Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (14 page)

The man walked forward to Roakore and extended a hand in a human greeting.“Name’s Tarragon. This here is my son, Nathaniel, and my littlest, Freesia.”

They shook hands, and Roakore extended his to the pond, palm out. Nothing happened for a moment as Roakore chanted under his breath, but then his ax emerged and flew from the water into his outstretched hand.

“Me name’s Roakore, king o’ the Ro’Sar Mountains.”

Tarragon didn’t bat an eye. “I know enough of the Dwarven folk to know none would claim to be such if it were not true. What brings you to these parts, good king, so far from your newly reclaimed mountain?

The fact that Tarragon knew of the recent Dwarven victory made his pride swell, as it did his chest. “I be on me way to help a friend and noticed the fire off yonder a ways and came to have a look-see.” answered Roakore.

“Ah, yes, you saw it from the sky.” Tarragon eyed the now-grazing Silverhawk. “I did not know that Dwarves rode Silverhawks from the northern kingdom.”

“They don’t,” suggested Roakore. “I do.”

“Can I ride it, Dad? asked Nathaniel with excitement. He was no older than Tarren.

“Be still, Nathaniel.”

“Yes, sir.” answered the boy without pouting.

Roakore looked again to the black smoke that was now receding. “Was it these damned dragon half-breeds what caused the fire?”

“Aye, they came again last night, set fire to two buildings in town, and took twelve souls into the blackness of night, three children and two women among them. They will be back again with the coming of night.”

Roakore pondered the situation; the more he thought about it, the more incensed he became. But he could not take the time to help these people—he was on a mission and had but a few days to get to Del-Oradon, not to mention find a way to free Whill.

“How many people ye say ye got in yer town?”

“Nearly two hundred souls. The town is called Elderwood.”

“Elderwood, eh? Never heard o’ it.”

“I don’t imagine you would have. Might I ask, good Dwarf…You are a king of Dwarves; you must have a cunning knowledge of military formations and attack strategies. Could a poor farmer offer anything in return for a few words of advice on how best to kill these beasts?”

Roakore thought for a moment, and his stomach answered for him with a grumble. “A warm meal and I can offer some advice, but I got to be movin’ afore
midday. Me an’ me bird got many miles to cover before nightfall.”

At her mention, Silverwind squawked and took flight, flying far and out of sight.

“Well, me and me feet got a lot o’ miles ahead of us anyway.”

Tarragon shook Roakore’s hand vigorously. “Warm food it is, and I thank you for saving my little girl. I owe you a life.”

Roakore nodded with a grunt. Inside, he was warmed by the thought of what he had done and the luck of being dropped in the pond.
Maybe that bird be smarter than me be thinkin’
.

Roakore retreived his two hatchets, cleaned them in the pond, and headed southwest with Tarragon and his two children. Silverwind was nowhere to be seen. The big man looked also to the sky. “That bird of yours. It is a Shierdon Silverhawk, is it not?”

“Aye,” grunted Roakore.

“A gift from the king?”

“Nay. Had it smuggled in, I did. Hawks’ bane plants also, got me a garden o’ it on the side o’ me mountain.”

The big man laughed. “It is one of Shierdon’s highest crimes to steal a bird or transport the plant out of the country.”

“Bah.” Roakore spat. “They got them a Dark Elf posin’ as their king. The way I see it, they got other things to worry about.”

“A Dark Elf upon the throne? I do not mean to be rude, good Dwarf, but that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”

Roakore squared off with Tarragon, and they both stopped. “You be callin’
me
a liar? I be knowin’ more about the workin’s o’ the world than a farmer from Uthen-Arden!”

“Lumberjack.”

“Whatever!” Roakore went on. “I be the direct descendant o’ Ky’Dren. I be king o’ the reclaimed mountain o’ Ro’Sar. I seen me people slaughtered by thousands o’ Draggard. I seen a dragon killed by a loan Dwarf. I seen Elves do things that you would never believe in a thousand years. You be livin’ here in your world, but I be livin’ in
the
world. There be a war wagin’ between the Dark Elves and thier crossbred killers and the rest o’ us. Or ain’t ya noticed the Draggard scourge roamin’ the land, killin’ for sport? Word has it that one-fourth o’ your human towns and villages have been destroyed by the beasts o’ the Dark Elves. And the same number in Isladon.”

Tarragon looked gravely in Roakore’s eyes. “It is worse than even the rumors then?”

Roakore nodded. “It be a nightmare, and no one wantin’ to be wakin’ up to it.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Thank Me in the
Morning

W
hill lay upon his bed, not trying to sleep; he had given that up days before. It seemed that the last few weeks of his torture had been enough sleep for him. He had gone into a shell; he had gone deep into the cocoon of his inner mind. He became not Whill but simply…it. He no longer had an identity in that place, nothing that could tie him to Whill’s life and nothing that could hurt him. He felt not physical pain or emotional anguish. He was simply a being…being.

What little light came through the window from the moon or the courtyard below played on the ceiling of his room, though he did not see it. He saw the explosion of his ship, the death of his friends. The only one alive was Tarren, and where was he now? How was he being treated?

Where was Roakore? He had forgotten about Roakore. Had he reclaimed his mountain? Had he died in the battle? Whill had heard no news from the outside world. Being a captive of the Dark Elves meant being a captive from the entire world, from reality. His years journeying with Abram seemed like a fantasy, a long, drawn-out dream. His life with Teera in Sidnell, his childhood home, seemed like a dream within a dream. The final battle with Addakon was the only clear memory he had.

He had faced his uncle, his father’s killer. He had been out skilled and facing certain death. But he had faced his uncle nonetheless, and he had won. His father’s spirit had fought through him and had defeated his murderous twin brother. The soul mates had become one. Repented and forgiven for their own sins, they had moved on. Whill’s mother’s spirit had moved on; the world had moved on without Whill, and so Whill had moved on.

He no longer cared. He was due to be executed, and he did not care. For how could he be Whill of Agora, the one spoken of in prophecy, the son of a king, the wielder of an ancient blade? How could he be Whill of Agora if he was here, tortured for six months without rest? Disfigured and healed, mortally wounded and healed. The horrors he had faced he could no longer recall, for he had wiped them from his mind as soon as they happened.

He existed now simply from that place which he had found. There was no pain, no struggle, only existence. His friends were dead; he had no people. He had nothing to lose, except Avriel, whom was already lost to him.

Avriel was the anchor that grounded Whill. She was the only thing keeping the boy that had been alive inside the man that he had become—Avriel, his first and only love. She was like nothing he had ever seen. A maiden cast out by a dream.

He pictured her hair cast by the wind, stroking her neck, her long, smooth, straight, strong neck, and her proud jaw and long ears, black hair tucked behind the left. Her head tilted slightly while she spoke. She spoke not with her throat but with her mouth. Every word extenuated by her mouth. She had lips made of sunrise and morning dew, eyes piercing and bright yet vulnerable and fierce.

Whill was grounded when he thought of Avriel, the only thing left worth caring about on this entire miserable rock. Avriel his love, the lover that never was, his Avriel, the only thing keeping his spirit tethered to life.

Far away in the castle Eadon turned from his focus on Whill’s despair and addressed the waiting guard. “Bring me the barbarian warrior.”

Shortly after, she was brought to his chambers, and the door was closed. Eadon smiled as he took in the sight of her. She was the largest human woman he had ever seen, in all regards. She stood waiting, her fire-filled eyes never leaving his. Eadon offered her a glass of wine, and she did not move.

“My beautiful warrior of the north, may I, as the Elven ambassador of my kind, welcome you to my newly acquired human kingdom? Your prowess has not gone unnoticed. And I wish to recruit you to the winning side of this battle in which we find ourselves…You are from the northern island of ice, Volnoss, are you not?” The barbarian woman nodded. She did not speak. Instead, she stood, arms crossed, left hip protruding. Eadon took this all in with a grin. “Do you wish to work with me, or do you wish to fight to the death in the arena for your crimes? Which, I am sure, are ludicrous accusations.”

The barbarian woman scoffed. “If they are ludicrous, then drop the charges, oh great one. Great shadow from the east, manipulator of minds, oh great puppet master. Which title do you prefer, your worship?”

“I see that we may disagree on some things,” said Eadon as he swirled his wine and put it down.

From a box on the desk he retrieved a silver foot-long smoking pipe. The tip of his finger he used to light the intoxicating herb that burned and sent forth smoke into the room, finding the barbarian woman’s nose. It
did not have any mind-altering powers; what it did carry was nostalgia. For what Eadon smoked only grew upon the shores of Volnoss.

She knew then that this creature would not be defeated with the hand or the blade. And there was no hope in defeating his mind. She knew that any mental attack she would put forth would be feeble, like a mosquito attacking a man. So she listened.

“I offer you this, good lady of the north. My Draggard and Dark Elves have been ordered to infiltrate and to expedite the cooperation of all locals of Agora, including your home of Volnoss. My armies will land upon your beaches and march into your towns. No doubt, your people will act with great pride and stand firm in their beliefs whilst fighting to the bitter end, and bitter it shall be if you let it happen.”

He walked slowly closer to her as he spoke. “My lady of the north, you could act as the ambassador of Volnoss. Extend the olive branch to the Dark Elves, which will inevitably conquer this entire land. You can bridge the gap between our people. With your cooperation will come the safety and the prosperity of Volnoss. No longer will you sit in the cold darkness, expelled from Agora since the barbarian wars. No longer will you hear how your people were thrown out; no longer will you be put down, left to lick the boots and hide from the shorter, weaker Agorans. Your people can thrive and be prosperous, or you can simply be left to your iceberg; it is your choice.”

Eadon again walked to the barbarian woman and offered her the wine. He noted that she did not tense at his nearness, a feat that few beings could claim. She took the wine. He went on.

“And for your cooperation, I will give you the former human kingdom of Sheirdon, so that you and your people may once again walk upon your homeland and smell the sweet scent of freedom. The choice is yours, my lady. Will you follow me? Will you extend your hand? Will you take hold of your people’s future? Or will you leave them to a fate of extermination and death? What will it be, Aurora Snowfell?”

Aurora eyed Eadon up and down, getting a measure of the Dark Elf. “Face me in a spar, no unnatural powers; we will see what I decide then.”

Eadon laughed. “Are there any unnatural powers? Is it not simply power?”

Aurora Snowfell did not laugh, nor did she smile. “Do you agree, or are you wasting my time?”

A hungry growl escaped Eadon’s throat as he unbuckled his sword with a smirk. He said nothing. Aurora rolled her large shoulders and began to bounce back and forth on her feet; she bent slightly at the waist. Eadon stepped forward and smiled at the result of her voluptuous frame bouncing from side to side. Aurora pounced on the distraction.

She struck out fast and hard with her large, knuckled fist and caught Eadon square on the chin. He was
thrown back into his wine cabinet, completely shattering the wood and glass. He landed on his feet and shook his head. “Indeed, I have made a good choice in you.”

Aurora roared and charged the Dark Elf. Eadon stood his ground. The seasoned barbarian came in not like a bull, as one might expect, but rather with a graceful leg sweep, which forced Eadon to jump over it. Knowing this would be his only defense, she quickly brought the other leg up and over, aiming at Eadon’s chest. But the highly nimble and far more seasoned Dark Elf knew her mind, and in his leap, he caught her leg with both hands and flipped over it. Aurora quickly reversed that leg, only to have Eadon catch it with the back of his knees. He dropped his whole weight onto it and once again flipped, bringing her with him.

She landed awkwardly with twisted legs. Before she knew what was happening, Eadon had climbed her prone body and mounted her chest. He pinned her arms with his legs and proceeded to drop two elbows to her face, and she heard her nose crack. In an instant, Eadon was off of her, offering her his hand.