Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (20 page)

The door closed behind him with a soft thud as he made for the vault entrance. Abram and Fior awaited him at the stair. He approached them in silence. Abram looked solemnly at him and asked, “Are you alright, Whill?”

He simply nodded and tried in vain to fake a smile. Fior broke the silence with his deep and majestic voice. “I will lead ye to yer quarters.”

Whill and Abram followed Fior down the stairs and through a series of halls and tunnels in silence. Many dwarves stopped in their tracks as they saw the three, but Whill paid them no mind. His thoughts were elsewhere.

They reached their quarters shortly, and with a bow Fior left, telling them to rest well and the king would see them first thing in the morning. Whill silently went to his room and closed the door.

Abram respected Whill’s privacy, though he worried about him. He knew that it would be hard for Whill to accept his heritage. But Abram had prepared him for this day as best he could, and he had taught him all he would need to know to fulfill his destiny. Whill was wise beyond his years, a brilliant scholar, and his prowess as a fighter was masterful, But, Abram reminded himself, he was also still young, and the mind of a young man could be more tumultuous than the great sea. He understood how hard it would be for Whill. He walked to a wall mirror and stared into his own eyes for a long while. How quickly the time had passed.

“He is ready,” he said aloud, more to convince himself than as a statement. On that dreadful day almost twenty years earlier, he had made a decision: to forsake his own life for Whill’s. He had vowed on the blood of the king to care for Whill, and in his heart he knew he had done well. He had been utterly shocked by the recent display of Whill’s powers, but ultimately pleased by the revelation. But still, troublesome thoughts lingered in the dark recesses of his mind. Would Whill exhibit the same lust for power that had darkened his uncle’s heart? Or would he grow to be a great man like his father?

He felt guilty for even thinking such a thing, but he could not deny that Whill was indeed powerful, more powerful than even his father and uncle had been. Whill had used his powers instinctively, having never been trained by the elves, a feat never accomplished by his forefathers. Would such power corrupt the student Abram had dedicated his life to? If it did, what then would be Abram’s responsibility?

These questions and many more kept him awake for many hours. Then finally he drifted off into the much-needed realm of sleep.

Whill awoke to find that he no longer had a single trace of the wound upon his leg. As he lifted the bloody bandages from his thigh he found only smooth flesh, with not so much as a scar. Amazed, he leapt from his soft, feathered bed and quickly went to Abram’s room. He found Abram sleeping soundly.

“Abram, look at this!”

Abram jumped from his bed, instantly alert and brandishing his dagger. He looked around, puzzled, and then at Whill. With a sigh he plopped back down onto his bed. He rubbed his tired eyes. “What is it Whill?”

Whill sat next to him on the bed and rolled up his pant leg enough for Abram to see. “It was like this when I awoke. I swear I didn’t try to heal it, it just did it on its own.”

Abram eyed the healed skin with a worried glare. It was many moments before his eyes found Whill’s, and when they did, it was not with a favorable stare.

“You healed yourself, Whill.”

Whill shook his head and was about to speak, but Abram cut him off. “Yesterday in the vault, Your own anger. The powers you possess are based on energy; that is the gift of the elves. But energy resides not only in the body, but also the mind. Your anger was so great that without an outlet it acted on its own, and healed your wounds.”

He rose and paced the room, obviously distraught. Whill sat confused. Abram spoke again, this time looking at the floor as he paced. “This is why you must go soon to the elves. I have taught you all I can; I cannot teach you what you still need to know. You have great abilities, Whill, but without understanding them and controlling them, they could prove disastrous.” He stopped and looked suddenly to Whill. “Your father’s sword! Did you hold it long?”

Whill did not understand Abram’s urgency. He was the one who had given it to him in the first place, after all. “Yes, after you left I held it for a long while, but I did nothing…I…I passed out.” He bowed his head in embarrassment at his own weakness.

Abram spared him any explanation. He sat again on the bed and tried to explain. “The sword of your father has life once again, then. When you held it in your state of…despair, and anger, your energy poured into it. Not the energy of your body, but of your mind. This, you will learn, is a practice that the Elves of the Sun shun, but the Dark elves favor.”

Whill could sense the gravity in Abram’s words. He began to understand how little control he had over his own powers, and the thought scared him.

“It is not the use of the mind that they shun,” Abram continued. “It is the use of negative thoughts, and negative emotions, that they do not agree with. If one fills his sword with anger, hatred, and other negative emotions and energies, he soon will become consumed with these emotions. The elves know this, and that is why it is not practiced, though it can bring great power quickly. It can also destroy one’s soul and blacken the heart just as easily.”

He was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. “Yes?”

“It is I, Fior. The king requests breakfast with you an’ Whill in a half-hour’s time.”

“We will be ready.”

“I will return then.”

Abram turned to Whill once again. “We will talk of this more later. Now we should bathe and dress. The king awaits us.”

A half-hour later Fior returned and led Whill and Abram to the king’s quarters. Having been given quarters in the king’s guest wing, it was a short walk. The floors in this corridor were black marble, and the walls of the wide halls were adorned with many carvings. Great stone arches adorned the circular hall every ten feet. Years beyond reckoning had gone into the designs of this ancient lair, and for the first time since entering the king’s chambers Whill took in its great beauty.

Fior led them to a large, open door and stepped to the side, gesturing for them to enter. The room beyond was massive, more than a thousand feet long and two hundred feet wide, with high cathedral ceilings adorned with gold and silver arches that wound around each other in a stunning display. The floors were white marble and the walls platinum, so highly polished that they reflected the room in a way that added to its grand appearance. More than three hundred large dwarf statues lined both sides of the room, standing over ten feet tall. These were the past kings of Dy-Kore, their exact likenesses carved into the stone with great precision.

“This is the Chamber of the Kings.” Fior’s voice echoed from behind them. “Within each statue lies the king depicted.”

“The most magnificent sight I have ever seen,” Whill said truthfully. He looked to his right at the first and largest statue of them all. The image that stared down at him was that of a bald, sturdy-looking dwarf with a long, braided beard. In his left hand was a massive axe, and in his right was the curving horn of a dragon. Below the statue sat a large black marble plaque. Its Dwarvish words, written in diamond dust, read

Here lies Ky Dren, the Dragons Bane

First king and founder of Ky Dren

Warrior of the Gods

Slayer of Five Dragons

Savior of the Dwarves

0–350

Fior led them down the great chamber past dozens of similar statues, to where King Ky’Ell sat waiting upon his throne. To his right and left were two dwarves, dressed as Fior was. Four steps led to Ky’Ell’s throne, and upon that high perch sat a marvelous chair of gold. Ky’Ell was big by dwarf standards, and the elevated throne only intensified his size. His hair was grey, as was his long beard, which in his seated position fell below his feet. His eyes were blue and alert, watching keenly behind a wide nose. At first glance he seemed a stern and serious dwarf, even mean, but as Whill and Abram stopped before him, his eyebrows shot upward and a wide smile spread from under his thick beard.

Abram slammed his right fist to his chest and bowed slightly. “Ky’Ell, my friend, it is good to see you once again.”

The king returned the gesture and in a deep and powerful voice responded, “An’ you, Abram, dwarf friend. I am glad to see that the many rumors o’ yer death are false, fer such a loss to the world o’ men would be a grievous loss indeed.”

Abram laughed. “If I had a gold coin for every rumor of my demise, I would be the envy of kings.”

The king laughed, his great booming voice echoing throughout the chamber. As the laughter died away, Whill took the opportunity to greet him. He slammed his right fist to his chest in the sign of respect and bowed slightly. “It is an honor to meet the great king of Dy-Kore.”

To Whill’s utter amazement, the king returned the gesture, a great honor from a king of dwarves. “’Tis I who am honored to finally meet the rightful king o’ Uthen-Arden. I’ve heard much of ye from Abram, Whill. He’s indeed done a good job of training ye. I hear tell from Roakore that ye slew three Draggard single-handed. Ye indeed are a great warrior o’ men, an’ ye’ll be a great king in yer time.”

Whill was barely used to the idea of being a king, and hearing himself spoken of in such a way made him uncomfortable. “Thank you, good king.”

After a moment of silence, which made Whill even more uncomfortable, Ky’Ell rose from his throne and descended the four steps. “Let us eat, then. Ye must be starved from yer journey.”

With that he led Abram and Whill through a passage to the right of the throne and down a wide tunnel. They soon stepped into a huge dining room. The room was half the length of the Chamber of Kings, but like that chamber this room boasted highly polished floors of marble. Its walls were adorned with great banners and paintings of kings of old. Five massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and at the center of the right wall sat a giant fire place, more than twenty feet wide. At the center of the long room was a beautiful stone dining table, exquisitely crafted and adorned with various gems and precious stones. Its wooden chairs were no less beautiful, intricately carved as they were, with silver trim and blue satin cushions. The stone table could seat over five hundred, but Whill found that only four places had been set for breakfast at the end closest them.

Whill assumed that the fourth chair meant that Fior would be joining them, but was happy to see Roakore enter the room behind them. The king sat and bade the three to do the same. Fior gave a small bow and exited the room as four dwarf maidens entered. Whill looked in wonder at the sight of the dwarf women. To his knowledge, no man had ever laid eyes upon a female dwarf, and they were mentioned rarely in any accounts of the dwarves he had ever read. Whill suddenly felt embarrassed by his gawking. The king noticed his reaction but only grinned. The women were not bearded, as many of the stories told, nor were they in any way ugly. They were shorter than the male dwarves, a foot shorter on average. They had thick, long, flowing hair put up with ribbons to prevent it from dragging on the floor. They wore long dresses and aprons over their plump figures. Merry cheeks accompanied warm smiles as they set the many dishes out before the diners. Whill thought to himself that at any moment one of them would fall over under the weight of their huge bosoms, and he fought off a chuckle.

When the dishes were all set, the maidens bowed slightly and with wide smiles exited the room the way they had come.

“Our women are built as sturdy as the mountains themselves,” noted the king. “You should know, Whill, that you are one of the very few outsiders who has ever laid eyes upon them. We love and guard our women as fiercely as we do our treasure, for they are the givers of life, the greatest gift bestowed upon us from the gods.”

Whill regretted his earlier thoughts and wondered for a foolish moment if the king had read his mind. “I am honored once again, good king. They are indeed a treasure.”

The king eyed Whill for a moment. “Fret not, young Whill, fer years I too have pondered the mystery o’ how they stay on their feet.”

Whill flushed as he realized that his eyes had given him away. He began to stutter a response but the king interrupted. “But how I do love to investigate the many aspects o’that mystery!” His chuckle grew into all-out, barrel-bellied laughter. Abram and Roakore joined in and the room soon filled with the echoes of laughter, including Whill’s.

As the laughter finally died down the king took a piece of roasted duck from one of the dishes and bit into it fiercely. “Eat up, friends, and tell me the tale o’ your meeting and the battle with the Draggard.”

As they ate, Whill, Abram, and Roakore took turns telling the tale. The food was good and the wine sweet. Before them sat a feast of roasted duck, boiled goose eggs, strips of fried wild boar, ham, cakes, pastries, coffee, juices, goat’s and cow’s milk, and various fruits and bread. Whill found that he had a monstrous appetite, and knew that it was due to the healing of his leg. The king listened intently, complimenting Whill’s genius in using the diamonds as bait, and grunting approvingly at the ways the Draggard had been dispatched.

When they had finished eating, Abram took out his pipe, as was his habit after a good meal, and so did Roakore and Ky’Ell. The king gestured to Whill with his pipe. “Do ye smoke, lad?”

Hoping not to offend him, Whill answered truthfully, “No, thank you. I never acquired a taste for it myself, but I do enjoy the smell of another’s.”

“Very well.” The king puffed and blew a large smoke-ring into the air, and quickly sent another smaller one through the middle.

“Now for business.” He sat up in his chair. “What of the invitation I have received from Kell-Torrey?” He asked Abram.

“King Mathus of Eldalon has summoned all kings of Agora to a secret meeting to be held within his castle in Kell-Torey, also the elf queen of Elladrindellia. He has not, however, invited King Addakon of Uthen-Arden.” He paused and glanced at Whill. “In his place Mathus has asked that Whill attend, being the rightful king.”