Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (9 page)

Zerafin fell to his hands and knees as he returned to Elven form. He eyed his sword, which leaned against a boulder five feet away. The river water lapped at his bare ankles as his eyes went from the sword to the woods. There was a rustling in the woods, and Zerafin utilized his mind sight. Within the swirl of the forest-life pattern, he found Azzeal. As if waiting to be seen, the Elf took the form of a small green dragon, his maw opening with a great inhale. Zerafin let go of his mind sight and called up the water behind him. Great waves rose up and surrounded Zerafin as huge flames leapt forth from the forest, followed by the roar of a dragon. Steam hissed into existence as water met flame and surrounded Zerafin in mist.

“A dragon, no doubt, I take it your studies with the lost beasts have paid off!”

The dragon Azzeal leapt from the woods, his huge claws deepening the ground. He took two bounding steps and leapt into the air as he extended his wings in flight. Zerafin laughed and ducked as the tail nearly smacked his face.

“A dragon, no doubt!”

Azzeal, in dragon form, glided far out across the river and finally turned back. As he returned to Zerafin, he
changed into Elven form and fell to the ground, landing before Zerafin in a crouch on one knee. He grinned and rose. Azzeal was a master at the art of the Ralliad, called druids by the humans. He could change into any animal form and that of plants and trees. He had not been seen in more than twenty years as he had been studying the form of the dragon.

He nodded to Zerafin, his gaze moving to the blade Nifarez. “You have been gifted a great power. The time has come then?”

Zerafin regarded the blade thoughtfully and nodded. “Indeed. The time has come for the sleeping Elves of the Sun to awaken. The reckoning draws near.”

Azzeal growled deep in his throat with a smile. His feline eyes glowed. “A brother tree tells me that you go to free the one called Whill and the soul of your sister. You plan to storm the castle of Del-Oradon, aided by humans and Dwarves. A horde of Draggard and Dark Elves and Eadon, himself, await you.” Azzeal laughed. “And you want me to come accompany you on your mad journey?”

Zerafin nodded, waiting for the laughter to end. Finally, Azzeal stopped, holding his side. “Well then, old friend…when do we leave?”

“Again!” Eadon bellowed as he watched Whill and the man exchange blows. This was Whill’s tenth opponent, and he did not have much left for the fight. He had no sword or gems with which to tap into additional power. And Avriel’s heart stone had been emptied long ago from the torture. He fought as a man now, and though he could more than hold his own, he had been fighting for an hour, nonstop. The dryness in his mouth was only quenched by blood. Sweat blurred his vision, and dozens of bruises and scratches and cuts, even teeth marks, covered his body.

The fighters used no weapons, but the fighting was brutal and to the death. Each fighter came at Whill with a different discipline of combat; each one was skilled at his own style. But Whill had learned all the many styles of hand-to-hand fighting many years ago with Abram, and he had practiced extensively in each.

The fighting was to the death, or so the many opponents thought, but none could kill Whill, and Whill would kill none of them. Instead, he incapacitated each fighter; expending much more energy than he would have had to if he had killed them. But this was some twisted game of Eadon’s, and Whill was not going to give Eadon the satisfaction of seeing him kill the men.

A fist came at his face, which he blocked with a downward windmill of the arm; it was quickly followed by a boot meant for the gut. Whill spun away from the attack and suddenly came back in at his opponent, blocking
the man’s anticipated follow-up jab while simultaneously twisting the arm that had dealt the blow. Whill had the man by the wrist and was still moving through his spin as he brought the arm up, ignored a blow to his ribs, and slammed his elbow into the man’s armpit while holding the arm at an unnatural angle.

There was an audible pop as Whill dislocated the man’s shoulder. Before the man could grimace in pain, Whill reversed his motion and backhanded the fighter and swept his legs out from under him. Again, he reversed his motion as his opponent fell and brought his fist slamming into the man’s belly, directly below the breastbone. The impact of the fall and the blow to the chest rendered the man breathless. Whill stumbled with fatigue and fell to the floor upon his knees.

“Get…Up! You rotten maggot meat sack!” screamed Velkarell as he gave the warrior a kick with each word. “Fight or die.”

The man finally caught his breath and sat up, coughing blood. After a minute, the defeated warrior stood on shaky legs and faced Whill, who still kneeled on the floor, one arm perched upon his knee, breathing deeply still.

“This man has bested me, if I attack him, I will die,” the warrior explained between breaths. “Since I will die, I would rather die well, by the hand of the puppet master, not the puppet.”

The man raised to his full height and squared off on Eadon and puffed his chest with pride. “If it is my fate to die here then face me like a man, Elf! Fight me like a man, if you even know what that means! We are sick of your dragon-shyte faces and your evil eyes looking upon our land like a fair maiden of youth you would like to bend over the blackberry bush!”

Screaming, he ran forward, fists rose in righteous defiance, revolution and murder in his eyes.

Whill watched as the warrior charged Eadon, and then the Dark Elf lord raised but a hand, and the man was no more than pieces of a man, his form was like that of sand. For three seconds, the pieces held the form of the man, but slowly they separated, and the warrior fell to the floor, with not a thud, but the splash of liquid.

Eadon cracked the knuckles on each hand slowly and then had a good stretch, the bones in his back popping. This, to Whill, seemed not a weird show of bluster, like schoolboys that were always afraid and picked on other kids, but rather a real force of habit, a tic. Whill had noticed a few in his time with the lunatic.

Whill could not understand what fueled this mad Elf’s mind. What insane amounts of power and nightmarish ghouls would Eadon wield, create, and let loose on this world? What could be done against such a foe? How, in his lifetime, could Whill defeat one such as Eadon, when the Elf had practiced his art, all arts, for a thousand human lifetimes? Whill began to feel sick as
his eyes found the pool of unrecognizable liquid that had been the warrior.

He threw up.

Velkarell laughed. “You are weak, you. You have no stomach for victory?

“No,” said Whill from the floor. “I am still human!”

Velkarell laughed louder still. “You are human, and humans are weak.”

Whill got to his feet and stood facing the Elf. “We may be weak, but we are fierce! We have killed dragons, Draggard, and even your kind, with no more power than that of our bodies and souls.”

Whill spat in the Elf torturer’s face and went on. “You are a disease! Bringers of hate-filled rain, creators of doom, deceivers of the soil from which you emerged, you are bringers of death and pain and destruction!”

Whill eyed the grinning Dark Elf with pity. His tone took on that which one would use with a child. “But you have no real power, do you? You have no power to create, only power to destroy. You hate the world for mirroring your vile, soulless selves, and you fear any afterlife for which you may have to answer for your evil. You fear death more than any human. You do not live; you run, and you hide behind power.”

Whill’s face was but an inch from Velkarell’s as he spoke softly to the no-longer-grinning Dark Elf. “Your death will see you begging for mercy like a coward. You
will never know the dignity and honor of this man that has just fallen.”

Velkarell boiled with anger; his eyes were alight with a distant fire. His rage was a tangible thing as it filled the air between them and physically pushed Whill back a pace.

“Your rage is impotent toward what awaits you,” Whill said. “And I promise, I will show you what waits.”

“Shut up!” screamed the Elf. A sonic boom emanated from the Elf and blew past Whill without touching him. The blast did, however; tear a hole in the stone wall in a perfect shadowlike outline of Whill. Eadon burst into laughter and clapped his hands. Velkarell grabbed Whill by the throat and lifted him into the air, only to find his arms turning black, as if the pure darkness of the void ran through his veins. Velkarell screamed as his arm turned to dust and Whill fell to his feet. Upon landing, Whill punched the Elf so hard that the blow demolished the protective wards around the Elf’s face and broke his jaw.

Velkarell fell back against a wall, quickly putting his face in his hand as blue tendrils of healing energy consumed his head, and a roar of agony and pain echoed throughout the room.

Whill slumped to the floor, exhausted after using so much of his energy smashing through the Elf’s defenses. He did not care; he had caused the Dark Elf to lose face before his master, which was enough to justify so stupid a move.

Eadon clapped even louder. “What have I taught you, Velkarell? Nothing? That my newest pupil can get through your defenses so easily without training or even a second studying the arts…”

Eadon’s voice became truly enraged. “Have I taught you nothing?”

Velkarell’s face emerged from his hand, the same as it had been but for the look upon it. It was a look that Whill didn’t think the Elf had worn in many, many years—humility. Velkarell let out a pent-up breath of impotent rage and turned his head in shame. “You have bestowed upon him greater gifts than you have any before him. This you have never done, master. It is unnatural that he can do what he can without training or discipline.”

“Unnatural! Coming from the likes of you?” laughed Whill.

“He is what he was meant to be, as are we all,” said Eadon.

Two female Dark Elves strode into the room as if they had been beckoned, and darkness followed. They gracefully shifted into the room in unison, their black flowing dresses identical. They were the same in appearance; twins, Whill presumed, though who knew? Some, Whill knew, could change their appearance with a thought. Even worse, some could even hide their true self from mind sight. Whill had seen Travvikonis and Eadon both do it.

Since Addakon’s death, Eadon had paraded around the castle and city as the human king. As far as anyone knew, Addakon still ruled the country of Uthen-Arden. Though it was rumored that Addakon had died at the hands of Whill and that Eadon, the Dark Elf, stood in the king’s place, no one believed such outlandish stories, and those that told them were ridiculed as conspiracy thinkers.

The twin Dark Elves bowed to their lord, and together, they gave Velkarell a look of disgust and, in turn, gave Whill a look of lust.

Neither one spoke. Instead, they looked to Eadon and waited.

“Take our young friend here down to the arena; he is to be given a regimen of men of his choosing.”

Whill looked to Eadon as the twins each gently took an arm and began to lead him out of the room. He did not resist—he couldn’t have anyway—they were like stone statues.

CHAPTER NINE

The Shadow of the
Arena

D
irk stared at the giant coliseum, lost in thought. From his place near the window of the tavern, he had a clear view of the giant arena. Whill was to be executed there within the week. The new coliseum was rumored to be able to hold more than twenty-five thousand, and he did not doubt that every seat would be taken. Whill of Agora was the rumored savior of many people and a crazed terrorist to others. His execution would bring the largest crowd in history to the arena. With Whill’s death would go Dirk’s chance to acquire the greatest Elven power source ever created, and that simply would not do.

He had to think of a way to free Whill, but how? The man of legend was being kept within the castle and would probably only be escorted out of it when time came for his execution. If so, Dirk doubted that he could
free Whill from such a lair, even with his extensive abilities. It was a tempting feat, but Dirk had not survived this long in his field by being stupid. And trying to free a man from a Dark Elf stronghold was, indeed, stupid.

Dirk wondered if he should simply forgo his interest in the blade and keep on as he always had. He had amassed a fortune in his years as a hired assassin and could retire today, living like a king in any city of his choosing, if it so pleased him. But a life of leisure, getting fat and wasting away the years, did not appeal to him. Wealth meant nothing if it did not bring power, and power was Dirk’s ultimate goal. He sought enough power to again find Krentz and rid the world of any foe that might bring about her vision of his death in her presence.

With the sword I could do it. With the sword, the world would eat from my hand, and none would dare stand against me. With the sword, I could once again be with my fair Krentz
.

Dirk jumped as the waitress asked him again if he cared for another drink. He swore under his breath that the Elf maiden would indeed be the death of him and mentally chastised himself for the hundredth time for losing awareness of his surroundings at her thought.