  To live in Uthen-Arden or Shierdon since the battle of Ro’Sar, meant to live in a world of lies and false enemies. Yet most people of Uthen-Arden considered themselves above all other nations and secretly thought that Uthen-Arden should have taken over all of Agora long ago.

  “I tire of these dragon-shit politics. The people have spoken; we must act,” said Rhunis.

  Abram blew smoke into the night wind and looked out over the city. “The people do not know the facts; most of them know less than lies. The people of Uthen-Arden think they are the ones fighting off the Draggard armies that we command.”

 
; “But we know the truth, and we must act on the people’s behalf. The royalty of this continent are not being affected; it is the people,” Rhunis growled.

  Abram chuckled. “You are preaching to the choir, friend. But I will remind you that Whill’s parents were royalty and were killed, as was Roakore’s family, the recently slain Fenious, and also the Elven king. Yes, my friend, everyone has suffered in this war.”

  Rhunis let out a breath of frustration. “Sorry, friend, my blade craves action, not talk, and my feet wish for a road with a purpose, rather than my arse on a seat and mouths yappin’.”

  “I understand. Then let us end this foolery and start a damned offensive.”

  Abram tapped out his pipe and entered the great room.

  The room settled, and the many diplomats resumed their slumped posture. Abram stood up and said, in a purposefully loud voice, “May I take center for a moment on behalf of every citizen within the realm of Agora?”

  Fracco listened intently to the silence and nodded. “Abram of Uthen-Arden has the floor.”

  Abram put his knuckles to the table and leaned forward slowly, with his head down and breath loud. He raised his head, and sweat trickled into his graying beard, the heat of the uncharacteristically hot night showing on his face.

  “Friends, our people are not thriving; they are threatened. And I speak also of those that believe us to be the enemy. We cannot let our own people or soldiers think that the people of Uthen-Arden are our enemies. We cannot allow the invasion of any country by any other country. We must act fast, but we must act in stealth. All-out war between countries will end in many needless deaths. It will cause bad blood for centuries after this is resolved—as it will be.”

  Fracco raised a hand, as he did often during these debates. “What is on many minds here is the thought that we cannot give ground to any army, whether Draggard or human, no matter the ignorance behind their actions.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Abram. “We will not give ground, but we must not openly invade. If we are to attack the Dark Elves, it must be through stealth and stealth alone. Their numbers are not so great that they cannot be defeated, nor is their power. Instead of entire armies fighting this war, it should be small tactical units, each with a purpose and each purpose vital. We must infiltrate the enemy and strike at the heart of the Dark Elves. They will not respond to anything less.”

  Arkthar, the newly appointed king of Isladon stood. “And how do you propose this stealth operation be performed? Are humans to try and take on Dark Elves? We are like ants to them. Did it not take the efforts of thousands of humans, Elves, and Dwarves alike to defeat the mere half dozen at the battle to take back Isladon? How many are there? Does anyone know?”

  Fracco again spoke, “Abram stated earlier that there were not as many as one would think. How many would that be, Abram? I feel the lad asks, though he spoke out of turn and without even a customary raised hand.”

  Abram nodded. “By the estimates of the Sun Elves, there could be anywhere from a thousands to hundreds of thousands. There is no way to know, unless one was to go to Drindellia and find out—if that is even where they are. And at the battle for Isladon, there were hundreds of thousands of Draggard. The fact of the matter is that Whill of Agora, the one who is said to defeat Eadon, must be found and freed!”

  There was a rustling within the room as the topic of Whill was presented yet again.

  The Dwarf king Ky’Ell stood, and his booming voice took all attention. “I be agree’n thet the lad must be found. I be believin’, as Roakore be, thet this man’s got a great part yet te be played. But, we still got te be wagein’ our wars if we are te help Whill.”

  The Dwarf king Du’Krell of the Elgar Mountains stood and spoke his peace. “I gots me more than four hunr’d miles o’mountain te be worryin’ ‘bout. Not te mention we lost us more ‘n’ a thousand te the rebuildin’ o’ the Ebony Mountains. We be surrounded by the Uthen-Arden Empire, an we got Fendora Island not far from us, which me spies tell be crawlin’ with Draggard ‘n’ Dark Elves ‘n’ all kinds o’ evil nowadays.”

  Du’Krell sat with a nod and gruff, “Hmm.” He then added, “We got enough te worry ‘bout sealin’ our borders, then worry ‘bout the humans. But we’ll give safe passage ‘n’ refuge to any.” He coughed and added in a lower voice, “…and to the Elves.”

  Speaking a little louder, he finished, “And we’ll be helpin’ ‘n any battle close te home, ye can bet.”

  Ky’Ell eyed his cousin with a raised eyebrow. “And the helpin’ with Whill ‘n’ the forces needed to infiltrate the enemy as Abram be statin’ we be needin’.”

  Du’Krell looked around at the table with shifty eyes and finally raised his chin. “The Elgar Mountain Dwarves can give no more than five hundred Dwarves te the stealthy army ‘n’ such.”

  Ky’Ell nodded to his cousin. “The Ky’Dren Dwarves pledge the same support te the peoples o’ Agora en’ the Elves alike, five hundred Dwarves te the stealthy army ‘n’ such.”

  Rhunis stood. The torchlight mixed with the twilight as the sun slowly rose and put the length of the meeting at more than thirteen hours. “So it is agreed, and it has been put to writing. Let us now move on our enemies and let the liberation of Agora begin.”

  Abram thought back on the meeting. It had taken place one week after the retaking of the Ebony Mountains and Isladon and had lasted for more than two weeks. A union had been made between the human kingdoms of Isladon and Eldalon, with the Elf nation of Elladrindellia and the three Dwarf kingdoms. Continental war had not plagued Agora for more than five hundred years. But now war was here, and Abram feared that a great many lives would be lost to misunderstanding.

  Many of the people within the kingdoms of Uthen-Arden and Shierdon believed, because of the constant propaganda on the part of Eadon, that their only ally was each other. They were led to believe that the Elves of Elladrindellia were the masters of the Draggard and that the Dark Elves did not exist at all. They were told that the humans of Eldalon and Isladon were in league with the Elves to steal their land and take their country. Many good, patriotic men were ready to send their sons to war against a false enemy, whilst being led by the true enemy. Abram was more than a little frustrated with how easily humans were misled with catchy slogans and theater and song.

  He waited at the bar of the inn for Rhunis, grumbling to himself about stupid people. Rhunis had gone out into the city of Del-Oradon, within the kingdom of Uthen-Arden. They had come here four months ago to discover the whereabouts of Whill. They discovered, through their spy network, that Whill was within the castle of Del-Oradon. The castle had once been the home of his family line; now it was his prison, and the Dark Elf Eadon was his captor. His crime—he was the one named in an ancient Elven prophecy.

  Abram did not know why Eadon did not kill Whill during the battle for Isladon and the Ebony Mountains. But he feared the worst, that Eadon had taken Whill as an apprentice. That thought gave Abram the cold chills, and he shook slightly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Falling Down

  Tarren hit the floor hard, and blood flew from his mouth. The Dwarf boy that had shield bashed him laughed, as did many of the Dwarves within Tarren’s fighting circle. Tarren got up shakily and removed himself from the battle ring. Two Dwarf boys took the center and began to duel.

  I am sick of being smacked around by these Dwarves. If I was their size and had their muscle, I could pound them all, Tarren thought as he wiped blood from his lip and watched the clumsy Dwarf boys go at it. They beat Tarren because they were bigger, but he was getting better. He did nothing but read and write and train in Dwarven combat. His preferred weapons were twin axes, hatchets really. They were light enough to wield and could be very deadly if wielded well. The problem was that Tarren did not wield them well. Though they were light by Dwarf standards, they were heavy enough to be hard to control. Tarren controlled them better than all other weapons. Recently he had been working with a staff, but he was not ready to do ba
ttle with it yet, or so Lunara said.

  He had been training with the Dwarves for the last five months, and he had taken his share of beatings. If it had not been for the Elf Lunara’s healing abilities, Tarren would be bedridden from his many breaks and cuts. He had broken both legs three times and both arms twice, along with some of his fingers and toes. Dwarves were simply tougher; they could take a punch five times as hard.

  Roakore had not liked the idea from the very beginning, but he knew in his heart that the boy had to do what the boy had to do. Tarren insisted on continuing the training, no matter the pain. Roakore knew the reasoning behind Tarren’s obsession. The lad had been kidnapped and basically killed by pirates, though he had been healed by Whill. His family had all been murdered by the same pirates when he was taken. Tarren had promised himself that he would never be helpless again, nor would those he could protect. Roakore understood the feelings; he had been fueled by them before.

  The Dwarf boy Helzendar nudged Tarren. “You gonna keep taking thet dragon shite from them stupid Elgar Dwarves?”

  “Ain’t you one o’ Roakore’s kids?” Tarren asked curiously.

  “Yeah, ‘n’ so?”

  “You Dwarves ‘r’ supposed to treat each other like the same clan. He don’t be wantin’ no sides taken between the Elgar or Ky’Dren or Ebony Dwarves,” Tarren told Helzendar matter-of-factly.

  “I ain’t sayin’ that there be nothing wrong with the Elgar Dwarves. I’m just saying them ones thet are always after ye ‘r’ stupid. Ain’t no matter they be Elgar,” Helzendar said.

  “Unity is the only way to victory and peace,” stated Tarren as he watched the duel before him unfold and end with one rather fat Dwarf boy getting the better of his opponent with an ax slam to the gut. The fallen Dwarf boy tried in vain to get a breath. He slammed his small fists against his chest, but the wind had been knocked out of him. An adult trainer lifted the boy’s belt, and the Dwarf sucked in a grateful breath.