Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (6 page)

Zerafin looked upon his kin and promised himself that he would see an end to Eadon, an end to this war. As would his sister.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Dark Creator

W
hill was taken from the dungeons and led to a room deep within the castle walls. He knew where he was. He was in the castle of his forefathers, Del-Oradon, built after the great war of Uthen and Arden.

Del-Oradon was also the name of the city in which the castle stood. It was the largest city within Uthen-Arden. More than three hundred thousand souls called the city of Del-Oradon home, as did Eadon and a great many of his Dark Elves. Whill was pushed into a room as his guide took up guard near the door.

“There is hot water, food, and clean clothes. My master bids you to enjoy the many comforts you have forgotten. When you are done, he wishes to see you.”

Whill stumbled and fell to the floor as the door closed behind him. After a moment, he raised his head to look upon a grand guest room. The room was lavish in design; the wall decorations contained more wealth
than did his childhood town of Sidnell. An enormous four-poster bed took up only a small space. Three huge wardrobes spanned one wall; a balcony was centered in the middle of the other. Silks and tapestries of distant lands and highest quality lazily littered the room. The drapes before the balcony danced teasingly upon the sweet summer night air. Upon the breeze came the smell of roasted meat.

Whill raised his head and drunkenly stumbled toward the smell. Drool fell freely from his mouth as hunger pangs dropped him to his knees. At the center of the room, upon a table set for one, but made for four, was a small feast.

A roasted chicken took up the centerpiece, its skin browned and juices flowing forth to a bed of lettuce and cherry tomatoes. Set around it, like an army of delicious flavors, was a host of wonderful foods. There was water, tea, juice, milk, wine, and beer. There were baked potatoes, cobs of grilled corn, roasted peppers, beans, and carrots in butter. He saw succulent shrimps peeled and ready on a plate with a white sauce, crab legs by the dozens, and lobster tails by the pound. A side of beef glistened with dark juices. For dessert, there were cakes, pies, pastries, and more. Whill drooled like a drunken madman and lurched onto the table, devouring every steaming piece of food he could get his hands on.

He gorged himself on a lot of everything, drinking it all down with milk and juice and beer. He had not eaten
in months; he had forgotten what food was like. Upon sight of the meal, he had lost his senses, feeling a primal pang of hunger so ancient and strong it dropped him to his knees. Whill ate like he had not for so long. Then he suddenly bent at the waist in pain and vomited.

Over and over, he purged himself of the food. Though he had eaten no more than he may have, indeed far less, his stomach was not prepared for such treatment after being so long unused. Once he was finally through and the heaves subsided, Whill returned to the food, and again, his body would not allow it. This continued until Whill passed out and found sweet oblivion.

When he awoke, he dared not return to the food just yet; his stomach painfully reminded him of his folly. Instead, he stripped off his clothes and stumbled weakly into a large bathing room. Though he knew not how, a deep tub of steaming water awaited him.

Naked, he gingerly lowered himself into the hot water. Instantly he fell into the routine of bathing, using soap that had been set within a dish. Whill bathed for so long that when he finally emerged, the sun had begun to rise, and his skin was pruned. He walked to a large mirror hanging upon a wall and smeared it with his palm until his reflection could be seen. But Whill saw no reflection. Instead, he saw the sunken eyes and face of a stranger.

High and sharp cheekbones stretched the skin around them, and the eyes disappeared into shadowed
pits of insanity. His hair was thin, his face gaunt, and many of his teeth were missing. The man before him appeared as an old beggar might.

Though the Dark Elves had kept him alive with healing energy, they had not kept him whole. Without food or water, Whill’s body had begun to die slowly, though the Elves would not allow it to die completly. So instead it lingered, like some half-dead wraith. Whill turned from the mirror in rage and pain and stumbled, mumbling, to the bed.

He suffered no dream, no nightmares. He had lived through so many at the hands of the Elves that none would enter his sleep now. Instead, they returned with waking. He ate what he could and drank what he could, and he slept. For countless hours and countless days, he ate, and he slept. Always was there fresh food, and always was there fresh bedding. Finally, after what felt like days, Whill reluctantly arose after sleeping, ate, and did not return to the void of sleep. He bathed and, once again, looked into the mirror. Some of himself had returned to his reflection—enough so that he recognized it again, though he was still frail and weak, having lost at least eighty pounds.

Slowly the clouds within his mind parted, and he remembered Addakon and the fight. He remembered the explosion upon the ship and the Dwarven mountain’s eruption. He remembered Eadon and…Avriel.

Avriel?

Her soul had been trapped by Eadon within an orb of light, her body…

Whill’s mind screamed as he remembered that he was a captive and she lost; his friends were all dead. He thought of Abram, who was like a father to him; Rhunis, the bravest knight he had ever met; and Zerafin, his first teacher in the art—all dead. He was a captive, and Avriel was left to linger at the whim of Eadon for one purpose, control.

Whill was overcome by rage and overturned the table and with a swiping blow, split one of the bedposts in two. Like a bull, he raged toward the door, which opened. A Dark Elf appeared in the doorway with an inquisitive look on his face; he was met with a foot to the chest that sent him flying five feet into the opposing wall. Upon impact, the Elf rebounded with lightning speed and slammed Whill in the chest with an opened palm. Whill was thrown back into the room to crash against the wall.

“When you are ready, our master wishes to speak with you,” stated the Dark Elf as he slammed the door closed.

Whill had dented the wall with his head and surrendered to slumber.

Fresh food once again forced Whill awake. He stood painfully and sat himself before another feast. This time, he ate slowly, methodically. He could not succumb to his hunger, else he gorge himself. Instead, he imagined the act like sharpening a steel blade, slowly, purposefully. Within the wardrobe, he found clothes and sandals that fit. He strode to the door and knocked.

He was guided down many halls and up many stairs until, finally, they came to a room. The Elf pushed Whill into it and looked at him with an arched eyebrow. The look meant immediate pain if opposed.

Whill turned from his guide and saw Eadon. The Dark Elf lord did not sit upon a throne; he did not sit at all. Rather, he stood at the center of the room before a large stone table adorned with many gems and stones, rubies and crystals. The jewels glowed brightly, and power hummed within them.

Upon the stone was a dragon egg and, to Whill’s horror, a pregnant Dwarf female. Images of the Draggard flashed in Whill’s mind, half-Elf, and half-dragon damnations of Eadon’s creation. Eadon meant to meld the unborn Dwarf fetus and dragon egg into a new monstrous damnation of nature.

Whill hurried forward to the stone table and was stopped by a wall of energy no less solid than that of stone. He could do nothing but watch in horror as Eadon stood between the egg and pregnant mother with raised hands. From Eadon’s hands came great, blinding bolts of lightning that did not dissipate like that of natural lightning; instead, they remained constant.

From each hand a bolt reached and struck the egg and the mother’s belly. Eadon brought his hands together as the precious stones glowed brighter than before and the humming intensified to match the crack and buzz
of the lightning bolts. As Eadon’s hands came together, there was a loud explosion of sound and blinding light for only an instant, and then there was silence, so deep and complete that Whill thought himself deaf for a moment.

When Whill regained his sight, he noticed that the mother was no longer with child and no longer lived. The dragon egg had changed in appearance. The egg and fetus had been forged into one, and from the egg would spawn a Dwarf’s nightmare, a Dwarf-dragon crossbreed.

“Beautiful, is it not? She will be the first queen of her kind,” said Eadon.

Whill could only look upon Eadon with murder in his eyes. “Why do you keep me alive? What have you done with Avriel?”

Eadon gave Whill the look of a disapproving parent. “Please, Whill, do not answer a question with a question. How will we ever get anywhere?”

Whill clenched his jaw and looked upon the dragon egg once again. “It is a hideous example of the evil lengths you will go to in your insane attempt to play a god,” spat Whill.

Eadon chuckled, and the chuckle grew into a hearty laugh. He looked to one of his guards that stood near the only other door. “This kid is good. He practically nailed it. But I must disagree on one point, my young friend. It is not hideous. It is life.”

Whill shook his head. “Not natural life. It is an abomination of nature.”

“Wrong!” Eadon yelled, his voice booming unnaturally loud within the room, rage contorting his face. “Nature is of this world! I am of this world, and I have created this beautiful life-form. Is it also not then natural? You see, if I created it and nature created me, nature created this being—just as nature created the Draggard,” said Eadon as he strode around the table to stand close to Whill.

Whill unconsciously leaned away from the Dark Elf and took a step back. Eadon was no less impressive than Whill remembered. He radiated power in a way that the sun or the moon might, the way that a waterfall or mountain struck awe by their sheer presence. To look into Eadon’s eyes was to know that you were truly at his mercy, an object of his will. Whill knew he could never better the ancient Dark Elf; it was impossible. Agora would burn, and all those that knew a good life here would know it no more. The people and the land would suffer the same fate as Drindellia. Eadon and his monstrous army would eventually sweep the globe and leave nothing but a dark, smoldering planet. The world would become nothing more than another silent star among the heavens.

Whill knew that there was something beyond life, for he had seen the reincarnated spirit of his mother and the ghost of his father. He knew that beyond this world there was another. He cared no more to remain within this one.

Whill felt a throbbing at his temples and knew instantly that Eadon had been reading his mind.

“Other worlds after life there may be, Whill. But not all pass on. A soul can be kept, and it can be taken.”

It was then that Whill knew the greatest fear he would ever face. Death would be no escape; it would offer no haven. Even in death, Eadon would control him, would use him. Whill was trapped. Avriel was trapped. As far as Whill knew, her body was dead and her soul a captive, forever at the mercy and will of Eadon.

“Her body is not dead; she is very much alive. The many energy stones embedded in her flesh held enough energy to keep her body alive and breathing, as they were meant to,” said Eadon. He paused with a smirk. “Or hadn’t you seen the stones?”

Whill lunged forward and struck the energy wall hard. “You are a sick son of a b—”

“Hold your tongue!” Eadon interrupted. “No need to get personal.”

“Personal!” screamed Whill. “You have stolen a soul; you have destroyed your own homeland, and you have filled the world with darkness. You are insane, and you must be stopped!”

Eadon smiled and tilted his head. “And you will be the one to stop me?” he asked.

“I will. For it was told by Adimorda,” Whill professed.

“Indeed it was.” Eadon smiled. “It was indeed.”

CHAPTER SIX

The Brotherhood

D
irk Blackthorn looked out upon the city of Del-Oradon. From his modest room within his modest inn near the center of the city, he could see his quarry much better. He had found other Brothers of the Red Dragon, the secret society he had been pursuing for more than a year. They alone knew of the red dragon tasked with the keeping of the fabled blade of Adimorda. Dirk had learned from a dying man that they were the keepers of the secret of the blade, should anything happen to the red dragon Zhola. No Elf had been entrusted with the knowledge, as was the will of Zhola.

Dirk had gotten the attention of the brotherhood. He had killed many of their own. It was said that there was a bounty on his head of fifty thousand gold coins. This amused Dirk greatly. For it was the highest bounty he had been cursed with in his many years; this meant that he had pissed off the right people.

The Brotherhood of the Red Dragon was set to meet this night, midnight, at a mansion of one of their own. Dirk awaited the hour. He watched the scattered clouds flirt lazily with the half-moon. His mind drifted to the wood of old, the forests of his youth, to her.

Krentz.

She had been the most energetic and life-loving being that Dirk had ever met. She was like a child in many ways but in many others like a woman. She had been his first and his last lover, for they had reached heights together that he would never reach with another. Nor had he met a woman since that even sparked his interest. Everyone was either a target or an informant, useful to his cause or not.

Krentz had been born a Dark Elf. But her spirit disagreed with the savage, dark, and brutal ways of her people. She was not of her kind, but nor would she be taken in by the Elves of the Sun, for her intricate black-spell tattoos gave her away to any that looked upon her. When Dirk came upon her at that early age, she had been on the run from her people. She had been hunted; they wanted her dead, and she would have died had it not been for Dirk.

They spent years together, years avoiding the many search parties that still hunted for Krentz. Never in all the centuries had a Dark Elf ever strayed from the way of its people. Krentz had created a precedent that Eadon did not want followed. He had sent more than
one hundred Draggard after her, but she and Dirk had killed them all. The last year they spent together, they had done so in peace, within the forests of Eldon Island.