Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings

by Michael Ploof

  The Sun Elf bowed his head to his dragon princess. “What will it be?” he asked.

  Avriel cursed her dragon tears and roared in frustration. She quickly got a hold of herself and addressed the gathering Elves. “Azzeal and I shall remain behind to aid Whill. The rest of you will expend all efforts to keep my brother alive until he reaches Elladrindellia, where you are released. Let it be known that my brother freed me in his efforts, and my fate since is my own to determine, and the outcome of such shall not fall upon his shoulders.”

  The Elves all bowed at their princess and then turned to swiftly take the dying Zerafin home. Avriel turned her back on her brother and focused upon the city.

  It was the day of Whill’s execution.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Refugees

  Jarred fell into the flames with a smile upon his face. He chuckled to himself as Roakore fell with the Draggard, hacking at it still.

  So this is how I die, thought Jarred.

  He closed his eyes and thought of his wife as the flames licked his flesh in hungry, burning anticipation of their meal. But rather than being engulfed in flame, Jarred slammed into cold stone instead.

  Confused, he felt to his sides, and his hands felt cold stone. Roakore was chanting urgently in the dark. He had caused the stone of the church’s foundation to rise up from the ground, entombing him and Jarred. Within the stone refuge, the heat did not reach, and Roakore caused it to grow high and above the roof of the burning building, like a chimney. Through this shaft, fresh air could be drawn.

  Jarred laughed as Roakore fell to the stone floor. Faint moonlight found its way down the chimney and shone on the smiling and blood-soaked grin of the powerful king of Dwarves.

  The fires died down after many hours, and the townspeople began to dig through the smoking rubble, searching for the fearless Dwarf king and their man. Soon they came to the strange stone cylinder with its far-stretching chimney. They marveled at the sight and were shaken from their reverie only by the pickax of Jarred’s father.

  “Come now, lads; help an old man.”

  Just as the men were about to lend a hand, a muffled voice came from within the stone. “Put down yer bloody tools, ye fools. I’ll not have me work be tampered with. Back away!”

  They all complied, and watched as four lines of separation appeared in the stone and the slab was forced forward to fall with a boom. Out walked the bloodied and battered pair into the smoldering morning light, Roakore aiding the limping Jarred. Cheers went up into the sky—the only happy proclamation the town had known since the first Draggard attack.

  Silverwind landed among the rubble and literally pounced upon Roakore. With a coo, she rubbed the side of her head against Roakore’s face. The Dwarf only chuckled and said, “Atta girl, fret not. Be takin’ more than a handful o’ beasties to silence me.”

  The bodies of the Draggard made a great, stinking pyre that afternoon. All but the heads were burned; those, numbering some thirty, were set on pikes in a circle around the town, as warning.

  Roakore’s and Jarred’s injuries were tended to, the king only having a few scratches and one good gash upon his leathery skin. The Dwarf counted his new stitches merrily as he took another pull from a rum bottle. “Six hundred en’ fifty!” He belched loudly and laughed at the astonished medicine man who’d sewn him. “Nearin’ a thousand I be, haha!”

  Jarred’s injuries were much more severe. He had lost an eye, and one side of his face donned four deep Draggard claw gashes. He had a broken leg and had a great number of other cuts, yet he breathed, even smiled. Roakore held the rum bottle to Jarred’s parched lips and didn’t soon set it right. He then quickly poured the bottle over the drinking man’s face. The stitches bubbled, and the man sputtered, hissed, and cursed.

  “Bah. Quit yer belly achin’. Yer alive, ain’t ye? And this’ll see to it ye don’t get no infection.”

  Jarred moved to punch Roakore, and instead, his strong hand was caught by one stronger. Roakore laughed and into that hand, gave the bottle of rum. “Finish it; you’ll be needin’ the tranquilizer.”

  Afternoon came as did a hearty meal. The people took what was left of their stores and cooked a feast. A majority of the food was prepped for the road. With winter coming and their town in ruin, their livestock and crops demolished, they had need to leave and find refuge within the closest town or city that would have them.

  Roakore dined with the townsfolk and knew their minds as he eyed the supply train forming for their sojourn. He finished his soup and, with a burp, stood. “Good people!” his voice boomed throughout the ruined town. All turned their heads to regard the king.

  “If ye would, I be proposin’ that ye seek out the eastern door o’ me mountain. Take with ye me words put to paper and mine insignia, and ye shall be welcomed into me home with open arms. I bid ye stay with me people until the spring, whence ye shall return to your town and build it yet again, more grand then before. Trade between yours and mine shall profit us both for long years to come”

  The townspeople were left speechless. Jarred’s father stepped forward and, on the people’s behalf, thanked him and accepted. Roakore only laughed and took another helping of stew.

  Night came shortly. At the center of town had been made camp; some two hundred townspeople slept in a circle. Pikes had been set up and trenches dug. A watch of thirty men stood guard over the sleepers. Tomorrow, they would head out before the sun. To the Ebony Mountains they would travel. More than a five-day journey it would be for the slow-moving train. Despite the need for the stored energy, few slept—out of fear of a return of the past week’s nightmares come to life. Indeed, none would again feel safe until they reached the mountain fortress.

  Roakore peered upon the star of the kings through faint cloud cover and was reminded of his friends. He wondered, as he often did, about Whill. He had been much saddened by the news that Avriel had been lost, in spirit if not body. He wondered if Zerafin and Abram and Rhunis were planning to intervene to stop the execution. Roakore bet that they would. And what a surprise it would be when they rescued Whill from the arena.

  They will get a show, thought Roakore as he fell into a much-needed heavy sleep.

  Before the rising of the sun, the townspeople were up and ready for their trek to the Ro’Sar Mountains. The morning was cool and the grass damp with dew. They had many injured among them—a fact that would slow their progress considerably. Roakore took note of this and went to Jarred’s wagon. He found the man stubbornly at the front of the wagon; his son sat next to him. Though he ran a high fever and his eye now donned a blood-soaked patch, he sat at the ready, reigns in hand.

  “Aye, when ye get yerself to me halls, ask for the lady Lunara. If ye can get there alive, you’ll be glad fer her help. An’ rightly so, you look like hell.”

  Jarred laughed weakly. “And you? Where does the road lead the great Roakore?”

  “I be off to help a friend. And I be late.”

  Jarred leaned close and with a sparkle in his eye, asked, “Is it this Whill of Agora that rides on song and whisper? Then the tales are true? You are his friend?”

  Roakore nodded. “Aye, he be me friend, and he be all they say o’ him. And any friend o’ mine ain’t needen’ to be sayin’ his name in whisper.”

  Jarred nodded apologetically. Roakore turned and walked away then stopped. “I’ll share me tale over some ale, when I return.”

  Jarred watched him leave. “I look forward to the day. Thank you, Roakore of the Ro’Sar Mountains!”

  Roakore walked to the waiting Silverwind and there passed Tarragon. The man’s face lit up, and Roakore squared on him.

  “Get yer people to me halls right quick. Travel through the night, and sleep the afternoon an’ so forth, till ye be safe. The moon be full, and night be as good as day. Stay out of the woods, and make haste. These lands be crawlin’ with evil of all sorts these days.”

  Tarragon took his hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you, Roakore, yo
ur kindness to my people will not soon be forgot.”

  “Aye.” Roakore nodded.

  The townspeople stopped to watch as the mighty Dwarf king of the west mounted his magnificent silver steed. He raised his great ax into the air as Silverwind opened her wings. They turned from silver to the green of the grass, as did Roakore’s feathered armor.

  “May yer legs bring ye swiftly to me doors.”

  With that, Silverwind leapt high and took to the air with powerful strokes of her wings. Her wings turned to sky blue, and together, they disappeared, making haste toward Del-Oradon. It was, Roakore realized, the day of Whill’s execution.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Excecution Day

  Dirk paced back and forth within his cell. He had not slept; he could not. He had sworn fealty to Eadon, and he had received many gifts for his allegiance. His gear and leather armor had been brought to him. How Eadon knew about it and found it, he did not know, nor did he care. Eadon had enchanted his leather armor with wards of protection. To his blades, Eadon had added power and strength.

  Power coursed through Dirk’s veins and muscles. He smiled in anticipation of the coming battle; he was eager to use his newfound power. He would complete the mission he had been tasked with, and Krentz would be free of Eadon. Dirk focused on his mission—to kill the friend of Whill of Agora, the old warrior Abram.

  Roakore and Silverwind glided upon a strong air current that spirited them along quickly toward their destination. Roakore gauged that they were less than thirty miles from the city. He looked to the morning sun and guessed that he would be late. For the sun would reach midday shortly, less than fifteen minutes. He coaxed Silverwind with a light kick of his legs upon her flank. The great Silverhawk gave a cry and dove down and out of the current they had been riding. Roakore held on tightly and ducked his head as they dove and gained speed fast. Silverwind leveled out, and Roakore gave a whoop as the hawk’s wings caught another current.

  Abram and Rhunis blended in with the shuffling crowd as best they could. Ahead of them, within the coliseum, trumpets blared. The crowd of thousands could be heard, already cheering and stomping their feet. Abram and Rhunis did not know what had happened after Zerafin had so quickly flown to his sister’s rescue. They had not seen or heard from any other Elf, but they continued on with their plan. Tucked in the inner pockets of their long coats, each man carried two apple-sized dragons’ breath bombs.

  The crowd filed into the coliseum, and Abram and Rhunis made it through the archway and to the stairs without incident. The city guard was prevalent within the coliseum, but Abram saw no Dark Elves—none in Dark Elf form anyway. He did not doubt that many of Eadon’s Dark Elves watched from hidden places. Abram and Rhunis made their way up one level and found seats at the very edge of the sandy fighting arena. It was only a ten-foot drop to the sand below.

  They settled in their seats and waited, as did the rowdy and restless crowd, for Whill of Agora to take the arena. Upon the sand, two gladiators fought to the death. But this battle held the attention of none of the rowdy crowd. They booed the fighters and hollered for Whill to be brought out. Abram looked from under the hood of his cloak to the adorned booth in which the king would sit. Eadon was not yet there, but he eyed a few hooded guards there—Dark Elves, no doubt.

  One of the gladiators below was defeated gruesomely by his opponent. The crowd cheered and howled with bloodlust. Abram looked on with disgust.

  “Eadon has made these people into savages these last two decades. What remains of the good people whom Whill’s father once served?” he asked Rhunis.

  “This is the nature of humans. We are quick to learn and easily molded. The problem is not the people but the hearts of their teachers.”

  “Indeed,” Abram concurred.

  The body of the dead gladiator was dragged from the arena, and the gates stayed open. The crowds hushed as all noticed Eadon, distguised as King Addakon, entering the booth. Abram looked on the disguised Eadon and scowled, noticing something strange about the false king’s gait.

  “Do you see that?” he asked Rhunis.

  “Indeed, he seems to suffer. Could it be a ruse?”

  Abram shook his head. “Possibly, or Zerafin gave him a hell of a fight.”

  Eadon, as Addakon, walked to the front of the booth and raised his hands to hush the crowd. Everyone quieted in anticipation.

  “Good people of Uthen-Arden, friends, brothers, sisters. We are here today to witness the execution of the most hated criminal the lands have ever seen. He is the bringer of the Draggard, the destroyer of homes, the killer of children,” Eadon’s voice boomed unnaturally loud throughout the coliseum. The crowd responded with a mix of emotion. Some cheered the false king while others booed. Scuffles and fighting broke out within the seated crowd of over twenty-five thousand.

  “The people are divided about Whill,” noted Abram.

  Rhunis nodded. “You too quickly judge the hearts of men.”

  Eadon looked out over the crowd. “Many among you have fallen prey to the legend of lies. His armies of Draggard ravish the land as you whisper false deeds done by a false savior. His poison fills your hearts and breeds doubt and contempt for the crown. That you would believe this madman’s intentions over that of your king is deplorable,” said Eadon with malice in his voice.

  “Bring him out!” Eadon ordered, and the crowd went crazy. Boos and cheers resounded throughout the vast ocean of spectators. The gates were lifted, and Whill entered the arena with his fighters. They were armed and armored. Abram’s spirit soared at the sight of his friend, and a tear found his eye. He hardly recognized him. Whill’s hair was long and wild. His eyes were sunken, and he had lost a substantial amount of weight. He was but a shell of the man Abram knew.

  Rhunis noticed this also. “What horrors has he faced these last six months?”

  Whill and his fighters were given their armor and weapons. To Whill’s surprise, he was given the sword of his father and the armor he had worn those many months ago. Many of the fighters brandished swords and crude armor; some wielded spears, others axes. The barbarian woman held a huge circular shield, nearly four feet wide and as tall. In her other hand, she swung a five-and-a-half-foot-long sword. The blade must have been very heavy, but the strong barbarian twirled and jabbed with it as though it weighed no more than a stick.

  Whill noticed Dirk and his elaborate weapons and was awed. The man had set before him more weapons than any man could possibly carry, knives, swords, darts, throwing stars, iron knuckles, small bombs, daggers—he seemed to have enough weapons for a small army. Whill watched him closely as he effectively hid his small armory easily beneath his large, black hooded coat. Whill made a mental note to keep an eye on this man that seemed full of surprises.

  From their holding cell, the prisoners could hear Eadon’s speech. Knowing their introduction was forthcoming, Whill addressed his fighters.

  “Your shackles have been taken, and your weapons have been returned. You stand now as you once did, strong, brave, and proud. Let not the false King of Uthen-Arden see you fall easily; let not the people forget the meaning of honor. This day, upon these sands, you fight as free men. This day, you fight for all free men. Fight for your people, your love, your children. Let us spark a fire of rebellion so bright as to blind all that would stand before it!”

  The men gave out a primal cry and cheered. A smile crept onto Dirk’s face as he saw the effect that Whill’s words had on the men and the barbarian woman. Aurora Snowfell took a dagger from its sheath upon her leg and cut her forearm. With both hands, she smeared the blood onto her face, neck, arms, shoulders, and chest. She bandaged the gash and took up her weapons. All eyes had fallen to her, and now each man stared in awe.

  Aurora lifted her head and grinned. The maniacal grin upon her bloodied face set cold the men’s hearts as they beheld the fearless and beautiful barbarian warrior. She let out an animalistic, growling scream that caused many of the men to jump. They laughed and screamed
with her. Whill turned to the gate as he heard their introduction.

  The group burst from their holding cell and charged out onto the sand, screaming with raised swords. Many of their voices died as they saw, for the first time, the thousands of ravenous spectators. They took to the center of the sand and looked around in awe at the massive crowd.

  Eadon sneered at Whill from his place on high. He opened his arms and addressed the crowd once more. Though he still suffered the rotting disease that he and Zerafin shared, no one would know from his strong voice that he felt any pain.

  “Good people of Uthen-Arden, I give you the false hero and savior, Whill of Agora.”

  The crowd hushed as they looked upon the man of legend for the first time. Whill walked a few steps from his fellows and turned to look upon the entire crowd.

  “Whill of Agora, in league with—”

  “I would speak! We have heard enough of your poisonous tongue!” Whill interrupted. The crowd gasped.

  Whill pointed a steady finger at Eadon. “This man is not your king. Your king died by my hand six months ago.” The crowd hung on his every word, silent and astonished by his audacity.

  “It is true that I am the son of King Aramonis and Queen Celestra. It is true that I am the rightful King of Uthen-Arden.” Whill let the words set in and saw shock on the faces of many.

  “I defeated my uncle, Addakon, for his crimes against my father, for his crimes against you, the people. Too long have you been fooled by this…” Whill pointed once again at Eadon. “…this charlatan! The Elf that stands before you now is not Addakon, but Eadon, the Dark Elf of legend, the true creator of the Draggard. This Dark Elf is the enemy of us all!”

  The crowd broke into a chorus of boos and murmurs. Many cheers also erupted from those that believed in the legend of Whill.

  Eadon clapped his hands, and eventually everyone quieted once again and looked to him. “Yes, indeed, I am actually a Dark Elf in disguise, and you are the heir to the throne, which I have stolen.” The crowd looked on, their faces in disbelief and awe. Then Eadon erupted in laughter, and most of the crowd followed suit.