Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (37 page)

Whill’s mind raced as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. The prophecy was a lie? That would mean that he was a pawn in Eadon’s game and nothing more. Whill was not a savior of legend; he was not the hero of the people. Whill was the final piece in Eadon’s long-awaited plan. Eadon wanted an apprentice that he could mold, one that would give him the power of Adromida willingly. It seemed that when Whill had refused to join Eadon, the Dark Elf had tried to make Whill hate him enough to try and kill him. Eadon could not take the sword from Whill—he had to be given it—and attempting to strike down the Dark Elf with his own blade would pass along the energy to him.

“But how do I defeat him, if I cannot use the sword against him?” Whill asked Kellallea.

“You are not listening, child,” the ancient Elf said with a flash of her eyes. The light of the cavern rippled and pulsed brightly. “You cannot defeat him; you are a lie. I cannot allow you to take the sword of Adimorda. You have no hope of being able to control the power within the sword. It would consume you and lead to your ruin.
I am sorry, child, but your quest ends here. Long have I stood guard against the encroaching plague that Eadon has spread against this land. Long have I fought to keep the last spark of life lit. But I am tired, I am weary, and I cannot hold out against the Black Death much longer. You must pass the power of Adimorda over to me, so that I might heal the land once more.”

Whill met and held the Elf’s gaze. One part of him wanted nothing more than to be done with this entire business of the sword, to hand the power over to Kellallea and be done with it. He was relieved to hear that he had a way out. Another part of him did not believe the ancient Elf’s story; he believed it was possibly a trick of the enemy.

“Very well then,” he said to the sound of many gasps, including Roakore’s and Aurora’s.

“Where is the blade?” he said evenly, holding the Elf’s painful stare.

“Will you give the power back to Drindellia?”

Whill did not answer. He looked to Avriel.
Do you believe her tale
?
How do we know that she is indeed Kellallea
?

The white dragon took a step forward and eyed the spirit Elf with a fiery orb. Roakore shifted uncomfortably, and he held his great ax at the ready. Aurora, too, stood ready for battle, her shield half raised and sword cocked slightly. Dirk simply stood as he always did. He did not have a battle stance, or better, every stance was a battle stance to Dirk. But within his sleeves, he had
ready a dart and a dagger. Azzeal had stood and looked to Kellallea in confusion.

“Call to the blade, Whill. If you are meant to have it, it shall come to you,” Avriel said aloud.

“I cannot allow you to leave with the blade,” Kellallea warned him calmly.

“Neither do you have the strength to stop me.” He looked beyond her spirit form to her body, which remained in its perpetual state of constant effort. “You cannot let go, or you will lose control of the encroaching plague.”

“Would you have it so? Would you see the last of Drindellia die before your eyes?” she screamed, and the entire cavern glowed so bright as to make everything appear white.

“No,” he answered. “I would see Drindellia thrive once again. I would see Eadon fall and freedom rise. And I would see it done by my hand.”

With that, he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Adromida, sword of Adimorda, it is I, Whill of Agora. I summon thee.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Sword of Power
Given

T
he cavern rumbled, and the waters boiled. Whill watched in awe as a curved, thin hilt came out of a churning whirlpool of multicolored light near the shore. He walked toward the disturbance and reached out toward the sword hilt more than twenty feet away.

The sword shot out of the water, and Whill caught it by the sheath. He stared down at it in utter astonishment and delight. He was mesmerized by the blue swirling orb set within the hilt, which held more stars than a million clear nighttime skies. It danced in sparkling beauty and beckoned Whill to lose himself to its sheer power.

He reached for the glowing hilt upon which danced pulsing blue energy along every thin strip of glossy black leather. Kellallea’s phantom hand caught Whill’s and prevented him from touching the hilt.

“Will you help me? Give to me the power to restore Drindellia to its former glory. Together, we can defeat Eadon, and finally, we may know peace,” she pleaded.

Whill looked from her to the blade; it called to him, beckoning to be used. He tried to pull his hand away, but it was held fast by an iron grip. Roakore stepped forward and scowled at the spirit form of Kellallea.

“You will want to be letting the man go now,” he said threateningly.

The Elf ignored him but let go of Whill and smiled as an afterthought. “This weapon is beyond you, child. I could guide you in your use of it. With it, you would help to heal this plagued land, and together, we could rid your homeland of Eadon. I warn you—if you do not heed my words, you will be destroyed. You have not the skill to control the power within that blade.”

Whill shook his head in denial. “You are mistaken. I must defeat Eadon. The prophecy foretold of this; the blade and its power were meant for me.”

“The prophecy is a lie!” she bellowed, and the mountain shook with her wrath.

Whill attached the sheath to his belt, careful not to touch the hilt. He nodded to the others, and they mounted. Without a word, they left the ancient Elf to her silent battle against the encroaching darkness.

Her bellowing proclamation followed them out of the mountain. “The prophecy is a lie!”

They flew back toward the cave they had come to Drindellia through, and Kellallea’s words echoed in his head the entire time.

Do you believe her?
He asked Avriel as he rode upon her back.

She did not answer for a time but then hummed a sigh of resignation.
I do not know. She has been long without contact with others. Her mind does not work as others do, and she is of Keye now. I do believe that with Adimorda you could heal the land, and I pray that it comes to pass
.

What if she is right
? Whill asked.
What if the prophecy is a lie and Eadon is Adimorda? I will be playing right into his hands
.

Again, her answer came after many strong beats of her powerful wings. Whill stared blankly at her left wing as it passed over the sun repeatedly. In that light, her wing was translucent, but it did not seem thin and weak. It was thick and strong and radiated the light as if from within.

If she is right, and if you aid in Eadon becoming a god, then the world is doomed
. She finally answered.

Whill pondered the grave situation and came to no conclusions. This was but another problem in the nightmare that had become his life as of late. He finally had the blade of legend, and he had the girl—well sort of—and it seemed that Roakore would follow him gladly into the mouth of a dragon, laughing all the while. But
now he was left with his old friend, nagging doubt. He could not shake the feeling of imminent doom.

What if he killed himself the first time he made contact with the sword? What if it somehow took him over? Was the blade sentient, aware? Would he become a mad dictator as had Eadon? The big problem Whill had with Kellallea’s tale was that it made sense. Adimorda very well could have seen himself in the future as an all-powerful conqueror, and he could have created the sword not to defeat Eadon, who he would become, but to strengthen him. Whill had to find out whether or not anyone knew it to be true.

Precisely
, said Avriel in his mind.

He was not startled by her, for he had known she was there. He had been letting her linger in his mind and observe his thoughts, as she had him. He had been startled when they had first shared each other’s thoughts openly. There were many thoughts to listen to, but soon Whill realized that just like his mind, hers, too, was possessed of many different thoughts. But seeing her thoughts from his perspective allowed him to see how those many thoughts were simply a vortex of interwoven thought strings webbing out and within, and at the center of the thoughts was a blinding spec of awareness. Avriel had called it the watcher, the true self, the soul; it had a multitude of names in all cultures.

Dirk knew that the time had come, but he had not had a chance to privately attempt to contact Eadon.
He looked around at the others, annoyed. He had to redeem himself to Eadon somehow. He had failed in his original mission of killing Abram, and Eadon had needed to do that himself.

He had believed the luminescent Elf’s words. The tale was one of masterful deceit and unparalleled genius. Dirk had almost laughed when he had heard the Elf say that Eadon was Adimorda—it was brilliant. He respected Eadon for his cunning, and he feared the Elf. He soon realized that nothing could be gotten over on the Elf. He was an ancient relic of a lost civilization, the destroyer of Drindellia. Eadon was a force of nature, and against him, all would be as leaves in a hurricane.

Dirk set his resolve and attempted to clear him mind. He snuffed out his annoying flicker of guilt, thought only of Krentz, and pulled his hood over his head as if from the wind. Within the cloak he bore the gem to his lips and whispered, “Whill has the blade. He has not used it, and we fly to the dragon island.”

He calculated the reverse of the effect they had encountered of the sun shifting in the sky and added, “We arrive with the rising of the sun.”

He fought the paranoia that possibly one of the dragons or the Elf had heard him and threw it from his mind. When there was no response, he pocketed the gem and upon clearing his mind once more, he came back to the wind. The first thing he saw was the face of the white Elf-dragon, Avriel. Her nostrils flared, her
teeth were shown, and her huge, slanted eyes burned through his resolve, and all was revealed to her.

She let out a roar and attacked, flying over Zhola and snapping at the assassin. Dirk was forced to fall over Zhola’s back and catch hold of the dragon’s massive hind leg. He caught hold of a leg he could not wrap his arms across and was scraped upon the face by the scales.

Zhola let out a roar and angled away from Avriel. “What is the meaning of this attack?” he demanded with a booming voice.

“The assassin is a spy! He has given us to the enemy!” Avriel yelled back as she came in once again to strike.

Zhola roared and curved his head down toward his leg to devour Dirk. The assassin reacted fast, and from its sheath, he took Krone, his greatest of possessions. The dagger was the secret to his success; it was by it that he had attained so many powerful trinkets from those more powerful than himself. Krone had been a gift from Krentz, made by her people to inflict a spell of controlling the mind. With it, Dirk could force all but the most strong-minded to do his bidding. He plunged the dagger in between the dragon’s scales with all his strength, and Zhola let out a howl of rage.

“Stop dragon!” Dirk bellowed. “You will attack me not and avoid the white dragon.”

Dirk knew how the blade bit; Zhola would feel an engulfing, hot pain and be compelled to comply to be
released of it. It worked, and Zhola’s head reeled back. He roared in protest but was losing the fight for control of his mind and body.

Dirk quickly tethered himself to the dagger with his elven rope, and calling upon his enchanted boots, he leapt from the leg and grabbed the nearest spike. He pulled himself onto Zhola’s back, and his instincts scream a warning. No sooner had he snapped his head back and arched his body than Aurora’s huge sword swept over his chin. Dirk went with the motion, rather than against, and did a backflip over the dragon’s back and grabbed hold of a passing spike near the tail.

Before the barbarian attacked, Dirk leapt from his spot and bellowed, “Up, dragon!”

Zhola suddenly veered straight up with pounding wings, and Aurora was thrown from his back and fell fast, barely grabbing the end of Zhola’s tail. Zhola fought the effects of the dagger and suddenly began to shudder and convulse. The beating of the wings turned into flailing, and the snapping dragon spewed fire as it began to fall like a comet. Aurora held on strong as she found herself looking down upon the falling dragon and the rushing ground.

Dirk held on to a spike between Zhola’s shoulders and chanted the Dark Elf spell causing the dagger to use more of its power. Zhola snapped at the air but could not reach the assassin; the dagger hit him hard
with pain and persuasion. He leveled out once more, and Dirk found his balance.

In came Avriel from the left, slamming into the bigger dragon in an attempt to dislodge Dirk. Whill’s eyes met Dirk’s, and there was a festering rage there that made even Dirk’s skin crawl.

“Fly lower!” Dirk commanded Zhola, and the dragon complied.

Aurora was stubbornly climbing along Zhola’s spear-length spikes, steadily coming closer to Dirk. He threw four consecutive darts at her, and she was forced to duck back. The darts were deflected by her sword, and Dirk threw one more. This dart hit Aurora’s sword and exploded with a flash. The explosion could not have killed anyone, but it was loud and bright and packed enough punch to throw a man across a room. Aurora was blasted from Zhola’s back and tumbled through the air. As Dirk had expected, Whill and the white dragon shot quickly to save her, as did Azzeal.

“Now, Zhola, all speed! Get me to that cave before them.”

“Catch her!” Whill hollored as Avriel banked hard left and went into a spiraling descent that sped them toward Aurora. She had turned in her fall and looked over her shoulder at them, terrified. She screamed something incoherent and began to flail. Avriel swooped down and carefully caught Aurora in her claws and pulled
up in time to avoid becoming a pile of bones upon the blackened land.

Silverwind gave a cry and came in with her talons aimed at Dirk’s head. He leapt to the right and swung underneath Zhola and around to the other side. The Silverhawk flew past, and Dirk noticed she was missing a rider. He swung around and landed once again upon the dragon’s back, and he was ready for the Dwarf. Roakore’s ax came across with a whoosh as the wind howled against the Dwarf’s curses. Dirk avoided the blow and stabbed forward with his short sword. Roakore came across again with the heavy ax, with surprising speed, and blocked the sword.