Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (24 page)

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 Ky’Dren and his people 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 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, a great pride of the race that had come so far. Their faith was stronger than Whill had ever seen among any people he had ever met. The peace within the eyes of those he looked upon—those who dedicated their lives to the greater good, those with the knowledge that their actions would undoubtedly find them a place within the Mountain of the Gods—gave Whill a feeling of great longing for a faith so strong, so resolute.

Whill followed no deity, had no god, but he was a spiritual man. Abram those many years ago had not presented Whill with any one religion, but rather had shown him all religions and told him it was for him to decide which he believed. Whill 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, always quick to ask the many questions that, with religion, inevitably led to the same answer. 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. By following his heart and doing always what he saw to be right, Whill would find his salvation.

After the gathering had ended, and he and Abram had turned in for the night, Whill lay thinking of Tarren. The next day they would leave the mountains with Roakore, and learn the fate of Sherna. He lay awake for hours worrying for the young lad who had so quickly found a place in his heart. At last sleep found him, as did dreams of Tarren.

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, fifty 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, circled by many smaller, dark red gems.

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

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

Before them was a wide stairway, spiraling up so high that Whill could not see its end. “This stairway spirals up fer one thousand feet. It’s a hell o’ a hike.” Roakore laughed at the frowning humans. “Cheer up, lads! It’ll save us hours an’ get us out o’ the mountain within the hour.”

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, which ended in a small room. Before them was a large, heavily cushioned metal cart, similar to but larger than those used to haul coal and metals. It sat upon a thin metal track that Roakore referred to as the rail. The rail led to a large hole in the wall and beyond into darkness.

Whill eyed the contraption with worry. Without a word Roakore hopped over the side of the cart and sat down, bidding them to do the same. With a smile and pat on the back from Abram, Whill did 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, down, 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 initial descent, which had hurtled them down the track, and because the track still ran down at a slight angle, 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 turns in course. After less than half an hour they had traveled the many miles to the entrance cave, and now the track leveled out altogether. Far ahead Whill could see the end, 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, to Whill’s relief, but then to his horror Roakore flew backwards, braking lever in hand. The brakes let up as they careened towards the end of the tunnel at the speed of a flying dragon.

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

Whill saw what the dwarf meant, and groaned as he braced himself. The track suddenly dipped low into a shallow pool of water less than fifty feet long. Great waves rose up more than twenty feet as the cart barreled into the water. Although it slowed the cart considerably, it did not stop it completely, and all three screamed as the cart slammed into the barrier wall at the end of the track. End over end they flew through the air, slamming hard into the wall thirty feet away.

They three 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!”

All three burst into hysterical laughter

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Smoke and Wings

W
hill, Abram, and Roakore walked out into the early morning sun. They had exited through a different tunnel than the one they had previously entered through. They were a few miles south of that entrance, and closer to the shore. The railway had taken them to the base of the great mountain range, and from the small cave they had exited they could see the dense forest before them.

Whill led the way. Having spent so many years with one as knowledgeable as Abram, he could easily determine the direction they must go to get to Sherna. He led them at a pace almost as frantic as when had journeyed to the mountain. After more than an hour of hiking, Roakore sat upon a large stone, halting Whill and Abram.

“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. Where it should still be.

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. It’s 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 many elven powers, like the one you see before you: 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 see if what ye say o’ the elves is true, young Whill,” Roakore said at last. “But know this, that 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.

They ran on for several hours, saying not a word. To their left the distant sounds of the ocean could be heard. It was nearing noon now, 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. Like the other two, he carried a large traveling pack, along with his quiver and recently repaired bow, and his two swords.

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 he now held in his hands was perfectly balanced, with a razor-sharp blade, a testament to the elves’ prowess as weapon-makers.

He studied the sword for a long while: the way the sun shone off the powerful blade, the shimmer of the many small diamonds about the guard. His gaze then fell to the ring of his mother, pure silver with one large pearl surrounded by sapphires. He felt a strange bond within both, a connection he could not quite place. 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 after themselves in reverse, 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.