Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings

by Michael Ploof

  The stone bird whizzed by and took the dragon in the eye once more. Blood flew, and the dragon’s head snapped. Through bloody teeth came liquid fire in gushes as the enraged and injured black dragon bathed Roakore and Silverwind in flame. Roakore quickly brought up a stone wall before him and frantically called up more stones, as those which he raised quickly turned molten and melted. Silverwind was hit by flames and liquid fire alike, but the enchantments of Lunara held back the attack. Krashakk charged the pair, and through the flame, his thick, barbed tail swept across and slammed them both to the side.

  Roakore recovered quickly and pulled up another wall of stone. It rose up in his defense, but with it came molten lava from the many deep channels below the volcano. Roakore’s eyes widened as a grin and a maniacal giggle overcame him. As the black dragon spewed his fire breath once more, Roakore dove to the left of his wall and mentally directed the stream of lava to slam into the body of the beast.

  Krashakk howled in agony as the lava covered his side and right wing and burned through the thick scale and muscle beneath until bone could be seen. Roakore dropped his ax, and with two hands, he summoned a thick stream of lava from each side of himself. As Krashakk thrashed and roared in pain, the two streams of dripping molten rock were shoved down his throat and surged into his body. The dragon’s roar turned to a gurgle as his body swelled in size and violently burst, sending bits of dragon and lava in every direction, and only charred meat and bones twitched beneath the cooling and graying lava.

  Roakore grasped his great ax once more and held it high; he roared a challenge to all of the dragons. “C’mon then, who be the next demon to die by me hand?”

  The challenge was met by dozens of thunderous roars and great plumes of fire as the outraged dragons began to stir. Whill and the others had reached the arched gate of the volcano. Whill turned and yelled back at his fearless friend. “Roakore!”

  If Roakore heard him, he gave no indication. Sweat poured from his forehead and dripped down his beard as he mentally called upon the lava to burst from the ground around him. The dragons hissed and growled, roared and screamed. Dozens took to the skies and descended upon the mighty Dwarf king. Any that got too close felt the sting of spewing lava as Roakore guided his newfound molten weapon from one dragon to the other.

  Whill watched helplessly from the gate as the dragons descended, and he turned to Zhola in desperation. “Help him!”

  The red dragon was well within the mouth of the large gate, waiting patiently. He watched the distant battle and knew the Dwarf’s doom. “I will not fight my own kind for the sake of a Dwarf! Let us make haste to the portal before the wrath of all of Drakkar is upon us.”

  Whill was about to ask Azzeal to help his friend when he saw Roakore mount Silverwind, and together, they disappeared from sight. Dragons’ breath converged where he had been and bathed the ground in flame. Whill quickly called upon his mind sight and saw the two flying toward the gate. Whill gave a victorious cry and turned to run down the hall.

  “Roakore follows! Hurry to the portal!”

  None argued as dozens of angry dragons of all colors and sizes charged the gate. The group scrambled down the hall leading to the heart of the volcano. It was a natural cavern, big enough for Zhola by many yards. He led the group down the dark passage that became even darker as they turned left with the tunnel and then right and down a flight of stairs built for dragons.

  There was no need for illumination down in those dark tunnels—for the fire of the pursuing dragons lit the chambers all too well. Whill mounted Avriel as the group came to the stairs, Azzeal turned into his bird form, and Roakore glided down upon Silverwind.

  Dirk attempted to glide down with Zhola and jumped up upon his back. The assassin was met with a quick winged elbow that sent him flying.

  “I have tolerated the two of you upon my back because you were spoken for by the chosen one, but we do not fly now, and you can use your own feet.”

  As Zhola leapt and glided down the stairwell, Aurora offered Dirk a hand up and shrugged. Together, they bounded down the steps in great leaps, though Aurora took them two at a time and Dirk one. Each step came up to Dirk’s shoulder, and they were very slick due to the constant humidity within the volcano’s guts.

  At the bottom of the stair, the tunnel broke into two, one going left, the other right. Zhola went right, and the others followed him. Behind them, many dragons had already begun the descent from the top of the stair, and they were catching up quickly.

  “Bah, we got ’em tunneled. Won’t have to fight more than two at a time up there where the tunnel narrows a bit. I says we go through there and turn to make a stand. We could kill dozens!” The Dwarf plotted with wide eyes and battle lust. “The gods would sing me glory for all time.”

  Aurora ran alongside the Silverhawk and saw the look in the Dwarf king’s eye; she had seen that look before and had worn it many times herself. It was the look of the hunter, and the Dwarf was the slayer of dragons. She still did not like his people, but she could not deny him respect.

  “Good Dwarf…” She breathed through a steady and paced breathe “Is your bloodlust for the dragons so great that you would have us all die to kill but a few?”

  Roakore looked down at the barbarian from on high; he wore an incredulous expression. “I never said nothing ’bout dyin’, giant woman.”

  Zhola roared, causing the tunnel to quake beneath their feet. “When this is through we shall have words, Dwarf.”

  Roakore only laughed as they came into a large cavern thrice the size of the widest tunnel they had yet ventured. Opposite them stood the arched gates of Arkron. The stone gates stood more than fifty feet high and again as wide. They were not adorned with jewel nor sculpted pattern but were perfectly rounded and as smooth as glass. As the flames of the pursuing dragons brightened the room, the gate had begun to glow with an inner fire that captured the light of the flame and caused it to burst into millions of tiny, dancing lights.

  The group crossed the room, and Zhola reached it first. He dug in his claws and stopped with a skid before the gate. Behind them, the first of many dragons barreled into the room and began to cross the hundred feet between them. Zhola spoke the name “Arkron,” and the gate came to life. The cavern floor and walls vibrated slightly as a deep hum emanated from the gateway. There was a blinding flash of light, which turned many of their heads. When they could look again, they saw not the wall behind that gate as they once had but rather a rippling rift of pulsing blue light blurring the view of a cavern beyond.

  “It works,” said Azzeal breathlessly, and he smiled.

  “Quickly!” roared Zhola as he turned and gave a piercing warning roar to his kin. The others wasted no time and dove for the portal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Drindellia

  Whill dove into the gateway as the dragons crashed into the chamber spewing flame and shaking stone. He felt a warmth run through his body, as if passing by a sunny window on a summer day, then the commotion of the room within the volcano disappeared and was replaced by silence. He came through the other side of the portal onto smooth stone surrounded by bright light.

  They were in yet another stone room, this one much smaller than the other. Finally Zhola came crashing through the portal and roared, “Arkron!” and the portal closed as it had opened. Darkness covered the room. Azzeal murmered a word, and a crystal atop his staff began to glow brightly. Zhola did not take time to survey the tight room as did the others; instead, he walked forth and crashed his head through a stone wall opposite the portal. The others followed him into yet another cavern; this one was also a natural cave.

  “This way,” Zhola bade them and turned left when they came to two tunnels.

  Soon the group came to the mouth of a cave. As they reached the exit, one by one, they walked through it and into night.

  “Damn Elven magic! What is this? It be but after midday, yet the sun is gone. What devilry is this?” Roakore bellowed, looking up at the
moon of all things.

  Azzeal looked out over the tree line; they were high up on a large, stony hill. By the moonlight, tears could be seen in his feline eyes. He fell to all fours and grabbed handfuls of earth and smeared the dirt upon his face. “It is dark here because we are now far across the ocean to the east. We are in Drindellia. Once again I lay eyes upon my lost homeland.”

  The Elf’s eyes glowed in the moonlight as his body convulsed and his skin rippled and grew fur in the blink of an eye. He transformed into wolf form and with front paws upon the ledge, he howled into the night. The sound went on for minutes and echoed across the land in a haunting chorus. Clouds that had partially hidden the moon now departed, and the world beyond the ledge was revealed in moonlight.

  From their vantage point atop the lone hill they could see in all directions, and all around them was forest. Even in the faint light, Whill could tell that something was not quite right about it. The trees were black, twisted, and gnarled, and shadows lingered too long in the breeze. When Azzeal’s howl had died down, the world around them returned to silence. A shudder ran down Whill’s spine as he used his mind sight, and though he scanned over all that he could see, he saw no life force besides that of the sickened forest. This information he relayed to the other humans and Roakore.

  Aurora’s chest heaved as she took in the night air with her nose to the sky. “This is unlike any forest I have seen, and the wind carries the stench of death.”

  “The land has been poisoned by Eadon and his creations. They long ago purged this land of wholesome life,” said Azzeal. “All that now remains is a tainted and blackened land, a plagued shadow of the beauty that it once was.”

  Whill heard a mournful humming from Avriel, and looking to her, he saw large tears quivering upon her dragon eyes. She bent her head in a bow, and the dragon tears fell to the stone below. In her shimmering orbs, Whill could see his silhouette and the moon. He did not know what to say to console her, so he said nothing and simply put a hand upon her scales.

  “Alright, where is this sword then, dragon?” Roakore asked gruffly, hiding a small sniffle.

  “I do not know,” Zhola answered. Everyone turned to look at the giant red.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” asked Whill.

  Zhola looked to the southern horizon. “A half day’s flight that way leads to the ancient Elven city of Vollorynn. Within the city is a great library, within the library a book, and within the book a clue.”

  “You hid the truth even from yourself so that you could never give it away against your will,” said Dirk impressed.

  “Correct, and that is the path. We leave at first light.”

  They made no fire, and all but Zhola and Azzeal retired to the cave. Whill sat away from the others near to Avriel, and he looked deep into the dark pools of her eyes. It was hard to think of her in there, trapped in a foreign body and so far from her true form. She was yet another one of Eadon’s bargaining chips, as Abram had once told him she may be—Abram, his mentor, his father, his brother, and friend. Whill felt a vast emptiness in his heart. Though he had come to accept that Abram was dead during his torture, losing Abram hurt no less the second time.

  The weight of Rhunis’s death weighed upon his heart also. The old, scarred knight had been a good friend and ally. Whill thought back on the bar fight they had found themselves in and chuckled. Avriel hummed deep in her chest and turned her weary head from rest. “What is it?”

  “Just remembering the bar fight in Kell-Torrey and the look on those thugs’ faces when you healed Parpous Hellios’s severed arm.” He laughed.

  Avriel’s dragon laugh came out as a melodic hum and growl, vibrating Whill’s entire body. “I don’t recall it being much of a fight,” she purred. “Roakore was throwing those men around like children.”

  Whill laughed harder still at the memory. It felt good to laugh, and he dove into the emotions that came with it. His laughter slowly turned into tears as memories of the times shared with Abram and Rhunis flowed through his mind. Avriel’s voice came with a humming, soft and deep. “Rejoice in the memories of the fallen. Remember them always and smile. But do not let your own pain tarnish memories that should warm the heart. You must learn to control your emotions. You are a slave to your pain. You are no more free from Eadon’s chains now than you were while in his clutches. You are addicted to your pain.”

  “I am not addicted to my pain! Do you even feel as we do? Elves have their ways, and we have ours…I have mine!” Whill lashed out.

  “We feel pain as you do—though we understand that to allow it to consume us is to relive the pains of the past anew. Too often people take on the role of the victim and wallow in their torment for ages. If you truly want to heal your mind, you must let go.”

  Whill knew her words to be true; they resonated verity. Defeated, he pulled himself together and attempted to let go. He delved deep into the corners of his own mind, seeking out the path to the source of the pain, the rage. Following his thoughts and feelings backward through his mind, he came to early memories of his childhood. He had first felt the helpless rage as a young boy, left behind time after time by his father figure. He liked living with his aunt and was adored by his female cousins, but he longed to follow Abram into the wide world.

  There, deep in his memories, were the roots of his pain and rage. Frustration at being too small to come along, pain at learning that Abram was not his father, and the simmering rage, carried for nearly two decades, because Abram would not tell him his lineage. Whill realized that a part of himself almost hated Abram for his secrets, for his strict training schedule, and for pushing Whill so hard. Deep within the roots of his primal pain, far beyond memory or reason, was a deep, dark spark of rage and sorrow and injustice: It was the memory of being cut from the bliss of his mother’s womb by a blade and being forced into a cold and dangerous world.

  Whill shuddered, and he released a breath as though he had been holding it forever. The revelation disappeared in an instant, like a candle blown out, leaving only a floating river of smoke to hint at the truth of the flame.

  You must forgive him Whill. You must forgive yourself, and you must forgive the world.

  Once again, Whill knew the truth of her words, and he tried to let go of his pain. He forgave all of the causes of it. He immediately felt a weight lifting from him, and he felt a peace he had not known since his years spent wandering the wilds of Agora with Abram. He let go. But the roots of his consciousness were no easier to dig up than those of a great oak. These roots were at the core of who he was; they were his ego’s identity.

  Dirk rested against the wall of the cavern and watched Whill and the dragon from behind his enchanted hood. To anyone looking at him, he appeared to be sleeping. With the jewels upon his earlobes, he listened to their conversation. It was apparent that Whill was an emotional wreck. Though it was an understandable reaction for a person that had lost friends, Dirk did not find it acceptable in a warrior of legend. The young man appeared weak to Dirk, and had he not seen Whill in battle, he would be inclined to write the legends off as rubbish. Whill had laughed one minute and cried the next—a fact that frustrated Dirk all the more. The idea that Whill could somehow defeat Eadon was laughable. Whill was dangerous without some ancient sword of power; Dirk could not imagine the destruction that would be wrought if Whill possessed such an outlet for his festering insanity. He felt no safer imagining Whill with the sword than he did Eadon, and he would do what it took to free Krentz.

  He did not care for the world’s problems—for while people lived there would always be struggle. Whether kings or emperors or Dark Elves from foreign shores, someone would always be there to enslave humans in their own stupidity. Dirk was not about to take on the mantle of being a hero to the blind masses. He held loyalty only to Krentz and to himself, and only for himself and her would he fight.

  Dirk bathed himself in his resolve but could not think himself out of one realization. The world beyond the cavern’s
mouth was one of death and destruction; the wasted land had been reduced to the burning embers of Eadon’s malice. Part of him knew that Drindellia’s fate would become Agora’s and that many would die. Yet another part of him argued that those same people would die eventually anyway, and maybe for the better—should their religions prove true. Who was he to attempt to interfere in a fight for people that would not fight for themselves?

  A voice came into his mind so suddenly and clearly that he jumped, startled. I see you seeing me, assassin. Your hood does not hide your eyes from me. Why do you study Whill so?

  Dirk quickly composed himself and directed his thought at the dragon as he had learned to mind speak with Krentz. His thought voice came calm and steady. Why not use your mental abilities to glean the answer from my thoughts? he asked and enjoyed the dragon’s hesitance to answer.

  He had deflected her question and boldly put her on her toes with his own. The dragon looked him in the eye, though his hood fell to his mouth. Dirk fought his dragon fear and stared back, still as stone. He felt her mind nudge his and fought the panic of his thoughts being intruded upon. Eadon had done it to him, and it had been the most unpleasant feeling the assassin had ever felt. But Dirk knew also that Avriel was an Elf of conviction and belief—she was of the type that took her people’s laws as the gospel. She would not invade his mind.

  He repressed a shudder as he stared into the dragon’s eyes and fought for control of his mental imagery. If Avriel did read his thoughts and deciphered that he intended to steal the blade and betray them all, he would be eaten whole. Dirk chastised himself for thinking about that which he was trying not to think about; that was the problem with fighting mental projection. Avriel did not even have to invade Dirk’s mind if she could get him to project his secrets at her. Dirk closed his eyes and let Avriel fly from his mind as he forgot all but Krentz. It was the thought of her tattooed and studded face in the moonlight that he used to ground his mind. He easily fell into thoughts of her and was no longer in danger of divulging his secrets to Avriel.