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

  Ahead was the true test, a fogless two-mile stretch of randomly guarded posts. They would surely be seen, but they could not be stopped. Dirk knew that Krentz would be slowed considerably having to fly over it. He doubted she would be dumb enough to fly through the pass.

  A horn blast and distant calls of alarm rang out, and demands of name, title, and rank and commands to halt followed in Frostmore’s charge. Dirk rode low to his saddle and brought his cloak around for protection. Chief suddenly dug in and came to a stop. Just as gracefully he shot off behind Dirk. It was but a moment before the startled whine of a horse and the cry of a terrified man rang out behind them. Chaos was left in Dirk’s wake as Chief intercepted his pursuers.

  Ahead the mountain split and on each side the walls seemed to open to welcome him in. A flag caught his eye and he watched as three riders, each wielding a lance and in full armor, moved into his path and began a charge that set the four on an unavoidable collision course.

  “Chief!” Dirk called against the wind. The three lance-wielding knights spread out a horse’s length and barreled in. From inside his boot Dirk took two darts, and with a quick apology to Frostmore, he stabbed them into the horse’s neck. Frostmore jerked and protested briefly before the drug kicked in. Then he gave a startled cry of wild delight and charged toward the knights with renewed vigor that far surpassed his fastest speed yet.

  Dirk gripped the reins so hard that his hands became numb with strain. His legs pumped to keep in rhythm and he quickly realized he would need strength to match Frostmore’s. Carefully he reached back and retrieved a third dart from above his boot. He stabbed himself in the leg and put the dart back. The mechanism that held the darts swallowed the spent one and replaced it with a new one with a soft click of gears.

  The distilled adrenaline from the blood of a terrified man coursed through Dirk’s veins and caused the reins to seem loose. “Chief!” he screamed as the knights charged toward them. Dirk steered straight for the knight at the center as the other two knights took places behind him. He would have to face them all in turn.

  Dirk gracefully jumped up to stand upon his saddle, and with a scream of “Chief!,” he leapt forward as the lance of the charging knight bore down upon Frostmore. Dirk caught Frostmore’s neck with his outstretched arms as his body twisted and a swift kick came down upon the shaft of the knight’s lance. Dirk ran up the lance as its tip sank deep into the ground. The horses grazed each other as they passed around the dug-in lance. The assassin took two quick skipping steps up the lance and slammed a boot into the knight’s helmet, knocking it flying off.

  Dirk landed upon Frostmore’s rear and clutched the saddle’s back, while not ten feet away the next knight barreled in. Dirk unsheathed his sword, dropped back into his saddle, and gave a war cry. In the corner of his eye he saw a wisp of fog shoot past and slam into the charging horse and rider. Chief hit them with a force not lent from his weight. Horse and rider were thrown wide, and the timber wolf abandoned physical form and flew as writhing smoke. The third rider closed in and screamed in terror as Chief came to form on his back.

  Dirk laughed as he urged Frostmore onward past the fallen knights. Another horn blew and the zing of arrows took to the sky. The barrage came sloping down upon them and Dirk threw up his cloak. Two arrows rattled off of his enchantment and another sunk into the saddle.

  Dirk steered Frostmore toward the small watchtower from which the arrows had come. From his hip he took a thick dart. Carefully he twisted it at the middle and caused it to click twice. He threw the dart and it stuck to one of the supporting struts of the elevated tower. A second later there was a blast of smoke and fire and the groan of splintered wood. Dirk steered directly between the failing struts and threw another dart at the underside of the tower, which tilted and tipped with a protesting screech of wood. Dirk rode on as men scrambled out of the collapsed tower and another explosion destroyed what was left of it.

  Dirk saw ahead that the chase had caught the attention of the dwarves. They waved, hooted and hollered, and cheered Dirk on as he charged toward the dwarven post. Arrows fell in his wake as Frostmore sped away twice as fast as his pursuers. Once he had passed the border, the dwarves closed up ranks behind him. The pursuing Uthen-Arden soldiers reined their horses to a stop before the border.

  “This man has clearly broken our laws, and likely killed our soldiers. We demand that you hand him over for justice, in the name of King Addakon!” proclaimed an Uthen-Arden soldier.

  Dirk had stopped a hundred feet beyond the dwarven border; he and his horse stood panting steam from their mouths into the cool evening air. The effects of the dart had still to wear off, and Dirk yet felt invincible. He knew the dwarves’ aversion to elf magic or any sorcery, real or imagined. Therefore, while the dwarves were busy facing off with the swelling number of humans, he quietly dismissed Chief to his plane.

  “Your King Addakon is dead. The dark elf Eadon has taken his place and assumed lordship over your lands. You blindly follow one who would see you all burn!” he told the soldiers, trying to gain the favor of the dwarves further.

  The soldier sneered and trotted his horse down the line. “Lies!” he said over his shoulder, more to his men than Dirk.

  “Are they?” said Dirk from across the dwarven barrier. “Why then do your men search each other’s faces?”

  The soldier—a general, given the braided golden sash over the right shoulder of his armor—looked at his men. He turned his horse, and with a sneer he dared a step closer to the border. The border was marked by a line of smooth stone half the size of a one-wagon road. It stretched on for miles in a straight line, connecting the two ranges that made up the Ky’Dren Mountains. The general’s horse took another step, this time upon the stone border.

  “Come a bit closer an’ everyone here will agree that ye be trespassin’ and so be deservin’ what yer about to be getting’,” said a gray-haired, wild-eyed dwarf, and dozens grumbled agreement. Human and dwarf soldiers alike tensed and waited for the general’s next move.

  The general stopped his horse in mid-step and his sneer disappeared. “You would threaten a general of the Uthen-Arden army? Where do you think this will lead, dwarf?” the general asked, but he did not advance.

  “It be leadin’ to an arse-whoopin’, boy, and the name be Dar’Kwar!” yelled the old dwarf. “I got more dents on me forehead than ye got about yer whole shiny armor. This ain’t a fight ye be wantin’, laddie.”

  The general looked speechless for a moment but quickly recovered. “Our fight is not with you…this day. Let the man in black face me here upon the stones of the pass border. Dwarves such as you enjoy a good fight, do you not?”

  He dismounted from his horse and let it be taken by a soldier. He stood upon the stone border, his heels resting upon the Uthen-Arden side. With a slow, purposeful pull, he withdrew his short sword and accepted a handed shield, as the metallic song of his blade rang out through the still air. The sun had begun to set behind the mountain range, illuminating the dark clouds with the colors of twilight. Overhead the sky looked to be from a dream.

  The general was a big man, yet he was comfortable in his familiar armor. Dar’Kwar’s proclamation of “boy” had not truly been befitting for one of his size. He looked to be in his early forties and his hard eyes and weathered skin told a tale of their own. Dirk did not doubt that he had seen battle in his day, but neither did he have the time to prove himself. Unfortunately, the dwarves had perked up at the mention of a fight between the two. They looked at Dirk and the gray-haired dwarf, who appeared to be their commander. Dar’Kwar crossed his arms. “It be yer move, lad.”

  Dirk gave Frostmore a calming stroke and dismounted. The horse looked ready for another mad dash. Dirk unsheathed his mind-control dagger and the dwarven hook sword from beneath his cloak. The dwarven blade got the reaction he had been counting on from the dwarves: they clapped and hooted for Dirk.

  Not to be outdone, the general turned and raised his arms to the sky,
gaining a cheer from his men. It was the wrong thing to do around Dirk. The assassin sped across the stretch of hard-packed earth and across the stone border. He planted a foot on the general’s back before any of his men could utter warning.

  “Ooohh,” muttered many of the dwarves and men alike as the general was sent flying and staggering forward to fall on his face many feet from the border stones.

  The general shot to his feet, and a cheer issued from his men. Dirk was impressed with his speed. The formidable veteran general gave Dirk’s boots a knowing glance and smirked at him as he looked him over with newfound interest. He slowly stalked his way back to the stone border and threw down his sword and shield. Reaching across his body, he began to unstrap his armor. Loudly he addressed them all.

  “This outlaw has the advantage of enchanted armor, weapons, and trinkets. He is a spawn of the enemy’s draggard whores, no doubt!” Armor fell from him as he spoke. “You all saw how he flew across the ground like a coward at my back, his feet fueled by elven devilry!” He threw aside his breastplate and bracers. “Let him face me as a man! Let him face General Straun with but his bare hands.”

  The last of his armor hit the ground and he stood there naked before them all. Dirk rolled his eyes and held back a colorful vulgarity. The dwarves were sold, it seemed, for at the mention of elven devilry, their attitudes had shifted quickly. They had, after all, seen Dirk’s impossible speed firsthand. General Strawn had been smart in forcing a bare brawl, smart enough to realize he could not defeat Dirk armed.

  Dirk had three options: surrender, kill the general and likely be killed by the humans and dwarves alike, or fight naked. He unlatched his cloak and threw it to the old dwarf.

  By now a crowd of a hundred dwarves and Uthen-Arden soldiers had come to witness the fight. The wind picked up and a light rain began to fall, leaving the border stones and the general’s muscular form glistening in the waning twilight.

  Dirk added the last of his gear to the pile and stepped barefoot onto the slick stones. Ten feet away, General Strawn did the same.

  The general had numerous scars across his body; it appeared that he had been in his share of battles indeed. He was a head taller than Dirk and nearly twice his size, with thick, knotted muscles covering his lean body. His thick black body hair only added to his beastly appearance in the quickly growing downpour.

  Dirk did not have the tree-trunk arms like General Straun, but neither was he weak. The two men circled each other as lightning suddenly ripped through the heavens, and thunder boomed, shaking the ground. Oil-soaked torches were lit by both men and dwarves. The twilight sky was at that most transcendent point, when the vales between night and day collided for a time. Shadows were born slowly across the land; this was a time when phantoms of the twilight swam in and out of one’s vision. It was said that in the twilight the spirit world was opened, and ghosts could be seen in the corner of the eye. Dirk’s father had taught him that this strange time was the best for executing an ambush. Men’s eyes played tricks on them when shadow and light collided, and if you could move like a phantom, you could move unseen.

  The men paced faster now as the torrent of cool rain shone as a million burning drops on their skin. Fists cut through the rain as both men took a shot at the other. Dirk had only feigned the punch after seeing the general’s eyes decide to strike. Rather than punch, Dirk sent Straun’s strike down and wide with a blocking arm. He was inside the big man’s reach in a flash and landed a swift elbow to the chin that sent the general staggering back. Dirk leapt with a quick spin and brought a heavy kick down meant for Straun’s neck. But the big man was faster than he looked. Straun deflected the kick and countered with a sweeping kick of his own. Dirk went with the momentum of the trip. He leapt from the one planted leg, and it looked as though he would smash his head against the stone. In a great show of strength, Dirk caught himself with his hands, and arching his body he leapt with his arms back onto his feet.

  Straun attacked with a barrage of fists, forcing Dirk back and blocking frantically. Dirk’s heel found the edge of the stone border on the dwarven side and he began an assault of his own. Both hands came from his chest as he double-blocked a jab and hook. As Straun’s hands went wide, Dirk brought his in to box the general’s ears. The blow landed and Straun jerked and screamed in agony.

  Stumbling back, Straun found his left hand bloody from his ear. His nostrils flared as his murderous eyes found the assassin. Like a charging bull blind with rage, the big man charged and Dirk did the same. A big right hand came barreling in toward Dirk’s head as he twisted around and under the blow. Coming up behind Straun, he kicked him in the rear as he passed. Straun had anticipated the strike and arched his body forward with it, lessening its impact. He recovered quickly and stalked Dirk in a circle, waiting for the assassin to attack. Soon the general seemed to realize that Dirk was not attacking, only reacting. With a growl he came in swinging. Dirk blocked the blows and countered with a body blow that the solid man absorbed easily. Straun landed his first punch, and though it was a glancing blow that rolled off Dirk’s chin, it sent the watching soldiers into a frenzy of cheers.

  Dirk reached up and, pretending to nurse a sore jaw, took hold of a fake tooth and twisted it. He bit the fake tooth, crushed it, and swirled the liquid in his mouth. Straun came in hard again with a barrage of fists. Dirk turned them aside without backing off, and when Straun came in too hard, Dirk made him regret it with a quick jab that left the big man’s nose bloody. In a rage Straun barreled in, and ignoring Dirk’s rib-crushing flurry of punches caught hold of the assassin’s arm and tried to take him to the ground with a sweep of his legs. Dirk shifted his weight and with a twist brought them both crashing to the stone.

  Dirk wrestled himself on top of the general and rained hammer fists down on his nose, sending blood spraying. Straun punched up from below, unable to connect with anything but a glancing blow. Straun threw Dirk from him in a rage but the assassin was on him in a flash, choking him from behind. Straun immediately lurched backward in an attempt to crush Dirk beneath him and shake him loose. Dirk bit the big man on the neck as hard as he could and forced the liquid from his mouth into the wound. Straun screamed and raked at Dirk’s eyes but the assassin quickly shoved away from the howling man.

  “You!” Straun spat, accusation bathing his voice as he held his neck. “What have you done, you sneaky coward?” He stumbled and nearly fell across the border onto dwarf land.

  “It seems I have won,” Dirk answered nonchalantly, wiping dirt and blood from his arm. Lightning crashed upon the mountainside and the big Uthen-Arden general charged the assassin with murder in his eyes. Dirk met the man blow for blow and noticed as the poison went to work.

  “The harder you fight, the sooner you will die,” Dirk warned and slammed a quick jab into Straun’s chin. Straun roared and with surprising speed hit Dirk with a powerful uppercut that sent the assassin flying back. Dirk wavered but recovered quickly, cursing himself for letting his guard down. If the fist had been a blade…but it seemed that Straun had used the last of his strength in the blow, and now he panted upon his knees. Dirk walked to the poisoned and beaten man. “Admit defeat in this match and I shall provide you with the antidote.”

  Straun looked up at Dirk weakly, impotent fury burning in his eyes. “I know who you are, with your tricks and trinkets and a dagger up your arse,” Straun spat, and fell into a coughing fit that left the rain to wash away blood. “You are the assassin Dirk…Black…” Straun grabbed his stomach and wavered on the brink of consciousness. “You…killed my…ahh!” He screamed as the poison ran its course. “My brother…Wren…” Again he fell into coughing.

  The Arden soldiers urged their general to get up, to keep fighting. The dwarves became restless at the inaction. “Be ye beat or be ye fightin’, Uthen man?” a dwarf yelled.

  Straun grabbed Dirk’s calf and squeezed as convulsions wracked his body. “Wrendel Kwarren. You know the name. Wrend…” He shuddered and fell to the s
tone.

  Dirk knelt down to the dying man’s ear and whispered, “Your brother was killed because he owed a very powerful man a fortune—a fortune he lost after his child slavery ring was destroyed. Your brother was as low as they come, and he got what he had coming to him.”

  Straun twitched and thrashed with rage as Dirk strode across the stone border toward the mountain pass. Immediately two soldiers moved to retrieve their general. They dragged him across the stone and a medic began working on him in vain. The only thing that would help Straun was the antidote. Dirk himself was immune to the poison and many others due to his methodical taking of them in small amounts.

  Dirk retrieved a dart from his gear and skidded it across the border. “That is the only thing that will help your dear general,” he said to the soldiers. He returned to his gear and began to dress. The gray-haired dwarf eyed him with a frown.

  “What was that ye did to make him falter?” asked Dar’Kwar.

  Dirk pulled on his pants and looked at the dwarf incredulously. “I punched him in the face. Ain’t you ever seen a fight?”

  “Ye know what I be meanin’ you did.”

  Dirk only shrugged and put on his shirt, coat, and cloak. “All I know is that I won the fight, and now with your blessing I will continue on my journey, for I bring important information to Eldalon that may determine the fate of the royal family themselves.”

  Dirk moved to mount Frostmore but a strong dwarven hand stopped him. “I heard the man call ye Dirk Blackthorn.” He searched Dirk’s eyes. The assassin wondered if word from Roakore about Dirk had yet spread this far, if at all. He did not know if the king had returned. Dirk looked at the dwarf’s hand, but the gray-beard was not to be intimidated. “I am Dirk Blackthorn. I am friend to Whill of Agora, Rhunis the dragon slayer, and your king Roakore.”