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

see if what ye say o’ the elves is true, young Whill,” Roakore said at last. “But know this, it’d not be wise to ever lie to me again.” And cursing under his breath he ran off again.

Whill and Abram shared a look and raced after him.

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They ran on for several hours, not saying a word. To their left the distant sounds of the ocean could be heard. It was nearing noon, and Abram decided it was time for a break. Neither Whill nor Roakore argued the point.

They rested at the edge of a small clearing. Abram sat back against a thick oak tree and lit his long pipe, while Roakore found a suitable rock to sit on. Whill took a long and needed swig from his water skin, and then poured the cool water over his head. Though it was still spring and the temperature was mild, the run had made him quite hot.

He took a moment to look over the magnificent blade that had been his father’s. It was much different from his own, which was longer and much heavier. His father’s blade was thin and curved, and very light—though none of those attributes made it any less of a weapon. On the contrary, the blade was perfectly balanced with a razor-sharp blade, a testament to the elves’ prowess as weapon-makers.

As he looked at the way the sun shone off the powerful blade and the many small diamonds about the guard, his gaze fell to his mother’s ring. He felt a strange bond with both—a connection he could not quite place—and they seemed to help fill a long-empty part of his heart.

Whill was roused from his deep thoughts as Roakore walked over and sat next to him. “So that’s the sword o’ yer father, eh?”

Whill noted that Roakore was trying to sound impartial. “Its name is Sinomara, named after my father, Aramonis. The elves name their swords to mirror themselves out of the belief that the sword and warrior should be as one to find true harmony.”

Roakore studied the blade for a moment with a raised eyebrow. “I admit, the craftsmanship be flawless...though it looks a bit too pretty to be o’ any real use.”

Whill only grinned, amused by the stubborn dwarf’s realization and attempted cover-up of the fact that he had in essence just complimented the elves.

Just then a shadow swept past as something flew overhead. Whill realized that it had been too large for a bird, but too small for a dragon. He looked up, as did Roakore, but there was nothing but the sun high above. Abram was already on his feet and moving out into the meadow as Whill and Roakore followed.

“What’s it, then?” asked Roakore as the two came up next to Abram.

Abram only stared north, above the trees at the edge of the meadow. He scanned the tree line for many moments before his eyes quickened. “There.” He pointed.

Both Roakore and Whill squinted as they tried to make out the large creature flying low some four hundred yards away. Abram was already gently pushing them back when Whill realized what it was.

“A Draquon? It can’t be.”

Roakore spat on the ground and patted Whill on the back. “Ye really know how to make enemies now, don’t ye?”

The Draquon were a less common, winged version of the Draggard. They were taller, at nearly twelve feet, and had longer tails as well. They closely resembled their dragon relatives, with thick gnarled horns on their head, and long pointed spikes running the length of their back.

The three companions ducked low as the Draquon began to cross the meadow, moving swiftly in their direction. Abram took up his bow and strung an arrow, and Whill followed suit

“A scout, no doubt,” said Whill. Abram nodded in agreement.

Roakore began a low chant then, and started spinning his stone bird.

Abram put his hand upon Roakore’s shoulder, gesturing for the dwarf to wait. “It has not yet spotted us!” he said in a hushed whisper.

Roakore shrugged Abram’s hand away. “Why wait till it spots us? The damned thing’ll be long gone before the two o’ ye get off a shot.”

Whill winced at Roakore’s loud voice. It was as if he meant to give away their position.

“It may not see us,” Abram pressed

Roakore’s face twisted into a maniacal grin. “Oh, it’ll see us, alright, and I’ll not be letting a beast such as that fly free regardless.” With that he pushed past the protesting Abram and ran out into the field, waving his arms and yelling.

“Here we are, ye stupid, dragon-spawned, demon-lovin’ beast! Come an’ taste me blade!”

Abram only rolled his eyes and, with a great sigh, sprang from the woods, bow ready. Their suspicions that this beast was only a scout were proven right when the Draquon reared and turned swiftly in the opposite direction. Whill and Abram let off a shot each but didn’t even come close as the beast rose into the air and flew away from them.

Just as Abram was about to chastise Roakore for being so stupid, the dwarf let out a guttural scream and swung the two-stoned weapon in wide arches, gaining more and more momentum as he chanted loudly. Finally he let loose the weapon in the Draquon’s direction. Abram and Whill watched in amazement as the spinning stones ascended higher when they should have fallen, and turned towards the flying beast when they should have gone straight.

The stones gained speed with the help of Roakore’s innate abilities to manipulate rock. The weapon came in hard on the beast, and hit with such force that the creature flipped four times in midair before descending to the ground in a heap of flailing wings. It landed less than thirty feet from Whill and Abram, who came running with bows ready.

The Draquon rose to its feet with a roar. One wing was broken but, though it could not fly, it could still run with great speed. Whill and Abram took up a shooting stance and let loose their arrows. The beast snarled defiantly as the arrows deflected harmlessly off its scaly armor.

Roakore was still standing in the same spot he had been, arms extended, chanting. The Draquon charged on all fours, baring its razor-sharp teeth, meaning to devour the lone dwarf. Suddenly Roakore’s stone bird came whirling across the meadow. To Whill and Abram it was but a blur as it slammed into the Draquon’s chest and sent the beast flying back ten feet.

Instantly Whill and Abram were upon it, blades drawn. Abram went straight for the eyes as Whill hacked and chopped, doing minimal damage to the monster’s armor. Suddenly the dazed beast was on its feet again, and clearly angry. Whill and Abram took a defensive crouch as Roakore barreled in from behind with his axe, screaming to the dwarf god of war. The beast turned to face him and brought its long tail around in a great sweep, but the dwarf hopped over it without missing a beat. At that instant, he appeared more ferocious than the Draquon itself.

Jumping again as the tail came in for a second pass, he flew straight at the monster with his axe raised over his head. The Draquon caught Roakore in its massive claws jerking him to a stop and increasing the momentum of the dwarf’s great axe. It came down fast, even as the monster realized its folly, but too late. With a primal scream, Roakore buried the axe into the Draquon’s head. The creature instantly fell in a dead heap, bringing Roakore along for the ride. Trapped beneath it momentarily, the dwarf spat and cursed, kicked and thrashed, trying to get out from under the massive corpse.

Whill and Abram quickly helped free the dwarf. He emerged unscathed and, with a great tug, freed his axe. Laughing all the while, he wiped the blood from his blade with his sleeve.

“Ha! Thought he could get away didn’t he, stupid beast. Ye see me stones take him right outta the air?”

“A great weapon indeed,” Abram concurred.

Whill only nodded, his gaze wandering to the west.

“What are ye thinkin’, lad?”

“There, over the trees.” Whill pointed across the meadow.

Abram and Roakore both squinted as they looked to the west. Abram noticed it first.

“Smoke rises in the distance.”

Roakore peered harder at the spot. “That’s the direction the Draquon was headed when he spotted us.”

Whill nodded. “The beast was headed for Sherna.”

They grabbed their packs and started west at a frantic pace. As the hours passed and they neared Sherna, the smoke could be seen much more clearly. They were at least five miles from the town, and at a lower elevation, but the smoke was easily visible. It was thick and black, and even from this distance, Whill could tell that a great many large fires had caused it.

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Rhunis stood at the helm of the warship Thunder as it made its way steadily eastward. His face was stern, brow bent, and his scowl was only intensified by the burn scar that covered a large portion of his face. He had been sent by King Mathus to find and aid Whill and Abram. Mathus had learned that, upon the pair’s hasty leave from Fendale, they had been tailed by none other than Captain Cirrosa. Rhunis had come across the wreckage of the Black Dragon three days after Whill and Abram’s departure and, to his amazement, found it utterly destroyed. He knew well Abram’s prowess as a fighter, and he had experienced Whill’s firsthand, but the idea of the two of them taking down the Dragon with only a fishing vessel made no sense; Cirrosa had a crew of more than fifty, and the Dragon was a warship. They’d had help in the fight, no doubt, but Rhunis could think of no logical explanation. If one of the many Eldalonian warships had helped in the battle, they would have taken the wreckage to port and been treated like heroes for such a kill. No, it hadn’t been the Eldalon navy, but if not them, then who?—or what?

The king had known Whill and Abram’s destination—a small fishing town on the southeastern coast of Eldalon, named Sherna. That was now the warship Thunder’s destination. Soon Rhunis would catch up to Whill and Abram, and find his answers. From there he was to bring them to Kell-Torey, where they were to meet with the king personally.

Rhunis was jolted from his ruminations by the lookout, who yelled down from the crow’s nest:

“Smoke ahead, smoke ahead!”

Rhunis looked eastward and saw it also. They were still five miles from Sherna.

The fires were visible through the trees as Whill, Abram, and Roakore sped through the woods. They had taken a route that would bring them out close to the beach, where they could get a good view of the town. As they reached the edge of the forest they could hear the unmistakable sounds of battle: metal striking metal, screams of both women and men, and the growls and snarls of Draggard.

They reached the edge of the forest, and what they saw took Whill’s breath away. Almost the entire town was burning, as was the navy vessel which had been docked when they arrived days before. A few hundred feet from shore loomed a great