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

of energy that blew it with great force to the side. It rolled and tumbled through the air, and dropped Whill. As he fell, he did not feel fear—only rage that he would die this way without a chance to exact his revenge. But then 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 the other. The two great beasts tumbled through the air, claws ripping, teeth biting, as they each 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 dove like a rock, smoke and blood trailing behind him like a comet’s tail as he descended. As Whill rocketed toward 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 dove fast and was soon slightly below him, coming in with great speed. Below him the ground rose quickly as the red dragon snatched him up with its claws and pulled him in tight. It spun over and crashed to the ground. Dust flew up into the morning sky as it hit like a rock and tumbled for more than three hundred yards before coming to rest in the shadow of the Ebony Mountains.

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“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, armor, and 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 or care—he focused his mind on a stalagmite above. 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.

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Farandelizon saw it coming 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?

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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 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, 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 Adromida. 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 might stop Eadon!”

A puff of smoke issued from the great 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 a hundred yards away. Swarms of Draggard had come to join their master and 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.

The Dark elf stopped ten feet away, and 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. No, I think not, my apprentice. This is but the beginning.”

Chapter 27 The Dark Master

Whill’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 them both flying backwards more than twenty feet. 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 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!”

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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 he heard a voice. Why couldn’t they leave him in peace? “Rhunis!” Again there came a slam to his chest; the bliss was replaced by pain, the silence with screams. “Rhunis!”

Rhunis coughed up seawater as someone turned him onto his side and patted his 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 toward Abram’s voice. 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.

“What of Whill, of Zerafin?”

Just then a figure emerged from the sea, his armor blackened, and his cloak in pieces. Yet he walked with strength and 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 and 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: Avriel.

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As the dust cleared and the cheers of the many dwarves transformed into a battle charge, a lone figure stood among the rubble. Farandelizon raised his arms, and with them dozens of boulders and broken rock rose into the air. With a flick he sent it all flying into the charging mob of dwarves. Roakore was at the head of the charge. Seeing the stone flying towards