Whill of Agora woa-1 Read online

  “I never had a doubt.” Abram pulled him into a small hug, still shaking hands, and offered him a towel for his face. “That was some of the best swordsmanship I have ever seen. I see you’ve come up with some of your own moves.”

  Whill wiped the blood from his face. “I have only you to thank. You have been a great teacher.”

  The blood had stopped flowing from his nose, but his cheekbones throbbed. He was going to have two magnificent black eyes. He touched two fingers to the bridge of his nose with a grimace. “I think it’s broken.”

  “We’ll have you fixed up after the ceremony. You still have your reward to receive.”

  Whill had forgotten completely about the reward. His weight in gold-he could hardly fathom the wealth he had won. Lord Rogus again went to the front of the royal booth to speak. The crowd quieted.

  “I offer my congratulations to the young fighter, Whill. We should all take a moment to congratulate him.” Rogus began a slow clap which was taken up by the crowd. The coliseum filled with loud applause that sounded like thunder breaking over crashing waves. Abram nudged Whill, indicating that he should stand. Whill complied, a smile spreading across his blushing face. He extended a fist into the air, sending the crowd into loud cheers and whistles. He then sat and the applause died down as Rogus continued.

  “And now, for some light-hearted entertainment.” The gate opened and a mob of jesters, jugglers, and dancers filled the ring, followed by more than twenty men carrying great drums. The drummers circled the ring and began an intricate, upbeat rhythm. The pounding echoed throughout the coliseum. The dancers jumped and spun, putting on a grand performance. Four men costumed as dragons took up the center of the ring. Facing each other at a safe distance, they blew fire from their mouths. The crowd cheered, the drums pounded, the dancers reeled.

  To Whill the night had become surreal. He had beaten one of the most legendary knights in Agora. He thought of the gold he had won, and a possibility occurred to him. What if King Mathus made him a Knight of Eldalon?

  Soon the show was over and the colorful performers exited the ring. Trumpets blared as King Mathus himself entered the ring, followed by ten knights. He shone with a brilliant light as he walked to the center. He wore light armor of silver underlaid with light blue fabric. Upon his back was a large cloak that could easily have covered his entire body if pulled around. Light reflected from it in a way Whill had never seen. A dragonhide cloak, he guessed. The knights followed King Mathus in two rows of five. The front four carried a large iron chest between them. Behind the knights ten more men entered the ring pulling a strange-looking mechanism. It had four large wooden wheels and was itself made of wood. It resembled a large battering ram, but in the ram’s place was a long wooden beam with a metal rod through the center, teetering upon two shorter beams. At one end of the beam was a large basket, and at the other a chair.

  “Is that what I think it is? Do they mean to weigh me here, now?” Whill asked.

  Abram laughed. “Yes, I’m afraid so. It is a better show for the people to see you weighed. Have fun with it. Give them what they want.”

  King Mathus raised an arm and the crowd quieted again. He turned and addressed Whill. “It is time for your reward, young man.” He extended a hand.

  Whill felt the thousands of eyes upon him once more, but he didn’t mind the feeling this time. He descended the steps and entered the ring. He approached the king, who stood among his guards. He regarded Whill with a curious smile. He looked to be slightly older than Abram. His long black hair hung to his shoulders, and his face was covered with a full, neatly trimmed beard. Within his soft brown eyes Whill saw compassion and kindness. He liked the man’s face, and not merely because he was about to give him a pile of gold. The king gave off an unmistakable energy, one of great power and pure goodness. He was not the type to sit upon his throne and enjoy a life of lavish luxury while his people went without. Any attack on them was considered a personal attack on him, Whill knew. King Mathus traveled often among the cities, towns, and villages of his kingdom, personally witnessing the lives of his people.

  The king took Whill’s hand in his own. With a firm grip, he shook his hand and congratulated him. He then led Whill to the seat positioned on the scale.

  “My good people of Fendale, and those of far cities, I ask your assistance. The chest at the other end of the scale is filled with twenty-pound bags of pure gold coins. I ask that you count aloud as they are put into the weighing basket. Let’s see this lad’s weight in gold.”

  The crowd cheered and Whill sat upon the seat, feeling a little awkward. The chair had no legs, so when he sat on it his feet were still on the ground.

  “The first bag of gold, please!”

  A knight took a bag of gold from the chest and put it in the basket, which, because of the angle of the beam, was seven feet in the air.

  “One!” the crowd cried. Another bag was put into the basket. “Two!” More bags were added. “Three! Four! Five! Six!” Whill had started to rise slightly with the additional gold, but his feet still touched the ground.

  “Seven!” the crowd cheered as the knight put in yet another bag of gold. “Eight! Nine!” Whill’s feet finally left the ground. “Ten!” At last the beam evened out. Whill was bursting with elation. Two hundred pounds of gold!

  Knights on both sides took hold of the beam as he was lowed. The king again shook his hand. “Congratulations, Whill. I look forward to meeting privately with you soon.”

  “Thank you, Sire. I also look forward to the meeting.”

  “If you like, the gold will be kept safe for you until such time as you are prepared to take it.”

  Whill had wondered how he and Abram would leave with two hundred pounds of gold. He thanked the king and made his way back to his seat. Then he and Abram made their way out of the coliseum and returned to the noisy street. They quickly found another wheel cart, and with a coin toss to a young lad, they were on their way.

  “Where are we going?” Whill asked. “The king wants to meet privately with me.”

  “Of course he does. But the meeting will not be for awhile, and it will not be in Fendale.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “First we have a small journey to make, one that will better prepare you for the counsel of the king.”

  Whill had no idea what Abram meant, but he wasn’t going to ponder the issue. Tonight was to be a night of celebration. “So where are we headed?”

  “To the best pub this side of-”

  “Let me guess: the Ky’Dren Mountains.”

  Abram grinned. “No joker, I was going to say the best pub this side of the ocean. But you get the point.”

  They rode for about ten minutes towards the heart of the city and stopped in front of a rustic-looking pub. The crowd had not died at all though it was now well into the night. The sky above was clear and full of brilliant stars, which surprisingly were visible in the mist of the great light of the lighthouse. People laughed and cheered in the streets as they walked by, following one of the many parades that had been snaking its way through the city all day. Whill followed Abram into the pub.

  The pub was called the Wet Whistle and was aptly named. It was packed from wall to wall with men and women drinking the house beer. All laughed and smiled or nodded as Whill and Abram walked to the main bar.

  “They sell one thing in this pub and one thing only: the house ale,” Abram hollered over the crowd and band that played in a far corner. “At one time the owner of this place was a sailor. He ran a merchant ship from here to Del’Harred, the port city of Isladon.”

  A fat bartender with a merry face approached. Abram ordered four beers and continued his story as the man began to pour the ale from large barrels.

  “One day old Barlemew-that’s the owner-one day he was sailing his normal route, which happened to bring him within fifty miles of Drakkar, the dragon island. Suddenly off the starboard side he spotted a dragon flying high. This is a regular occurrence with me
rchants of that route, so Barlemew didn’t worry much-that is, until the dragon flew directly at them.”

  Abram laughed and went on. “You won’t believe what happened next. Old Barlemew gets scared and tells his men to ready the harpoons. Well, the dragon flies right over them, and to everyone’s surprise it doesn’t attack. Instead he drops a pile of dung on the ship, covering old Barlemew.” Abram pointed at the bartender.

  “That’s Barlemew?” Whill asked. Abram merely nodded, so choked with laughter he couldn’t speak. Whill laughed also at the thought of a dragon taking a giant dump on the poor fat man. With tears in his eyes, Abram continued.

  “So there’s old Barlemew, covered in dragon crap, his men on the floor with laughter, and the poor fool has an idea. You see, Barlemew had always fancied himself a gardener. He had been trying to grow hops and barley for years, but his ale had always been only tolerable at best. So he had his men save the dung until he docked here in Fendale, and then he used it as a fertilizer for his garden. Come to find out, dragon dung is the single best fertilizer for a garden. Crops grown in it turn out better than any farmer has ever seen. To make a long story short, old Barlemew stumbled upon the secret to the best beer that has ever been brewed, and he has made a fortune on it.”

  The bartender put their beers on the bar. “So, you told the young lad my story, eh?”

  With great effort, Whill managed to speak. “I’m glad to hear of your good fortune, sir.”

  “Uh huh, Try the ale and you’ll wish a dragon had done his business on your head,” Barlemew said with a laugh.

  Whill complied and took a long drink from the large glass. The ale was superb, hands-down the best he had ever had. It was rich and thick yet smooth and satisfying. Putting down the glass, he looked at the bartender with astonishment.

  “This is the best ale in all of Agora, no doubt. I congratulate you, sir.”

  Barlemew smiled with pride. “I thank you, lad. Folks say it’s magical, too, you know. I drink a glass of my Dragon’s Brew every day and have had perfect health since. Even feel stronger.”

  Abram gave Whill a wink. “I don’t doubt that, good sir.”

  Barlemew gave them two more glasses. “These are on the house. Don’t worry ’bout drinkin too much, neither. You’ll feel like new men after a night of this stuff.”

  They both thanked Barlemew and toasted the man. After five glasses each, Abram said, “Maybe I’ll be able to dance after all.” And with that he headed in the direction of the dancing area. Soon he was surrounded by a crowd of both women and men cheering him on. Abram was good at a great many things, and dancing being one of them. He performed the jolly two-step, to everyone’s delight, and soon motioned for Whill to join him.

  Three hours and six beers later they stumbled into the street. The crowd had thinned and the first light of dawn was slowly making its way into the sky. They got a ride on a wheel cart and soon were back at their inn. Abram fell out of the cart in a fit of laughter and tipped the boy who had pulled the cart his entire sack of coins.

  “Be here at high noon and there will be more of that.”

  The kid smiled in disbelief and bowed frantically. “Thank you, sir, thank you!”

  They made their way to their room and quickly fell asleep, Whill in his bed, and Abram on the floor.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Plans for the Sea Maiden

  Whill awoke from strange dreams of dragons and gold. A faint breeze drifted in from the open window, along with the new day’s light. The scent of cherry pipe tobacco lingered in the air. Abram was not in, but he was not surprised. Abram always arose before he did. Whill realized that though they had drunk heavily, he did not have the usual headache. He actually felt great, refreshed and alert. But he was very hungry, and his mouth was as dry as desert wood. He got up and undressed. His clothes and long hair smelled like beer, smoke, and women. Whill laughed as he began to wash. The water basin had been filled with fresh hot water, probably at Abram’s command. Clean and clothed, he went downstairs and found Abram sitting at a small table in the main room, a steaming cup of coffee and long scroll in hand.

  “Ah, so the great fighter awakes,” Abram said as Whill took the seat opposite. “I’ve ordered eggs, bacon, and toast. Two orders each, which is not quite enough if you are as hungry as I.”

  “Good, I’m starved.”

  A startlingly beautiful young woman about Whill’s age walked up to the table. “Will you be wanting coffee also?” she asked him.

  “Yes, I would, if you would be so kind, with six lumps of sugar.”

  “Six? Do you have a thing for sweet stuff?”

  He smiled. “That I do, though I would be ill-fated to try to find anything as sweet as you.”

  The waitress blushed and gave Whill a coy smile. “I’ll be right back.”

  Abram grinned. “You didn’t learn that one from me. I’m impressed.”

  “What?” Whill feigned ignorance. “The truth rolls from the tongue easier than anything rehearsed.”

  “That it does, my friend that it does.”

  The waitress soon returned with Whill’s coffee, which was in a larger glass than Abram’s and topped with a thick coat of frothy cream.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “If you need anything else, please don’t be afraid to ask.”

  Soon the large plates of food arrived, and Whill and Abram dug in with a hunger they usually only knew on the road. After finishing, Abram ordered another coffee for each of them and lit his pipe. Whill also cleaned his plate and sat back feeling very content.

  Abram blew large smoke-rings into the air and watched them rise and linger. They sat for a moment in silence. More coffee came shortly and they again thanked the waitress. Whill watched Abram’s smoke-rings hang high above them, as still as stone.

  “You know,” said Whill, “we could buy a nice ship with that gold I won.”

  Abram laughed. “With that much gold you could buy a whole fleet. But a ship would be a very good investment.”

  Whill thought for a moment. “You said we would be here for a while. Do you think it will be long enough to have a ship built?”

  Abram raised his eyebrows. “I suppose we could. I do know an excellent shipbuilder-if he’s still alive, that is. I haven’t seen him since last we were here, and he was an old man then.”

  “We should go and see him today. I’ve been tossing a ship design around in my head for years-just a daydream, really, but now it seems we can have it made.” Said Whill as his excitement grew.

  Abram nodded as he sipped his coffee. “I had planned to buy a small boat, but now that you have won this grand prize, perhaps we won’t have to. I have to take you somewhere so that I may finally tell you all you wish and deserve to know. But it is far from here, and by sea we will get there much more easily. Dy’Kore,” he said, before Whill could ask. “The dwarf city in the Ky’Dren Mountains.”

  Whill regarded him with utter astonishment. “We are going to the dwarf city?”

  “Long ago I fought alongside the dwarf king Ky’Ell against the Draggard. He has since been a good friend. These long years since your birth, he has kept heirlooms of yours safe. Within the mountains lies your past, and there your story should be told to you.”

  Whill had read about and heard many stories of the dwarves. They were a race who kept to themselves mostly and were not seen often beyond the mountains. They were made up of three clans, the Ky’Dren, the Elgar, and the Ro’Sar. The mountains they inhabited had been named after the dwarf kings who had first settled them. The Ky’Dren dwarves were allies to Eldalon and watched over the Ky’Dren Pass, the only land route into the kingdom of Eldalon. In return the king supplied the dwarves with a means to transport and trade their gold and jewels, as well as safe passage by ship to visit their kin, the Elgar. The Ro’Sar, who had lived within what were now called the Ebony Mountains, was all but wiped out. A great host of Draggard had come by sea five years before and invaded the Ro’Sar city of Del’A
ris. All but a handful of the Ro’Sar had survived by fleeing to Dy’Kore.

  “Then it’s settled,” Whill said. “We’ll build a ship and sail to the mountains, and finally I will know my past.”

  They finished their coffee and ventured out into the street. It was high noon and the day was mild. The outer walls of the city gave good protection from the wind. The streets were littered with paper confetti and bits and pieces of pop balls. Already people were cleaning up, and it appeared that not only hired cleaners but also many citizens lent a hand. As Abram had expected, the young man from the previous night was waiting by the door with an expectant smile. Abram threw him a coin and told him their destination.

  They again traveled towards the center of the city and soon stopped before a large, three-story building. It was made of exquisitely crafted stone that had a shiny gloss. It boasted four large pillars, each of which was decorated with Fendale’s emblem. A large set of marble steps led up to the main door. Upon the very top of the building, stone letters as tall as a man declared “Bank of Fendale.” Whill noticed that archers were positioned every ten feet along the top of the building. There were also four armed guards at the base of the stair.

  “This is where your gold is being kept. I assumed that you would want to make a withdrawal.”

  “You assumed correctly. You’ve paid my way long enough. It’s high time I treated you for once.”

  Abram laughed as they climbed the marble steps to the front door. An armed guard stood at each side.

  “What is your business, good sir?” the guard on the right asked Abram.

  “We are here to make a withdrawal,” Whill said.

  “What are your names, please?”

  “I am Whill, and this is Abram.”