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

added, “Do not worry, we can teach you to ignore them. It is not known for certain, though it is rumored, that the Dark elves are haunted by those they have taken from. Some can sever the bond or learn to ignore it. Others...”

Zerafin spoke up. “Others are driven mad by the voices, and find silence by their own blade.”

Whill pondered that statement for a moment, appalled by the prospect. Avriel continued. “Do not fret at that, Whill, we will teach you to be rid of them. We need to set our sights on Kell-Torey, where this most important meeting awaits us all; and from there, Elladrindellia, where you will be trained like your father before you.”

Whill breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled, taking in all he had heard. He had one pressing question he could not ignore: “How long will the training take?”

Zerafin furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Our mother has made a pact that states you shall be trained for the mandatory year. Is your haste so great that you would see this time as a burden?”

Whill sensed that he had angered Zerafin, and perhaps Avriel. He held out his hands defensively. “No, no, I mean no disrespect. And I am grateful for all that the elves offer.”

“But?”

“But war rages now within Isladon, the Draggard multiply as we speak within the Ebony Mountains, and Addakon becomes more powerful by the second.”

Zerafin gave a hearty laugh, which earned him a scowl from Avriel. “So you wish to forsake your training so that you might end the war within Isladon, destroy the Draggard, and defeat your uncle Addakon—not to mention the true evil behind all this, Eadon. All this you will accomplish on your own? To do these things you need not our help?”

Avriel spoke before Whill could. “Save your condescension for one more worthy, brother. You know what he means.”

Zerafin looked to Avriel with fire in his eyes, but slowly that fire was replaced by a smile. “Of course. I had forgotten how hasty humans can be, sister. I meant no offense.”

Whill sensed a silent battle between the two. “I did not mean to offend you, Zerafin, son of Verelas. Nor do I mean to offend the elves. I am hasty, I admit, but I have much on my mind and much to do.” He slumped back in his chair with his hand upon his brow, seemingly exhausted. “You must understand that I have just learned who I am. Just a few days ago I was only Whill, a ranger of Agora. Now I am the rightful ruler of a kingdom to which I have seldom ventured and care little about. I am to defeat a mighty king in league with the most powerful Dark elf in history, and yet I almost killed myself healing a child.”

Avriel turned to Zerafin with a raised brow once again. Her brother flashed her a look and addressed Whill. “I am the one who should apologize. I may have forgotten the position you have been put in. But understand, you cannot and will not do this on your own. You will need friends, and friendship we offer.”

Zerafin offered his hand and Whill took it. “Whill of Uthen-Arden, son of Aramonis, son of Celestra, descendant of the great king who took in the elves when we needed friendship most: I offer you mine—undying, unending, until time spreads thine ashes.”

Whill squeezed the elf’s hand. “And I offer you mine in return. I thank you, Zerafin, son of Verelas, prince of Elladrindellia.”

Avriel stood also. Time seemed to slow as Whill looked into her blue eyes. She too offered her hand and spoke words of promise; ever so softly, ever so beautifully, did they escape her lips.

“I offer to you, Whill of Uthen-Arden, my undying, unending, and boundless friendship, so that we may together, all of us, find peace.”

Whill thought for a moment that he would not find his words. Her voice and her gaze had more effect on him than the wine. After a moment he composed himself and responded, “And I mine, Avriel, lady of Elladrindellia, daughter of the great Verelas—until the day I die.”

Zerafin broke the silence that followed. “Then it is settled. We shall travel to Kell-Torey, and then on to Elladrindellia.”

––––––––

After Whill had exited the tent to help within the town, Zerafin turned to his sister and studied her for a moment. Avriel sighed.

“What, brother?”

“What indeed? This is not a game, nor a childhood fantasy.”

She was taken aback. “What lunacy has befallen your tongue?”

“I remember an elf child who would lend an ear for hours to any storyteller recalling the prophecy of Whill of Agora.”

Avriel laughed quickly. “What of it?”

Zerafin leveled his gaze on her. “You studied the prophecy for years, every piece of every scroll that mentioned him. Your life’s work has been for this man, this human.”

“But he is the one! I have merely been preparing.”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “You have been in love with his legend since you were a child. How does the real person strike you? Is he everything you wished?”

Avriel scoffed at her brother’s teasing and then puckered her lips to one side in thought. “It is very strange, don’t you think, to meet one so often spoken of as he?”

“Yes, sister, indeed it is.”

“The oddest thing is...he is exactly what I had envisioned.”

Zerafin scowled and sighed. “This could be disastrous. I fear your feelings could—”

“Could what, brother? It has been written; it will come to pass. He is Whill of Agora, the one we have waited a millennium for. Whether I love the idea of him is of no concern. It is not the same as loving the person.”

Zerafin could only shrug. “We shall see.”

Chapter 19 The Common Road

The remainder of the day was spent salvaging what they could from the destroyed town. Riders were sent out to the nearest villages, and to Kell-Torey. Though no one thought another attack likely, they would all breathe a little easier when reinforcements arrived. Whill spent most of the day with Tarren, who asked a hundred questions about the dwarf city. Whill answered them happily. When the stars finally took to the night sky, he was more than glad to see them. He, Roakore, and Abram had been up since leaving the mountains, and all fell into a much-needed sleep.

Whill awoke the following morning to the smell of pork and eggs drifting on the still-smoky air. He turned his head from the sky to Roakore and Tarren sitting by a fire—the lad no doubt asking more questions of Dy’Kore. Roakore noticed Whill and took the opportunity to break conversation with the young human.

“Aye then, finally. Thought ye might sleep through the day, lad. The boy here’s got more questions than there be stars. Says he never seen a real dwarf, he does. I tell him, I ain’t ever seen a fake one,” he laughed and slapped his leg.

Whill chuckled and accepted a hearty share of breakfast. All around him were similar camps with similar fires. Families and groups of soldiers were all now starting their day.

Soon Abram arrived with Rhunis and the elves, each leading a horse. Rhunis helped himself to a piece of pork and ruffled Tarren’s hair. “So here we all are. This is good.”

He gestured behind him to a knight leading a black stallion and a pony. “These are for you,” he said with a smile as he addressed Whill and Roakore. “We have many miles before us, and I for one would prefer to ride.”

“I had assumed we would journey to Kell-Torey by water.”

Abram gestured towards the sea. “Old Charlotte has been destroyed. And Rhunis’s vessel must stay docked here for protection. We could wait for a royal escort, but that would take a few days.”

Whill nodded. “Days that we don’t have.”

Soon they left the still-smoldering Sherna behind. A group of soldiers from a nearby village had made station at dawn, and a small fleet was expected within the ten-day. Whill knew that the townspeople were in good hands, and he doubted they would see any more trouble. The Draggard had only attacked the town because he had been in it. The best thing he could do for Sherna was to leave.

Though he had recently learned that he was heir to the Uthen-Arden throne and fought a horrible battle, and though death and destruction seemed to follow him like a morbid shadow, Whill was in good spirits. With the ever-inquisitive Tarren, his old friend Abram, both elven and dwarven royalty, and a legendary knight of Eldalon at his side, he felt good indeed.

They headed west along the old and seldom-used road leading from Sherna to Kell-Torey. They rode for many miles, Tarren talking much of the time, until the sun crested the midday sky and it was time to stop and rest.

The riders dismounted and made camp next to a small creek. The horses and pony were left to drink and graze, and Roakore—the most hungry of the group—started a strong fire.

“Got me some good meats from one o’ them townswomen,” Roakore boasted as he took from his pack a half-dozen slabs of venison. “Said it was the least she could offer for me help.”

Avriel put her hands upon her hips and gave Roakore a look. He huffed and made as innocent a face as he could muster. “What was I to do? I may have insulted the poor human if I said nay!”

Everyone had seen the exchange, and none could help but have a good laugh at the poor dwarf’s expense. Roakore threw up his arms and tended to his cooking. The only ear he found was that of a young curious lad who had joined him to learn the secrets of dwarf cooking. Roakore put an arm over Tarren’s shoulder and looked back with a scowl at the rest of the group, which caused another small fit of laughter. “Bah. Forget them, laddie. They can think what they likes. Let ’em have their dried meats and their stinkin’ cheese.” Tarren only smiled.

Avriel and Zerafin had taken up a conversation with Rhunis as they brushed their stallions. Abram took the opportunity to talk with Whill, who was sitting on the ground, sharpening his sword.

“I’ve a riddle for you.”

Whill regarded him quizzically. “I had thought you ran out of riddles for me to solve when I was Tarren’s age.”

Abram chuckled. “Oh, this one is a stumper.”

“Alright then, let’s hear it,” said Whill—never one to turn down a riddle.

Abram cleared his throat dramatically. “How does one keep his mind on the mission at hand when he has fallen helplessly in love with an elf princess?”

Whill said nothing. For a long and silent while he and Abram simply stared at each other. Finally Whill scoffed and went back to sharpening his blade, and Abram to smoking his pipe. After a few minutes, Whill stopped and set aside his sword.

“I’m not in love with her.”

Abram tapped his pipe on a nearby rock and regarded Whill with one raised eyebrow.

“Don’t give me that look,” Whill said.

“What look?”

“You know what look”

“I didn’t know I was giving a look. Perhaps I