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

an explosion of magic as his blade cut through the dark elf’s spell shield. Whill fell to the ground next to Avriel as Zerafin extended his hand toward the elf’s body. It erupted in flames, and the pyre burned on as he poured forth great amounts of energy to incinerate the Dark elf—until not even ashes remained. Chapter 20 Dwarf Pride

The sight was a bloody one. More than twenty dead Draggard littered the ground, along with nearly a dozen Draquon. Roakore was still out cold, though Whill could see his chest heave slightly as he breathed. Rhunis coughed violently, his throat having been nearly crushed. Zerafin bled from his severed hand, and Avriel lay upon the ground, close to death.

Whill’s pain had subsided as soon as the Dark elf died. Now he looked upon the elf maiden whom he had grown to love in such a short time. Abram was already tending to Roakore, who had awakened and was trying to stand.

Whill took Avriel in his arms and looked into her blue eyes. She coughed and blood trickled from her lips. He felt something inside him tear at the sight of the dying elf. Rage welled within him as he watched her slowly slipping away. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Give me....” Her voice was so soft that Whill hardly heard her.

“What?” he asked. “Give you what?”

“My sword,” she whispered.

Whill moved to find it, but then he saw Zerafin standing next to them, Avriel’s sword in hand. Whill took it from him and placed it in Avriel’s bloody hand. Zerafin placed his hand on his shoulder.

“You should step back.”

Avriel took the blade in both hands and placed it upon her chest. Instantly she seemed more aware as she closed her eyes and wrapped herself in bright blue tendrils of healing energy.

“The wounds are grave,” Zerafin said. “It shall take a moment. But she will be alright.”

Whill looked at his bloody stump. “And you—can you heal such a wound?”

Zerafin laughed. If he felt any pain he did not show it. “I could actually grow another if I needed. But simply reconnecting the original will take far less energy.”

Whill could not shake the feeling that he was caught up in a strange dream as he watched the elf press the severed hand to his bloody wrist. The same blue tendrils encircled it.

He left the elves to their healing and rushed over to check on Roakore. Abram was trying to keep the stubborn dwarf from getting up.

“Let me up, ye damned fool, I don’t need no healing! I don’t need no help!”

Abram cursed the dwarf. “Every rib on his left side is broken, and one must have punctured his lung, for he is coughing blood. Still the fool refuses the elves’ help and insists he is alright.”

Roakore lay growling under Abram’s restraining arms. Whill shrugged. “Let him up, then. He says he is alright, and so he must be.” He winked to Abram on the sly. “Give the good dwarf his dignity.”

Abram let go and Roakore got to his feet with much effort but not a sign of discomfort. He shoved Abram weakly. “At least the lad has some sense!”

The three walked back to the fire and found Zerafin and Avriel waking a sleepy-eyed Tarren. Roakore addressed Abram out of the side of his mouth. “I thought ye said they was both badly wounded.”

Abram looked down at the dwarf’s left side. “They are excellent healers, as you know.”

“I’ll ready the damned horses,” Roakore huffed, and stormed off.

Abram looked on, worried, as Whill watched Avriel’s every move. His visual scrutiny was cut short as Tarren woke and gave a shout upon seeing the many dead Draggard.

“Shh, it’s alright, Tarren. They are all dead.” Avriel stroked his head.

Tarren pushed her hand aside and made a disappointed face. “Aw, you let me sleep through it! I wish I could have seen it—what happened? Did they breathe fire like dragons, did those other ones really fly, did—?”

“There will be time for questions on the road,” said Whill. “We still have a long ride, and we must leave now.”

“Not until we have destroyed the remains,” Zerafin said. The elves went to work incinerating the corpses with a word and a raised hand.

The others broke down camp quickly and doused the fire. As they walked the horses to the road, Avriel came up next to Whill, who was ahead of the others.

“I’m alright,” she said. “Thank you for your help.”

“I did nothing.”

Avriel raised an eyebrow. “Really? Did you not care?”

“Yes, of course I did! I—”

“You did care—you cared enough to cry, and for that I thank you. You are a good friend, Whill of Agora.”

He was at a loss for words. He was not embarrassed that she had seen him cry, but rather overjoyed that she had called him friend.

“As are you, Avriel of Elladrindellia.”

She smiled brightly and slowed to walk alongside her brother, who now had the overexcited Tarren as a passenger. Whill guided the group the rest of the way to the road with the widest smile he had ever known.

Soon the sun began to rise in the east, sending red, orange, and purple light dancing through the thin clouds. The group had many more days to Kell-Torey, but they traveled now at a much faster pace than previously. They knew now that they were being followed, and an attack could come from behind at any time—or by ambush up ahead. That being so, Zerafin rode a quarter-mile in front of them, and Rhunis a quarter-mile behind.

They traveled in this manner for hours, keeping the horses at a steady trot. Finally Zerafin stopped and let the others catch up to him.

“The horses need a rest, as do we all, short though it will be.”

Abram dismounted with a groan and walked over to Roakore’s pony. The dwarf was taking slow, labored breaths and sat slumped against his pony’s mane.

“How is he?” asked Whill.

Abram gave Roakore a small shove, but the dwarf did not move. “He is asleep.”

“He is badly hurt.”

“Yes, but the fool would not ask for help if he were on his deathbed—not from the elves.”

Whill lit up. “Not from the elves, aye.” He walked over to Zerafin but found him busy answering Tarren’s many questions about the battle. He searched for Avriel and found her not far away, kneeling by a small brook and filling her water skin. He kneeled down next to her and dipped his own empty pouch in the cold water.

“I ask a favor.”

“What is it?”

Roakore is badly hurt. But he is very stubborn. For whatever reason, he will not ask—or consciously accept—you or your brother’s help. Stupid, I know,” he added, worried that she might take offense.

Avriel laughed. “No, no, not stupid.  The dwarves are a stubborn bunch that much is true. But it serves them well. Without such will, they could not have achieved all that they have. They are tough as stone, as they say.” She leaned in closer, as if divulging a secret. Whill’s throat went dry. “But deep, deep inside, they are like any of us. They feel love, pain, and fear.”

They stood. “So,” Avriel said. “You want me to help you heal Roakore?”

“Yes. I mean, I healed Tarren on my own, but of course in my own healing I needed your help. I think that I can do this. I need to do this.”

Avriel raised a hand. “I understand, Whill.” She paused in thought. “I will give you my sword. Beware, for it holds great power. Before my brother and I went on this journey to Kell-Torey, we were given gifts by many elves, gifts in the form of energy offerings. You must focus on Roakore, much as you did on Tarren. But you must not let your emotions get the better of you. Clear your mind. Think only of Roakore’s injuries. Do not let him take more than you intend to give.”

“I understand.”

She locked eyes with him for a silent moment. “Do you? Do you understand that if you give him too much, he will drain the blade and die? If you are not in control the entire time, you may kill the both of you.”

If Avriel intended on scaring him, she had succeeded. He gazed back at her, now unsure.

“Remember, Whill, give him only what he needs. Do not take from the blade for yourself, and focus on his injuries. You can do this. I have faith in you.”

That was all Whill needed to hear. Together they walked the game trail back to the road. Rhunis had gathered everyone else’s water pouches. Upon seeing Whill and Avriel’s were full, he said, “That way, then.”

Zerafin was dueling with Tarren, each with a wooden stick for a sword. Tarren waved happily. “Look, Whill, Zerafin is teaching me how to fight!”

Just then the elf smacked Tarren atop the head with his mock sword.

“Ouch!” the boy said with a scowl.

“That is your first lesson, young one: let nothing distract you from the enemy at hand.”

Roakore sat with Abram in the short grass at the side of the old road. They each sported a smoking pipe. The dwarf took his puffs with great care and tried to act as if nothing bothered him.

Avriel handed Whill her blade with a nod. He could feel the power within it. He took long, slow, calming breaths and went over to them. He sat facing Roakore, the sword concealed behind him.

“How do you feel?” Whill asked nonchalantly.

Roakore puffed on his pipe and began coughing uncontrollably. Whill noted that he had bloodied the ground before him.

“Do ye ask fer the elves or fer yerself?”

“I ask as a friend, and I hope you would do the same.”

“Bah, the pain ain’t nothin, just a few busted ribs is all. I ain’t gonna die from it, if that’s what yer thinkin. I know the elves are dyin’ to practice on me, but I ain’t asked fer help and I ain’t needin’ none.” He finished with a violent cough that produced more blood than before.

Whill thought for a moment. “I was raised partially by Abram, as you know, but I lived the first years of my life with a great healer. She taught me many things.” Roakore eyed him suspiciously, but Whill only smiled. “Listen. You practically saved Abram and me atop that mountain against the Draggard. Let a man pay his debts the only way he can—let me help you. I know that you do not ask for help, but please accept that which I offer.”

Roakore eyed Whill for a moment and then went into another violent coughing fit. When he was done, and had painted the grass with more red, he nodded. “Alright then,” he said, swooning. “What did ye have in mind?”

“Lie on your back, if you will. And close your eyes.”

Roakore wearily obeyed. Abram gave Whill a suspicious look. In his left hand Whill clenched Avriel’s blade. He let his right hand fall upon Roakore’s chest. At first he did not take from the sword, but rather he used his right hand and grazed