Whill of Agora: Book 1 by Michael Ploof (early reader books txt) 📖

front were ancient dwarf runes written entirely in silver. Whill marveled as he read “Azrokea’s Passage.” Azrokea, he knew, was a high god of the dwarves, and this was one of the many ways they paid homage. As they ventured across and the doors began to open, their hinges emitting a dull moan, Whill could see that each side was at least five feet thick. Beyond, the great city of Dy’Kore awaited. Chapter 13 A Tale of Betrayal

Whill had read countless books about the dwarves. He had learned their language, customs, and history. As a child in Sidnell he had dreamed of exploring the immense caves and caverns of the Dwarf Mountains. Now he was in the ancient dwarf city of Dy’Kore, a place few men had ever ventured. Within these stone walls slept remnants of his past, and with them his future awaited. A chill ran down his spine and a tear welled in his eye, though he did not know why.

The city was more than he could have imagined, and the few drawings he had seen of it did not begin to capture its beauty. Before him was a great hall with high ceilings, easily over a hundred feet. Eight great pillars, ten feet across and beautifully carved, extended from floor to ceiling. Dozens of tunnels opened into the hall, and dwarves filled the great room, busy in their duties and daily travels. The floor, he noticed, was of highly polished white marble, and the walls, though not marble, were exquisitely carved and decorated with beautiful banners.

Roakore stopped a passing dwarf and whispered something that made him eye Whill and Abram with wonder. He nodded to Roakore and quickly ran off down a tunnel to the left. Roakore looked up at them with a smile. “I told him who ye be, an’ that ye wish to speak to the king immediately. If ye wait here, a guide will come to take ye to him. I got me own things needin’ tendin’.” His face turned serious. “’Twas an honor fightin’ with human warriors such as yerselves, go well, friends.”

“Go well, King Roakore,” said Whill.

Roakore eyed Whill with a look of sorrow. “That title be mine when them words echo throughout me reclaimed mountain. Until then I be just a dwarf waiting to fulfill his destiny.”

Whill felt foolish. “Go well, friend,” Abram said, and Roakore turned and walked away.

“Will we see him again?”

“I imagine we will, lad. I imagine we will.”

Soon the messenger returned with a well-dressed dwarf in tow. They approached Whill and Abram and stopped. The dwarf who followed wore a blue hooded robe with a silver chain over his portly stomach. He was elderly, with a grey beard and hair. In his right hand he held a silver staff as tall as himself, set with a large sapphire at its crown.

“Abram, me friend, ’tis good to see ye again.” He slammed his fist to his chest and looked to the ground. He had a deep, gruff voice like Roakore’s, yet it was melodic and fluid. Whill assumed that this was a dwarf of high stature who could turn a crowd with his words alone.

Abram returned the gesture. “It is good to see you as well, friend.”

The dwarf turned to Whill and, to his surprise, gave the same greeting he had given Abram and said, “I am Fior, high priest o’ the Dy’kore clan. ‘Tis good to meet you Whill.”

Whill instinctively returned the gesture of respect, hoping he was not making a mistake; he assumed a bow would be expected, given Fior’s title. To Whill’s relief, Fior smiled and turned to Abram. “Ye have a good one here, ye do. Now, I hear tell o’ a Draggard attack this day’s eve, outside these very walls. I shall want to hear o’ that in detail, indeed, But not afore the king. I understand ye have things to attend to.”

“That we do,” answered Abram

“If ye will follow me then.” Fior turned and began crossing the great hall. “I know yer able to find yer way around Dy’Kore, Abram, but the state o’ things being what they are, ’tis best ye have an escort with ye at all times—as not to alarm anyone, or stir up rumor.”

“I understand.”

They followed Fior across the hall and into another large tunnel. They walked for a minute in silence before turning left onto a large marble stair, which spiraled downward for about fifty feet before opening into a large room. This one was larger than the hall had been, considerably larger. It had a floor of black marble, and walls of polished stone that shimmered in the firelight—torches hung every ten feet along the mineral-rich walls. The reflection off the stone cast a beautiful spectrum of color on the room, which Whill would have marveled at had he not known what they were here for; this was a vault, and behind one of the many doors set between the torches, his secrets waited to be revealed.

Fior turned to them, looking like a dwarf sorcerer in the torchlight. “It is door number twenty-seven, on the left. I will wait here.”

He handed Whill a large key. Momentarily, he only gazed at it—the key to his past. He looked to Fior, then to Abram, then to the distant door. He walked toward door twenty-seven. The light swirled throughout the room as the torches flickered, and Whill worried for a moment that maybe this was all a dream—that maybe he was still in Iam’s house of healing, fighting a high fever. He feared he would open the door and find nothing but another ever-growing mountain with his parents atop, waving happily as they aged before his eyes and turned to dust.

Thirteen, read the door to his left; he was halfway there. He heard nothing but his heart in his chest, and it seemed to echo throughout the vast room. His leg no longer hurt, or if it did, he was not aware of it. He had already determined where the door stood, and focused on it for fear that it would vanish. It had haunted his dreams since Fendale, and now it was here in front of him. Seconds seemed like hours as he made the short walk, but at last he stood before it.

He jerked as Abram put a hand upon his shoulder. How long had they been standing there? A few seconds, minutes? Abram handed him one of the wall torches, and he looked again at the key in his hand. Finally, he inserted it into the lock and turned the large brass handle. He heard the sound of many locks and bolts disengaging, and then the door opened in silence.

The vault was dark. Whill entered slowly and raised the torch high so that he could see. The light shone on walls bare but for an unlit torch on each. At first he saw nothing, but as his eyes adjusted and he walked to the center, he could make out a large iron chest, two wooden chairs, and a small circular table. He turned to Abram, baffled.

Abram took the torch and lit two others upon the walls. He replaced the last torch with the one in his hand and said, “Have a seat, Whill.”

Taking the chair to the left, he eyed the chest curiously. Abram took the other, retrieved his tobacco bag, and lit his pipe. He puffed softly, eyeing the chest as well.

“Long have I pondered how best to present you with this story,” he said finally. “How to begin, where to begin—and I have determined I cannot tell any part of the story without first telling you who your parents were.” He took another long drag from his pipe, seemingly relaxed with one leg crossed over the other, while Whill sat literally on the edge of his seat.

“I don’t know any other way to say it, Whill, so I’ll just come out with it. Your father was King Aramonis of Uthen-Arden, and your mother was Queen Celestra.”

Of all the things Whill had anticipated, this was not one. He sat in utter shock. “King Aramonis? How can that be? I thought all perished in the ambush that killed the king and queen of Arden. She was with child at the time, but—”

He stopped as he comprehended what he had just said.

“Yes,” said Abram. “She was pregnant, with you.”

Whill’s mind raced. The gravity of reality bore down on him as he realized what this meant. “Then that means that I...I am...a prince?”

Abram shook his head and blew smoke into the air as he sat up in his chair and looked Whill straight in the eye. “No, Whill. It means that you are the rightful king of Uthen-Arden.”

Whill stood in disbelief and began pacing. “King? I’m no king. If I am King Aramonis’s son, why was I not brought back to Arden? Why wasn’t I raised there? Why would the surviving heir to the throne of Uthen-Arden be kept a secret from the world? Why—”

“Because your uncle wants you dead. That’s why.”

Whill stopped cold in his pacing as Abram answered his many questions with one answer. He began to understand. “King Addakon of Arden, my father’s brother—are you saying he had them killed? That he planned the Draggard attack that killed his own brother?”

“Yes, but there is much more to it. Please sit, my friend, you’re making me nervous.”

Whill sat back down in his chair, tense as a bowstring and shaking. His mouth had become parched and his head ached. He could hardly take in all that Abram had revealed so far.

“This story goes back hundreds of years, to the coming of the elves to Agora.” Abram sat back once again and puffed on his pipe between sentences. “The elves, as you know, were driven from Drindellia by the dark elves and the Draggard. Hoping to ensure his people’s survival, the elf king Verelas sent the queen and their children, along with hundreds of others, over the ocean. When they reached the shores of Agora, over five hundred years ago, they were met by the people of Opalmist. Upon hearing of the refugees, King Theorolus of Arden quickly rode to meet them. Soon a great friendship arose between Theorolus and Queen Araveal. By then the king had learned of the elves’ ability to manipulate energy, which, as you know, they call Orna Catorna. He made a deal with Queen Araveal: in exchange for the land now called Elladrindellia, he asked that the elves teach him and his decedents Orna Catorna. The queen agreed and the deal was made, and with every new birth in the royal family, the elves have kept their word. At the age of twenty, the royal children are brought to the elves to be taught for a year. This is a well-guarded secret, of course. Your father and your uncle were taught by the elves, as you shall be.”

“Me? I am to be taught by the elves?” Abram nodded and Whill thought for a moment. “But how is it that I have the power to heal already?”

Abram tapped his pipe on the chair arm, emptying the bowl. “You are a descendant of King Theorolus. You have, in your blood, hidden powers given by the elves. Though they usually do not emerge before being taught, the ability lives within you. You completely surprised me, of course, when you healed Tarren.”

“So that is how I did