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

by Ploof,Michael James

  He placed the crown atop his son’s head, and Helzendar rose slowly.

  “All hail Helzendar, tenth king o’ the Ro’Sar Mountains!” Roakore declared, and slammed his fist to his chest before taking a knee.

  The crowd repeated the proclamation, offering their new king the sign of respect and falling to their knees before him.

  Chapter 29

  The Dreaded Day

  To Whill, time was a raging river, rushing him swiftly toward a waterfall. He tried to take in every moment with the newborns, tried to burn them into his memory. The days slipped through his fingers like the ash of a campfire long gone cold, and the weeks soon followed. Before he knew it, a month had passed.

  Abe and Arra were growing fast. Their hair had filled out, and their eyes were at times bright with wonder. They smiled often, and laughed when Whill played with them—which was as often as possible. Although Abe was the calmer of the two, Arra was often the first to achieve milestones in mental development. While Abe would easily fall asleep to his singing mother’s voice, Arra would grab for her mother’s mouth, curious as to how the sounds were made.

  By two months, Arra was trying to mimic her mother. She was already forming consonants and cooing her own little songs. Abe thought that it was all very funny, and would laugh continuously while his sister babbled.

  Those short months were the happiest that Whill had ever known, even with the looming shadow of his fate hanging over them like a threatening storm cloud.

  But the day finally came when he had to leave. It was a day that he had dreaded for so long that when it finally came, he felt as much relief as sorrow. His determination had become such that he began to think that maybe, just maybe, it was possible to somehow thwart Kellallea’s plans for him. It would take complete control to contain the power that he was sure to absorb from Eldarian, and there would be precious seconds for him to act. If he could somehow strengthen the godly prison with his power, while at the same time destroying Kellallea, he might have a chance.

  “There you are,” said Kellallea as she entered the nursery.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you, you looked so peaceful.”

  Avriel joined him on the balcony and kissed him deeply. “Why would I want to sleep in on the day that you leave for Drindellia?”

  Whill had no answer. Suddenly he could not speak beyond the lump of sorrow growing in his throat. Seeing this, Avriel hugged him tight, and together they remained, as though they could ignore the world and the terrible quest before him, if only they never let go.

  Finally, however, Whill pulled out of the hug and kissed his wife goodbye.

  “Have you said goodbye to the children?” Avriel asked, looking to the sleeping twins.

  “I have.”

  Avriel nodded, her tears welling.

  “I will return, Avriel. I will find a way.”

  She brightened at that, though Whill guessed that it was only for his benefit. She was scared. And though he was loath to admit it, even to himself, so was he.

  “I know you will. You always find a way.”

  Whill kissed her again, and though he would have liked to hold her one last time, he knew that if he did, he would never be able to let her go.

  He kissed Abe and Arra gently and turned from the nursery without another word.

  The ships waited for him at Queen’s Landing, north of Cerushia. The day was chill, and a blanket of gray covered the sky. In the distance, he could see a rainstorm far out to sea—in the direction that they would be headed.

  As he and Ragnar rode down to the beach, Whill fought the urge to turn his horse around and fly back to the palace. There was so much that he had meant to say, so much that he wanted Avriel to know. He hadn’t been able to find his words when they parted, but now they spilled into his mind. He could have told her with his mind, but the words would only be cheapened by the distance. For they were words meant to be said face to face.

  “I had a dream last night,” said Ragnar beside him.

  Whill blinked and looked to the man, whose eyes held the ocean steadily.

  “Sorry?”

  “I had a dream. In it, you were returning victorious. I believe it was springtime.”

  Whill sighed. “Well, let’s hope that your dreams come true.”

  “They often do, sire.”

  “I am no longer king,” Whill reminded him. “You can call me Whill.”

  “You’re still my king, sire.”

  Whill left it at that. Ragnar was a valiant man. He not only reminded Whill of Abram, but Rhunis as well. There hadn’t been much time to get to know the man, given that Whill had spent nearly every waking hour with the twins, but he liked Ragnar, and he trusted him.

  Setting his sights on the harbor, Whill noted the large dwarven warship that he knew housed silver hawks, and an elven ship as well. Dirk had offered ten Uthen-Arden ships to accompany Whill, but he had declined, hoping to spare the loss of innocent lives. The dwarven ship held at least a hundred stout dwarves, but they were not to accompany him to the dark mountain; they would be setting up the first of the dwarven outposts in Drindellia. The elves also had their own agenda, and were going along not only to see Whill safely across the sea, but also to fortify the outpost that Zerafin was supposed to have built on his arrival.

  Zorriaz flew overhead, and Whill jerked to search her saddle, hoping to find Avriel riding upon it. But she was not to be seen.

  As they crested the last dune leading to the wide beach, Whill noticed Tarren standing with Lunara. She held her lips tight, appearing to have just told Tarren goodbye, and feeling sorry for the lad. He was the picture of misery, and had even dressed in his cadet training armor. In his right hand he held the staff Oakenheart, which Lunara had made for him, and which no longer held magical power. Tarren had begged to be allowed on the quest, but as with Avriel, Whill had said no. He had enough to worry about without fretting over Tarren’s safety.

  Whill dismounted, handing over the reins to an elven guard and walking to stand before Tarren.

  “I want to go with you,” said Tarren, squaring his shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  “I know that you think you are, but—”

  “Helzendar has been made king of Ro’Sar in Roakore’s stead, and he’s not much older than me. Surely if he is fit to be king, I can go on a simple quest.”

  “This isn’t a simple quest, Tarren. Besides, I need you to watch over the twins.”

  “No you don’t,” said Tarren, shaking his head and clenching his jaw. “You’re just trying to placate me.”

  “Tarren…” said Whill with a heavy sigh. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and took a knee before him. “I know how you feel, trust me. As I’ve told you before, you must be patient. You are not ready, and I will not put your life in danger to satisfy your sense of adventure.”

  “But—”

  “Enough of this. I have made my decision.”

  Tarren bowed his head and tears shimmered in his eyes. “Yes sir,” he mumbled.

  Whill lifted the boy’s chin and looked him in the eye. “I love you, Tarren, you know that. And I look forward to having you at my side one day…when you are a man. Do not be so hasty for adventure and danger, for it will come soon enough.”

  Tarren nodded and hugged Whill fiercely. “Good luck on your quest,” said the lad with a cracking voice.

  “Thank you, Tarren.”

  Whill stood and nodded to Lunara, letting his eyes tell her that he was ready.

  She returned the gesture and looked once more to Tarren, offering him a brave smile.

  Together, Whill, Lunara, and Ragnar boarded a rowboat and were soon ferried to the waiting elven ship. Roakore greeted him from the dwarven ship with a hearty “Hoo-ra!” and a wave, which should have done something to lighten Whill’s mood, but it did not.

  “The day has arrived,” said Azzeal, who, along with the towering Gretzen, would be traveling on the elven ship as well.

  “Indeed, it has,” sa
id Whill. “Thank you for coming, both of you.”

  They offered him a nod, and he turned to address the captain. “Take her out!”

  As the elven and dwarven ships pulled out of the harbor, Whill glanced back at the Agoran coast. There upon the cliff of the rocky northern shore stood Avriel. Her cloak blew in the wind, and in her hands she held Arra and Abe.

  Whill waved to them, and Avriel returned the gesture, blowing him a kiss as well. His throat tightened and he blinked through teary eyes, wanting to burn the image in his brain, and promising himself that it would not be the last time he saw them.

  Chapter 30

  The Quest Begins

  The first day of the long journey across the ocean was a sorrowful affair for Whill. Ragnar tried to lift his spirits with small talk, but as night fell, Whill retired to his quarters to be alone. The old excitement of adventure eluded him. When once he would have welcomed such a danger-fraught journey, now he dreaded it. He wanted nothing more than to be back with his family. How many months would he be away? And more importantly, would he even make it back?

  It had been much easier being a warrior when he had nothing to lose. But now that he was a husband and father, he had gained a newfound respect for soldiers who went to war and left their loved ones behind.

  Sleep eluded him that night, and he lay staring at the dark ceiling, all but ignorant of the bobbing of the large vessel on the calm waters. His mind raced for a way to defeat Kellallea, but the goddess shared a dangerous link with Avriel, and possibly the twins as well. She had promised him that if he tried anything, she would kill them all. Avriel clung to the hope that the gods of men, elves, and dwarves would intervene, but Whill had little confidence in such an outcome. Although he was said to be the champion of the human god, Whill had never been approached by the deity. For whatever reason, he had been forsaken. Granted, it seemed apparent that he had been blessed with the powers of old, but he enjoyed none of the guidance that he thought might come from such an important station.

  The gods remained silent to him, as ever they had.

  Perhaps it was out of fear of weakening Eldarian’s prison, perhaps not. Perhaps the gods cared not at all for Whill’s plight, as long as he took the place of the ancient elf, accepting the mantle of darkness and going quietly into his eternal prison.

  What would that entail, he wondered?

  He hadn’t given much thought to the power that he would possess once he faced Eldarian. He had held the power of a god in his hands for only a short time, but the memory was still fresh on his mind. Indeed, it excited him to imagine holding such power once again, and it terrified him as well.

  Would he be instantly consumed by the power of the mantle? Would he retain any of his former self? Or would he become consumed by the darkness? Whill understood little about the mantle, and he had learned nothing from the elves or their ancient tomes.

  When the room brightened with the first rays of morning sunlight, Whill roused himself from bed.

  Stepping out on deck, he looked behind him and to the west, and was saddened to see that the coast of Agora was no longer visible.

  “Good morning, sire,” said Ragnar from the poop deck. He strode down the stairs and motioned to the sails, which flopped haphazardly for lack of wind. “It’ll prove a long journey if this wind doesn’t pick up.”

  “Right you are,” said Whill and walked up to the stairs to the upper deck. “Let’s see if we can’t remedy that.”

  Whill focused his mind on the mild breeze. With mind sight, he could make out the hot and cold currents flirting in the air all around the ships. He summoned his inner strength, focusing on the currents, and pulling them toward the ships, while at the same time heating the air around the ocean. Whill had been storing power in his father’s blade for the coming journey, and he used a small amount of it to create a gust that began far behind the last vessel. Soon the sails were full, and the two ships were crashing through the choppy waters.

  Whill kept it up for nearly half an hour before needing to stop for fear of using too much of what little stored energy he had, but by then the wind had picked up on its own. Sheathing his blade, he noticed Roakore at the wheel of the long dwarven ship and offered the dwarf a nod. Roakore waved and pointed to Silverwind, who was being saddled and prepared for flight.

  Zorriaz, said Whill to her mind, might I fly with you?

  The white dragon was flying far ahead, but she acknowledged his request with a distant roar and turned in her flight.

  Roakore and Whill flew together most of the morning and afternoon. They flew so high that the air became thin and the curve of the horizon could be easily seen. They saw no land ahead or behind, and no foreign ships, just the never-ending aqua blue of the ocean. The light-blue sky stretched cloudless as far as the eye could see.

  Near dinner time Roakore signaled Whill to follow him to the dwarven ship, yelling over the wind something about whiskey and beef. Whill’s stomach growled at the thought, for he had not eaten since leaving Cerushia, and the wind magic that he had performed had left him famished.

  Whill dared not land Zorriaz on the dwarven ship, but rather leapt off as she flew over it and landed in a crouch upon deck. A great cheer went up when Roakore landed as well, and the dwarves tossed back their flasks—they were always looking for a reason to have a taste, and the return of their king was as good an excuse as any.

  “Aye, lad, join me for dinner,” said Roakore, handing off the reins to a waiting stable dwarf and heading for his quarters below deck. “I got me some beef needs eatin’ and a cask o’ Northern Ky’Dren rum needs tappin’.”

  Whill followed Roakore into his quarters below the poop deck and made himself comfortable at the small table set beside the large windows facing aft. Across the room was a large and heavily stocked bar, which was of no surprise. The walls were adorned with shields crossed with axes, along with long halberds and spears. A dragon horn hung on the wall as well, long and green it was, and curved like a drawn bow.

  “Here ye be, wet yer whistle with some o’ this,” said Roakore, handing him a glass of rum.

  “Thank you.”

  “To new discovery,” said Roakore, holding his glass high.

  Together they drank, and afterward Roakore ordered his cooks to bring them both a plate of rare steak and salted potatoes. As they waited for the food, Roakore settled into his seat with a small groan, which was a testament to his one hundred-plus years.

  They made small talk while they waited, and soon the food arrived, hot and steaming. Roakore tucked in his beard and stuffed a napkin in his collar before cutting himself a big peace of grizzled beef and popping it in his mouth.

  “I got to tell ya, Whill. My comin’ along ain’t just to be helpin’ ye out against Eldarian.”

  “No?” said Whill, suspecting as much.

  “Nay. After all this mantle o’ darkness business be through, I plan on reclaimin’ the mountain home o’ Ky’Dren, the one mentioned in his tome. I got me a map, and know just where the mountain lay.”

  Whill had feared that Roakore would say that. He stuffed his mouth with food and nodded, not wanting to tell Roakore about Zalenlia’s plans.

  “Well then. Did ye hear me?” Roakore pressed.

  “I did…I just…I have bad tidings.”

  “Aye, what’s this?”

  Whill swallowed down his food and put down his knife and fork. “Before we left Drakkar Island, I spoke with Zalenlia about her plans for the dragons.”

  “Aye, aye, I be knowin’ that they are headed to Drindellia. And so what? They won’t be no trouble. Ye said it yerself, Drindellia be huge. What are the odds that they’d—”

  “She intends on bringing them to the old migration site.”

  Roakore nearly choked on his steak. He sputtered and spat and swallowed it down hard. “She what!”

  “I’m sorry, Roakore. I should have told you this sooner. I knew that you might one day want to return to Ky’Dren’s home, but I had no idea i
t would be so soon.”

  “By Ky’Dren’s bloody axe, lad. Ye be godsdamned right ye shoulda told me sooner! Well, if they be thinkin’ that the dragons be holin’ up in me king and lord’s home mountain, they got another thing comin’! I won’t stand for it!”

  “I know, I’m sorry. She intends on going with us to face Eldarian. Please, let me speak to her before you do anything…rash.”

  “Rash? Rash? This be blasphemous! O’ course I be doin’ somethin’ rash. Those devils killed them all, drove them from their halls. And now they be bringin’ their eggs, thousands o’ ‘em, to hatch in the halls o’ me king!”

  “Let me speak to her. I know that she does not want war.”

  Roakore scowled at him. He was disappointed with Whill, and seemed more than a little hurt. He uncorked the bottle of rum and didn’t bother pouring it, but rather took a hearty chug straight from the bottle before slamming it down on the table.

  “Ye go ahead and talk to her, But I be warnin’ ye, if ye can’t get them to leave, then we be makin’ ‘em leave!”

  “Of course,” said Whill with a respectful nod. “And again, I’m sorry for not mentioning it sooner.”

  Roakore gave a dismissive grunt and refilled both their glasses. “I suppose ye’ve had enough on yer mind, what with the twins and all, and not to mention this impossible quest ye be tasked with.”

  “There is no excuse, Roakore.”

  “Bah, apology accepted,” said Roakore with a dismissive wave.

  When nothing but bones remained on Roakore’s plate, he pushed it back with a contented sigh and loosed his belt before packing a pipe. “I tell ye, Whill,” he said, between puffing up the cherry. “I ain’t been this excited about nothin’ since the reclamation o’ Ro’Sar. Imagine it, me as the first new king o’ Velk’Har.”

  “I would like to see that.”

  “Aye, lad, I dare say that ye will. Ye ain’t alone in this, ye be knowin’. Together we’ll defeat this Eldarian.”

  “Even so, once we have, I am to take up the mantle. For the power cannot be allowed to be unleashed into the world.”