Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (31 page)

The son of Roakore stopped ten feet from the far wall and turned and clasped his hands together low and crouched. Tarren knew Helzendar’s mind and ran at his friend and stepped up onto the open hands of Helzendar, who then heaved Tarren up into the air.

Tarren was startled by his flight as he soared over the fighting Dwarf boys and came in fast toward the top of the wall. He had too much momentum to be able to make the landing without falling over the edge into the maze, so instead of trying to land, he sprang into a leap off the top of the wall. Skipping from on to the other, he barely cleared the gap and landed on the edge of the opposite wall and fought for balance.

He looked back upon the center of the maze and found the rest of his team fighting their way through to the center exit to the falls. He turned toward the falls and saw that the lone Dwarf was well past halfway.

Behind Tarren, two Dwarves climbed up onto the maze walls and started in his direction. Tarren wasted no time and began to run along the four-foot-wide walls toward the glimmering waterfall.

The two Dwarves followed in swift pursuit, deftly maneuvering atop the walls of the maze. When the maze turned, Tarren leapt and landed and ran on without missing a beat. He came to another turn and leapt over the gap. He dared a glance behind him and saw the Dwarf boys still in pursuit.

The crowd cheered for the Dwarf climbing the stone face as he neared the top and reached for the scepter. Tarren was distracted by the spectacle and had to quickly leap as the maze wall turned left. He cleared the gap but landed awkwardly, staggering all too quickly toward the ledge. He was forced to leap once again but did not
have the momentum behind him to clear the gap. He slammed into the edge with his chest and clawed at the smooth stone for a grip. From his precarious location, Tarren watched as the Dwarf boy reached too far for the scepter. His fingers had come within inches of the prize when his hand slipped from the wall, and he fell screaming into the frothing water below. The crowd fell silent with a collective gasp.

Tarren watched after the fallen Dwarf, wide-eyed; only the sound of heavy boots coming quickly shook him from his shock. He heaved and clawed and finally climbed up onto the stone wall. One of the pursuing Dwarves leapt once, twice, and came down on Tarren with double axes. Tarren leapt backward and rolled as he landed and came up on his feet, ready to run. His opponent gave him no time to run, however; he came with spinning axes and a fierce snarl, slashing and chopping.

Tarren danced on his toes blindly as he attempted to evade the wooden axes. With his staff, he batted away the onslaught. He ducked an ax strike and slammed the staff into the back of the Dwarf’s left knee. The boy gave a howl and bent to that knee, Tarren came in strong with the butt of his staff at the Dwarf’s face, but his injury had only been a feint. The Dwarf came across with the back of an ax blade and hit Tarren in the head. Tarren had tried to dodge the blow but was still clipped in the forehead hard enough to send him spinning.

He spun from the blow and landed on his back. The Dwarf boy was on him in a flash. He leapt high into the air and came down with both blades arched in a deadly strike. Tarren rolled quickly over the ledge. He fell into the maze once more, and his breath blasted from his chest on impact. Luckily, he was prepared and did not lose his breath. It hurt, but Tarren forgot it quickly. He was glad that he had recently been trying to withstand the pain of his injuries as long as possible. He had learned not to fight the pain, not to bask in his agony and let it rule him.

He got to his feet and ran down the stone hall toward the waterfall. In front of him, the other Dwarf boy landed, blocking his way. Behind him, another jumped down from the wall. Tarren remembered his training and got over the overwhelming challenge. He went into his routine of spinning and dancing with the staff. Before the two could jump him, he attacked the one behind him. With a leap and twirl, he came in with a swiping blow to the Dwarf boy’s head. The blow was deflected, and Tarren spun and struck again. Left, right, and left again came Tarrens blows; each was deflected, but his opponent was kept at bay. Tarren reached down and quickly scooped up what dirt he could from the floor and threw it in his opponent’s face, and before he could recuperate, Tarren turned and charged the Dwarf that blocked the path behind him.

The Dwarf boy met Tarren’s charge and swung a spiked ball overhead with one hand. He carried a thick,
curved blade in the other. Tarren looked frantically to the stone floor and found a small crevice. He slammed the end of his staff into the crack and leapt high and vaulted over the Dwarf. The staff came out from under him as the boy collided with it. As Tarren landed and pulled the staff with him, the boy hit it with his chain. The chain of the spiked ball wrapped itself around the staff three times, and Tarren was jerked to a stop. His legs shot out ahead of him as he clung to the trapped staff.

The Dwarf boy grinned wickedly and yanked on the chain as hard as he could. Tarren held on as his head snapped back and he shot through the air and straight at the Dwarf. With momentum behind him, generated by the strong Dwarf boy, Tarren let go of the staff and shot out a strong elbow that hit with a crunch of the Dwarf’s nose. They fell in a heap, and Tarren scrambled to stand. Blood poured from the Dwarf’s nose, and Tarren was elated with pride, until the boy began to get up.

Tarren was yanked back from his inward gloating and quickly gathered up his staff. From out of nowhere came the twin-ax-wielding Dwarf. The axes came down fast and hard, but Tarren managed to deflect them with his staff. He could not block such strong attacks head on; instead he used momentum and his long staff to change the attack’s direction. The Dwarf rained down his powerful strikes, any of which would have laid Tarren low. He frantically blocked and dodged the attacks,
but he was steadily being pushed backward against the wall.

To his relief, Helzendar came to his aid, leaping from on high and knocking out the ax wielder with his half-moon staff. Helzendar turned on the other Dwarf and yelled to Tarren, “Quit screwing around and get to that scepter!”

Tarren heeded his words and took off in the other direction. A short jaunt through the maze and Tarren came to the end. Before him was the raging waterfall, and high above hung the shining scepter. He set his staff through the strap on his back next to the flag, spit in his hands, and rubbed them together. Finding a grip, he began to ascend the slippery stone wall. He got no more than five feet high when suddenly he slipped. He’d missed a foothold, and the sudden shift in weight caused him to lose his grip on the wall. He slid down the stone, desperately trying to get a grip and landed on his backside.

The watching Dwarves let out a gasp and then a chuckle as Tarren got to his feet and rubbed his bum. He scowled at the spectators and started again up the stone face. He moved slower, more methodically this time, making sure that he had three strong holds before he moved a limb. From the crowd came amazed proclamations such as, “Is that the wee human boy?” and, “It be Tarren,” and the like.

A wooden hatchet slammed into the stone next to his face, sending flecks of stone flying. He dared a glance
back and saw a Dwarf cocking back for another throw. Tarren tensed for the hit. If he was struck in the head or back with the hatchet, he would be called out, and he would possibly even be knocked from the wall. He looked down at the distance he had traveled; it was a long way down.

The second hatchet never came, and Tarren did not have to look down to see the reason, he could hear the sounds of battle below and knew that Helzendar or someone from his team had engaged the attacker. He was more than halfway up the stone face with the waterfall raging next to him when the crowd began to cheer and whistle. He looked down and saw that someone had gotten by Helzendar and was quickly, even recklessly, climbing after him. Tarren knew that panic and fear would find him falling to his death far below, so he pushed both of these feelings away and continued steadily up the rock face.

The boy was too far behind, and Tarren was now nearly level with the scepter. A few more careful hand-holds and he clung looking sideways at the hanging prize. Tarren knew that he could not reach the scepter with his hands; he had seen the Dwarf’s fall after attempting that very thing. So instead he made sure he had a firm grip with his left hand and his feet and reached back for his staff. Using the staff, he carefully hooked the chain that held the scepter. Tarren’s heart pounded as he unhooked the prize and breathlessly
pulled it toward himself. He raised his staff carefully, and the scepter slid down the length of it. He grabbed hold of the scepter in the same hand that held the staff as the Dwarf that had been climbing toward him pulled his foot loose. Tarren was yanked from his precarious perch and fell with the water of the falls.

He fell nearly thirty feet and flailed his arms and legs and screamed. Below him, he could see the hole in the base of the stone face through which the waterfall poured. It was only a ten-foot half circle, but Tarren was falling far right of that, toward the hard stone below. He closed his eyes as he spun in the air and lost sight of the hard ground below. Through the anxious silence of the cavern echoed only the cry of Cake, “I got ye, little guy!”

Tarren hit Cake, and the impact slammed the fat Dwarf to the ground. Tarren blinked up at the waterfall as he realized that he was not dead. His heart hammered in his ears, and he felt as though he might explode. He began to laugh, and under him, Cake’s soft groaning turned into coughing laughter. Helzendar ran over to them and joined in the mirth. Tarren raised the scepter into the air and laughed all the harder.

Cake and Tarren were helped to their feet by Helzendar, and together, the three held the scepter high in victory. The crowd erupted in cheers that echoed through the cavern. Tarren beamed and was overjoyed to have had his hard work pay off. He was now a young man by Dwarf standards, no longer a child.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Drakkar Island

W
hill and his assorted entourage flew toward the volcano with the sun at their backs. Already they could see that many of the dragons had taken to the skies and now circled the volcano. There were too many dragons to count; some flew to and others fro. Others speckled the sides of the volcano, basking in its heat. They were a variety of colors, some white like Avriel, others red like Zhola. There were also dragons of gray, green, black, blue, and brown. Some were speckled, and others had spots, and a few had dark stripes, large and small. However, few were as large as the immense Zhola, who, due to his great age, was one of the largest dragons in existence, with a wingspan of over sixty feet.

Avriel flew close to him, and Roakore trailed not far behind upon Silverwind. Dragons had reached the group, growling and shooting flames so near to them that all could feel the great heat of the dragons’ breath.
Zhola roared in response, and the dragons’ breath subsided, though they remained close as he steered for the base of the volcano and descended.

They landed among dozens of dragons, and more came from above the ridge of the volcano. The dragons had been resting, basking in the great heat of the volcano’s slopes, and they were not happy to be disturbed by the foreigners. An immense black dragon, nearly the size of Zhola, landed before them and gave a great roar, which silenced all. The great black dragon looked at them all in turn. His dark blue reptilian eyes were the size of a soldier’s shield, and they bore into any they fell upon. When he spoke, the ground shook faintly with the humming—for he did not speak mentally but with his mouth—and though his large mouth and tongue were not made for words, he spoke Elvish well enough for Whill to understand.

“Zhola the Red, be you bewitched by Elven magic to bring to our home the likes of humans, Elves, and…a Dwarf?” His eyes flared with rage and shot menacingly to set upon Roakore.

Zhola stood taller and took a step forward. “Krashakk the Black, I have business within a chamber built by me when you were but a whelp—I, who brought my kin to the fire mountain. Stand aside!”

Krashakk scowled at Zhola as his kin landed among them by the hundreds. In came others from the hunt of the ocean to see what the trouble was upon their
island. Some were as small as lions, and the whelps were many in number—for the year before had been a mating year, and many unions had been made. The whelps and many more adult dragons watched the test of dominance.

Though many of them were of the same mind as Krashakk, none interrupted. They would wait and see the outcome of the fight. Krashakk had become the alpha among the many dragons that called Drakkar home, though they ventured wide and far, one and all, often and sometimes for years and decades. He was the eldest of the blacks and from an Agoran line of dragons, an ancient line that had been driven from the Ebony Mountains, though he was not born until after the routing. His racial memory showed him clearly the images of the Dwarven foe and the standard which had flown upon their flags. This same standard, he had noticed upon Roakore’s large belt. The black dragon stood taller still than Zhola—a direct challenge—and took two steps forward.

“I speak for all here in saying that you shall not pass, and the trespassers will be eaten!” he boomed.

“You speak for yourself and none other unless I hear their voices,” roaored Zhola, and he shot flame into the sky above Krashakk’s head. He opened his wings and loomed over Krashakk and then took three steps forward, until his scowling red eyes and horns were but two feet from the black.

“I speak for my line!” snarled the black. “This Dwarf you have brought to our home is of the line of those that drove the blacks from the Ebony Mountains. I will have revenge, even if it means feeling the wrath of the great Zhola!” he growled.

Zhola took a step back and looked to Roakore, with no love for the Dwarf. Indeed, he would have liked to kill Roakore himself. “Is this true, Dwarf? You are of the Ebony Mountains?”

Ignoring Zhola, Roakore snorted his snot and spit upon the side of his ax and then took three large steps forward. “I be the bloody king o’ the Ebony Mountains, you bloody black demon, and I be willin’ to finish the job me forbearers started!”