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

Abram had expected, the young man from the previous night was waiting by the door with an expectant smile. Abram threw him a coin and told him their destination.

They again traveled towards the center of the city and soon stopped before a large three-story building. It was made of exquisitely crafted stone that had a shiny gloss. It boasted four large pillars, each of which was decorated with Fendale’s emblem. A large set of marble steps led up to the main door. Upon the very top of the building, stone letters as tall as a man declared “Bank of Fendale.” Whill noticed that archers were positioned every ten feet along the top of the building. There were also four armed guards at the base of the stair.

“This is where your gold is being kept. I assumed that you would want to make a withdrawal.”

“You assumed correctly. You’ve paid my way long enough; it’s high time I treated you for once.”

Abram laughed as they climbed the marble steps to the front door. An armed guard stood at each side.

“What is your business, good sir?” the guard on the right asked Abram.

“We are here to make a withdrawal,” Whill said.

“What are your names, please?”

“I am Whill, and this is Abram.”

The guard gave Whill a queer look. “You’re the one who beat Rhunis?”

“This would be he, good sir,” said Abram. “And if you don’t mind, we have pressing business that must be attended to—unless you want an autograph from the young lad, that is.”

The guard looked embarrassed. He put on a serious face again. Leave your weapons at the check-in or you won’t be permitted inside.”

With that he turned and, together with the other guard, opened the great doors. Whill and Abram entered a small room with bare walls. Another great door lay directly in front of them. To the right there was a guard behind a three-foot-square opening to another room—the weapons storage room. He told them to sign in on a scroll and gave them a quill.

“All weapons must be surrendered here,” he declared in a flat voice.

They complied and handed over their swords and knives. Satisfied, the guard went to a small slit in the wall and said, “Ocean blue.”

The door opened and they went into the main lobby of the bank. It was a large room with many doors. At the other end was a large oak desk. A short little man with large glasses hurried towards them. With an exaggerated hello and handshake, he led them to the vault where Whill’s winnings were being kept. Inside, the twenty sacks of gold sat upon a large wooden table covered with a red velvet cloth. He opened one of the bags and let the coins fall out onto the table with a heavy clang. Abram took a coin and tested it with his teeth, then eyed it in the torchlight. The light reflected on the surface was deep orange. The emblem of Eldalon was stamped on both sides.

“I’ll be taking a half a bag today,” Whill told the little banker.

“Of course, sir, and it will be our pleasure to hold the rest for as long as you want—at one percent interest, of course.”

Abram scowled at the little man. “In that case we won’t be keeping it here long.” He grumbled and left the vault, mumbling something about damned vultures.

After retrieving their weapons and leaving the building, they headed to the shipbuilder’s home. It was a nicely built and decorated house near the city’s ocean side. This time Whill tipped the wagon boy himself, throwing him a gold coin from his bag. The kid looked at the gold in his hand, astonished. Abram laughed. “You do know how much that’s worth?”

“A wise man once told me there is no point in having wealth if you cannot use it to spread joy.”

Abram smiled. “You’re a quick learner.”

They left the astonished boy standing in the street and went to the front door of the house. After two knocks the door was opened by an old man in a green vest with a white undershirt. His pants were a fine brown fabric, and on his feet he wore thick fur slippers.

“May I help you?” 

“Freston, you old dog! Are you so senile you don’t remember old friends?”

The old man’s frown turned into a wide smile. “Abram, I hadn’t expected you. Folks say you were killed in one of your crazy journeys.”

Abram laughed. “There are more stories of my death than there is sand on the beach.”

Freston chuckled. “Come in, come in. I was just about to have a little tea. Now I have someone to share it with.”

Whill and Abram entered the house, which was just as nice inside as out. Paintings of ships adorned every wall, and numerous shelves were dedicated solely to small ships in bottles. Whill looked at these closely, wondering how they had been put inside. Freston led them to his study and offered them each a seat at his scroll-covered table. “Sorry for the mess, but a builder’s work is never done. I’ll return in a moment with the tea.”

Whill noticed that the scrolls were ship drafts and designs He cocked his head at one plan that caught his attention as Freston returned with a tray and three tea cups.

“Feel free, young lad. Those are just new ideas I’ve been working on.”

Abram and Freston talked while Whill pored over the drawings. Freston’s sons now built most of the ships, he said, as he was too old for much of the work. But he was very excited about the proposition to build a ship of Whill’s own design.

“Usually I build merchant ships or small sailboats, though I’ve made a few for the royal navy over the years,” he said. “Helping you bring your ideas to life would be a rare pleasure.”

They talked for a while about Whill’s vision for his ship, and Freston wrote one detail or another down on a piece of paper. Abram added his recommendations to the plans. After a few hours of drawing, planning, and calculating, they had a rough draft of what the ship would look like.

Whill held the sketch up to the light. “She’ll be a beauty.”

“That she will, and if done right, also one of the fastest that ever sailed these blue waters,” Freston agreed.

They made plans to meet the following day and said farewell. Upon leaving, Whill and Abram stopped in their tracks—outside Freston’s house were fifteen kids with pull carts, all offering them a ride.

Abram laughed aloud at the sight. “It looks like the word is out.”

Whill said politely that they would be walking, to the lads’ disappointment. “We could use a good walk anyway,” he told Abram, who simply chuckled.

The kids followed them for a while but soon gave up on the prospect. Whill and Abram walked in silence as the sun set beyond the city walls. The streets were not crowded; only the occasional horseman or guard rode along. Women in long gowns and men in an assortment of spring colors strolled from shop to shop. Couples walked hand in hand, laughing and talking in excited voices. Some children still ran about, letting off small fireworks from the previous night.

After about a half hour, Whill and Abram reached the Ocean Mist and enjoyed a fine dinner of seafood and wine. They talked over their plans for the ship and made more for the days ahead. They had estimated that it would take a month to build the ship, and by that time, Abram would be almost fully healed.

The next day Whill brought his horse out beyond the city to give it some exercise. He rode for hours up and down the coast, the fresh saltwater spraying his face as his horse raced along the beach for miles and miles. It was nice to be out of the city. As much as he liked it, he liked the freedom of the open land much more. He had always loved his life of travel, going from town to town and never making any one place his home. He figured he would settle down one day, but not any time soon. He looked forward to setting sail on his own ship, with nothing between him and the setting sun but the gentle blue ocean. There was nothing better than a night on a ship in calm waters. Sometimes the stars seemed so bright and close, he felt as though he could reach up and touch them. When the sky was clear and the water was still, there were times when he could not tell where the world ended and the sky began. He was truly at peace on the sea, where the mysteries of the water were more complex than his own. It was a place where he could let go of all his worries and be lulled into quiet tranquility.

As he sped along the beach, he thought of his childhood home. The beaches of Sidnell had been his favorite place to think. He would sit for hours on the sand and read. Abram brought him the most interesting books—some with facts about Agora, some a complete history of each kingdom. Then there were his favorites, the books of the elves. As soon as he had learned to read Elvish, he had been fascinated by them. They had come to Agora five hundred years before Whill was born. Their story was one of great loss and suffering. They had lived in a land called Drindellia, far to the east. The elves thrived there for tens of thousands of years and built great cities within. The books then told of a great foe, the Draggard, who were created through the evil works of the Dark elf Eadon. Using what people call magic—the elves call it Orna Catorna—he combined an unborn elf with a dragon egg in the hopes of creating a powerful breed of elves. The Draggard had the shape of the elves and the features of dragons. Their skin was dark green, and rough and scaly upon their backs. They had hideously sharp teeth and claws, and strong thin tails that could whip or impale a man. They were stronger than elves but, like them, could live for centuries—dying only from injury and not age. Like their dragon kin, the Draggard also laid eggs, which was where they found their real strength: great numbers. A queen could lay thousands of eggs a year.

Eadon had proclaimed himself lord of all Drindellia and with his followers, and the Draggard, began a bloody war against King Verelas, ruler of the Elves of the Sun. The war raged for nearly 110 years. The Draggard were many in number, but the elves were skilled in body and in mind. Slowly the elves were pushed to the west of Drindellia where they were to make their final stand. It was then that Verelas sent a great number of his people over the sea in hopes that, even if the war was lost, the race would not perish. Across the sea and into unknown lands went a thousand elves. With them went Verelas’ wife, Queen Araveal; their three daughters, Zilena, Avriel, and Kiella; and their only son, Zerafin. The king insisted that he stay and fight with his fellow elves, though the queen begged him to leave. He told her to go and find a safe land where the elves might