Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (32 page)

The Dark elf’s laugh became a gurgle as blood poured from his neck. He slashed again and severed Zerafin’s sword hand at the wrist. Zerafin reeled back in pain. Avriel, gritting her teeth, thrust both hands forward into the open air. A shockwave of energy rushed forth and shattered the kneecaps of the wounded Dark elf. He fell to his knees but thrust forward once again and impaled Avriel through the gut.

Whill watched in horror as the blade stuck through Avriel’s back. He screamed and brought back his blade for a killing blow but stopped dead as the Dark elf raised his free hand. Whill felt more pain than he had ever known as red light emanated from the wounded elf’s hand and hit Whill with steady pulses. The Dark elf laughed a hideous, gurgled laugh as he looked Whill dead in the eye. “Everyone you love will die horribly, fool hum—”

The Dark elf fell quiet as Zerafin mentally pulled his sword from the Dark elf’s throat, took hold of it in his remaining hand, and hewed the Dark elf’s head, all in an instant. Whill fell to the ground in a heap next to a dying Avriel. Zerafin quickly extended his hand toward the elf’s body. It erupted into flames so white-hot that had Whill not shielded his face, it would have blistered his skin. The pyre burned on as Zerafin poured forth great amounts of energy to incinerate the Dark elf until not even ashes remained.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dwarf Pride

T
he sight was a bloody one. More than twenty dead Draggard littered the ground, along with nearly a dozen Draquon. Roakore was still out cold, though Whill could see his chest heave slightly as he breathed. Rhunis coughed violently, his throat having been nearly crushed. Zerafin bled profusely from his severed hand, and Avriel lay upon the ground, close to death.

Whill’s pain had subsided as soon as the Dark elf had died. Now he looked upon the elf maiden whom he now knew he had grown to love in such a short time. Abram was already tending to Roakore, who had awakened and was trying to stand.

Whill took Avriel in his arms and looked into her beautiful eyes. She coughed and blood flew from her lips. He felt something inside him tear at the sight of the dying elf. Rage welled within him as he watched her slowly slipping away. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Give me….” Her voice was so soft that Whill hardly heard her.

“What?” he asked. “Give you what.?”

“My sword,” she whispered.

Whill moved to find it, but then he saw Zerafin standing next to them, Avriel’s sword in hand. Whill took it from him and placed it in Avriel’s bloody hand. Zerafin placed his hand on his shoulder.

“You should step back.”

Avriel took the blade in both hands and placed it upon her chest. Instantly she seemed more aware as she closed her eyes and wrapped herself in bright blue tendrils of healing energy.

“The wounds are grave,” Zerafin said. “It shall take a moment. But she will be alright.”

Whill looked at Zerafin’s bloody stump. “And you—can you heal such a wound?”

Zerafin laughed. If he felt any pain he did not show it. “I could actually grow another if I needed. But simply reconnecting the original will take far less energy.”

Whill could not shake the feeling that he was caught up in a strange dream as he helped Zerafin wash dirt from his dismembered hand. He watched the elf press it to his bloody wrist. The same blue tendrils encircled it.

Whill left the elves to their healing and rushed over to check on Roakore. Abram was trying to keep the stubborn dwarf from trying to get up.

“Let me up, ye damned fool, I don’t need no healing! I don’t need no help!”

Abram cursed the dwarf. “Every rib on his left side is broken, and one must have punctured his lung, for he is coughing blood. Still the fool refuses the elves’ help and insists he is alright.”

Roakore lay growling under Abram’s restraining arms. Whill shrugged. “Let him up, then. He says he is alright, and so he must be.” He winked to Abram on the sly. “Give the good dwarf his dignity.”

Abram let go and Roakore got to his feet with much effort but not a sign of discomfort. He shoved Abram weakly. “At least the lad has some sense!”

The three walked back to the fire and were shocked to see Zerafin and Avriel waking a sleepy-eyed Tarren. Roakore addressed Abram out of the side of his mouth. “I thought ye said they was both badly wounded.”

Abram looked down at the dwarf’s left side. “They are excellent healers, as you know.”

“I’ll ready the damned horses,” Roakore huffed, and stormed off.

Abram looked on, worried, as Whill watched Avriel’s every move. His visual scrutiny was cut short as Tarren woke and gave a shout upon seeing the many dead Draggard.

“Shh, it’s alright, Tarren. They are all dead.” Avriel stroked his head.

Tarren pushed her hand aside and made a disappointed face. “Aw, you let me sleep through it! I wish I could have seen it—what happened? Did they breathe fire like dragons, did those other ones really fly, did—?”

“There will be time for questions on the road,” said Whill. “We still have a long ride, and we must leave now.”

“Not until we have destroyed the remains,” Zerafin said. The elves went to work incinerating the corpses with a word and a raised hand.

The others broke down camp quickly and doused the fire. As they walked the horses to the road, Avriel came up next to Whill, who was ahead of the others.

“I am alright,” she said. “Thank you for your help.”

“I did nothing.”

Avriel raised an eyebrow. “Really? Did you not care?”

“Yes, of course I did! I—”

“You did care—you cared enough to cry, and for that I thank you. You are a good friend, Whill of Agora.”

He was at a loss for words. He was not embarrassed that she had seen him cry, but rather overjoyed that she had called him friend. He said the only thing that came to his mind.

“As are you, Avriel of Elladrindellia.”

She smiled brightly at him and slowed to walk alongside her brother, who now had the overexcited Tarren as a passenger. Whill guided the group the rest of the way to the road with the widest smile he had ever known.

Soon the sun began to rise in the east, sending red, orange, and purple light dancing through the thin clouds. The group had more than two days to Kell-Torey, but they traveled now at a much faster pace than previously. They knew now that they were being followed, and an attack from behind could come at any time, or an ambush from ahead. That being so Zerafin rode a quarter-mile ahead of the group, and Rhunis a quarter-mile behind.

They traveled in this manner for seven hours, keeping the horses at a steady trot. Finally Zerafin stopped and let the others catch up to him.

“The horses need a rest, as do we all, short one though it will be.”

Abram dismounted with a groan and walked over to Roakore’s pony. The dwarf was taking long, labored breaths and sat slumped against his pony’s mane.

“How is he?” asked Whill.

Abram gave Roakore a small shove, but the dwarf did not move. “He is asleep.”

“He is badly hurt?”

“Yes, but the fool will not ask for help. If he were on his deathbed he would not ask for healing. Not from the elves.”

Whill lit up. “Not from the elves, aye.” He walked over to Zerafin but found him busy answering Tarren’s many questions of the battle. He searched for Avriel and found her not far away, kneeling by a small brook, filling her water pouch. He kneeled down next to her and dipped his own empty pouch in the cold water.

“I ask a favor.”

Avriel tied off her pouch. “And what would that be?”

Roakore is badly hurt. But he is very stubborn. For whatever reason, he will not ask or consciously accept you or your brother’s help. Stupid, I know,” he added, worried that she might take offense.

Avriel laughed. “No, no, not stupid. The dwarves are a stubborn bunch, that much is true. But it serves them well. Without such will, they could not have achieved all that they have. They are tough as stone, as they say.” She leaned in closer, as if divulging a secret. Whill’s throat went dry. “But deep, deep inside, they are like any of us. They feel love, pain, and fear.”

They stood. “So,” Avriel said. “You want me to help you heal Roakore?”

Whill was once again amazed by the elves’ perception. “Yes. I mean, I healed Tarren on my own, but of course in my own healing I needed your help. What I mean is I think that I can do this. I
need
to do this.”

Avriel raised a hand. “I understand, Whill.” She paused in thought. “I will give you my sword. Beware, for it holds great power. Before my brother and I went on this journey to Kell-Torey, we were given gifts by many elves, gifts in the form of energy offerings. You must focus on Roakore, much as you did on Tarren. But you must not let your emotions get the better of you. Clear your mind. Think only of Roakore’s injuries. Do not let him take more than you intend to give.”

“I understand.”

Avriel locked eyes with him for more than a silent moment. “Do you? Do you understand that if you give him too much, he will drain the blade and die? Do you understand that if you are not in control the entire time, you may kill the both of you? Is that what you understand?”

If Avriel intended on scaring Whill, she had succeeded. He gazed back at her, now unsure.

“Remember, Whill, give him only what he needs. Do not take from the blade for yourself, and focus on his injuries. You can do this. I have faith in you.”

That was all Whill needed to hear. Together they walked the game trail back to the road. Rhunis had gathered everyone else’s water pouches. Upon seeing Whill and Avriel’s full pouches, he said, “That way, then.”

Zerafin was dueling with Tarren, each with a wooden stick as a sword. Tarren waved happily. “Look, Whill, Zerafin is teaching me how to fight!”

Just then Zerafin smacked Tarren atop the head with his mock sword.

“Ouch!” Tarren said with a scowl.

“That is your first lesson, young one: let nothing distract you from the enemy at hand.”

Roakore sat with Abram in the short grass at the side of the old road. They each sported a smoking pipe. Roakore took his puffs with great care, but tried to act as if nothing bothered him.

Avriel handed Whill her blade with a wink. He could feel the power within it. He took long, slow, calming breaths and went over to Abram and Roakore. He sat facing Roakore, the sword concealed on his other side.

“How do you feel?” Whill asked nonchalantly.

Roakore puffed on his pipe and began coughing uncontrollably. Whill noted that he had bloodied the ground before him.

“Do ye ask fer the elves or fer yerself?”

“I ask as a friend, and I hope you would do the same.”

“Bah, the pain ain’t nothin, just a few busted ribs is all. I ain’t gonna die from it, if that’s what yer thinkin. I know the elves are dyin’ to practice on me, but I ain’t asked fer help and I ain’t needin’ none.” He finished with a violent cough that produced more blood than before.

Whill thought for a moment. “I was raised partially by Abram, as you know, but I lived the first years of my life with a great healer. She taught me a great many things.” Roakore eyed Whill suspiciously. Whill only smiled. “Listen. You practically saved Abram and I atop that mountain against the Draggard. Let a man pay his debts the only way he can—let me help you. I know that you do not ask for help, but please accept that which I offer.”

Roakore eyed Whill for a moment and then went into another violent coughing fit. When he was done, and had painted the grass red with blood, he nodded. “Alright then,” Roakore said, swooning. “What did ye have in mind?”

“Lie on your back, if you will. And close your eyes.”

Roakore wearily obeyed. Abram gave Whill a suspicious look, but Whill only winked. In his left hand he clenched Avriel’s blade. He let his right hand fall upon Roakore’s chest. At first he did not take from the sword, but rather he used his right hand and grazed Roakore’s chest in circular motions. He cleared his mind, focusing his entire being on his friend. Very slowly he tapped the energy within Avriel’s sword. He jolted slightly as he felt the first waves of power flow from the sword and into his body. He had the sudden urge to indulge in his first instinct, to take from the sword for himself. To make the power within his own. He closed his eyes and frowned, fighting back the urge. He guided the energy from the sword through his body and into Roakore’s chest.

Zerafin walked over to his sister, who was watching Whill from afar as he knelt before the prone dwarf. Zerafin spoke to her with his mind.

Tell me you didn’t give him your sword to heal the dwarf.

Avriel smiled mischievously.
You think he is not ready?

Of course he is not ready! He has had no training in the ways of healing. Yet you give him your own blade!

Avriel looked not at her brother but rather kept watch over Whill.
He has healed before. Yes, I know what you will say—he almost killed himself. But I believe he can do this. I believe in Adimorda, and so I must believe in Whill of Agora. He is our only hope, dear brother. You know this as well as I. And so we must let him do as he will.

Zerafin did not take his eyes from his sister. He had known Avriel all her life, and he knew her heart better than any.

“You love him.” Zerafin spoke aloud now.

Slowly Avriel met her brother’s gaze. She could not lie to him, even if she wanted to, She smiled to herself as she pondered his statement.

“It seems I do.”

Zerafin breathed heavily “You know what is said about such matters.”

“But do I care?” she snapped back. “Nay. Many elves have forsaken love for law, but to what end? We have hid away for centuries in Elladrindellia, venturing from our given lands only to help in the wars. We—you and I, all of us—have met humans whom we liked, even loved.” She took his arm. “Yes, brother, remember, even you have fancied a human woman.”

Zerafin turned on his sister. “And now she is dead! Centuries lie in the wake of her last breath.”

Avriel made her tone soft in the face of her anguished brother. “That she is, but had you been allowed to teach her, to show her our ways, would she not be here today? I fear we have erred in not allowing such unions. Elves and humans both would be better off now if we had shared more in the past.”