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

saw the wounds on Abram’s arms; shreds of fabric hung from his sleeves, his hands were scratched and bloody, and large puncture wounds covered him where he had tried to fend off the beasts. Whill was amazed that Abram’s leg had not broken, but he guessed it was on account of the soft snow. He took some clothes from his bags—to use as bandages—and a bottle of redclove.

“You did well,” said Abram as Whill began tearing the cloth into strips.

“Not well enough. You’re a bloody mess, and the horse is dead.”

“Stop being negative. It doesn’t become you.” Abram returned the smile. “You killed many wolves and haven’t a scratch. That’s quite a feat for any man.”

Whill began applying the redclove to Abram’s wounds. A quick hiss escaped him as the liquid touched his torn flesh. Redclove worked well on such wounds but burned like a hot brand.

“Besides, we still have your horse,” said Abram through clenched teeth. “She can carry us both, and we can get a good bit of money for those wolf hides.”

Whill marveled at the way Abram could always find good in anything. He thought of the time their boat had sunk in the ocean. With no land in sight and their cargo lost, Abram had said, “Well, at least we still have our arms to swim to shore.” Whill had almost drowned laughing. Now he could only smile and thank the gods that Abram was with him; to lose him would be to lose his whole world.

Abram had taken care of Whill since he was a baby. His earliest memories were of living in Sidnell, a small town on the eastern edge of Shierdon. Abram had entrusted him to his sister for most of his childhood. Whill called her Aunt Teera, and she was a stout woman with an even bigger heart. She was the healer of Sidnell, and he had lived comfortably with her and her three daughters until he was eleven.

Abram stayed with them often but was usually gone for months at a time. Whill would beg him to stay, but Abram would tell him he had to go, and that one day he would understand. Before leaving, Abram always gave Teera a list of things he wanted Whill to learn in his absence. In this way, he learned the medicinal and culinary uses of every herb and plant in the known lands.

When Abram was home he taught Whill a great many things. He learned to speak Elvish and Dwarvish, though he had never met anyone of either race. He also learned a great deal of the history of the kingdoms of Agora, and also about its peoples and geography. He learned sewing, cooking, tying a variety of knots, and countless other skills. He never complained but mastered all that was set before him—out of sheer love of learning and his own pleasure in making Abram proud.

Whill knew that Abram was not his father, for he had told him so when Whill was old enough to understand. When he asked who his parents were, Abram had only said, “I will tell you when you are ready, and I will judge when that time is. I know that it is the one answer you seek to know most, but you must trust me; some things in this world must not be known until the time is right. Bear no hard feelings for me because of this. I only do it to protect you.”

Whill had wondered about his true lineage since that day but never asked again, knowing Abram would not tell. Still, the question burned in him every day of his waking life. Perhaps it was this burden that led him to apply himself so strongly to learn all else that he did not know.

Eventually the day came when Abram said he was leaving again, but that this time Whill would go with him. On that warm June night, Abram took him to the seashore and said, “You have been very patient, and you are an excellent student. There is nothing more for you to learn from my books, and Teera has taught you much that I cannot. You are nearing manhood now, and I must now teach you how a man protects himself with the fist and blade, and how to live in the wild and on your own.”

From that day on Whill had been at Abram’s side as they traveled from one end of Agora to the other and back again. They sailed the seas together and braved the mountains, and always Whill was eager to learn more. Every day they sparred and practiced with fists and weapons. Abram had taught him to hunt, use a bow, throw a spear, use an axe, and wield a knife. Eventually Whill’s skill surpassed his own.

Now, sewing Abram’s larger gashes with needle and thread on this cold March night, that June day on the shore seemed like decades ago. Whill had become wise beyond his years and stronger than most his age. When he had finished suturing, he looked at his work. “They should heal with little scarring,” he said, and began to bandage Abram’s arms.

“You are one of the most skilled healers I know. I’m sure they will heal fine.” Abram grimaced as he put on an extra shirt and coat. “I will remove what supplies I can from my horse and make a fire while you skin all those hell-born wolves. I would help, but I don’t want to ruin your stitch work with too much movement.”

Whill collected the carcasses and went to work while Abram gathered his supplies and searched for wood dry enough to burn; with flint and dried moss from one of his bags, he managed a small fire. Whill worked tirelessly for hours until the first morning light appeared in the sky. When the last hide was finished, he washed his knife and arms with snow Abram had melted. After a breakfast of dried meat and cheese, they set out once again toward Fendale.

With two riders, the extra supplies, and ten wolf hides to carry, the horse’s pace was slow. “We are about twenty miles from Fendale,” Abram said. “At this pace we will be there in about seven hours, including a couple of breaks for our poor horse.”

“It will be nice to lie on a bed and eat warm food after that night.”

“Indeed it will.”

Chapter 2 Fendale

The sun hung low in the east, an orb of orange bringing warmth to the world below. The land was alive with the sounds of the wild. Birds flew from tree to tree singing their songs of joy, and squirrels scurried here and there, cheeks bulging with winter’s rare treasures. It was a landscape of pure white with a sky of clear blue, a pleasant change from the endless grey that had plagued the previous two days of travel. The storm they had encountered had not been typical for this time of year. Already it had begun to warm considerably, and in a few days the snow would melt and be gone.

“It will be a good night for the celebration,” Whill noted.

“That it will,” Abram agreed. “We should reach Fendale by noon and have plenty of time to rest, though I won’t be in any shape to dance. Shame, really. This celebration brings some of the finest ladies this side of the Ky’Dren Mountains.”

“You old dog. If you have half your usual charm they’ll be flocking regardless. Just don’t get us into the kind of trouble we had in Brindon. Steer clear of blacksmiths’ wives and we’ll be just fine.” Whill chuckled at the memory of it. 

Abram laughed and started to make a rebuttal but could think of none.

“I’m surprised that after almost getting your arms ripped to bits, all you can think of is women and dancing.”

Abram smiled. “Life goes on. Those who dwell in the past have no future, as my father used to say. Besides, it could have been much worse.”

Whill looked forward to staying in the city. When not in the wild they stayed briefly in small, out-of-the-way towns throughout Agora. They had no true home, and swore allegiance to no one but each other. Abram kept them constantly on the move, never making themselves known in any place for too long. Life with Abram had the feeling of running away from something or someone. But Whill fancied his life of adventure and never questioned Abram’s motives. He knew that Abram hated the Uthen-Arden empire, for he regularly spoke of King Addakon of Arden with a mean tongue. King Addakon had come to rule after the death of his brother Aramonis not twenty years before. Within that year, the Ebony Mountains had been invaded by Draggard and thousands of dwarves slaughtered. There had been many battles between the peoples of Agora and the Draggard. Abram said that a great war was coming, that Addakon would see to it. He suspected that Addakon would move to conquer all of Agora and make it one kingdom under himself. Already there was strife between the kingdoms. It was for these reasons that Whill and Abram seldom traveled within the realm of Uthen-Arden. If they were to travel to Shierdon or Isladon, it would be by water rather than land. 

They rode on; the hours passed. The rising sun brought small but welcome warmth to the world. Stopping only twice for the sake of the horse, and for only a few minutes, they made good time. Soon Fendale was in sight, as was the coast.

“There it is,” said Abram with a smile. “The great coast city of Fendale.”

Whill had not laid eyes on the city in eight years, but he remembered it well. Now he looked upon it with the same awe he had as a child. Fendale sat upon the northern coast of Eldalon, and a large stone wall, thirty feet high, surrounded its entire border. At Fendale’s center stood a great lighthouse seven stories high, the oldest standing building in Fendale. The lighthouse, called by the people “the Light of the West,” was also home to Rogus, Lord of Fendale. The thriving coast city was a main source of trade for most of Agora. Its wealth was very evident in its beauty. The exterior wall boasted ten magnificently crafted mermaid statues, each more than fifty feet high. They lay with fins curled, long flowing hair falling over their breasts, watching guard over the city. Four looked west to the sea, and two each to the north, east, and south. Within the eyes of all sat a guard, and so the statues were called the Eyes of Fendale.

The wall itself was as smooth as marble, with an arched overhang making it inaccessible to ladders. The main gate stood thirty feet high and twenty feet wide, made of oak five feet thick and covered in iron. 

The rear of the city was built on a cliff in such a way that the wall actually hung over the ocean. A large cave under the city acted as its harbor, with four points of entry capable of admitting the largest vessel. Each entry point had a massive iron gate that could be closed in seconds, effectively making the harbor inaccessible. Aside from being a port city, Fendale was also Eldalon’s main naval base able to house more than one hundred warships.

As they approached the main gate, which stood open, Whill marveled at the mermaid statues