Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings Read Online Free Page A

because of the drugged rag, he could not lie, and he grimaced and whined as he told the midnight-man what he had sworn a blood oath not to.
    “It is said that this Whill of Agora is some kind of Elven savior.” He winced and doubled over.
    “And?” Dirk insisted.
    The drunken man could not resist telling the truth. “There is said to be a sword, A…Ad…Adromida, the most powerful of all the Elven swords that have ever existed. This sword is said to hold the power of a thousand Elven lifetimes.” The drunken man gulped.
    “Why do you and your, associates, know so much about this Whill? Surely the sword story is just gibberish,” Dirk pressed, feeling that perhaps this time he would get a good lead.
    The drunken man whimpered and struggled against the urge to tell the truth—the words that would surely doom him to the brotherhood. Dirk punched him in the face, and the impact made the man’s head jerk and his neck crack. Nothing was broken, but it was a reminder and a threat.
    “We know that the story is true, because we know of the sword.” The drunken man violently blurted out, hating himself for being weak. “We are the brotherhood of the Red Dragon; we keep the secret and prepare for the day, as we have for four hundred years.”
    Dirk smiled to himself and took in the sweet, sweet smell of knowledge and victory and power. In his world, there was only power or the lack thereof. His interest was the attainment of power of every kind, ultimate power. He, like all of them, knew that the Draggard wars might surely destroy all of Agora. These were rough times, and Dirk’s fortune had tripled, because he was not only a survivor; he thrived in all conditions and prided himself in as much.
    The Dark Elves were an invisible threat, but their power was felt. The Draggard wars had waged for decades, Dirk did not remember a time before the wars. But if a war was being waged, Dirk had to do what was best to survive, and that meant siding with the most likely victor. Dirk had met many an Elf, Dark and Sun, and he had sided with neither as of yet. He used their power but took nothing from either theology. He was a man unto himself, casting off with disdain all attitudes and beliefs, rules and regulations, traditions and agendas. He lived and worked for himself and his kin only—to be Dirk’s friend was a rare, if not dangerous, honor.
    He would side with and make partners of the victor of the outcome, but recently he had come across information that might lead him to be able to affect the outcome either way. He knew that if the sword existed and if he could find it, then he could sway the battle the way of his choosing; he would have ultimate power, if for a moment. But he must decide which way to sway it.
    Dirk knew one thing and one thing only—if you could play any game, by anyone’s rules, without qualms or protests, then you could win any game, which meant you could win the big game of life. And Dirk was very good at winning this game, so far.
    “What do you know of the whereabouts of the sword Adromida?” Dirk asked.
    The drunken man cowed, still under the spell of the drugged rag. “We do not know the whereabouts of the sword but that of the Red Dragon, the ancient keeper of the sword.”
    Dirk’s eyes gleamed with the unseen moonlight. “Where is he?”
    The drunken man bowed to the floor, thinking death would answer his words.
    “I do not know. A few select brothers know half the story, and half of those know more and so on, but I ain’t but a thirteenth-degree brother. Only the thirty-third-degree brothers know all, and there are but seven of them at a time.”
    He laughed at Dirk, not caring anymore, knowing his life was gone with the words he had been forced to speak. “You caught yourself a tadpole, sir; you need to be catching bigger fish if you are to fill your big appetite for trouble.”
    The man laughed manically after Dirk as he strode away, and Dirk could hear his laughter for three blocks,