Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords

by Michael Ploof

  The bartender gave him a strange look and eyed his clothes, particularly his cloak. He refilled Dirk’s glass swiftly and set it before him. “It takes a good bit of work and time to brew good beer. It is nice to see it enjoyed,” said the bartender.

  Dirk was tempted to tell the man he didn’t need to be taught how to drink beer, but he thought better of it. He did not need to be drawing attention to himself. “The road makes one thirsty is all, good sir. I truly enjoyed your ale; I have had many lonely miles of cold and miserable road as of late. Your ale was my reward for the toil and patience. This one”—he raised his glass—“this one I shall savor.”

  “Glad you like ’em. ’Twas a good batch we had this time round. Keeps getting better with the makin’,” the bartender boasted as he returned to wiping glasses.

  Dirk nodded agreement and drank. He had not known how sore he was until now. Every ache and pain he had acquired from riding so hard now screamed its reminder. He had medicated darts and even healing trinkets, but if he used them for every menial pain he felt, they would soon be spent. Dirk saved such things for times of true need.

  He finished his beer and set payment and a fine tip on the bar. As he left, the bartender called behind him. “Thank you, sir, and mention our house brew to any who might ask of such things. The Bearded Goat is the name.”

  “Will do,” Dirk said over his shoulder and walked out into the midday sun.

  He gathered up Frostmore’s reins and walked through town for a bit to work out his stiff legs. Though he would rather not tarry, such things were necessary if he was going to make the long ride able to stand, much less fight. His growing anxiety would devour him before he got to Kell-Torey if he let it. He needed to remain calm and focused. Stressful situations were his business; he would not let himself come apart over this one. To clear his mind, he focused on what he knew.

  Eadon wished Whill’s Eldalonian kin dead. He had first tasked Dirk himself with the killing of every man, woman, and child related to Whill. Dirk had heard the tales and knew the stories, but more often than not, stories were just that. They often grew as large as the many tellers’ imaginations, becoming grander with each telling. But for Eadon to order the royalty of Eldalon killed, Dirk knew the stories had to be true. Whill was the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, being Queen Celestra’s son.

  Krentz had sworn fealty as payment for Dirk’s freedom. It was she whom Eadon would task with the deed now. Kreshka had mentioned a great winged beast flying overhead. Had that been Krentz upon a dragon, or gods knew what twisted creation of her father’s? Dirk was not quick to take the man’s word, being the crazy drunkard he had seemed. But Dirk was unsettled by his proclamations. The man had known things. And though Dirk was slow to admit it to himself, he feared that the man’s every word was true.

  “She is the harbinger of death.” The words echoed in his mind until Dirk cursed to himself to shut up, which gained him a strange look from many passersby. He patted Frostmore and gave the horse a few strokes. He forgot his sore legs and aching body and mounted the horse. With a few clicks of encouragement from Dirk, Frostmore led them through the town and closer to the Ky’Dren Pass.

  One more town separated him from the pass towers and the pass itself. The town was of no consequence, but the towers posed a far greater problem. The ancient towers had once been used to house thousands of soldiers during the times of war between Eldalon and Uthen-Arden. Though the warring had been brief, back centuries before when borders were being disputed around the mountains, the conflict had ended with a massive dwarven force pouring into the pass. The dwarven king then claimed the pass to be dwarf land, between the mountains and stretching to their very base on each side. They then destroyed all military outposts within said territory, Eldalonian and Uthen-Arden alike. The two human kings had not been pleased with the claim, but they had not disputed it. To fight the dwarves on the issue would have been disastrous.

  The pass towers on the Uthen-Arden side of the mountains had survived the sacking by the dwarves. They now stood as relics of a time lost to history, though they remained manned with soldiers.

  Always had the pass been open, but now, with a war raging throughout the lands, the pass was closed to any of Uthen-Arden. The Ky’Dren dwarves had sided with Eldalon and Eadon’s opposition. And as such, they were at war with Uthen-Arden.

  Times were rough for the once-thriving towns along the eastern spine of Ky’Dren, as the dwarves had cut off trade to the kingdom completely. Though the stop of trade hurt the dwarves as well, it only strengthened Eldalon’s economy. With Uthen-Arden cut off from the dwarf trade, Eldalon was the sole supplier to the dwarves, with the exception of the dwarven sea trade to other countries, though it compared not to the heavy land trade.

  Dirk did not feel like explaining himself to any soldiers, and intended a far berth around the five towers set in a semicircle a mile apart at the base of the mountains, guarding the miles wide opening to the pass. Getting by the dwarves would be another thing altogether. Any man attempting to sneak through it was mad. It was virtually impossible, given that at the pass’ most narrow was built a two-hundred-foot-tall metal gate, guarded by hearty dwarves tougher than the stone they called home.

  Dirk’s anxiety grew as he traveled down the pass road. Already the towers were coming into view as the land flattened into a valley leading to the roots of the mountain range. If Krentz had passed overhead and was on her way to Kell-Torey, there was no way he would be in time to stop her. He didn’t have time to sneak through the pass; he needed to get through as quickly as possible. He needed to tell the truth. He had knowledge of a plot to kill the royal family of Eldalon, a king who to Dirk’s knowledge was a good and just man.

  Dirk kicked Frostmore’s flanks and mud flew in their wake as they darted off toward Tower’s Watch. Fog had begun to roll down the mountain with the waning of the afternoon, and overhead the gray clouds choked out the blue sky. Dirk stopped only to let Frostmore drink from a trough within the village before he was off again, followed by the scowl of the establishment owner. He barely took in the village around him; his eyes and mind alike were set to the distant Ky’Dren Pass.

  In a blur of yelping and scrambling villagers, a few of whom were grazed by the big stallion, Dirk flew through town. Frostmore doubled his speed once out of civilization. He raced with a determination to match his new master, as if reveling in a rider of equal endurance and strength.

  As the road led down into the sparsely treed valley, Dirk withdrew the timber-wolf figurine and called to his hunter.

  “Come, Chief! Adventure waits.”

  Ghost mist swirled out of the figurine and Chief came to form against a blurred backdrop of racing earth. The wolf solidified on the run and gave a howl at finding himself in the midst of such a swift hunt. He looked across to Dirk and awaited the details.

  “We charge toward the Ky’Dren Pass. There are those who would stop us from reaching it. If any try, take them out!”

  Chief growled loudly in response and looked ahead hungrily as together, wolf, man, and horse charged on after the slowly dying sun. They veered off the road, which in this area did not change the terrain much. Frostmore never slowed and Chief charged ahead with supernatural speed into the fog to guide the horse. They tore through it recklessly, trusting in the timber-wolf spirit. The towers in the fog looked like mammoth obelisks, each with a glowing beacon atop. Dirk grimaced as they came through a thick patch of fog into beaming daylight. Though it was dreary out and clouds had won the heavenly battle, Dirk could be seen clearly now to any who might be looking. Quickly Chief led them to the closest patch of fog in the ocean of mist rolling from the mountainside.

  No shouts or horns rang out in their wake; they had gone unseen thus far. The towers shifted as they went and were soon behind them. Dirk set his sights on the nearing Ky’Dren Pass and followed Chief through the slowly thinning cover. Rather than curse his luck that the fog was leaving, he was glad to have had it. With it they had flow
n unhindered where they would have otherwise been spotted.

  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 o
utdone, 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.