The Mantle of Darkness: Whill of Agora Book 7: Legends of Agora

by Ploof,Michael James

  Whill was heartened by the boy’s jubilance. There had been a time when he had worried for Tarren. The lad had endured many of life’s worst blows at such an early age, but it had not broken him as Whill had feared it might.

  “Good morning, son. Are you ready for the festivities?”

  “Am I!” Tarren exclaimed. “I used to hear stories of the Winter’s End Celebration games in the arena, but none of us ever got to go, what with all the tourists coming into the city and our inn filled to the rafters.”

  “Well, for this one you will have one of the best seats in the arena,” said Whill, ruffling the boy’s hair.

  They made their way to the dining hall, where all the most esteemed guests would be gathered for breakfast.

  “You know something?” said Tarren. “Once you’ve wed Avriel, I’ll be the son of an elven queen, I’ll have an elven aunt and uncle, and once the child is born, I’ll be the brother of a half-elf!”

  Whill laughed. “Indeed, your titles grow by the day.”

  “And soon, so too shall my deeds,” said Tarren determinedly. “Do you think…” he began, looking as though he had been considering the question for some time, but had not known how to ask it. “Do you think that I’ll ever have any magic like you?”

  Whill was proud of the lad’s ambitions, and saddened by them as well. He had hoped to provide a stable, peaceful life for Tarren and didn’t want him following in his footsteps.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “When you look at me…can you see anything, I don’t know, magical?”

  “I see many great things when I look at you, Tarren, though I see no magic. But do not despair. Focus instead on being the type of man who deserves to wield such power, and someday, who knows, you might.”

  “Couldn’t you teach it to me?”

  Whill didn’t want to admit that he might never return from Drindellia, might not be there to teach Tarren, or his unborn child, anything.

  “Perhaps,” said Whill. “Perhaps.”

  Teera and Whill’s sisters waited for him in the dining hall, along with Roakore, Helzendar, and Arrianna. They had been enjoying pastries and tea, but as soon as Whill entered the room, the servers began bringing out the rest of the meal. To Roakore’s delight, it consisted heavily of pork once more.

  After a breakfast that lasted well into the ninth hour, everyone made their way to the courtyard, where a procession of carriages waited to bring them to the arena. It had been recently rebuilt, and Whill had declared that it would no longer house gladiator battles to the death, but would be used for friendly sporting competitions. One such competition was scheduled for ten o’clock. Avriel, Zilena, and Lunara would be attending as well, but would be seated across from Whill at the other end of the long arena—as dictated by human wedding day custom.

  The streets were not easily traversed by the wagons, even though they were led by a contingent of knights on horseback who cleared the way. People cheered and called to their king, slapping the sides of the enclosed carriages and begging for him to show himself. Whill complied, moving the cloth curtain aside from the window and waving to his admirers. Given the traffic, the carriages did not make it to the arena until just before the games were to commence. Once there, the group was led through secret passages, up to the high balcony overlooking the white sands.

  The arena was filled to capacity, as admittance had been first come first serve, to the great annoyance of those who had once been nobles. The magisters had all warned him that such treatment of the nobles would only further incur their wrath, but Whill was not concerned. With the knowledge of Orna Catorna that he had absorbed from Avriel, as well as the incredible healing power that he had likewise gained from Zalenlia the Gold, Whill feared no man. He was more concerned that an assassin might go after his loved ones instead, and it was for them that precautions had been made.

  When Whill stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the arena, the people cheered their king and stomped on the wooden floorboards, causing a thunderous chorus of feet and singing voices. He waited, letting the people show their adoration, before raising his hands and addressing them all.

  “Citizens of Del’Oradon, visitors from afar, thank you for joining me on this, my wedding day. I have thought long and hard about what I should say today, and the words of my late grandfather, King Mathus, came to mind. It was at the Winter’s End Celebration in Fendale that I heard the wise words of my grandfather, and it is with great pride that I say them now to you. And though we are heading into winter, I believe the words meant for a spring celebration still ring true. They are as thus.

  “Good people of Del’Oradon, arise, for I look upon you as my equals. I am privileged only by the honor of being your leader. Today we celebrate not only my wedding to the beautiful Avriel of Elladrindellia, but also brotherhood and the joy of life itself. The winters of our lives will always come, and they will seem to linger with the cold of remorse, regret, and despair. During such times each of us will question ourselves and this world. We will wonder how such a bleak and miserable time can ever end—the seemingly eternal misery that is our darkest hour. But end it does, for to every winter there is a spring, and to every tragedy there is newfound joy. A cold heart is one that has forgotten hope and knows no love. We will stay warm throughout the most bitter cold, and have hope when all else is lost, because we are the people of Agora; we know no defeat, and we are all family. No force on this earth or from the heavens will ever break our spirit. It is in love that we find our greatest strength…and our unwavering hope.

  “So I ask you all now to look upon each other as family, and to put aside differences and petty quarrels. I ask you all to look around at the beautiful city you have helped to restore. Without you, it would be only stone and dirt. Without the great people of Uthen-Arden, it would be nothing. This celebration honors the light in the darkness, hope in times of despair, and love in the face of hate. It signifies the beginning of an end. May your sails forever catch the warm wind, and may your families prosper.”

  His last word echoed through the coliseum, and Whill looked to his smiling people. At last he said, “And now, let the competition begin!”

  The crowd erupted into cheers. The trumpets sounded as the many gates opened and the first of the mounted knights made their way to the jousting area at the center of the sands. Tarren was grinning from ear to ear and placing friendly bets with Helzendar as to who would be the victor of the first joust.

  That was a wonderful speech you gave, came Avriel’s voice in Whill’s mind. He looked across the arena, where she was seated with her sister and Lunara and smiled, for she wore a shroud of white lace that hid her face from him.

  Thank you. I like the lace, he said, playfully.

  I cannot wait until you lift it.

  Tarren cheered victoriously, and Helzendar slapped the rail and sat back, disgusted when the knight that Tarren had chosen finally unseated his opponent, instantly winning.

  The joust came to an end after twenty-four matches, and the crowd cheered the final victor, a young knight by the name of Sir Arenson, whom Whill had knighted only a month before. Due to the long wars, Uthen-Arden’s military, like all others of Agora, had been desperately depleted. There were some veterans among the remaining knights, but mostly they were greenhorns under twenty years old.

  The joust was followed by spear-, knife-, and axe-throwing competitions, as well as archery and hand-to-hand combat. A reenactment of Whill’s battle with Eadon outside of Felspire was performed by a lively crew of some of Del’Oradon’s actors, and they even included fireworks to represent the many spells the two threw at each other.

  Whill watched the play with some amusement, for the playwrights had gotten few details right, and indeed, showed Whill in a much more flattering light than the real battle, which he would have lost had he not given the power of the two blades to Kellallea.

  For the final amusement, Whill had thought up a special treat. Having won his weight in gold in the Fen
dale arena, he saw it only fitting that he continue his late grandfather’s tradition. The knights might have been young, but they were well trained and had survived the worst war that Uthen-Arden had ever seen. Whill wondered if any civilian could defeat one of them.

  The first competitor, much like the first that Whill had seen go against a knight in Fendale, proved far from adequate to accomplish the task, and was beaten within a minute.

  “I wish that I could go down there and fight,” said Tarren, watching the next two combatants square off. “I could beat one of them.”

  Whill chuckled and rustled Tarren’s hair, though the boy pulled away, annoyed. “You’re a little too young to take on a knight of Uthen-Arden.”

  “You were only nineteen when you defeated Rhunis.”

  “Indeed, but you are twelve. You have many years to go.”

  Tarren let out a long sigh. Whill knew his mind. When he was young, he couldn’t wait to be able to go on adventures with Abram.

  “You’ll be old enough before you know it,” said Whill. “And then you’ll wish you were young again.”

  “I’ve been old,” Tarren said, reminding Whill of the boy’s time trapped inside the dying body of the Watcher.

  “And did you not wish you were young again?”

  Tarren had no retort for that, and resigned himself to watching the next knight beat another of the challengers.

  And so it went for a dozen fights, and a dozen after that. Soon the crowd became restless, knowing that food and ale awaited them out in the bustling streets. The only food or drink to be found in the arena was that which people brought with them, and now, an hour before noon, nearly everyone had emptied their flasks hours ago and eaten the last of their bread.

  A promising young fighter entered the arena from the challengers’ gate, and even Whill leaned forward in his seat to get a better look at the young man. He stood well over six feet tall, and had a chest as broad as a dwarf’s. His weapon of choice was a long sword that might have been passed down from a father or grandfather who had once served in the Uthen-Arden army, for it bore the unmistakable burning sapphire in the hilt that was an emblem of the kingdom. Whill chuckled when he noted that the challenger wore no armor to speak of, like Whill had jested to Abram about doing himself. Instead, the young man wore plain brown pants and a leather jerkin, despite the chill weather. Through the sleeveless vest, his thick, muscled arms hung beyond his hips. He looked to be the son of a blacksmith or lumberjack, or possibly the child of one of the mountain families that lived in the western shadow of the Elgar Mountains. Legend said that the men of those mountains had taken dwarven wives many centuries ago, but anyone who dared to speak of it always checked to be sure there was no dwarf in earshot, for such words were likely to get a man killed, and it wouldn’t be the first time. Whill assumed that the legend was of course false, though the young challenger made him wonder. Aside from his obvious brawn and deep-set eyes, he had red curly hair and the beard of a much older man, thick, and even braided like a dwarf’s.

  Whill noticed Roakore’s keen attention on the young man, and watched him too long, garnering a queer look from the dwarf king. “What?” Roakore asked suspiciously, and Whill could not think of a lie.

  “Bah,” said Roakore. “You best not be thinkin’ what I be thinkin’ ye be thinkin’.”

  “I was just thinking that it is high time that we tapped the kegs. It being near on noon.”

  Roakore studied him charily before finally nodding agreement. “Aye, I say it be as well.”

  Whill smiled and gestured to a waiting server. Soon each of them was given a frothing pint, Tarren and Helzendar included. Arrianna gave Roakore a look of disapproval, and Roakore shrugged, saying, “If the lad be havin’ to lick the froth from his mustache, then he be old enough for a pint.”

  “And Tarren?” she asked, glancing at Whill.

  “I shave every morning,” said the boy before taking a deep pull of the dark ale.

  Everyone laughed, all but Roakore’s wife, who shook her head and turned back to the combatants.

  The crier stood on a podium near the center of the arena and raised his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you Ragnar Hillman, son of Agrath Hillman, from the hills west of the Elgar Mountains!”

  The crowd gave a collective sound of awe and glanced at each other knowingly. To Whill’s right, the three dwarves shifted in their cushioned chairs uncomfortably.

  “His challenger,” the crier yelled, “is the veteran knight, Sir Magnimus.”

  This time the crown oohed, shifting closer to the end of their seats or standing.

  “Let the duel begin!” said the crier.

  Ragnar Hillman wasted no time in tapping swords like so many of the previous combatants; instead he lunged forward, showing his incredible reach and forcing the knight to parry to the side and backpedal away awkwardly, clearly not ready for the cheap strike. Sir Magnimus gave the man a look of disdain and rolled his shoulders as they circled each other. Ragnar seemed to be waiting for the knight, keeping him just out of reach and switching stances often, teasing as though he could fight either right or left handed. When the sword went to the left hand, Magnimus tested the silent claim and charged in with his shield leading the way. Ragnar proved his prowess with the left hand, swinging the two-handed sword effortlessly. The retort of sword on shield echoed through the arena, and Magnimus staggered back from the blow. He recovered quickly and surprised Ragnar and everyone else with an incredible burst of speed that left the mountain man parrying and circling frantically, but not once did Ragnar backpedal, which Whill admired.

  The men exchanged blows, and for a time it seemed like an even fight. The crowd were all on their feet now, lest they be unable to see past those standing and cheering in front of them. Soon, cries for Ragnar drowned out those for the knight, and Whill smiled to himself, remembering his fight with Rhunis. Like it had for Whill, the sudden chanting of his name enlivened the young challenger, and Ragnar came on with renewed vigor, revealing his true reach in a series of strikes that left Sir Magnimus on his back. The knight quickly scrambled to his feet, and having had his shield batted out of his hand, rushed over to it and flung it at the stalking Ragnar. The shield might have taken the big Hillman in the head, but he raised a stopping hand and grabbed ahold of the whirling shield.

  Whill blinked, thinking that he had seen the shield slow before being caught. He glanced sidelong at Roakore, whose eyes, like many in the crowd, were wide with disbelief. Sir Magnimus too was awestruck, and in his surprise, he was unable to stop the shield that came spinning back at him. It took him in the gut and laid him on his back. Amazed, he stared up at the shining blade at his neck.

  The stadium was so quiet that only the sound of the wind howling against the supports could be heard.

  “Winner! Ragnar Hillman!” the crier finally yelled, and the crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

  Whill could hear whispers of “The legends are true,” and “His power is like that of a dwarven blessed.”

  He looked to Roakore once again, but quickly turned away, seeing how the vein in his friend’s forehead seemed about to explode.

  Ragnar helped the knight to his feet and offered a nod of respect before turning and facing Whill’s balcony. The young man strode forth and stopped, stabbing his sword in the sand and taking a knee. “My king, I am the last of my people. I promised my father on his deathbed that I would fight for the legendary Whill of Agora. I give you my blade, and my undying loyalty, until such time as death or my good king releases me from my oath. Though I hope that it is death first.”

  Whill stood and walked to the edge of the balcony. He glanced around at the crowd, who stood, shock-jawed and staring at him.

  What the hell, he thought and summoned the power stored in his blade to levitate over the rail and lower himself to the sand. The crowd gasped, some of them having never seen him perform elven magic.

  Whill landed before the kneeling man and regarded him wi
th a grin. He unsheathed his father’s sword and let the sound ring out through the arena. “Ragnar Hillman, son of Agrath Hillman, I name you a knight of Uthen-Arden,” he said, moving his sword over one shoulder and then the other. “From this day forth you shall be known as Sir Ragnar!”

  Tears shimmered in the man’s eyes as he stared up at his king. The crowd cheered, and Whill raised a hand.

  “Rise, Sir Ragnar.”

  Ragnar stood and towered over his king. Whill glanced up at him and offered a nod of respect. Indeed, the man was nearer to seven feet than six. “Thank you, my king. You will not live to regret your decision.”

  To Ragnar’s surprise, Whill shook his hand and then raised it to the screaming crowd. Whill let the man bask in his glory for a minute before raising his hands to quiet the crowd once more. “Now, another reward for defeating a knight of Uthen-Arden, bring the scales!”

  The crowd, who had already been on their feet stomping and cheering, now whistled and clapped, chanting, “Sir Ragnar!”

  The large wooden scales were brought out, and Ragnar took a seat in one of the baskets. A wagon came out of the gate, and soldiers began stacking sacks of gold coins into the empty basket at the other end of the long pole.

  “Count with me!” Whill bade the crowd, and together they began to tally up the ten-pound gold sacks.

  “One, two, three, four!”

  Whill could not help a smile, knowing how ridiculous Ragnar felt in the little basket, and how elated he felt as well. When the count reached twenty, everyone watched on excitedly as another, and yet another was added.

  “Twenty-four, twenty-five! Twenty-six!” everyone cheered, and the beam finally leveled out.

  “Two hundred and sixty pounds of gold, and every ounce worth it, I say!” said Whill, and the crowd laughed and cheered.

  Once the gold was removed and Ragnar climbed out of the basket, Whill put an arm over Ragnar’s big shoulder and waited for the crowd to settle. “What will you do with such a fortune?” he asked merrily.

  “I have heard tales of you secretly handing out gold to the commoners of Fendale after your victory against Rhunis,” said Ragnar, taking a knee once more. “I would do the same, with all of it. If it pleases my king.”