Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (31 page)

Whill’s screaming woke him and the rest of the camp. Zerafin kneeled by his side looking down at him, an unmistakable 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. “What was it, Whill?”

Whill 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 handsome 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 in Abram’s direction, 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 the dream later.”

He took his leave as Abram and Whill walked a few yards out of camp. They walked the perimeter in silence at first, 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 song 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 looked past the heavens to a place lost to the years. “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. Abram then pushed off and held Whill at arm’s length. “You have surpassed my greatest expectations in every regard, Whill. It truly has been not a sacrifice, but an honor.”

Whill smiled, but then his smile faded, his eyes moving to the woods. Abram understood the look instantly. “What is it?”

Whill surveyed the surrounding forest. “Listen—the crickets. They have stopped.”

“So they have.”

They quickly but quietly returned to camp, where they found Rhunis and Roakore 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 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 bird and began to chant quietly.

Rhunis gave the chanting dwarf a queer look. “What is he doing?”

“What we we all should be doing—preparing,” said Abram, as he slowly unsheathed his blade.

Just then a scream ripped through the air, a scream of death, made by a Draggard. Great flashes of light erupted from within the forest, one, two, three bursts of light. Then Zerafin and Avriel came dashing out of the woods.

“Prepare for battle!” yelled Zerafin. He and Avriel each reached down and picked up four large stones. The siblings said something as they waved a hand over the stones. To Whill’s amazement, the stones began to glow bright white. Zerafin and Avriel then cast the stones in every direction, greatly illuminating the night around them.

Only then did Whill realize that Tarren was still asleep, snoring even. He gently shook the boy. but to no avail. He shook harder. “Tarren, wake up!”

“Do not bother,” said Avriel as she threw a few more stones into the woods. “I have made it so he will sleep soundly. The boy does not need to see this.”

Whill nodded, grateful for Avriel’s thoughtfulness.

Zerafin looked back at the others. “They have surrounded us.”

“Twenty, maybe thirty of them,” added Avriel.

Zerafin surveyed the night sky. “And at least a dozen Draquon. Ready your bows, and guard the boy.” He strung an arrow of his own.

Roakore seemed not to hear any of it as he stood, eyes closed, chanting still.

So they waited, Abram, Whill, Rhunis, and Roakore with their backs to the fire, Tarren lying next to it. Zerafin was on one side of the low-burning fire, Avriel on the other, both ten feet from the others, facing the illuminated woods.

They needed not wait long. Seeing no point in stealth with the night suddenly so bright, The Draggard attacked all at once from the shadows from all directions, and from the sky. Just as quickly the elves stretched out their arms at the attackers. An unseen energy hit the Draggard, more than twenty of them. The beasts were lifted five feet into the air and thrown back into the shadows.

Whill could only watch in awe. Roakore saw also, and saw that it was time. With one last loud exclamation of his chanted words, he raised his hand and the stone bird whirled to life. Up, up into the air it flew, and with a thud it connected with a flying Draquon. The beast fell to the ground ten feet from the fire, its head crushed.

Whill and Abram sprang into action, firing shots into the night sky as the ominous shadows flew overhead.

“Duck down!” shouted Avriel, and all four warriors obliged. A split second later a Draquon’s tail whipped overhead. Avriel shot quickly. Before her warning had begun to echo through the forest, the Draquon fell, an arrow straight through its forehead.

From his crouch Whill noticed that the Draggard that had been thrown backwards had regrouped. They were now in a throwing stance, and more than twenty spears were at the ready. “Watch out!” he shouted, even as the Draggard threw their many spears in unison.

The spears came whirling in at the group. Whill lifted his sword, ready to deflect the onslaught, but there were too many. They came from all directions, pointed tips gleaming. As one, the elves raised a single hand.

The spears came in swiftly, then just as swiftly changed course and flew into the night sky. More than half a dozen Draquon fell from above, spears protruding from many wounds. The spear-wielding Draggard hissed and growled and charged again. Once again the elves sent a shockwave of energy to throw them back.

Whill felt helpless as he watched the elves unleash their devastating power. He and the other four stood at the ready. Roakore’s stone bird whirled by and took another Draquon from the heavens. The elves took the opportunity to focus on the Draquon as well. They raised their arms, chanting in Elvish, and as one the remaining nine Draquon fell from the sky and slammed to the ground. One unfortunate beast landed directly in the fire. Embers and burning wood flew in all directions. Rhunis’s cloak caught fire, as did Tarren’s blanket. Rhunis tore off his cloak and stomped on the blanket as Whill and Abram slashed and stabbed at the Draquon.

Roakore settled his sights on the two closest winged beasts, who were dazed but not down. The stone bird pounded mercilessly back and forth as he guided it from one Draquon’s head to the other until they moved no more. The elves engaged the others with their devastating swords as the Draggard regrouped and charged at the warriors.

Whill again was left to watch in awe as the elves took down the beasts with graceful precision. The Draggard were no match for their power. They fell one after another as the siblings cut through blade and armor, bone and flesh. Roakore let his stone bird fall and breathed in gasps as he took up his axe.

“They’ll not have all the fun!” he huffed, and charged into the fray. Rhunis was right behind him, screaming the Eldalon war charge with a gleam in his eye. Whill and Abram, reluctant to leave Tarren, watched as the others made short work of the remaining Draggard.

With the last killing stroke came again the darkening of the night. Whill thought that with the threat gone, the elves had extinguished the lighted stones. He soon realized that was not the case.

“Be ready!” said Avriel in a hushed tone.

Whill was chilled once again, not because the light had gone, not because there might be more Draggard about, but because there was a hint of fear in Avriel’s voice. The six formed a tight circle around the fire and around Tarren.

“What is it?” asked Rhunis.

Zerafin closed his eyes for a moment. “A Dark elf, a powerful Dark elf,” added Avriel.

“Bah! Bring ’em on!” said Roakore, as he put his stone bird in motion. “I see him hiding.”

“Roakore, don’t!” warned Avriel, but too late. Roakore released his weapon and it disappeared into the night. Just as quickly as it left it returned, hitting Roakore square in the chest and sending him flying over the fire, landing hard fifteen feet away. He did not move.

“Damn!” exclaimed Zerafin. “All of you, hold!”

From the woods where Roakore had sent his stone bird, a figure emerged. He came boldly from the shadows and into the light, twenty feet from the group. He was indeed a Dark elf, with long, black, flowing hair tucked behind his long pointed ears, which were adorned with many earrings. He wore no armor, which unsettled Whill more than a little. Instead he wore a flowing black robe with the hood drawn back, revealing a shining black dragonscale tunic underneath. His face was as fair as any elf’s but for the intricate tattooed designs on it.

Zerafin stepped forward and spoke in Elvish. “Go now and tell your master that you and your band of monsters have failed here tonight, or you will not see the dawn.”

The Dark elf did not move. Instead he laughed, a wicked, guttural laugh. “Ah, yes—the noble Zerafin. Much like your father you are, but a little less brave. As I remember, you left him to die and went sailing away with the other elf children. How valiant do your words seem now.”

Avriel stood beside her brother. “You do understand that your words cannot unsettle us.”

The Dark elf took a step forward. “And the princess of the fallen Elves of the Sun, Avriel. It is such a treat to see you again. I shall enjoy every moment I spend with you henceforth, my love, do not doubt. But for now I have your coward brother to deal with!”

A flash of red light emanated from his hand and traveled toward the siblings. They raised their hands in return, and from them the same light met the attack. The Dark elf laughed once again, never letting up on the attack.

“I see you need the help of your sister to meet my challenge! How fitting. This only shows once again the greater power that is to be found within darkness.”

The elves seemed to be at a stalemate, but the siblings looked slightly taxed in holding the Dark elf’s attack at bay, while he showed not a sign of effort.

“Enough of this!” cried Rhunis, and he shot an arrow at the elf. It flew straight at his head and then stopped dead, floating only inches from his flesh. With his free hand the elf reached out, snapped the arrow in half, and let it fall to the ground.

“Humans, I find, are the most interesting of minor creators. They are brave, I must say.” The elf’s face twisted with rage. “But none too smart!” He clutched the air with his fist and Rhunis was lifted off the ground, his hands frantically gripping his throat.

Zerafin gave a cry of anger and charged ahead, sword in hand. Avriel was forced back many steps, having to hold back the Dark elf’s energy on her own, but not for long. Zerafin quickly engaged the elf, who drew his own sword, and soon the two were engaged in a fantastic battle. Avriel, now free of the energy attack, rushed forward, sword in hand, to aid her brother, as Rhunis, also released, fell to the ground.

Whill watched on in awe as the three exchanged blows. The siblings fought well together; so fast was the fighting that it was hard for Whill to follow. He looked to Abram. “What do we do?”

Near them Tarren still slept, Roakore did not move, and Rhunis kept coughing. “What can we do?”

Whill found himself, for the first time useless.

Zerafin received a slash to the leg but fought on. Avriel scored a minor hit to the Dark elf’s shoulder. He jumped back out of reach and lowered his sword. The elves stood shoulder to shoulder, at the ready. The Dark elf looked at his bleeding shoulder and laughed as the wound healed in an instant.

“Fools! You cannot defeat me. You have felt my blade; you know it to be true. Why fight on when to do so is folly?”

It was Avriel’s turn to laugh. “You are the fool. We have had five hundred years to prepare our blades for the likes of you. Have you so quickly forgotten the ways of the Elves of the Sun?”

“You should have left while you had the chance,” said Zerafin.

The Dark elf soon understood. Zerafin and Avriel locked their free arms and came at him spinning, attacking, going round all the while. The elf was forced back on his heels as he frantically parried blows that Whill, Abram, nor Rhunis could register. Zerafin struck and was blocked as Avriel came around and struck also. She too was blocked but barely; her strike had been at the legs. The Dark elf had to bring his blade low to counter, and when he did Zerafin was there with a thrust through the elf’s chest. As the blade sank, the Dark elf extended his free arm and there was a flash of light. Avriel’s blade flew from her hands and the Dark elf slashed her stomach. Zerafin stabbed again, this time through the neck of the laughing elf.

Before Whill new what he was doing, he charged forward, his father’s sword in hand, a scream escaping his lips.