Whill of Agora

doors upon the deck that led to the slave quarters, setting their families free.

“Get them onto my ship and set sail!” Abram ordered. “Do not wait for me-look for me in the waters!” He spotted Cirrosa making a run for the lower decks and he followed. Through a door and into a small stairwell went the most wanted pirate in two centuries, whose scrolled list of crimes against the peoples of every kingdom in Agora would have fallen to the floor. Murder, theft, kidnapping, rape, torture, and many, many more vile and heartless acts-Abram wanted this man dead out of sheer duty if nothing else. He followed Cirrosa slowly into a large room below. It seemed to be the mess hall for the sailors; there was a door to the kitchen on the right, and three doors to the left.

He knew the Dragon’s style of ship, so he knew to take the door to the right. Upstairs and into the captain’s quarters he went cautiously, and there he found Cirrosa and a flying dagger. Abram rolled as he hit the landing, a blade whizzing by his head. Then he leapt to his feet and charged at Cirrosa.

“Come on!” The pirate taunted as he brought up his short sword and a long curved dagger. Abram came in hard with a slash to the left that was deflected by the short sword. The dagger came in. Abram spun out, keeping his distance from the blade. Cirrosa went into a slash-and-stab dance that kept Abram on his toes in the close quarters. Cirrosa worked the two blades like a master, but Abram was prepared. He knew the pirate’s fighting style well, for they had been friends for a time in their academy days. Cirrosa had perfected his art long ago, and now he fought similarly, but better. Abram kept pace but knew he needed to get one of the blades out of the fight. He deflected the short sword up and high to the left, coming in close to Cirrosa, knowing he would go for the gut. A bare moment before Cirrosa thrust with the dagger, Abram was already pulling back from the strike. Down his blade came from the short sword parry; straight came the thrust of Cirrosa’s blade. In an instant Abram sliced deep into Cirrosa’s forearm, nearly severing it. It swung sickeningly from the pirate’s arm. Cirrosa let out a howl of pain and spun away from Abram. The Dragon was rocked again and lurched to the side. Abram and Cirrosa were thrown to the wall. Abram got his footing as quickly as possible and came at the injured captain. Cirrosa’s eyes went wild with pain and rage. He lunged with his blade, but Abram easily blocked it. The pirate was too weak from his injury to fight, but he kept trying, and Abram knew he wouldn’t stop until the bitter end. Cirrosa would never allow himself to become a prisoner, nor to see the inside of a courtroom. For Cirrosa, being caught meant being killed.

There was no time for speeches. The ship was falling apart around them. Abram deflected another feeble slash and stabbed Cirrosa through the heart.

Cirrosa jolted and his body froze. Then he found Abram’s gaze and grabbed his shoulders. Blood poured from his mouth as he spoke. “I’m glad it was you. I’m glad it was you,” He said, and then his eyes went blank.

“So am I.”

Abram watched Cirrosa fall. Then he fled to the empty and burning deck above, climbed the rail, and dove into the ocean.

CHAPTER NINE

An Ocean of Mystery

Whill awoke to more pain than he had ever known. He was sure that he was dead or dying. Every fiber of his being ached to a point that it was almost unbearable. He was not sure if he were actually awake or asleep. A fog blurred his vision as strange shapes loomed over him and spoke to him in a language he could not understand. He tried to move but could not; he tried to speak but found he could not remember how. He lay in fear-fear of the seemingly endless pain, fear of the shadows which spoke to him in such a strange tongue.

Once again he blacked out and slipped into the world of dreams. He could see a man and woman standing upon a small hill. Though he did not remember ever seeing them, he knew they were his parents. Joy flooded through him as he ran toward them, ready to finally embrace the mother and father who had been stolen from him. But as he ran the hill grew bigger, and his parents’ smiles withered. The faster he ran, the higher the hill grew until it was a mountain before him, and his parents’ faces smiled skeletons’ grins.

Whill screamed as he awoke and sat up. His vision was still blurry and the strange figures grabbed at him. He tried to fend them off but they soon subdued him. Vaguely he recognized the boy Tarren sitting next to him, smiling. He knew then that he was dreaming again, for Tarren was dead. He struggled to wake. As his vision grew clearer, he could now see that with Tarren sat many women and children he did not know. He tried to move and was almost rendered unconscious as pain jolted through his body. As his vision blurred again, he saw Abram walking towards him. Then blackness found him again.

He lay in great pain while the voices spoke soothingly but strangely. Then the blue light returned, slowly at first, dancing along the edges of his vision. As it became stronger, his pain finally left him and he found he could sit up. He was surrounded by the blue light, and now he saw a figure, a person, standing before him. The figure drew close enough that he could tell that it was a woman. She came and knelt before him, the most beautiful woman Whill had ever seen. Her hair was so long that when she knelt it touched the ground. It was brown and shone with a great radiance, as did her body. Her face was a picture of pure beauty, her skin smooth as silk. Her eyes were bright blue, the irises ringed in a darker shade, and within them Whill sensed great compassion and kindness, and wisdom beyond mortal understanding. He thought he must be dreaming of his mother again until he noticed the ears. They were pointed ears, and protruded from under her hair. He knew at once that he was in the presence of an elf. As he stared in wonder, she simply smoothed his hair back and spoke in an almost humming tone the same words over and over: “Endalla orn, Whill, elan orna menon, lelalda wea shen ora.”

He was lulled into a deep and peaceful sleep, one without pain or fear. As the elf woman’s voice slowly faded, he felt more at peace than ever he had been.

The bed beneath him rocked slowly, and Whill could feel a wet cloth being applied to his forehead. His body ached and his throat burned, but he had enough strength to open his eyes and see clearly. He was in the sleeping quarters of Old Charlotte, where more than two dozen women and children sat staring at him with strange expressions. Instantly he surveyed the surrounding crowd for the elven beauty, but to no avail. The only women in the room were human, and none of them resembled the woman he had seen. Perhaps he had been dreaming after all…except that she had seemed more real than these women did now.

“Please, my good lady,” he said to the woman sponging his forehead. “Where has the elven woman gone?”

She gave him a queer look. “I’m sorry, lad, there is no elf here. You still have a fever. You should rest some more.”

Whill ignored her request and swung his legs over the side of the cot. Dressed only in his pants, he quickly grabbed a shirt and threw it on. Again he surveyed the surrounding people. They wore ragged clothes, and their hair was dirty and matted. They looked as though they had not bathed nor eaten in weeks. He assumed that these were the families of the men who had first attacked Abram and him. But how had they gotten onto his ship, and where were the pirates? He needed to find Abram.

With the woman’s help, he stood and made his way to the stairs. As he stepped on deck and into the open air, he instantly began to feel better. The cool wind and saltwater mist bathed his face as he stepped onto the deck. The sun hung low in the east; it appeared to be a little past dawn. Abram was at the wheel, talking with a young slave boy. Four of the slave men were on deck also, and they gave Whill friendly smiles. Whill simply nodded, feeling a little ashamed that he had killed their friends, though he knew he’d had no choice.

Abram turned, as if sensing Whill’s approach. The boy turned too. When Whill saw the child’s face, he froze. It was Tarren.

“Whill, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Abram with a warm laugh.

Tarren stood smiling, seemingly oblivious to what had happened to him. Whill reached out to touch his head and peered at the boy’s neck. There was no sign that it had ever been cut.

“Are you feeling better, Whill?” Tarren asked.

“Uh, yes…yes, I feel better.”

“That’s good, you gave us a good scare. And thanks, Whill. Thank you for saving me.” There were tears in