Whill of Agora woa-1 Page 35

  And behind them marched the forces of the Ky’Dren and Helgar mountains, thousands of loyal dwarves, every one honored by the chance to avenge such a travesty, willing to die fighting for the greatest good. In dwarf society one could only hope to die such a death, for the wine and ale would overflow mugs in the Mountain of the Kings the day the mountain was retaken. Not a dwarf lived who would turn down such a chance at glory as this, Roakore knew.

  “We will stay with the fleet until we are near the coast of Isladon, then we head south,” Whill confirmed to Abram.

  “Yes. We should have no troubles. No ship can outrun this one, I would bank on it.”

  The fleet had been sailing all morning and into the afternoon. They would reach the beaches of Isladon by the next morning, after the dwarves had closed the great doors of the Ebony Mountains. From there Whill and Abram, Avriel and Zerafin, and even Rhunis (who had taken it upon himself to stay with Whill; being a general of the Eldalon navy, he felt it his duty to protect its greatest chance in this war), would separate from the fleet, and start their journey to Elladrindellia.

  Roakore grunted low in his throat, and those immediately behind him did the same, and those behind them and so on, until every dwarf had stopped. It was a few hours past midnight; they were right on time. Roakore crouched at the foot of a small hill and crawled to the top with two of his generals. By the faint light of the moon he could make out every detail of the world around him-a few minutes in the dark and a dwarf could see as well as any cat. Before him was the northern entrance to the Ebony Mountains. He turned and signaled behind him. At once two dwarves broke rank and went about infiltrating the entrance. They had seen no scouts, but if they were any good at what they did, Roakore counted on not seeing them. No word had come from the dozens of dwarf scouts.

  Within minutes the two dwarves returned. They had seen no sentries on duty; the entrance remained closed. Roakore silently selected six stout dwarves, brought his fist into the air, and proceeded to the entrance with the ones he had chosen. Slow and quiet they crept. Roakore was alert to every movement of the world around him. The light wind carried only the scent of spring foliage and earth and a faint scent of deer urine. There was no sound but the wind in the grass.

  Once Roakore was confident that no one was on guard, he settled on the door. Like many others of dwarven make, it was mostly concealed to look like its surroundings. It was not adorned with writing or runes or any of the like. It was simply a slab of rock, ten by ten, made to appear no more conspicuous than the rest of the mountainside. Roakore did not like the idea that they had not seen any Draggard about, no sentries on duty. But they had a schedule to keep, and he had thousands of dwarves at his back. The time was now.

  The wind had picked up, blowing in from the west with force. It had been clear sailing all day, but now, with the sun down, the clouds came, masking the stars in their heavenly lair. Whill thought of Eadon and the Dark elves and looked at Zerafin, who was studying the sky.

  The elf turned and read the concern on his face. “I doubt this is the work of the Dark elves. They would not expend so much energy on weather. No, they would save it for the battlefield.”

  Whill was about to visit Abram at the wheel when Zerafin spoke again. “But we do have visitors.”

  Whill looked to the sky. Nothing. He listened. Nothing. Zerafin’s voice came to him. Use your mind-sight, Whill, and ready your blade.

  Whill’s hand found the hilt as he relaxed to achieve the meditative state to enter mind-sight. At first he could not, due to his inexperience and the suddenness of the command. But within a minute he was there, and he gasped at the sight of the ocean. The ship, which was to his mind’s eye faint due to its lifelessness, seemed to float on a cloud of greenish blue light. It pulsed and throbbed, colors and life-energy patterns teeming and swirling in a strange and hypnotic dance. When he finally looked away and to the deck, he saw for the first time the life-energy pattern of Abram and Rhunis. He could not see the elves’, however. They were, he assumed, hiding it somehow.

  With that thought, he snapped out of his amazement and remembered Zerafin’s warning. He looked at the sky. Though it was overcast, he could now clearly see the stars, and in his mind-sight they were more brilliant than ever they had been. Again came Zerafin’s voice. Just below the Star of the Kings.

  Whill looked, and there he could make out faintly the life energy of something. At first it appeared to be a bird, but then he saw it for what is was. Glowing like hot lava, hardly noticeable among the stars but moving like none of them, was a dragon.

  With the power bestowed upon his bloodline by the gods, Roakore moved the two-ton slab of rock from its place in the mountain. Those dwarves with him could have helped by pulling on the ropes disguised as tree roots along the seam, but they were in awe of their king’s great power. It taxed Roakore more than he showed, but he hardly cared. He had twenty years of strength built up, and vengeance fueling his muscles. Once the door was opened fully, he again threw his fist in the air, and with his comrades he entered his home mountain for the first time in too many years.

  They carefully stalked the tunnel, alert to any noise. They lit no torches; they did not have to this close to the entrance. The tunnel had been used in his father’s day mostly for trade, and therefore the floor was flat, and wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast. Its ceiling was twenty feet, its stone walls embedded with millions of shining minerals.

  On they walked until Roakore signaled to one of the dwarves, who nodded at the commands and turned back down the tunnel to get the others. On they walked for five minutes, and again Roakore sent a soldier back to tell the rest to follow this far. They now neared what Roakore knew was the first big chamber. It had been used as a loading place for dwarf traders. More than twenty tunnels led to this chamber, so this was where they would have to be careful of an ambush. Roakore signaled a third dwarf to go back and return with forty men. He intended on having them search the many tunnels quickly, two dwarves to a tunnel.

  Just as the dwarf was heading on his way, the draft in the tunnel shifted. It had been traveling down the tunnel, due to the inhalation of the mountain, when Roakore had opened the door. But now it changed course and blew faintly on his beard. On the faint draft, he realized, traveled the scent of a dragon.

  An hour had passed and Whill had long ago become weary using mind-sight. He looked again every few minutes but nothing had changed. The dragon still flew directly above them, thousands of feet in the air. Abram and the others, learning of the dragon’s presence, had discussed the implications and relayed the information to the other ships. At least this would not be a surprise attack if the dragon flew ahead. But it seemed there was no way of stopping it. The Elves were powerful but even an arrow shot with perfection and elven power behind it would not be able to take down the beast.

  Roakore’s blood began to boil. The thought of a dragon slumbering within the mountain of his people, the mountain of his father, was too much to bear. His breathing became heavy, and his axe was in his hand without his remembering that he’d gone for it. He was no longer aware of the three dwarves remaining with him. He knew only that he was running, running into the chamber of the dragon.

  A sound that at first had been faint now grew into a primal scream. Roakore’s guttural war cry, he knew, would carry to the many thousands of dwarves still outside the tunnel. It was a sound, he also knew, that would be recalled by all the surviving dwarves when they sat and told the story of this great day. If there were any survivors.

  Whill now watched the night, as the elves did, with his mind’s eye. He was no longer tired from it, for he had begun calling upon the stored energy of his father’s blade. He was so intent on the dragon above that he was startled when Avriel suddenly pushed him to the ground with a mental energy blast. As he hit the ground, Zerafin was already firing his bow at a phantom that swooped through the night where Whill had stood. Whill looked desperately in the direction of Zerafin’s arrows but saw not
hing. The sudden drop to the floor had broken his mind-sight. He now regained it slowly, but in his panic it was not easy to maintain. Then he saw it more clearly as Avriel came to his side and whispered, “Stay down.”

  It was an Eagle Rider.

  Roakore barreled down the tunnel and into the trading chamber. He was met by a wall of heat and flame as the dragon belched fire from its maw. Roakore dove to the left behind a pile of treasures, at the same time releasing his stone bird. It whirled through the air, Roakore directing it with all his mental might to where he thought the dragon to be. The weapon hit with a loud thud, followed by an angry groan. Again the beast groaned in pain as three hatchets, thrown by Roakore’s three comrades, found their marks. Only the dwarves’ strength and excellent craftsmanship could have gotten the blades through the thick scales. Roakore fired his own hatchet at the beast as it reared its head to strike yet again with its deadly breath.

  As the weapon flew, Roakore got a good look at the monster. It was the biggest he had ever seen, and he had seen a few in his day. It had no front legs, like some did, but rather two huge outstretched wings and huge, powerful hind legs. Its scales shone green in the firelight, its eyes dead black. Upon its head like a crown were a series of small horns, starting above its eyes and growing bigger as they ascended its wagon-size head until they came to one main horn. Like a knight’s lance it was, but not as long as the many pointed horns upon its back. Roakore knew this species: it was the spear-horn.

  Roakore ducked again behind his makeshift shelter as another wall of searing flame was spewed across the chamber. Two of his men dove for cover among similar piles of gold and jewels, but one was not so lucky, a young soldier named Ro’Quon. Ro’Quon was consumed by the dragon’s fell breath even as Roakore screamed his name. The dwarf did not fall, he did not stumble. Engulfed in flames, his armor glowing red with heat, yet he charged forth, a crazed burning dwarf screaming the true name of the dwarf mountain. Blinded but for the tears of rage that quenched the fire in his eyes, Ro’Quon charged on. He took ten running steps up a pile of gold and leapt at the dragon, his scream deafening, his axe pulled back high over his head. Again the dragon let loose his hellfire, but it was not enough to stop the mad-man. Ro’Quon came down upon the beast with all his might, his entire body arched in the great strike. His huge axe found its mark, breaking through scales and muscle and bone until both blade and dwarf disappeared into the beast’s fiery mouth. To Roakore’s amazement, the dragon reared its head and let out an earthshaking scream. Fire sprayed forth onto the ceiling and descended upon the chamber. Roakore’s cloak was consumed and half his beard burned off. It was not until the dragon suddenly lurched forward that Roakore saw the wound. The dragon’s snout had been split from mouth to forehead by Ro’Quon’s great axe, and now fire poured forth through the wound. The spear-horn lurched again and finally fell dead, black smoke issuing from its split head. Roakore and his men stood from their cover and looked on in awe until finally Roakore spoke.

  “Now that, me boys, is how it’s done.”

  Zerafin’s initial shots had missed, and now the Eagle Rider swooped low beyond view over the deck. Because of the ocean’s great aura, it was impossible to see it against the water.

  “What’s going on?” Rhunis yelled as he hurried up from below deck, tossing aside his mug of cider.

  “An Eagle Rider,” Zerafin answered as he scoured the night.

  “There is more than one,” Avriel added

  “This is no good; they know where you are, Whill,” Abram said. “We will never get to Elladrindellia by this way.”

  “We must,” Rhunis argued. “This is exactly what they would want, for Whill to be present at the battle. Or perhaps they simply have orders to kill us all.”

  Avriel shook her head. “No, Eadon knows well enough that the Eagle Riders stand no chance against us, not with the power we possess. He was likely a scout. The others will be attacking shortly; they mean to capture Whill alive.”

  Whill had been watching the dragon during the conversation. It had changed course and suddenly swooped down with great speed, parting the clouds as it came, revealing the moon behind it. He readied his bow.

  “The dragon is attacking!”

  Zerafin had already seen it. He shot one two three arrows in procession, each one glowing with a strange red hue. Avriel let loose three more such arrows, and though Whill felt quite foolish with his normal arrows, he fired two of his own. His disappeared into the nothingness of night, but the elves’ could be seen ascending higher and higher, headed straight for the dragon. The beast changed course and twirled in the air with astonishing speed and agility, easily dodging the arrows. But it did come close to a few, and Whill saw with amazement that when the arrows suddenly exploded, the dragon was blown to the side and lost in the fiery show.

  It gave a great growl as it emerged from the green fire and changed course. With a splash big enough to douse the companions with a wave of seawater, it hit the ocean and disappeared. Suddenly Zerafin turned and shot an arrow directly over Whill’s head. Whill watched its flight and saw it disappear into the night twenty feet behind him. Before he could ponder where the arrow had gone, there was another explosion. From the fire fell an eagle and rider, dead, into the cold sea below.

  The ship was rocked once again as the dragon emerged with great power from the ocean off the starboard side of the ship. Avriel was ready to let her arrow fly when they saw yet another eagle and rider. These, however, were in the clutches of the dragon’s mouth.

  Roakore and his men stood with bowed heads, praying over the body of Ro’Quon as backup came pouring into the chamber. He turned to the men with tears in his eyes, tears of joy.

  “Our friend be gone from this world. Let it be known that on this day, the great Ro’Quon, engulfed in flames and nearing death, charged a green spear-horned dragon and killed it with one blow from the great axe o’ his father. He now dines in the Mountain o’ the Kings.” He slammed his fist to his chest. “Ro’Quon!”

  “Ro’Quon!” answered the others.

  Ro’Quon’s body was lifted from the chamber floor and carried on the hands of every dwarf in the tunnel, and with his body went the telling of his great feat. His name could be heard traveling down the tunnel.

  Roakore then sent scouts into the twenty tunnels to give warning. The battle with the dragon had surely been heard, and they would be coming, in numbers.

  “The dragon fights for us!” said Abram in amazement as the group watched it violently shake its head, tearing the flesh of its prey before dropping it to the ocean.

  Rhunis looked doubtful. “Or it wants us for itself.”

  A great commotion had erupted from the nearby ship of the Eldalon navy. They too had seen the dragon, but they knew not that it might be friendly. Volleys of flaming arrows poured out from more than five ships. Most of them missed, and those that found their mark bounced harmlessly off the dragon’s scaly armor. The creature ignored the arrows and set fire to the ocean off the starboard side. There was a screech as an eagle and rider suddenly appeared, consumed in flames. Zerafin hit the rider in the neck, sending him falling from his winged steed. It was Whill’s arrow that put down the flaming eagle.

  “Everyone to Abram at the wheel, bows ready, circular formation!” Rhunis shouted. Everyone did as he had commanded, and the four took kneeling stances all around Abram.

  The dragon had not attacked the ship, and Whill felt sure it wouldn’t. To the other ships he yelled as loud as he could. “Do not fight the dragon! Fire upon the Eagle Riders!”

  If there was any question about whether they understood, it was answered as the dragon again lit fire to the ocean and a rider appeared, only to be riddled with twenty arrows from the surrounding ships.

  The tunnel was like a tomb. The faint breeze had shifted, to Roakore’s dislike. The scouts had returned with nothing; at least twenty minutes had passed. They must have been heard, but no one came. Roakore puzzled for a moment then called back the
scouts. He motioned the generals of the many armies to attention.

  “They’ve laid a trap fer us, no doubt, but we don’t have time to play their game. We are gonna walk into the tunnel like we own the place, ’cause by the damned gods, we do!”

  He unfolded a map of the mountain kingdom. Their location was easily discernable on the map, though the many tunnels spread out like an intricate spider’s web. There were tunnels and subtunnels, chambers and halls, vaults and living quarters mapped out here. The map was of Roakore’s own design, one with which many dwarves had helped to create an almost perfect representation. There were more than fifty X’s marked in red. Each of them represented the exact place where explosives would be placed. The explosives were made from dragon’s breath, taken from the glands of dragons and therefore very rare. An ample supply had been provided for the mission at great cost. One of the most profitable professions in Agora was a dragon’s-breath farmer; it was also the most dangerous. Roakore thought it ironic that dragon’s breath would be fundamental in the elimination of the Draggard, them having been created within the egg of a dragon.

  The X’s were strategically placed within tunnels or chambers that would cut off the enemy troops most effectively from each other. The result would be thousands of trapped Draggard that could be dealt with later, and a main group, that, with the grace of the dwarf gods, would be dealt with tonight.

  The moon gave its light to the battle below, but it was overwhelmed by the dragon’s fire. The dragon, which Whill knew now to be the one he had seen during the fight with Cirrosa, circled his ship, setting aflame any Eagle Rider that dared come into view. How the dragon could see them, Whill could only guess. But the fact that the beast stayed near to the ship instead of attacking them told Whill that many, many more were about. The ship was under full-out attack.