Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords

by Michael Ploof

  “Why have you sought my audience?”

  “I am here to make sure that you and your entire family is not murdered.”

  The lord smirked at the comment. “You alone?”

  “Yes,” answered Dirk seriously.

  Lord Carlsborough laughed and a few guards joined in.

  “With all due respect, Lord Carlsborough, these guards will be of no help to you. The one who hunts you will tear through them as if they were children. I assume you have heard what happened to your kin to the south. Their fate shall be your own lest you heed my words.”

  Lord Carlsborough shifted uncomfortably in his chair, considering what Dirk had said. “Yes, the horrible news reached me this morning. What are we up against?”

  “A dark elf, and possibly a dragon or some other nightmarish flying creature.”

  “And you have the skills necessary to fight off a dark elf and a dragon?” the lord asked, the humor having left him.

  “I do,” said Dirk.

  Lord Carlsborough mulled over his options for a time. “And why should I believe your tale? You have no credentials to back up your claim. It is possible that you yourself are a spy, or better yet, an assassin.”

  “If I had been sent here to kill you, sir, you would be dead.”

  “How dare you threaten the lord in his own keep?” yelled the captain of the guard and stepped forward, hand on hilt.

  Dirk did not let his gaze waver from Lord Carlsborough. The lord raised a hand, gesturing for his captain to hold. “A few weeks ago this Whill of Agora fought within the Del’Oradon arena. There are tales of a barbarian woman and a man in black who fought alongside him and escaped with him. Are you that man?”

  “I am he,” said Dirk with a nod.

  The captain leaned in and whispered to his lord. Dirk called upon his enchanted earrings and the hushed voices of the two became clear.

  “Sir, I do not trust this man. We have all heard the tales of the man in black who fights with Whill of Agora, but the odds that this man is he, sir…Furthermore, who alerted this man to the murders of your nephew and his family? How does he know it was a dark elf? I would advise strong caution with this one.”

  Dirk had heard enough. There was just no time for all of this. From his pocket he withdrew two darts and threw them in rapid succession. They exploded in a cloud of thick white smoke among the twenty guards and their lord.

  The captain’s warning echoed throughout the keep as Dirk brought up his hood. From behind it he could see through the smoke perfectly. He sprinted forward as the captain screamed panicked commands.

  “Protect the lord! To me! To me!”

  Dirk silently sprinted to the right through the smoke. The guards all looked like drunkards, blinded and coughing as they were. They were easy targets for his darts. He threw five consecutive darts on the fly and five guards fell to the floor. Alert to his fellow soldiers’ fall, the closest guard unsheathed his sword and came forward swinging. Dirk came under the ghost swing and hit the guard with a devastating uppercut that left him crumbling to the ground. Moving quickly behind the guards, Dirk came around and kicked the captain in the back, sending him sprawling on the floor through the smoke. The lord yelped when Dirk put his dagger to his throat and pulled him back against the wall.

  “Krellentia!” Dirk bellowed and the smoke from the dart-bombs began to fade. When it cleared enough, the captain of the guard saw that his lord was in mortal danger.

  “Hold!” he ordered his men.

  “Like I said, Lord Carlsborough, if I had been sent here to kill you, you would be dead,” said Dirk, loud enough for all to hear. He withdrew his dagger and released the man.

  Lord Carlsborough instantly felt his throat and moved away from Dirk. The lord scowled at him as he checked for blood but found none. He looked to the soldiers and back to Dirk.

  “They are sleeping, I assure you. Now, shall we plan our defense, or are you not convinced?”

  The lord waved away what fog remained before him and shouted to the ceiling, “Will someone open a godsdamned window? Captain!”

  “Sir!”

  “See that these men are tended to. I will speak privately with Blackthorn.”

  “Sir?” the Captain began to argue.

  “Then you will protect my family from a dark elf?” Lord Carlsborough yelled. The guard lowered his eyes impotently. “All right, then!” said the lord. “See to it that this castle is locked down for the time being. And put the village on alert.”

  The captain of the guard bowed, and with a quick “yes, sir,” he marched to fulfill his duty. But Lord Carlsborough grabbed him by the top of his breastplate and pulled him near.

  “We have known that the fight would come to us sooner or later. I am counting on you, Barldan. You are my best man.” He released the captain with a slap to the chest. Barldan forgot his passion and nodded to Dirk.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Dirk followed Lord Carlsborough to a door at the rear of the keep. The lord took a torch from the wall into the room with him. Once inside he bade Dirk close the door and lit three more torches along the wall. The firelight, along with a faint glow that came from three slits in the stone no larger than murder holes, lit the room. The lord motioned to a chair opposite a large oak desk with deer antlers melded seamlessly into the wood. Many volumes lined the walls, and stacks of papers strewed the dark-finished desk. Dirk realized that this was Lord Carlsborough’s personal study.

  “It is whiskey for me. What is your spirit?”

  “I hear good things about Twin Lakes white wine. Have you any?”

  “Of course!” said Lord Carlsborough, smacking his head. “Good call, sir. I have a bottle, vintage fifty-one forty-five, given to me by my brother.” He rummaged in the bottom of his wine cabinet. “Aha.” He blew dust from the bottle and wiped its label. “Twenty-five-year-old wine on the day I die,” he mused and seemed to lose himself to nostalgia. He shook himself out of the trance and smiled in grandfatherly way at Dirk. After retrieving a wine opener, he sat.

  “Ever had wine aged so?” he asked Dirk as the cork popped free.

  Dirk was reminded of the centuries-old wine he had shared with Eadon. “Never,” he answered as the gold goblet before him was filled. Lord Carlsborough lifted a matching goblet and made a toast. “To Dirk Blackthorn, the only man to hold a knife to my throat and live.”

  Dirk nodded and touched goblets. He took a long, slow smell of the crisp white and drank. He sampled the wine slowly, letting it sit in his mouth for a time before swallowing it shallowly. The remaining wine danced on his tongue, and as he opened his mouth and took the air, the sweetness of spring exploded in it. A quick tartness followed and finished with a fruity tail.

  “I have drunk elven wine that could not stand up to this masterpiece.”

  “Indeed.” The lord nodded and followed the wine with a large shot of whiskey. He lit a pipe with faintly quaking hands and puffed the smoke, only to drink again from his goblet. Dirk watched him as he poured another shot for himself.

  “Lord Carlsborough,” said Dirk.

  “Hmm?” The lord jumped as if he had forgotten Dirk was there. The assassin had seen it before—men who thought they would not see the morning drinking themselves stupid.

  “This is the first time you have faced certain death?”

  The lord focused on Dirk and scowled as he put down his glass. “Of course not! I did my time for my country. I fret not for myself; I am an old man who has had a life of hard work and good fortune. It is for my family that I worry. This town is home to my two sons and their six children and wives.” He looked at Dirk with sudden brave determination. “What do we do?”

  Chapter 27

  Zorriaz the White

  Whill left Zerafin’s abode and used the sword to fly to his home in the Thousand Falls. He found Avriel there on the balcony, curled up and looking smaller than usual. Whill touched her consciousness and found it sad.

  “I can do it,” said Whill as he
walked to stand by her. She raised her big head and regarded him through dragon tears. “Do you trust me?”

  Avriel slowly nodded. I trust you…

  “I…the Other read Eadon’s mind during the torture. I learned this spell also,” said Whill.

  Avriel shook her head. “But you do not remember it, the Other does. And if you are mistaken…I do not want to die like this.”

  “I can do it. I must. You are slipping away, Avriel, the dragon is taking hold. All day you recite your dragon memories to the lore masters. You hesitate for fear of your dragon form; what of your elven body?”

  Avriel sighed and the balcony vibrated. “It seems that if you cannot do it, then no one can.”

  “Then we fly. We do it now.”

  Whill rode Avriel to the house of healing in which her body was preserved by the ever-diligent healers. A line of elves stretched from the door and over a small bridge across a slow river, and still the line went around a corner from pathway to the cobblestone street. These elves were giving gifts of energy to their beloved princess Avriel.

  She circled the house of healing and landed upon the well-manicured lawn of clover. Her clawed feet sunk slightly into the earth and water pooled around her claws. Zerafin was there, as were the queen and a handful of elves. Avriel’s still form lay upon a silken white bed. Mesh curtains made up the walls of the house of healing, and they danced slowly with a light breeze. The sun was on its way down beyond the Thousand Falls, and the elven buildings and pyramids of the city had begun their soft nightly glow.

  “Both of Avriel’s bodies must be brought close together,” said Whill to the nearby elves. They looked to the queen for guidance.

  “How do you know the spell required to move her soul from one body to the next?” asked Queen Araveal, taking a step between Whill and Avriel’s elven form.

  “I do not understand how I know it, but I do,” answered Whill. “Avriel has decided… I must be alone for a moment, pardon me.”

  Whill left the house of healing and followed a winding garden path to a small stream. He knelt on the bank and sat on his legs. With a deep breath he closed his eyes and spoke to the Other.

  “I would have words with you now,” he said in his mind, and looked into the slow-moving water of the stream. The reflection of his tortured self stared back at him, and grinned.

  “You said you could heal Avriel. Is that true?”

  Slowly the Other nodded and smiled wider, cracking his chapped lips.

  “And in return for your help, you seek the sword of power taken?”

  Whill’s reflection moved on its own, leaning closer to the surface.

  “You know this all to be true. Do you wish to see Avriel restored? That is the only question. If so, give me control to do my work.”

  “No!” yelled Whill immediately. “Give me the knowledge that I must know to help her myself.”

  “I cannot,” said the Other, annoyed. “You cannot take knowledge from me unless you embrace every memory that I am. Are you prepared to remember those six bloody months?”

  Whill shook his head, as did the reflection of the Other.

  “No, you cannot bear the memories,” the Other agreed. “You are too weak.”

  Whill shuddered as he stared into the Other’s bloodshot eyes. He heard the chains and the whips, felt the constant ache of the cuffs.

  “Do what you must,” Whill said and closed his eyes.

  He felt nothing happen within. He opened his eyes and looked at his hands and realized he hadn’t willed his arms to move. He rose and turned back toward the house of healing, yet he did not command his legs. Whill tried to speak but found that he could not. All he could do was watch and listen.

  “Stop fighting it or my hand may slip,” the Other warned out loud. Whill calmed himself and focused instead on his connection with the blade. He could not stop fighting the invasion of his body, and he did not like where he was being kept. He saw through his eyes, but the view was down a long, strange tunnel. The sounds of the world became mangled, twisted and mixed with strange whispers and screams in the dark. He felt monsters at his back, always beyond the corner of the eye. Whill realized that this was the part of his mind in which he kept the Other.

  The voices became louder and the screams closer. Whill panicked, knowing that he could not get out, could not take control. If he fought for dominance, Avriel would not be helped. He tried to calm his mind and focus but he could not. The voices were now like booming explosions in his ears, the echoing unbearable. Whill mentally screamed and the Watcher cursed as he walked into the room.

  “Be calm!” the Other Whill yelled, and many elves jumped.

  Inside the twisted depths of his mind, Whill flew from the voices and the screams, the whispers and the sneers. He willed himself to not be in control, but out.

  There was a flash and Whill was standing across from the Other, who still controlled his body. A sparkling silver tether of twisting light connected Whill’s astral form with his physical. The Other Whill looked at him and grinned.

  Between them lay Avriel’s elven body and her dragon form. Avriel’s voice came into his mind, and to Whill she sounded scared. “You…there are two of you.”

  Whill looked from Avriel to the onlooking elves. He realized then that they could see his astral projection through their mind-sight. They looked at him curiously; the queen regarded him with concern. When she spoke, she did not address Whill’s body but his projected self.

  “Can you control…yourself?”

  Whill’s projection nodded.

  “Look!” An elven healer pointed. Whill looked too and watched as his body slowly began to change. Cuts appeared upon his bare arms and face; bruises and festering wounds sprouted from his skin. Blood trickled from his eyes, nose, and ears as the Other was manifested through him. His wrists split above his palm, and from the wounds, thick, barbed chains erupted. One wrapped itself around Avriel’s elven ankle, the other around her dragon leg. The barbs sank deep into each.

  The other unsheathed Adromida and held it above his head with both hands. Whill panicked, thinking that the Other meant to kill both Avriels. A gale struck the house of healing, sending the thin curtains flapping noisily as a whirlwind surrounded them all. Whill watched as the Other chanted in a language he had never heard before. His voice boomed, shaking Whill’s corporeal form.

  The Other pulled massive amounts of energy from Adromida and a surge coursed through his body and down the bloody chains. Both of Avriel’s bodies stiffened and heaved. Elves hurried to be out of the reach of the dragon’s thrashing claws and deadly tail. Again a surge of power rippled through the blade to the two bodies.

  As Whill watched, an elf gasped, and though her eyes were closed, Whill knew that with her mind-sight she saw what Whill saw. There at the center of Avriel’s dragon chest shone a bright white orb. The Other used the steady current of energy from the blade to capture Avriel’s soul with energy and slowly guide it out. The dragon roared and thrashed and the Watcher sent another surge of energy from Whill and into the dragon body. The encapsulated soul of Avriel rose from the dragon body and was guided across and into the chest of the elven body. There was a blinding surge of power and a humming from the blade Adromida. Avriel’s body convulsed and arched like a bow upon the white sheets and slowly floated above the bed. Then the chains suddenly receded and Avriel’s body fell back to the bed below.

  Whill watched as his body wavered and fell to the ground. Suddenly he was pulled forward as if an invisible wave had crashed into him. He returned to his body, gasping for breath. His wounds were gone, and there was no sign of the Other.

  “Avriel!” Zerafin called to his sister as he lightly tapped her cheek.

  Whill got to his feet and pushed through the crowding elves. “Is she alive? Did it work?” Whill begged as he pushed forward and watched as Zerafin and Araveal tended to her.

  “She is not breathing!” Zerafin said helplessly as he intensified his attempts to revive her.
He surrounded her with blue tendrils of healing but her condition would not change.

  She will die came a voice in his mind.

  “We had a deal!” Whill shouted and received many strange looks.

  You never agreed. I would have your word, said the Other.

  “You have my word! You shall have the blade Nodae. Now help her!” Whill pleaded.

  Very well, said the Other.

  Whill’s hand reached out toward Avriel, and from her a mass of black energy swirled into his palm. Avriel’s body arched and she gasped for air. She blinked, confused, and breathed the precious air into her lungs.

  “The dragon!” she screamed and fought those who held her down. “The dragon, do not let it die!”

  “The body of the dragon lives, fret not, sister,” said Zerafin as he stroked her sweat-covered brow.

  “Whill.” She smiled as he came close. She reached out and he took her hand. It was warm to the touch. Whill looked into Avriel’s elven eyes for the first time since she had tried to end herself so long ago.

  “You did it,” she said as tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you, thank you.”

  Queen Araveal took Whill by the arm and gently urged him aside so that they might speak privately. She smiled at him, but Whill saw slight apprehension in her eyes.

  “You have given me back my daughter. I am forever in your debt.” She squeezed his hands softly.

  “She is all right, that is all that matters,” answered Whill, hoping that she would not ask what he knew was on her mind.

  “May I ask—,” she began, but he cut her off quickly.

  “You may, but I cannot answer what I do not yet understand.”

  Araveal watched him closely and Whill could hardly bear her scrutiny. “I must know for the sake of my people, was that…other, was it the dark one?”

  “No,” he answered truthfully.

  After a time she smiled, but he could not be sure she believed him.

  “That language you spoke, do you know of it?” she asked.