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

killed five dragons—no small feat, even for a small army. Throughout the entire gathering Whill watched and listened keenly. All about him he saw a proud and noble people, listening intently to the stories of long-gone kings and heroes. History was the backbone of the dwarf culture, and their faith was stronger than that of any Whill had ever known. The peace within the eyes of those he looked upon—those who dedicated their lives to the greater good—gave Whill a feeling of great longing for a faith so strong, so resolute.

Whill followed no deity, but he was a spiritual man. Abram, those many years ago, had not presented Whill with any one religion, but had shown him many, and told him it was for him to decide what he believed. He came to see that all were relatively alike: promising salvation for blind faith, and damnation to nonbelievers. He could not follow blindly; he was a student of the world: always striving to learn more. With religion, one had to believe something to be true without proof, something Whill could not do—though he sometimes wished that he could. He had therefore come to the conclusion that whichever god or gods were real, they would judge him by his deeds and not his blind faith; they would see him as a good man with good intentions. He hoped that by following his heart and doing always what he saw to be right, he would find his salvation.

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Roakore had learned from Fior that Whill wished to set out first thing in the morning. He said his farewells to his many wives and children, and checked over the contents of his large pack. Seeing that all his needed provisions were included, he gathered his many weapons. He brought his four hatchets and his great axe—and also a new weapon he had himself invented but not yet tried. He called it the Stone Bird. To anybody but one with the powers to move stone, it would have seemed cumbersome. The weapon consisted of two smooth round rocks, twenty pounds each and connected by two thick, steel chains, which in turn connected to a short metal handle. He gazed upon that handle with a smile. He had been working on this weapon for nearly a year and could not wait to put it to use on a Draggard skull. The handle was covered in runes, listing the names of the many dwarf gods, and the names of his father and fallen brothers. Set at the bottom of the shaft was a single diamond encircled by smaller, dark red gems.

Roakore made his way to the main gate and was greeted by Fior, Whill and Abram, and a great many dwarves. After many farewells, the three made their way through the long and winding tunnels that would take them to the surface.

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“The king has granted usage o’ the railway,” Roakore told Whill and Abram, who had inquired why they had veered from the tunnel by which they had previously entered the city.

Soon, they entered a large cylindrical room with a wide stairway spiraling up along wall—so high that Whill could not see the top. “These stairs spiral up fer a thousand feet. It be a hell o’ a hike.” Roakore laughed at the frowning men. “Cheer up, lads! Usin’ the rail will save us hours an’ get us out o’ the mountain quicker.”

With that he began ascending the stairs two at a time. After less than an hour, and breathing heavily, the three companions finally came to the end of the giant stair. It ended in a small room, and before them was a large, heavily cushioned metal cart—larger than those used to haul coal and metals, but very similar otherwise. It sat upon a thin metal track that Roakore referred to as the rail. The rail led through a large hole in the wall and into the dark.

Whill eyed the contraption with worry. Without a word Roakore hopped over the side of the cart and sat down, then bid them to do the same.

“Trust me,” said Roakore. “These railways are sure an’ safe. We only have a few accidents a year.” He laughed again. “Whatever ye do, don’t put yer arms out... and hold on fer dear life.”

He pushed down on the single lever next to the cart, disengaging the blocking mechanism, and then disengaged the brake lever. They began to roll very slowly, literally at a crawl, for many moments. Whill frowned at Abram, who only shrugged. “Roakore,” he said, “are you sure this will be fas—”

The words in his mouth were replaced by his stomach as the cart suddenly shot down at such an angle that it felt more like they were falling. Roakore hooted and laughed maniacally, as did Abram, but Whill could only scream and hold on as the cart descended at breakneck speed down the pitch-black tunnel. Finally the track leveled out almost flat, and they came to an area lit every fifty feet with torches. But because of their speed, the torches passed like fence posts to a sprinting horse.

Whill had found his voice now, and hooted and hollered with the other two. The track led relatively straight, with only small changes in course. Soon they had traveled the many miles, and now the track leveled out altogether. Directly ahead Whill could see the end of the track and the stone wall beyond. He glanced nervously at Abram.

“Yer thinkin’ mayhap it’s time to slow down, eh?” Roakore said, and then pulled back hard on the brake. Sparks flew from under the cart, and the brakes gave an ear-splitting shriek in protest. They began to slow somewhat, but then to Whill’s horror, Roakore flew backwards, braking lever in hand. The brakes let up as they careened towards the end of the tunnel at high speed.

“Not to worry!” Roakore said, somewhat unconvincingly. “There is a backup.”

Whill saw what the dwarf meant, and groaned as he braced himself. Water splashed high as the track suddenly dipped low into a long shallow pool. Although it slowed the cart considerably, they did not stop completely, and all three screamed as it slammed into the barrier at the end of the track. End over end they flew through the air, slamming hard into the wall thirty feet away.

They lay at the base of the wall for a long moment, Whill and Abram groaning. Whill fought his dizziness and stood over the dwarf, who was rolling around in a fit of laughter.

“I take back what I said before, Roakore,” Whill said. “You are insane!”

Chapter 16 Smoke and Wings

Whill, Abram, and Roakore walked out into the early morning sun. They were a few miles south of where they had entered the mountain, and closer to the shore. The railway had taken them to the base of the great mountain range, and from the small cave they exited, they could see the dense forest before them.

Whill led the way at a good pace. Having spent so many years with one as knowledgeable as Abram, he could easily determine the direction they must go to get to Sherna. After more than an hour of hiking, Roakore halted them and sat on a rock.

“If the fear o’ Draggard on our tails causes ye to walk so fast, then consider that they would catch us anyway, an’ it would be better not to be exhausted if they do!” He pulled a piece of dried meat from his pack and ripped off a large chunk with his teeth.

Whill winked at Abram. “Good dwarf, I apologize if I set a pace too fast and grueling for you. How long do you wish to rest?”

Roakore’s eyes widened in rage and he began to stand, but then noticed the smirk upon Abram’s face. Seeing the teasing for what it was, he sat back once more and bit off another large piece of the meat. “Don’t ye go being a dragon’s arse, lad, I just don’t see the point in such haste. The meetin’ in Kell-Torey ain’t fer two weeks, an’ ’twill take us no more than ten days to get there.”

Abram regarded him, his smirk gone. “We believe that a friend of ours may be in danger—Tarren, the boy we told you of. If the Draggard followed us from Sherna, then we think it possible they may have caused more than a little trouble in the town.”

Roakore nodded as he stood, still chewing the meat. “Why didn’t ye say so?”

With that he took up the lead. The hardy dwarf surpassed their earlier pace, and indeed, the three were now running through the forest. After no more than fifteen minutes, Roakore abruptly stopped and turned to Whill with a strange scowl.

“How’s it that ye can run so, with the wound ye received to yer leg just two nights ago?”

Whill had forgotten about the wound almost completely after hearing the story of his parents. He had forgotten to act as if he still carried the wound, as Abram had warned him to.

His mind raced for an answer, but Roakore’s gruff gaze told him that lies were useless. “The wound wasn’t as bad as it seemed,” he said with a shrug, and began to walk past the dwarf.

Roakore grabbed him by the arm. “Let me see it.”

Abram intervened. “Can the inspection of Whill’s wound not wait until we reach Sherna? If Tarren truly is in danger, our pause may be detrimental.”

Roakore did not let go. “No, it cannot wait. If I’m to trust the two o’ ye on this long journey afore us, then I need an answer now—an answer that suits me!”

Whill pulled free and pulled up his pant leg, showing the area of his thigh where the wound had been.

Roakore’s eyes widened and he gripped his axe all the tighter. “I should’ve known when ye made the argument about the elves with King Ky’Ell. Yer in league with ’em, in league with the Draggard! Well, Roakore will not be so easily fooled. Come on then, ye assassins, let’s have a row!”

Whill only sighed and rolled his eyes to the sky. Abram, on the other hand, held out his hands in truce. “Roakore, think about what you are saying. Whill’s parents were murdered by the Draggard. What is this lunacy that you speak?”

Roakore spat stubbornly. “Then let’s have the truth from ye! A gash that deep from a Draggard tail don’t heal in a day. Its elf magic, I’m sure. What lie do ye have fer that one, eh?”

Whill looked at Abram. “We don’t have time for this.” He drew his father’s sword. Roakore made a defensive stance and scowled. “This is the sword of my father, forged for him by the elves. My family has a unique relationship with the elven people. And through that relationship we have obtained some of the elven powers. And though I have never even met an elf, I have the power to heal. That is the truth. Take it or leave it. And if you would judge me so for such powers, then so be that as well. You see the elves as enemies though you know not one; your kind curses the Elves of the Sun for what the Dark elves created. And that, my fierce friend, is simply stupid!”

They stared at each other for many long moments. Abram did not move either, looking from one to the other.

“We will