Whill of Agora: Book 1, Michael Ploof [read aloud TXT] 📗

Whill of Agora Table of Contents

Title Page

Also By michael ploof

Michael James Ploof

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Further Reading: A Quest of Kings

Michael James Ploof

I would like to thank John E Barron III, who for years listened and encouraged the making of this story. His enthusiasm to see the work finished and his support in the publishing of the book were vital in making this a reality. I also thank my son Devin, who spent many late nights with me working out the kinks in the story.

This finished work I dedicate to my children, Devin and Destiny.

Copyright 2012 by Michael James Ploof

Cover design by Trevor Smith

All rights reserved

E-book ISBN 978-1-4662-4968-4

For news and updates on future Legends of Agora books, Join the mailing list, or visit www.whillofagora.com

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 1 The Travelers

The full moon lingered like a magnificent pearl in an ocean of black. Fresh snow gave a faint crunch as the riders’ horses made their way down the old road. Cold, tired, and hungry, Whill and Abram rode silently toward Fendale.

Usually they would make camp with the setting of the sun, but not tonight. The storm they had encountered the previous two days had set them back many hours.

“We should still be in time for the Winter’s End Celebration,” Whill said.

“As long as we do not wander into another of those damned storms, we should be plenty early,” answered Abram as he scoured the woods. Something was on his mind, but Whill did not bother wondering what; he had thoughts of his own, like the feast they would enjoy the next night, and the music. The Winter’s End Celebration of Fendale was always a great treat. It had been going on as long as anyone could remember. People came from all surrounding towns and villages to take part. Abram had brought Whill when he was only eleven years old, and Whill had marveled at all the dancers, jugglers, acrobats, and animal tamers that had performed. The knights of Eldalon had put on a mock battle, and Whill sat in awe for hours watching them dual and joust. He had read their history in the books Abram had given him as a young child. To see them in person had been a surreal experience. The celebration had lasted all day and long into the night. The food had been fit for kings, and the children had received candy. Whill, now nineteen years old, was no less excited than he had been when he was eleven.

“Do you think that King Mathus will attend this year?” wondered Whill. Abram did not reply. He lifted his hand, motioning Whill to stop. Whill gently slowed his horse and was about to ask what was wrong when Abram put a finger to his lips.

Whill surveyed the surrounding forest, but saw only the silhouettes of trees and the darkness beyond. Pine branches bent under the weight of the snow, as did the birches, which in some spots bowed down almost to the road. It was a world of white and black, shadows and moonlights. Minutes passed, but still, Whill neither saw nor heard anything. He looked over at Abram, who sat like a statue upon his steed. Something indeed was wrong. Abram was not suffering from his usual excess of paranoia; it was too quiet. Lost in his thoughts of Fendale, Whill had not noticed until now. In an almost inaudible whisper, Abram told him to ready his bow. He did so as silently as he could, with a sudden and intense feeling that someone was watching, waiting. He resisted the urge to turn and look, and sat as still as he could— bow in hand, his arrow ready. Abram had also readied his bow, and with a quick dart of his eyes, indicated a part of the woods in front and to the left of them. Whill peered at the spot and, at first, saw nothing; then he spotted sudden movement beyond the trees. It was a strange black shape, quick and silent, darting from behind one tree to hide behind another. It moved like a shadow, and Whill would have mistaken it for one if not for the moonlight reflected in its eyes. Whill’s horse gave a whine and began to stir, now alert to some danger. With a jerk Abram turned to scowl at the scared beast, and as he did the forest erupted with movement.

Abram hollered, “Ride, boy, ride!”

His heart hammering in his ears, Whill kicked the flanks of the horse, which was eager to comply. As it began to speed into a full gallop, Whill saw five black wolves dart out of the woods in front of them with alarming speed. Without looking he knew that more raced at them from behind. Before he could think he let loose an arrow at the closest wolf. With a cry the beast went headfirst into the snow, the arrow protruding from its neck. Even before the blood could flow, Whill had pulled another arrow, and Abram took down another of the approaching pack.

Instead of scaring the remaining beasts, the fall of the two wolves only seemed to infuriate them. Baring teeth, they charged ever faster toward the riders. In unison Whill and Abram let loose their arrows and dropped the two closest wolves. Whill reached for another arrow to take down the last wolf when suddenly two more jumped at Abram’s horse. Teeth snapping, they bit fiercely at its legs. A terrible cry issued from the horse as yet another wolf attacked; distracted by the others, they had not seen it coming. The wolf jumped, its jaws snapping at the face of Whill’s horse. He struggled to stay mounted and lost hold of his bow as the horse reared, almost throwing him to the ground. Alert to his trouble, Abram shot the wolf in the side as it rebounded and prepared to lunge once more. Whill was now facing the right side of Abram’s horse, whose legs were being ripped apart by the other three attacking wolves. It jumped and kicked as it tried to throw off the beasts, but they were too many. Whill drew his sword, ready to charge, when another wolf attacked his own horse from behind. He turned to see it clawing its way up his horse’s back and, with a swift blow, chopped its head clean off. He turned and, to his horror, saw Abram’s horse go down under the relentless attack. Immediately, the three wolves lunged on top of him. Jumping from his horse, Whill could not see his friend— only thick black coats of matted fur, thrashing and jerking where he had been.

With a cry, Whill attacked with his sword, and in a frenzy of slashing metal, blood, and flying fur, he quickly killed the beasts. In his fury, he barely heard a low growl behind him. He turned to see a nightmarish sight— six more wolves less than ten feet away. They stood, hair raised, teeth bared, ready to attack, and uttered low, menacing growls; all except the largest, which barked ravenously at him. Whill knew why they hadn’t yet attacked. They were afraid.

Not knowing if Abram was alive or dead, Whill was not afraid but angry. Rage welled in him and erupted into a primal scream. The wolves tensed and backed a step. “Come on!” he screamed, challenging the wolves. “Come on!”

The wolves backed up further, confused. They looked at each other, then at Whill, and then again at one another. Then the leader answered Whill’s challenge and charged straight at him. Drool falling from his open mouth, he lunged for Whill’s neck. The young traveler dropped to his knees and, as the wolf passed over him, gutted the beast from neck to tail—it landed in a dead heap. Another charged, and Whill impaled the beast with a sickening crunch. Heaving the limp wolf to the side he ran at the remaining four, eyes wild and his own growl now echoing through the forest.

With their leader dead, the wolves quickly retreated in the presence of this fearless foe. Whill ran after them, actually wishing they would fight. He was so enraged, he had forgotten about Abram.

As the wolves ran for the forest, Whill returned to his fallen friend. Abram was pinned under the great weight of his dying horse and three dead wolves. Whill heaved the beasts off and was devastated by what he saw. Blood covered every inch of Abram’s face. He knelt next to his injured friend, tears in his eyes, and began to wipe the blood away. Abram moaned and opened his eyes. Then, to Whill’s surprise, he smiled. “I thought we were in trouble there for a minute,” he said.

“Are you all right?”

“Knock it off,” Abram grumbled, swatting his hand away. “I’m hurt but I’m not dying. The blood is mostly from the wolves. Now help me get out from under this poor horse.”

Whill heaved the saddle in an attempt to lift the horse and free Abram’s leg, but to no avail.

“Don’t bother. My leg isn’t broken. Just help me pull it free before those damned wolves get their courage back.”

Whill pulled on Abram’s leg above the knee and, with many grunts and curses from his injured comrade, it came free.

He now