Whill of Agora: Book 1 - Michael Ploof (e book reader for pc .TXT) 📗

hissing and laughing at them. Then Whill saw Addakon. He came from among the crowd of Draggard with a malevolent smile on his face. Whill drew his father’s sword and charged. At first, Addakon simply stood and laughed, but as Whill neared, the evil king unsheathed his own sword and ran to meet the attack. Whill came down with a powerful first strike, and then proceeded to slice and jab with all his might, but his uncle just laughed and blocked every blow with ease.

Suddenly Addakon raised a hand and Whill was paralyzed; but as he turned and walked toward Aramonis and Abram, he realized Addakon controlled his every movement. He fought to stop himself, but to no avail. When he finally reached his father, he raised his sword high for a killing blow. As the blade came down, Whill awoke with a scream.

“No!”

He sprang to his feet. At first he did not know where he was. He looked around the room bewildered, and then saw the sword in his trembling hands. He breathed a sigh of relief. He remembered he was in Dy’Kore. For a moment he stood unmoving, trying to shake the vision of his nightmare. He walked to the chair, retrieved the sword’s sheath, and attached it to his belt. After one last glance, he put the sword away and opened to the door. As he did so, he turned to look back at the chamber—he had come to this room a boy seeking answers; now he left it the rightful king of Uthen-Arden.

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.

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

Abram respected his privacy, though he was worried about him. He knew that it would be hard for Whill to accept his heritage even though he had prepared him for this day as best he could. 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 the large mirror on the wall, 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 that of 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 power, 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 at that age—and had used his powers instinctively without any training, 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 others kept him awake for hours, until finally he drifted off into the much-needed realm of sleep.

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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, where he found him 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 and 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.”

Abram eyed the healed skin with a worried glare. It was many moments before his eyes found Whill’s.

“You healed yourself, Whill, whether you meant to or not. There’s no other explanation.”

Whill shook his head and was about to speak, but there was nothing he could really say. Instead, he just sat there confused. Abram rose and paced the room, looking down at the floor and obviously distraught. He continued to do so even after he started speaking again. “This is why you must go soon to the elves. I have taught you much, but I cannot teach that which you now need to know. You have great abilities, Whill, but without knowledge and control, 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 him the sword in the first place. “Yes, after you left I held it for a long while... but I did nothing...I...I fell asleep.”

Abram sat again and tried to explain. “The sword of your father has life once again. Elven swords are very powerful; when you held it in your state of...despair, and anger, powerful dark energy—your energy—poured into it. This, as you will learn, is a practice forbidden by Elves of the Sun—only the Dark Elves use such techniques, Whill.”

There was much gravity in Abram’s words. Whill began to understand how little control he had over his power to heal, and the thought scared him.

“It is not this use of the mind itself that they shun,” Abram continued. “It is the use of negative thoughts and emotions that they do not allow. If one fills their sword with anger, hatred, and other negative energy, they too 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 destroy one’s soul and blacken their heart just the same.”

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

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

“We will be ready, my good friend.”

“I will return for ye then, Abram,” he replied, and with that he was gone.

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 them to the king’s quarters. Having been given rooms in the king’s guest wing, it was a short walk. The floors in this wide corridor were black marble, and the walls were adorned with many carvings. There were also great stone arches, each one a work of art, every twenty feet or so. Years beyond reckoning had gone into the designs of this ancient lair, and Whill took in all 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, easily a few hundred feet wide and twice as long. There were high cathedral ceilings supported by gold and silver arches, and the floors were of white marble. The walls, platinum, were highly polished and added to its grand appearance. Dozens of large dwarf statues lined both sides of the room, standing over twenty 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.” He led them down the great chamber, past dozens of similar statues, to where King Ky’Ell sat waiting.

“The most magnificent sight I have ever seen,” Whill said as he looked at the largest statue of them all. It was directly ahead, behind Ky’Ell’s throne. The image that stared down at them 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, 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

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Finally, they came to the king’s court. Two dwarves stood on either side, dressed as Fior was, and four steps led to the marvelous gold throne. Ky’Ell himself was big by dwarf standards. 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. I am glad to see that the many rumors o’ yer death be 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. “’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 many Draggard single-handed. Ye indeed be a great warrior o’ men, an’ ye’ll be a great king in yer time.”

Whill was barely used to the