Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (5 page)

He waited at the bar of the inn for Rhunis, grumbling to himself about stupid people. Rhunis had gone out into the city of Del-Oradon, within the kingdom of Uthen-Arden. They had come here four months ago to discover the whereabouts of Whill. They discovered, through their spy network, that Whill was within the castle of Del-Oradon. The castle had once been the home of his family line; now it was his prison, and the Dark Elf Eadon was his captor. His crime—he was the one named in an ancient Elven prophecy.

Abram did not know why Eadon did not kill Whill during the battle for Isladon and the Ebony Mountains. But he feared the worst, that Eadon had taken Whill as an apprentice. That thought gave Abram the cold chills, and he shook slightly.

CHAPTER FOUR

Falling Down

T
arren hit the floor hard, and blood flew from his mouth. The Dwarf boy that had shield bashed him laughed, as did many of the Dwarves within Tarren’s fighting circle. Tarren got up shakily and removed himself from the battle ring. Two Dwarf boys took the center and began to duel.

I am sick of being smacked around by these Dwarves. If I was their size and had their muscle, I could pound them all
, Tarren thought as he wiped blood from his lip and watched the clumsy Dwarf boys go at it. They beat Tarren because they were bigger, but he was getting better. He did nothing but read and write and train in Dwarven combat. His preferred weapons were twin axes, hatchets really. They were light enough to wield and could be very deadly if wielded well. The problem was that Tarren did not wield them well. Though they were light by Dwarf standards, they were heavy enough to be hard to control. Tarren controlled them better
than all other weapons. Recently he had been working with a staff, but he was not ready to do battle with it yet, or so Lunara said.

He had been training with the Dwarves for the last five months, and he had taken his share of beatings. If it had not been for the Elf Lunara’s healing abilities, Tarren would be bedridden from his many breaks and cuts. He had broken both legs three times and both arms twice, along with some of his fingers and toes. Dwarves were simply tougher; they could take a punch five times as hard.

Roakore had not liked the idea from the very beginning, but he knew in his heart that the boy had to do what the boy had to do. Tarren insisted on continuing the training, no matter the pain. Roakore knew the reasoning behind Tarren’s obsession. The lad had been kidnapped and basically killed by pirates, though he had been healed by Whill. His family had all been murdered by the same pirates when he was taken. Tarren had promised himself that he would never be helpless again, nor would those he could protect. Roakore understood the feelings; he had been fueled by them before.

The Dwarf boy Helzendar nudged Tarren. “You gonna keep taking thet dragon shite from them stupid Elgar Dwarves?”

“Ain’t you one o’ Roakore’s kids?” Tarren asked curiously.

“Yeah, ‘n’ so?”

“You Dwarves ‘r’ supposed to treat each other like the same clan. He don’t be wantin’ no sides taken between the Elgar or Ky’Dren or Ebony Dwarves,” Tarren told Helzendar matter-of-factly.

“I ain’t sayin’ that there be nothing wrong with the Elgar Dwarves. I’m just saying them ones thet are always after ye ‘r’ stupid. Ain’t no matter they be Elgar,” Helzendar said.

“Unity is the only way to victory and peace,” stated Tarren as he watched the duel before him unfold and end with one rather fat Dwarf boy getting the better of his opponent with an ax slam to the gut. The fallen Dwarf boy tried in vain to get a breath. He slammed his small fists against his chest, but the wind had been knocked out of him. An adult trainer lifted the boy’s belt, and the Dwarf sucked in a grateful breath.

“How many times I gotta tell ye to hit the ground breathin’ out, ‘n’ be flexin’ yer fat stomachs. Ye gots to listen, lads. Getting the wind knocked out o’ ye can be a killer on the battlefield! Same as gettin’ kicked in the ole family jewels, tis why ye better all be wearin’ yer metal cups!”

The trainer kicked the fallen Dwarf boy in the crotch as he passed. The strike of metal on metal rang out as the trainer’s steel boot struck the boy’s cup. The trainer nodded his approval. “These lessons should be as natural as wiping yer arse fer Ky’Dren’s sake.”

The trainer pointed at Helzendar and at one of the Elgar Dwarves that was part of the group of five that always went hardest on Tarren. Helzendar grinned to Tarren and took his place in the center of the ring.

Helzendar wore thick leather armor like anyone else. But his weapon was not one seen often. For Helzendar was tall for a Dwarf boy, lean with longer arms and legs than most. He used his size advantage in his choice of weapon, the half-moon spear. His wooden practice spear was four feet long, with a curved half-moon wooden blade at one end. The half-moon itself reached out like outstretched arms more than a foot and a half wide. At the other end of the spear was a large, fist-sized stone wrapped in leather that wound up the shaft.

His opponent was Krekra of the Elgar clan, his weapon, a wooden shield and long ax. Twenty Dwarves cheered and stomped their feet as the opponents circled each other. Helzendar was the first to act as he started his spear spinning overhead, gaining momentum. Krekra swung with his wooden ax, and Helzendar stepped back. As Krekra spun around to control the momentum of the swing, Helzendar began an attack of his own.

Whoosh, went the half-moon end of the moon spear at Krekra’s feet. Krekra jumped over the attack and held his ground. Whoosh, went the stone end of the spear at his head, and he ducked. Feet, head, feet, head, Helzendar attacked Krekra continuously high and low.
Krekra timed the attack and readied to slip through it when Helzendar again went for the feet, the head, the feet, and, finally, the feet again. Krekra, expecting a head attack, ducked. The half-moon whooshed in with a blur and took Krekra’s feet out from under him. Helzendar twirled with the blow and came around and down with the stone end, smashing Krekra’s shield in two pieces. The astonished Dwarf desperately swung his ax from on low but had no leverage on his back to give speed or power to the blow. The stone end of the spear knocked the ax from his hands as the moon end came down around his neck. A quick boot to the side of Krekra’s face put him to sleep.

The other Dwarf children looked on astonished; no one moved. The entire fight had taken less than twenty seconds. Helzendar twirled the spear around in a dizzying blur of perfection before letting it come to rest on the back of his neck, with both arms draped over it. “Next.”

The trainer began to stomp his ax handle on the stone, and the Dwarves took up the applause.

Zerafin stood before the council of elders, his mother seated at the center of the twenty-seven. The offering of power was held within the center forest city of Cerushia, which, much like other smaller dwellings of the Elves of
the Sun, was made of earth and trees. In many ways it resembled a human city of wood and stone, and in many ways it was completely different. Where humans harvested earth and stone, the Elves encouraged growth. Rather than build, the Elves molded.

Thick, gnarled trees made up the outer walls. They grew like vines entwined with one another in a knotting band around the perimeter of the city. And unlike inanimate human stone or wooden walls, these could be manipulated to attack anyone perceived as a threat or be molded to fit the needs of the dwellers.

Within the city walls, the buildings and homes and temples grew together in the same manner. Rather than doors, the great vine trees would part as one passed through a threshold. Windows could be made with a word. Therefore, the tree vines that consisted of the city were ever shifting and changing. From the tree vines grew large leaves that thickly covered the massive web from which they came. The city was a mass of green-leaved walls and structures with thick knots of brown vines. Green, yellow, and red moss grew where needed to cushion the feet or body. Throughout the city, ponds and gardens abounded. Stone walkways led here or there, but they too were at the will of the Elves and could be manipulated as such. Most humans, upon setting sight on the forest city, wept.

At the center of the city, within the great open-roofed temple of Suunlafen, Zerafin awaited his quest.
Hundreds had migrated from every corner of Elladrindellia to witness the offering of power. They sat in silence within the circular temple that had been grown larger than usual, stretching upward to the sky in a half globe. At the center of the circle in a ring sat the council.

“It has been decided by the council of elders, who for no other reason exist, to enforce the will of the Elves of Elladrindellia. You are charged with this quest, should you choose to accept. Find and retrieve he named by Adimorda, Whill of Agora.” His mother read loudly from a leaf scroll that she held in her hands.

“Retrieve the soul of Avriel that she may be returned to her people.”

Zerafin looked to his mother; her eyes were watery but strong and brave. She was more than a thousand years old, but life had not hardened her. She, like many Elves, had realized that enlightenment was not a state of detachment and apathy. It was a realization that pain was a part of life to be weathered, to be felt. Her eyes watered with fear for Avriel’s soul and worry for Zerafin’s fate. But her eyes were brave with her belief. The decision had been made; the outcome was left to the fates. If her son failed and her daughter was lost, she would lead an army personally to Eadon’s gates and die fighting; many knew her mind, and many would join her in the final battle.

Zerafin stood straight and strong. “I accept the task offered me! It will be achieved, or I will not return…” He paused and met many eyes. “…alive.”

Devarda, the elder of the council, the oldest of all Elves living within Elladrindellia, stood. He looked for a long moment into the eyes of Zerafin. The ancient Elf was master of all schools of knowledge, with proficiency in the way of the Ralliad. So proficient was he that he could shift into the form of any living creature, within the boundaries of his relative mass.

Devarda did not appear as an animal. He appeared before his people that day as he always did, in his true form as an Elf within a cloak of thick, dark green leaves that grew from his being as naturally as did hair from a goat. He turned from his seat and descended the thick vine stairs to stand before Zerafin.

“To aid you in your journey, we have endowed your blade with a collection of energy rivaled with none but the blade of Adimorda,” stated Devarda with a deep, booming voice. He reached down into the entangled floor, and from it, a hole opened. Devarda reached into the hole and pulled forth the blade Nifarez. Those Elves that were naive enough to look upon the sword with mind sight were blinded and screamed out in pain. Those that did not could sense the great power within the blade. All looked on in silent awe. Devarda regarded the blade not at all but quickly offered it to Zerafin with a small bow. His eyes never left Zerafin’s, and Zerafin’s eyes never left the blade.

Zerafin’s hands tightened around the hilt of the blade that had been forged for him in Drindellia, the sword
that he had wielded for centuries. He knew the blade as the blade knew him. The sword hummed quietly in his hands, and the power begged to course through his veins. Zerafin had a difficult moment dominating the urge to tap the energy. His face strained with sweat as he dominated himself and the blade.

Devarda took three steps back, and all in attendance looked on in anticipation of Zerafin’s test of the blade. Zerafin raised his hand, and fierce tendrils of flame shot forth into the midday sky. They reached upward with blinding speed and parted the lowest clouds.

Zerafin lowered his hand and stared in awe at his blade. He had not felt a dissipation of energy. His mind screamed of power, victory, dominance, overwhelming joy, fear, and warning. He dominated his emotions and focused on the task at hand. Zerafin allowed himself to not exist. He was a vessel of the power of the Elves. He had been given a gift. And he would fulfill his duty.

“The council of humans and Dwarves within Kell-Torey has come to a decision,” said Devarda as he looked to the crowd and the elders. “To spare as many lives as possible, small tactical units will be unleashed upon our enemy. The peoples of the kingdoms of Uthen-Arden and Shierdon are not our enemies. Let this be known to all. They have been caught up in Eadon’s web of lies and deceit.”

Devarda gave Zerafin another contemplative look over and nodded absently. He addressed the crowd once
again. “This curse we have brought upon the humans and Dwarves of Agora. True it is that Eadon would have come to conquer Agora eventually, whether we had come here or not. But the blame falls upon us for not stopping Eadon in Drindellia. For that reason, we will give aid to our allies the humans and the Dwarves. We are bound by a common enemy, a common goal. Therefore, we will fight together. Within a week’s time, many hundreds of humans and Dwarves will come here from their respective distant lands.”

The crowd of Elves murmured to each other and spoke in hushed whispers. Devarda waited until it died down. “These small tactical units will consist of Elves, humans, and dwarves. They will be made up of no more than twelve and no less than three. Together, we will strike at the heart of our enemy through stealth and unity. Though they do not possess the great powers that we, the Elves, do, there is much to be learned from the mortal beings. Do not doubt the ferocity of those that live a short life, for they are as a cornered badger in battle. Together, we will fight the Elves of darkness and the Draggard, and together, we will finally see an end to this sorrow.”