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

off his legs. “A little farther down the passage there is a spring that trickles down from the ceiling. The best darn water ye’ll ever drink, or I’m a midget.” He burst into hearty laughter at his own joke. His voice boomed in the small space, echoing throughout the tunnel. Whill had a slight headache, and the sound was like a hammer to his temples. Nevertheless, he found the dwarf funny and laughed also. With a hand from Abram, he got to his feet. His leg still hurt, but he was able to put a little more weight on it now.

They began once again down the tunnel. It had run fairly straight for most of the journey, but now it began to wind in some places. It became slightly steeper in some spots, and then ran down again. With no sunlight penetrating the space, Whill had no idea what time of day it was. He guessed it was early morning. Roakore spoke as they walked, giving them a short history of the mountain and the Ky’Dren dwarves. Whill remembered that Roakore had said he was from the Ebony Mountains, and hoped it would not be rude to inquire.

“Roakore, may I ask...what has become of your people?” he said in a raspy voice.

The dwarf slowed and turned to look at him. He cleared his throat and walked on, now to Whill’s right rather than in front. “Like me, they be livin’ here within the mountain. Our numbers were greatly diminished after the Draggard attack, but we’ve survived.” Whill thought that to be the end of the awkward conversation, but then the dwarf went on, looking past the torchlight to the darkness beyond.

“It were twenty years ago when it happened, but I remember it like it be yesterday, ’twas a black day for us dwarves. A black day indeed. Somehow the Draggard learned of our southern harbor passage. Shortly after dark they came. There were thousands. Our guards were quickly overrun, an’ word came from the survivors that the beasts had penetrated the tunnels. The great horn of Illia blew, soundin’ the alarm, an’ that is when we heard ’em coming.

“We dwarves can fight better’n men, make no mistake, especially when guarding our treasures an’ family. But they were too many. We wasn’t prepared for such an attack and were greatly outnumbered. I alone killed more’n a hundred, but still they came, hordes and hordes of ’em, bloodthirsty an’ wild. I watched as me kin fell dead all ‘round me. An’—me father.” Roakore stopped. He still stared straight ahead, his eyes now watery. Whill tried to act as if he did not notice, and Roakore went on with his tale of horror.

“Me father died in me arms. With his last breath he told me the mountain had fallen and I had to leave. I begged him to let me fight—I told him I would kill every last one. But he forbade it. He said I would not lose my honor if I fled. He asked me to save as many as I could and flee here to our kin, the Ky’Dren, and return one day with a great army to claim the mountain once again. His last words were, ‘Ye be king now, me son. Ye alone must lead our people to victory. Do this and ye shall join me in the Mountain o’ the Gods.’ I did as he wished, and we retreated through the northern tunnel. For weeks we traveled north through the Uthen forest, all along hunted by the Draggard.” He stopped. His last word echoed eerily throughout the passage. Whill had a newfound sense of dread. The dwarves had been defeated by thousands of Draggard that inhabited the mountain still. No one believed such a number were living within Agora, or if they did believe, they refused to admit it. But having seen Roakore fight, he knew it would indeed take thousands to defeat so many dwarves.

Whill saw Roakore wipe his eyes surreptitiously. He felt sorry for the dwarf, surviving king of a mountain lost. “Have you yet tried to take it back?” He inquired, hoping not to anger Roakore. Abram gave him a warning look.

“No, that we have not. King Ky’Ell o’ Ky’Dren believes that this be a test. He has said that it be the duty o’ the survivors, women an’ children alike, to take back the mountain. He will help, o’ course, as will the Elgar dwarves, but not until the older children and men have mastered the arts o’ war.

“These many years we’ve done naught but train vigorously, preparing fer the day the mountain is taken back. And it will be soon. Many o’ the young’uns are now grown. They be handy with the blade and eager to take back what is rightfully theirs.”

They came to the spring Roakore had mentioned. It trickled from the ceiling and into a large basin that had been built to catch it. The basin was made of white marble and had no stand, but was attached to the wall. From its curved lip, water poured steadily into a small hole in the floor. Each of them took a turn filling his canteen and drinking the fresh mountain spring water right from the basin. Whill drank his fill and let out a satisfied sigh as the water ran down his chin. The water made his sore and parched throat feel much better.

“Indeed, master dwarf, that is the best water I have ever had, or call me a liar,” he said.

Abram wiped his mouth and capped his canteen. “Aye, the best water this side of the great blue ocean.”

Again they journeyed down the long tunnel. For hours they walked, stopping rarely to eat and rest, but talking all the way. Whill listened mostly, due to his still-irritated throat. Abram told Roakore their story, leaving out how he had come to have Whill in his care. He spoke also of their many travels, the tournament, and the battle with the pirates. He left out any mention of Whill’s healing ability, however, knowing it would not settle well with the dwarf.

The going was slow, but finally they came to the entrance to the city. The tunnel ended as they ventured into a large room with high ceilings. It was well lit with torches, and a great pit lay at its center. Whill could see more torches lit on the other side, along with many armored dwarves. Looking over the edge of the great pit, he could see no bottom. A large wooden drawbridge stood closed on the other side. “Who goes there?” called a gruff voice.

Abram nudged Whill and pointed up. “It looks as though security has risen since last I was here.” Whill looked up and saw that a large rack hanging from the ceiling bristled with long sharp spikes. He assumed that if they did not answer correctly, the rack would quickly be dropped. “’Tis I, Roakore o’ the Ro’Sar Mountain,” the dwarf announced. “I come from guard duty, and with me be two humans—one a good friend o’ the king an’ carryin’ the family crest. Just last night they helped me destroy a horde o’ twenty Draggard intent on finding the city. We wish to enter.”

Soon the drawbridge began to lower with a rumble. The thick wood came down with a loud thud that reverberated throughout the large chamber. Roakore guided them across the bridge and stopped when he reached the other side. Ten armored dwarves stood guard, blocking the passage beyond. Two came forward, greeting Roakore in turn with a slam to the chest. They eyed Whill and Abram suspiciously. Their great axes were like Roakore’s, and upon their heads were thick helmets that covered all but their faces. Their armor was thick and appeared very heavy. It consisted of broad shoulder and chest plates with thick mail underneath. Their arms and legs were protected by what appeared to be dragonhide; the thick scales overlapped one another and shimmered in the torchlight. The guard with the red beard spoke up, pointing at Whill and Abram.

“What binness d’ye ‘ave ‘ere?”

Abram answered in the dwarf tongue, telling him that they sought counsel with the great king. When questioned, Whill spoke Dwarvish as well. The guards were visibly impressed by their fluency, and by the royal crest that Abram presented.

“Welcome, dwarf friends,” said the red-bearded dwarf. “It be good to see men who’ve taken time an learnt our talk, an’ speak it so good. I’ve heard of ye, Abram. Ye fought aside our great king. ’Tis an honor.” He did not bow, and he did not shake hands. Instead, he slammed his fist to his own chest and nodded, casting his gaze to the ground in the greeting of respect. The second guard did the same, but did not speak.

Abram did not return the gestures, he simply nodded to each. This was not meant as an insult, Whill knew; it simply was not required of him to greet them in such a manner, as he did not know their names or reputations. The dwarves simply regarded Whill with a nod, which he returned. Roakore, however, received the same greeting as Abram had, for his stature among his kin was great. If they had not greeted him in such a way, it would have been a sign of lack of respect.

The red-bearded dwarf regarded Roakore. “’Tis good to see ye return Roakore, can ye tell me aught o’ this battle with the Draggard?”

Roakore answered plainly, “Ye’ll hear o’ it soon enough, I’m sure, but not from me. We seek the comfort o’ Dy’Kore and be eager to arrive. Go well, friend.”

The dwarf was visibly disappointed but stood tall and, in a firm voice, responded, “Go well.”

Roakore nodded to Whill and Abram and started off once again down the tunnel. It had widened considerably and was now lit by wall hung torches every ten feet. The walls themselves were decorated with carvings from top to bottom. Whill got a keen sense of the age of their culture, along with nostalgia for a vast and deep history. There were many carvings concerning the battles of old, such as dwarf kings sitting on great thrones, dragons spewing fire by the mountain, and dwarf armies marching against men; and many others which were less war-like in nature, like diamond-mining, great feasts, and celebrations. But above all else the walls depicted the revered dwarf gods. Great murals loomed above, spanning the arched tunnel. Whill had only ever heard stories of the dwarf religion from Abram. There were no books on the subject, as they were a very secretive people and did not usually bother to explain their beliefs to outsiders. Whill could only guess who the gods in the carvings were, and though he was eager to find out, he thought better than to ask Roakore.

Soon they came upon two guards, one at either side of the tunnel. As Roakore approached, they gave him the same gesture of respect the drawbridge guards had. Without a word, the three walked past. Whill soon realized that a pair of guards was stationed every two hundred feet or so, and as they passed each, Roakore received the same gesture.

Whill was relieved when they finally reached the entrance to the city. Before them was another large pit of darkness and, across it, another large drawbridge. As before, Roakore answered a guard’s inquiry and the bridge was lowered. Whill gasped as he viewed the giant double doors that lay beyond. Each stood more than fifty feet high and twenty feet across, and appeared to be made of iron with huge steel braces. Across their