Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (24 page)

Eadon looked out over the crowd. “Many among you have fallen prey to the legend of lies. His armies of Draggard ravish the land as you whisper false deeds done by a false savior. His poison fills your hearts and breeds doubt and contempt for the crown. That you would believe this madman’s intentions over that of
your king is deplorable,” said Eadon with malice in his voice.

“Bring him out!” Eadon ordered, and the crowd went crazy. Boos and cheers resounded throughout the vast ocean of spectators. The gates were lifted, and Whill entered the arena with his fighters. They were armed and armored. Abram’s spirit soared at the sight of his friend, and a tear found his eye. He hardly recognized him. Whill’s hair was long and wild. His eyes were sunken, and he had lost a substantial amount of weight. He was but a shell of the man Abram knew.

Rhunis noticed this also. “What horrors has he faced these last six months?”

Whill and his fighters were given their armor and weapons. To Whill’s surprise, he was given the sword of his father and the armor he had worn those many months ago. Many of the fighters brandished swords and crude armor; some wielded spears, others axes. The barbarian woman held a huge circular shield, nearly four feet wide and as tall. In her other hand, she swung a five-and-a-half-foot-long sword. The blade must have been very heavy, but the strong barbarian twirled and jabbed with it as though it weighed no more than a stick.

Whill noticed Dirk and his elaborate weapons and was awed. The man had set before him more weapons
than any man could possibly carry, knives, swords, darts, throwing stars, iron knuckles, small bombs, daggers—he seemed to have enough weapons for a small army. Whill watched him closely as he effectively hid his small armory easily beneath his large, black hooded coat. Whill made a mental note to keep an eye on this man that seemed full of surprises.

From their holding cell, the prisoners could hear Eadon’s speech. Knowing their introduction was forthcoming, Whill addressed his fighters.

“Your shackles have been taken, and your weapons have been returned. You stand now as you once did, strong, brave, and proud. Let not the false King of Uthen-Arden see you fall easily; let not the people forget the meaning of honor. This day, upon these sands, you fight as free men. This day, you fight for all free men. Fight for your people, your love, your children. Let us spark a fire of rebellion so bright as to blind all that would stand before it!”

The men gave out a primal cry and cheered. A smile crept onto Dirk’s face as he saw the effect that Whill’s words had on the men and the barbarian woman. Aurora Snowfell took a dagger from its sheath upon her leg and cut her forearm. With both hands, she smeared the blood onto her face, neck, arms, shoulders, and chest. She bandaged the gash and took up her weapons. All eyes had fallen to her, and now each man stared in awe.

Aurora lifted her head and grinned. The maniacal grin upon her bloodied face set cold the men’s hearts as they beheld the fearless and beautiful barbarian warrior. She let out an animalistic, growling scream that caused many of the men to jump. They laughed and screamed with her. Whill turned to the gate as he heard their introduction.

The group burst from their holding cell and charged out onto the sand, screaming with raised swords. Many of their voices died as they saw, for the first time, the thousands of ravenous spectators. They took to the center of the sand and looked around in awe at the massive crowd.

Eadon sneered at Whill from his place on high. He opened his arms and addressed the crowd once more. Though he still suffered the rotting disease that he and Zerafin shared, no one would know from his strong voice that he felt any pain.

“Good people of Uthen-Arden, I give you the false hero and savior, Whill of Agora.”

The crowd hushed as they looked upon the man of legend for the first time. Whill walked a few steps from his fellows and turned to look upon the entire crowd.

“Whill of Agora, in league with—”

“I would speak! We have heard enough of your poisonous tongue!” Whill interrupted. The crowd gasped.

Whill pointed a steady finger at Eadon. “This man is not your king. Your king died by my hand six months
ago.” The crowd hung on his every word, silent and astonished by his audacity.

“It is true that I am the son of King Aramonis and Queen Celestra. It is true that I am the rightful King of Uthen-Arden.” Whill let the words set in and saw shock on the faces of many.

“I defeated my uncle, Addakon, for his crimes against my father, for his crimes against you, the people. Too long have you been fooled by this…” Whill pointed once again at Eadon. “…this charlatan! The Elf that stands before you now is not Addakon, but Eadon, the Dark Elf of legend, the true creator of the Draggard. This Dark Elf is the enemy of us all!”

The crowd broke into a chorus of boos and murmurs. Many cheers also erupted from those that believed in the legend of Whill.

Eadon clapped his hands, and eventually everyone quieted once again and looked to him. “Yes, indeed, I am actually a Dark Elf in disguise, and you are the heir to the throne, which I have stolen.” The crowd looked on, their faces in disbelief and awe. Then Eadon erupted in laughter, and most of the crowd followed suit.

“Enough fables from this man. Open the gates, and let the execution begin.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Fighting For
Freedom

W
hill cast one last smirking scowl at Eadon and turned with his men to face whatever was coming at them through the gates. At first, nothing emerged, but then the ground began to vibrate, and the screams of many men echoed forth from the tunnel. Suddenly, men began to pour from the tunnel. Whill quickly realized that these were many of the fighters that Whill had not chosen, more than a hundred of them. They fanned out onto the sands and got into formation, twenty men abreast and five deep. Once in formation, they gave out a cry and charged. Whill turned to his fighters and saw fear on none of their faces. He gave a challenging cry of his own and charged.

To his right, Aurora sprinted past him, her shield leading the way. Whill pushed harder and tried to keep up with the barbarian. To his left, he watched as
Dirk passed him and leapt high into the air. The dark-cloaked assassin tucked his legs up in front of him and threw four darts in quick succession from the straps on his thighs. The darts shot through the air and hit four of the charging gladiators in the face, felling them all. Aurora gave a fierce battle cry and slammed her massive shield into the charging men. The force of the blow sent men flying, and as the shield went out wide and to the left with the blow, from her right came her huge broadsword to take the lives of any near.

Whill dodged spears and parried swords as he, too, engaged the front line. Everyone kept a wide breadth from Aurora and her swinging sword and bashing shield. The other nine men joined in the melee as the two groups of gladiators engaged in battle. With his first kill, Whill sapped the energy of his victim, strengthening his sword. He felt the familiar hum of the energy within the blade of his father. He did the same with the second and third, and with each kill, he gained more power. He had been a victim for six long months, always at the mercy of Elves that could render his body paralyzed with a glance. All of the anger, rage, and hopelessness he felt during his time in captivity burned hot within him.

Dirk went into his familiar routine with his short sword and dagger. He took on multiple opponents easily as the power that Eadon had bestowed upon him hummed within his many trinkets. His enchanted
boots allowed him to move with inhuman speed, and his gloves helped his arms to move with a blur. Men fell before Dirk before they even knew they had been engaged by the man.

Aurora smashed aside an attacker with her shield and quickly punched out with it as another came at her from the front. The shield caught the man in the face, and he moved no more. She took up her blade in her shield hand and grabbed the fallen man by the ankle. With a heave, she sent his limp body flying into a group of opposing gladiators. Men looked on in awe of the beautiful warrior.

“What’s wrong, boys? Never met a woman that hit back?”

A man came at her from the right with an overhead chop of his sword. Aurora stepped into the attack and let the sword glide away as it was deflected by her shield. The man spun with the momentum of the block, as did Aurora. But the tall barbarian had more than a foot of a reach advantage and used it to stun her opponent with a sword to the chest as his own blade found nothing but air.

Dirk landed in the middle of four men, and with a quick jab of his dagger between the closest man’s ribs, he laid him low. A quick spin and slash opened another’s jugular. He donkey kicked behind him, sending an advancing gladiator flying to the ground. Out came his short sword as he danced with death, always moving,
always knowing the next move. Then a deep and powerful growl sounded, and many men parted to find less lethal opponents, leaving the path open for a giant of a man.

Aurora hewed a shield in two and felt the crunch of bone beneath. A man came flying at her wildly and was met with a shield slam to the face. If Aurora had learned anything from the tribe’s battle master, it was that there was always a coward eyeing your back. She turned, and, indeed, the coward came with a trident meant for her. With a powerful strike, she knocked the weapon from his hands and booted him in the face. His neck snapped, and he fell limp. Then a growl sounded far to the left, a growl that Aurora knew all too well as the challenge of a traitorous fellow tribesman known as Beartooth. He had engaged Blackthorn with his massive five-foot-wide ax. Dirk was smart enough to keep his distance and dance away from the blow.

Dirk sidestepped a blow that would have hewn a thick tree and shot a rapid succession of poison darts at the giant’s neck. With surprising speed, the man brought up a leather-bound forearm, blocking the missiles. Dirk learned what he had hoped of the man’s speed. He assumed the giant was akin to Aurora, and the quick block proved it true. Dirk had noted Aurora’s speed and her incredible reach advantage that many dead men had underestimated. The reach of the barbarian before him was even greater. Where Aurora stood well over seven
feet, this bearded, wild man stood over nine. He wore furs of the north and had no armor but wrapped leather about his arms and legs. His ax was nearly as wide as Dirk was tall, and though it must have weighed nearly a hundred pounds, the giant of a man could recall the ax, midswing, with ease. Dirk circled the behemoth and threw a dart here and there, each one blocked by the shield-like ax. Dirk had not hit the man, but he had stopped him from swinging—the man having to use the ax against the darts. Dirk carefully calculated his next move, if he made the slightest mistake, he would fall victim to the massive ax.

“This one is mine!” yelled Aurora from behind Dirk.

The assassin nodded curtly. “By all means, ladies first.” Dirk turned and ran into the main body of the battle. He had no doubt he could kill the giant on his own terms. But an opponent that could knock out a bull with a punch was not someone he wished to fight…fairly.

Abram watched as Whill began his familiar battle dance. A smile found the old man’s face as he watched his pupil of so many years fight like a man of legend. Whill and his fighters were clearly the better, but they faced more than a hundred. Whill smartly kept his men together in a fighting circle, so as not to be separated by the enemy, though the barbarian woman and the dark-cloaked killer fought their battles their own way.
The barbarian woman was clenched in combat with one that looked to be of her people. The dark one ran around the outside of the attacking force, engaging and maiming his opponents while he ran. He slashed at the backs of thighs and ankles, hamstringing and dropping dozens. Others at the center of the group fell unconscious as Dirk leapt and sent a barrage of poison darts into them.

Abram nodded to Rhunis. “It is time.”

None in the frantically screaming crowd noticed them as they bathed in the rivers of bloodlust. Abram and Rhunis left the arena and went into the hallways below. The noise of the crowd down below was ear shattering, but the two did not need to share words. They had planned their mission for weeks and had infiltrated the coliseum disguised as workers. They took roundabout routes through the many halls and tunnels and passageways below the coliseum, until they came to the spot. Rhunis kept watch as Abram lifted two thick boards and crawled into the inner walls. Rhunis followed and put the boards back behind him. Abram looked up to what he knew to be the floor of the royal booth. The two quickly went to work, fastening the dragons’ breath bombs to the main beams of the overhanging booth.

Eadon’s senses perked, and he looked to the floor. With his mind sight, he saw the two humans below.
He turned back to Whill’s impressive display upon the sands and smiled to himself.

“We have flushed out our prey,” he said behind a grimace of pain.

To his right, the Dark Elf Arkrel nodded as he looked to the floor. “The boy’s mentor?”