Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (29 page)

Zerafin offered Whill his hand, and Whill took it. Zerafin met his gaze with a serious face. “Whill of Uthen-Arden, son of Aramonis, son of Celestra, descendant of the great king who took the elves in when we needed friendship most: I offer you my own friendship, undying, unending, until time spreads thine ashes.”

Whill squeezed the elf’s hand. “And I offer you mine. I thank you, Zerafin, son of Verelas, prince of Elladrindellia.”

Avriel stood also. Time seemed to slow as Whill looked into her blue eyes. She too offered her hand and spoke words of promise: ever so softly, ever so beautifully, did they escape her lips.

“I offer to you, Whill of Uthen-Arden, my undying, unending, and boundless friendship, so that we may together, all of us, find peace.”

Whill thought for a moment that he would not find his words. Her voice and her gaze had had more effect on him than the wine. After a moment he composed himself mentally and responded, “And I mine, Avriel, lady of Elladrindellia, daughter of the great Verelas. And I mine, until the day I die.”

Zerafin broke the silence that followed. “Then it is settled. We shall travel to Kell-Torey and then on to Elladrindellia.”

After Whill had exited the tent to help within the town, Zerafin turned to his sister and studied her for a moment. Avriel sighed.

“What, brother?”

“What indeed? This is not a game, nor a childhood fantasy, Avriel.”

She was taken aback. “What lunacy has befallen your tongue, Zerafin?”

“I remember an elf child who would lend an ear for hours to any storyteller recalling the prophecy of Whill of Agora.”

Avriel laughed quickly. “What of it?”

Zerafin leveled his gaze on her. “You studied the prophecy for years, every piece of every scroll that mentioned him. Your life’s work has been for this man, this human.”

“But he is the one! I have merely been preparing.”

Zerafin raised an eyebrow. “You have been in love with his legend since you were a child. How does the real person seem to you? Is he everything you wished?”

Avriel scoffed at her brother’s teasing and then puckered her lips to one side in thought. “It is very strange, don’t you think, to meet one so often spoken of as he?”

“Yes, sister, indeed it is.”

“The oddest thing is…he is exactly what I had envisioned.”

Zerafin scowled and sighed. “This could be disastrous. I fear your feelings could—could—”

“Could what, brother? It has been written, it will come to pass. He is Whill of Agora, the one we have waited a millennium for. Whether I love the idea of him is of no concern. It is not the same as loving the person.”

Zerafin could only shrug. “We shall see.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Common Road

T
he remainder of the day was spent salvaging what they could from the destroyed town. Riders were sent out to the nearest towns, and to Kell-Torey. Though no one thought another attack likely, they would all breath a little easier when reinforcements arrived. Whill spent most of the day with Tarren, who asked a million questions about the dwarf city, which Whill was happy to answer. When the stars finally took to the night sky, Whill was more than glad to see them. He, Roakore, and Abram had been up since leaving the mountains. All fell into a much-needed sleep.

Whill awoke the following morning to the smell of pork and eggs drifting on the still-smoky air. He turned his head from the sky and saw Roakore and Tarren sitting by a fire, Tarren no doubt asking more questions of Dy-Kore. Roakore noticed that Whill had awoken and took the opportunity to break conversation with the young human.

“Aye then, finally. Thought ye might sleep through the day, lad. The boy here’s got more questions then there be stars. Says he never seen a real dwarf, he does. I tell him I ain’t ever seen a fake one.”

Whill chuckled and made his way to the two and accepted a hearty share of breakfast. All around him were similar camps, with similar fires. Families and groups of soldiers were all now starting their day.

Soon Abram arrived with Avriel, Zerafin, and Rhunis, each leading a horse. Rhunis helped himself to a piece of pork and ruffled Tarren’s hair. “So here we all are. This is good.”

Rhunis gestured behind him to a knight leading a black stallion and a pony. “These are for you,” he said with a smile as he addressed Whill and Roakore. “We have many miles before us, and I for one would prefer to ride.”

“I had assumed we would journey to Kell-Torey by water.”

Abram gestured towards the sea. “
Old Charlotte
has been destroyed. And Rhunis’s vessel must stay docked here for protection. We could wait for a royal escort, but that would take a few days.”

Whill nodded. “Days that we don’t have.”

Just then Avriel whistled and threw Whill the sword of his father. Whill caught it and looked it over quickly, he could not tell by sight or touch whether the blade had been used as he had intended. A slight nod and smile from Avriel answered that riddle for him. Whill smiled at his new companions and looked to the west. “Well, then. The road awaits.”

Soon they left the still-smoldering Sherna behind. A group of fifty soldiers from a nearby town had made station at dawn, and a small fleet was expected within the ten-day. Whill knew that the townspeople were in good hands, and he doubted they would see any more trouble. The Draggard had only attacked the town because he had been in it. The best thing he could do for Sherna was to leave.

Though he had recently learned that he was heir to the Uthen-Arden throne, and had just witnessed and been part of a horrible battle, and though death and destruction seemed to follow him like a morbid shadow, Whill was in good spirits. With the ever-inquisitive Tarren riding with him, his old friend Abram, elf and dwarf royalty, and a legendary knight of Eldalon at his side, Whill felt good indeed.

They headed west along the old and seldom-used road leading from Sherna to Kell-Torey. They rode for many miles, Tarren talking many of those, until the sun crested the midday sky and it was time for the first rest.

The riders dismounted and made camp next to a small creek. The horses and pony were left to drink and graze, and Roakore, the most hungry of the group, started a strong fire.

“Got me some good meats from one o’ them towns-women,” Roakore boasted as he took from his pack a half-dozen slabs of venison. “Said it was the least she could offer for me help.”

Avriel put her hands upon her hips and gave Roakore a look. He huffed and pulled as innocent a face as he could muster. “What was I to do? I may have insulted the poor human if I said nay!”

Everyone had seen the exchange, and none could help but have a good laugh at the poor dwarf’s expense. Roakore threw up his arms and tended to his cooking. The only ear he found was in the form of a young curious lad who had joined Roakore to learn the secrets of dwarf cooking. Roakore put an arm over Tarren’s shoulder and looked back with a scowl at the rest of the group, which caused another small fit of laughter. “Bah. Forget them, laddie. They can think what they likes. Let ’em have their dried meats and their stinkin’ cheese.” Tarren only smiled.

Avriel and Zerafin had taken up a conversation with Rhunis as the elves brushed their stallions. Abram took the opportunity to talk with Whill, who was sitting on the ground, sharpening his own retrieved sword.

“We will be in Kell-Torey soon, eh?” He packed his pipe and took a seat next to Whill.

“Sherna to Kell-Torey, let me think…five hundred miles or so, I figure.” Abram nodded as Whill went on. “The horses carry us twice as fast as our legs would, so I would say we can make Kell-Torey in sixty hours’ travel time, figuring in eight hours’ sleep and two hour-long rest stops per day.” He looked to the sky briefly as he made the calculations. “So we should reach Kell-Torey in four days, around eight in the evening, just in time to find lodging and drink.”

“Exact in all regards, my friend. Well done.”

Whill stopped sharpening his blade for a moment and smirked. “Please, that was child’s play. I figured those estimations before we left Sherna.”

Abram chuckled as he exhaled smoke from his pipe. “I know, I know. Just making sure the old skills remain as sharp as that blade.”

Whill huffed through his nose. “Better come up with something better than that, old man!”

Abram took a long pull from his pipe and blew it into the mild wind. “Alright then, answer this riddle.”

Whill laughed. “You have no riddles left for me, I fear, Abram.”

“Oh, I have one! One that you may never find the answer to.”

Whill stopped his work, intrigued. “Out with it, then.”

Abram cleared his throat. “How does one keep his mind on the mission at hand when he has fallen helplessly in love with an elf princess?”

Whill said nothing. For a long and silent while he and Abram simply stared at each other. Finally Whill laughed and went back to sharpening his blade, and Abram to smoking his pipe. After more than five minutes, Whill stopped and set aside his sword.

“I am not in love with her.”

Abram tapped his pipe on a nearby rock and regarded Whill with one raised eyebrow.

“Don’t give me that look,” Whill said.

“What look?”

“You know what look”

“I did not know I was giving a look. It must have been subconscious.”

Whill let his gaze wander to Avriel. What he felt upon simply looking upon her, he could not deny. “Alright, you win, Abram. As always, you have seen into my mind and soul.” He took a deep breath and asked in a surrendering tone, “What do I do?”

Abram let his victorious smile fade and pondered for a moment. “I do not know what will become of this. History tells us nothing of human and elven romance, or the ramifications. But I know this: your feelings will be used against you, whether she shares your feelings or not. Your enemies will target the ones you love. It is hard to understand, but you must bury your feelings deep, Whill. She must not know. Though she may already suspect, you must not speak of it. You must not think it, though you feel it.”

Whill thought for a long moment. “And what about you, Abram?”

“Me? What of me?”

Whill laughed. “And so the wise man does not see.” He shook his head. “You old fool. What about you? I love you as I would love my father, as I love no friend, as I would a brother. Should I hide that also?”

“That is different.”

“How so?”

“The feelings a man has for his first love are more powerful than any he will ever know. This is written by both men and elves. I may die in the upcoming wars, but you will survive. You will have others to lean on.”

Whill shook his head as if he thought the notion absurd. Abram grabbed his arm. “Listen to me, Whill.” His tone and demeanor demanded Whill’s attention. “I may fall, Tarren may fall—any may fall and you still will be alright. You will be hurt, mind and soul, but you will survive. If your love is lost, however, you may become that which you strive to defeat. This I say as a warning and nothing more. You are the rightful king of Uthen-Arden. I have not trained you these long years to see you fall. I only say these things to protect you.”

Whill looked at Abram, then at Avriel and the others. “I understand. But I think you put too much on me alone. You treat me as some kind of savior. I am but one man. One man! I can not be held responsible for the fate of Agora! I will not! The elves will fight without me. The humans will fight without me. And the dwarves will fight till the end without me. Yes, I intend to try to take back my father’s throne. But if I fail it will be of no large consequence to the cause!”

“You are wise, Whill, but there are many things you do not know. I blame you not for that which you are blind to. But I ask you: ask Avriel, or her brother, for that matter. Ask them what part you play in all of this. I assure you it is no small one.”

Whill was tired of hearing of himself in such ways. He was but a man, after all. He had accepted the fact that he must take back his father’s throne, but the liberator and savior of Agora? It was all a bit too much.

He got up, put his sword in its sheath, and stormed over to the fire without a word more. Abram simply puffed on his pipe and left it all to the gods.

Roakore and Tarren were in deep discussion about dragons and dwarf gods when Whill slumped down next to them.

“Just tellin’ yer boy Tarren here ’bout the dragon gods,” Roakore explained. “Meat’s got a little while to go, though.”

Tarren piped in with his usual enthusiastic demeanor.

“Aye, Roakore told me all about the dragon and dwarf gods. It’s really good stuff, Whill, you should hear it! All about the Prophet Ky’Dren and—”

Whill cut him off and recited the old tales. “Ky’Dren came to the dwarves at a time when they were lost. They had no religion or social structure other than that of the nomad. Ky’Dren told them he had been sent from the dwarf gods to lead them, to give them a better life, to show them their purpose. Ky’Dren could move stone with his mind, they say, as can his direct descendants still. He was a god among dwarves, a god among all.”

Roakore nodded in approval at Whill’s summary. Tarren became jubilant. “Whill, I didn’t know you knew so much of the dwarves! What else do you know?”