“Indeed,” answered Azzeal.
“Well, whatever hap…” Roakore stopped as he noticed everyone listening in. He scooted closer to Azzeal and in a lowered voice continued, “What ever happened to them?”
Azzeal eyed the book that Roakore held stuffed under an arm. “Best you hear the telling from one who was there.”
Roakore’s eyes went wide, and he slowly regarded the book that had somehow appeared in his lap, held in both hands. Tears gathered and threatened to burst like summer rain clouds in the Dwarf king’s eyes. He sniffled and quickly coughed to mask it. Azzeal only smiled and ate his mix.
Morning came and they took to the air and flew north. After less than three hours, they could see far off on the horizon what, at first, Roakore thought to be a thunderhead. When he realized that it was a mountain, his jaw dropped.
Dirk sat between Zhola’s flexing shoulders and saw too that mountain. His excitement grew tenfold as he knew the moment would soon come. Soon Whill would be led to the sword, and it would be within Dirk’s reach. How he was going to steal the sword he did not know, nor did he have a plan of escape. He knew that he could not take the sword until he was near the portal they had come from, which meant that he would have to steal the sword directly from Whill once Whill had found it. The timing would have to be perfect if it was to be successful. Dirk fingered the gem that Eadon had given him. The Dark Elf had said that with it Dirk would be able to speak to him. Dirk did not doubt that with it Eadon was able to track his exact location. Dirk dared not use the gem yet, lest he be exposed. He would have to hold out until the time was right.
They flew toward Algarath Mountain under a canopy of dark gray clouds. There was a light fog, and its mist gathered on the dragons and riders, leaving the scales of the dragons glistening like jewels.
Whill looked to his wide-eyed friend gliding along to his right. Roakore stared at the mountain; it was the biggest that Whill had ever seen, twice again the size of the largest mountain in Agora. Algarath Mountain was nearly five miles wide at its base. Its snowcapped body gave way to a peak that was lost above the clouds. There, where the clouds consumed the mountains, lightning flashed behind the thick cover. To Whill, it looked as though a battle raged upon the mountain. Deep and booming thunder rolled across the sky and echoed for miles in every direction. The mountain had no brothers; it stood alone in its majesty.
Along the sides of the mountain grew green trees and vegetation. In contrast to the dull gray sky and blackened world around it, the mountain stood out as a defiant vestige of Drindellia’s life force. At its base, where the mountain green clashed with the dark forest, was a ring of what at first looked like piles of jagged stone and shale, but upon closer inspection, Whill realized that they were piles and piles of bones, Draggard bones. Tens of thousands must have fallen trying to break through whatever power separated the mountain from the tainted earth.
Zhola steered them toward the mountain base. The mountain loomed above them, making even the dragon Zhola feel small and insignificant. Roakore had sung to the glory of the Dwarven gods since first seeing the mountain; now he sang all the louder.
They glided down toward the large mouth of a cave built near the base of the miles-wide mountain. Zhola did not land but flew straight into it. He growled low in his throat, and his body began to glow with inner fire, illuminating the way. Further down, the large cave curved and opened to a massive shaft in which a natural waterfall flowed. They flew swiftly down with the waterfall for a long time and finally leveled out and splashed into an underground lake.
Zhola landed upon the stone shore of the mile-wide chamber in which the lake sat. The chamber hummed with power, and the very air within was thick and heavy, and the humidity within left everything wet and glistening. Deep green flower-covered vines and multicolored moss covered every inch of the cavern, even creeping up the walls and across the stone ceiling. The flowers within the cavern glowed with a rich silver inner light that left the onlookers in awe.
At the center of the lake, upon an island of glowing moss-covered stone, was the source of the great humming power. A figure glowed so radiantly that it could not easily be seen within the light. Whill could make out the thin, naked figure of what looked like an Elven woman. Her legs were encased in stone up to the knees, and her humming energy pulsed through the stone island and the lake in ripples of cascading light. Her arms were outstretched, each one growing into a thick, knotted root that grew thicker and snaked its way far across the glowing lake. The two roots met with others, and each of these found their way eventually to the walls of the cavern. Her glowing white hair danced in blue flames atop her head; energy crackled and hummed, and small arks of electricity licked at the stone-and-vine roof.
Zhola bent down to his knees and bowed his head. “It is the lady Kellallea.”
Whill’s eyes widened with amazement and sudden fear. This was the Elf of legend, Kellallea, the keeper of the ancient knowledge of the Elves, the taker of all power after the great Elven wars of old; it was she who had granted the Elves with the power of Orna Catorna once more.
Whill dropped to a knee and bowed as did the others—Dirk even removed his hood. There was a great pulsing of the light within the cavern, and for a moment, all were blind. When he could see once more, Whill saw the ghostly silver figure of Kellallea walking toward them across the water. Her body remained rooted to the island, and what now strode toward them, Whill assumed, was some sort of spiritual projection.
He dropped his head once more, averting the gaze of the pulsating spirit Elf and tried not to tremble like a scared puppy. She walked up to him and stopped. Whill dared look up at the radiating, naked form of the ancient Elf, and tears welled in his eyes. For her gaze was one of blissful peace and unyielding love. There was a terrifying intensity in her eyes, which shone with blinding light and pierced Whill’s very soul. The power possessed by Kellallea was greater than Whill had ever witnessed, even within the deep, dark eyes of Eadon.
“Lady Kellallea, I…” Azzeal’s voice cracked and failed him, and he was left weeping at her feet.
The spirit Elf smiled upon the prone Elf and put a hand lightly upon his head and stroked his green hair. She took his face in her hand and lifted his chin; he smiled upon her as a child would its mother. She then looked to Whill, who could not meet her eyes directly.
“Whill of Agora, he foretold to defeat the Dark Elf Eadon, I have waited long for your arrival.”
Whill bowed lower still. “Kellallea.”
“Stand,” she bade them all, and they complied.
Her gaze swept over them all in turn and lingered upon Aurora and Dirk. The two averted their gazes, their guilt laid bare before the ancient Elf. She looked to Avriel and strode to the white dragon.
“Daughter of Verelas.”
Avriel wept dragon tears and bowed her head to Kellallea’s touch. The spirit Elf stroked Avriel’s shimmering white scales.
“Would that I could undo this dark curse upon you, but I have not the strength to spare.”
“What is this place?” Whill dared ask. “What is happening here?”
In an instant, Kellellea was before him once again. She stretched an arm to indicate the cavern. “This is where the rivers of Drindellia’s life force converge. I have held the sickness of the land at bay for the time being, but my power wanes. Soon I will be overcome, as is stone against water, and the last of what was Drindellia will die with me.”
“We had feared you lost to us, my lady,” said Azzeal. “The Elves of the Sun shall rejoice, for the lady Kellallea fights for Drindellia still.”
Kellallea nodded. “Long Eadon fought against me and was successful to an extent. I was forced to abandon my form and take refuge here within Algarath. I have melded with Keye, and I am now the guardian of Drindellia’s life force, what is left of it.”
“Are you also the guardian of the sword?” asked Whill.
Kellallea looked to him with her bright, burning eyes; he held his ga
ze against the sight.
“I am,” she answered and looked to her body, which remained rooted to the island.
“With the sword I could help you, and together, we could heal the land. When I have defeated Eadon, life will thrive once again throughout Drindellia,” Whill promised.
“There is much you do not know, child. You cannot kill Eadon.”
“But it has been foretold in the prophe—”
“The prophecy is a lie,” Kellallea interrupted, her voice booming and echoing throughout the chamber.
Whill was speechless. Avriel gave a surprised growl, and Roakore blurted out, “Ye lie!”
“The prophecy a lie?” asked Whill, confused. “How can it be?”
“I have been connected to Drindellia for thousands of years. My roots reach to the heart of Keye and into the rivers of energy below. I have learned the truth of Adimorda and the prophecy.”
“What is this truth?” Whill asked, though he dreaded the answer.
“It is true that Adimorda looked to the future and saw the rise of a great and powerful Dark Elf, and that he set in motion the creation of a weapon of great power. But what you have been told, indeed, what the order of Adimorda believed to be a weapon to defeat Eadon, has all this time been of his own creation.”
Whill was speechless; he did not understand.
“The truth is this,” said Kellallea. “Eadon is Adimorda.
Whill shook his head in denial. “No, that cannot be. How can they be one and the same? Adimorda saw the rise of Eadon and made the sword to defeat him.”
“No!” boomed Kellallea’s voice like thunder through the chamber. “Adimorda lied. The prophecy is a lie created to ensure the creation of a sword of power—a sword that he intends to use.”
Whill shook his head the whole time, not wanting to believe it. The ancient Elf saw that he did not understand.
“To understand, we must go back to the beginning. Adimorda was one of the most powerful Elves of his time; he was a master of many schools of knowledge and, indeed, the most proficient seer that ever lived. His goal was always more power, and like so many others, he was corrupted by it. He sought the ancient texts and scrolls, always hungry for more knowledge. What he sought the most was an ancient tome said to be written by the gods themselves. It was not long before he found it, and what he learned within that book drove him mad with power lust. Eadon discovered an ancient legend, one which told of a way to attain the power of a god.”
Whill listened intently as his dread steadily grew.
“It is difficult, but it is possible for Eadon to attain such power. He has already one of the swords in his possession; he needs only be given the other. To gain the power of the gods, it is said that one must possess the greatest power ever given and the greatest power taken. Eadon’s own blade contains the greatest power taken, for he has laid waste to his own homeland to attain it. And by creating the prophecy, he guaranteed the creation of the greatest power ever given. Together, the sword of power taken and the sword of power given will make Eadon like a god. He needs only to be given the sword by you to fulfill his plan.” She looked to Whill grimly.
Whill was speechless. She went on, telling her unbelievable tale of manipulation. “Adimorda looked to the future and saw his own rise to power as Eadon. He foretold of you, Whill of Agora, and created the blade so that no Elf could wield it, not even him. For the laws of the two blades of power dictate that the sword of power given must be given. In this way, it was meant to prevent one from attaining them both. But Eadon will be given the power within the sword if you try to kill him, for Adromida is indeed Eadon’s sword, and one cannot be killed by their own blade. This is why he has kept you alive; it is why he has tortured you so. He intends for you to want nothing more than to kill him. And you have played right into his game perfectly.”
Whill’s mind raced as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. The prophecy was a lie? That would mean that he was a pawn in Eadon’s game and nothing more. Whill was not a savior of legend; he was not the hero of the people. Whill was the final piece in Eadon’s long-awaited plan. Eadon wanted an apprentice that he could mold, one that would give him the power of Adromida willingly. It seemed that when Whill had refused to join Eadon, the Dark Elf had tried to make Whill hate him enough to try and kill him. Eadon could not take the sword from Whill—he had to be given it—and attempting to strike down the Dark Elf with his own blade would pass along the energy to him.
“But how do I defeat him, if I cannot use the sword against him?” Whill asked Kellallea.
“You are not listening, child,” the ancient Elf said with a flash of her eyes. The light of the cavern rippled and pulsed brightly. “You cannot defeat him; you are a lie. I cannot allow you to take the sword of Adimorda. You have no hope of being able to control the power within the sword. It would consume you and lead to your ruin. I am sorry, child, but your quest ends here. Long have I stood guard against the encroaching plague that Eadon has spread against this land. Long have I fought to keep the last spark of life lit. But I am tired, I am weary, and I cannot hold out against the Black Death much longer. You must pass the power of Adimorda over to me, so that I might heal the land once more.”
Whill met and held the Elf’s gaze. One part of him wanted nothing more than to be done with this entire business of the sword, to hand the power over to Kellallea and be done with it. He was relieved to hear that he had a way out. Another part of him did not believe the ancient Elf’s story; he believed it was possibly a trick of the enemy.
“Very well then,” he said to the sound of many gasps, including Roakore’s and Aurora’s.
“Where is the blade?” he said evenly, holding the Elf’s painful stare.
“Will you give the power back to Drindellia?”
Whill did not answer. He looked to Avriel. Do you believe her tale? How do we know that she is indeed Kellallea?
The white dragon took a step forward and eyed the spirit Elf with a fiery orb. Roakore shifted uncomfortably, and he held his great ax at the ready. Aurora, too, stood ready for battle, her shield half raised and sword cocked slightly. Dirk simply stood as he always did. He did not have a battle stance, or better, every stance was a battle stance to Dirk. But within his sleeves, he had ready a dart and a dagger. Azzeal had stood and looked to Kellallea in confusion.
“Call to the blade, Whill. If you are meant to have it, it shall come to you,” Avriel said aloud.
“I cannot allow you to leave with the blade,” Kellallea warned him calmly.
“Neither do you have the strength to stop me.” He looked beyond her spirit form to her body, which remained in its perpetual state of constant effort. “You cannot let go, or you will lose control of the encroaching plague.”
“Would you have it so? Would you see the last of Drindellia die before your eyes?” she screamed, and the entire cavern glowed so bright as to make everything appear white.
“No,” he answered. “I would see Drindellia thrive once again. I would see Eadon fall and freedom rise. And I would see it done by my hand.”
With that, he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Adromida, sword of Adimorda, it is I, Whill of Agora. I summon thee.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Sword of Power
Given
The cavern rumbled, and the waters boiled. Whill watched in awe as a curved, thin hilt came out of a churning whirlpool of multicolored light near the shore. He walked toward the disturbance and reached out toward the sword hilt more than twenty feet away.
The sword shot out of the water, and Whill caught it by the sheath. He stared down at it in utter astonishment and delight. He was mesmerized by the blue swirling orb set within the hilt, which held more stars than a million clear nighttime skies. It danced in sparkling beauty and beckoned Whill to lose himself to its sheer power.
He reached for the glowing hilt upon which danced pulsing blue energy along every thin strip of glossy black leather. Kellallea�
�s phantom hand caught Whill’s and prevented him from touching the hilt.
“Will you help me? Give to me the power to restore Drindellia to its former glory. Together, we can defeat Eadon, and finally, we may know peace,” she pleaded.
Whill looked from her to the blade; it called to him, beckoning to be used. He tried to pull his hand away, but it was held fast by an iron grip. Roakore stepped forward and scowled at the spirit form of Kellallea.
“You will want to be letting the man go now,” he said threateningly.
The Elf ignored him but let go of Whill and smiled as an afterthought. “This weapon is beyond you, child. I could guide you in your use of it. With it, you would help to heal this plagued land, and together, we could rid your homeland of Eadon. I warn you—if you do not heed my words, you will be destroyed. You have not the skill to control the power within that blade.”
Whill shook his head in denial. “You are mistaken. I must defeat Eadon. The prophecy foretold of this; the blade and its power were meant for me.”
“The prophecy is a lie!” she bellowed, and the mountain shook with her wrath.
Whill attached the sheath to his belt, careful not to touch the hilt. He nodded to the others, and they mounted. Without a word, they left the ancient Elf to her silent battle against the encroaching darkness.
Her bellowing proclamation followed them out of the mountain. “The prophecy is a lie!”
They flew back toward the cave they had come to Drindellia through, and Kellallea’s words echoed in his head the entire time.
Do you believe her? He asked Avriel as he rode upon her back.
She did not answer for a time but then hummed a sigh of resignation. I do not know. She has been long without contact with others. Her mind does not work as others do, and she is of Keye now. I do believe that with Adimorda you could heal the land, and I pray that it comes to pass.
What if she is right? Whill asked. What if the prophecy is a lie and Eadon is Adimorda? I will be playing right into his hands.
Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings Page 27