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

things you do not know about yourself.” Whill started to speak, but Abram silenced him. “Let me speak. Your lineage being what it is, the king and a great many other people have a keen interest in you. I have told you of the oncoming war; soon you will have a choice to make— a very great choice that will shape your future in ways you cannot imagine.”

Whill stared at Abram, his brow bent with anger. “What choice? For years you have kept my heritage a secret from me, and now you decide to hint about it here, in this place? What is the harm in my knowing? I am a man now. I have waited patiently for years to hear the truth from you.” His eyes burned, but Abram stared back kindly.

“I intend to tell you all you wish to know, soon—very soon. Trust me, Whill, it pains me to keep such secrets, for I know that you deserve to know all that you should.” He looked out at the moon that lingered among faint clouds. “I love you like a son, and I do what I think your father would wish. I have helped you become a man—prepared you to face whatever road you choose, be it a road of peace or of war. And I will stand by you until the end of either road.”

Whill listened to Abram with a feeling of both anger and relief. Tears welled in his eyes at the mention of his father, a man he had never known—a man who had not been mentioned to him in fifteen years. He had seen his father in dreams only: once he was a sailor; another time, a farmer; another, a knight. Sometimes he had brown hair and green eyes; other times, his hair was raven black and his eyes blue. His mother too had haunted his dreams; on those nights, he had awakened with an intense feeling of loss and regret.

“I will trust you as I always have, but know that I do not demand answers only out of respect for your judgment,” said Whill. “If you say I will know soon, then I wait for the day with all my heart, but it pains me to wonder, still. As for the competition, I will fight, and these people you speak of will see me for what I am.”

With that, Whill rose and Abram followed him into the night. They joined a gathering crowd that made its way down Twentieth Street.

“I assume they are going to the competition,” Whill said.

“Yes.”

Abram tried to keep up. Soon they reached the competition area. It was a small coliseum built against the western wall of the city. It was not an extremely large building, but it still seated more than two thousand spectators. However, only the wealthiest people or personal friends of Lord Rogus could attend. Now Whill knew how he and Abram had been allowed to watch the competition when he was eleven: Abram was a friend to Lord Rogus.

“Why didn’t you tell the guards that you knew Lord Rogus when we arrived?” Whill asked as they made their way toward the main entrance. “They would not have given us a hard time.”

“Because they would not have believed me.”

Guards were keeping a walkway clear for the distinguished guests as people tried to sneak, lie, or buy their way in. Abram led Whill to the entrance.

“Name?” the guard asked.

“I am Abram. This is Whill. He is a competitor here tonight. His number is two-seven-nine-four-eight.”

The guard looked at a long scroll for a moment, tracing his finger down the length of it. “Very well. After entering, go left to the fighters’ quarters. And good luck.”

Inside, the crowd roared as trumpets sounded the beginning of the competition. Whill and Abram made their way to the fighters’ quarters. A hall led around half the length of the circular building under the crowded seats. Soon they arrived at a great oak door. Abram repeated Whill’s fighter number to the standing guard and they were admitted to the room. The quarters, nothing more than a large room with about a dozen benches, were crowded with about fifty men who had signed up to challenge the knights. They eyed Whill and Abram as they entered. Some were fitting themselves with armor while others practiced for the fight. There were small men and large men, but a few rough-looking fellows towered over the rest—their shoulders broad as tree trunks with arms like thick branches. Armor hung from the walls; above each set was a numbered cloth. Whill found his number and was astonished to see the armor that hung under it. He looked at Abram.

“This must be a mistake. Surely they do not lend such armor to just any fighter.”

“You are not just any fighter. Lord Rogus himself has given you this to use, and he said if you win tonight, you may keep it.” The armor consisted of fine chainmail and a chest plate made of silver embellished steel. The arm and leg guards were of the same make.

“To accept such gifts from someone I do not know would mean that I owe him something. No matter what he knows of me, I will not accept what I have not earned.”

“Don’t be foolish, Whill, wear the armor. It would be suicide not to.”

Whill raised an eyebrow. “Who says the knight’s blade will get close enough to cut me?”

“It would be an insult not to wear it,” Abram warned. “You owe nothing in accepting this, and it is not yours until won. Come, try it on.”

Whill reluctantly put on the armor. It was of fine make, light and unobtrusive. He was impressed with its flexibility. He attached his sword and flexed his arms. Drawing his sword he made short, circular slashing motions. Satisfied, he sheathed his sword and said he was ready.

Exiting through the other side of the room, they entered another hall that led to the tournament grounds. The roaring crowd was deafening. Cheers and stomping feet emanated from the coliseum and shook the ground beneath them as they came to the open end of the hall. From inside, the coliseum looked gigantic. People sat or stood upon cushioned seats of stone that circled the building in thirty ascending rows. The fighting grounds were in a ring at the center of the building. A ten-foot wall separated the crowd from the sand-covered fighting grounds. Directly across and on the top row was a large booth adorned with great banners. One was blue with a white tower topped by a brilliant star. The other was white with a great ship upon a blue sea and the sun above, its ray stretching out behind the ship. Within the booth sat Lord Rogus and King Mathus.

Beyond the doorway in which Whill and Abram stood was a segregated section of seats. These were the fighters’ seats and were made up of three levels. Whill followed Abram to the top and they sat. Once again the trumpets sounded, marking the address of Lord Rogus. All fell silent and turned to the royal booth as the lord stood and extended both arms to the crowd.

“My dear people of Fendale, and travelers from afar.” His voice echoed throughout the coliseum. “Tonight you will witness the skill and splendor of the great defenders of Eldalon—those who keep our oceans safe from pirates, who keep the dragon menace at bay, and who keep this land free of the Draggard. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...the Knights of Eldalon!”

The crowd erupted into a frenzy. The coliseum roared like thunder breaking on a quiet day. A shower of roses fell onto the white sand as the entrance gate opened and the knights marched out. At the sight of them the cheers escalated to the point of pandemonium. They marched four wide, with two leaders carrying banners of both Eldalon and Fendale. They wore full armor that shone like highly polished silver. At each of their sides hung a dark blue sheath holding their sword. A brilliant blue gem rested within the center of each silver hilt. Upon their left arm, each knight carried a broad shield of the same make as their armor. The tops of the shields were the shoulder-width of their owners, gradually narrowing down its length into a sharp point at the base. At the center was the emblem of Eldalon.

Whill watched as the knights made their way to the center of the ring. Much like the child he had been, he sat entranced. Knowing the legend of the knights and having read of their glory, they now seemed to Whill like the single most powerful force on earth. Light from the lighthouse gleamed off their armor so that they seemed to glow. Together, they stopped and turned to the royal booth. They stood tall— the proud fighters of the free peoples of Eldalon—and numbered one hundred, a small percentage of their Order. As one, they drew their swords and raised them high toward the king, and, as one, drove them into the sand before them and knelt upon one knee. The crowd’s enthusiasm was rampant. Still more roses rained down onto the sand and the kneeling knights. Whill’s head was light. He felt drunk with excitement. Abram gave him a light elbow to his side and looked amused.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Whill.”

Whill was surprised to discover that he actually had been holding his breath. He now let it out, feeling slightly foolish.

The knights once again stood tall and sheathed their swords as the king stood and took Lord Rogus’s place at the front of the booth. The entire crowd fell silent and bowed before King Mathus as he looked upon his loyal subjects. Whill and Abram did the same. With one knee to the floor and an arm resting upon the other, Whill sneaked a look at the king but then quickly lowered his head again. He was sure that the king had been looking right at him. He quickly discarded the thought as the king began his speech.

“Good people of Fendale, arise, for I look upon you as my equals. I am privileged only by the honor of being your leader. Tonight we celebrate brotherhood and the joy of life itself. The winters of our lives will always come, and they will seem to linger with the cold of remorse, regret, and despair. During such times each of us will question ourselves and this world. We will wonder how such a bleak and miserable time can ever end—the seemingly eternal misery that is our darkest hour. But end it does, for to every winter there is a spring, and to every tragedy there is newfound joy. A cold heart is one that has forgotten hope and knows no love. We will stay warm throughout the most bitter cold and have hope when all else is lost because we are the people of Eldalon; we know no defeat, and we are all brothers. No force on this earth or from the heavens will ever break our spirit. It is in love that we find our greatest strength... and our unwavering hope.

“So I ask you all now to look upon each other as family, and to put aside differences and petty quarrels. I ask you all to look around at the beautiful city you have created. Its magnificent splendor shines above all things. Without you, it would be only stone and dirt. Without the great people of Eldalon, it would be nothing. This celebration honors the light