Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (17 page)

He dropped his knife as Abram fell to his knees before him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Mountain Passage

T
he thick cloud cover made the moonless night pitch black. The wind upon the mountain had picked up, and a chill rode on the air. Roakore had joined Whill and Abram and was busy trying to light a torch Abram had retrieved from his bag.

“If this damned wind would let up fer a minute, we would have some light,” Roakore grumbled as he struggled with the flint. Finally a spark caught, and the oil-soaked torch lit, quickly illuminating the night. Roakore grinned. “Ah, that was easy. Now let’s hurry and dress them wounds.”

Whill’s leg was bleeding profusely and his throat felt as though he had swallowed a handful of small blades. When he attempted to speak he found that his voice was rough and grainy, and his throat burned terribly. Roakore patted his back.

“Save yerself the agony lad, by the looks o’ yer throat yer lucky to be breathing.”

Abram tried in vain to conceal his worried look. “Well done, Whill.”

“Indeed,” Roakore agreed, surveying the slain bodies with a hearty laugh. “Them hell-born scum didn’t know what they were getting into messin’ with us three, now did they?”

Abram retrieved a bottle of clear liquor he had attained from I am and showed it to Whill, who nodded and clenched his teeth. Abram poured the antiseptic onto his wound gingerly. Whill let out a low growl as hot pain surged through his leg. Roakore watched keenly.

“Looks like that tail near went clean through. That’ll take some time to heal, that will. Dress it as well as ye can, Abram.” Roakore turned his attention to the surrounding darkness. “We must get to the passage as soon as possible.”

Abram retrieved some bandages from his pack and took a look around for himself. Beyond the torchlight was pure blackness. “Yes, we must go. Can you walk, Whill?”

“Too slow,” Roakore said. “Besides, the boy would bleed to death afore we got there. No, I will carry him the distance.” Whill tried to argue, but the dwarf cut him off. “I insist, young Whill.”

Abram tied the bandage tightly. “He’s right. He’s much stronger than I, and you cannot walk the distance with an open wound.” He offered Whill a drink of water, which Whill accepted. It went down like thorns and made his eyes water. Abram loaded Whill’s weapons and packs onto his back as Roakore offered Whill a hand.

“Put yer weight on yer good leg when I pull ye up.” Whill nodded. Roakore pulled him up and over his shoulder with ease. Due to the dwarf’s height, Whill’s hands touched the ground if his arms were left limp. Roakore repositioned him on his shoulder and turned to Abram. “Follow me,” he said, and started off at a jog.

Whill was amazed yet again at the dwarf’s strength. Roakore ran with ease though he carried Whill over his shoulder and his great axe in his left hand. He was also careful not to put pressure on Whill’s thigh, holding his legs well below the knee. They ran for what seemed like hours. Whill became dizzy with pain from his aching leg and throat. Blood had rushed to his head due to his awkward position and pounded dully in his ears. With every step the pain increased as he watched the feet of the dwarf trek steadily onward. He could see little in the torchlight, only the dwarf’s pumping legs and feet, and Abram following. Whill glanced at him once in awhile, causing more pain in his neck.

Finally Roakore stopped and slowly let Whill down onto his good leg. Abram was quickly at his side, offering him a shoulder to lean on.

Before them was a great wall of stone smooth as ice. Its edges escaped the torchlight, giving it a mammoth appearance in the black night. Whill stood on his good leg with his arm around Abram, and together they watched Roakore keenly. He ran his right hand along the stone slowly as if looking for something, then turned to them. “All assume that elves alone have the power to do magic, or so ’tis called by ye humans. But we dwarves have powers also, though different. ’Tis a gift from our gods, bestowed upon us to aid in our purpose.” His expression hardened and he took a step forward. “What yer about to witness is to never leave yer lips nor be set to paper as long as ye draw breath, Understood?”

“I swear with my life, it shall fall upon no ear,” Abram said solemnly.

Whill struggled to find his voice. “I swear the same.”

Roakore eyed them for a moment, then turned and raised his arms. Head bowed, he stood like a statue for a moment. Nothing happened. Then words burst from him so loud it startled Whill. “
Ohn zrak kytho sjendi zwikor henin ty
!” The dwarf then reached out into the air as if grabbing something, though nothing was there. The stone wall rumbled. Roakore slowly pulled the phantom object with both hands. Whill stood in awe as a circular section of the rock wall four feet in circumference began to move as if hinged. Roakore took a step back, and as if pulling an invisible rope, heaved the door open. Before them now was a tunnel the same size as the open door.

Roakore stood breathing heavily. Whill had not seen him tire since he had met him, but now beads of sweat ran down the dwarf’s brow as he walked through the passage. Whill and Abram followed.

Within, the tunnel was perfectly round. Having been made for dwarves, the ceiling was low; Whill and Abram had to crouch in able to maneuver. Roakore turned and once again spoke the command, this time for the door to close. The heavy stone door moved inward with a great rumble and bang as it came to its resting place. Roakore breathed heavily and sat down to rest on the stone floor.

Whill wondered about Roakore’s power to move stone but decided against asking the dwarf. He and Abram sat also. Whill rolled up his pant leg and found blood-soaked bandages over his wound. Abram found a needle and thread and positioned himself to stitch Whill’s wound. “Why?” he asked in a raspy voice. “Can’t I just—?”

“No.” Abram shook his head. His eyes darted to Roakore and then back to Whill. The dwarf did not notice.

Whill understood. If he used his powers to heal himself, the dwarf would become suspicious. Only elves had powers to heal, and dwarves did not like elves. Reluctantly Whill let Abram begin. He went to work quickly but carefully. Masterfully stitching the wound in tight stitches, he soon finished with the gash. Whill inspected the work. “It looks good, Abram. Thank you.” He tried to keep the pain from his voice.

Roakore nodded with a low “hmm.”

Abram again loaded his and Whill’s packs as Roakore helped Whill up. “So, lad, ready fer another ride?”

Whill tried to clear his hurt throat. “No, we are in no danger now. I can walk. Slow though I may be.”

“Aye, then let’s be off. Not far ahead the tunnel widens. It should be a wee bit more comfortable fer ye tall ones.”

Whill again put his arm around Abram and together they followed Roakore. Shortly they came to the wider part of the tunnel. It opened up into another rounded tunnel, about ten feet high and ten feet wide. But unlike the other part of the tunnel, this one had a flat floor.

“This tunnel runs for fifteen miles southwest under the mountain,” Roakore explained, his voice echoing. “Along the way it is met by other tunnels as well.”

The going was slow, even in the larger part of the tunnel where they could walk fully erect. Whill slowed them down considerably. Roakore looked back at them. “At this pace we’ll not reach the city until after noon—that is, if we stop to rest.”

Whill limped along as quickly as he could with Abram’s help. “Do you intend to rest, Roakore?”

He laughed. “Aye, Whill, that I do. I have been on patrol for many a day and nights with no sleep. Even we dwarves grow weary—though not easily.”

They walked on for an hour, torchlight leading the way in the dark passage. Little was said, as they were all very tired. It was surprisingly warm in the tunnels. Either that, Whill thought, or he was beginning to run a fever. Finally, to his relief, Roakore stopped. “We should get some rest. This be as good a place as any.”

Whill sat on the stone floor, his leg throbbing madly. From one of the packs Abram retrieved food and water. He offered Whill some cheese and dried meat. “I imagine your throat still hurts, but you should eat what you can. We’ve had quite a day, and you will need your strength.”

Whill accepted the food and ate what he could. Every swallow was torture, though the cool water from his canteen helped a little. He ate only enough to quiet his growling belly and then lay back, propping his head on his pack. His eyes were grainy and heavy, his body sore. Even on the stone floor, with no pillow but a lumpy bag, he soon fell asleep to the sounds of Roakore and Abram’s voices echoing softly throughout the tunnel.

His dreams were dark, filled with broken bodies and blood. He imagined he was in a great battle. All around him lay the slain bodies of elves, men, and dwarves. Thousands of Draggard warriors surrounded him and Abram. Overhead dragons flew, their fire raining down. Whill fought hard against the hordes of Draggard, but as he slew one, more took its place. Soon only he and Abram remained.

Whill was awakened by a nagging pain in his leg. He lifted his head from his bag to find Abram and Roakore awake. “Good morning, laddie,” said Roakore as he gnawed on a piece of dried meat.

Abram smiled at Whill. “Sleep well?”

Whill sat up. “Not really, but I feel a little better.” He rolled up his pant leg. The bandages around his wound were slightly soiled, but not enough to constitute changing them. He rolled the pant leg back down with a groan. His throat felt a little better, though it was very dry. He took a long drink from his canteen, finishing it off with a satisfied sigh.

“Here.” Abram offered Whill his own canteen. “Roakore says we can replenish our water supply up ahead. Help yourself.”

Whill accepted the canteen and drank greedily. He was surprised by his own thirst.

Roakore stood and brushed 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 wondered if it would be rude to inquire.

“Roakore, may I ask…what has become of your people?” he asked 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 live here within the mountain. Our numbers were greatly diminished after the Draggard attack, but we have 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 was 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, sounding 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 were not 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 around 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 as 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 te 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 are now king, 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, Whill 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 the water. 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.