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

by Ploof,Michael James

  “Is she alive?” Whill asked Roakore.

  The dwarf spun wildly, tears of rage welling in his eyes. “Ye got to help her!”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, looking at Silverwind through mind sight. “I can mend her woun—”

  Just then, a bolt of lightning hit the ground at the center of the group, sending them all flying in different directions. Whill landed ten feet away, smoldering. He fought against the pain, calling upon his sword for strength as he got to his feet. He looked for the others and found that they were being quickly surrounded by hundreds of angry elven spirits.

  “Back!” came a voice in the night.

  As one, the spirits stopped and searched out the source of the voice. Whill too scoured the ruins as he stumbled toward the closest of his friends. “Zerafin, are you alright?”

  Zerafin let himself be helped to stand and searched the night as well. “That voice,” he said, almost whispering.

  “Back with you! Back to the spirit world!”

  The lightning had stopped, and the rain let up suddenly. The elven spirits looked to the west, where there stood a glowing figure upon the remains of a tower.

  “It can’t be,” said Zerafin. His face, which had been tortured with pain only moments ago, was now filled with hope and wonder.

  The spirits began to wink out as the figure commanded them once more. “As your king, I command you back to the spirit world!”

  With that proclamation, the rest of the spirits shifted back to their plane. Zerafin stepped forward through the rubble, coming to stand at the base of the crumbled tower. He looked up reverently, tears streaming down his face.

  “Father, is that you?”

  Chapter 36

  The Lost King of Drindellia

  Whill had once seen a painting of Verelas. In it, he stood upon a cliff overlooking the ocean. At his feet were dozens of dead draggard and dark elves. His hair had been dark like his daughter’s, and his eyes as fierce as his son’s. In his left hand he held a circular shield, and in his right a glowing sword of power.

  The figure standing high on the crumbled tower pulled back his hood, and Whill saw that indeed it was Verelas.

  “Whill!”

  He jerked his head toward Roakore, who was kneeling beside Silverwind and holding her head in his lap.

  “Hurry, before it is too late!”

  Whill rushed over, leaving Zerafin and the ghost of the last king of Drindellia behind. When he reached Silverwind, he searched her body for injuries, but he saw no blood. He looked with mind sight instead, and a dozen glowing wounds could be seen.

  “Try to keep her calm,” he told Roakore and focused his healing energy on the dying silver hawk.

  “You cannot heal the spirit as you would the body. This is beyond you,” said Gretzen.

  Whill retracted the glowing blue tendrils of healing energy.

  “Can you help her?” Roakore asked.

  Whill had never seen him so concerned.

  “I can, but it will take time,” said Gretzen.

  “Then what we be waitin’ for?”

  Gretzen looked to him with sympathy in her old eyes. She looked tired, and Whill knew that she must have used most of her energy fighting the spirits, for she looked doubtful.

  “I can offer you the strength that you need,” said Whill.

  “Thank you. For this I will need all the strength that you can muster. The spirit world calls to her,” she said, turning to Roakore. “See to it that you remind her why she should stay.”

  “I got this,” said Roakore, holding up a clear vial with a golden liquid inside. “It be the blood o’ Zalenlia herself. I held onto it for a rainy day.” He laughed weakly at that and wiped his nose, sniffling. “Ye think it’ll help?”

  “It will help a great deal. Do as I have asked, speak to her, ask her to resist the pull of the spirit world, and I will get to work.”

  Roakore nodded and stroked his bird’s soft neck. “Ye hear that, Silverwind? The barbarian lady means to fix ye up right proper. Stay with me.”

  “You,” said Gretzen to Raene. “I once said that you possessed my gift. Now is the time to use it. Come.”

  Raene looked to Gretzen with some apprehension, but seeing Roakore torn up as he was, she agreed.

  “Is there anything that I can do?” Ragnar asked.

  “We need wood for fire, a very large fire,” said Gretzen.

  Ragnar nodded and hurried to the task. Whill glanced back toward Zerafin and found that his father’s spirit stood before him with a hand on his shoulder. Lunara had joined them, and she knelt before the king of the elves as well. Verelas raised his head then, and Whill froze beneath his gaze. Verelas seemed to be taking a measure of him.

  “Come,” he said.

  Whill swallowed hard. He wondered if Verelas knew of his marriage to Avriel. His feet brought him to stand before the king, but he felt as though he floated the distance. Verelas shimmered in armor the color of silver moonlight. Sparks danced and floated about the armor, and great power could be felt emanating from him.

  “King Verelas,” said Whill, taking a knee.

  “Whillhelm Warcrown. The spirits speak of you with great reverence.”

  Whill didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

  “They say that you are a king among kings, that you defeated the deceiver Eadon.”

  “I did, sir.”

  Verelas loomed over him. He was tall, even for an elf, and his gaze was piercing, as though it saw past flesh and bone, right through to the soul.

  “Thank you,” said Verelas, surprising Whill with a smile.

  “I thank you, great king, for saving us from the spirits.”

  “Yes, the spirits,” said Verelas with a scowl of concern. “They were sent to attack you by Eldarian. He will strike again before you reach the mountain.”

  “What do you know of Eldarian?”

  “I have told my son what I know. I haven’t much time, I would say one last thing.”

  Whill noticed how Verelas was beginning to fade. The elf gestured for Whill to stand, and he complied. He came only to the elf king’s chin, and he looked up into those piercing eyes bravely. Verelas’s face became stern, and he leaned in close.

  “Be good to my Avriel,” he said.

  Whill smiled, happy to know that Verelas seemed to approve of him. “If I make it back to Agora, I will do all that I can to bring her happiness.”

  Verelas nodded and turned to his son, who had gotten to his feet as well.

  “I am proud of you, son,” he said, putting a hand to Zerafin’s shoulder.

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  “Time takes us all, my son. Some day you will join your mother and I. But you have much to do before that day comes. I see greatness in you.”

  Verelas flickered and was gone.

  “Father!” said Zerafin, reaching into the empty space where his father had stood.

  Whill looked to Lunara, who still knelt beside them with tears of joy streaming down her face. He put a hand upon Zerafin’s shoulder and squeezed softly.

  “Are you alright?”

  Zerafin recovered quickly and straightened. He turned to Whill and raised the sword laid across his hands. It glowed with power that Whill did not need mind sight to see.

  “It is my father’s blade. Salerev. It is now a spirit blade.”

  “I’m glad for you,” said Whill. “I know what it means to speak with a lost father. You are blessed.”

  “I believe that you are right,” said Zerafin, smiling.

  “Stay with me, ye blasted bird!” Roakore cried.

  They rushed over to see what was happening and found Gretzen in the midst of a frantic chant. Her eyes popped open suddenly and she looked, wild-eyed, to Whill, Zerafin, and Lunara.

  “Join hands, make a circle around the bird! There isn’t much time! She must me surrounded by the living to ward off the dead.”

  They did as she asked, and soon Whill, Roakore, Zerafin
, Lunara, and Ragnar had created a circle around Silverwind. Raene remained outside the circle, holding Gretzen’s free hand and repeating her chanted words while the old Vald barbarian tossed one ingredient after the other into the fire.

  “Spirit of the silver hawk, we beg that you help your daughter remain in the physical plane. Give to her your strength. Give to her your grace. Help me to heal her spirit and soul, so that she might again fly high above the clouds.”

  Gretzen repeated the chant over and over again. The wind rose and howled through the ancient ruins as the clouds above parted and the moon shone through, bathing the bird in light that caused her silver wings to glow brightly. Gretzen touched Whill’s head, and everyone in the circle jolted as their energy was passed through Whill and into her. She cried out her plea to the spirit of the silver hawk and speckled the fire with the blood of Zalenlia. It roared and turned blue, green, yellow, and then gold.

  With shaking hands, Gretzen took up her gnarled walking stick and plunged it into the fire. It did not burn, but began to glow bright gold.

  “Break the circle, make way!” she told the others.

  They all moved to let her pass, and she carried the humming stick to Silverwind. Whill watched with mind sight as Gretzen touched the stick to Silverwind’s many wounds. Upon the contact, the glowing wounds winked out. When she was done, she turned on Roakore and nodded, glancing at the place where the spirit blade of one of the elven ghosts had pierced him.

  Roakore nodded understanding and allowed her to touch him with the healing stick as well. He sighed when it touched him, and he stood up a bit straighter.

  Suddenly, Silverwind rose to her feet and shook out her feathers, giving a musical coo.

  Gretzen wavered and stumbled, and was caught up in Roakore’s strong arms. He hugged her, even kissed her cheek. “Thank you, thank you for saving Silverwind.”

  She waved him off weakly and looked to Silverwind. “She must rest. We all must rest. Bring me to the shelter.”

  She was right. Even Whill felt spent after the hour-long ritual. They returned to the chamber amidst the ruins and finally made camp for the night, confident that Zorriaz would alert them to trouble.

  Chapter 37

  Velk’Har

  The morning brought drizzling rain, and though the clouds still blanketed the sky, they were a light gray, rather than the angry dark churning clouds of the night before. As the group packed up to leave for the final leg of the journey to Velk’Har, Whill approached Zerafin, who had been quiet since his encounter with the ghost of his father.

  “Zerafin, how are you holding up?”

  Zerafin smiled, despite his melancholy. “You know, I had always thought, or hoped, that my father had survived somehow. It is part of the reason that I waited so long to take the throne of Elladrindellia, and also one of the reasons that I came here those months ago. I see now that I was wrong.”

  “Look at the bright side. At least you got to speak to him one last time,” said Whill.

  “Yes,” said Zerafin, smiling. “That is fortunate.”

  “What did he tell you about Eldarian?”

  Zerafin glanced northeast, and a shadow of doubt stole away his smile. “Eldarian is gaining strength by the hour. His prison is weakening. Father said to be ready for more attacks, for Eldarian seeks freedom, and he will do everything in his power to stop us from reaching him in time.”

  Whill nodded, suspecting as much. “I should have left Agora sooner. I have been selfish.”

  “None of that now,” said Zerafin. “Let us focus on the task at hand.”

  They left shortly after, and Silverwind seemed eager to fly once more. She didn’t appear any worse for wear, but Gretzen had warned Roakore to pay attention to the bird’s behavior.

  To Whill’s relief, the rest of the journey to Velk’Har was an uneventful one. They flew all day and night, not wanting to risk camping out in the open in the strange land, and reached the mountain range by sunrise.

  As the first rays of light lit up the overcast sky to the east, the highest peak came into view. Roakore gave a cheer that was quickly taken up by Raene, and the two dwarves raced toward the mountain home of the first dwarf king of Agora.

  “Will ye look at that, Raene! It be glorious!” said Roakore as he gazed upon the mammoth mountain range.

  “They be the highest peaks I ever seen!” said Raene.

  “It be lookin’ like the Mountain o’ the Gods from me dreams.”

  The clouds to the east suddenly parted, and the first rays of sunlight that they had seen since reaching Drindellia shone upon the majestic mountain range.

  Whill smiled to himself. Indeed, it looked like a dream landscape. Fog surrounded the base of the range, rolling in from the long stretching valley and curling up at the foot of the mountains like soft rolling waves. The peak of the highest mountain became visible as the clouds parted, and Whill noted its impossible height. No mountain of Agora came close to the majesty of Velk’Har, and the closer they got to the legendary mountain range, the more imposing it became.

  Roakore steered them for the highest mountain, and soon a multitude of dragons came into view. Whill spurred Zorriaz to hurry and catch up to the dwarf, whose blood was surely boiling at the sight.

  “Roakore!” said Whill as Zorriaz paced Silverwind. “Roakore!” he yelled again over the wind.

  The dwarf glanced at him, his brow furled in a deep scowl. “Aye?”

  “Let me do the talking, please. Zalenlia will listen.”

  “Aye,” said Roakore, looking to be trying to control himself.

  Whill spotted Zalenlia standing upon a wide ridge halfway up the side of the tall mountain. Dozens of dragons were with her, representing every color and breed. She greeted them with a soft, deep purring that shook the stone and bowed her head slightly when they landed.

  “Whillhelm War—”

  “Listen here, dragon!” said Roakore, leaping off Silverwind and storming across the stone to stand bravely before her. “This be a dwarf mountain. And I ain’t standin’ for yer kind bein’ here.”

  “Roakore…” said Whill, hurrying to get between them.

  “It is quite alright,” said Zalenlia. “As I have said before, we do not want war, but peace.”

  Roakore stammered, surprised by her words. “Then ye be recognizin’ this as dwarven land?”

  “I do. Whill expressed that you would be upset by our being here, and though it is the ancient breeding ground of my kind, I will forfeit our claim. We are only here because I told Whill to meet me here. As soon as I leave to accompany you to Eldarian’s prison, the others will leave as well.”

  Roakore eyed her suspiciously, having clearly expected resistance. Raene too stood ready with mace and shield, eyeing the dragons with apprehension.

  “Right then!” said Roakore, eyeing the surrounding dragons. “Ye be hearin’ that? Yer queen be forfeitin’ ye dragons’ claim to this here mountain range. Let it be known from now to the end o’ time. This be a dwarf mountain!”

  “They have heard you,” said Zalenlia. “And they have heard me as well. Rest assured that you will find no trouble here.”

  “Where will you go?” Whill asked, knowing that they had thousands of eggs with them.

  “Far to the east. The elves have returned to Drindellia, and the dwarves as well. Soon the humans will come. This is a large continent, and we ask only that the far east be recognized as dragon territory.”

  Whill looked to Roakore and Zerafin in turn, gauging their reaction.

  “Our people wish for peace as well,” said Zerafin. “And as their king, I acknowledge your claim, and give my word that you will find no trouble from the elves, assuming none is given.”

  “I promise the same,” said Whill, though he was no longer a king of men.

  Everyone looked to Roakore, who shifted uncomfortably. “Bah,” he said at length. “We got no interest in the far east, less there be a mountain range there.”

  “Roakore…” s
aid Whill pensively.

  “Do you assume that dwarves have claim over every mountain in the world?” Zalenlia asked.

  Raene stepped forward bravely and puffed out her chest. “It be known that the dragons hid away the treasures o’ the gods out o’ jealousy. And it be our duty to unearth them treasures!”

  “I can assure you that no such thing ever happened,” said Zalenlia. “Precious minerals are always found beneath the earth, because that is where they are created. The dragons of old did not hide them there.”

  “Blasphemy! Lies!” Raene cried.

  “It be the word o’ Ky’Dren,” Roakore added.

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Whill. He doubted that there was any truth in the dwarven legend of the dragons, but he wasn’t about to tell the dwarves that. As ridiculous as the claim might be, it was one that they held as the absolute truth, and to try and convince them otherwise was futile. “Can we at least agree on an armistice, for now?”

  Zalenlia nodded and growled. “I want only peace, as I have said.”

  Whill looked to Roakore and Raene, who were red-faced and rigid. “Well?”

  Roakore let out a sigh and glanced at Raene. “For now, there be a truce. But I can’t be speakin’ for the future generations o’ dwarves. The great Ky’Dren said it be the will o’ the gods that we claim every mountain that we be findin’. It be our birthright.”

  “We have used the safety of the mountains as breeding grounds since the dawn of time,” said Zalenlia. “I have offered to leave this mountain out of respect for Whill, and out of a want for peace. But I must warn you, resistance will be met if the dwarves venture to the eastern reaches of this land.”

  “Duly noted,” said Roakore before spitting on the ground.

  Whill glanced from dragon to dwarf, hoping that the pissing match was over. The two glared at each other, but no more words were spoken. “Very well then. Let us prepare.”