Free Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings by Michael Ploof Page B

been gifted a great power. The time has come then?”
    Zerafin regarded the blade thoughtfully and nodded. “Indeed. The time has come for the sleeping Elves of the Sun to awaken. The reckoning draws near.”
    Azzeal growled deep in his throat with a smile. His feline eyes glowed. “A brother tree tells me that you go to free the one called Whill and the soul of your sister. You plan to storm the castle of Del-Oradon, aided by humans and Dwarves. A horde of Draggard and Dark Elves and Eadon, himself, await you.” Azzeal laughed. “And you want me to come accompany you on your mad journey?”
    Zerafin nodded, waiting for the laughter to end. Finally, Azzeal stopped, holding his side. “Well then, old friend…when do we leave?”

    “Again!” Eadon bellowed as he watched Whill and the man exchange blows. This was Whill’s tenth opponent, and he did not have much left for the fight. He had no sword or gems with which to tap into additional power. And Avriel’s heart stone had been emptied long ago from the torture. He fought as a man now, and though he could more than hold his own, he had been fighting for an hour, nonstop. The dryness in his mouth was only quenched by blood. Sweat blurred his vision, and dozens of bruises and scratches and cuts, even teeth marks, covered his body.
    The fighters used no weapons, but the fighting was brutal and to the death. Each fighter came at Whill with a different discipline of combat; each one was skilled at his own style. But Whill had learned all the many styles of hand-to-hand fighting many years ago with Abram, and he had practiced extensively in each.
    The fighting was to the death, or so the many opponents thought, but none could kill Whill, and Whill would kill none of them. Instead, he incapacitated each fighter; expending much more energy than he would have had to if he had killed them. But this was some twisted game of Eadon’s, and Whill was not going to give Eadon the satisfaction of seeing him kill the men.
    A fist came at his face, which he blocked with a downward windmill of the arm; it was quickly followed by a boot meant for the gut. Whill spun away from the attack and suddenly came back in at his opponent, blockingthe man’s anticipated follow-up jab while simultaneously twisting the arm that had dealt the blow. Whill had the man by the wrist and was still moving through his spin as he brought the arm up, ignored a blow to his ribs, and slammed his elbow into the man’s armpit while holding the arm at an unnatural angle.
    There was an audible pop as Whill dislocated the man’s shoulder. Before the man could grimace in pain, Whill reversed his motion and backhanded the fighter and swept his legs out from under him. Again, he reversed his motion as his opponent fell and brought his fist slamming into the man’s belly, directly below the breastbone. The impact of the fall and the blow to the chest rendered the man breathless. Whill stumbled with fatigue and fell to the floor upon his knees.
    “Get…Up! You rotten maggot meat sack!” screamed Velkarell as he gave the warrior a kick with each word. “Fight or die.”
    The man finally caught his breath and sat up, coughing blood. After a minute, the defeated warrior stood on shaky legs and faced Whill, who still kneeled on the floor, one arm perched upon his knee, breathing deeply still.
    “This man has bested me, if I attack him, I will die,” the warrior explained between breaths. “Since I will die, I would rather die well, by the hand of the puppet master, not the puppet.”
    The man raised to his full height and squared off on Eadon and puffed his chest with pride. “If it is my fate to die here then face me like a man, Elf! Fight me like a man, if you even know what that means! We are sick of your dragon-shyte faces and your evil eyes looking upon our land like a fair maiden of youth you would like to bend over the blackberry bush!”
    Screaming, he ran forward, fists rose in righteous defiance,