Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (47 page)

“Roakore, is it not?” the Dark elf inquired as his clapping ended and echoed throughout the great chamber. “This is the part where I tell you to surrender peacefully, you spit in my face and say something valiant, and then we fight. Am I right?”

Roakore remembered the Dark elf they had encountered in the forest, how he had sent his own weapon flying back at him with only a thought.
Many o’ me men’ll fall to this one.

“I am Roakore, son o’ the fallen king o’ the Ro’Sar mountains. I reclaim these halls, as is my birthright. And you, Dark elf, are trespassing.”

“Ha! You do not—”

“I ain’t done speaking, boy! Yer people have brought this scourge upon me doors, murdered our families, taken our home. I wage war this day, and I speak fer every dwarf who ever lived when I say that from this day forth ye shall be hunted, and ye shall be exterminated from this world. The Dark elves have wronged the wrong people. And it starts with yer death!”

With these last words a dwarf broke from the ranks and charged the Dark elf. Raising his war hammer with a great howl he charged in, only to be lifted by an invisible force and slammed into the ceiling with a loud thud. As he fell, many more charged at once. The elf did not flinch, he did not move. Still they came, barreling at him, weapons held high, more than thirty dwarves. They were not more than ten feet away and still the Dark elf did not move, not until the last second. Then Roakore watched in horror as the elf brought back his hand as if to punch someone in the stomach and punched at the air before him with an open palm. A wave of energy blasted from him, engulfing the charging dwarves and sending them flying backwards. Roakore’s army watched in awestruck horror as the bodies of the dwarves disintegrated into dust before their eyes, their very life force ripped from their bodies and mingling with the light of the force field. The Dark elf dropped his hand and the energy field retracted into it. He bent in ecstasy, his eyes rolled back, and his body shuddered as he gave out the kind of moan usually only heard by a lover. The armor and weapons of thirty dwarves fell to the floor.

Whill was overcome with grief. He pounded the dragon’s leg in a rage. Then behind him he glimpsed a flash of silver. It was Eadon and his eagle dragon. His mind filled with rage; he saw the faces of the many dead who had fallen because of this Dark elf—his parents, the dwarves of the Ebony Mountain, the people of Sherna, men, women, children, Abram, Rhunis, Zerafin…and Avriel. He thought his head might explode from the pressure, the agony, the torment. Pain wracked his mind, his body; his very soul was aflame. All sense left his mind and only one thought remained within that ocean of misery it had become. Revenge.

The red dragon had noticed Eadon and dove swiftly as a ball of fire flew past, barely missing them. Eadon’s mount easily maneuvered to keep up, even gain on them. There was a terrible shout that cracked the sky like thunder, and the red dragon was hit with a shockwave of energy that blew it with great force to the side, causing it to roll and tumble through the air and drop Whill. As Whill fell, he did not feel fear, only rage that he would die this way, without a chance to exact his revenge. But no, his chance came. Eadon’s mount dove after his, its great silver wings tucked in tightly. It ripped through the air unnaturally fast—or was Whill being pulled up towards it? He reached for his father’s sword. The red dragon, apparently forgotten, slammed into Eadon and his mount. The two great beasts tumbled through the air, claws ripping, teeth biting as they tried to get a hold of the other’s neck.

A sudden blast of fire separated the two. The ground was almost upon him as Whill watched the battle above. The red dragon fell like a rock, smoke and blood trailing behind him like a comet’s tail as he descended with extended wings. As Whill rocketed towards the ground, he knew he had only seconds to live. In his mind burned the faces of the dead, and he gave in to the darkness, sweet, silent, endless darkness.

The red dragon fell faster than Whill and was soon slightly below him, coming in at him with great speed. Below him the ground rose up to crush him, and from his side the red dragon came to save him. The dragon snatched him up with its claws and pulled him in tight as it spun over and with a great thud crashed to the ground. Dust flew up into the morning sky as the dragon hit like a rock, tumbling for more than three hundred yards before coming to rest in the shadow of the Ebony Mountains.

“I see you have none powerful enough to defeat me. Shall we try the blade, then? It is so much more satisfying.” The Dark elf unsheathed his sword. “And when you reach your beloved halls, tell your gods that your army was laid waste by Farandelizon.”

“Charge!” roared Roakore. The entire army descended upon the Dark elf. In a blur of motion Farandelizon cut through their weapons, their armor, their bodies. Dozens fell in seconds. Roakore’s face hardened. The roar of his army filled his ears, accompanied by the screams of the dying. How could they fight such unnatural power? They were so close; they had reclaimed the halls, and for what? To be done in by a single Dark elf.

No!
Thought Roakore. He stopped in his charge and raised his hands above him. Drawing strength from those around him—how he did not know, did not care—he focused his mind on the stalagmite above him. So large was it that forty dwarves could have circled it. With a great scream he watched as it broke from its base and fell. Those closest to Roakore felt their strength drained from them for a moment as he guided the missile towards the elf.

Farandelizon saw it coming, even as he fought the oncoming tide of dwarves, but he did not believe it. Unable to stop in his fight he could only watch as the great rock came hurtling at him, one word filling his mind as it crashed into him:
How?

Whill struggled out from under the dragon’s great claws. As the dust settled he looked around, trying to spot the damned Dark elf. He saw thousands of Draggard and knew Roakore and his dwarves had been too late, the mountain had emptied already. From the coast came the blaring of a horn, the war horn of Eldalon. It was followed by the trumpets of the elves. Both were answered by the hisses and growls of the thousands of Draggard.

The red dragon’s huge chest heaved as it choked on the dust. Blood stained the ground as it coughed. It had broken a wing and had many bloody injuries upon its body, including a bone that had broken through the scales of its right front leg.

“Eadon comes,” the red dragon growled. “He will kill us both. I have failed.”

Whill unsheathed his father’s sword. “Let him come.”

The red dragon lifted himself to his hind legs and breathed heavily and roared, belching flame above Whill’s head. “Fool! You face your death and care not. You, the great Whill spoken of in Adimorda’s prophecy! You are a sniveling weakling. Already your emotions consume you; already you walk in the darkness. You are not worthy of the knowledge of the sword of Adrominda. Better it never be found.”

“The sword!” Whill exclaimed. “You know where it is?”

“I know, and no other ever will. The knowledge will go with my death.”

“Tell me where it is! You must, it is the only way I may stop Eadon!”

A puff of smoke issued from the great red dragon. “Stop Eadon, you? You cannot even stop yourself! You are but a child, a mortal child wrapped up too much in your own ego. You think you have seen pain? You think you know suffering? No, child, you know nothing. I had hope for you. I had dreamed.” The dragon lifted its head as Eadon landed less than one hundred yards away. Hundreds of Draggard had come to join their master, and they now circled them.

“I see now my own folly,” the dragon went on. “Adimorda was mistaken. You are not worthy. And now I face my death. I will not live to see the darkness that will spread across this land, but you…”

Eadon approached without sword drawn, a victorious smirk upon his face. Whill did not even bother to take up a battle stance.

“Let us end this,” he said in a resigned voice.

Eadon stopped ten feet from him. The red dragon rose proudly to his full height behind Whill.

Eadon smiled brightly. “End? Now why on earth would I want to kill you, Whill? I have waited so very long to meet you. End? No, I think not, my apprentice. This is but the beginning.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Dark Master

W
hill’s blood went cold. Everything had gone horribly wrong. He was supposed to be on his way to Elladrindellia to train with the elves. Now his friends were all dead and he was cornered. Apprentice, Eadon had said. Apprentice! Death seemed a sweet refuge to what would await him at the hands of this maniac. How could this be happening? He had to think of something, but there was nothing he could do. No one was coming to his rescue this time. No elf warriors, no burly dwarves, no mysterious dragon. He was alone.

“You are speechless,” Eadon mused. “I understand. It is a great honor I offer you. I will forgive your rude behavior.”

“Honor? You know nothing of honor!” The red dragon let out a roar as he descended upon Whill, huge teeth meant to engulf him. With a quick thrust of his arm Eadon sent a shockwave of energy at the beast, sending it flying backwards more than twenty feet, along with Whill. Before Whill realized what had happened, Eadon stood before them once again.

“No, my old friend, I will not let you kill my young apprentice. He has many great things to do before his life is through.”

The red dragon tried to kill me
, Whill realized as he looked into the ancient dragon’s eyes. They were filled with fear, pain, and pity, but not for itself. The dragon had tried to end his life in an attempt to spare him. Now Whill knew fear; now he truly knew despair.

“I will heal you, dragon, and you will accompany me and our young friend here,” said Eadon.

Now the dragon’s look of fear and pity were for he himself. Flames erupted from its maw and deflected harmlessly to each side of Eadon, who looked truly amused. “Kill me and be done with it!” The dragon roared in Elvish

“No, old friend, I know your secret. I know who you are. You alone have knowledge of a certain artifact that I have waited many, many years to acquire. You will come with us.” Eadon raised his palm to the dragon and blue tendrils of healing energy shot out and engulfed it.

The dragon roared as its bone snapped back into place and its wing healed. Just as quickly as it had started, the healing was through, and Eadon showed no sign that it had taxed his power. The dragon roared and thrashed, and flames shot forth from its mouth. They were harmlessly deflected from Whill and Eadon’s path.

“Enough from you, beast! You have lost! You will only achieve greater pain should you choose to defy me!”

Then from behind them came a great explosion as a massive piece of rock smashed through the side of the mountain. The cheers of thousands of dwarves echoed forth.

Rhunis drifted into darkness, sweet, silent, engulfing darkness. His pain and worry were no more; he could rest now. He had been here before, in the cold embrace of this lover, death. From the distance came the sounds of battle, the ocean waves and screams of the dying. No more were these things his concern. No more.

Something slammed into his chest, and again, and a voice. Why couldn’t they leave him in peace? “Rhunis!” Again there came a slam to his chest, the bliss replaced by pain, the silence with screams. “Rhunis!”

Rhunis coughed up seawater as someone turned him onto his side and patted him on the back. The sights and sounds came rushing back to assault his senses. “Rhunis!”

He swatted at his rescuer and struggled to sit up. A strong hand helped him. “Rhunis, my friend, I thought you for dead.”

He caught his breath and spat. Shaking his head he looked towards the voice, the voice of Abram. They were on the beach. Water lapped up at their feet as an army of both elf and human soldiers stormed the beaches around them.

“You woke me from the most wonderful dream,” grumbled Rhunis as he strove to stand. Abram helped him to his feet.

“You will find it again someday, but perhaps not this day.” Abram did not smile as he looked out at the ocean. And then Rhunis remembered.

“Whill, Avriel, Zerafin—where are they? I remember being blasted into the ocean and then…and then a great explosion.”

“Yes, an explosion,” Abram repeated solemnly. “And the end of the maiden of Elladrindellia. She did what she had to do, the only thing she could to give Whill a chance at escape, like Whill’s father so many years ago.”

“What of Whill, of Zerafin?”

Just then a figure emerged from the sea, his armor blackened, his cloak in pieces. Yet he walked with strength, purpose. Abram had never seen such pain, such sorrow etched into the face of any elf in all of his days. Zerafin’s usual stoic expression had been replaced by one of misery and rage. In his strong arms lay the limp and lifeless body of his sister.

He did not speak, he did not even regard the two. He simply stopped upon the sand, dropped to his knees, and laid her down. A cry of anguish and tortured anger erupted from him, and anyone nearby would have stopped cold at the sound. One name escaped his lips, one name rang out into the heavens, a name embedded in the memory of every man and elf who lived to recall that dark day upon the beaches of Isladon. One name: Avriel, his fallen sister.