Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (15 page)

Aurora wiped her mouth with her hand. She reveled in the blood. Few males had ever made her bleed, and most of those that had, had either become her lover or had died by her hand. To a woman of the north such as her, powerful and strong, her men needed to be stronger still, lest she birth weaklings into the clan. To find one stronger than she was not a common event.

She grabbed the offered hand and kicked Eadon in the face while pulling him down. His head snapped back with a sickening sound. In an instant, she was upon him. Before his head could recoil, she grabbed his collar and pulled him into her punch. Her fist, as large as his head, slammed into his gut. When his head finally snapped forward, it was met with a flying elbow. Eadon’s jaw cracked. When, inevitably, his hands came up to grab her hand from his collar, she grabbed the hand at the wrist and twisted it in a full circle. Bone cracked, and tendons snapped.

Aurora had Eadon on the tips of his toes, holding him by the broken arm. Her huge boot of whale skin came up and met his groin, lifting him from his feet. Aurora used the momentum of the kick, along with the leverage of the arm hold, to bring Eadon up over her head and to slam him to the ground on the other side. She leaned forward and offered her hand to the defeated Dark Elf lord. Eadon laughed, an eerie, gurgling laugh due to his ribs puncturing his lungs.

He ignored the offered hand and stood. He arched his back and groaned in ecstasy as his ribs snapped back into place and his lungs healed. He reached for his broken arm and snapped that back into place. His broken jaw healed, and his cuts closed.

“I said no unnatural powers, and you agreed.”

Eadon lifted a hand to his chin and cracked his neck to the side. He rolled his shoulders. “Indeed, I did, and
indeed, I have used no unnatural powers. My ability to heal is part of who I am. I am a Dark Elf. I have reached enlightenment, and I have mastered every school of Orna Catorna. Indeed, I have invented several others. My ability to heal is as natural as your size and strength, as is my ability to do this.”

Eadon extended his hands toward Aurora, and she was thrown back against the wall. He pulled one hand toward himself, and she was forced through the air to land at his feet.

“That, my lady, is one of my gifts. Shall I show you another? There are many other schools of knowledge I could show you. For instance, this one in particular took me fifty-five years to master.”

He lifted his hands, and the stone floor came alive. Serpents of stone coiled out of the floor and wound around Aurora’s limbs, standing her up to face Eadon.

“This is one of my favorites, though it took me better than ten thousand moons to master.”

A spark came to life within Eadon’s palm and grew quickly into a ball of blue flame. Eadon smashed the ball on the floor and, with his hands, guided the hungry, licking flames, away from the tapestries and books to bite into Aurora’s legs. She screamed in anguish and shook in her stone shackles. She focused all of the pain into her strong arms and into her muscled legs. Aurora squeezed with all her might and power, using the pain to energize every fiber of her warrior being. The stone
that held her shattered, and she brought a boot up to Eadon’s face.

“And this!” Eadon yelled. “Is one of my own creations!”

Eadon simply gritted his teeth and intensely looked into Aurora’s eyes. Instantly, her body fell to the floor as her very soul was ripped from her body, hovering where she had stood. Aurora Snowfell had never known such panic, such horror, such absolute terror. She saw him through her human eyes as her body hit the floor, but she also saw him through her spirit eyes. To her soul, he appeared in his true form, a magnificent black flame of colossal energy. The very sight of him was more than she could take, and her spirit yearned for the door to the next world, anything to be away from this demon of children’s nightmares.

Eadon opened his mouth, and from it came a writhing black tendril of energy. It found the mouth of Aurora’s spirit body and forced its way down her throat. She gasped and was back inside her body. The pain was gone; the fire was out. Silence filled the room, only disturbed by the drinking of wine by Eadon.

She stood on shaky legs. She could feel the thing that Eadon had made enter her being. It hummed inside her core, emanating a power that she found herself afraid of.

“What I have given you will give you three times the strength of any attack upon you. No opponent will be
able to stand before you. As long as you carry out my will, you will retain this gift.”

Aurora clenched her fist, feeling the great power surging through her. With great effort, she ignored the pulsing within her.

“You have the fealty of the barbarians of Volnoss. We will be your northern hand, now and forever…Under the conditions you outlined earlier.”

Eadon smiled at his newest captain’s moxy.

“Of course.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A Helping Hand

A
bram stared at the small scroll, not seeing it. His mind was elsewhere. He had received a message via falcon from Zerafin that the Elves would meet him two days hence. From there, Abram would join with Zerafin in the infiltration of the castle. Abram had been laying out a plan with Rhunis. The scarred knight was this minute gathering supplies for what Abram had planned.

Abram had learned that Whill’s execution would consist of a large-scale gladiator battle within the arena. He would be given a small force, and eventually they would be slaughtered by overwhelming numbers. The fight would drag out for a while, Abram knew, if Whill was in his usual form.

The most important part of the plan included freeing the dragon Zhola, if he was still alive. The releasing of the dragon along with the chaos that Abram had planned was sure to give them a window of opportunity,
no matter how small. If they were successful, they would be traveling to Elladrindellia with Whill and the soul of Avriel soon.

The plan will work
, thought Abram.

He puffed on his pipe and spoke aloud to himself. “It has to.”

Roakore emptied his mug of wheat beer and burped loudly.

“Thank you,” said Anellen.

The Dwarf gave the wife of Tarragon a smile and nod, pleased that she was aware that to burp was to compliment the cook. Much excitement had begun to buzz around the small village when word that a Dwarf king was here to help repel the Draggard. Many had known loss at the hand of the Draggard, and all were scared of the night to come. The day had been spent fortifying homes and sharpening blades. But all knew that tonight would not be any different than last night. The Draggard would come, and they would all be dragged into the night one by one; their screams would echo through the forest for hours. That was the mind of many before word of Roakore had come.

Tarragon had brought Roakore home to eat before beginning plans for the defense of the town. He ate his fill also, for he knew that he would need it soon.

The Dwarf king dropped the last chicken leg onto his plate and burped again. He washed it down by finishing another mug of wheat beer. He lit his pipe and stood. “Alright then, let’s see what ye got fer warriors.”

Tarragon led Roakore out of his house, and outside waited the entire town, men, women and children. Roakore looked over the townspeople. They looked like they had been through hell. They had gotten little to no sleep, having fought or stood guard all night. The little ones had been kept awake by terror, the women kept awake by worry, and the men kept awake by the rage that they were impotent to defend their families. All had been kept awake by the nightlong screams of those taken into the darkness by the demonic horde. Many, mostly family members, could not bear the screams of their loved ones and charged into the darkness to help. Their screams had eventually added to the chorus. A few men had to be tied down, lest they charge to their deaths trying to help. Jarred was one such man.

At six foot four and nearing three hundred pounds, it had taken five men to subdue him when his wife and son had been snatched from their houses and taken into the night of screams. He remained tied to a chair, hands and feet bound. He had lost his mind it seemed. His eyes were bloodshot and wide; his jaw tensed as he constantly ground his teeth. Tears had cleaned a line down his dirty cheeks, only adding to his insane look.

Roakore came to him and stopped. “Why is this man bound so? He be a traitor?”

Jarred’s nostrils flared at the question, and he looked to Roakore with murder in his eyes. “The beasts took my wife and son. These cowards tied me up so that I would not run into the night; they stopped me from helping my family, the sons of bastards!”

“You would have died with them,” replied a man from the crowd.

“That was my choice!” screamed Jarred. “My choice, and you took it away! You took it as you take it now.”

“We need you here tonight, to fight; you are no use dead, not to us or your family,” another man from the crowd retorted.

Jarred snarled, barely maintaining control. “I will fight! As soon as I am free of my bonds those of you that stopped me will die!”

Roakore listened to the exchange, and he turned to Tarragon. “This be true? Was this man stopped from helpin’ his family?”

Tarragon nodded. “Aye, and his life was saved. He would have joined the others in death had he charged into a darkened night full of Draggard.”

Roakore looked like he had been slapped. “It is his right to do what he wants! His right to charge into death if he be so choosin’. What cowards would rob a man of his vengeance? His honor? His right?”

Tarragon did not reply; he simply bowed his head. From the crowd stepped a man in his early sixties. He wore a bandage upon his left forearm and walked with a crutch. When he spoke, his deep, powerful voice made one forget his apparent frailness.

“What cowards, you ask? I am his father. Twas I who ordered him bound. Was my blood they took last night also, my grandson and daughter-in-law. I want to see them pay as does my son. But to run off like a fool into the night is not the way to help or avenge my family. I alone take responsibility; I alone should be blamed for saving my only son’s life.”

Roakore thought of his own father. How he had robbed him of his own glorious death defending his mountain. Roakore had been ordered to retreat, something unheard of to the Dwarves. But Roakore had obeyed, and twenty years later, he took back his father’s mountain. He pondered the situation.

“Cut him loose.”

The crowd murmured. Tarragon raised his head. Jarred’s father did nothing.

“We cannot!” yelled a man from the crowd. He had been one of the men to restrain Jarred. “He will go on a rampage and charge into the woods.”

“No, he will not,” said Roakore as he looked to Jarred and walked closer to the man. “He will prepare to fight alongside meself and his townfolk tonight.”

Roakore’s eyes met Jarred’s and matched their murderous sheen. “We will prepare for the beasts, set our traps, and lay in wait.” Roakore continued to walk closer.

“We will kill every last one of the hell-spawned demon-bred dragon beasts! And we will find what survivors remain.”

“What survivors?” insisted Jarred, tormented by hope.

“The Draggard will begin where they left off night last. The setting of the sun will bring the screams of the taken. It is their way of torment. Some will have survived the night.”

“There is a chance they are alive?” begged Jarred.

Roakore nodded. “A chance, mind ye. I don’t be claimin’ yer family be alive, some will. Wanna find out for yerself?”

Jarred ground his jaw and nodded.

“Let him loose or I leave! I will not fight for a people that would deny a man his glory,” Roakore spat.

Tarragon looked to the crowd. Their silence was their consensus. He produced a knife and cut the man free. Jarred sprang from his bonds and shoved Tarragon to the side. He stormed past Roakore and reached for his father’s throat with madness in his eyes. He began to choke the man. His father dropped to his knees and did not bother to resist. He labored to speak.

“You lost your son…he was taken…what if he had tried…to give himself…to them? My son…”

Jarred’s face contorted into that of a beast in anguish. A grief-stricken wail escaped him as he released his father and fell to his knees. He hunched over and sobbed as waves of sorrow washed over him. His head rested upon the chest of his father, and the man held him like one would a child.

Roakore turned away from the scene and bade everyone do the same. “Come, leave the grieving to grieve. You got three hours, get what sleep you can, say what prayers you will. In three hours, we prepare for battle!”

Roakore used the three hours to survey the town’s layout. With a population of no more than two hundred, it was not a large town. But the folks here spent hard hours working the land, and all had lived through harsh winters. They had weapons of mostly wood, pitchforks and shovels and hoes. But there were also axes and a few swords.

Roakore looked to the church and nodded to himself. He had found his wedge. He looked to the sky and whistled. He waited, but there was no sign of the hawk. He screamed to the heavens this time. “Silverwind, ye damn-stubborn, good-for-nothing bird, I be needin’ yer help. They be needin’ yer help. This be the end, lest ye help me here and now fight fer these folks. I won’t be flyin’ no coward! Ye hear? SILVERWIND!”