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

him and his men, he raised his hands and summoned the strength of his fellows. The boulders stopped in their flight, suspended in midair.

Beyond the Dark elf, the dwarves saw the great red dragon and the Eadon’s Dragon-hawk. Rage filled every last one of the battle-crazed dwarves. Here at the door of their mountain home stood not one but two dragons, and between the mighty warriors and their quarry stood one obstacle, the Dark elf. With a renewed battle cry they charged. A seat among the gods was the reward, they knew; to die even fighting a dragon without killing it meant the gods’ favor.

Eadon saw the charge and knew the minds of the dwarves; he turned to his Draggard army. “Kill them all!”

Farandelizon could not understand the strength of this mere dwarf. He could not move the stone. It hung midair even as the crazed dwarves charged his way. He had spent a large amount of stored energy shielding himself from the giant rock that had crashed him through the mountain wall. He had steadily applied pressure to the boulders he sent flying, but the dwarf had met that strength. Indeed, even as the dwarves, the stubborn dwarf king began to win the contest of wills. Farandelizon released a massive surge of energy, and still the rock did not move. Unable to withstand the great force, it exploded into a million pieces in all directions. The Dark elf released his hold on them as he drew his sword to face the onslaught of furious dwarves. Roakore, however, did not release the stones. They changed course, bent by his will alone. As Farandelizon cut through the charging dwarves, he set his sights on the blasted dwarf King. Summoning the energy stored within his heart stone, he began to charge straight at him. Suddenly a shadow covered him. Fighting through the dwarf army, he had not the time to stop the millions of descending stone fragments as they ripped through his body.

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Abram saw Zerafin come to his feet shuddering in grief, face twisted in rage. Then he looked at the too-still figure of Avriel—saw her take breath. He rushed to her and lifted her head. “She lives, she breathes! Zerafin!”

The elf did not act as he should have at such news. He simply nodded. “Yes, she breathes, her body is alive, but she is not whole.” He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. Abram feared what he meant. “Eadon, somehow, the monster...”

Rhunis looked on, horrified. “What is wrong with her? What has he done?”

Zerafin looked to his beloved youngest sister through tear-blurred eyes. “He has taken her soul.”

He stood before a group of mounted elves that had just come off their boat. “I am taking this regimen under my command,” Zerafin announced. “I will need three horses.” He grabbed a hold of a nearby elf commander’s armor and pulled him close.  “Take my sister to the nearest boat. Keep her safe until I return.”

The two seemed to communicate for a moment silently. Then the commander scooped Avriel up and turned back to the waters.

“What’s your plan?” Abram asked.

He pointed toward the mountain. “Eadon has caught up with Whill.”

Abram could hardly make out movement in the sky. Horses were brought, and they mounted. With more than four dozen mounted elf warriors and twice as many humans following, they headed in the direction of the mountain door.

Roakore’s men poured out of the mountain to meet the charge of the Draggard. Whill watched helplessly, knowing that the dwarf army would cut through the nearby Draggard with ease. They would try to kill the red dragon; they would not understand that he was not an enemy, nor would they ever accept it as truth. He knew also that Eadon would kill every last one of them, of this fact he was sure. The Dark elf’s power was far too great.

He could not let this happen. He thought about the greater good, and realized that the best way to help in this battle would be to get Eadon out of it. And that meant full surrender.

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Zerafin led the charge with Abram, Rhunis, and the might of the Eldalonian and elven armies at his back. They rode in a V-formation, creating a wedge that sliced through the Draggard army like a hot blade through butter.

A few miles away, at the door of the reclaimed mountain, Roakore’s army clashed with the Draggard. The war for Isladon had begun.

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The red dragon Zhola saw the two armies meet, and he knew that he would die. If Eadon did not kill him, the dwarves certainly would. Because of their insane religious beliefs, dwarves were the only opponents dragons truly feared. The crazy little killers would fight viciously till the death, laughing all the while.

He thought of Adimorda, his old friend, and the many years he had spent with the elf. Adimorda had been a true seer; he had never been wrong. This meant, Zhola knew, that his last prediction would come to pass. Whill would use the sword to defeat the Dark elves and extinguish the Draggard from the face of the world. He believed it; he had to believe. He had lived the last five thousand of his six thousand years waiting to pass on the location of the blade to this mysterious Whill.

No, he thought. I will not die today, not until I have passed on the information to Whill. Zhola shuddered at the thought of the many ways the evil elf would try to get the information. He knew that he would soon know pain beyond what he thought possible. He also knew that aside from death, he was equipped to survive such torture. He must surrender and let destiny run its course. He truly had no choice.

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Roakore’s men crashed into the Draggard army, which consisted of legions stretching all the way back to the beaches. The mountain had been emptied. They had been too late, Roakore realized. Hundreds of thousands of Draggard had spread out into the world. Many stayed and fought, but many more had gone off in all directions—a dark plague let loose into the world.

My grandchildren may not see the end of this war, Roakore thought.

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Zerafin, Rhunis, and Abram led the charge through the thousands of Draggard. They were less than two miles from the mountain. The elf held his sword high, and from it emanated the purest, brightest light in all directions. The Draggard cringed and yelped as the beams fell upon them. None could withstand the awesome, piercing light.

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Eadon strode up to Whill and looked him dead in the eye. Whill saw that around the black pools of his eyes was a brilliant green, as if they were emerald specks. Within those orbs he also saw many millennia of life, knowledge, and power. If Whill could have made a sound he would have whimpered, so humbled was he in the presence of the ancient Dark elf. He felt a searing pain shoot through his head, as if ice-cold fingernails were scratching at his very brain. Depression, despair, and darkness filled his soul. Eadon leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“The battle you wage with me, child, will not be fought with muscle nor blade. You see, your mind is the battlefield. I can take your very sanity if I choose—if you choose. Resist me and I will show you pain beyond measure, beyond reason, beyond sanity. Follow me and you may find enlightenment.”

With the last word, the pain vanished and was replaced with a mental pleasure just as intense. His body shook with spasms as it jolted in rapture. His mind was filled with pleasure, hope, and willpower. Then Eadon released him. Whill caught his breath and raised his head. The elf lifted his hand, and in his palm sat a beautiful, swirling ball of light. Whill was mesmerized as he watched.

“Did you think her dead?”

Her? Whom does he speak of, what riddle was this? Then his breath shuddered. “What have you done?”

Eadon pocketed the swirling ball. “I have simply evened the scales. You have something I want, and now I have something—or should I say... someone—you want.”

“Avriel? It isn’t possible! What have you done?”

“Her body is alive, though it is but an empty shell. You really should thank me, Whill. She meant to die with that spell. A waste, really. She did have such a way about her walk, did she not?”

Whill seethed, He wanted nothing more than to bathe in the blood of his enemy. His helplessness only fueled his rage. “I don’t believe you!”

Eadon laughed. “You will soon enough—that is, if I allow you to see within the orb. But if you defy me you will see firsthand as I transfer your beloved’s soul into a Draggard, or better yet, a Draggard queen. Tell me, how do you think Avriel would like that existence? She, an elf princess, birthing my army.”

What the Dark elf said was repulsive—unimaginable—but, Whill knew, possible for this sick being to accomplish. Knowing he had to do what he must to save Avriel’s soul, he hung his head in defeat.

“I will do what you ask of me.”

“Fret not, my friend, I repay loyalty and service. I am not such a monster as you think. Say the word and your parents’ murderer will die this day.”

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Looking through his elf sight, Zerafin told Abram and Rhunis of the battle at the mouth of the mountain.  Whill and Eadon had mounted the dragons and flew into the sky, but the dwarves were still fighting through the mass of Draggard.

“The boy cannot resist one such as he—few can. He is lost to us.”

Abram’s heart stopped cold as he registered the elf’s words. This was all wrong—this was not part of the plan. Surely, this hadn’t been foreseen by Adimorda.

“I’m sorry” was all he could say and think.

As they came to the mountain they spotted Roakore’s ranks fighting the mass of Draggard. Zerafin steered them towards the dwarves. Whill was gone, Avriel was lost to them, but a war still needed warriors. It was time to fight.

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Roakore saw too as Eadon and Whill mounted the dragons and flew off into the morning sky. The old dwarf knew better than to think him a traitor; he knew all too well the great power of the Dark elves, and he knew Whill’s peril.

“May the gods be with you lad,” he said with a tear in his eye.

His heart quickened as he saw the approach of his friends and the many skilled elf warriors. “Allies arrive, elves and men. Treat them as brethren, me boys! They fight with us against the Draggard.”

A cheer erupted around Roakore. This would be a day to remember, he thought.

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Whill flew on the back of the red dragon as it followed Eadon and the Dragon-hawk through the sky, to what destination he did not know. Say the word and your parents’ murderer will die by your sword this day. Eadon’s words echoed in Whill’s mind. He was doomed and he knew it. The journey to Elladrindellia had turned into a nightmare. Rather than traveling to the elven land with Avriel and the others, he had been