Whill of Agora: Epic Fantasy Bundle (Books 1-4): (Whill of Agora, A Quest of Kings, A Song of Swords, A Crown of War) (Legends of Agora)

by Michael James Ploof

  Roakore ignored the slip and instead scowled at the surrounding crowd. “In warfare there ain’t no time fer pleasantries, there ain’t no time fer formality! In warfare there ain’t no rules but one: if ye don’t kill yer opponent, he’ll kill ye! Haldegoz was defeated because he let his concentration slip, he let down his guard. In the midst o’ battle, to lose yer concentration be to lose yer life. Never let down yer guard, never relent, and never take yer eyes from yer enemy!”

  He patted the young dwarf on the back and raised his arms. “Now let us see what Haldegoz’s opponent has learned!” He took up Haldegoz’s wooden axe and eyed the dwarf he had been fighting. “What is yer name, lad?”

  The slightly older boy puffed out his chest and proclaimed, “I be Ky’Drock, son o’ Ky’Kronn.”

  Roakore slammed his chest and bowed slightly, purposefully, though he owed the young dwarf no such sign of respect. Ky’Drock beamed as he returned the gesture. It was just what Roakore had wanted. In a flash he was upon the bowing dwarf, striking hard with his wooden axe. Ky’Drock’s expression turned from sheer delight to horror as the rightful king of the Ebony Mountains attacked. The lad barely blocked the massive blows as he tried to stay on his feet. Roakore did not relent; he swung low, then high, then straight down from above. To his delight, the young warrior met him blow for blow.

  After a while, Ky’Drock found his rhythm and took the offensive. Roakore intentionally weakened his own defenses until it appeared as though he could barely fend off the attack. Ky’Drock gained confidence with every strike. When he finally became too cocky, his master stepped up the fight. As a heavy blow came down from overhead, Roakore stepped aside and let the wooden axe hit the floor. He then quickly brought his own axe over top, pinning it to the ground. With his left fist he gave the young lad—who was still bent over, clutching his axe handle with a look of surprise—a strong backhand to the face. After a few more, Ky’Drock fell to his knees, and Roakore swung his axe at the lad’s face. Ky’Drock let go of his weapon and rolled out of the way, before the lad could get up, though, Roakore came out of his spin swinging, and sent him rolling away again. Ky’Drock rolled away three more times as Roakore continued to swing, and then quickly reversed his spin towards his opponent’s legs. He kicked Roakore hard in the gut—but the skilled dwarf just spun away, absorbing the force.

  No matter, Ky’Drock was on his feet in an instant. He retrieved his weapon, and charged in hard. He swung from overhead and then the side. Both attacks were parried. Next he went for the feet, but his master was too quick. Roakore leapt over the axe and came in hard as Ky’Drock’s momentum spun the young dwarf to the side. The mighty dwarf struck him behind the knee, forcing him down onto it, and then spun in the opposite direction. The ensuing blow was so powerful that, even though Ky’Drock blocked it, he went flying onto his back.

  Roakore chopped at Ky’Drock’s legs, but the energetic dwarf proved agile, indeed, as he somersaulted backward into position—axe ready. Then Roakore came on full force, keeping the lad on his heels. Left, right, left, overhead, right: the onslaught came. Finally, Roakore feinted right and Ky’Drock twirled left. Before the young dwarf knew what happened, he had been struck in the side, and had his legs swept out from under him. Roakore spun again and stopped his wooden axe an inch from Ky’Drock’s neck.

  “Yer dead.”

  The astonished dwarf only stared and gulped. Roakore lent the lad a hand, with a heavy pat on the back, and handed Haldegoz his axe. He addressed the on looking crowd.

  “Me good dwarves o’ the Ro’Sar Mountains! Hard ye have all trained these long years. Before me now I see skilled warriors, dedicated fighters: a great tribute to our fallen kin. Let me say that each o’ yer fallen fathers smiles down upon ye this day from the great Mountain o’ the Gods! Long has been our road—and stained in blood it be—but we finally reach the end. A war is coming, one that’ll include all kingdoms o’ Agora! Our part will be one o’ great importance. Not only will we take back what be rightfully ours, but we will rid the world o’ a great evil.”

  The chamber erupted in cheers. The deep, booming voices of the thousand dwarves was deafening.

  “But be knowin’ this: we must not underestimate our enemy! Fer a trusted source tells me that a queen Draggard now inhabits our lost mountain.” Roakore spat at the mention of the beasts, as did hundreds of his followers. “We may be facing an army o’ over a hundred thousand!”

  Roakore watched closely as many hushed conversations broke out. On the faces of his followers he saw surprise, anger, and confusion, but he did not see fear.

  “But, me brave warriors, we be not alone! When the time comes, our kin’ll march with us—from Ky’Dren and the Elgar Mountains to the east.” He raised his voice so that his next statement echoed loudly throughout the chamber. “An’ let it be known now: the march o’ the three clans o’ the dwarves will be echoed in song fer all eternity! The great deeds we do in the name o’ our fathers will live on in our sons fer all time. We will reclaim our mountain, we will defeat the Draggard, and we will bleed with wide smiles in the faces o’ our enemy. Victory, glory, our home: will soon be ours!”

  The chamber roared. The cheers and the stomping boots of the excited dwarves were so great, they could be felt by Whill and Abram far down the long corridors of Dy’Kore.

  There came a knock at Abram’s door, and Ky’Ell entered. “Are ye ready for a tour o’ me great city, then?”

  They followed the barrel-chested king through the many halls and chambers of Dy’Kore. After descending a number of stairs they came to the great under-city. Huge furnaces roared on all sides as they walked through. Thousands of dwarves were hard at work shoveling coal into the large pyres, or wheeling barrels of it from adjoined tunnels. The heat was almost unbearable for Whill, and after only a few minutes his brow dripped with sweat. Steel, iron, gold and silver were melted down to be reshaped by the great smiths of the city. Next to each furnace was at least one work station; hundreds of smiths banged away tirelessly, crafting goblets, jewelry, weapons and armor.

  It took almost five minutes to walk the length of the furnace room, and though Whill was amazed at what he had seen, he was relieved to be out of the grueling heat. The next stop was an entrance to the mines. The areas close to the main under-city had been milked dry centuries before, so they had to follow Ky’Ell for almost half an hour, taking many turns in the maze of tunnels, before finally coming to the current mines. He handed both men a lantern and Whill gasped aloud as they entered a rich tunnel. The walls on both sides gleamed and shimmered as the light shone on the many veins of gold within the rock.

  “This tunnel were cut not a month ago,” the king boasted. “The gold veins go on into the stone fer thirty feet, as far as we can yet see. The devils tried to hide it away forever, they did, but we found it. We always do, fer the glory o’ our gods.”

  Whill knew that, by “devils”, the king was referring to the dragons. It was said by dwarf religion that, in the beginning, there were two kinds of gods. The Dwarnevly—the good gods—had created the beauty of the world: gold, silver, diamonds, and jewels. The Dargandae—the dragons—were insanely jealous, for until then, they themselves had been the most magnificent beings in all the world. A great war ensued. The dragons, unable to destroy the beauty of the Dwarnevly works, hid the treasures instead. Deep in the earth and mountains they buried it, never again to be seen. And so the dwarves had been created—to retrieve and spread again the great beauty of the Dwarnevly’s creations throughout the world.

  When Whill had first heard the many stories of the dwarves from Abram, he had been more than skeptical and thought their beliefs rather silly; but after what he had experienced in the last few weeks, he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.

  After returning from the mines and passing once again through the hot furnace chamber, the king led Whill and Abram above the under-city to the Chamber of Treasures. This chamber, aptly named, was the largest and most breathtaking Whill had
yet seen. Here were some of the most beautiful artifacts the dwarves had ever crafted. The room was brightly lit with golden chandeliers and hundreds of torches, positioned in such a way that not a shadow could be seen in the vast room. The walls, floor, and ceiling aided in the effect, for they were covered with diamond dust. Millions of sparkles caught Whill’s eye from every direction as Ky’Ell led them deeper into the magnificent chamber. The crowns of each of the many kings were set upon marvelous pillars, in order from Ky’Dren down, along the right side of the room. Whill could hardly believe that he was looking upon the actual crowns worn by so many ancient dwarven kings, and he realized he was one of few humans to lay eyes on these priceless treasures.

  To the left of the crowns were various other treasures, many crafted by a king or his sons, or by one of the many famous smiths of Ky’Dren. Great axes and hatchets, war hammers, and maces of old stood proudly on display, along with magnificent suits of armor adorned in jewels and plated in silver and gold. The three spent more than an hour within the Chamber of Treasures. The king told the many tales that went along with each item, and Whill looked on in amazement all the while.

  Next the king brought them to one of the main living quarters of the dwarves, a twenty-story cylindrical shaft more than five hundred feet wide. Whill stood in awe as he looked over the rail from the top story down onto the many balconies. Each level was identical with hundreds of doors all spaced the same distance apart, and a torch burning at every one. The only difference between each door was the family name, which was set in stone and decorated to the inhabitant’s liking. The living quarters boasted four equally distanced, large pulley machines, with four stout dwarves manning each. Up and down they went, carrying up to ten passengers within a circular cage. Though there were stairs as well, the machines made it much easier for the more than fifty thousand dwarves within these quarters to come and go.

  The king showed Abram and Whill many more wondrous sights that day, and made a point of repeating that it would take years to see all of the dwellings and tunnels of the mountain; Dy’Kore, though large, was but a small piece of the Ky’Dren kingdom, which stretched more than seven hundred miles under the Ky’Dren Pass and north to the sea.

  When they returned to the king’s chambers, Ky’Ell rubbed his stout belly and informed them with a grin that it was dinnertime.

  To Whill’s dismay, Roakore did not join them this time, but he was both delighted and greatly impressed when he walked into the dining room once again and discovered more than a hundred dwarves—men, women, and children alike—seated at the massive table. This, Abram quietly told him as they sat down, was the tradition of the king’s banquet. Every other night the king would dine with his people, regardless of rank or position. Invitations were sent out months in advance, and dwarves would come eagerly from the farthest reaches of the mountain, some traveling for weeks, to dine with their king.

  Whill was truly impressed. His respect for Ky’Ell had been great from the beginning, but now it was profound. Upon the face of every dwarf seated at the massive table was a bright smile, and each regarded their king with utter reverence.

  Before the food, came ale in large mugs. White froth dripped down the sides of the overfilled and heavily adorned goblets. Barrels had been set along the table every five feet, each tapped and ready, to better accommodate the ale-loving lot. The king took his cup and stood, and every dwarf in attendance followed in his lead.

  “Let me begin by commending each and every one o’ ye, me dear dwarves. May yer beards grow to the floor, and may yer families prosper. May each and every one o’ ye, through ye many great deeds—whether large or small—find yer way into the Mountain o’ the Gods.”

  The dwarves responded with a hardy “who-waaahh” and chugged their beers. Whill and Abram followed suit, guzzling frantically to keep up with the veteran king. After the mugs were emptied, and at Ky’Ell’s lead, they filled them once again.

  “Also, to me left be two visitors from the outside, great warriors an’ great men indeed—Draggard slayers they be! Our friends an’ allies: Abram, an’ Whill o’ Agora!”

  Again the dining hall erupted into many cheers, which were soon muffled as the dwarves chugged down their ale.

  With introductions complete, the king refilled his mug again and sat down at the head of the great table. On cue, Fior nodded to the waiting servers, and the food came out by the wheel-barrels—literally. Whill had never seen so much food and, indeed, did not know what some of it was. It did not take him long to surmise that the dwarves favored meat—and lots of it—for the only vegetables he could see were potatoes. Nevertheless the food was excellent, nothing less than what one would expect from the table of the king.

  Such feasts were commonplace among the dwarves, whose wealth had no rivals. Aside from the constant hard work—which they reveled in—every last dwarf of Ky’Dren lived a lavish and comfortable life. Ky’Dren was the greatest Kingdom of all the dwarf mountains. The precious metals, weapons, jewelry, gold, and other such wares that they produced, were traded throughout Agora; in return, the dwarves received all the food, supplies, and ale they would ever need.

  The feast went on for more than two hours, and by that time Whill was feeling the effects of the dark dwarf ale; he was so full he thought he might burst. The dwarves spoke openly with the king, telling stories and sharing jokes, and simply enjoyed their once a year dinner with the great dwarf. Whill looked around in wonderment at the joy around him—the hearty laughter of the king, the joyous smiles of the common folk. He made a mental note to host similar banquets when he himself became king.

  When he became king… the thought brought a solemn expression to the young man’s face. How could he be king? Uthen-Arden was the largest Kingdom in all of Agora, with hundreds of thousands of citizens. How could he rule such a powerful empire?

  Whill was not the sort to think little of himself; on the contrary, he knew he was well educated, could speak every language of the peoples of Agora, and was indeed a great fighter. But a voice within said that this task was beyond him—that he would fail—and many would suffer his folly. Perhaps it was the pressure of sudden responsibility, or perhaps it was the ale, but Whill had a keen feeling that his legacy would be one of tragedy and failure. He indeed feared King Addakon; could he defeat such a foe? Pondering this, he realized when he finally did look upon Addakon, he would be in essence looking upon the image of his own father. Whill’s first encounter with Addakon would give him a glimpse of his lost father. In those first moments of revelation—in the heat of the inevitable battle—would he lift his sword for the kill? Could he strike the image of his father down?

  After four hours of hard training with his men, Roakore commanded all to stop. This had been one of the most grueling sessions to date, and every dwarf in the training room was winded and soaked with sweat. Each had obtained more than a few bruises, and all were utterly spent. They had sparred nonstop for ten hours straight, and how proud Roakore was. He looked upon his dwarves now with a great smile—the greatest warriors his race had ever known—and imagined their glory when the mountain was finally taken back.

  “Ye have all done well, ye have all done me proud!” Roakore cried, and then fought back the swelling in his throat and the moisture in his eyes as he took in the sight before him. Here stood one thousand loyal dwarves. Most were barely considered adults, but all felt the loss of their prided mountain. Many of these lads before him would die in the reclaiming of it—perhaps all—but none cared. For the glory of their king, and the vengeance of their kin, each and every warrior before him would walk to the ends of the earth and fight an army of demons. Roakore knew then, as he looked into the eager eyes of his followers, that no force in the world would stop them in their time of glory. Dragon or Draggard be damned, the mountain would be theirs once again!

  “Our time o’ glory soon approaches! Soon we will march to our homeland; soon we’ll again see the great peak o’ Drenzedell; soon will be our hour o’ venge
ance!”

  The room once again erupted in cheers. Soon, Father, he said to himself. Soon will be the hour.

  He left the training room and made his way to his family’s hall. He did, after all, have twenty-seven wives waiting for him, all hoping for a chance to aid the cause with another child.

  After the fine ale and shared stories, everyone filed out of the dining room and down several winding corridors. It had come to Whill’s attention that it was a holy day among the dwarves—the day in which Dy’Kore himself had claimed the great mountain. The day of promise was celebrated every year.

  Feeling very warm inside, and unable to hide his ale-induced grin, he ambled along with a group of very excited dwarves. All of them had welcomed Whill and Abram warmly, uncharacteristic of their gruff reputation. No doubt it was due to the spreading story of the fight with the Draggard two nights previous.

  With every step Whill could hear the growing sound of many drums—hundreds it seemed—beating in unison in the chamber ahead. Soon the group entered a massive natural cavern much unlike the halls and tunnels of the rest of the city. Here no walls had been smoothly chiseled, no level ceiling had been smoothed out; indeed, the only alteration to the immense cavern was the carvings on the many walls, and the massive stalactites and stalagmites.

  Abram and Whill stood side by side in mutual awe at the sight of the tens of thousands of dwarves already within the cavern. Before Whill could comment, the drumming abruptly stopped, and all attention fell upon the western wall of the cavern. Fior stood high upon a ledge where all in attendance had a clear view. He wore red flowing robes with gold trim, and in his left hand was a staff adorned with enough jewels to see ten men through fifty years of comfortable life. As the final echo of the drums was lost in the surrounding stone, and the murmurs died away, Fior spoke in Dwarvish.