Whill of Agora woa-1 Page 19

  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

  Whill, 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 th
is 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.

  Just then a shadow swept past, quick as a flash but noticeable nonetheless. 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 to see 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, past the edge of the meadow, above the trees. He scanned the treeline 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 above the trees, some four hundred yards away. Abram was already gently pushing them back to the cover of the trees when it struck Whill. He froze a moment in disbelief, but the closer the creature got, the more obvious its identity became.

  “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 than the Draggard, some nearly twelve feet, and had longer tails as well. The Draquon more resembled a dragon than any human, with thick gnarled horns upon their heads and long pointed spikes running the length of their backs.

  The three companions ducked low as the Draquon began to cross the meadow, now 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 Whill noticed that he held two large, rounded stones, connected by chain to a well-adorned metal handle.

  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. I’ll not be letting a beast such as that fly free.” With that he pushed past the protesting Abram and ran out into the field, waving his arms and yelling to the low-flying Draquon, now less than one hundred yards away.

  “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 with a great growl and raised his hand in the Draquon’s direction. Abram and Roakore 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, who used his innate abilities to guide the stones with sheer willpower. The weapon came in hard on the beast, catching it in the side with so much force that the creature flipped four times in midair before descending to the ground in a heap of flailing wings. The Draquon crashed hard to the ground less than thirty feet from Whill and Abram, who came running, bows at the 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 twenty feet from the monster and let loose their arrows. The beast snarled defiant
ly 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, so fast did it move. It slammed into the Draquon’s chest, sending the beast flying back ten feet.

  Even as it came to a halt Whill and Abram were upon it, blades drawn. Abram went straight for the eyes of the prone monster, jabbing frantically and managing to take out one amidst the Draquon’s thrashing. Whill hacked and chopped, doing minimal damage to the monster’s armor. Then the dazed beast was on its feet again. It had lost an eye, broken a wing, and no doubt fractured a number of ribs thanks to Roakore, and it was angry. It stood eleven feet tall, towering over Whill and Abram. They waited in a defensive crouch as Roakore barreled in, axe in hand, screaming to the dwarf god of war. The beast turned to face him, and as it did it brought its ten-foot long tail around in a great sweep. Roakore hopped the tail without missing a beat. At that instant Roakore appeared to Whill more ferocious than the Draquon. Fire burned within his eyes, and his face was a picture of pure, twisted rage.

  The Draquon brought its tail across again, and Roakore jumped over it once more, flying straight at the monster, axe raised over his head. The Draquon caught Roakore in its massive claws, which only increased 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. The dwarf spat and cursed, kicked and thrashed, trying to get out from under the massive corpse.