Whill of Agora: Book 1 - Michael Ploof (e book reader for pc .TXT) 📗

By the ocean’s water or dragon’s fire

The end shall come at long last;

So light up your smoke so fast you choke

And drink your beer down fast!

Whill was familiar with the old drinking song, for he had heard it in countless other taverns and pubs. He hummed along as he looked around the room. It had a high cathedral ceiling; stairs on the right led to the second-floor balcony, which boasted many doors but no windows. Abram led them to the bar, and many eyes followed. The bartender was a stout, rugged-looking fellow with a white beard down to his belt. He wore a fisherman’s cap and brown overalls with a white shirt. He smiled at their approach, and his leathery skin seemed to stretch uncomfortably as he presented a toothless grin. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who did a lot of smiling, and Whill could see that this one was rehearsed.

“Good day, good day, friends! Name’s Hagus. What can I do for ya?”

Before Abram or Whill could respond, Tarren spoke up. “We’ll be needing a room for the night, three cots if you have ’em, and hot baths if you could.” He grinned at Whill and went on. “We been at sea for a long and dangerous haul, and need bath and good food. I can still feel the pirate scum on my skin.”

Abram laughed, and Hagus frowned. “The boy’s name is Tarren,” Whill said. “I’m Whill, and this is Abram. Tarren is right, we could use all he requested. The room we’ll need only for the night—if you have one available.” He mussed Tarren’s hair.

Hagus maintained a steady frown as he pondered on something, and in the absence of teeth, his bottom lip touched his nose. “Pirates, says you. Is the boy one with a wild and fibbin’ imagination, or does he speak true?”

Abram gave Tarren’s shoulder a slight squeeze. “The boy has a good imagination, yes, but a liar he is not. I’m afraid it is a long one, but if you could get us what we need, we will tell you the tale of Cirrosa’s demise—over some Dragon’s Brew, of course.”

“Cirrosa!” Hagus yelled, catching the attention of half the room. He bent low and whispered, “That scum hasn’t been spotted in these waters in over a year.”

Whill bent low to match the bartender’s stance and, after an animated look, said, “Seen him we have—and his blood dries upon my friend’s sword as we speak.”

Hagus’s bushy eyebrows seemed in danger of leaping from his face. “No!”

“Yes. Would you like to be the first on land to hear the story, or can you not accommodate us at this time?”

Hagus fumbled for some glasses. “No, no! No—um, Dragon’s Brew you said? Comin’ right up, and—oh—Sheria! Sheria!” he called towards the door at the back of the bar.

A woman of about fifty emerged carrying two bowls of stew. She wore a long brown dress with orange trim, and a brown handkerchief upon her head held back her long grey hair. She was pretty, with a more natural smile than Hagus’s.

“Sheria,” Hagus said hastily, “after you’ve served those, get our guests a room ready. Make it the north room.” He poured the Dragon’s Brew from a large barrel mounted on the back wall. Sheria nodded and began on her way as Hagus burst out again, “Wait, woman, I’m not done! Have three baths prepared, and see to their luggage—and horses, if they have any.” He turned to Whill as he set the beer in front of them. “Do you have horses?” Whill shook his head in amusement. “No horses? Never mind—em, ah—and have Jenna cook up the special—three orders, right? And not today’s special, the special special.”

Sheria didn’t move. She merely stood and deadpanned her husband. Though Whill thought it impossible, Hagus blushed and gave a weak smile, “Please, my love?”

Sheria nodded, satisfied. “Of course, dear.”

She gave them a small bow and went on her way. Hagus let out a long breath. “My wife, she’s a doll. Jenna, our daughter, she’s the cook in the family. My other daughter—Oreona—she works with us also. Now, uh, where was I—oh, yes—young lad, could I interest you in some cider?”

“Please, sir!”

Hagus got Tarren a tall glass of cider and excused himself, retreating to the back.

Whill chuckled. “Have you ever seen anyone so excitable?”

Abram took a long swallow, then turned to Tarren, who had just taken a seat on a large stool. “Listen, my boy, when we tell our version of the story, keep quiet about getting your throat cut and Whill healing you.”

“Aww, but that’s the best part!”

“That may be,” Whill said, “but I don’t want the trouble of having to explain powers I don’t understand. And that kind of stuff makes people nervous. Just don’t mention it, alright? For all our sakes.”

“I guess,” Tarren huffed.

“Promise?” Abram asked.

“I Promise,” he said reluctantly.

Tarren looked very disappointed, so Abram smiled and patted him on the back. “I tell you what. If you can keep quiet about it now, I’ll let you tell the whole story to the king when we get to Kell-Torey.”

Tarren lit up, and Whill thought the boy’s eyes might pop out of his head. “The king, really? You really mean it, Abram? You have my word!”

Hagus returned and set two more beers on the bar. His expression was a little easier now. “Your rooms will be ready shortly. You can leave your luggage with me and it will be seen to. Your baths are ready as well, and food will follow. So whenever you’re ready, go ahead. The bathing room is up the stairs, first room on the right.”

“Thank you,” Whill said. “I think I’ll do just that.” He retrieved two gold coins from his pocket and set them on the bar.

Hagus looked at the gold in amazement. “Good sir, the room, meal, bath—well, the cost for all is no more than twenty in silver.”

Whill leaned in and said, “Yes, but we will need more of your services before we leave. Consider this advance payment. A man’s silence is a costly thing at times. I trust we will not gain any unwanted attention by entrusting you with our story. Not, that is, until we are far from here.”

Hagus was adamant. “Yes, sir, mum’s the word! You can count on me!”

“Good.”

Whill made his way upstairs, and Abram and Tarren soon followed. The bathing room consisted of four large tubs, three steaming with hot water. Next to each tub there was a small table with towels, soaps, and scrub brushes. A large fireplace roared with four large kettles of boiling water above it.

Whill soaked in the hot water long after Abram and Tarren had finished. His muscles still ached from the incident with Tarren. The hot water and fire had almost lulled him to sleep when a girl, who must have been Oreona, entered the room. She instantly looked at the floor.

“Begging your pardon, Whill, sir, but your food is ready and your friends await you downstairs.”

“Thank you. Tell them I will join them shortly.”

She nodded and left as Whill got out and dressed in clean clothes.

Downstairs the band had taken a break, and there were about half as many people as before. Abram and Tarren sat at a large table; they had waited for Whill to begin. The table was set with a blue velvet cloth and fine dishes. A large pot of steaming stew sat at the middle with two loaves of marbled bread, a small plate of butter, white cheese, and an assortment of fruits. There was also a pitcher of beer with two Tankards, and a smaller pitcher of cider with a mug for Tarren. Whill grabbed a Tankard and toasted with his friends.

“Lelemendela.”

Tarren asked what it meant and Whill explained, “To life.” Tarren insisted that they do it again so he could join in.

They ate and made little conversation. Whill was surprised by his own appetite; he had three helpings of stew and finished off a loaf of bread by himself—along with half the brick of cheese.

When they were done, Abram lit his pipe and sat back, content. “While you were bathing, Hagus told me of an excellent blacksmith where we can purchase some fine arrows,” he said.

Tarren lit up. “Do you think I could get my own sword? I might need it if we run into villains on the way to the mountains.”

Abram and Whill eyed one another.

“Tarren, Abram and I must venture to the mountains alone.”

“But, Whill—”

“Let me finish. In your father’s absence we must do as he would wish. I do not think your father would permit you to go into the mountains. You will stay here in town until we return.”

Tarren’s eyes watered. “But who will I stay with? Wouldn’t I be much safer with the two of you? What if the pirates come back for me? Please let me go, please!”

Will knew exactly how the boy felt; he had felt the same when Abram left those many times in his youth. Now he saw himself in Tarren—a scared child trying desperately to act tough; not understanding why he must stay; wondering if he was unwanted.

“I know you want to come, Tarren, and I would love to have you with us, but this is not a decision we can make on your parents’ behalf. When we return, you will journey with us to Kell-Torey. Let there be comfort in that at least.”

Tarren’s shoulders sank. “How long will you be?”

“It will take us two days each, there and back again,” Abram said. “How long we will be in the dwarf city, I cannot say, but it should be no longer than a few days.”

Tarren looked no happier with this information. He slumped back in his chair and stared at his empty plate. Whill stood. “Would you like to come with me to get some supplies for our trip?”

Tarren could not help but smile as he got up from his chair. “Aye.”

Abram