Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (12 page)

“She can’t hold the weight o’ me and armor, lady; besides, it would interfere with her camouflage.”

“I know, good king. Would you allow me to add some protection to your mount?” Roakore eyed the Sun Elf healer. He had seen her work before and knew her skill. Haldagozz himself had been brought back from the brink of death, and, indeed, he had been made stronger, his bones thicker. Roakore welcomed any defense offered.

“Aye, do what ye will then.”

Lunara nodded her thanks and began to chant softly to herself as she waved her hands slowly from one end of the great bird to the other. Small sparks, like static electricity, popped and hissed near and around the Silverhawk, each beginning to grow and strike out to one another. The great hawk stirred, but Roakore hushed
her. He could feel the energy like a tickle up his spine as it engulfed him and his mount. With a deep breath, Lunara finished.

“The ward will protect her from enemy arrows and much more. But it will take from her energy if the blow is too much. Be careful, Roakore. Do not fly into danger thinking she is invincible. Do not test the ward or dive foolhardily into danger because of it.”

Roakore looked taken aback. “Me? Dive into danger?”

Haldagozz let out a great belly laugh at that, which was taken up by Roakore also. Without further words, he kicked the chest of the great bird, and it jumped to comply. Three great strides took them to the ledge and beyond. The group ran to the ledge to watch the first flight of Roakore.

Silverwind tucked her wings and dropped like a stone as Roakore held on for his life. In the moonlight, he could make out the many mountains that made up his kingdom. Though the wind took it, he could not have caught his breath at the sight of the great peaks, and the tears that found his eyes were not only from the incredible wind.

Silverwind fell for a few hundred feet before opening her wings and catching the night current. The force of the maneuver made Roakore want to puke, but he choked down his gorge. Freezing tears fogged his sight, and he remembered the glass goggles upon his head.
He frantically put them on and tucked his head to catch his breath. Finally, he pulled the cloth over his face that Horris had said would help him breathe.

Now able to see and breathe, Roakore took in the mountains around him and was awed. As Silverwind banked hard left around a peak, Roakore let out a great howl that was met by the delighted screech of Silverwind.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

What Say You Dirk
Blackthorn?

D
irk was taken to a holding cell of the city guard. He was charged with several counts of attacking a guard and disturbing the peace. The disturbing-the-peace charge was worth a night in the cell; the attack charge was much more serious. He waited for the inevitable for only two hours and was brought before a judge, whom sentenced him to death. As he had anticipated, he was offered a chance to redeem himself before the king in the gladiator arena, and he took it.

Now he and many others sparred within the arena training room, a vast space beneath the seats of the arena, large enough to hold two hundred men. There were many there like him, sentenced to death for some crime against the kingdom. Dirk loathed having to keep company and share quarters with such scum; rapists,
thieves, and the like. But he did so anyway. He watched, and he learned, and he fought like a champion. Already he had broken the nose and jaw of a man and the arm of another. This got him a beating from the guard, but it was worth it—for he had caught the attention of the legendary Whill of Agora.

Whill had come the day before to watch the many condemned men; it was rumored that he was to pick a team that would fight alongside him within the arena in a few days’ time. Dirk wondered what all the fuss was about. Indeed, the Whill he had seen did not look like someone that songs were sung about or stories told. He was a too-thin man with sunken eyes and a distant stare. He looked like death had already taken him.

Nonetheless, Dirk fought hard when he knew Whill was watching. Whill had left on that first day without choosing anyone, but Dirk was sure that he had caught Whill’s attention.

There were many other warriors within the group of over two hundred prisoners. He recognized half-dozen plainsmen of the north, whom were incredible with a spear and sling. A few men he even knew from the streets, cutthroats and killers each. There were also defectors, soldiers that had refused an order or had simply abandoned their post.

One warrior in particular had caught Dirk’s attention, and he was sure she would catch the attention of Whill also. She was a barbarian from the northern island
of Volnoss. He had not caught her name yet and knew only that she had been arrested for killing two guards in some skirmish on the northern border of Arden. Dirk had seen her take on seven men in hand-to-hand combat without breaking a sweat. She was well over seven feet tall, and while not quite muscled like a man, she was heavily muscled all the same. She wore white bear furs from her northern region, but in this climate, they consisted of only trousers cut off at the knees and a top that covered her large bust but not without revealing much of it.

Most men that attacked her, though she was huge, still felt strange about attacking a woman, and a beautiful woman at that. He watched many a man fall for her smile and a toss of her long blond hair, only to be taken out by her masterful fists. He would not be so stupid.

Though Dirk was without his weapons, there were many readily available. He had chosen for the training a wide variety of them. Having practiced extensively with an Elf, he enjoyed a bit of an advantage over most. He had chosen for these fights, however, double swords. He did not assume that he would be fighting anything as thick-skinned as the Draggard here, and he could take any man with his twin blades.

The following day Whill came once again to the training center and watched while his human guards stood watch. Many men tried hard to gain the attention of Whill, as it was believed that those that were not chosen would fight against him and those he did choose would
fight with the legend. One man, whom had yet to be beaten, turned to Whill after defeating yet another fellow trainee and threw his blade to the ground.

“Well then! Mr. Whill of friggin lore! Let’s see what all the fuss is about then. Why should we be fightin’ hard to win your approval if you ain’t yet even shown us your own skill? Who says we be wantin’ to even be part of your death club? Eh?”

Just then the king of Uthen-Arden stepped out from the stair leading to the arena. None but Whill and the hidden Dark Elves knew that it was truly Eadon, wearing the king’s image. The man shut his mouth, but the king had heard his words.

“It is true, is it not?” said the king. “All we have yet heard of you, Whill of Agora, are songs and rumors. Why should any believe you are but the feeble man we see before us? What have you done that is not but a fable? If you are indeed the savior of legend, why is it that you cannot even save yourself?”

The man that had spoken before straightened and smirked. Whill looked to the king with nothing but disdain. “I will not play your games.”

The king arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

He turned to the prisoners and gestured to them all. “Who would fight for a man that does not take up the blade when called out?”

He looked back to Whill. “Who would stand by your side voluntarily, when you are obviously nothing but a
coward hiding behind legend? Hmm? Who would stand behind Whill of Agora?”

“I would!” The words left Dirk’s mouth before he had willed them. This was a perfect time to get Whill’s attention. Dirk stepped forward and faced the man who had challenged Whill.

Whill’s head jerked as he seemed to see Dirk for the first time.

“Excellent,” said the king. “A fight to the death then! Guards, give them blades with an edge! Let us see how well a follower fairs against one less inclined to delusion.”

Dirk smirked at the proclamation and indicated that he preferred the twin blades. The loudmouth man took up a giant broadsword. They both looked to the king to begin.

“Might we add a prize, aside from life? For your loyalty, I will grant you freedom,” he said to the loudmouth.

He addressed Dirk and seemed to ponder something. “For you…a place at the side of Whill during his execution. So that you may at least die for what you believe. Now, fight!”

The loudmouth was on Dirk in a flash, the giant broadsword whooshing through the air in a huge arc that would cleave the head off a bull. Dirk twirled out of the way, but the man only used the momentum of the great sword to spin with the attack and came in with another. Dirk knew the man’s mind and came in after
the first swipe had passed and before the man could bring the blade around, slamming both hilts into his face with a crossed-sword blow that sent him flying.

The man fell like a stone but quickly recovered. He regained his feet and wiped the blood from his nose and mouth. He spat blood and again charged Dirk. An overhead blow was deflected high and to the side. As the man ran by, Dirk caught his foot with his own and sent the man once again sprawling in the dirt.

Dirk looked to the king. “Are you sure you would not like to change your wager? I could kill this man with but my hands.”

The king cocked his head at this. “Indeed? Then, by all means, drop your blades.”

Everyone looked to Dirk. The training had stopped, and even the guards watched on in fascination. Dirk dropped his swords and faced the man with his arms slack at his sides.

The loudmouth smirked and came in with an overhead blow, which Dirk dodged. Another blow came in from the right, another from the left, and both were dodged. Dirk brought up his fists and began to dance a fighter’s dance.

“I give you this one chance, loudmouth. Accept defeat, and I will not kill you. Attack me again, and I will rip out your throat.”

The man responded with an unintelligible growl. He screamed in frustration and came in with an impaling
blow. Everyone thought that the blow would land, when, at the last moment, Dirk twirled to the left and came across with a nose-shattering backhand to the man’s face. The loudmouth staggered and turned, but before he could even think of a counter, Dirk was on his back, literally, hammering elbows into the man’s neck. Dirk crossed his legs over the man’s body and caused him to fall to the dirt, with Dirk on his back.

Loudmouth’s blade had fallen under him along with both hands, essentially pinning them. Dirk grabbed a handful of hair and, with his other hand, reached for the man’s throat. He then made good on his promise. Dirk stood from the dying man as his breath gurgled.

Whill watched the dying man and slowly brought his eyes up to meet Dirk’s. Dirk could not begin to read the look on Whill’s face. Whill looked again to the dying man and then to the king. “His reward will be honored?”

The king could only raise his chin in defeat and nod. Whill walked on to survey the other fighters without so much as a glance back at Dirk.

After Whill strode away, the king pointed at Dirk.

“Bring him!”

The Elves left the coast and thick forests of Elladrindellia and came out into the sparse plains of Uthen-Arden.
The night was faintly illuminated by a moon mostly hidden by cloud. But to an Elf, it mattered not. Rain had ravished the plains for over two weeks, and the fresh smell of life was intoxicating to Zerafin.

The horses would have fallen dead had their riders not been Elves with the ability to transfer energy to them and keep them running comfortably. But the horses still needed food and drink, lest they be uncomfortably driven. The long grass growing near a small stream offered such a chance for pause.

The Elves reared their steeds and dismounted, letting the animals graze as they may. They would pause for a half an hour and be on the road once more. Stealth was not needed as they could hide themselves from any human eyes easily enough. Zerafin would lead his Elves near to the gates of the city where they would break up into groups and begin the infiltration of Eadon’s castle. Many understood this to be quite possibly a suicide mission, but none cared, and all had volunteered.

Zerafin had welcomed the help, but he was the only one of the group that had vowed not to return unless he freed Whill and the soul of his sister, Avriel. Zerafin was sure that the execution of Whill was a trap, for without Whill, Eadon’s hopes to find the blade would be in vain. The greatest question on Zerafin’s mind was, had Eadon already acquired the blade?