Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (18 page)

Tarren giggled and then laughed, and his laughter echoed off of the mountainside, creating a chorus of childish glee. Lunara smiled widely and chuckled. Tarren strove to speak through his fits and finally spat out, “I know, right? Roakore never speaks softly. I can’t imagine him putting a babe to sleep.”

Tarren scrunched up his face and scowled, doing his best Roakore impression. “Sleep, li’ll baby. Don’t ye be crying; there be Draggard need be dyin’. Now shut yer eyes, eh!”

Lunara broke out into hysterical laughter as Tarren finished his song. His impression of Roakore was spot on, down to the last inflection. It was Tarren’s best voice mimic; albeit, he was a boy without the booming voice of the Dwarf king.

They chuckled for a long while and finally settled to gaze upon the sky. Lunara bade him continue. “What else did you learn?”

“Well, those things come first. After that, you continue on at other schools, if your family so deems it and if your funds make you able.”

“Funds?” Lunara asked.

“You know, money. If you aren’t a prodigy or rich, you aren’t going to go to the best schools.”

Lunara was dumbfounded. “You mean that only the privileged or geniuses have access to your greatest knowledge?”

Tarren thought about that. “I guess so. Why? Any Elf can learn anywhere, without paying?”

“We do not use money; we had never learned of it until coming here.”

Tarren scowled, trying to comprehend a world with no money. “Then what do you do for work? How do you…I don’t know…how do you pay for things?”

“Well, back home in Elladrindellia, we trade what we can’t make for things we can. We do favors and call upon favors as well. We help each other at times without want for favor, for in that way, one gains more favors unasked. Do you understand?”

Tarren did, and he smiled. “It sounds wonderful.”

Lunara hummed. “It is.”

No more was said that night as they both fell fast asleep beneath the great oak. They slept until the sun’s rays broke over the nearby mountaintops and bathed them in warmth that chased away the night’s chill. Breakfast was had, and camp was cleaned up in short order. Lunara settled next to the carved staff and from her bag began to extract many different-colored jewels.

“Come, Tarren. Before I add the stones, we need to bind the staff to you.” From her belt she withdrew her dagger. “This will hurt a bit,” she told Tarren and took his hand. With the blade, she cut a long gash in his
palm. She retrieved the staff and held it before Tarren. “Squeeze your hand over the staff.”

Tarren complied, and blood dripped from his fist onto the runes of the staff. Not a drop spilled from the wood but rather was absorbed by the runes and carved leaf-and-vine pattern that adorned the staff from end to end. The runes and carvings glowed for a moment as the blood filled the crevasses and disappeared into the wood altogether. Lunara set the staff upon her lap and healed Tarren’s cut with a whisper and an outstretched hand.

“Gather the hatchet please,” the Elf asked, and Tarren complied.

From the top of the hatchet, Lunara removed a small red ruby and set it within the center of the staff. The wood molded itself around the jewel and held it firmly.

“The ruby atop the hatchet I enchanted to collect a bit of the kinetic energy of each of your many swings. It gathered much of the energy and stored it within. This gem holds the energy of your will also and will, from this day forth, store a bit of the kinetic energy that is produced by its movement.”

Lunara produced another gem from her bag, a diamond. This too she fastened to the staff in the same manner. “This diamond my grandmother enchanted to gather energy from the sun.”

Again she reached into her bag, and Tarren watched keenly, fascinated and growing more excited by the
moment. This time she withdrew a round onyx orb the size of an apple and carefully placed it atop one end of the staff. The wood became fluid at Lunara’s command and reached out from the tip of the staff to form a wooden talon and grasp the orb tightly. The onyx orb glowed red at its center and became dark once more.

“The orb will gather the energy of the moon.”

From the bag Lunara gathered seven gems and set them among the swirling runes. Before she could tell him, Tarren asked excitedly, “What do those do?”

“These have been enchanted with protection spells. They will make your parries and your blocks stronger. It will also protect your body, within reason.”

Finally she extracted one last item from her bag, a long, straight blade of Dwarven steel. Tarren watched with awe as she sang to the staff, and it opened at its center. Within the staff she inserted the blade, and the wood molded closed around it. Lunara took the staff in her hands and raised it to the heavens.

She closed her eyes and chanted loud and fast. The runes upon the staff glowed brightly in the waning light as the sun set below the mountain peaks. The wind picked up as the light died and sent Lunara’s hair dancing wildly. Thick, dark clouds overtook the heavens and swirled above as Lunara continued her frantic chanting. Thunder boomed and lightning cut through the heavens, and Lunara held the staff high. Her chanting reached a crescendo, and more roaring thunder
joined in the chorus. With a great exclamation, Lunara slammed the staff to the ground, and a blinding bolt of lightning tore through the sky and hit the onyx orb upon the top of the staff. The lightning hissed and crackled as it was absorbed by the staff. Lunara’s hair stood on end as the lightning buzzed and crackled.

In the blink of an eye, it was over. The thunder and lightning receded, and the clouds began to disperse. The silence that followed in the wake of the tumult was unsettling. Lunara turned to Tarren and offered him the staff. Wide-eyed, he took it.

“This staff I bestow upon you, young Tarren. Name it as you will.”

Tarren grasped the staff in wonder. He looked from it to the great oak from whence it had been given.

“I name you…Oakenheart.”

Lunara nodded. “Oakenheart will grow in power and strength as you grow in power and strength. It has been forged of your will and the power of nature.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Burning Love

W
hill watched as Dirk Blackthorn disarmed and defeated yet another opponent. Dozens of men had fallen to his blades, yet not one of them had landed a single blow. Dirk was possibly one of the best fighters he had ever seen in action. Not only was he apparently knowledgeable of all forms of fighting and how to defend against them, but he also possessed the raw talent necessary to be such a devastating foe. He was quick as a cat but, at the same time, strong for his size. He could wield all weapons well, but with a thin blade and a dagger, he was lethal.

Whill had decided that he would take Dirk as one of his fighters, along with ten other men and the large barbarian woman. They would be his army; they would be his warriors.
The crowd will get a show
.

If he was to die, then he would do so in a blaze of glory that no one present would soon forget. He would kill all that came before him, Draggard, Dark Elf, man;
it did not matter. He would leave a legend so great that not even Eadon would be able to silence it. He would show these puppets exactly what revolution looked like.

He asked a guard to line up the potential fighters and walked down the line. As he passed Dirk, the man gave him a smirk. Whill stopped before him. “I hear you were arrested in the square for inciting a riot in my name.”

Dirk nodded. “This is true.”

“Why?” asked Whill.

“Because of what you stand for.”

Whill let out a small laugh. “What do I stand for?”

“Revolution!” Dirk quickly answered. He eyed the guard and moved closer so that only Whill could hear. “We have a common enemy, Dark Elves.”

Whill nodded. “I will take this man.”

He continued down the line and chose the rest of his fighters, including Aurora Snowfell. The remaining fighters were escorted out of the practice area, and Whill was left with his twelve warriors.

“You have all been sentenced to death. Yet you fight with passion and purpose. This is why you have been chosen. Though we will be outnumbered by tides of opponents, I expect that you will fight bitterly to the end. We are all doomed to die, but I would rather die with honor. Together, we will show the people of Uthen-Arden the meaning of honor.”

He walked the line back and forth as he spoke, measuring each man. “Will you fight with me?”

“Yes!” came the answer.

“Will you bleed with me?”

“Yes!” They answered louder this time.

“Will you die with me?”

“Yes!”

Whill stopped in his pacing and outstretched his arms. “Then let us prepare to die.”

Roakore and Jarred made their way slowly backward to stand side by side near the alter of the church. The dozen Draggard advanced slowly, some down the aisle on their feet; others crawled over the pews like lizards. Roakore gave the signal, and the dragons’ breath was ignited in the basement, and all hell broke loose.

There was a great explosion that rocked the very frame of the building. The floor in the middle of the church exploded into a huge fireball. Roakore pulled down Jarred, and they shielded their heads from the huge slivers of wood that were thrown through the air at high velocity. Three of the Draggard were blown to pieces, and another was engulfed in flames and fell into the inferno.

The others were riddled with wooden daggers. Two fell from their wounds, but the remaining six furiously charged Roakore and Jarred. This group of beasts had seen many battles and had fought together often. They
did not barrel in foolishly but rather spread out in a circle, spears held high, tails curved and ready to strike above their heads like a scorpion. They looked demonic in the firelight. Their green-and-dark-black scales shone like polished glass. Their eyes were the color of the fire around them, and their teeth and claws reflected like daggers.

Roakore and Jarred stood back to back as the jabs from the Draggard spears and tails forced them back. Jarred lunged forward and stabbed, but three blades met his. Time was running short. The fire from the basement was claiming an ever-larger area of the floor, and already the roof was on fire. Beams groaned, and rows of benches fell into the inferno.

The six surrounding beasts pressed Roakore and Jarred with spears and tails alike. Seeing their doom coming in the form of those gleaming spears, Roakore acted on instinct, mentally grasping the metal of the spears and forcing them to the floor. Still the tails came; he felt Jarred’s body at his back suddenly tense and shift. Before Jarred could give the warning, Roakore ducked as the man screamed, “Down!”

The great sword came around in a loud whoosh. Many Draggard tails were cut in half. One was deflected from its path by the sword, while another found its mark, sinking deep into Jarred’s leg. The bone snapped, and Jarred crumbled to the floor. Roakore, in a rage, called upon the stone tips of the spears once again and pulled
them from the floor and sent each back to their owners. The six Draggard stumbled back as they were impaled by the spears. One fell, screaming, into the ever-widening pit. Jarred cursed the beasts from the floor and hacked at the nearest Draggard’s ankle. The great sword cut deep into the monster’s shin, causing it to fall next to the screaming man.

Roakore brought his ax to bear and took the opportunity before him. He smashed the face of the nearest Draggard with his huge ax, spun, and kicked the Dark Elf creation into the fires below the church. He swung again and took a beast in the side; he pulled his ax back quickly, opening the creature.

Jarred grabbed the Draggard in a headlock and wrapped a leg around the beast. He squeezed with all his might. The Draggard tail ripped from his leg and backed to strike like a scorpion tail. It hovered for only a moment before striking, but before it could hit home, Roakore hewed it in half as he twirled away from his latest victim.

Jarred squeezed harder still, the face of his beloved wife burning in his mind brighter than the rising flames. Steam emanated from his tears of pain and anguish, and rage pumped rivers of blood through his knotted muscles. The Draggard desperately raked Jarred’s face as it struggled against the madman. The claws cut deep into Jarred’s flesh, but he felt nothing. With a loud snap, the Draggard’s neck was broken; its body jerked
and became limp. Jarred lay upon the floor, blood drenched and spent. His leg bled profusely, and he had lost an eye. His head swam in the heat, the air becoming thick and black. Jarred choked and laughed to himself, watching Roakore chop the head off the last Draggard as the roof caved in and the building collapsed, and he and Roakore fell into the raging inferno below.