Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (22 page)

“Your words carry the weight of truth, Whill. You may be correct. There is no way to know.”

“Oh, but there is a way to find out. We could go and see.”

“What do you suggest? That we should leave here so we may discover the fate of Sherna? If the Draggard did attack, then the damage is done, and we can be of no help to them now. Three days have passed already since the Draggard would have been there.”

Whill saw the truth in Abram’s words. His anxiety did not wane, however; it only worsened. “And what if another Draggard group is sent to learn the fate of the ones we destroyed?”

“Perhaps they will be.” Abram stood and sighed, and then looked at Whill as he had never done before. “You decide our course, then. For it is truly your course, and I shall follow you as I have vowed, son of Aramonis!”

Whill regarded Abram with surprise, for he had forgotten what his title really meant. He had considered Abram to be his superior for his entire life, and the thought of him being instead his follower seemed strange. He stood.

“We leave tomorrow, then.”

Abram nodded. “Agreed.”

Roakore walked the distance to his clan’s housing. It was not a great distance from the king’s quarters, but Roakore took his time. His thoughts drifted to that dire day twenty years before when he had seen the fall of his home, his mountain. News that a Draggard queen was most likely within the Ebony Mountains, laying her thousands of filthy eggs, did not settle well with the brown-haired dwarf. His anger towards King Ky’Ell had died quickly; he himself had been shocked by his own words.

Roakore thought of the coming journey he was to take with Abram and Whill. In his few dealings with surface folk he had never acquired much of a liking for them, but he didn’t mind the thought of traveling with the two humans. They had proven themselves great warriors in his eyes.

As he turned the last bend in the tunnel to his clan’s caverns, he could hear the telltale sounds of dwarves training with weapons. Every dwarf within the mountain was to live for one thing and one thing only: to aid in the will of the gods. If a dwarf dedicated his life fully, it was believed that he or she would upon death find a place among his or her kin within the Mountain of the Gods. Their cause was to mine the great mountains of the world and free once again the many beautiful creations of their gods, the very things the god of the dragons had hidden deep long ago.

This belief was set firmly in the minds of the dwarves from childhood. It was their religion. Therefore they spent their lives mining, crafting, and sending out into the world the gold, silver, diamonds, and all other precious gems. To kill a dragon was the greatest feat of all, one that would ensure not only a place within the Mountain of the Gods, but even a seat among them.

Shortly after Roakore’s clan arrived in Dy’Kore, however, it was deemed that they should not participate in the mining of the mountain. Rather, their salvation came in the reclaiming of the Ebony Mountains. Since that day they had trained for battle. More than five thousand women and children had escaped, along with fifty adult males. Over one thousand of the children were now considered men, and they, along with the elders, trained hard for the coming battle. The women were not expected to fight; their duty was instead to increase the numbers of the diminished clan, which had once numbered more than fifty thousand. Because each elder male had five to twenty wives, Roakore’s clan had seen over ten thousand births in twenty years. Roakore himself boasted the highest number with twenty-seven wives who in those long two decades had borne him two hundred children, one hundred and nine of them males. Even at 120 years old he was young in the reckoning of the dwarves, who could live to see seven hundred years. He had not previously given much thought to women, however, and had not sired a child before the attack. His love had been the mines, and though he was a prince of the Ebony Mountains, he worked side by side with the other dwarves, mining the precious metals and jewels. He was renowned throughout the clans of the dwarves for his craftsmanship, for it was said that he was indeed one of the best of his time. His forte was in weapon-crafting, and his masterful works were some of the most sought-after pieces every trading season.

Roakore came out of the tunnel and into the main chamber of his people; before him at the opposite end stood two more tunnels. The tunnel to the right led to the large living quarters, while the one to the left led to the training chambers. Roakore turned left toward the main training room, passing many doors that led to private training rooms and armories. Roakore stepped into the main room and pride welled in his heart, as it always did, at the sight of his loyal people.

The room was vast, nearly two thousand feet square, with a mirrored dome ceiling and stone walls, three of which boasted a number of huge fireplaces. A one-hundred-foot chandelier boasting hundreds of torches hung from the ceiling. The mirrors reflected the many torches and shed a great amount of light throughout the room.

Roakore watched from the shadows as his fighters, mostly young dwarves with only small beards, practiced as hard as ever. These long and grueling sessions had gone on for the last twenty years for fourteen hours a day, and he knew that these dwarves before him were the greatest warriors that dwarf history would ever know. Each had a horrible story to tell of the evil day their mountain was taken; each lived for one reason, one goal; each harbored within him a rage and hatred for the Draggard so great that it drove him to train well beyond his limits each and every day.

Roakore did not want to disturb their practice, but having been gone at his own request on sentry duty, he knew that his appearance now would inevitably bring training to an abrupt halt. Preparing himself, he walked slowly into the room. Before he had gone more than five steps into the well-lighted chamber, someone recognized him. The young dwarf stopped what he’d been doing—sparring with a fellow dwarf with large wooden replicas of their chosen weapons—and slammed his fist to his chest. His joy, and his proclamation of Roakore’s return, was short-lived, however, as his opponent’s wooden axe caught him in the side of the head, sending him crashing to the floor. Roakore laughed as he walked over to the dazed dwarf sprawled out on the floor. His opponent took up the cheer instead: “Roakore has returned!”

His words were taken up and echoed throughout the chamber until every dwarf had slammed his chest with his right hand and bowed low, silently awaiting Roakore’s words. The dazed dwarf made an utterly miserable sound as he tried to focus on Roakore, who was bent over him, slapping lightly his cheek. Roakore took him by the arm and helped him to stand. The young dwarf shook his head, and realizing whom he had seen, slammed his chest, almost knocking himself to the ground.

Knowing that he now had the attention of the entire chamber—more than a thousand young fighters—Roakore spoke loudly so all could hear. “What is yer name, boy?”

The young dwarf eyed him through heavy blinks and slightly crossed eyes. “Haldegoz,” he answered groggily.

“Well, young Haldegoz, can ye tell me why it be that ye lost this fight?”

Haldegoz scrunched up his thick eyebrows and scratched his short beard. “I saw ye, good King—that is, Roakore.” He cowered at his near mistake. Every dwarf knew that Roakore had prohibited anyone from calling him king, saying that he would not accept the title until he earned it, until he stood before his people within the chambers of the Ebony Mountains, upon the throne of his forefathers.

Roakore ignored the slip and instead scowled at the surrounding crowd. “In warfare there ain’t no time fer pleasantries, there ain’t no time fer formality! In warfare there ain’t no rules but one: if ye don’t kill yer opponent, he’ll kill ye! Haldigoz was defeated because he let his concentration slip, he let down his guard. In the midst o’ battle, to lose yer concentration be to lose yer life. Never let down yer guard, never relent, never take yer eyes from yer enemy!”

He patted the young dwarf on the back and raised his arms. “Now let us see what Haldigoz’s opponent has learned!” He took up Haldigoz’s wooden axe and eyed the dwarf the lad had been fighting. “What is yer name, lad?”

The slightly older boy puffed out his chest and proclaimed, “I be Ky’Drock, son o’ Ky’Kronn.”

Roakore slammed his chest and bowed slightly, purposefully, though he owed the young dwarf no such sign of respect. Ky’Drock beamed as he returned the gesture. It was just what Roakore had wanted. In a flash he was upon the bowing dwarf, striking hard with his wooden axe. Ky’Drock’s expression turned from sheer delight to horror as the rightful king of the Ebony Mountains attacked. The lad barely blocked the massive blows as he tried to stay on his feet. But Roakore did not relent. He swung low, then high, then straight down from above.

With Roakore’s last blow, though, Ky’Drock began an offensive attack. To Roakore’s delight, the young warrior met him blow for blow, never getting close to striking, but putting up a good defense. Roakore lessened his own defenses, acting as though he had barely blocked several blows, and stumbled back, staying on his heels, letting young Ky’Drock gain confidence with every strike. When the young warrior becaome too cocky Roakore stepped up the fight. Ky’Drock swung from left to right and Roakore stepped aside with ease. Then the young dwarf came overhead, and instead of blocking high, Roakoke stepped aside and let the wooden axe hit the stone floor as he brought his own axe down on top of Ky’Drock’s. Roakore pinned Ky’Drock’s axe with his own and with his left fist gave the bent lad a strong backhand. Ky’Drock took the blow but did not let go of his pinned axe. Roakore struck him again and swung his axe up, aiming at the kneeling lad’s face. Ky’Drock had only one choice and he took it: he fell back out of reach of the wooden axe, rolling as he fell.

Before the lad could get up, Roakore came out of his spin and slammed his axe Ky’Drock’s way, sending the boy rolling to his left to avoid the great blow. Ky’Drock rolled one, two, three times; then, as Roakore came down for a fourth try, the young dwarf reversed his spin and came back at him. Roakore’s axe missed as Ky’Drock changed direction, bringing the young dwarf within an inch of his feet. Ky’Drock kicked Roakore in the gut hard, and Roakore spun away.

Ky’Drock was on his feet in an instant and charged in hard, Roakore blocked an overhead strike and then a side strike. Ky’Drock then struck low, attempting to swipe Roakore’s feet, but Roakore was quicker. He leapt over the axe and came in hard as the momentum of the wooden axe spun the young dwarf to the side. Roakore struck him behind the trailing knee, buckling it and dropping him onto that knee. Then Roakore spun in the opposite direction, blocking the oncoming counter with such force that it sent Ky’Drock onto his back.

Roakore chopped at Ky’Drock’s legs, but the energetic young dwarf proved agile indeed as he brought his legs up and over his head and rolled into a standing position, axe ready. Then Roakore came on full force, his powerful blows keeping the lad on his heels. Left, right, left, overhead, right, the onslaught came. Finally Roakore feinted right, and when Ky’Drock was dedicated to the block, he twirled left. Before the dwarf knew what had happened, Roakore had slammed the axe into his side. Even as the young dwarf fell to his right, Roakore twirled around and swept the beaten dwarf’s legs, causing him to land on his own axe. Roakore spun again and stopped his wooden axe an inch from Ky’Drock’s neck.

“Yer dead.”

The astonished dwarf only stared and gulped. Roakore lent the lad a hand and gave him a heavy pat on the back as Ky’Drock smiled, holding his ribs. Roakore handed Haldigoz his axe. He addressed the onlooking crowd.

“Me good dwarves o’ the Ebony Mountains, me warriors! Hard ye have all trained these long years. Before me now I see skilled warriors, dedicated fighters, a great tribute to our fallen friends. Let me say that each o’ yer fallen fathers smiles down upon ye this day from the great Mountain o’ the Gods! Long has been our road, and stained in blood it be, but we finally reach the end. A war is coming, one that’ll include all kingdoms o’ Agora! Our part will be one o’ great importance. Not only will we take back what be rightfully ours, but we will rid the world o’ a great evil.”

The chamber erupted in cheers. The deep, booming voices of the thousand dwarves was deafening.

“But be know’in this: we must not underestimate our enemy! Fer a trusted source tells me that a queen Draggard now inhabits our lost mountain.” Roakore spat at the mention of the beasts, as did hundreds of his followers. “We may be facing an army o’ over two hundred thousand!”

Roakore watched closely as many hushed conversations broke out. On the faces of his followers he saw surprise, and anger, and confusion, but he did not see fear.

“But, me brave warriors, we’re not alone! When the time comes, our kin’ll march with us, from Ky’Dren and the Elgar Mountains to the east.” He raised his voice so that his next statement echoed loudly throughout the chamber, his great voice booming. “An’ let it be known now, the march o’ the three clans o’ the dwarves will be echoed in song fer all eternity! The great deeds we do in the name o’ our fathers—like the flowing o’ our own blood, which we gladly give—will live on in our sons fer all time. We will reclaim our mountain, we will defeat the Draggard, and we will bleed with wide smiles in the faces o’ our enemy. Victory, glory, our home, will soon be ours!”

The chamber roared. The cheers and the stomping boots of the excited dwarves were so great, they could be felt by Whill and Abram, far down the long corridors of Dy’Kore.

There came a knock at Abram’s door, and Ky’Ell entered. “Are ye ready for a tour o’ me great city, then?”

They followed the barrel-chested king through the many halls and chambers of Dy’Kore. After descending a number of stairs they came to the great under-city. Huge furnaces roared on all sides as they walked through. Thousands of dwarves were hard at work shoveling coal into the large pyres, or wheeling barrels of coal from adjoined tunnels. The heat was almost unbearable for Whill, and after only a few minutes his brow dripped with sweat. Here steel and iron, gold and silver were melted down to be reshaped by the great smiths of the city. Next to each furnace was at least one work station, and here hundreds of smiths banged away tirelessly, crafting goblets and jewelry, weapons and armor.