Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings

by Michael Ploof

  There was an audible pop as Whill dislocated the man’s shoulder. Before the man could grimace in pain, Whill reversed his motion and backhanded the fighter and swept his legs out from under him. Again, he reversed his motion as his opponent fell and brought his fist slamming into the man’s belly, directly below the breastbone. The impact of the fall and the blow to the chest rendered the man breathless. Whill stumbled with fatigue and fell to the floor upon his knees.

  “Get…Up! You rotten maggot meat sack!” screamed Velkarell as he gave the warrior a kick with each word. “Fight or die.”

  The man finally caught his breath and sat up, coughing blood. After a minute, the defeated warrior stood on shaky legs and faced Whill, who still kneeled on the floor, one arm perched upon his knee, breathing deeply still.

  “This man has bested me, if I attack him, I will die,” the warrior explained between breaths. “Since I will die, I would rather die well, by the hand of the puppet master, not the puppet.”

  The man raised to his full height and squared off on Eadon and puffed his chest with pride. “If it is my fate to die here then face me like a man, Elf! Fight me like a man, if you even know what that means! We are sick of your dragon-shyte faces and your evil eyes looking upon our land like a fair maiden of youth you would like to bend over the blackberry bush!”

  Screaming, he ran forward, fists rose in righteous defiance, revolution and murder in his eyes.

  Whill watched as the warrior charged Eadon, and then the Dark Elf lord raised but a hand, and the man was no more than pieces of a man, his form was like that of sand. For three seconds, the pieces held the form of the man, but slowly they separated, and the warrior fell to the floor, with not a thud, but the splash of liquid.

  Eadon cracked the knuckles on each hand slowly and then had a good stretch, the bones in his back popping. This, to Whill, seemed not a weird show of bluster, like schoolboys that were always afraid and picked on other kids, but rather a real force of habit, a tic. Whill had noticed a few in his time with the lunatic.

  Whill could not understand what fueled this mad Elf’s mind. What insane amounts of power and nightmarish ghouls would Eadon wield, create, and let loose on this world? What could be done against such a foe? How, in his lifetime, could Whill defeat one such as Eadon, when the Elf had practiced his art, all arts, for a thousand human lifetimes? Whill began to feel sick as his eyes found the pool of unrecognizable liquid that had been the warrior.

  He threw up.

  Velkarell laughed. “You are weak, you. You have no stomach for victory?

  “No,” said Whill from the floor. “I am still human!”

  Velkarell laughed louder still. “You are human, and humans are weak.”

  Whill got to his feet and stood facing the Elf. “We may be weak, but we are fierce! We have killed dragons, Draggard, and even your kind, with no more power than that of our bodies and souls.”

  Whill spat in the Elf torturer’s face and went on. “You are a disease! Bringers of hate-filled rain, creators of doom, deceivers of the soil from which you emerged, you are bringers of death and pain and destruction!”

  Whill eyed the grinning Dark Elf with pity. His tone took on that which one would use with a child. “But you have no real power, do you? You have no power to create, only power to destroy. You hate the world for mirroring your vile, soulless selves, and you fear any afterlife for which you may have to answer for your evil. You fear death more than any human. You do not live; you run, and you hide behind power.”

  Whill’s face was but an inch from Velkarell’s as he spoke softly to the no-longer-grinning Dark Elf. “Your death will see you begging for mercy like a coward. You will never know the dignity and honor of this man that has just fallen.”

  Velkarell boiled with anger; his eyes were alight with a distant fire. His rage was a tangible thing as it filled the air between them and physically pushed Whill back a pace.

  “Your rage is impotent toward what awaits you,” Whill said. “And I promise, I will show you what waits.”

  “Shut up!” screamed the Elf. A sonic boom emanated from the Elf and blew past Whill without touching him. The blast did, however; tear a hole in the stone wall in a perfect shadowlike outline of Whill. Eadon burst into laughter and clapped his hands. Velkarell grabbed Whill by the throat and lifted him into the air, only to find his arms turning black, as if the pure darkness of the void ran through his veins. Velkarell screamed as his arm turned to dust and Whill fell to his feet. Upon landing, Whill punched the Elf so hard that the blow demolished the protective wards around the Elf’s face and broke his jaw.

  Velkarell fell back against a wall, quickly putting his face in his hand as blue tendrils of healing energy consumed his head, and a roar of agony and pain echoed throughout the room.

  Whill slumped to the floor, exhausted after using so much of his energy smashing through the Elf’s defenses. He did not care; he had caused the Dark Elf to lose face before his master, which was enough to justify so stupid a move.

  Eadon clapped even louder. “What have I taught you, Velkarell? Nothing? That my newest pupil can get through your defenses so easily without training or even a second studying the arts…”

  Eadon’s voice became truly enraged. “Have I taught you nothing?”

  Velkarell’s face emerged from his hand, the same as it had been but for the look upon it. It was a look that Whill didn’t think the Elf had worn in many, many years—humility. Velkarell let out a pent-up breath of impotent rage and turned his head in shame. “You have bestowed upon him greater gifts than you have any before him. This you have never done, master. It is unnatural that he can do what he can without training or discipline.”

  “Unnatural! Coming from the likes of you?” laughed Whill.

  “He is what he was meant to be, as are we all,” said Eadon.

  Two female Dark Elves strode into the room as if they had been beckoned, and darkness followed. They gracefully shifted into the room in unison, their black flowing dresses identical. They were the same in appearance; twins, Whill presumed, though who knew? Some, Whill knew, could change their appearance with a thought. Even worse, some could even hide their true self from mind sight. Whill had seen Travvikonis and Eadon both do it.

  Since Addakon’s death, Eadon had paraded around the castle and city as the human king. As far as anyone knew, Addakon still ruled the country of Uthen-Arden. Though it was rumored that Addakon had died at the hands of Whill and that Eadon, the Dark Elf, stood in the king’s place, no one believed such outlandish stories, and those that told them were ridiculed as conspiracy thinkers.

  The twin Dark Elves bowed to their lord, and together, they gave Velkarell a look of disgust and, in turn, gave Whill a look of lust.

  Neither one spoke. Instead, they looked to Eadon and waited.

  “Take our young friend here down to the arena; he is to be given a regimen of men of his choosing.”

  Whill looked to Eadon as the twins each gently took an arm and began to lead him out of the room. He did not resist—he couldn’t have anyway—they were like stone statues.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Shadow of the

  Arena

  Dirk stared at the giant coliseum, lost in thought. From his place near the window of the tavern, he had a clear view of the giant arena. Whill was to be executed there within the week. The new coliseum was rumored to be able to hold more than twenty-five thousand, and he did not doubt that every seat would be taken. Whill of Agora was the rumored savior of many people and a crazed terrorist to others. His execution would bring the largest crowd in history to the arena. With Whill’s death would go Dirk’s chance to acquire the greatest Elven power source ever created, and that simply would not do.

  He had to think of a way to free Whill, but how? The man of legend was being kept within the castle and would probably only be escorted out of it when time came for his execution. If so, Dirk doubted that he could free Whill from such a lair, even with his extens
ive abilities. It was a tempting feat, but Dirk had not survived this long in his field by being stupid. And trying to free a man from a Dark Elf stronghold was, indeed, stupid.

  Dirk wondered if he should simply forgo his interest in the blade and keep on as he always had. He had amassed a fortune in his years as a hired assassin and could retire today, living like a king in any city of his choosing, if it so pleased him. But a life of leisure, getting fat and wasting away the years, did not appeal to him. Wealth meant nothing if it did not bring power, and power was Dirk’s ultimate goal. He sought enough power to again find Krentz and rid the world of any foe that might bring about her vision of his death in her presence.

  With the sword I could do it. With the sword, the world would eat from my hand, and none would dare stand against me. With the sword, I could once again be with my fair Krentz.

  Dirk jumped as the waitress asked him again if he cared for another drink. He swore under his breath that the Elf maiden would indeed be the death of him and mentally chastised himself for the hundredth time for losing awareness of his surroundings at her thought.

  “Yes, another pint of wine,” he answered.

  Dirk breathed slowly, shunning the thought of Krentz from his mind and closing his eyes. He listened to the room around him, calling upon one of the gems within his earlobe to help him hear every sound within the room.

  “It ain’t got nothing to do with skill. It got everything to do with study and hard-earned callous,” a blacksmith argued to his colleague.

  Dirk extended his senses outward.

  “Best fiddler in all the lands he is. Saw him last week, I did, over at the old burnt beard,” said another man across the room.

  Dirk traveled through the room with his hearing, taking in all the conversations at once, slowly falling into a trance of awareness. It was then that he came to a whispered conversation at the far end of the room.

  “I tell ya what, if the king thinks that he is going to be able to rid himself of Whill of Agora that easily, then he’s got another thing coming,” stated a man with a gruff voice.

  “Oh yeah?” countered a weasel-voiced man. “The way I see it, if this Whill was so powerful, he wouldn’t have gotten himself caught in the first place.”

  “Beh, you know nothing, Gerld! I heard what he can do just as well as you did. He healed a baby in Sherna and single-handedly killed a hunr’d Draggard. He and his buddy there, what’s his name, Abram, done killed Cirrosa and his whole crew,” the gruff-voiced man retorted.

  “Yeah, yeah, and he pisses wine and farts opium smoke. You been listenin’ to too many drunkards and crazies, Mik. This boy didn’t do none of that.”

  “Then why is he to be executed? Eh? If the man is of myth and legend, then what be the point in the big show, huh? Use your damned head, Gerld! He is a real threat to the crown; else they wouldn’t bother with the big show.”

  “He ain’t no threat to the crown; he be their prisoner. And for good reason. I hear that he be in league with the Draggard and Dark Elves himself.”

  Mik scoffed at that statement, and Dirk heard him take a long swig from his glass. “All I know is that my brother-in-law got himself a gig with arena security, and he says that this execution ain’t gonna be no cut-and-dry affair. They are gonna give Whill a group of men, and a battle is gonna play out in that arena, and I, for one, am going to be there for it.”

  Dirk opened his eyes and looked to the arena.

  Another man piped in from another table. “I’ll wager ten silver that Whill, the traitor of men, cries like a babe when the time comes. Serves him right, siding with the Dark Elves and stinkin’ Eldalon.”

  Mik rose to his feet and pointed a finger at the eavesdropper. “Listen here, you sheep-minded follower. Where was your great king when the Draggard invaded the Ebony Mountains, eh? Where was your great king when his twin brother was murdered for the crown? Holdin’ the bloody blade, I say!”

  The man that had interrupted rose to his feet so fast his chair skidded across the floor. “Listen here, you conspiracy freak. Words like that against the king be punishable by hangin’.”

  Mik took a step toward the man. “Case in point, sir! Any king that outlaws any kind of speech be a corrupt scoundrel and no king of mine.”

  Dirk left the tavern as the fight broke out and ducked his head as the royal guard went running past him. Scenes such as that was commonplace in the last few months as the city and, indeed, the entire country teetered upon the brink of civil war. Though the propaganda machines worked tirelessly to spread lies against Whill, there were still those men and women alike that could tell lies when they heard them and saw the world for what it was. It was the masses, though, that had the vote on what was real and what was not, and, unfortunately, the masses were not always right.

  Dirk headed in the direction of one of his informants. He would have to find out the whereabouts of Whill and quick, if he was to free Whill from his doom before the week was out.

  He reached the rendezvous and found his informant waiting for him. He took a quick survey of the nearby street and surrounding buildings. He sensed no eyes upon him. The informant nodded when he saw him and walked over to Dirk.

  “So what do you have of use for me, Nick?”

  “Well, hello to you too, Dirk,” Nick responded with a fake pout.

  Dirk did not respond. He had decided that he did not like the skinny, twitchy man very much after all.

  “Straight to the point it is then, eh?” Nick asked with a twitch.

  “My money is straight to the point, is it not, Nick? Quit wasting my time.”

  “Alright, alright, there ain’t no more common courtesy anymore, there ain’t. So I been askin’ around and got me eyes looking this way and that.”

  Dirk rolled his eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

  Nick wisely got to the point. “What I hear is that this Whill character has been holed up in the castle, down in the dungeon, for more than six months. He’ll be training with the rest of the prisoners by day. And by night he is to be brought back to the castle.”

  “How good is your information?” Dirk asked.

  “Why, as good as it ever is.”

  Dirk conceded the point with a nod and handed Nick a small sack of coins and turned and walked away.

  “Alright then, be seeing you around!” Nick called after him.

  Dirk took a roundabout route back to his lodging. His mind worked out all that he had learned. It would be almost as hard to spring Whill from the stadium as it would be to get him out of the castle. The stadium would be heavily guarded with humans and Dark Elves alike. It would take a small army to break Whill free from such a place. If he was left there during the night, it would be easier, but he was being transferred out of the arena at night.

  Dirk turned down an alley and pondered the situation. Ahead he noticed three would-be ruffians taking notice of him. Their bodies stiffened as he neared, and he saw two of them lower their hands to their pockets. He toyed with the idea of letting them attack, just to clear his head with a little combat, but dismissed the idea. Instead, as he reached them, he swept his cloak to one side of his body, showing the many weapons stored there along his person.

  The young men looked to the many weapons and to Dirk’s face. They backed out of his way as he slowly shook his head, indicating that it would be the last bad choice they would ever make. The only thing to be seen under the shadow of his enchanted hood was two moonlit eyes gleaming.

  He walked on. No matter what he thought of, the idea seemed like nothing less than suicide. It then occurred to him that as he had seen the flyer about Whill, so too would Whill’s friends. Dirk had heard enough to know that Whill moved in some powerful circles. It was rumored that he had such friends as Elves and even the Dwarf king of the Ro’Sar Mountains. Whill was the grandson of King Mathus of Eldalon. Dirk knew also of the prophecy and would wager his wealth that they would be coming for Whill before his time was up. He did not need to free Whill from his
bonds; he simply had to be in the right place when Whill’s friends did. He had to get himself arrested.

  His decision made, he journeyed to one of his predetermined hiding places within the city. Into the city’s sewer system he slipped, without being seen by any but the rats. A short walk into the grime-covered tunnels brought him to his destination. He removed a series of bricks from the wall to uncover his hiding place.

  He then stripped himself of everything he wore, weapons and armor alike, until all that remained were his underclothes. He stopped and thought again for another way but found none. Once again committed to his choice, he shrugged off the empty feeling of being without his many weapons and trinkets and armor and reapplied the bricks.

  Confident that his possessions were safe, he returned once again to the street. He had gotten rid of his weapons and the like, but one thing remained that he could not be rid of. Krentz had given it to him during their time together. It was a single gem embedded into his chest. He could not call upon the energy within it at will, but it would respond to any injury he might attain. He could only hope that it would go unnoticed by the Dark Elves, for he had no way to be rid of it.

  He walked until he found his mark. There were two of them, actually, walking toward him down a fairly busy bit of street. To attack a guard of the city was punishable by death these days, and the extreme punishment made it that much more surprising an act. Dirk came in low and fast and took the first guard by surprise, sweeping his legs and landing a blow to his unarmored face before the man knew what was happening. Dirk jumped and spun on the next guard, who was busy wondering what had happened to his partner. The kick connected with the man’s armored chest and sent him back many paces.

  The guard on the ground tried to pull his sword from the ground but fumbled. Dirk landed another blow to his face with his bare foot, and blood sprayed. Dirk spun back as the other guard’s sword slashed through the air and missed his face by inches. The infuriated guard slashed again and again, and Dirk twirled out of reach.