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

seen anythin’ so beautiful.” He cleared his throat. “That is—have I made it into the Hall o’ the Gods?”

She smiled. “No, you have not, Holdagozz, but nor are you dead.” Holdagozz frowned as she continued. “But I’m afraid you soon will be.” She looked at his chest, where two Draggard tails protruded from his armor.

“Bah this? This ain’t nothing.” Holdagozz burst into a coughing fit. His gloved hand came away soaked in blood, and he wiped it on his short cloak. “This is it, then. I go to me gods. Soon my deeds will be read.” He coughed again briefly and looked at his war hammer, Zlynock, forged by his great-great-grandfather seven hundred years before.

“Have I done enough?” he asked Lunara, grasping frantically at her sleeve.

“That is for your gods to answer, friend.” She looked around slyly. “Would you like to do more?”

Holdagozz ignored the blood on his lips. “I would. But I cannot.”

She knelt beside him. “I am young, even for an elf. But we all have special gifts, things we are naturally better at than most. For some it is listening to the wind or talking with birds; for others it is forging weapons or divining the universe. My gift is in healing. If you would allow me...”

“Witchery! Black crafts!” yelled Holdagozz.

Roakore pushed his way over to them and addressed Lunara. “Is he demented? What is it?”

“No, his wits are with him—well, some. I simply offered to heal his wounds.”

An elf commander stepped forward. “You cannot heal every dying person you meet in war, Lunara. Your energy is priceless in times such as these.”

Roakore turned to the tall Elf. “An’ what?” Roakore demanded. “Yer thinking dirty dwarves ain’t for healin’—waste o’ energy, eh?” He stepped so close that his belly bumped the elf’s thighs.

Zerafin put a hand on each of their chests. “Stop this, please. I apologize for Shief, he must not know to whom he speaks. The dwarves in Roakore’s army are the most skilled warriors to ever come out of the stone. It would be a valuable investment into the future of this war to save any of them. I give my blessing on any healing.”

“He is right, warrior,” Roakore said to Holdagozz. “If ye can be saved, ye should be. An’ ye wouldn’t be the first. I...I too have been healed by elven powers.” The army of dwarves around him sucked in their breath. “An that’s all they be...powers, ye buncha old ladies! Like any power, it can be used fer good or ill. These elves use ’em fer good, so quit bein a dragon’s arse, take what’s offered ye. An’ be glad ye can live to fight again.”

Roakore started off down the cavern hall. Zerafin followed close. “Well said, my good friend. I think you may have just brought our two peoples closer than anyone ever has.”

“Bah, to hell with politics,” Roakore huffed.

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Holdagozz coughed more blood onto his armor. Lunara smiled weakly, a tear tracing her cheek.

“If ye can make me strong like I was, then ye can do it. But I ain’t gonna live the life o’ no cripple, waiting to stand before the gods.”

Lunara wept with joy. “Thank you, Holdagozz, thank you. You will indeed be strong.”

She did not draw her sword but rather held out before her the staff of Aorentia. The knotted and curving wood shone in the torchlight. She tapped into the energy within and transferred it into Holdagozz, first to numb the coming pain.

“Pull them out,” she said to Shief, and nodded toward the Draggard tails. Shief complied and pulled them out together, one in each hand. Holdagozz did not cry out; indeed he felt nothing. He seemed to be in the midst of the most pleasant dream.

Next Lunara began to heal him and, when the injuries were repaired, delved deeper into his energy fibers. She permanently thickened his bones, strengthened his ligaments and tendons, and wove new muscle into place. Then she retracted the blue tendrils of healing energy, and lantern light replaced the radiant blue. She helped Holdagozz to his feet. He looked down at his body in awe and flexed and clenched his fists. He sniffed at the air and then began to run his hand over the smooth cavern wall as if looking for a marking, sniffing all the while. Then he stopped. Lunara looked at Shief, who shrugged. Holdagozz stepped back and slammed his fist into the stone wall. Rock exploded from the impact and he struck again, this time up to his elbow. Out of the hole he fished a chunk of rock. He turned to her and crushed the stone in his hands. Pieces tumbled to the floor, but something remained. He crushed more stone and brushed it away, and then with his cloak he polished the object. Extending his hand, he presented Lunara a sapphire the size of an apple.

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Whill’s sword met Addakon’s high above their heads. Their eyes met. Addakon did not see fear in his opponent’s, but Whill did. His uncle attacked, spinning the blades and unlocking their clutch. Addakon slashed low at Whill’s feet but Whill hopped the blades and came across the middle while in the air. With amazing speed Addakon came out of his attack and blocked the blow, holding his sword in one hand. With the other he threw a pulsing red ball of energy. Whill spun with the attack and instinctively caught the energy in a blue ball of light in his palm. He had somehow known what Addakon would do, as easily as if it had been Abram. Twirling, he sent it back, but it was redirected. There was a great explosion as stone rained down from the tower, and a ten-foot hole appeared in the wall.

“How is this possible?”  Addakon screamed as he raised his sword to block. Eadon only laughed, thoroughly amused.

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Roakore entered the chamber of the Draggard queen behind his men. Abram and Zerafin followed. Before them was an immense cavern, more than six hundred yards wide, with thousands of hatched and decaying eggs littering the floor. At the center of the room lay the Draggard queen. The body of a wingless dragon, with a beautiful pattern of purple scales, wound its way up into the naked torso of a dark-purple-skinned Dark elf woman. She rose as the small army entered. All in her presence were stunned by what they saw, though none would show it. Zerafin addressed them with an upraised hand.

“Stop,” he commanded, his hand coming to rest on Roakore’s breastplate. The dwarves grunted and looked on with suspicious eyes. Zerafin lowered his hand and pointed at the queen. “A Draggard queen must not to be underestimated, good dwarf. We must plan our attack well.”

Suddenly two dwarf brothers broke rank and charged the queen. “Hold!” cried Roakore, but the dwarves ran on, flinging their many hatchets before them. The queen raised a clawed fist and opened her outstretched hand. The hatchets went whirling into a bright white ball of light within her palm and disappeared. The lead dwarf was hurled into the ceiling by an unseen force. The second dwarf came barreling in with his war hammer held high as his brother’s body hit the ground. He was impaled by three of the Queen’s seven twenty-foot, barbed tails. Then she sneered at the group as she sent the tails in opposite directions, ripping the brave dwarf apart.

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Whill was completely absorbed in the sword and heart stone’s powers. He could feel more than the energy; it was the source of the power that emanated from the sword of his father. He soon realized that he was not in control of his actions, for he was fighting and performing far beyond his skill level. The sword moved of its own accord. Words he had never spoken came to his lips, spells he had never heard uttered.

Addakon’s eyes went wide with fear as he frantically tried to parry the lightning-fast blows that rained down on him. Whill’s voice was his own but the words were not. He did not intend to speak, just as he did not now wield his father’s sword.

“Addakon. Brother. Repent now and our soul may yet find rest.” His uncle’s look of fear only intensified. Whill stepped back. “Many years I have waited in darkened slumber within the heart of the dwarf mountain. For two decades I have counted the days until I would feel the energy of my son’s strong hand. Now comes your judgment, brother.”

Whill felt like he was in a dream, watching and listening from within as his father’s spirit spoke. He was a vessel; his father’s spirit flowed forth from the sword and filled him with warmth.

Eadon looked on in amusement. “We elves have known for many millennia the curios relationship that twins share. Did you never come across these teachings in your studies, Addakon?”

Addakon looked, horrified, at the sword in Whill’s hand—Sinomara, the sword of his betrayed brother.

“Aramonis?” he whispered as he bent in shame. The sweat upon his brow glistened in the torchlight. “What trick is this?”

“If it is a trick, it is one of the gods’,” Whill’s voice said coolly.

Eadon explained, “Human love stories speak of soul mates, a blissfully romantic and ridiculous notion when attributed to a lover, but twins are the true soul mates, two bodies with one soul.”

“Which is why I was able, on that dark day of your ultimate sin, to cling to this world,” Aramonis said through Whill. “As my body fell away I poured myself into my blade, to forever wait, to free you from your terrible crimes.”

Addakon fell to his knees. Tears poured from his bloodshot eyes. Facing the brother whom he had wronged so, he fell apart. The years of denial and fear, the haunting dreams and guilt that had gnawed at his resolve for two decades, left him shattered. There was no fight left in him.

“Forgive me, Aramonis!” He pointed a shaking finger at Eadon. “It was him, his lies, his promises—he turned me against you! He said that you plotted to do the very same to me. You must believe me!”

“Yes, brother, it was him. He spoke only lies. I would have never wielded Adromida, nor shall you. Eadon knows this, for it has been foreseen. Only Whill shall wield the blade and destroy him.”

Eadon said nothing. He did not seem angered to hear this. Rather, it left him at peace.

Whill moved to a large silver-trimmed mirror upon the wall, and looked into his own eyes. His mouth spoke, but he did not form the words himself. “I learned of Adimorda as a young man, Whill. I, like the elves, believe the prophecy to be true. Forgive me. It is why I named you as I did. I have placed this great burden on your shoulders. Forgive me, son, as I do my brother.”

Whill turned and saw Addakon smiling through his tears. In that smile, he finally saw the face of his father. “It is time to come with me,” Whill’s voice said softly as tears fell.

Addakon dropped his sword and, with both hands, ripped open his clothing to expose his bare chest. “Take me from this place.”

Whill’s body lunged forward and stabbed Addakon through the heart. A blinding white light engulfed the room for many moments as the sword’s energy poured forth, and two souls became one