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

gold. The three spent more than an hour within the Chamber of Treasures. The king told the many tales that went along with each item, and Whill looked on in amazement all the while.

Next the king brought them to one of the main living quarters of the dwarves, a twenty-story cylindrical shaft more than five hundred feet wide. Whill stood in awe as he looked over the rail from the top story down onto the many balconies. Each level was identical with hundreds of doors all spaced the same distance apart, and a torch burning at every one. The only difference between each door was the family name, which was set in stone and decorated to the inhabitant’s liking. The living quarters boasted four equally distanced, large pulley machines, with four stout dwarves manning each. Up and down they went, carrying up to ten passengers within a circular cage. Though there were stairs as well, the machines made it much easier for the more than fifty thousand dwarves within these quarters to come and go.

The king showed Abram and Whill many more wondrous sights that day, and made a point of repeating that it would take years to see all of the dwellings and tunnels of the mountain; Dy’Kore, though large, was but a small piece of the Ky’Dren kingdom, which stretched more than seven hundred miles under the Ky’Dren Pass and north to the sea.

When they returned to the king’s chambers, Ky’Ell rubbed his stout belly and informed them with a grin that it was dinnertime.

To Whill’s dismay, Roakore did not join them this time, but he was both delighted and greatly impressed when he walked into the dining room once again and discovered more than a hundred dwarves—men, women, and children alike—seated at the massive table. This, Abram quietly told him as they sat down, was the tradition of the king’s banquet. Every other night the king would dine with his people, regardless of rank or position. Invitations were sent out months in advance, and dwarves would come eagerly from the farthest reaches of the mountain, some traveling for weeks, to dine with their king.

Whill was truly impressed. His respect for Ky’Ell had been great from the beginning, but now it was profound. Upon the face of every dwarf seated at the massive table was a bright smile, and each regarded their king with utter reverence.

Before the food, came ale in large mugs. White froth dripped down the sides of the overfilled and heavily adorned goblets. Barrels had been set along the table every five feet, each tapped and ready, to better accommodate the ale-loving lot. The king took his cup and stood, and every dwarf in attendance followed in his lead.

“Let me begin by commending each and every one o’ ye, me dear dwarves. May yer beards grow to the floor, and may yer families prosper. May each and every one o’ ye, through ye many great deeds—whether large or small—find yer way into the Mountain o’ the Gods.”

The dwarves responded with a hardy “who-waaahh” and chugged their beers. Whill and Abram followed suit, guzzling frantically to keep up with the veteran king. After the mugs were emptied, and at Ky’Ell’s lead, they filled them once again.

“Also, to me left be two visitors from the outside, great warriors an’ great men indeed—Draggard slayers they be! Our friends an’ allies: Abram, an’ Whill o’ Agora!”

Again the dining hall erupted into many cheers, which were soon muffled as the dwarves chugged down their ale.

With introductions complete, the king refilled his mug again and sat down at the head of the great table. On cue, Fior nodded to the waiting servers, and the food came out by the wheel-barrels—literally. Whill had never seen so much food and, indeed, did not know what some of it was. It did not take him long to surmise that the dwarves favored meat—and lots of it—for the only vegetables he could see were potatoes. Nevertheless the food was excellent, nothing less than what one would expect from the table of the king.

Such feasts were commonplace among the dwarves, whose wealth had no rivals. Aside from the constant hard work—which they reveled in—every last dwarf of Ky’Dren lived a lavish and comfortable life. Ky’Dren was the greatest Kingdom of all the dwarf mountains. The precious metals, weapons, jewelry, gold, and other such wares that they produced, were traded throughout Agora; in return, the dwarves received all the food, supplies, and ale they would ever need.

The feast went on for more than two hours, and by that time Whill was feeling the effects of the dark dwarf ale; he was so full he thought he might burst. The dwarves spoke openly with the king, telling stories and sharing jokes, and simply enjoyed their once a year dinner with the great dwarf. Whill looked around in wonderment at the joy around him—the hearty laughter of the king, the joyous smiles of the common folk. He made a mental note to host similar banquets when he himself became king.

When he became king... the thought brought a solemn expression to the young man’s face. How could he be king? Uthen-Arden was the largest Kingdom in all of Agora, with hundreds of thousands of citizens. How could he rule such a powerful empire?

Whill was not the sort to think little of himself; on the contrary, he knew he was well educated, could speak every language of the peoples of Agora, and was indeed a great fighter. But a voice within said that this task was beyond him—that he would fail—and many would suffer his folly. Perhaps it was the pressure of sudden responsibility, or perhaps it was the ale, but Whill had a keen feeling that his legacy would be one of tragedy and failure. He indeed feared King Addakon; could he defeat such a foe? Pondering this, he realized when he finally did look upon Addakon, he would be in essence looking upon the image of his own father. Whill’s first encounter with Addakon would give him a glimpse of his lost father. In those first moments of revelation—in the heat of the inevitable battle—would he lift his sword for the kill? Could he strike the image of his father down?

––––––––

After four hours of hard training with his men, Roakore commanded all to stop. This had been one of the most grueling sessions to date, and every dwarf in the training room was winded and soaked with sweat. Each had obtained more than a few bruises, and all were utterly spent. They had sparred nonstop for ten hours straight, and how proud Roakore was. He looked upon his dwarves now with a great smile—the greatest warriors his race had ever known—and imagined their glory when the mountain was finally taken back.

“Ye have all done well, ye have all done me proud!” Roakore cried, and then fought back the swelling in his throat and the moisture in his eyes as he took in the sight before him. Here stood one thousand loyal dwarves. Most were barely considered adults, but all felt the loss of their prided mountain. Many of these lads before him would die in the reclaiming of it—perhaps all—but none cared. For the glory of their king, and the vengeance of their kin, each and every warrior before him would walk to the ends of the earth and fight an army of demons. Roakore knew then, as he looked into the eager eyes of his followers, that no force in the world would stop them in their time of glory. Dragon or Draggard be damned, the mountain would be theirs once again!

“Our time o’ glory soon approaches! Soon we will march to our homeland; soon we’ll again see the great peak o’ Drenzedell; soon will be our hour o’ vengeance!”

The room once again erupted in cheers. Soon, Father, he said to himself. Soon will be the hour.

He left the training room and made his way to his family’s hall. He did, after all, have twenty-seven wives waiting for him, all hoping for a chance to aid the cause with another child.

––––––––

After the fine ale and shared stories, everyone filed out of the dining room and down several winding corridors. It had come to Whill’s attention that it was a holy day among the dwarves—the day in which Dy’Kore himself had claimed the great mountain. The day of promise was celebrated every year.

Feeling very warm inside, and unable to hide his ale-induced grin, he ambled along with a group of very excited dwarves. All of them had welcomed Whill and Abram warmly, uncharacteristic of their gruff reputation. No doubt it was due to the spreading story of the fight with the Draggard two nights previous.

With every step Whill could hear the growing sound of many drums—hundreds it seemed—beating in unison in the chamber ahead. Soon the group entered a massive natural cavern much unlike the halls and tunnels of the rest of the city. Here no walls had been smoothly chiseled, no level ceiling had been smoothed out; indeed, the only alteration to the immense cavern was the carvings on the many walls, and the massive stalactites and stalagmites.

Abram and Whill stood side by side in mutual awe at the sight of the tens of thousands of dwarves already within the cavern. Before Whill could comment, the drumming abruptly stopped, and all attention fell upon the western wall of the cavern. Fior stood high upon a ledge where all in attendance had a clear view. He wore red flowing robes with gold trim, and in his left hand was a staff adorned with enough jewels to see ten men through fifty years of comfortable life. As the final echo of the drums was lost in the surrounding stone, and the murmurs died away, Fior spoke in Dwarvish.

“Long ago, on the vast green surface world, a great dwarf by the name o’ Ky’Dren was born.”

He paused for effect as his deep melodic voice echoed throughout the cavern. Near him stood four dwarf children, still as stone and looking wide-eyed up at the storyteller. They had of course heard this tale a hundred times, but only rarely did they have the pleasure of hearing it from the mouth of the gifted Fior.

“Before the time o’ Ky’Dren, our people lived on the surface, on the never ending rolling fields o’ green we called home. We were aimless creatures, broken into many tribes; many o’ us fought amongst ourselves as the humans still do. Always were we at war, and ever were we threatened by the horrible dragons. But our gods sent us a prophet, a messiah—indeed, the greatest dwarf that ever lived!”

Fior paused as the crowd bellowed “Ky’Dren” in unison.

“The gods spoke to Ky’Dren, and bestowed upon him the ability to move stone with only a thought. ‘Go to the mountains,’ the gods told him, ‘for within them lies the most beautiful o’ our creations, buried by the jealous and evil gods. Defeat the dragons, find and free our riches, and forever shall ye live within the Mountain o’ the Gods.’”

He paused once again as a slow beat was taken up by the many drummers. “And so Ky’Dren and his many followers went to the great mountain range now named after him, and there carved out what would become the first halls of our ancient city.”

Fior went on for more than an hour, recounting the many battles those ancient dwarves had faced, and the grandest of all stories, how Ky’Dren had single-handedly