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

My name is Ithellio of the house of Noranan. My family has served the kings for more than two centuries. I have been appointed as your servant for the duration of your stay.”

Roakore traded his scowl for a grin. “Servant, eh? Well, then, Ithellio. What do ye offer?”

“Offer?”

“Fer breakfast, lad! What do ye offer fer food?”

“Ah. Anything you desire.”

“Good then. Bring me a pound o’ bacon, greasy but crunchy, a pitcher o’ goat’s milk, a half dozen eggs sloppy, and a good fresh loaf o’ bread. And don’t be skimpin’ on the butter.”

The lad bowed low once again and stepped backward. “Very good, sir. I shall return shortly.”

Roakore slammed the door before the lad had finished speaking. His room was the same in design and layout as Whill’s, and soon he discovered the large tub with its two waterspouts and hand pumps. He scratched his head and investigated the balcony. Below he saw the vast gardens with their many fountains and pools. To many humans such a sight would inspire awe, but to the gruff dwarf the flowers seemed a waste of space. Instead he looked past the gardens to the castle walls. It was upon looking at the cold, well-shaped stone that the dwarf was awed.

––––––––

Zerafin entered his sister’s room without knocking; he had contacted her through his mind, and she had bade him enter. Avriel sat upon a well-cushioned and pillowed sitting couch, combing her long hair. She wore a white silken robe. Elves lived many centuries, and had beliefs and ways very different from those of humans. Within elven society, shyness and self-consciousness did not exist. Zerafin found nothing strange about the way his sister was dressed; it was morning, after all, and the castle was warm, the silk comfortable. Avriel’s servant, however, though well trained, was unable to hide his blushing face.

Zerafin looked at the man. So you have one also.

Yes. I find them quite handy, actually. Are you still not used to the idea of human servants? You have visited human royalty many times in the past.

Have you seen into him?

Avriel let out a chuckle and spoke aloud, startling her servant. “Of course I have, brother, do you really think me so unprepared?”

“Leave us now,” Zerafin told him.

The middle-aged man was visibly scared but did not move. “My lady?”

“Yes, leave us,” Avriel said. “Thank you for awaiting my instruction.”

The servant bowed low and exited the room without looking or speaking to either of the elves. As the door closed, Zerafin shook his head. “Why anyone would let themselves be reduced to that level is beyond my comprehension.”

Avriel stood and returned her brush to her nightstand. “You know as much as I of the history and traditions of humans. It is considered an honor to them.”

“An honor to make yourself like a dog? I know the traditions, but I will never understand them.” He picked up an apple from the fruit basket.

Avriel went to the wardrobe, disrobed and began dressing herself in her chosen garments. “You think that Eadon will try to reach Whill through possession?”

“I do. If I were Eadon and knew that Whill was here in Kell-Torey, so well hidden and protected, I would resort to possession to kill him. The boy Tarren, for example, would be a perfect subject.”

Avriel appeared fully clothed from the wardrobe with a look of disgust. “Sometimes you are very morbid, brother. Morbid, but brilliant. Tarren, you say?”

Zerafin nodded as he ate his apple.

“I have a thought you might find compelling, though it is not mine alone—Mother voiced it to me first,” she said. “What if...what if Eadon does not want Whill dead?”

Zerafin swallowed his last bite hard. “Go on.”

“If you were Eadon, and you knew that Whill of Agora existed—the very one spoken of in the prophecy, the one who is destined to wield the sword Adromida—would you want him dead? Would you gamble that his human uncle could wield the blade in his place? And what if Addakon does find it? How long do you think he will put up with Eadon once he has such power? Evil will turn on evil.”

Zerafin thought for a long moment. “If I were Eadon I would try to bring Whill to my side, and somehow gain the power of the blade.”

“You believe that Eadon wants Whill captured.”

“Yes, which is only another reason we should watch him that much more closely.” He gave her a sly look. “Which I doubt you will mind doing.”

Avriel rolled her eyes. “That again.”

“What? I do not try to mock you. I only speak the truth.”

“What is it?”

“I know you feel for Whill deeply. I am glad for it, believe me. I have not seen you smile so many times in so few days since you were a child, since Drindellia. He makes you happy. I understand. He has awakened a dead place in your heart that not time, nor elven love interests, have been able to. He is mortal, a mere human, yet you see him as a legend. Not an equal, but as a superior. You see in his eyes the last hope for our people, the redemption of our father, our homeland. Is this why you love him?”

Avriel turned from his gaze. After a moment she looked up into her brother’s eyes, her own wet with tears that had not fallen. “He looks at me in a way that no one else does. I see lust, yes, and the recognition of beauty that I am aware I possess. I have seen this in other men, human and elf—even dwarf, for that matter. But there is something more, something that poets of old could only hint at. When he looks at me I am a little girl again. I, an elf warrior of 650 years, a princess to her people, am reduced to childhood in his eyes. He disarms my heart with but a glance, and lights a fire within me that the oceans could not quench. I do not know why; I do not care. I feel more alive than I have in centuries. Is it due to his title, the prophecy, I think not. I am not infatuated with him, as you might hint. Infatuation and love branch the same tree, but they bear two very different fruit. I love him for who he is inside.”

Zerafin embraced his sister. “Then you have my blessing.”

Avriel hugged her brother and finally let her tears fall onto his shoulder, though they were now tears of joy.

––––––––

Abram sat smoking his pipe; rings still lingered in place many feet above. They had long ago finished their meals and were now simply chatting. The king was telling Whill one of the many stories of Abram’s heroism during the Draggard battles that had taken place since he was but a lad. Whill was enthralled but also slightly sickened by the many stories of near death. He wasn’t sure whether he was more impressed or angered by the tales, realizing just how close he had come to losing the only father he had ever known.

The king finished his latest tale, sat back, and enjoyed a large gulp of wine. Then he put down his drink and set his gaze upon Whill—who got the impression that the king’s next words would not be light-hearted, for his face had become grave, as if he had finally decided upon something most unpleasant.

“I have news of Tarren’s father, and family.”

Whill let out a breath and held a faint hope that it was good news.

“It seems that when Tarren was kidnapped by Cirrosa, his family was murdered.”

Whill put his head in his hands. He felt the king’s hand on his shoulder. Abram began to curse. “By the gods! That wretched scum of a man! Never have I wished I could kill a man twice!”

The king’s arm fell from Whill’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Whill, but it seems the boy cannot return to Fendale. Nothing awaits him. I have had my men look into his family line, and it appears those who perished were all that was left. The inn also is gone, burned to the ground.”

Whill fought back tears, rage, shame, and sorrow. Again it had been his fault; again good people had died because of him; his parents, the slave men of Eldon, the people of Sherna, and now this. He felt something shift within him. He felt he might explode, and began to tremble.

Whill ground his teeth in anger; his hands had become fists that pulled at his hair. Abram rose quickly and moved around the table to Whill. Into the prone young man’s ear he spoke, calmly and soothingly.

“Control yourself, Whill. Do not let it build, do not let it consume you. Fight it.”

Whill barely heard the plea, so consumed was he with pent up-rage. He had caused the deaths of too many, had learned too much in the last few days. The pressure proved too much. He saw behind his closed eyes the great pyre upon the beaches of Sherna, the hundreds of smoldering bodies. He saw the slave men he himself had cut down in battle, the face of Tarren streaked with tears. He stood and clutched his stomach as if some demonic beast was trying to claw its way out. He screamed.

Abram’s voice managed to break through Whill’s consuming rage. “The table, Whill, focus it all on the table! All of it! Let it go!”

Mathus backed away as Whill focused all his rage, all his shame, everything, sending it from his mind and into his fists, slamming the large oak table before him.

There was a deafening boom as the table exploded into a million pieces. King Mathus and Abram were blown backwards by the shockwave that followed the release. Whill looked down upon his bloodied hands in awe. Hundreds of splinters had sunk deep in his hands, body, and face. He felt his knees buckle and he slumped to the floor, thoroughly spent. He heard Abram and King Mathus yell his name in unison and saw Zerafin and Avriel rush into the room.

Then his eyes closed.

Chapter 22 The Orphan

Whill found himself floating high above a battle. The land was charred and smoldering, the sky above choked with smoke, and the ground itself seemed to bleed. Below, a great battle surged. Whill was horrified as he looked upon the warring masses. Draggard swarmed upon the field, greatly outnumbering their enemies. The scene was a slaughter; men, elves, and dwarves alike lay dead or dying. The remaining armies of Agora were being devoured as the deep and menacing horns of the Draggard sounded, rising into the smoke-filled sky like the evil moan of a demon of death.

“Dohr la skello hento!”

Whill was jolted conscious as a surge of energy coursed through his body. Zerafin spoke again in the elven language, and the hundreds of splinters were pulled from his body by an unseen force. Then came the blue light, enveloping him and healing his many wounds.

Avriel was at Whill’s side in an instant. “Are you alright?”

He looked into her eyes but could not speak. The memory of his dream was like a phantom hand upon his throat. He looked around wildly, wondering