Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (15 page)

Whill, shocked, hurried to catch up. “The Draggard!
They
come for us now? Why? Who is this man you speak of?”

“He is a very powerful foe. If the elf woman warned you of him, then we are in great peril for sure. Do not ask more on the subject. We will be in the mountains soon.”

Whill was left once again to wonder. He feared the Draggard. Though he had only seen paintings of the fell beasts, he feared them like he feared no man. They were bred for one purpose: killing. Rumors had begun in Agora that the winged Draggard, named Draquon by the elves, had been seen near the Ebony Mountains. This thought unsettled him.

Abram’s voice pulled him from his violent imagination. “Other than the elf woman’s visit, what else occurred during your healing?”

Whill thought for a moment. It sounded mad, but he told Abram anyway. “I saw my mother.”

Abram turned to Whill, dumbstruck. “Your mother?”

For the next hour of their journey, Whill told Abram what had happened. When he was done, Abram went silent for a moment. “Then I suppose it was good that you healed the infant, or you never would have had the…encounter,” he said at last. “You are fortunate for such a thing.”

Whill was surprised. “You believe me?”

“Of course I do. For one, your description of your mother was perfect. For another, I believe that we move on to live other lives. It is true that your tale is a fantastic one, but fantastic things do occur. Take comfort in your mother’s words and be grateful. We shall soon see how great the price will be.”

Whill was not comforted by Abram’s statement, though he thought it wonderful that he’d had a chance to meet his mother, if only in spirit. He felt bad for bringing more peril upon Abram. He was, however, comforted by the mountains that could now be seen in the distance. The forest had become considerably less dense, and the terrain had become steeper. From his vantage point he could see the many rolling hills ahead and the mountains beyond. The sun was high, shining brightly among thick white clouds, which for now did not block its warm rays. There was little wind, but a strong scent of pine still floated in the air. The forest floor was alive with rich greens, moss, and flowers. Ferns were in abundance, as were redclove plants.

Whill and Abram walked steadily for the rest of the day, talking little, which was of no concern to either. They had traveled together for many years and were comfortable in their silence. Also, Whill could sense that Abram was wary of danger. With each step Whill was closer to the mountain that held so many answers for him. Who had his parents been, what were their names, and most importantly, why had Abram withheld such information? His excitement grew, as did the mountains before him.

With the sun getting low and only a few hours of daylight left, Abram picked up the pace. They had not taken a break since they started out, and Whill knew that he intended not to.

“At this pace, we will reach the foot of the mountains before dark,” Whill said. “Do you intend not to camp?”

Abram reached for his leather water flask and took a long drink. “If we do indeed have pursuers, I do not intend on making camp here in the forest. We would be better off on the mountains at night.” He wiped the dripping water from his mouth.

The terrain was now very steep as they climbed one of the final hills that stood between them and the mountains. Whill’s legs and shoulders ached from the exertion. He was used to carrying many packs when hiking, but they usually did not go this long without a break, or keep up this hurried pace. Before them the mountains loomed like great gods with bodies of stone and crowns of white. The peaks of some could not be seen as they pierced the clouds above. Scattered upon the mountains were pines and birches, which thinned out considerably as the mountains steepened.

Finally they reached the base of the mountains. Directly ahead of them the mountain was an impassable rock wall, rising more than one hundred feet. Abram surveyed their options and opted for a southern pass. “The passageway to the city is about two miles that way,” he said, pointing southeast. “We will barely make it before dark, lad, so keep up.”

Whill laughed. “Alright old man, but I have to warn you, I don’t tire easily.”

They ascended the mountain, taking the quickest possible routes. They grasped trees and roots when possible to aid in the climb. Even when they found a fairly flat portion of rock, the advance was slow. They had been hiking since before noon with no break, eating on the go, and they were both tired. Finally Abram stopped, leaned both hands on his knees, and said, “Let’s take a little break.”

“If you insist.” Whill panted.

Abram laughed weakly, but his laughter was short-lived as a small hatchet hit a tree next to his head. Together he and Whill drew swords and turned in the direction the axe had come from. They saw no one. They were in a perfect position to be ambushed—a rock faced to the right and a steep wall behind left them with few options. Their only refuge was a large boulder, which they utilized. From behind the boulder they readied their bows and listened keenly. They heard nothing. Peering out over the rock, Whill saw nothing on the path ahead but more boulders, any of which could harbor a foe.

Abram cupped his hands around his mouth. “Who goes there?” There was no response. “We mean no harm to the dwarves and are willing to come out unarmed!”

Whill grabbed Abram’s arm. “What are you doing, they could be Draggard!”

Abram nodded toward the buried hatchet. “That is dwarf-made. If it were the Draggard, they would have attacked already. He is most likely a sentry.” He put down his bow and sword and walked out in the open.

“Now the other!” a gruff voice ordered.

Abram nodded to Whill and he reluctantly joined Abram, unarmed.

“We come in search of Dy’Kore,” Abram said. “We come as friends and allies. I am Abram of Arden, and with me is Whill.”

“Those names mean nothing to me. And if ye be allies, why d’ye have a band o’ Draggard following ye? Maybe yer scouts and should die where ye stand.”

Whill started for the ledge to see for himself but the dwarf’s words stopped him. “Move an’ ye’ll die. Think you’ll signal to em, eh? No. Stay where ye are.”

“Master dwarf, we are not scouts,” Abram insisted. “I am a personal friend of your King Ky’ell and have proof of it.”

“Ha! Show the proof, if ye have it. But be doin it slow.”

Abram slowly reached for the chain around his neck and took it off. Upon it was a large golden seal, embedded in jewels. He lifted it into the air.

“Throw it here,” said the dwarf, exposing his position by extending a hand from behind the closest boulder. Abram did so. The dwarf quickly retrieved the necklace and returned to his position.

“That was given to me by the king to ensure passage into the city. As you know, it bears the royal crest and cannot be obtained falsely.”

The dwarf came forward slowly. He stood not five feet, and he was shod in large brown boots. His clothes were a strange shade of grey that made him blend in well with the surrounding rock. At both his sides he carried hatchets, two on the right one on the left. In his hands he held a great axe, four feet long with two large, half-moon blades at its end. The edges of both blades sparkled even in the faint light. The shaft was well polished and smooth. The handle was wrapped tightly with leather, and at the base there was a sapphire the size of a child’s fist.

The dwarf came within five feet and spoke, not easing his grip on the axe. “What’s yer business in the city?”

“I seek counsel with the king. And we have business of a personal nature for Whill here.”

The dwarf eyed Abram and Whill in turn. His long brown hair was clumped in thick locks, and his brown beard reached his belt. Behind his large, flat nose were watchful green eyes.

“Ye do indeed be friends o’ the king if ye carry such a pendant, but ye must be great fools to bring a horde of Draggard at yer heels to the mountain pass. Quick, now, get yer weapons an’ follow me.”

The dwarf waited as they retrieved their weapons and then walked to the ledge. “There.” He pointed. “They’ve been following ye nigh an hour.”

Whill could faintly make out movement far below. Abram saw them too. “There are at least twenty, damn! Do you think we will make it to the pass in time?”

“Doesn’t matter whether we will or no. We’ll kill ’em before we get there,” he said with a proud voice.

“What!” Whill exclaimed. “You intend to fight them? I am sure you can wield that axe with great skill, but they are too many. Even with the three of us we are outnumbered almost six to one. It would be suicide!”

“I’ll not run from those beasts! This is a dwarf mountain, this is, and I’ll defend her as such. Those foul ones will learn the ferocity o’ the dwarves. We don’t back down, and we don’t run. They be the trespassers, and they will pay for their crimes.”

The dwarf’s face was red and his eyes watered as he spoke. Whill could sense that something very intense fueled this dwarf’s hatred for the Draggard.

Abram spoke up. “You may be proud enough to die taking on that many Draggard, but do not be foolish. We can get reinforcements and return to fight.”

“No!” The dwarf insisted in a deep voice. “If they find the door to the passageway, they’ll send messengers to report it. As ye know, they’ve a keen sense o’ smell—that’s how they track ye still. If they learn o’ the passageway into the city I’ll have failed in me duty, and that will not happen. I will fight! Ye can run like cowards if ye wish, but ye will never see the city!”

Whill stepped forward. “We are no cowards! But we should not run to fight these beasts hastily. We need to have a plan for attack.”

Abram agreed. “He’s right. I have seen one Draggard rip through ten men before falling to the blade. We will not defeat them if we simply stand and fight.”

The dwarf squinted at them, frowning. “I been watching ye and yer pursuers fer an hour now. I have thought o’ a plan for ambush already.” He pointed at the ledge directly above them. “On that ledge are many boulders, large enough to kill those beasts but small enough to push. I’ll wait there; the two o’ ye should wait o’er there.” He pointed in the direction he had come. “Ye can attack with those bows o’ yers once I’ve let loose the boulders.”

Abram looked at the ledge above, and at the boulders he and Whill would use as cover. “It is a good plan, master dwarf, but they will not all be killed by your falling rocks, nor our bows.”

The dwarf smiled mischievously. “I know. The rest will die by our blades.”

Whill laughed nervously. “You’re mad, did you know that?”

The dwarf’s smile faded. “Ye know, boy, men have died fer saying less to a dwarf. But I need yer help fer now, or else we would have to go round. That can be settled later, laddie. I advise ye to watch yer tongue.”

Abram watched the exchange and eyed Whill with a raised brow. Whill let out a frustrated sigh. “I apologize, master dwarf. Perhaps I have mistaken your bravery and cunning for—pardon the expression, insanity.” The dwarf eyed him suspiciously. “Could I know the name of such a fearless dwarf?”

The dwarf eyed him still. Whill assumed he was pondering whether to chop off his head or introduce himself. At last the dwarf, being accustomed to the ways of men, extended his hand. “I am Roakore, son o’ Ro’Din.” Whill shook his hand. It was like a rock. His skin was rough and his grip was crushing. Whill tried not to grimace and instead he manifested his discomfort into an animated look of surprise.

“You are the son of Ro’Din? Fallen king of the Ebony Mountains?”

Roakore released Whill’s throbbing hand. “Aye, but this ain’t no time fer conversation. Let us ready ourselves quickly.” He looked over the ledge once again. “They’ll be here soon.”

Just then Whill had an idea. “What if we bait the Draggard, try to get more of them in range for the falling rock?”

“What do you mean?” Abram asked.

Roakore laughed. “If ye would like to be the bait, boy, go ahead.”

Whill ignored him and produced the bag of diamonds from his pocket. He looked up at the ledge, determined the best spot, and dumped the diamonds onto the ground. They gleamed brightly even in the dim light. Roakore gasped at the sight of the large pile of gems. “How did ye obtain such a wealth o’ diamonds?”

“He defeated Rhunis of Eldalon in competition,” Abram said.

Roakore’s expression of shock did not fade. He looked at the diamonds and to Whill again. Finally he composed himself. “Indeed, if ye can beat the Dragonslayer, ye will be an able ally; though it makes me uncomfortable to leave these diamonds fer those beasts.”

Whill mocked the dwarf’s earlier conviction. “I as well, but they will all die as sure as the sun will set.”

Roakore simply nodded and let out a growling laugh. Abram urged them to go as he peered over the ledge. “They are coming.”

The three started for the boulders they would use for cover. Abram chose a large one about sixty feet from the diamonds. It was nine feet tall and as wide as four men, with a large crevice on the side opposite the ambush site. Abram climbed atop the boulder and squatted within the crevice. It was perfect for his intentions: he could quickly bring his bow over the top, and had a better vantage point from there.

Roakore nodded his approval. “I think that Whill here should come with me. ’Twill be a more effective attack if a bowman was directly above ’em as well. It’ll confuse ’em.”

Though Whill did not like the idea, Abram agreed. From the boulder he put a hand on Whill’s shoulder. “Aim for the neck and eyes.”

Whill nodded and began to follow Roakore. They walked down the trail a few feet before Roakore began to climb the rock face. “Quickly, boy, so we are not seen!”

Whill scrambled to keep up. The dwarf, with his short legs and arms, surprised Whill by how well he scaled the steep rock face. They climbed fifty feet before coming to another ledge. Once on the ledge Whill peered over the side. He could now see the Draggard much better as they advanced up the trail. There were two scouts thirty feet ahead of the main pack. One advanced along the trail, while the other took a different route, continually veering from the trail and stopping often, snout in the air.