Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (30 page)

Roakore patted Tarren’s leg. “A great deal about all things, I imagine. A great deal.”

Whill spoke to no one the remainder of the break. They all ate their share of the venison, packed up, and headed out once again. Tarren, however, asked to ride this time upon the pony with a less-than-enthusiastic dwarf. They rode the remainder of the day and briefly into the night along the old road leading to Kell-Torey. They met no one along the way but a group of one hundred soldiers headed for Sherna. Rhunis informed them that he had been in charge of the reconstruction of the town, but had handed the task over to his second-in-command on account of other more important duties. After a short briefing the soldiers were off once again and the riders made camp for the night.

Roakore made a large fire and went about cooking the remaining venison, with the help of one tired but eager lad. Whill took the time to speak with Avriel and her brother. He found them tending to their horses. Not being in the mood for small talk, he walked up and simply said what was on his mind.

“Abram tells me I have a larger part in all of this than I know. Though I cannot think how my part may become any greater, I trust you will enlighten me as to his insinuations.”

Avriel and Zerafin stopped what they were doing and looked at the faraway silhouette of Abram, and then at each other. They seemed to share a silent communication and finally nodded. They put down their brushes.

“Sit, then, and we shall tell you the tale,” said Zerafin.

Whill sat upon the ground, as did the elves. Twenty yards away the fire burned, casting faint orange light upon the two storytellers.

Avriel began. “More than five thousand years ago there lived within Drindellia an elf prophet by the name of Adimorda, our great-great-great-grandfather. He was a skilled fighter and healer, but he was best known for his foresight.”

“Foresight?”

“Yes,” Zerafin said. “Adimorda is now known as the greatest elf prophet to have ever lived, which is no small feat, considering that our history dates back more than seven hundred thousand years.”

Whill lit up. “Yes, now I remember reading of him. Vaguely, however; I was a child then, and the books I had of the elves spoke little of him. I remember them saying that he could see into the future.”

Avriel nodded. “He used his powers unlike any before him. When first he looked into the future, and then later events proved him right, he became obsessed. He spent year after year pouring his energy into his blade, and he used the stored power to strengthen his mental abilities.”

Zerafin took over without missing a beat. “As more and more of Adimorda’s predictions came true, his followers increased. They would travel from hundreds of miles around to give him their stored energy in exchange for a glimpse of the future. With so much energy at his disposal, Adimorda began looking farther and farther into the future—decades, hundreds, even thousands of years.”

Avriel’s eyes shone wet in the faint firelight. “Then Adimorda saw something that terrified him, something that would change him forever and drive him into a lifelong obsession. He saw the destruction of Drindellia. He saw the rise of a purely evil elf lord, the creation of hideous beasts, the fall of his homeland. We know now that elf lord was Eadon, and the creatures the Draggard. Adimorda knew he must do all he could to prevent this from happening. He devised many plans, and began to carry them out. But he soon found that with every plan he attempted, the results would be the same or worse.”

Whill cut in. “He looked to the future to see how he had helped?”

“Precisely,” Zerafin said. “And he found that nothing he did would help. He could not alter a future so far away.”

Whill’s mind hurt as he thought of the possibilities. He put both hands through his hair and let out an exasperated breath. “Then what did he do?”

Avriel sighed. “Some say that he went mad.”

“Others, the true believers, like myself and my sister, think he did all he thought he could, his last attempt to save Drindellia.”

“Yes,” Avriel said. “Adimorda decided that Eadon’s rise to power was inevitable, that all he could do to help was create a weapon to counter the powerful Dark elf.”

Whill lit up. “He created a weapon?”

Zerafin nodded and let out a laugh. “Yes, his own blade. He thought that if he could store enough energy within it, with the help of his followers, then the wielder would have a chance at defeating the Dark elf. But his plan backfired. He looked once again into the future, only to discover that the Dark elf himself would get his hands on the sword, and all would be lost.”

“But that was not all,” Avriel said. “Adimorda would not give up so easily. To see to it that the Dark elf would never use the sword, he made it so that no elf could ever wield it. He created the Order of Adromida, a group of his followers who would dedicate their lives to his cause.”

Zerafin took his turn. “Adimorda disappeared shortly after that, and was never seen or heard from again.”

Whill was shocked. “Was he murdered?”

“No one knows,” Zerafin said. “Some speculate that he poured all of his life energy into the blade, leaving himself none. Within his study his followers found three words written in blood.”

The intensity of their combined stares made Whill uncomfortable. “What did it say?”

“
Alorna mai Agora.
”

“Whill of Agora,” Avriel translated.

“Whill of Agora?” Whill.

Just then Abram joined them. “You speak of Adimorda, I see. His followers pored through his many scribblings and scrolls and found one of great importance.”

Avriel concurred. “The last scrolls of Adimorda spoke of one who would wield the blade Adromida, one who would rid the world of the Dark elf Eadon and his many legions. Whill of Agora.”

Whill now saw it all clearly. Though he was reluctant to believe he had such a part to play, the evidence was undeniable. “The sword Adromida cannot be wielded by an elf.”

“Correct,” said Zerafin.

“So it is up to me. I alone must wield the blade and destroy Eadon.” His voice held little enthusiasm.

Avriel looked from her brother to Abram and finally to Whill. “There is one other who could wield the blade.”

Whill knew before she had finished. “My uncle Addakon.”

Abram nodded. “Addakon.”

“Where is the sword?” asked Whill. “Was it brought from Drindellia?”

Avriel shook her head with dismay. “No. We do not have it, nor do we know where it is. For more than four thousand years the Order of Adromida did what they had been sworn to do. The Order was composed of hundreds of monks, and each and every elf poured their life energy into that blade. Every day, all day, there was always someone within the temple, strengthening the blade, for four thousand years.”

Avriel paused and stared at Whill, scrutinizing his reaction. When he only stared back, she let out a huff. “Whill, do you understand the great power that Adromida possesses? Having been given the energy of so many for so long?”

Whill thought on it for a moment. “No, I cannot. It is unimaginable. The wielder of such a blade would be like…like a god.”

“Yes. And can you imagine what Addakon would do with such power?”

Whill knew then that if Addakon ever got his hands on the great elven blade, all would be lost. Whether he liked it or not, he, it seemed, was truly the only hope.

Abram lit his pipe and blew out a puff of smoke. “Now you begin to see. This is why I think that Eadon has come to Agora—he is in search of the blade, but also its wielder. It seems that he has found Addakon. And together they will stop at nothing to acquire Adromida. I believe that is indeed why Addakon killed your father. With your father and his unborn child dead, the only man with the power to wield the blade would be himself.”

“And now he knows that I live. The throne is but a minor issue, is it not? Addakon wants me dead so that I cannot find the sword first.”

“Indeed.”

“Then why are we heading for Kell-Torey when we could be looking for the sword? Do we have any clues to where it may be?”

Zerafin put a hand to the air, gesturing for Whill to relax. “We have been looking for the sword, of course, since we learned of your existence.”

“But what ever happened to the blade? Who took it?”

Avriel looked in Roakore’s direction, and said in a lowered tone, “The dragons.”

Whill gave out a frustrated laugh and put up a gesturing hand to the stars. “Of course. Dragons!”

Avriel only nodded, not amused. “When the war of Drindellia began, Eadon destroyed the Temple of Adromida and took the sword as his own. Though he could not wield it, he kept it for himself. He knew that if his enemies had it, they might find a way to use it against him. We elves had a strong friendship with the dragons for thousands of years before Eadon came to power. They viewed Eadon’s creation of the Draggard as a great insult.”

Zerafin took up the telling. “Avriel was born after the wars had begun, but I remember when it all started. I was 120 years old. Our father begged the dragons for help, but most refused. Less than twenty decided to form an alliance with us. That was near the beginning of the War of Drindellia, and though the dragons aided us greatly in the many battles, the Dark elves were too powerful. We were defeated, and all but one of the dragons who aided us were killed.”

Avriel interjected. “That dragon, the red dragon Zhola, with the help of a host of elves, managed to steal Adromida from Eadon. The elves were killed, but Zhola returned the sword to our father. Our father told him to leave, to take the blade somewhere safe, somewhere far away. And so he did, and was never seen again.”

There was a pause in the story as Whill looked at the ground, his mind racing. Abram sat likewise, puffing his pipe. Avriel went on.

“We have spoken to a few of the dragons, though they are hard to find these days. As you know, they have been mostly driven from Agora by dwarves and men. The Agora dragons live now on Drakkar Island, but few dare venture there, not even we elves.”

“The dragons of Drakkar do not know of the old alliances of dragons and elves,” Zerafin added. “They are wild and unfriendly, to say the least. Those elves who have tried to find out anything about Zhola have either died trying or found out nothing useful.”

Whill still felt hopeful. “But if there is anything to learn of Zhola, it is to be learned on Drakkar Island, is it not?”

Avriel was hesitant. “Correct.”

“Then that is where Addakon will be looking, and that is where I must look.”

Zerafin laughed. “You will go to Drakkar Island alone, and what? Simply walk into the dragon’s lair and ask about Zhola?”

“Actually, yes. What choice do I have? I will wait until I am stronger. of course, when I have learned the ways of the elves. But it is something that must be done.”

“It sounds foolhardy, but he is right.” Abram grinned at Whill. “And I will be there next to him.”

“As will I,” said Rhunis as he walked over to the small gathering. “Who better to have with you on Drakkar Island than Rhunis the Dragonslayer?”

“What are ye all talkin’ ’bout?” Roakore called from the fireside. “Quit yer yappin’ and come get dinner while it’s hot.”

They did as the gruff dwarf told them and ate beside the fire. Fresh-cooked venison, cheese, and bread—not such a bad meal for the road, and it was only made better by Rhunis’s wine. They ate and they talked and they laughed. To Roakore’s relief, Tarren had switched to pestering the elves with his million questions. Whill watched as the beautiful Avriel animatedly told Tarren a tale of the elves. He tried not to stare but found it hard indeed. A few times Zerafin caught him, though he said nothing and showed no sign of his approval nor lack thereof.

Tarren went on to beg the elf maiden for a song, and she happily agreed. All other conversation died as Avriel sat up. To Whill she was like an angel, so beautiful did she look in the firelight. As she began her song, he heard an angel’s voice to match.

The dreaded day dawned, birthing a blood-red sun

Upon the beaches of Alshtuir stood our king

He stood proud with his men, those who would die

The finest of weapons the strongest of armor

The greatest of heroes shone in the sun

Our boats sailed away that most dreaded of days

Tears of a queen fell into the sea

Tears of a king fell into the sand

Over the hill the fell beasts they came

The elves of darkness stepped onto the sand

As the ocean took us to safety unknown

The battle began with the cry of our king

Over the waters it echoes, still to this day

To remind us what was given, so that we may live

No one spoke. Rhunis, Abram, and Whill stared at Avriel with wonder. Roakore looked at the fire, trying to hide the moisture in his eyes. Zerafin smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder. Avriel smiled at them all and wiped a tear from her eye.

“I apologize—that was not the happiest of songs, I know, but it is my favorite.”

Whill smiled back. “No, no, it was beautiful. I have never heard a voice with so much…feeling.”

Avriel wiped her eyes once again and stood. “I think I will find some rest.” She laughed as she looked at Tarren. “It seems as though the boy already has.”

Everyone laughed as they too looked at Tarren. He was sitting cross-legged with his head to the side, having fallen asleep sitting up. Avriel gently laid him down and covered him.

Zerafin stood. “We have a long road ahead. You should all get some rest. I will take first watch.”

They all shared good-nights and fell asleep one by one, Whill last of all. He lay staring up at the stars for some time, considering all he had learned. He laughed to himself at the memory of being overwhelmed at finding out he was a rightful king. Compared to hearing a five-thousand-year-old elven prophecy about himself, that had been nothing. The stars danced and his mind raced, but eventually he found sleep.

Whill raced up the beach. The dragons had seen him and they came—by the dozens they came. They flew low, their wings dipping in the ocean with every beat. Only a short distance away he saw an elf sitting cross-legged, chanting quietly with his sword lifted to the heavens. Though Whill did not recognize the elf, he knew him to be Adimorda, and the blade he held to be Adromida. Whill raced toward him but seemed to get no closer—rather he was sinking, sinking quickly in the sand beneath his feet. Adimorda continued his chant, oblivious of Whill’s peril. To Whill’s horror he saw behind Adimorda his own father, sword held high, wearing a look of pure hatred, ready to strike down the elf. Then Whill realized it was not his father but Addakon. Whill screamed to Adimorda, the dragons neared, Addakon struck, and Whill sank.