DESIRED (Book #5)
BETROTHED (Book #6)
VOWED (Book #7)
FOUND (Book #8)
RESURRECTED (Book #9)
CRAVED (Book #10)
FATED (Book #11)
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WHILL OF AGORA
Michael J. Ploof
Chapter I
The Travelers
THE FULL MOON LINGERED LIKE a magnificent pearl in an ocean of black. Fresh snow gave a faint crunch as the riders’ horses made their way down the old road. Cold, tired, and hungry, Whill and Abram rode silently toward Fendale.
Usually they would make camp with the setting of the sun, but not tonight. The storm they had encountered the previous two days had set them back many hours.
“We should still be in time for the Winter’s End Celebration,” Whill said.
“As long as we do not wander into another of those damned storms, we should be plenty early,” answered Abram as he scoured the woods. Something was on his mind, but Whill did not bother wondering what; he had thoughts of his own, like the feast they would enjoy the next night, and the music. The Winter’s End Celebration of Fendale was always a great treat. It had been going on as long as anyone could remember. People came from all surrounding towns and villages to take part. Abram had brought Whill when he was only eleven years old, and Whill had marveled at all the dancers, jugglers, acrobats, and animal tamers that had performed. The knights of Eldalon had put on a mock battle, and Whill sat in awe for hours watching them dual and joust. He had read their history in the books Abram had given him as a young child. To see them in person had been a surreal experience. The celebration had lasted all day and long into the night. The food had been fit for kings, and the children had received candy. Whill, now nineteen years old, was no less excited than he had been when he was eleven.
“Do you think that King Mathus will attend this year?” wondered Whill. Abram did not reply. He lifted his hand, motioning Whill to stop. Whill gently slowed his horse and was about to ask what was wrong when Abram put a finger to his lips.
Whill surveyed the surrounding forest, but saw only the silhouettes of trees and the darkness beyond. Pine branches bent under the weight of the snow, as did the birches, which in some spots bowed down almost to the road. It was a world of white and black, shadows and moonlights. Minutes passed, but still, Whill neither saw nor heard anything. He looked over at Abram, who sat like a statue upon his steed. Something indeed was wrong. Abram was not suffering from his usual excess of paranoia; it was too quiet. Lost in his thoughts of Fendale, Whill had not noticed until now. In an almost inaudible whisper, Abram told him to ready his bow. He did so as silently as he could, with a sudden and intense feeling that someone was watching, waiting. He resisted the urge to turn and look, and sat as still as he could— bow in hand, his arrow ready. Abram had also readied his bow, and with a quick dart of his eyes, indicated a part of the woods in front and to the left of them. Whill peered at the spot and, at first, saw nothing; then he spotted sudden movement beyond the trees. It was a strange black shape, quick and silent, darting from behind one tree to hide behind another. It moved like a shadow, and Whill would have mistaken it for one if not for the moonlight reflected in its eyes. Whill’s horse gave a whine and began to stir, now alert to some danger. With a jerk Abram turned to scowl at the scared beast, and as he did the forest erupted with movement.
Abram hollered, “Ride, boy, ride!”
His heart hammering in his ears, Whill kicked the flanks of the horse, which was eager to comply. As it began to speed into a full gallop, Whill saw five black wolves dart out of the woods in front of them with alarming speed. Without looking he knew that more raced at them from behind. Before he could think he let loose an arrow at the closest wolf. With a cry the beast went headfirst into the snow, the arrow protruding from its neck. Even before the blood could flow, Whill had pulled another arrow, and Abram took down another of the approaching pack.
Instead of scaring the remaining beasts, the fall of the two wolves only seemed to infuriate them. Baring teeth, they charged ever faster toward the riders. In unison Whill and Abram let loose their arrows and dropped the two closest wolves. Whill reached for another arrow to take down the last wolf when suddenly two more jumped at Abram’s horse. Teeth snapping, they bit fiercely at its legs. A terrible cry issued from the horse as yet another wolf attacked; distracted by the others, they had not seen it coming. The wolf jumped, its jaws snapping at the face of Whill’s horse. He struggled to stay mounted and lost hold of his bow as the horse reared, almost throwing him to the ground. Alert to his trouble, Abram shot the wolf in the side as it rebounded and prepared to lunge once more. Whill was now facing the right side of Abram’s horse, whose legs were being ripped apart by the other three attacking wolves. It jumped and kicked as it tried to throw off the beasts, but they were too many. Whill drew his sword, ready to charge, when another wolf attacked his own horse from behind. He turned to see it clawing its way up his horse’s back and, with a swift blow, chopped its head clean off. He turned and, to his horror, saw Abram’s horse go down under the relentless attack. Immediately, the three wolves lunged on top of him. Jumping from his horse, Whill could not see his friend— only thick black coats of matted fur, thrashing and jerking where he had been.
With a cry, Whill attacked with his sword, and in a frenzy of slashing metal, blood, and flying fur, he quickly killed the beasts. In his fury, he barely heard a low growl behind him. He turned to see a nightmarish sight— six more wolves less than ten feet away. They stood, hair raised, teeth bared, ready to attack, and uttered low, menacing growls; all except the largest, which barked ravenously at him. Whill knew why they hadn’t yet attacked. They were afraid.
Not knowing if Abram was alive or dead, Whill was not afraid but angry. Rage welled in him and erupted into a primal scream. The wolves tensed and backed a step. “Come on!” he screamed, challenging the wolves. “Come on!”
The wolves backed up further, confused. They looked at each other, then at Whill, and then again at one another. Then the leader answered Whill’s challenge and charged straight at him. Drool falling from his open mouth, he lunged for Whill’s neck. The young traveler dropped to his knees and, as the wolf passed over him, gutted the beast from neck to tail—it landed in a dead heap. Another charged, and Whill impaled the beast with a sickening crunch. Heaving the limp wolf to the side he ran at the remaining four, eyes wild and his own growl now echoing through the forest.
With their leader dead, the wolves quickly retreated in the presence of this fearless foe. Whill ran after them, actually wishing they would fight. He was so enraged, he had forgotten about Abram.
As the wolves ran for the forest, Whill returned to his fallen friend. Abram was pinned under the great weight of his dying horse and three dead wolves. Whill heaved the beasts off and was devastated by what he saw. Blood covered every inch of Abram’s face. He knelt next to his injured friend, tears in his eyes, and began to wipe the blood away. Abram moaned and opened his eyes. Then, to Whill’s surprise, he smiled. “I thought we were in trouble there for a minute,” he said.
“Are you all right?”
“Knock it off,” Abram grumbled, swatting his hand away. “I’m hurt but I’m not dying. The blood is mostly from the wolves. Now help me get out from under this poor horse.”
Whill heaved the saddle in an attempt to lift the horse and free Abram’s leg, but to no avail.
“Don’t bother. My leg isn’t broken. Just help me pull it free before those damned wolves get their courage back.”
Whill pulled on Abram’s leg above the knee and, with many grunts and curses from his injured comrade, it came free.
He now saw the wounds on Abram’s arms; shreds of fabric hung from his sleeves, his hands were scratched and bloody, and large puncture wounds covered him where he had tried to fend off the beasts. Whill was amazed that Abram’s leg had not
broken, but he guessed it was on account of the soft snow. He took some clothes from his bags—to use as bandages—and a bottle of redclove.
“You did well,” said Abram as Whill began tearing the cloth into strips.
“Not well enough. You’re a bloody mess, and the horse is dead.”
“Stop being negative. It doesn’t become you.” Abram returned the smile. “You killed many wolves and haven’t a scratch. That’s quite a feat for any man.”
Whill began applying the redclove to Abram’s wounds. A quick hiss escaped him as the liquid touched his torn flesh. Redclove worked well on such wounds but burned like a hot brand.
“Besides, we still have your horse,” said Abram through clenched teeth. “She can carry us both, and we can get a good bit of money for those wolf hides.”
Whill marveled at the way Abram could always find good in anything. He thought of the time their boat had sunk in the ocean. With no land in sight and their cargo lost, Abram had said, “Well, at least we still have our arms to swim to shore.” Whill had almost drowned laughing. Now he could only smile and thank the gods that Abram was with him; to lose him would be to lose his whole world.
Abram had taken care of Whill since he was a baby. His earliest memories were of living in Sidnell, a small town on the eastern edge of Shierdon. Abram had entrusted him to his sister for most of his childhood. Whill called her Aunt Teera, and she was a stout woman with an even bigger heart. She was the healer of Sidnell, and he had lived comfortably with her and her three daughters until he was eleven.
Abram stayed with them often but was usually gone for months at a time. Whill would beg him to stay, but Abram would tell him he had to go, and that one day he would understand. Before leaving, Abram always gave Teera a list of things he wanted Whill to learn in his absence. In this way, he learned the medicinal and culinary uses of every herb and plant in the known lands.
When Abram was home he taught Whill a great many things. He learned to speak Elvish and Dwarvish, though he had never met anyone of either race. He also learned a great deal of the history of the kingdoms of Agora, and also about its peoples and geography. He learned sewing, cooking, tying a variety of knots, and countless other skills. He never complained but mastered all that was set before him—out of sheer love of learning and his own pleasure in making Abram proud.
Whill knew that Abram was not his father, for he had told him so when Whill was old enough to understand. When he asked who his parents were, Abram had only said, “I will tell you when you are ready, and I will judge when that time is. I know that it is the one answer you seek to know most, but you must trust me; some things in this world must not be known until the time is right. Bear no hard feelings for me because of this. I only do it to protect you.”
Whill had wondered about his true lineage since that day but never asked again, knowing Abram would not tell. Still, the question burned in him every day of his waking life. Perhaps it was this burden that led him to apply himself so strongly to learn all else that he did not know.
Eventually the day came when Abram said he was leaving again, but that this time Whill would go with him. On that warm June night, Abram took him to the seashore and said, “You have been very patient, and you are an excellent student. There is nothing more for you to learn from my books, and Teera has taught you much that I cannot. You are nearing manhood now, and I must now teach you how a man protects himself with the fist and blade, and how to live in the wild and on your own.”
From that day on Whill had been at Abram’s side as they traveled from one end of Agora to the other and back again. They sailed the seas together and braved the mountains, and always Whill was eager to learn more. Every day they sparred and practiced with fists and weapons. Abram had taught him to hunt, use a bow, throw a spear, use an axe, and wield a knife. Eventually Whill’s skill surpassed his own.
Now, sewing Abram’s larger gashes with needle and thread on this cold March night, that June day on the shore seemed like decades ago. Whill had become wise beyond his years and stronger than most his age. When he had finished suturing, he looked at his work. “They should heal with little scarring,” he said, and began to bandage Abram’s arms.
“You are one of the most skilled healers I know. I’m sure they will heal fine.” Abram grimaced as he put on an extra shirt and coat. “I will remove what supplies I can from my horse and make a fire while you skin all those hell-born wolves. I would help, but I don’t want to ruin your stitch work with too much movement.”
Whill collected the carcasses and went to work while Abram gathered his supplies and searched for wood dry enough to burn; with flint and dried moss from one of his bags, he managed a small fire. Whill worked tirelessly for hours until the first morning light appeared in the sky. When the last hide was finished, he washed his knife and arms with snow Abram had melted. After a breakfast of dried meat and cheese, they set out once again toward Fendale.
With two riders, the extra supplies, and ten wolf hides to carry, the horse’s pace was slow. “We are about twenty miles from Fendale,” Abram said. “At this pace we will be there in about seven hours, including a couple of breaks for our poor horse.”
“It will be nice to lie on a bed and eat warm food after that night.”
“Indeed it will.”
Chapter II
Fendale
THE SUN HUNG LOW IN the east, an orb of orange bringing warmth to the world below. The land was alive with the sounds of the wild. Birds flew from tree to tree singing their songs of joy, and squirrels scurried here and there, cheeks bulging with winter’s rare treasures. It was a landscape of pure white with a sky of clear blue, a pleasant change from the endless grey that had plagued the previous two days of travel. The storm they had encountered had not been typical for this time of year. Already it had begun to warm considerably, and in a few days the snow would melt and be gone.
“It will be a good night for the celebration,” Whill noted.
“That it will,” Abram agreed. “We should reach Fendale by noon and have plenty of time to rest, though I won’t be in any shape to dance. Shame, really. This celebration brings some of the finest ladies this side of the Ky’Dren Mountains.”
“You old dog. If you have half your usual charm they’ll be flocking regardless. Just don’t get us into the kind of trouble we had in Brindon. Steer clear of blacksmiths’ wives and we’ll be just fine.” Whill chuckled at the memory of it.
Abram laughed and started to make a rebuttal but could think of none.
“I’m surprised that after almost getting your arms ripped to bits, all you can think of is women and dancing.”
Abram smiled. “Life goes on. Those who dwell in the past have no future, as my father used to say. Besides, it could have been much worse.”
Whill looked forward to staying in the city. When not in the wild they stayed briefly in small, out-of-the-way towns throughout Agora. They had no true home, and swore allegiance to no one but each other. Abram kept them constantly on the move, never making themselves known in any place for too long. Life with Abram had the feeling of running away from something or someone. But Whill fancied his life of adventure and never questioned Abram’s motives. He knew that Abram hated the Uthen-Arden empire, for he regularly spoke of King Addakon of Arden with a mean tongue. King Addakon had come to rule after the death of his brother Aramonis not twenty years before. Within that year, the Ebony Mountains had been invaded by Draggard and thousands of dwarves slaughtered. There had been many battles between the peoples of Agora and the Draggard. Abram said that a great war was coming, that Addakon would see to it. He suspected that Addakon would move to conquer all of Agora and make it one kingdom under himself. Already there was strife between the kingdoms. It was for these reasons that Whill and Abram seldom traveled within the realm of Uthen-Arden. If they were to travel to Shierdon or Isladon, it would be by water rather than land.
They rode on; the hours passed. The rising sun brought small but welcome w
armth to the world. Stopping only twice for the sake of the horse, and for only a few minutes, they made good time. Soon Fendale was in sight, as was the coast.
“There it is,” said Abram with a smile. “The great coast city of Fendale.”
Whill had not laid eyes on the city in eight years, but he remembered it well. Now he looked upon it with the same awe he had as a child. Fendale sat upon the northern coast of Eldalon, and a large stone wall, thirty feet high, surrounded its entire border. At Fendale’s center stood a great lighthouse seven stories high, the oldest standing building in Fendale. The lighthouse, called by the people “the Light of the West,” was also home to Rogus, Lord of Fendale. The thriving coast city was a main source of trade for most of Agora. Its wealth was very evident in its beauty. The exterior wall boasted ten magnificently crafted mermaid statues, each more than fifty feet high. They lay with fins curled, long flowing hair falling over their breasts, watching guard over the city. Four looked west to the sea, and two each to the north, east, and south. Within the eyes of all sat a guard, and so the statues were called the Eyes of Fendale.
The wall itself was as smooth as marble, with an arched overhang making it inaccessible to ladders. The main gate stood thirty feet high and twenty feet wide, made of oak five feet thick and covered in iron.
The rear of the city was built on a cliff in such a way that the wall actually hung over the ocean. A large cave under the city acted as its harbor, with four points of entry capable of admitting the largest vessel. Each entry point had a massive iron gate that could be closed in seconds, effectively making the harbor inaccessible. Aside from being a port city, Fendale was also Eldalon’s main naval base able to house more than one hundred warships.
As they approached the main gate, which stood open, Whill marveled at the mermaid statues that loomed overhead. Already he could hear the crowd within. A soft buzz of activity emanated from the city.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 82