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

pressed against the vicious monsters but they did not waver, did not relent.

The fighting went on for what seemed to Whill an eternity. To the left of him Abram fought valiantly, as did Rhunis to his right. Together they plowed through the Draggard forces. Abram took a spear to the shoulder, but if he felt any pain it did not show, for rather than crying out in pain he chopped hard at the attacker, cutting deep into its neck.

Whill had abandoned his own sword and now had only his father’s. Years of pain and sorrow flowed through him and into the sword he now held, the sword that had cut him from his mother’s womb, Sinomara, the sword that had saved his life once before. He thought of his mother and father with every slash, saw Tarren’s dying form with every stab, and the injustice of it sent Whill into a rage. He now fought for the memory of his parents, for the life of Tarren, and for those helpless women and children huddled within the town hall.

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Roakore opened his eyes and at first did not know where he was. He lay for a moment upon the beach, blinking at the blue sky above. All around him were great fires, and in the distance were the sounds of battle.

Battle! The dwarf jumped to his feet as he became aware of his surroundings. He turned and saw a great battle playing out more than a hundred yards away. The last thing he remembered was falling to the ground as a host of Draggard had pressed on. Now it seemed help had arrived, for near to the town hall was an army of hundreds of Eldalonian soldiers, fighting hard against the Draggard.

“They’ll not have all the fun,” Roakore muttered, and with that he began his own charge up the beach, his great axe in hand, and a great smile upon his face.

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Abram watched as Whill went at the Draggard with wild abandon. The sword of his father slashing, chopping, and hacking the Draggard with ease—too much ease. He watched in awe as Whill not only blocked but chopped a huge, thick spear in half, and in one fluid motion severed the legs of its wielder. Before any of the beasts nearby could react, Whill was upon them, hacking and slicing, Draggard heads and limbs alike flew away before the wild man.

Abram had taught Whill for ten years in preparation for a moment such as this. But never had he expected what he now saw. Whill took down all that stood before him, graceful in his dance of death, meeting aggression with all-out devastation. Though Abram was proud when he looked upon Whill, he was also frightened, for he knew what powers Whill was using, even if Whill himself did not. The thought was more than unsettling to the old warrior.

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The men of Sherna fought for all they held dear, and the soldiers of Eldalon fought for king and country, all till the bitter end. The numbers were all but even, and that should have meant a bloody victory for the Draggard. But the creatures fought no ordinary foe this day, no mere men.  When a man of Sherna received a mortal wound he fought on, blood flowing freely from his grinning lips, and when an Eldalonian soldier thought he could fight no more he cut through yet another monster. The ground was red with both human and Draggard blood as the sun began its descent from its midday perch.

The men of Sherna would not relinquish control of the town halls steps, even as they fell one after another. The Draquon swooped down time and time again, plucking hardy men from the ranks and devouring them quickly. Still they fought, even managed to take down one of the flying beasts. Finally Whill, Abram, and Rhunis met the men of Sherna as they fought through to the steps. At the apparent command of the Draquon, the Draggard came around the charging force and regrouped, leaving the entirety of the human force between themselves and the town hall.

Of the fifty men of Sherna, fewer than ten remained; of Rhunis’s two hundred soldiers, fewer than sixty stood, most bleeding from more than one nasty wound. The Draggard backed off a bit and the fighting ceased. The Draquon came down from the sky to take command of the diminished Draggard force. The remaining men stood together at the very steps of the town hall, along with Abram, Rhunis, Whill, and a very eager, blood-soaked dwarf.

The Draggard force had taken fewer casualties than the humans, but not many—less than one hundred of the beasts remained, along with eleven Draquon, each of which, to many folks of Agora, could be counted as ten Draggard. The men were outnumbered; the many dead lay about them as a sobering reminder. But they did not fall into despair, they did not give in, could not!

The cry was taken up by none other than Whill, who, despite the fact that he bled from many wounds, showed upon his face not defeat but determination.

“Good men of Sherna!” he bellowed. “Before you stands a host of beasts bent on destroying all that you hold dear! All that you live, breathe, and die for!” He strode towards the Draggard band, lips curled in a snarl, sword held high. The Draggard gnashed at the air, hissed and growled, but they did not advance.

“Shall we lie down and die from our wounds?”

“No!” the crowd answered in unison.

“Shall we leave our women and children as playthings for these wretched monsters?”

“No!” the crowd answered again, and Abram found himself to be one of those many voices. He beamed at the sight of Whill.

“Shall we let these damned creatures take what is ours without a fight?”

“NO!”

“I say then, man to man, shall we make these foul Draggard wish they had never set foot on our beaches?”

“Yes!” the men responded, weapons held high.

“Then come with me now, brothers of Eldalon, and let them know the rage of man!”

“YES!” they cried, and joined the charge taken up by Whill and a certain crazed dwarf.

Before the Draggard could begin to counter, the men pressed in, charging full tilt, death be damned, hearts bent on victory. Whill led the charge with Roakore, Abram, and Rhunis at his heels. He met the front line with devastating effect, taking down three Draggard in one mighty swipe. On he and the men charged into certain death or into victory, it did not matter. The men were focused on one thing and one thing only: the destruction of every last beast upon their beaches.

As the men began to effectively rout the Draggard, the Draquon took to the sky and again began their attack from above. Down they dove into the ranks of men, and up they came, holding their victims in their wicked claws. One such victim, one such man, though he bled from the gut profusely, managed to bring his blade to bear upon his captor. With a great heave Rhunis impaled the Draquon through the neck, and together they fell twenty feet to the sand below.

Roakore brought his axe around in a great swoop, into the torso of one unlucky beast as Abram chopped wildly at another. Before them Whill steadily cut through the Draggard ranks. Suddenly, to Abram’s horror, Whill left the ground, nabbed by a descending Draquon. The beast had Whill firmly by the shoulders, claws sinking deep, wings lifting them high into the air. With one great slash of Sinomara, Whill severed the arms of the flying beast and fell to the ground.

Abram blocked a spear and pushed aside his opponent as he tried to watch Whill’s descent. To his shock and amazement he saw Whill fall twenty feet only to fall upon a Draggard, driving his father’s sword straight through the monster’s head and body and into the sand.

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Roakore hadn’t been bothered with any of the surrounding fights, for he was fully enthralled in his own. As he swung he saw the great walls of his homeland, the many chambers of his great mountain. Rage beyond reason drove the stout dwarf as he cut through the beasts before him. His great axe claimed the lives of many unfortunate beasts that day, and as they died, one after another, the last thing they heard was the battle song of the dwarves.

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In the midst of the battle, in the light of certain death, few saw the arrows hit the many Draquon, few saw them fall from the sky, and few saw as the elf warrior made her way into the heart of battle.

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Abram was hit hard, and to the ground he went. The Draggard came over with its spear, meaning to impale him. Abram rolled to his side as the spear tip hit the ground where he had just been. Taking no time to consider his luck, he thrust his sword up and into the groin of the monster, which had retracted its spear and drove it down hard into Abram’s hip.

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Roakore planted his axe firmly into one Draggard’s head. Then he tugged hard, freeing his weapon as he spun on another beast. The axe cut halfway through the monster, but at the same time the Draggard thrust its tail at him. Through his thick clothing and chainmail the tail sunk, embedding many inches into Roakore’s side. The hardy dwarf only roared as he freed his axe and cut down another monster.

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Whill knew no pain, he knew no fear. His only emotion made itself clear in the long line of dead Draggard he left in his wake. He spun and twirled, dodged and countered, and no beast could stand for more than an instant before him. All around him men were dying, but so too were the Draggard. Men were falling fast around him, and still a score of monsters remained. He did what he could, all he could do—he fought on. Then suddenly he noticed that the monsters’ attention had shifted from the thinning line of the human resistance to the beach to the south. There, upon a steed of black, sat a lone warrior, firing arrow after arrow into the sky and into the Draquon. Those that were not hit by the skilled and deadly bowman flew high and flew far, wanting nothing to do with the deadly creature.

Chapter 17 The Maiden of Elladrindellia

The Draggard were hunted down and killed within the surrounding woods of Sherna, mostly with the help of the two elven warriors. The Draggard ship was quickly destroyed by the catapult crew of the Eldalonian ship Thunder. As the doors to the town hall were opened, the many frightened women, children, and elderly looked upon their ruined town.

Whill pushed through the crowd as he ran up the steps to the town hall.

“Tarren! Tarren!” He searched the crowd frantically. For a moment he thought he saw him, but when he grabbed the boy by the shoulder and turned him around, it was not Tarren. Through the crowd he searched, yelling his name. Whill felt sick; hope began to wither as he searched but still saw no sign of him, or the healers he had been entrusted to. He reached the back of the building and turned in despair. His head spun as he grabbed child after child,