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

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 threw his arms up. “Of course. Dragons!”

Avriel only nodded, unamused. “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, and 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 Agoran dragons live now on Drakkar Island, but few dare venture there, not even us elves.”

“The dragons of Drakkar do not know of the old alliances between 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?”

“What choice do I have? I will wait until I am stronger, of course, when I have learned the ways of the elves.”

“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. To Roakore’s relief, Tarren had switched to pestering the elves with his hundred questions. Whill watched as the beautiful Avriel animatedly told Tarren a tale of the elves. He tried not to stare but found it difficult indeed. A few times Zerafin caught him, though he said nothing and gave no indication as to whether or not he approved.

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 all 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 and 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 in finding out he was a rightful king. Compared to hearing a five-thousand-year-old elven prophecy about himself, that news 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 an elf sat 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—the ancient blade of legend—was Adromida. Whill raced toward him but seemed to get no closer—rather he was sinking quickly in the sand beneath his feet. Adimorda continued his chant, oblivious to Whill’s peril. Behind the elf stood his own father, sword held high, wearing a look of pure hatred, ready to strike down the elf. He realized it was not his father but Addakon. Whill screamed to Adimorda; the dragons neared; Addakon struck.

Whill’s screaming woke him and the rest of the camp. Zerafin kneeled by his side, a look of worry on his face. He extended a hand and addressed the others. “It’s alright, go back to sleep. He was having a bad dream.”

Abram came to his side as well. “What was it, Whill?”

He shook his head and laughed, embarrassed. “It was nothing, really. Just a dream, like Zerafin said.”

“Given the dreams you have had of late, I would not take any lightly if I were you.”

Worry was etched into Zerafin’s brow. “My sister was able to reach you in your dreams. Do you think maybe Addakon, or Eadon—?”

Whill cut him off. “No, no.” He shook his head. Could his dreams have been influenced by his enemies? Given recent events, he decided he really had no way of knowing. Nothing he heard would ever seem strange again. In the new world he had been thrust into, anything seemed possible.

“It is my turn to keep watch, Zerafin,” Abram said. “Get some rest, my friend.”

Zerafin nodded, never taking his eyes off Whill. Finally his serious look was replaced by a friendly smile. “Very well, then, but I shall like to hear of this dream later.”

He took his leave as Abram and Whill walked a few yards out of camp. They circled the perimeter in silence, Abram seeming to sense that Whill needed a moment to get his wits about him. There was little wind on the edge of the road to Kell-Torey, and the spring night was unusually warm. This came as a welcome change to the cold winter that had recently passed. Crickets chirped all around them, and every now and then the strange sound of bats filled the air. Whill had only slept for a few hours, but he was not tired; rather he found that his head was quite clear.

Abram ended the silence with a pat on Whill’s shoulder. “Have you forgotten that tomorrow is your twentieth birthday?”

Whill laughed. “With all that has transpired, I had forgotten completely.”

“Actually it is your birthday already—so says the moon.” Abram stared beyond the heavens to a place lost to the past. “I cannot believe it has been twenty years.”

Whill stopped and turned to Abram. “I had never realized, nor have I properly thanked you for, all you have done for me. I cannot imagine a life with you not at my side. So now, twenty years after the beginning of it all—thank you, Abram. Thank you for everything.”

Whill hugged him hard, and gave him a firm pat on the back, which Abram returned. He held Whill at arm’s length. “You have surpassed my greatest expectations in every regard, Whill. It has been an honor.”

The young king smiled, but it faded as his eyes moved to the woods. Abram understood the look instantly. “What is it?”

Whill surveyed the surrounding forest. “Listen—the insects and frogs. They have stopped.”

“So they have.”

They quickly and quietly returned to camp, where they found Rhunis and Roakore already awake and alert. Rhunis gestured them to come quietly. “Zerafin woke us a moment ago. He and Avriel have ventured into the brush.”

Roakore looked annoyed. “So what is it, eh? What’s the excitement about?”

Whill surveyed the woods once again, a chill running down his spine all the while. “The frogs and crickets have stopped singing to each other.”

Roakore huffed. “It’s about time, those little monsters kept me up half the night.”

“SHH!” the others exclaimed.

“Draggard are about,” Whill said. “Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. Ready your axe.”

Roakore nodded, but rather than his axe he took in his hands his stone