Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords

by Michael Ploof

  Sensing Whill’s tired weight, Avriel flew them back to their abode. Whill climbed down, exhausted, and found his bed easily. He was soon asleep, within the realm of the Other.

  The nightmares found him quickly, and memories of his torture troubled his sleep. In one his legs were hacked off by a swinging pendulum, only to be healed as the blade swung away and then returned swiftly. But the worst dreams were the memories of what he had done. Men and women alike were put before him, and the dark elves’ promise of an end to the pain should he himself take up the tools of torture. Whill had not been able to resist long.

  He awoke in a cold sweat with a strangled cry to the soothing voice of Avriel.

  It is all right, Whill, I am here.

  “Avriel!” he panted and looked around wildly.

  You were dreaming. It is over now, the Other is gone.

  “What did you say?”

  You spoke a name in your sleep—the Other.

  Whill shivered. “What did I say?”

  You said…you said that he did terrible things. “He killed them,” you said over and over.

  Whill put his hands to his hair in manic frustration. “What is happening to me?” he pleaded, realizing that the Other was exercising control over him. These were the Other’s thoughts and feelings, not Whill’s. He cleared his mind and fought for control, and eventually he found it. Long, deep breaths brought him back to himself and calmed him. Avriel looked on with worry etching her scaled brow.

  “I need to eat.” Whill forced a smile and squinted at the bright morning light. “How long have I slept?”

  The entire day and night. I was worried you would not wake.

  “I am all right now,” he assured her and went to the vast pantry. After a large meal of vegetables, fish, and tea, he felt more himself. He had needed the rest, as fitful as it was. He still had the books to study and now only four days left to do it in. He returned to his place among the tomes and began anew the book of the Ralliad. Avriel curled up near the balcony ledge and slept lightly while he studied.

  Against the advice of the Watcher, Whill had tampered with his own mind. He had somehow inadvertently freed the Other from his mental prison. But he had also been successful in expanding his own memory and capacity for learning. The tome before him came alive in his mind. He flipped through pages quickly, gleaning all of the information with but a glance. It was not even dark when he finished the book of the Ralliad. Excitedly he tore into the next in line, The Way of the Warrior.

  Whill absorbed every word, saw clearly in his mind’s eye every technique and form, and soon had devoured that tome as well. It went the same for the remainder of the books. Page after page flew before his eyes as he scanned them. He called upon his sword when he felt the ache of such long sitting, or when his focus wavered. By the end of the next day he had finished all seven tomes, and his head swam with the great amounts of information he had gained. He was exhilarated to learn that he could call upon any chapter or page from the tomes at will, seeing the words anew with but a thought. He could not wait to practice his newfound knowledge.

  Avriel had left early in the afternoon, but Whill had been too absorbed in his trance-like study to say goodbye. Now she returned and Whill ran to her.

  “I have finished them all!” he proclaimed joyfully.

  How can that be?

  “It is not important right now,” Whill answered, dodging the question for the time being. He was not sure if what he had done to his mind would be frowned upon. “I think I can help you return to elven form. But you must know something before you consider it.”

  Over the next hour Whill explained to Avriel what had happened. He told her about the Other, and the offer he had made. Avriel listened intently, interrupting with only a few questions here and there. Whill was afraid she would think him crazy, and rightly so. But he had to tell someone, and he was glad he had. Avriel did not stand in judgment; rather she looked upon Whill with concern.

  This…Other, she began. He says that he is the reason for your abilities since your torture? And he claims to know the spells necessary for my transformation?

  “Yes, that is his claim,” Whill concurred. “Do you think that this is a trick of Eadon’s?”

  Avriel thought long on that. It is hard to say. He tortured you those long months for a reason, it would seem, beyond his hoping to instill a murderous hatred for him. Likely his plans are twofold. It is possible that Eadon intentionally split your mind in two in hope that the Other would eventually take control.

  Whill nodded his agreement. Avriel went on. If what the Other says is true, and together you can defeat Eadon, take from him the blade of power taken, I cannot see the Other’s acquisition of the blade ending well.

  “Nor I,” Whill admitted. “I should speak of this with the Watcher.”

  Can you control the Other?

  Whill remembered how easily the Other had left him a babbling mess, with only a few mental projections of his tortured memories. “I do not know,” he answered. “If I cannot…I possess Adromida, and therefore so does he.”

  And this Other, you say he is the embodiment of your ego?

  “Yes—no—it is possible that he is the embodiment of my tortured self, the…pain body.”

  Avriel looked out beyond the balcony in silence. Whill sensed a shift in her mind, a sorrow. He guessed she was contemplating the transformation, what it would mean to her dragon form. Whill walked to her side and laid a gentle hand upon her muscled shoulder. Her scales were smooth as glass beneath his hand. He noticed her tears and gazed out over the city with her.

  What will become of this body when I am gone? Avriel asked the night.

  “I do not know,” said Whill. He sighed quietly, wishing he had all the answers, wishing for once he could help her.

  We shall see. We do not even know if you can do it. I must think about this. Avriel stood. The dragon-lore masters seek my presence as always. Do you wish to come with me?

  Whill looked at the tomes he had devoured. He mentally flipped through pages in his mind at random and knew that he had retained it all. He shrugged and stepped up into the saddle. “I would love to hear your tales.”

  Chapter 21

  Through the Ky’Dren Pass

  Dirk followed Dar’Kwar through the many miles of the Ky’Dren Pass. He was pleased that the dwarf had heeded his words and pushed his dwarven horse at a good pace throughout the night. Soon the sun rose behind them and Dirk saw far off in the distance the mouth to the pass and Eldalon beyond.

  The night had been a dark and cloudy one, the thunderstorm having played out, leaving the world wet, dark, and silent. Wind barely stirred here between the high mountain cliffs, where at their highest the walls of the pass reached a thousand feet. Dirk knew that below him ran hundreds of tunnels connecting the two mountains. Legend even had it that beneath Agora ran thousands of miles of tunnels connecting all three dwarven kingdoms. Many, however, doubted that claim, arguing as they always did that the dwarves were known to make the long aboveground journey to see their kin, and if they had underground tunnels to travel, why use the roads? But every time a sinkhole was heard of somewhere in Agora, people thought it was proof of dwarf tunnels.

  Dirk imagined having to live or travel through those tight spots and enclosed spaces on a daily basis. The idea caused him to shudder. He was a man who always had an escape plan. Before Dirk even entered a building, he liked to have two escape routes, if not three. Being trapped under those low ceilings with only forward or backward to go would be maddening for him.

  Now that the sun had come up, Dirk could see clearly what had only been hinted at by the occasional far-off lantern along the pass wall. He had drawn his hood over his face and, in looking through it, had seen the pass walls occasionally, but he was not going to strain the magic within it with hours-long use. It was much too great a tool to be misused. With his hood he could hide his face from any, while being himself able to see clearly through it, night or day.


  Now with the sun’s light he saw the awe-inspiring monument which was the Ky’Dren Pass. At some spots along the thirty-mile pass, the walls looked like castles. Towers grew out of the walls along the pass, and arching bridges connecting railway systems there were both high and low. Pillars were carved below great buildings both large and small, and monolithic monuments towered over travelers, statues of gods, heroes, and kings alike adorning both walls for miles.

  One statue in particular caused Dirk to insist on stopping and taking pause. The statue of Ky’Dren loomed five hundred feet above the pass, said to have been made for him by his son, who, like his father and his descendants, could move stone with but a thought. The statue depicted Ky’Dren, the first dwarven king, standing tall and strong with one foot on each side of the pass, connecting the northern and southern mountains. He stood with an axe in one hand and his pick in the other. Atop his head sat his crown and his armor was covered in silver.

  Dirk was awestruck by the statue and thought on it for hours. To be held in such esteem as to be commemorated so laboriously and venerated for thousands of years after you were gone was an incredible feat. But Dirk knew also that nothing lasted forever, and as the stars saw one day to the next, so too would they see Ky’Dren’s statue fall and be forgotten. The stars turned, as did the wheels of time, and only the gods bore witness to all things, and only the dead remembered.

  Dirk needed sleep, as did Frostmore, but he had no time for such pleasantries. He knew that the horse could not take much more of this. Already Frostmore was thrashing randomly and chomping impatiently at his bridle. Dirk needed a fresh horse, loath as he was to depart with Frostmore. The horse had proven to be a good one.

  An hour more they rode and finally came to the dwarven outpost on the Eldalonian side of the pass.

  “’Ere then,” said Dar’Kwar. “Here we will find food and drink. You and your horse be lookin’ like rest wouldn’t hurt ye, neither.”

  Dirk dismounted with a grimace and took a moment to steady his legs. He had been riding for days and felt every bump in the road. He knuckled his back and stretched before following the dwarf to the nearby outpost.

  The dwarven outpost was more like a town than anything else. Here trade between the dwarves and the people of Eldalon thrived still. It was early morning and already the markets were crowded with dwarves and humans alike. Here were human tailors, farmers, medicine men, and other peddlers. Long caravans filled with vegetables and livestock meandered up the many mountain trails, and likewise, dwarven wagons came down, likely filled with kingly treasures.

  There were also Eldalonian soldiers within the pass marketplace. They, however, were more interested in armor and arms than jewels and the like. Dirk followed Dar’Kwar to a group of his kin and accepted a steaming pot of porridge gratefully. As he ate, he eyed the Eldalonian soldiers, looking for the highest-ranking man among them. He found what he sought as a tent flap opened and out strode an armored soldier adorned with the telltale golden sash of a general. Dirk handed off his bowl with a thank you to the dwarves and headed toward the man. Dar’Kwar followed.

  The man stood facing the morning sun with closed eyes. “Excuse me,” Dirk said to the man’s back, and he turned and regarded Dirk curiously.

  “What is it?” He turned his face to take in the day’s warmth once again.

  “I have information that may mean life and death to the royal family. I seek your audience,” said Dirk in a low voice as to not attract attention.

  The general looked Dirk over with renewed interest and then at Dar’Kwar behind him. “Please,” he said, gesturing toward his large tent. “We shall speak inside.”

  Dirk entered the tent, followed by Dar’Kwar. The general closed the flaps behind them. “Please, sit.” He indicated to the chairs opposite his long desk. “Care for a drink?” he asked as he poured himself a dark amber whiskey.

  “Please,” said Dirk.

  “Mind dwarven whiskey, or is it too early?” the general asked them both.

  “Bah, be it ever too early for dwarven whiskey?” asked Dar’Kwar with all seriousness.

  “Whiskey is fine,” answered Dirk.

  The general set the drinks on the desk and squared on the two. “I like to know who I am drinking with.” He took a moment looking at the dwarf. “Dar’Kwar, I believe, from near Uthen-Arden side?”

  “Aye, Dar’Kwar I be.”

  “You, however, I do not know,” he said to Dirk. “If I had to guess, I would say sword for hire.”

  Dirk only nodded. “Blackthorn, Dirk. Well met…?”

  “General Harris Steely,” replied the general, offering his hand as he eyed Dirk.

  Dirk shook it and General Steely took his seat. “Dirk Blackthorn. Where have I heard that name before?”

  “I do not know, General,” Dirk replied. “I have not ventured often or for long within Eldalon. Any word of me would have likely come from Uthen-Arden. Just as likely those words are false, given the tongues of those speaking them.”

  “Hmm.” The general still eyed Dirk with a hint of speculation. “Not a friend of Uthen-Arden, I take it.”

  “Not as of late,” replied Dirk and took a swig of the whiskey.

  Dar’Kwar laughed and drank also. “Not as of late, indeed. This one came charging through the Uthen-Arden ranks in a race for the border night last. Was challenged to a bare-arsed duel by one General Straun, he was. And won the fight, I should add.”

  “General Straun. I know of him. He made it through the ranks under King Addakon—he’s just the kind of scum Addakon likes. Did you kill him?”

  “He will live,” Dirk replied coolly.

  General Steely nodded and shot back his drink. “I assume you were racing for the border to warn Eldalon of this danger you speak of. What do you know?”

  “I have knowledge of a conspiracy to kill the entire Eldalonian royal family line. With your cooperation, I hope to make all haste to Kell-Torey to warn the king.”

  General Steely mulled over Dirk’s words. “Who is behind this conspiracy?”

  “The dark elf lord Eadon wishes it so. He wants to wipe out Whill’s entire line,” Dirk answered.

  “This Whill you speak of, he is the one said to be the rightful king of Uthen-Arden?” the general asked, intrigued.

  “They are one and the same, sir, yes.”

  “And what is your stake in this, Dirk Blackthorn? By the looks of you I would say that you are a blade for hire. Surely you are not a soldier. Why should I believe you? Suppose you are trying to get close to the king for the very reason you warn of?”

  “I wish to see Eadon’s every plot and aspiration fail. I wish to see him dead. If I can be a thorn in his side, then I will do everything within my abilities to do so.”

  “Why?” the general asked.

  Dirk ground his teeth as he thought of Krentz. “I have my reasons.”

  The general stood from his desk and poured refills for them all. He drank from his glass as his eyes wandered in thought. Finally he returned to his seat and clasped his hands together upon his desk and met Dirk’s waiting eyes.

  “I consider myself a good judge of character,” the general began, and Dirk fought to not roll his eyes. “And you, sir, I do not trust. There is much you have not told me.”

  Dirk had the urge to stab the man in the neck. He didn’t have time for this. He was about to get up when the general’s demeanor changed.

  “But there may be truth to your words. A claim such as this cannot be taken lightly. Is there anything more you wish to tell me?”

  “Only that every minute we tarry may be detrimental to your good king’s health.”

  “Well,” said Dar’Kwar. “Me work be done here. I thank ye for the whiskey, General. Now I return to me post.” He slammed a fist to his chest with a slight bow to the general, nodded at Dirk, and made for the door.

  “I do not have to remind you that what you have heard is not to be repeated, do I, Dar’Kwar?” said the general to the
dwarf’s back.

  “No, Steely, you ain’t for remindin’ me o’ shyte,” Dar’Kwar retorted and left the tent.

  “Now do you wish to tell me more?” General Steely asked.

  Dirk did not answer but finished his whiskey instead. The general’s eyes never left his until Dirk’s glass was empty.

  “Another?” the general asked.

  “No,” answered Dirk flatly.

  The general nodded, still taking a measure of the man. “Where did you say you came across this information?”

  “I didn’t,” Dirk replied, annoyed.

  “What are you hiding?”

  Dirk didn’t like where this line of questioning was going. Beneath the desk Dirk’s hand came to rest upon his mind-control dagger, Krone. He had hoped to gain the support of the Eldalonian army, but it seemed that the curious general would not give it. He decided to try another angle before resorting to more drastic measures.

  “I am an ally to the one known as Whill of Agora. He has sent me on this quest,” Dirk said as if finally coming clean. “As you may know, Whill has made powerful enemies. At his request I have been hunting the would-be assassin from Uthen-Arden and recently lost their trail outside of the Ky’Dren Pass, Uthen-Arden side. As you may also know, Whill is the son of your late princess and queen of Uthen-Arden. Your king is his grandfather. It is for this reason the dark elf Eadon wants the Eldalonian line wiped out.”

  “Why then does this Eadon keep Whill’s uncle, King Addakon of Uthen-Arden, alive if the rumors of the alliance are true?” the general inquired.

  “Addakon is dead by Whill’s own hand more than six months now. Eadon has since been impersonating the king.”

  The general began to laugh but found no mirth in Dirk’s face.

  “You know this to be true, or you should. Has not the king of Eldalon informed his generals of such things?” Dirk pressed.

  The general scowled at the slight. “You say you lost ‘their’ trail. Why not him or her?”

  “Because if I had been close enough to know if they were a he or a she, they would be dead.”