The next morning Dirk awoke to a tongue bath from Chief. The wolf lay next to him as he was rousing, and when Dirk got up, the wolf remained.
“Hmm, getting tired then, are we?” he asked with a gentle nudge to the lounging spirit wolf. “Ah, I bet you have a hell of a fight left in you.” He took out the timber-wolf figurine and gestured to Chief. “You did well. We will make an excellent team. Now go and rest, back to wherever a spirit wolf calls home.”
Chief panted happily and dissipated to mist that swirled up and into the trinket. Dirk put it away with a pat to his pocket and began his day’s journey.
Well before the chill began to leave the air in the afternoon light, towns and villages began to become more prominent. This was old country, places that had been around for a thousand years and more, the human roots of the Ky’Dren Mountains.
Here in the shadow of the great mountain range, and all along the mountain’s spine, was one of the greatest seats of wealth in all of Agora. The Ky’Dren Mountains touched all of the human kingdoms save Isladon, and trade with the dwarves flourished. Over the centuries more and more human villages and towns, even kingdoms, had grown around and along the mountain. As the dwarf population grew and the Ky’Dren kingdom was carved out within the range, so too did humans, who supplied nearly all dwarven food. The dwarves had carved halls and tunnels from the northern Icewind Seas to the Nordon Sea in the south, nearly one thousand miles long. They did nothing but toil away in their mines and tunnels; always did the fires of Ky’Dren burn.
“Always a hammer falls in Ky’Dren” was a well-known Dwarven saying. The dwarves and humans thrived for centuries due to their symbiotic relationship. Humans grew food and raised livestock, and dwarves created masterful weapons and metalwork. Gems, jewels, and diamonds flowed from the mountains on rivers of gold and silver as payment for the food. The only other export of the Ky’Dren dwarves, and in its own right widely sought, was beer. Dark dwarven ale was the favorite of the humans.
Dirk rode through the largest village he had yet encountered. It felt more like a city as he went. He knew his geography enough to know it to be Heldensvargen. He had never been here before, but he had met a few men from the region. They were easy to tell by their ridiculous accent and tendency to always sound like they were asking a question. The Heldensvargen accent spread far north and south of the Ky’Dren Pass, but curiously, their Eldalonian counterparts, who also traded with the dwarves, had no such accent.
Dirk nodded to the women on the streets, which here in the center of Heldensvargen were cobblestone. Fine houses flanked both sides of the wide street, with the ditch at the center of the street and lined with mint and flowers. Stonework that could only be dwarven adorned the short wall set before the wooden homes. Great pillars, known to the dwarves and humans alike as the arms of Ky’Dren, supported most archways and the corners of homes and buildings. Aside from being known for its goats and its spirits, this was a land renowned for glassblowing, and it was home to a center for masters in the art. There were more than a few jokes about the wives of glassblowers, but if one were smart he would not utter such trifling words among the sharp-chinned people.
Dirk paused before a pub called the Bearded Ram. He was contemplating stopping for a quick blond ale when a drunkard was pushed out of the swinging front doors by a much larger man.
“I tell ye, I tell ye the truth, I saw it with mine own eyes as right as I see your ugly face now, Ortenfelth! You listen not to the words of a drunk, but godsdamnit, drunks have eyes too, ye know!”
“All right, Koshker, all right! Enough of that. Even if you’re telling the truth and you did see a big winged beast overhead, so what? Strange things been creeping around the world for a time now.” Ortenfelth led the drunkard along the few steps to the road and turned him around.
The drunken Koshker whirled back on him and nearly fell, and then, stumbling, came to rest against Frostmore’s shoulder. “We must prepare! It is a sign, I say.”
The innkeeper waved the drunk away and turned back to his pub. “These be dangerous days, fortune-teller. We don’t need you makin’ ’em any darker with your babblings.” He turned at the door, tapped his nose thrice, and pointed a warning at Koshker.
The drunk kicked at the ground and screamed vulgarities. “Don’t listen, then! Deny your heritage, deny my gift! But you will not be able to deny death when it comes for your nonbelieving arses.”
He stumbled and lurched and again caught himself with Frostmore. Dirk patiently looked down at the man, coughed, and gave him a friendly smile. “What is it you saw, good sir? I would like to hear your tale.”
“Tale!” said Koshker. “It ain’t no—.” He stopped, seeming to see Dirk for the first time. He peered closer and his eyes went wide. He whispered, “The man in black upon a steed of noble blood,” so quietly that if not for his enchanted earrings Dirk would not have heard. The man stumbled backward and fell but quickly sprang up again. He fumbled backward like a blind man and went in circles as might a caged beast.
“I would hear your tale!” Dirk yelled after him as the man began to run for his life. Dirk kicked Frostmore into quick pursuit. The drunken man scrambled between two buildings and Dirk followed, the alley barely admitting his horse. Dirk leapt from his saddle and threw his grappling hook as Koshker attempted to climb a high gate. The hook caught hold of his pants, and with a yank from Dirk, Koshker fell flat on his back from on high. Dirk was upon him in an instant. “I would hear your tale—Koshker, is it?”
The drunkard babbled and clawed at the ground as he tried to squirm away on his belly. “The man in black with the shadow of a wolf…poison in his touch and death in his stare.”
Dirk grabbed him and spun him around roughly. A hard slap across the face sobered Kroshker quickly. “Enough of your riddles! How do you know me, what did you see?”
Kroshker mewled and refused to meet Dirk’s gaze. “This mornin’. I seen it overhead, flying northwest, the winged beast from my dreams…and death rides atop.” The man was almost chanting.
“Who is the rider? Is it Krentz?” Dirk asked.
“She is the rider before the storm, the harbinger of death, the daughter of the destroyer…” Kroshker’s voice rose with every word, such terrible titles and twisted riddles that Dirk backed away, disgusted.
A great shadow passed overhead and all at once a rumbling began, with a low hum that quickly grew. Screams and shouts of warning echoed throughout the village and the town bell tolled with an eerie reverberation.
“They come at your heels, they come for us all, abominations of the dark one…” Kroshker stood as if pulled up by strings, and a creepy smile spread too far across his face, cracking his lips. “She is the harbinger of death! Death! Death…!” Kroshker chanted as his face contorted with every word.
The rumbling had grown to the power of a small earthquake as Dirk ran and leapt atop Frostmore. The crazy fortune-teller followed, never stopping in his dark proclamations. The bell tolled and the screams swelled as Dirk quickly backed Frostmore from the alley. The rumbling swelled and shook the very earth as the screams became a deafening orchestra of terror. Dirk turned with a jerk to see what nightmare came crashing through the village. A horde of draggard and dwargon stretching far off to the horizon descended upon him, the sky was blackened by beating wings…Dirk was swallowed by the marching destruction and all was black…
With a shuddering breath Dirk tried to scream but could not. He looked around the alley, bewildered, not knowing where he was. His head snapped to Frostmore and when he saw the horse blocking the alley where he had left him, he sighed with relief. It had not been real.
“…she is the princess of darkness, the destroyer of hope. For you she will murder the world.” The drunkard’s voice came back to him with its eerily musical chant. But his face had returned to normal and his mouth no longer grinned so wickedly it threatened to split his head in two.
“Enough of your poisonous tongue, trickster! Another word and I cut
it out,” Dirk threatened, brandishing his dagger.
“My tongue, my tongue you would take?” the man raged, spittle flying. “My tongue makes not the words true, murderer, remember that…remember that.” Kroshker gave him a maniacal grin.
Dirk punched Kroshker in the mouth, snapping his head back. The drunkard stumbled backward and fell, clawing the wall as he went.
“Beat me, kill me…kill me now and be done with it,” Kroshker babbled through blood and tears. Dirk could see that he had split the corner of the man’s mouth badly with the punch. A shiver ran down his spine as he was reminded of the man’s splitting mouth and cheeks in his temporary illusion. Kroshker now groveled on his belly and tugged at Dirk’s pant leg.
“Kill me now and spare me the sight of the village aflame, the blood and darkness and death that is surely to come. Do it! Do it now!”
Dirk kicked the man’s clutching hand away and backed out of the alley. He left Kroshker crying and babbling. Dirk decided to go and get that beer after all.
The pub was serving lunch at this time of day, but Dirk was in no mood for food. The well-polished bar was a square at the center of the large room. It looked able to seat more than fifty, with tall stools which at the moment were mostly empty. To the left burned a large fireplace, and many large, fur-lined chairs were set there, a perfect place for a weary traveler to warm his bones. But Dirk was not a weary traveler, he was a thirsty one.
“A pint of the house ale,” he asked of the bartender wiping out fresh glasses from the kitchen.
“Coming up, sir,” answered the man, though he was much older than Dirk.
As the drink was being fetched from one of the many barrels that lined the inner square of the bar, Dirk scoped out the pub. At the bar sat three other men, each sitting alone at his own section of the wrap-around bar. They stared off into the distance or the inside of their mugs, unnoticing of their surroundings, much less Dirk.
The ale was set before him with a frothing head that slid down the side of the mug to add to its appeal. Dirk offered a thankful nod and put back the beer with a long guzzle.
“Another, if you would,” he said as he wiped froth from his mouth.
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 flown unhindered where they would have otherwise been spotted.
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) Page 86