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

  Lunara stormed up to Roakore and shoved his shoulder. Though he did not move an inch, he understood her meaning.

  “What do you mean by pushing the horses so hard? Are you mad?” Lunara demanded. “Even the sturdiest of dwarven breeds cannot be driven so long. Have you no knowledge of the equine?”

  “I be knowin’ ’bout dwarven horses, lady, and I be knowin’ what they can take. Ask ’em yerself with yer elven tricks.”

  “One need not ask the obvious, good king, one must simply care to look,” she replied.

  “Bah.” Roakore threw up his arms and turned to find food. She stopped him with a firm hand to his shoulder. He stopped and looked at her hand with a curious brow. “What be it?” he asked.

  “What be it—that is indeed the question,” she said quietly. “What be with you? I know that you would flee from nothing. You are not running away from something, you are running to something. Why the urgency, dwarf, what do you know?”

  Roakore looked around at his unnoticing fellows. “Just somethin’ me and me boy saw night last, somethin’ in the heavens.”

  “An omen?” she asked, all seriousness and wide-eyed wonder. Roakore often forgot that she was young for an elf at only twenty-one. He took for granted her innocence in the face of her great power.

  “Yes, me lady. I see blood on the road before us. Sapphirian has foretold of it.”

  “Then let us not ride into it headlong, but with a plan.”

  “I got me a plan,” said Roakore.

  “What is your plan, to go in axe first, screaming like a wild dwarf?”

  Roakore looked at her dubiously. “Ugh…yeah.”

  Lunara pet Silverwind’s beautiful shining feathers, startling the drinking bird and causing it to instinctively turn the color of the earth and stream for but a moment.

  “Think for a moment of the effort that your goddess has gone to in order to bring you the omen,” she said.

  Roakore moved his eyes back and forth. “I’m listenin’.”

  “If she went to all that trouble, shouldn’t we too show cunning, diligence, and due caution in the face of such a…dire omen?”

  Roakore stared at her until she looked away. “Yer hired!” he said loudly, and walked away.

  Lunara was momentarily dumbfounded but ran after him. “Hired?” she asked.

  He turned and stopped so that she bumped into him, with her bosom to his face, given his height. He sputtered and apologized but she seemed not to have noticed.

  “What do you mean hired?” she asked again.

  “It means when one does a service for—”

  “I know what it means in human and dwarf custom. What duty would you ask of me?”

  “To be me adviser, of course, personal healer and such, and for it all the gold and jewels you could want and all the adventure you could stand.”

  Lunara squinted at his description. “Adviser, healer…you sound as though you are describing the elf word for friend.”

  Roakore scowled at that. “I guess I be, then, lady, I guess I be. Haha! Well, anyway, yer hired. Would ye lay out a plan for me and me boys? I want to see what you got.” He leaned in close to her ear. “I doubted you would mind signing on with me crew, knowing that Holdagozz be at me side always.”

  He winked and walked away in search of his lunch, leaving Lunara to stare at his back, open-mouthed.

  The dwarves dined and the horses ate, Silverwind went off hunting, and Lunara sang a song to the horses. Her staff glowed with the sweet melody that was her voice as it sang in Elvish of strength and healing and growth and rebuilding. All who heard the song were affected, horse, human, and dwarf alike. Her words surrounded them all, and all were held in attention and awe. Pulses of energy rippled from the staff and were felt as easily as seen. Like heat ripples above a blazing fire, her spell washed over everyone. And they all shuddered as the energy passed through them.

  The belching dwarf Philo stepped forward as soon as the spell was through and raised a fist. “What’s the meanin’ o’ this elven magic-makin’ on us?”

  Roakore stepped between Philo and Lunara, who was bent to a knee, recuperating from the exertion. “She be healin’ the horses is all. She can’t be blamed if ye felt a tingle.”

  “A tingle!” roared Philo. “It—”

  “You be part o’ me elite fightin’ force, and we do things a little different here. Follow me to glory or be on yer own damned way.”

  “Sorry, me king—”

  “Don’t be sorry, just be sensible. Do ye not feel better than ye have in years? There ain’t no fear to be had o’ this one. She be pure as the driven mountain snows o’ Ky’Dren’s peaks, she be.”

  Lunara blushed at the compliment and the dwarves went to mounting their steeds. Roakore took to the sky with his son and they set out once again.

  They flew ahead many miles and saw nothing to warrant the previous night’s omen. The day had clouded over once again and a light rain fell, but aside from that, the world was quiet. There was no smoke on the horizon, no dark hordes of marching draggard. Still, Roakore sensed something coming, and he trusted his instincts enough to be weary.

  Together with Silverwind and Helzendar he flew farther still, past yet another burned-out town, until finally they came to the fortress of Bhor’Alder. The old trading post had long ago been abandoned, having been used for trade between the Ro’Sar dwarves and Uthen-Arden. It was located perfectly between the Uthen-Arden capital city of Del’Oradon and the Ro’Sar Mountains. Since the invasion of the Ro’Sar Mountains, however, the trading place had gone into disrepair.

  Roakore circled the stone structure looking for a sign of trouble. Nothing moved among the stone but long weeds blowing in the wind. The place was quiet, but Roakore’s superstition was not quenched. He and his son landed outside of the stone structure and dismounted.

  Helzendar was eager for some trouble, having heard the tales of his father’s many exploits. For the dangerous trek, Roakore had allowed his son to take along the steel version of his wooden half-moon spear-staff. He held it at the ready as he scouted the deserted trading post with his father.

  “Quiet as stone, lad. Listen close,” Roakore bade him as he led the way into the quiet fortress.

  Through the wide open archway they went into the main trading room. The vast hall had once been the epicenter of bustling activity, a place where dwarves and men traded their wares. It now stood quiet as a tomb, with only the soft moan of wind through its broken windows. There was only faint light here, but to the mountain-dwelling dwarves, it was enough to see clearly.

  Roakore had come here many times a year in the early days before the invasion of Ro’Sar. Humans came from all corners of Uthen-Arden to trade food, pottery, ale, and supplies for the dwarves’ masterfully created weapons and jewelry. He knew the fortress well, and using his knowledge of the layout of the stone structure, he led his son cautiously through the chambers and rooms.

  They spent nearly a half hour searching for the cause of the previous night’s bad omen but found nothing. Roakore and Helzendar came back to the entrance where they had started their search. There was only one place left to check: the wine cellar.

  Roakore walked silently to the door of the cellar. He cursed under his breath as the large wooden door creaked on its rusty hinges. As soon as the door cracked open, a waft of stench assaulted the two dwarves.

  “Bwah, what’s that stink, Pa?” Helzendar asked, pinching his nose against the smell.

  “That be the stink o’ draggard eggs an’ slime, or I be a bearded turd,” Roakore answered. “Follow me close, lad, and not a sound.”

  Helzendar nodded his understanding and gripped his spear-staff tighter.

  Roakore led him down the stairs cautiously. When the wine cellar came into view, the dwarves’ eyes widened. It was no longer a wine cellar, but had been dug out for hundreds of feet on all sides. And though Helzendar was looking at hundreds of eggs, he could not help but puzzle over one question: Where had all
the dirt gone?

  Roakore froze at the bottom of the stair. Helzendar stopped a few steps short, glad that the stairs were stone and not creaking wooden ones. He and his father looked around the chamber of dirt, taking in the details. Silently the lad and his father returned to the surface and did not speak or make a sound until they were far from the place.

  “Holy flaming dragon shyte!” Helzendar exclaimed in a hushed whisper.

  His father laughed. “Yer mam know ye be cussin’ like a pirate?”

  “O’ course she do, I be learnin’ from the best. She could swear a devil to blush, she could.”

  Roakore laughed all the more. But his face fast became serious. “There be nearly a thousand eggs down there. Ye know what that be meanin’, lad?”

  Helzendar did not have to ponder long. “A queen be nearby?” He scowled at the nearby tree shadows.

  “No,” said Roakore. “Them eggs be not fresh. What I think is there at least be some sort o’ guard round.”

  Helzendar nodded his agreement and eyed the land with renewed vigor. Roakore whistled, and soon Silverwind was gliding toward them. As fast as she could carry them, they flew back to the others. Soon they came upon them and landed in a clearing next to the road. Roakore and Helzendar slid off of Silverwind and Holdagozz nodded at his king.

  “What do you know? By the look o’ your face, what? It be a dragon ahead?”

  Roakore shook his head and grinned. “By the bloodred moon we did see the omen. We found ourselves a li’l den o’ draggard.”

  Everyone perked up at that. Roakore pointed a thumb behind him. “There be bloodshed coming, boys. Best make sure it ain’t ours.”

  He led them swiftly the few miles to the fortress; they stopped a few stones’ throws away from the structure. The horses were tied off and the dwarves got into a huddle.

  “What be the plan?” asked Philo eagerly. As weapons he carried twin war hammers, short and thick and made of steel. The heads of his hammers were as wide as dinner plates, and the handle half his arm length. They hung from straps above his elbows and swung lazily as he bobbed.

  “Ye be rememberin’ the ol’ trading post o’ Bhor’Alder? Well, the wine cellar be full o’ draggard eggs, still stinkin’. Me boy and me be figuring that the queen has either moved on, or she be in wait. And there ain’t no tellin’ if any be guardin’ the den. We’re gonna go in fast and we’re gonna go in hot.”

  He looked around at the group, picking out the quickest. “I be needin’ two volunteers to go into the den an’ flush ’em out.”

  When everyone raised their hands, Roakore pointed to the two he had already chosen. “You and you, get a small barrel o’ lantern oil and be ready for me orders. The rest o’ you prepare for battle. We be wakin’ up the demons from their eggs.”

  Roakore took Lunara aside. “Would ye keep the boys at yer side? They ain’t yet prepared for dangers such as this.”

  The young elf nodded. “Of course.”

  The dwarves split into two groups; one came in from the left, the other from the right. These were young, hearty dwarves who had survived the reclamation; they were Ro’Sar Mountain–born, and ready for blood.

  The entrance to the trading post was surrounded as the dwarves took their places. Hatchets were drawn and the two runners nodded to their king that they were ready.

  From one of the many bags attached to his saddle Roakore took two dragonsbreath bombs. He handed one to each of the runners. The two runners, Brendar and Du’Wren, looked at the bombs with wide eyes and eager grins.

  “Now these here bombs pack more punch than ye be thinkin’,” Roakore explained. “Ye be wanting a wide breadth when these go off. I be needin’ you to pour a line o’ oil all around and through the entire chamber. Brendar!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I be wantin’ your bomb at the far end o’ the den. And Du’Wren—”

  “Sire!”

  “I want ye to plant yer bomb near the entrance. We’ll fry these demons right well. Now pull them plugs from them oil barrels an’ give ’em hell.”

  “Yes, sir,” the two dwarves said in unison.

  Brendar and Du’Wren ran into the building, trailing oil, and disappeared. A few tense minutes passed and neither of them came out. When the unmistakable sounds of angry draggard began to come from the structure, Roakore nodded to Holdagozz to follow.

  They entered the structure cautiously. Nothing was beyond the threshold but more sounds of stirring draggard. Holdagozz followed his king to the stairs and beyond. Once below, they saw Brendar fighting off a draggard. The dwarf was bleeding from many wounds and had abandoned his small oil barrel for his war hammer. In his wake lay two dead draggard. All around the den draggard had begun to stir. Many had hatched from their eggs, and many more were beginning to. Roakore ran to Brendar’s aid and embedded his great axe in the draggard’s head.

  “Where be Du’Wren?” he asked Brendar.

  Brendar pointed deep within the den. “I last seen him when we crossed back there.”

  Another draggard charged at the dwarves but was quickly put down by Holdagozz with a hatchet that sunk deep in the beast’s forehead. Just then they heard the war cry of Du’ Wren.

  “Haha, ye beasties, come and get some!”

  Roakore turned to Holdagozz. “Get Brendar to Lunara—”

  “It ain’t but a scratch,” protested Brendar, though it was clear by the blood at his feet that the wounds were serious.

  “Go on, now, the both of ye. When I come out with Du’Wren, light it up.”

  “Yes, me King,” said Holdagozz as he led the injured dwarf out.

  Roakore made his way through the draggard-egg-infested den. He could now see Du’Wren engaged in battle with two draggard. The dwarf wielded twin axes and in his strong hands they were deadly, but many of the beasts were quickly surrounding him.

  Roakore barreled into the side of one of the draggard and sent it flying. Du’Wren smiled brightly at his king and attacked his foes with renewed vigor.

  “C’mon, then, soldier, let’s get clear o’ this stinkin’ den so we can light her up!” yelled Roakore as more draggard began to hatch.

  He plowed a path through the growing draggard horde and reached the stairs with Du’Wren hot on his heels. They came sprinting out of the trading post with snarling draggard not far behind. Hatchets flew and the following beasts fell in a heap at the threshold.

  “Light ’er up!” Roakore ordered, and the dwarves complied. Torches were lowered to the oil trail and flames quickly caught and started into the building. Newborn draggard, covered in green slime, began pouring out of the old trading post. Hatchets flew into their ranks, two per dwarf, and the advance was quickly cut short. Screams of anguish rose up from the depths of the den and Roakore knew that the spilled oil had caught.

  Suddenly Philo broke rank and charged three draggard as they came out of the building. Before he could reach them and before his king could give warning, there was a huge explosion from within the building. Philo was blown back many feet as flame and gore shot forth from the threshold.

  A second blast ripped through the subterranean den and the ground shook with the retort. The dwarves cheered and pumped their fists in the air. Once the commotion had died down, the screams and cries of the burning draggard rose up with the smoke.

  The beasts began to once again pour out of the building. Some were missing limbs, others were engulfed in flames, and all met the fierce battle cry of the dwarves. What draggard that survived the dragonsbreath explosion soon wished they hadn’t, for it would have been a gentler death than what they faced at the hands of the dwarves.

  The Ro’Sar dwarves had trained for twenty long years, always with the burning image of the hated draggard. They lived for nothing more than to kill the beasts, and they were very good at it. They had learned every weakness of the beasts, knew that they were soft behind the ear and under the tail, and as vulnerable as any in the eyes. The dwarves knew of and exploited every weakness
, and even invented a few. One stout dwarf, the legendary belcher Philo himself, had learned quite accidentally that one could distract the draggard almost like a dumb animal if you spun and twirled your shiny weapons. Once proven, the idea had been adapted in everyday combat training.

  The draggard were defeated in short order, and the spectacle amazed Tarren. He watched from behind Lunara and did not even try to get involved like Helzendar wanted to, though he could have, as Lunara was so engaged in the healing of the dwarves from afar. She flung swirling blue orbs of healing energy at the dwarves from both hands, one after another. She stood braced to the earth in a defensive stance, her eyes rolled back and head tilted likewise. She chanted all the while, and Tarren did not know for sure whether it was the wind or the supreme magic which caused her hair to dance like silver flame. Tarren watched as a bold dwarf misjudged a strike and got a draggard tail straight through his belly. Before Tarren could gasp at the horror, the tail retracted and Lunara shot a blue healing orb from her palm. The orb glowed around the wound, and it was no more. To Tarren’s and indeed the dwarf’s amazement, the wound healed as the skin came together and the dwarf fought on.

  Tarren watched on wide-eyed as he saw firsthand the prowess of the dwarves. He realized just how much he needed to grow if he were to ever face something as nightmarish and powerful as the draggard. They were covered in small spikes, not pointed but jagged all the same. Upon their backs were larger spikes, the degree of which depended on the draggard build. They were not all of uniform size, Tarren quickly learned, but as varied in shape as humans. The smallest ones chilled Tarren the most; they tended to use all fours and were like little dog-sized monsters. The boy learned also the great prowess of the dwarves to be able to defeat such foes. It seemed that they housed the strength of two bulls. And while Tarren had seen the great loads the dwarves could lift, and indeed had felt their power in training, to actually see a dwarf rip off a draggard’s arm and then smash its face in with it was something else.