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

Just as quickly as it started, it ended. Addakon was dead, his father’s spirit gone. Whill was left holding the empty sword of his father, and Eadon laughed with delight.

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“Hold!” Roakore screamed again as the many groups rustled and tensed, ready to charge.  “Keep yer bloody heads, ye crazy sons o’ rock moss! Next one that breaks rank I kill meself!”

Roakore turned to his council. “So what ye thinking, Z?”

Zerafin looked oddly at Roakore, then to the Draggard Queen.

He began to lay out the plan for attack when the Draggard queen spoke. Her great voice filled the cavern, and though no one would have admitted it, the voice was like soft music.

“Ah, the great and powerful Roakore, son of the fallen king of the Ebony Mountains, heir to a tomb.”

Roakore’s lip curled in a snarl as he turned to face her. She took three graceful strides closer, but was still more than two hundred paces away.

“I met your father once, briefly.” She sucked the tips of each of her clawed fingers in turn. “He gave me much nourishment for my first litter of Ebony Mountain–born children.” Four large fangs flashed behind midnight-black lips.

Groaning, Zerafin closed his eyes and shook his head. “That did it,” Rhunis muttered.

For a moment Roakore looked stunned. The blasphemy that had befallen his ears shocked his sensibilities to such an extent that he was dumbfounded. For the first and last time in his life, he was speechless.

Roakore did not storm off in a rage. He turned to his friends with tears welling in his eyes, and tightened his grip on his axe. “Help me if ye want, but do not stop me!”

Zerafin grabbed his shoulder as he turned to engage the queen. “I will not stop you, but please accept my strength.” He sent a jolting blast of energy from his hand into Roakore’s body and weapons. Feeling electrified, as though lightning pulsed through his body, Roakore turned and began a steady charge at the queen—to the cheers of his men.

He sent his stone bird whirling and called the names of his father and the gods. He charged on as the weapon reached its target in less than two seconds; it was a blur and it came in hard. The queen caught the whirling stones in a ball of light and the weapon twirled, suspended. Roakore was now less than fifty feet from her as he barreled in. She sent her seven tails at him from the right; barbed and pointed spears of death came at him fast. He did not stop, but extended his hand down towards the stone floor, and hollered the dwarf word for stone. Two slabs of rock blasted out from the ground and caught the tails in a vise-like grip, completely crushing them. The queen howled in pain. Roakore veered right and jumped high into the air. He flipped over his axe as if it were a vaulting pole, and his feet never slowed when they hit the floor.

“A distraction!” ordered Zerafin, and the soldiers complied. The elves sent a glowing, multicolored volley of arrows at the queen as the dwarves launched their many hatchets. She lifted her hands, and every missile stopped in its course and flew back at the attacker. The elves pushed back with mental energy of their own in a stalemate.

She screamed at her attackers and knew her doom. She could not stop the crazed dwarf without letting up on the missiles, but she could take this little bastard with her. She would wait until the last second to let down her guard, and then she would tear him apart.

Roakore barreled in. The queen’s greedy teeth awaited him, but he came to a sudden sliding stop, not ten feet away, and slammed his fists into the floor. She was slammed with a stone tide as the floor erupted before her. Pebbles and chunks of rock alike riddled her flying body. Her attention shifted to her own pain, and the arrows and hatchets rained into her. She was dead before she hit the ground.

“Hail, King Roakore!” Zerafin cried.

All took up the cry. “Hail, King Roakore!”

Roakore went to the fallen queen and, with his great axe, hewed off her head—just in case—and raised it to the crowd. The cheers swelled.

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“I have seen a great many amazing things in all my centuries. That was simply beautiful. You should be proud of your father,” Eadon said.

Whill held his father’s empty sword and looked at him with disgust. “I need not be told that by one such as you.” He wiped the blood from Sinomara’s blade and sheathed it. “I will not be used by you. I will not help you find Adromida. I do not know what your plans are, or how you intend to stop the prophecy, but I will not be your puppet.”

Eadon laughed, but when the laughing ceased there was no smile.  He began to circle Whill. “Don’t you see? You have defeated your uncle; you are now king of all of Uthen-Arden. You need not fight me, for I am not your enemy. Never again will you have enemies if you follow me. You can have the world, Whill.”

“I am the rightful king, that is true,” Whill said softly. The Dark elf smiled.

“And as king I shall make you pay for all you have done. I do not want the world, Eadon, I simply want a world without you or the damned Draggard. I want a world of peace.”

Eadon’s smile turned to a sneer in the blink of an eye. “I will teach you pain beyond human endurance. Should you defy me, I will make you beg for death before I am through with you. Every day you will be brought within an inch of it, only to be healed. You will bend to my will—me, your master.”

“Never!”

Before the word could leave his lips he was slammed into the wall with a flick of Eadon’s wrist. He got to his feet and unsheathed his father’s sword. It was ripped from his grasp by the Dark elf’s mind, and slammed against the wall. Whill lunged forward, but Eadon raised a hand and his body froze. The Dark elf lunged forward and dealt a double-fisted blow to his ribs. He was thrown backwards into the wall and landed with a thud, his ribs shattered. He could not draw breath; many of the bones had penetrated his lungs. He coughed blood, and Eadon was on him in a flash. Whill was lifted into the air only to be slammed against the wall once more. Then he was pulled through the air and caught by the throat in Eadon’s powerful grip. He brought his face close to Whill’s as he choked the life from him.

“Yes, my friend. You know it to be true. You cannot win; you cannot defy me. The outcome can only mean loss for you.”

Whill blacked out. Finally the pain ceased, and there was nothing—sweet, beautiful, warm nothing. He had been delivered by death from the clutches of the murderous Dark elf. But then—

Sound, smell. He opened his eyes in time to see the blue tendrils of healing dissipate. His ribs and lungs were healed, and Eadon stood over him.

“Thus begins your training, apprentice,” he said as he stepped aside. Another Dark elf approached, followed by two Draggard. Whill got to his feet and stood before them boldly.

“This is Thazak,” Eadon said. “He will be your first teacher.”

He was taller than Whill and slightly shorter than Eadon, with black hair and dark eyes. His face was adorned with intricate black tattoos. Whill’s body froze as Thazak grabbed his face by the jaw and inspected him. “I have practiced the art of torture for many years in anticipation of your arrival. Your pain will be legendary.” He smiled. “I promise.”

Thazak proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life, and Whill thought that if he could somehow survive this, he could survive anything. His limp body was dragged down many stairs by the Draggard. They took him to the special dungeons far below the castle, from which no screams would be heard. The young man Whill had been would never return from those depths, even if his body did.

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Roakore entered the throne room, and there upon the throne he saw it, the skeleton of his father. The enemy had propped him up in the chair, crown and all. This had been meant as an insult, but to Roakore it now seemed proper. He raised his hands and tried as hard as he could to picture his father. With the image in mind, he commanded the stone and it obeyed. It rose up from all sides and encased the dead king and his throne. It fused together, but then the outer stone fell away revealing a sculpture of Roakore’s father. It was so perfect, it could not have been made by hand. When the clan had amassed its wealth once again, Roakore intended to encrust it with diamonds.

He went down on one knee. “Father. I have done as ye asked. I have taken back our mountain. Let yer soul be free.”

For a moment there was only silence, but then a draft picked up and blew through his hair. From the statue rose a silver mist. It lingered for a moment, and then spiraled up and disappeared into the ceiling. Roakore burst into tears of joy.

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He joined his new friends and looked out over the battlefield in the fading sunlight. They had all—elf, dwarf, and human—lost many lives this day. Abram looked to the sky and thought of Whill. Roakore knew his mind.

“What has become of him?” Abram asked the faint wind.

Zerafin looked at the ground. “He has been taken by Eadon. Our greatest fears have been realized. We have won today’s battle, but at a great expense. Without Whill, we cannot win the war. We have no other option but to try and free him from the Dark elf’s grasp.”

“How do we free him from one so powerful?” Abram asked.

Zerafin shook his head. “How indeed?”

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The End

Afterword

Michael James Ploof is a bestselling author of epic and urban fantasy.

His epic fantasy series—Legends of Agora—currently consists of six books set in Agora, a land inhabited by humans, elves, dragons, and dwarves. He has recently branched out to urban fantasy with his post-apocalyptic series: The Orion Rezner Chronicles. Michael lives in Northern NY (as far north as you can get) with his wife and two teenage children.

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Whill of Agora series

Book 1: Whill of Agora

Book 2: A Quest of Kings

Book 3: A Song of Swords

Book 4: A Crown of War

The Windwalker Archive

Book 1: Talon