Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (50 page)

Whill was completely absorbed in the sword and heartstone’s powers. He could feel more than the energy; it was the source of the power that emanated from the sword of his father. He soon realized that he was not in control of his actions, for he was fighting and performing far beyond his skill level. The sword moved of its own accord. Words he had never spoken came to his lips, spells he had never heard uttered.

Addakon’s eyes went wide with fear as he frantically tried to parry the lightning-fast blows that rained down on him. Whill’s voice was his own but the words were not. He did not intend to speak, just as he did not now wield his father’s sword.

“Addakon. Brother. Repent now and our soul may yet find rest.” Addakon’s look of fear only intensified. Whill stepped back. “Many years I have waited in darkened slumber within the heart of the dwarf mountain. For two decades I have counted the days until I would feel the energy of my son’s strong hand. Now comes your judgment, brother.”

Whill felt like he was in a dream, watching and listening from within as his father’s spirit spoke through his body. He was a vessel; his father’s spirit flowed forth from the sword and filled him with warmth.

Eadon looked on in amusement. “We elves have known for many millennia the curios relationship that twins share. Did you never come across these teachings in your studies, Addakon?”

Addakon looked, horrified, at the sword in Whill’s hand. Sinomara, the sword of his betrayed brother.

“Aramonis?” he whispered as he bent in shame. The sweat upon his brow glistened in the torchlight. “What trick is this?”

“If it is a trick, it is one of the gods’,” Whill’s voice said coolly.

Eadon explained. “Human love stories speak of soulmates, a blissfully romantic and ridiculous notion when attributed to a lover. Twins are the true soulmates, two bodies with one soul.”

“Which is why I was able, on that dark day of your ultimate sin, to cling to this world,” Whill said. “As my body fell away I poured myself into my blade, to forever wait, to free you from your terrible crimes.”

Addakon fell to his knees. Tears poured from his bloodshot eyes. Facing his brother whom he had wronged so, he fell apart. The years of denial and fear, the haunting dreams and guilt that had gnawed at his resolve for two decades, left him shattered. There was no fight left in him.

“Forgive me, Aramonis!” He pointed a shaking finger at Eadon. “It was him, his lies, his promises—he turned me against you! He said that you plotted to do the very same thing to me. You must believe me!”

“Yes, brother, it was him. He spoke only lies. I would have never wielded Adromida, nor shall you, ever. Eadon knows this, for it has been foreseen. Only Whill shall wield the blade and destroy Eadon. This has been foretold.”

Eadon said nothing. He did not seem angered to hear this, Whill noticed. Rather it left him at peace.

Whill moved to a large, silver-trimmed mirror upon the wall and looked into his own eyes. His mouth spoke, but he did not form the words himself. “I learned of Adimorda as a young man, Whill. I did, as the elves do, believe the prophecy to be true. Forgive me. It is why I named you as I did. I have placed this great burden on your shoulders. Forgive me, son, as I do my brother.”

Whill turned and saw Addakon smiling through his tears. In that smile, he finally saw the face of his father. “It is time to come with me,” Whill’s voice said softly as his own tears fell.

Addakon dropped his sword, and with both hands he ripped open his clothing to expose his bare chest. “Take me from this place.”

Whill’s body lunged forward and stabbed Addakon through the heart. A blinding white light engulfed the room for many moments as the sword’s energy poured forth and two souls became one again.

Just as quickly as it happened, it ended. Addakon was dead, his father’s spirit gone. Whill was left holding the empty sword of his father. Eadon laughed with delight.

“Hold!” Roakore screamed again as many groups rustled and tensed as if to charge. “Keep yer bloody heads. ye crazy sons o’ rock moss! Next one that breaks rank I’ll kill meself!”

Roakore turned to his council. “So what ye thinking, Z?”

Zerafin looked oddly at Roakore, then to the Draggard Queen.

He began to lay out the plan for attack when the Draggard queen spoke. Her great voice filled the cavern, and though no one would have admitted it, the voice was like soft music.

“Ah, the great and powerful Roakore, son of the fallen king of the Ebony Mountains, heir to a tomb.”

Roakore’s lip curled in a snarl as he turned to face her. She took three graceful strides closer but was still more than two hundred paces away.

“I met your father once, briefly.” She sucked the tips of each of her clawed fingers in turn. “He gave me much nourishment for my first litter of Ebony Mountain–born children.” Four large fangs flashed behind midnight-black lips.

Groaning, Zerafin closed his eyes and shook his head. “That did it,” Rhunis muttered.

For a moment Roakore looked stunned. The blasphemy that had befallen his ears shocked his sensibilities to such an extent that he was dumbfounded. For the first and last time in his life, he was speechless.

Roakore did not storm off in a rage. He turned to Zerafin, Abram, and Rhunis with tears welling in his eyes. He tightened his grip on his axe. “Help me if ye want, but do not stop me!”

Zerafin grabbed his shoulder as he turned to engage the queen. “I will not stop you, but please accept my strength.” Zerafin sent a jolting blast of energy from his hand into Roakore’s body and weapons. He felt electrified, as though lightning pulsed through his body. Then he turned and began a steady charge at the queen, to the cheers of his men.

He sent his stone bird whirling and called the names of his father and the gods. He charged on as the weapon reached its target in less than two seconds; it was a blur and it came in hard. The queen caught the whirling stones in a ball of light and watched as the weapon twirled, suspended.

Roakore was less than fifty feet from her as he barreled in. She sent her seven tails at him from the right; barbed and pointed spears of death came at him fast. He did not stop but extended his hand down towards the stone floor and hollered the dwarf word for stone. Two slabs of rock blasted out of the floor and caught the tails in a vise-like grip, completely crushing them. The queen howled in pain as Roakore veered right and came down on the pinned tail with his massive axe, at the same time jumping high into the air as he flipped over his axe as if it were a vaulting pole. His feet hit the floor and he never slowed.

“A distraction!” ordered Zerafin, and the soldiers complied. The elves sent a glowing, multicolored volley of arrows at the queen as the dwarves launched their many hatchets. She lifted her hands and every missile stopped in its course and flew back at the attacker, but as she did the elves pushed back with mental energy of their own, keeping the battle at a stalemate.

She screamed at her attackers and knew her doom. She could not stop the crazed dwarf, and she could not let up on the missiles. But she could take this little bastard with her. She would wait until the last second and let down her guard, and then she would tear him apart.

Roakore barreled in. Ten feet before impact, as the queen’s greedy teeth awaited him, he came to a sudden sliding stop and slammed his fists into the floor. She was slammed with a stone tide as the floor erupted before her. Pebbles and chunks of rock alike riddled her flying body. Her attention shifted to her own pain, and the arrows and hatchets rained into her. She was dead before she hit the ground.

“Hail, King Roakore!” Zerafin cried.

All took up the cry. “Hail, King Roakore!”

Roakore went to the fallen queen and with his great axe hewed off her head, just in case, and raised it to the crowd. The cheers swelled.

“I have seen a great many amazing things in all my centuries. That was simply beautiful. You should be proud of your father,” Eadon said.

Whill held his father’s empty sword and looked to Eadon with disgust. “I need not be told that by one such as you.” He wiped the blood from Sinomara’s blade and sheathed it. “I will not be used by you. I will not help you find Adromida. I do not know what your plans are, or how you intend to stop the prophecy, but I will not be your puppet.”

Eadon laughed, but when the laughing ceased there was no smile. He began to circle Whill. “Don’t you see? You have defeated your uncle, you are now king of all of Uthen-Arden. You need not fight me, for I am not your enemy. Never again will you have enemies, not if you follow me. You can have the world, Whill.”

“I am the rightful king, that is true,” Whill said softly. Eadon smiled.

“And as king I shall make you pay for all you have done. I do not want the world, Eadon, I simply want a world without you or the damned Draggard in it. I want a world of peace.”

Eadon’s smile turned to a sneer in the blink of an eye. “I will teach you pain beyond human endurance. Should you defy me, I will make you beg for death before I am through with you. Every day you will be brought within an inch of death, only to be healed. You will bend to my will—me, your master.”

“Never!”

Before the word could leave his lips he was slammed into the wall with a flick of Eadon’s wrist. He got to his feet and unsheathed his father’s sword. It was ripped from his grasp by Eadon’s mind and slammed against the wall. Whill lunged forward. Eadon raised a hand and Whill’s body froze. The Dark elf lunged forward and dealt a double-fisted blow to his ribs. He was thrown backwards into the wall and landed with a thud, his ribs shattered. He could not draw breath; many of the bones had penetrated his lungs. He coughed blood. Eadon was on him in a flash. Whill was lifted into the air only to be slammed against the wall once more. Eadon lifted a hand and Whill was pulled through the air and then caught by the throat in Eadon’s powerful grip. Eadon brought his face close to Whill’s as he choked the life from him.

“Yes, my friend. You know it to be true. You cannot win, you cannot defy me. The outcome can only mean loss for you.”

Whill blacked out. Finally the pain ceased, and there was nothing. Sweet, beautiful, warm nothing. He had been delivered by death from the clutches of the murderous Dark elf. But then—

Sound, smell. He opened his eyes in time to see the blue tendrils of healing dissipate. His ribs and lungs were healed. Eadon stood over him.

“Thus begins your training, apprentice.” Eadon stepped aside. A Dark elf Whill did not know came to his side, followed by two Draggard. Whill got to his feet and stood before them boldly.

“This is Thazak,” Eadon said. “He will be your first teacher.”

Thazak was taller than Whill but slightly shorter than Eadon, with black hair and darker eyes. His face was adorned with intricate black tattoos. Whill’s body froze as Thazak grabbed his face by the jaw and inspected him. “I have practiced the art of torture for many years for you. Your pain will be legendary.” He smiled. “I promise.”

He proceeded to beat Whill to within an inch of his life. Whill thought that this would be the greatest fight of his life; if he could somehow survive this, he could survive anything. His limp body was dragged down many stairs by the Draggard, to the special dungeons far below the castle, where no screams would be heard. The young man Whill had been, the man he knew, would never return from those depths, even if his body did.

Roakore entered the throne room, and there upon the throne he saw it, the skeleton of his father. The enemy had propped him up in the chair, crown and all. This had been meant to be an insult, but now to Roakore it seemed proper. Roakore raised his hands and tried as hard as he could to picture his father. With the image in mind he commanded the stone and it obeyed. It rose up from all sides and encased the dead king and his throne. It fused and then the outer stone fell away, leaving a sculpture of Roakore’s father so perfect it could not have been made by hand. When the clan had amassed its wealth once again, Roakore intended to encrust the sculpture with diamonds.

He went down on one knee. “Father. I have done as ye asked. I have taken back our mountain. Let yer soul be free.”

For a moment there was only silence, but then a draft picked up and blew through Roakore’s hair. From the statue rose a silver mist. It lingered for a moment and then spiraled up and disappeared into the ceiling. Roakore burst into tears of joy.

Roakore, Abram, Rhunis, and Zerafin looked out over the battlefield in the fading sunlight. They had all, elf, dwarf, and human, lost many lives this day. Abram looked to the sky and thought of Whill. Roakore knew his mind.

“What has become of him?” Abram asked the faint wind.

Zerafin looked at the ground. “He has been taken by Eadon. Our greatest fears have been realized. We have won today’s battle at a great expense, but without Whill, we cannot win the war. We have no other option but to try and free him from Eadon’s grasp.”

“How do we free him from one so powerful?” Abram asked.

Zerafin shook his head. “How indeed?”

The tale of the Battle for the Ebony Mountains

T
he dwarf ran down the long tunnel. Screams and sounds of battle echoed off the walls and filled him with dread. He clutched his great axe, frantically trying to get to the fight. One hundred dwarves followed Roakore, holding similar axes or war hammers. The Draggard had invaded the mountain. The Draggard! The dwarves had not seen the attack coming, hadn’t even considered it a possibility. But now it was a grave reality. Roakore turned the corner of the great tunnel into a larger hall. Before him was a sight that would haunt his dreams until the day he went to the Mountain of the Gods. Hundreds of Draggard were within the hall, and hundreds of his kin alike. Roakore’s shock was short-lived, however, as a seven-foot Draggard came barreling at him with a long, mean spear leading the way. Roakore spun with the attack and came around with his axe in one smooth motion, burying the blade deep in the monster’s back. The Draggard fell to the floor, writhing and twitching in agony. All around him hundreds of similar battles played out. But it did not take the dwarf long to realize that most of the battles were ending differently. For in the great hall the dwarves were outnumbered three to one, and still more Draggard came rushing in through the tunnel they invaded from.