Fior went on for more than an hour, recounting the many battles those ancient dwarves had faced, and the grandest of all stories, how Ky’Dren had single-handedly killed five dragons—no small feat, even for a small army. Throughout the entire gathering Whill watched and listened keenly. All about him he saw a proud and noble people, listening intently to the stories of long-gone kings and heroes. History was the backbone of the dwarf culture, and their faith was stronger than that of any Whill had ever known. The peace within the eyes of those he looked upon—those who dedicated their lives to the greater good—gave Whill a feeling of great longing for a faith so strong, so resolute.
Whill followed no deity, but he was a spiritual man. Abram, those many years ago, had not presented Whill with any one religion, but had shown him many, and told him it was for him to decide what he believed. He came to see that all were relatively alike: promising salvation for blind faith, and damnation to nonbelievers. He could not follow blindly; he was a student of the world: always striving to learn more. With religion, one had to believe something to be true without proof, something Whill could not do—though he sometimes wished that he could. He had therefore come to the conclusion that whichever god or gods were real, they would judge him by his deeds and not his blind faith; they would see him as a good man with good intentions. He hoped that by following his heart and doing always what he saw to be right, he would find his salvation.
Roakore had learned from Fior that Whill wished to set out first thing in the morning. He said his farewells to his many wives and children, and checked over the contents of his large pack. Seeing that all his needed provisions were included, he gathered his many weapons. He brought his four hatchets and his great axe—and also a new weapon he had himself invented but not yet tried. He called it the Stone Bird. To anybody but one with the powers to move stone, it would have seemed cumbersome. The weapon consisted of two smooth round rocks, twenty pounds each and connected by two thick, steel chains, which in turn connected to a short metal handle. He gazed upon that handle with a smile. He had been working on this weapon for nearly a year and could not wait to put it to use on a Draggard skull. The handle was covered in runes, listing the names of the many dwarf gods, and the names of his father and fallen brothers. Set at the bottom of the shaft was a single diamond encircled by smaller, dark red gems.
Roakore made his way to the main gate and was greeted by Fior, Whill and Abram, and a great many dwarves. After many farewells, the three made their way through the long and winding tunnels that would take them to the surface.
“The king has granted usage o’ the railway,” Roakore told Whill and Abram, who had inquired why they had veered from the tunnel by which they had previously entered the city.
Soon, they entered a large cylindrical room with a wide stairway spiraling up along wall—so high that Whill could not see the top. “These stairs spiral up fer a thousand feet. It be a hell o’ a hike.” Roakore laughed at the frowning men. “Cheer up, lads! Usin’ the rail will save us hours an’ get us out o’ the mountain quicker.”
With that he began ascending the stairs two at a time. After less than an hour, and breathing heavily, the three companions finally came to the end of the giant stair. It ended in a small room, and before them was a large, heavily cushioned metal cart—larger than those used to haul coal and metals, but very similar otherwise. It sat upon a thin metal track that Roakore referred to as the rail. The rail led through a large hole in the wall and into the dark.
Whill eyed the contraption with worry. Without a word Roakore hopped over the side of the cart and sat down, then bid them to do the same.
“Trust me,” said Roakore. “These railways are sure an’ safe. We only have a few accidents a year.” He laughed again. “Whatever ye do, don’t put yer arms out… and hold on fer dear life.”
He pushed down on the single lever next to the cart, disengaging the blocking mechanism, and then disengaged the brake lever. They began to roll very slowly, literally at a crawl, for many moments. Whill frowned at Abram, who only shrugged. “Roakore,” he said, “are you sure this will be fas—”
The words in his mouth were replaced by his stomach as the cart suddenly shot down at such an angle that it felt more like they were falling. Roakore hooted and laughed maniacally, as did Abram, but Whill could only scream and hold on as the cart descended at breakneck speed down the pitch-black tunnel. Finally the track leveled out almost flat, and they came to an area lit every fifty feet with torches. But because of their speed, the torches passed like fence posts to a sprinting horse.
Whill had found his voice now, and hooted and hollered with the other two. The track led relatively straight, with only small changes in course. Soon they had traveled the many miles, and now the track leveled out altogether. Directly ahead Whill could see the end of the track and the stone wall beyond. He glanced nervously at Abram.
“Yer thinkin’ mayhap it’s time to slow down, eh?” Roakore said, and then pulled back hard on the brake. Sparks flew from under the cart, and the brakes gave an ear-splitting shriek in protest. They began to slow somewhat, but then to Whill’s horror, Roakore flew backwards, braking lever in hand. The brakes let up as they careened towards the end of the tunnel at high speed.
“Not to worry!” Roakore said, somewhat unconvincingly. “There is a backup.”
Whill saw what the dwarf meant, and groaned as he braced himself. Water splashed high as the track suddenly dipped low into a long shallow pool. Although it slowed the cart considerably, they did not stop completely, and all three screamed as it slammed into the barrier at the end of the track. End over end they flew through the air, slamming hard into the wall thirty feet away.
They lay at the base of the wall for a long moment, Whill and Abram groaning. Whill fought his dizziness and stood over the dwarf, who was rolling around in a fit of laughter.
“I take back what I said before, Roakore,” Whill said. “You are insane!”
Chapter XVI
Smoke and Wings
WHILL, ABRAM, AND ROAKORE WALKED out into the early morning sun. They were a few miles south of where they had entered the mountain, and closer to the shore. The railway had taken them to the base of the great mountain range, and from the small cave they exited, they could see the dense forest before them.
Whill led the way at a good pace. Having spent so many years with one as knowledgeable as Abram, he could easily determine the direction they must go to get to Sherna. After more than an hour of hiking, Roakore halted them and sat on a rock.
“If the fear o’ Draggard on our tails causes ye to walk so fast, then consider that they would catch us anyway, an’ it would be better not to be exhausted if they do!” He pulled a piece of dried meat from his pack and ripped off a large chunk with his teeth.
Whill winked at Abram. “Good dwarf, I apologize if I set a pace too fast and grueling for you. How long do you wish to rest?”
Roakore’s eyes widened in rage and he began to stand, but then noticed the smirk upon Abram’s face. Seeing the teasing for what it was, he sat back once more and bit off another large piece of the meat. “Don’t ye go being a dragon’s arse, lad, I just don’t see the point in such haste. The meetin’ in Kell-Torey ain’t fer two weeks, an’ ’twill take us no more than ten days to get there.”
Abram regarded him, his smirk gone. “We believe that a friend of ours may be in danger—Tarren, the boy we told you of. If the Draggard followed us from Sherna, then we think it possible they may have caused more than a little trouble in the town.”
Roakore nodded as he stood, still chewing the meat. “Why didn’t ye say so?”
With that he took up the lead. The hardy dwarf surpassed their earlier pace, and indeed, the three were now running through the forest. After no more than fifteen minutes, Roakore abruptly stopped and turned to Whill with a strange scowl.
“How’s it that ye can run so, with the wound ye received to yer leg just two nights ago?”
Whill ha
d forgotten about the wound almost completely after hearing the story of his parents. He had forgotten to act as if he still carried the wound, as Abram had warned him to.
His mind raced for an answer, but Roakore’s gruff gaze told him that lies were useless. “The wound wasn’t as bad as it seemed,” he said with a shrug, and began to walk past the dwarf.
Roakore grabbed him by the arm. “Let me see it.”
Abram intervened. “Can the inspection of Whill’s wound not wait until we reach Sherna? If Tarren truly is in danger, our pause may be detrimental.”
Roakore did not let go. “No, it cannot wait. If I’m to trust the two o’ ye on this long journey afore us, then I need an answer now—an answer that suits me!”
Whill pulled free and pulled up his pant leg, showing the area of his thigh where the wound had been.
Roakore’s eyes widened and he gripped his axe all the tighter. “I should’ve known when ye made the argument about the elves with King Ky’Ell. Yer in league with ’em, in league with the Draggard! Well, Roakore will not be so easily fooled. Come on then, ye assassins, let’s have a row!”
Whill only sighed and rolled his eyes to the sky. Abram, on the other hand, held out his hands in truce. “Roakore, think about what you are saying. Whill’s parents were murdered by the Draggard. What is this lunacy that you speak?”
Roakore spat stubbornly. “Then let’s have the truth from ye! A gash that deep from a Draggard tail don’t heal in a day. Its elf magic, I’m sure. What lie do ye have fer that one, eh?”
Whill looked at Abram. “We don’t have time for this.” He drew his father’s sword. Roakore made a defensive stance and scowled. “This is the sword of my father, forged for him by the elves. My family has a unique relationship with the elven people. And through that relationship we have obtained some of the elven powers. And though I have never even met an elf, I have the power to heal. That is the truth. Take it or leave it. And if you would judge me so for such powers, then so be that as well. You see the elves as enemies though you know not one; your kind curses the Elves of the Sun for what the Dark elves created. And that, my fierce friend, is simply stupid!”
They stared at each other for many long moments. Abram did not move either, looking from one to the other.
“We will see if what ye say o’ the elves is true, young Whill,” Roakore said at last. “But know this, it’d not be wise to ever lie to me again.” And cursing under his breath he ran off again.
Whill and Abram shared a look and raced after him.
They ran on for several hours, not saying a word. To their left the distant sounds of the ocean could be heard. It was nearing noon, and Abram decided it was time for a break. Neither Whill nor Roakore argued the point.
They rested at the edge of a small clearing. Abram sat back against a thick oak tree and lit his long pipe, while Roakore found a suitable rock to sit on. Whill took a long and needed swig from his water skin, and then poured the cool water over his head. Though it was still spring and the temperature was mild, the run had made him quite hot.
He took a moment to look over the magnificent blade that had been his father’s. It was much different from his own, which was longer and much heavier. His father’s blade was thin and curved, and very light—though none of those attributes made it any less of a weapon. On the contrary, the blade was perfectly balanced with a razor-sharp blade, a testament to the elves’ prowess as weapon-makers.
As he looked at the way the sun shone off the powerful blade and the many small diamonds about the guard, his gaze fell to his mother’s ring. He felt a strange bond with both—a connection he could not quite place—and they seemed to help fill a long-empty part of his heart.
Whill was roused from his deep thoughts as Roakore walked over and sat next to him. “So that’s the sword o’ yer father, eh?”
Whill noted that Roakore was trying to sound impartial. “Its name is Sinomara, named after my father, Aramonis. The elves name their swords to mirror themselves out of the belief that the sword and warrior should be as one to find true harmony.”
Roakore studied the blade for a moment with a raised eyebrow. “I admit, the craftsmanship be flawless…though it looks a bit too pretty to be o’ any real use.”
Whill only grinned, amused by the stubborn dwarf’s realization and attempted cover-up of the fact that he had in essence just complimented the elves.
Just then a shadow swept past as something flew overhead. Whill realized that it had been too large for a bird, but too small for a dragon. He looked up, as did Roakore, but there was nothing but the sun high above. Abram was already on his feet and moving out into the meadow as Whill and Roakore followed.
“What’s it, then?” asked Roakore as the two came up next to Abram.
Abram only stared north, above the trees at the edge of the meadow. He scanned the tree line for many moments before his eyes quickened. “There.” He pointed.
Both Roakore and Whill squinted as they tried to make out the large creature flying low some four hundred yards away. Abram was already gently pushing them back when Whill realized what it was.
“A Draquon? It can’t be.”
Roakore spat on the ground and patted Whill on the back. “Ye really know how to make enemies now, don’t ye?”
The Draquon were a less common, winged version of the Draggard. They were taller, at nearly twelve feet, and had longer tails as well. They closely resembled their dragon relatives, with thick gnarled horns on their head, and long pointed spikes running the length of their back.
The three companions ducked low as the Draquon began to cross the meadow, moving swiftly in their direction. Abram took up his bow and strung an arrow, and Whill followed suit
“A scout, no doubt,” said Whill. Abram nodded in agreement.
Roakore began a low chant then, and started spinning his stone bird.
Abram put his hand upon Roakore’s shoulder, gesturing for the dwarf to wait. “It has not yet spotted us!” he said in a hushed whisper.
Roakore shrugged Abram’s hand away. “Why wait till it spots us? The damned thing’ll be long gone before the two o’ ye get off a shot.”
Whill winced at Roakore’s loud voice. It was as if he meant to give away their position.
“It may not see us,” Abram pressed
Roakore’s face twisted into a maniacal grin. “Oh, it’ll see us, alright, and I’ll not be letting a beast such as that fly free regardless.” With that he pushed past the protesting Abram and ran out into the field, waving his arms and yelling.
“Here we are, ye stupid, dragon-spawned, demon-lovin’ beast! Come an’ taste me blade!”
Abram only rolled his eyes and, with a great sigh, sprang from the woods, bow ready. Their suspicions that this beast was only a scout were proven right when the Draquon reared and turned swiftly in the opposite direction. Whill and Abram let off a shot each but didn’t even come close as the beast rose into the air and flew away from them.
Just as Abram was about to chastise Roakore for being so stupid, the dwarf let out a guttural scream and swung the two-stoned weapon in wide arches, gaining more and more momentum as he chanted loudly. Finally he let loose the weapon in the Draquon’s direction. Abram and Whill watched in amazement as the spinning stones ascended higher when they should have fallen, and turned towards the flying beast when they should have gone straight.
The stones gained speed with the help of Roakore’s innate abilities to manipulate rock. The weapon came in hard on the beast, and hit with such force that the creature flipped four times in midair before descending to the ground in a heap of flailing wings. It landed less than thirty feet from Whill and Abram, who came running with bows ready.
The Draquon rose to its feet with a roar. One wing was broken but, though it could not fly, it could still run with great speed. Whill and Abram took up a shooting stance and let loose their arrows. The beast snarled defiantly as the arrows deflected harmlessly off its scaly armor.
&nbs
p; Roakore was still standing in the same spot he had been, arms extended, chanting. The Draquon charged on all fours, baring its razor-sharp teeth, meaning to devour the lone dwarf. Suddenly Roakore’s stone bird came whirling across the meadow. To Whill and Abram it was but a blur as it slammed into the Draquon’s chest and sent the beast flying back ten feet.
Instantly Whill and Abram were upon it, blades drawn. Abram went straight for the eyes as Whill hacked and chopped, doing minimal damage to the monster’s armor. Suddenly the dazed beast was on its feet again, and clearly angry. Whill and Abram took a defensive crouch as Roakore barreled in from behind with his axe, screaming to the dwarf god of war. The beast turned to face him and brought its long tail around in a great sweep, but the dwarf hopped over it without missing a beat. At that instant, he appeared more ferocious than the Draquon itself.
Jumping again as the tail came in for a second pass, he flew straight at the monster with his axe raised over his head. The Draquon caught Roakore in its massive claws jerking him to a stop and increasing the momentum of the dwarf’s great axe. It came down fast, even as the monster realized its folly, but too late. With a primal scream, Roakore buried the axe into the Draquon’s head. The creature instantly fell in a dead heap, bringing Roakore along for the ride. Trapped beneath it momentarily, the dwarf spat and cursed, kicked and thrashed, trying to get out from under the massive corpse.
Whill and Abram quickly helped free the dwarf. He emerged unscathed and, with a great tug, freed his axe. Laughing all the while, he wiped the blood from his blade with his sleeve.
“Ha! Thought he could get away didn’t he, stupid beast. Ye see me stones take him right outta the air?”
“A great weapon indeed,” Abram concurred.
Whill only nodded, his gaze wandering to the west.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 99
