Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (34 page)

You were the coward at someone’s back; you have no honor, and you are a disgrace to the tribe, as your mother always said you were. You ran off to seek out help against the tribe’s wishes, like a silly girl with romantic fantasies of a world that is not harsh and dark and always cold. You are a disgrace
.

I did what needed to be done; with the favor of Eadon, I could have secured our people’s future
.

You know that is a lie. Eadon would have given you nothing; you were a pawn and nothing more. You would have been his slave all of your days
.

But there is still Whill; there is still a chance. If he finds this sword and gains the power that it seems to possess, he may lead his followers to victory. I must join our people to his cause, lest they be slaughtered by Eadon’s dark forces
.

Her mind spun, and she argued with herself long into the night. About a half hour before dawn, she got up and stretched her legs. The orange-and-pink glow of the morning sun bathed a misty cloud cover in faint light. No stars could be seen as the heavens above began to pour rain. The thought of flying in it brought a smile to her troubled face.

Curled up next to the warmth of Avriel’s dragon body, Whill slept well for many hours. And when the morning light finally shone beyond the mouth of the cave, he sprang to his feet alert, energized, and ready. He was anxious to take to the sky and seek out the mystery of the sword of Adimorda. He emerged out of the cave with the others and found Zhola and Azzeal standing upon the ledge, looking out over the sickly forest.

The sun had risen, but it was impossible to tell where it was beyond the thick gray cloud cover and sprinkle of rain that steadily fell. It could have been noon for all Whill could tell. An idea occurred to him, and he called upon his mind sight to gauge the location of the sun. Within seconds, the clouds vanished, and Whill sucked in a startled breath when he looked upon the morning sun that had risen recently.

Zhola turned from his perch, and the hum that came from him shook the stone. “We fly south to the lost city of the Elves,” he growled.

“First we be eatin’ breakfast,” Roakore informed him as he stroked Silverwind’s head while she ate from a feeding bag.

Whill mounted Avriel, and together, they jumped from the ledge and took to the sky flying south. Aurora and Dirk climbed atop Zhola, and he too leapt from the cliff.

“Come, Dwarf, you don’t want to miss all the fun, do you?” laughed Azzeal as he leapt from the ledge and took his bird form. Roakore removed the feeding bag, which earned him a squawk of protest.

“Bah, don’t you be worryin’ Silverwind; there be more where that came from. Let’s go now. You ain’t gonna let a dragon show you up, are you?”

Silverwind squawked and ruffled her feathers, making her appear much larger. Roakore spit at the feathers that hit his face as he mounted his bird.

The group had flown south through the rain for an hour when the clouds crackled with thunder and lightning flashed brightly, illuminating the world of shadow below. There was no green to be seen within the forests, and the great trees were but husks of what they once were, and those that lived were twisted and spoiled. The cry of a large bird pierced the rain and the hearts of those that heard it; it was Azzeal’s cry of despair in seeing his beloved homeland. Avriel answered it with a cry of her own and belched forth flame into the sky, turning the rain to mist and steam.

Whill beheld the extent of the plague upon the Elven lands and was forlorn to see no end to the dark forests or barren wastelands. To the north and west the forest continued on into the gray horizon. To the south was a foggy wasteland, and to the east was a dark lake that did not reflect the sky. Whill shivered.

The Dark Elves had drained the land long ago, taking from it all life force. Whill’s mind flashed with images of a dark, plague-stricken Agora. Fear for his own homeland gripped his heart. Surely the disease of the land could not go on to the ends of its shores. Whill knew the land to be nearly three times the size of Agora from the maps that he had seen. It was impossible to imagine such a vast scale of destruction.

They flew on south over great ridges and valleys, dark forests and smoldering wastelands, and everywhere Whill felt watched by unseen eyes below. Finally, near noon, they could see a great city of stone ahead. Whill laid eyes upon the Elven city in ruin, the once-beautiful Vollorynn, and a lump found his throat. The city was a marvel even in its present state, so grand that Fendale and even Kell-Torey were dwarfed by comparison. Towers that must have once stood a thousand feet high were cracked and broken, strewn throughout the city like the corpses of gods. Statues of heroes unknown lay in ruin, and great craters littered the city. There had once been a great battle here, and many lives had been lost.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Clues in the Dark

Z
hola flew in a circle near the center of the city. When he was satisfied that it was clear, he descended and, flapping his great wings, landed next to a caved-in building. The others landed as well and looked to the dragon.

“These are the remains of the great library of Vollorynn. It once contained the greatest wealth of history of the Elves and a great many other things. The words you will find here will capture your mind for hours and days. Do not tarry, and linger not whilst inside; find the book and return swiftly.”

“You do not mean to come with us?” Whill asked.

“I am too large, stop being foolish, child. Go forth and seek out a tome bound in brown leather with not but one marking—that of a soaring red dragon set in gems. I have instructed Azzeal on its whereabouts during the flight; he will be your guide.

Whill looked around at the group and then to Azzeal. The Elf was not paying attention but rather looking upon the remains of the city longingly. He opened his mouth as if to cry out, but a voice heard in a dream echoed forth in song. Everyone froze as they were gripped by the words; the city itself seemed to listen. The wind fled from the Elf as his song carried to the gray heavens and the clouds stopped weeping. His was a song of blessing, remembrance, and promise. He sang of the green father, blue skies, starlight, and the Elven mother of light. Even the Dwarf was moved by the words, though he knew but a few. Dirk raised his head as would someone basking in summer sunlight, and his hood fell back to reveal his closed eyes and stoic face.

From the many dirt-filled cracks and crevices of the stone walkways, small green vines sprouted. A surge of energy rushed forth from Azzeal and through all near to him. Everywhere more sprouts protruded and weakly stretched upward to the glowing clouds. Azzeal’s song ended, and he fell to the stone upon his knees and whispered to the nearest vine.

The spell broken, Roakore coughed gruffly and walked forward to the ledge of the cave-in. “I didn’t come all this way to watch ye start a garden, Elf. We be findin’ this damned dragon book or not?”

Azzeal looked up at Roakore with a strange grin and burst out laughing. “They grow once again; there is life once more.” He walked swiftly to Whill and put a hand
upon his shoulder. He faced Whill with all seriousness. “The land can be healed!”

Azzeal released Whill and arched his back in a great yell of triumph, hollering in Elvish, “The land can be healed!” The cry became that of a wolf as the Elf changed and sprang to the edge of the crumbled stone, nearly knocking Roakore over. The wolf turned back and looked to the others, his tail wagging. He leapt down into the labyrinth of the ancient library. Whill nodded to Avriel and followed along with Roakore, Dirk, and Aurora.

Zhola called after them, speaking to their minds.
We will guard this entrance. But beware; there are many things that have lived through the culling of life here in Drindellia—things made to thrive in waste and death
.

His words shook through the stone as the group descended the broken stone fragments of ruined walls and fallen pillars. They eventually made their way down to the floor below. They were in a large room littered with broken stone and mangled volumes. The books numbered in the thousands, and Whill sighed when he saw the work before them. Azzeal’s staff blazed light as he called upon the sun stone set at its tip.

“Come, Zhola speaks instruction to me.” said the Elf, and he headed to the right, passing Roakore as he dusted himself off and coughed. Everyone followed Azzeal to a hall at the corner of the room. They followed the passage cautiously, and all but Roakore were
uncomfortable in the small space. Aurora had to duck low and walk at a crouch as she took up the rear of the line.

Eventually, they came to an opening, and light from Azzeal’s staff revealed a closed but partially broken stone door. Roakore pushed to the front and eyed the broken stone door.

“Back up,” he instructed the group. He turned to the stone, grunted and tensed, and pushed his fists forward. The stone door boomed and exploded into pieces, and a draft sucked into the open chamber. Roakore walked forward into the darkness, and Azzeal followed, illuminating the room. Dust and cobwebs covered the book-filled shelves of this room also. The entire left wall had collapsed inward and filled half of the room with earth.

“This way,” offered Azzeal as all followed his light. He led them to the right side of the room, through another tunnel—this one wider than the last. Dust-covered torches hung upon the walls; Whill and Aurora took one each. They finally came to a long stairwell. Azzeal spoke a word and touched each torch in turn, and they caught fire. Neither the flames nor the illumination from Azzeal’s staff reached the bottom of the stair.

They began down the stone stairs cautiously. And though they tried to tread as softly as possible, every sound they made echoed throughout the stairwell. Azzeal took from his pouch a small, clear crystal and brought it to his lips. As he blew on it, a glow began
at its core and grew until it was hard to look at. Whill shielded his eyes and watched as the Elf threw it down the stairwell. It bounced repeatedly as its glow traveled down the stair, illuminating the entire shaft. When finally it reached the bottom, it came to rest. From down at the end of the stair came a shriek and a hiss and the sound of frantic shuffling away. Something was down there, and judging by the sound of its movement and dancing shadows, it was large.

Azzeal looked back at the group and spoke to each of their minds.
This is our path; there is no other way down. We face whatever it is head on
.

Roakore laughed eagerly, and everyone looked at him to be quiet. ‘Bah, what surprise we got? This be somethin’s den. ’Tis the home o’ some psycho-nightmare drug-induced lunacy o’ Eadon, no doubt. And I happen to make it me business o’ killin’ ’em,” he said and shoved past Azzeal and loudly descended the stairs.

“Let’s have it then!” he shouted down into the brightness of the glowing crystal. “Whatever it is dares not touch the light.”

Dirk told himself that this was a moment to show his quality. He ran past them all and leapt over Roakore, his dagger and a black egg of glass shards at the ready. He traveled like a whisper down the stairs, and Roakore wondered if he might have enchanted shoes. Dirk reached the bottom of the stair and disappeared to the left. Roakore and the others followed slowly, as to hear
anything from below. At first there was silence; then suddenly a hooded shadow darted across the bottom of the stair. Like the flicker of a flame’s light dancing in the wind, he moved, and when the group reached the landing, there was not sight or sound of the assassin. Aurora and Roakore went left, and Azzeal and Whill followed the tunnel to the right.

They passed many rooms, and each of these they checked. Whill could not even move some of the ancient stone doors, but neither did he need to. Using their mind sight, they peered into each of the rooms but saw nothing. They could not see far due to the stone, but it was enough to see that no immediate threat lay in wait beyond the threshold.

Eventually they came upon Dirk, who sat upon the back of an incapacitated Draggard. It was moaning pitifully and bleeding from many wounds. Whill could see that its tail had been severed at the base and was now shoved down its throat. It had two blue-feathered darts in its left eye, and it had not only been hamstrung by a thin, sharp blade, but also the back of its ankles had been sliced. As Whill walked a circle around the beast, he saw yet another wound, a missing hand. This he located shortly, and he cringed when he saw where it was embedded. At first glance, he had thought it the tail stump. The beast’s other hand was bent behind, pinned by a knife to its own back.

“There was another down the other tunnel, but that one died. I figure this one might have talking to do.” He looked to Azzeal. “You talk Draggard?”

Azzeal nodded, still looking over Dirk’s handiwork. Whill, too, was impressed. Dirk had been like a ghost; he had killed one Draggard, and somehow he had incapacitated another and taken it alive. Furthermore, Whill had not heard a sound traveling down the hall.

Roakore and Aurora came quickly to the room.

“There be a dead Draggard down the other tunnel,” said Roakore, and noticing what it was that Dirk sat upon, he laughed. “Well done, laddie; you got one alive!”

Dirk ripped the tail from the beast’s mouth, and it gave a gurgled cry and began to hack and retch lazily. Whatever was in the two darts that Dirk had stuck in its eyes had it heavily sedated while keeping it awake. Azzeal made a disgusted face, as if he had eaten something putrid, and bent to speak into the ear of the Draggard. What came out was a deep, guttural language made of harsh sounds, hisses, and grumbles.

“I have asked him if there are any more of his kind about, and if so, how many.”

The Draggard responded in its awful language; its injured throat causing a sickening wet sound as it spoke and panted. Azzeal kicked it in the side and gestured to Roakore and yelled into the Draggard’s face. On cue, Roakore scowled and bounced his great ax in his hands.

“What did it say?” asked Whill.

“That my mother tasted good,” answered Azzeal with flared nostrils and a scowl. “I told him that he could answer me or face a long, excruciating death by a warrior feared by dragons.”