Whill of Agora: Book 1, Michael Ploof [read aloud TXT] 📗
- Author: Michael Ploof
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Book online «Whill of Agora: Book 1, Michael Ploof [read aloud TXT] 📗». Author Michael Ploof
They flew well into the afternoon. Whill knew now their destination: they were headed in the direction of his family’s castle, the center of the Uthen-Arden Kingdom. The home he had never seen. Home—that word had little meaning for Whill. His home had been taken from him, his family, his kingdom—all of it taken. Addakon would pay.
The Dragon-hawk led them to the northern tower of a great castle. So immense was it that the dragons themselves were dwarfed in its presence. They landed in the tower with ample room. Eadon dismounted as two robed figures approached.
“See to it that the red dragon—Zhola, is it not?—see to it that Zhola is given proper lodging befitting a guest. Great dragon, I trust that you will find everything as comfortable as can be managed. You shall have a bull to eat; you must be famished after such a long flight.” Zhola growled and Eadon smirked. “I trust that was your stomach, my friend, because you would be ill-advised to refuse my will.”
Whill dismounted, and Zhola and the Dragon-hawk were led down a great winding ramp. Without a word Eadon turned and exited down a hall to his right. Whill followed.
The Dark elf stopped to face him. “You seek the blood of your parents’ murderer, do you not? What have you imagined doing to him?” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Your rage is that which even one as old as I rarely see. It pulses from you. To my mind-sight it is a supernova of energy. Dark energy.” They went on to a torch-lit room.
Whill had barely heard him, so focused was he on the face of his uncle—the face of his father. But he did register the words “dark energy,” and the context thereof.
Into the room he went, as if floating upon a dream cloud. Time slowed as Eadon stepped aside to reveal the figure before them.
––––––––
Roakore’s dwarves roared triumphantly as the elves’ flaming arrows cut into the backs of the retreating Draggard. To be a Draggard upon that shore that day meant doom. The battle had raged into the afternoon and evening, and the casualties for all armies had been devastating. Of the thousands of dwarves, fewer than five hundred remained, and those were mostly Roakore’s hardiest. Of the Eldalonian army, only five battalions of fifty still breathed. The elves had lost many to the Dark elf force of only seven. Many dwarves wondered at what they had witnessed of the elves, and most shuddered at the memory of the awesome power. Lightning had been pulled from the sky, tornadoes had tossed hundreds of Draggard miles into the air, and the ground itself had pulsed and fought as a mammoth monster of dirt and stone. Trees had been torn from their roots and rained down on the battle. Living flames had devoured hundreds. The dwarves had witnessed the true power of gods that day.
In the end it was Zerafin who had claimed the final Dark elf kill with a stone monster from the very side of the mountain. It pounded the kneeling Dark elf into the ground, its boulder fists hammering the elf’s protective energy shield. With a final ground-shaking blast, the stone behemoth punched through the earth, burying its arm up to the shoulder, and froze. There it stayed, and all knew that the Dark elf was dead.
At the end of it all Roakore stood with Abram, Rhunis, and Zerafin, staring out over the bloody battlefield. They awaited reports from their respective commanders. One such commander, a dwarf, ran up to them and slammed his chest.
“Me king. Our scouts hear tell the beasts that retreated south be hunted down an’ slain.” He paused. “The Draggard queen...”
Roakore and the others looked on expectantly. “Well? Out with it, laddie!”
The dwarf straightened. “We have found her, Sire, in the lowest reaches o’ the mountain.”
“Alive?” The dwarf nodded. “Then together let us end this bloody battle and call the day a victory. If you will, I would have ye accompany us in this last fight. Ye have all earned it.”
Zerafin looked to the mountain. “A Draggard queen is not to be underestimated. They are not the mindless beasts you might think. They are highly intelligent, they speak, and they are skilled in the ways of the Dark arts. You must allow the elves to deal with her, my good dwarf.”
Roakore stumbled over his words. “Let the elves handle it—the elves! If you had a chance to take back yer home land, would ye let the dwarves take care of it? No, my good elf, you would not! Am I to rob me fellows o’ the chance to take back their own mountain with their own might?” He slammed his axe hilt onto a large stone at his feet. It shattered into pieces.
Zerafin did not speak, he simply sighed. Abram, for once, did not offer his thoughts, for they were with Whill. It was Rhunis who spoke.
“Let us fight together in this venture as you said, Roakore. The mountain has been taken back, your father’s soul freed.” Roakore’s eyes lit up at the recognition of the fate of his father’s soul. “Let our three races come together as one, as we done on this battlefield. Together we must stand.”
“Whill would want it that way,” Abram said, head still bent as he stood apart from them.
Zerafin nodded. “As would Avriel.”
Roakore sighed and smiled. “As do I, then, as do I.”
The four clasped shoulders.
“But,” said Roakore. “The killing blows will be dealt by us dwarves.”
“Why? Why did you kill your own brother for this...this...” Whill motioned to Eadon with a weak hand. “This madman!”
Addakon stepped forward into the torchlight, a long red cloak dragging behind him. His face—the face of his twin brother—was revealed. Whill sucked in his breath. This face, those eyes, that brown hair—Whill had seen it all before. He had seen it in a dream when he had been but seven, one of the many dreams of his parents. But his first dream of them had been real. It seemed that his powers had revealed themselves as early as that.
Addakon spoke. “Why do we do anything, ultimately?”
Whill waited. He was not about to participate in some lesson with this man, and Addakon saw it in his face.
“For power!” he said, making a fist. “Everything we do is for power. I have learned that the quest for control—be it over nature, each other, death, or anything else—is always fueled by a need for power.”
Whill shook his head. “No, not everything. We do not love for power.”
His uncle smiled, but his voice revealed his malice. “Do we not? Do we not feel power over those we love? Do we not love the powerful?”
“Was it worth it, Addakon? Your betrayal? Your tainted soul? Have you attained the great power you sought?”
“I have attained more power than any human before me.”
“You both know the prophecy, I assume,” Whill said.
Addakon lowered his eyes and quickly raised them again. Whill saw a spark of doubt on his smug face.
“It is written that I will find the sword and destroy you, Eadon. This is written by the greatest seer that ever lived. This you cannot change.” Whill dared to say.
The Dark elf shrugged lazily. “I could kill you with a thought.”
“But you have not, and I know you will not, because you didn’t in Adimorda’s vision.” Whill’s mind raced. He believed he was right; he believed all of it. Somehow in this, his darkest hour, his moment of revenge, he believed for the first time that he really was the chosen one. That meant he would not die here tonight.
Addakon began to pace. “The blade of Adimorda cannot be wielded by an elf. But we can wield it, Whill, and so could your father. And after I kill you, only I will be able to wield the great power within the blade.”
“But you will not kill me. You cannot. For it has been written.”
He unsheathed his sword but did not strike. “You believe it, don’t you?”
Whill only smiled. “So do you.” He eyed him up and down. “You fear me.” His uncle said nothing. Then he looked into Eadon’s unchanging eyes. “But you do not.”
Addakon erupted. “I do not fear you, boy! I will finish this night what I started twenty years ago. You are not the chosen one.”
Eadon smiled. “Yes, he is.”
Whill unsheathed his sword but did not attack. He could feel the power within, and the energy radiating from Avriel’s heart stone. It coursed through his body faster than his blood. He believed it all. He had been named by Adimorda—he alone. He would kill Addakon this night, and later—with the great sword—Eadon.
The evil king raised his hand and a red tendril shot towards Whill. He raised his own hand, and blue tendrils of healing energy shot forth to meet the red. Sparks lit the room like lightning as the two powers collided. Whill did not know how he was doing it, somehow he just knew what to do. Something had been awakened in him, something that had been slumbering for quite some time. Addakon screamed and sent a huge blast through the red tendrils. The blue ones were devoured and Whill was hit with a gut-wracking blow of pure pain. He hit the floor but extended his hand once again. From it came a blast of energy. Addakon redirected it to a bookshelf, which exploded as if hit by a tornado.
Whill had risen even as the blast left him, and brought his sword down on Addakon.
––––––––
It took the army nearly two hours to reach the deep lair of the Draggard queen. They entered the ancient caverns of Baz’klon. At the bottom of a stair they encountered dozens of crudely built stables filled with livestock, no doubt food for the great queen. Many wounded dwarves and more than a few dead ones littered the wide hall leading to the chamber.
An elf maiden bent to see to one. Lunara, young even by human standards, was not as seasoned as the other elves, and had less tolerance for the suffering of others. She was still Ullestranna—innocent—in the eyes of her people. It was an unspoken fact that over many years, even centuries of life, elves had to harden themselves to the pains of the world. Many elves did not reach an age of thousands of years, though they had the means. They did not take their own lives, but stopped prolonging them. Many also went into the unknown without fear, for they achieved wisdom beyond the grasp of any human—or dwarf, for that matter.
“What is your name, good dwarf?” she asked.
The dwarf, choking on blood and with closed eyes, answered, “I be Holdagozz, son o’ Holdagar. Who asks, good lady...?” He stopped mid-sentence and looked wide-eyed at Lunara. “I be dead then, and you be me godly escort to the Mountain o’ the Gods, for never in Agora have I
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