Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora by Michael Ploof Page B

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 his eyes as he flung his arms around Whill’s waist. Whill returned the hug and patted his back. There were a million questions on his tongue, but he bit them back behind an awkward smile.
    “You’re welcome, Tarren,