Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  The dwarf let out a scream. “Come on, ye foul beasts!”

  They did not move. Instead they let out cries of their own. The sound hurt Whill’s ears and his body shook. The beasts growled and hissed, spittle falling from their pointed teeth. They had stood side by side but now began to spread out. He could not take the anticipation. He searched himself for the strength he needed to face these fell creatures. They were the only thing standing in the way of all his answers. They were the scourge of the earth, a plague. They should not be feared, thought Whill. They should fear me!

  From below Abram cried in pain and Whill was jolted into action. He lunged forward at the closest Draggard and was met with greater force. The beast swung its great spear, which Whill blocked with difficulty. Roakore took the opportunity to swing at the beast closest to himself. His great axe made a heavy whoosh as it cut through the air, missing its target. The two others joined in the attack. Whill blocked as both Draggard swung and stabbed at him with their spears. They were relentless, hissing violently as they advanced. Whill was slowly being pushed back, and he knew if they got him against the rock wall he would be doomed.

  Roakore, meanwhile, was not being driven back. He screamed and growled as he blocked the Draggard attack with his heavy axe. Whill parried yet another blow and, finding an opening, sliced the leg of the beast to his right. It howled in pain and let up long enough for Whill to be one-on-one with the other. The beast brought down its spear, meaning to hew Whill’s head. He moved out of the way in time and with one powerful stroke cut off the beast’s right arm. Roakore, who was now ten feet away, closer to the ledge, blocked a series of blows and quickly dropped to his knees, avoiding a blow meant for his head. With lightning speed he swung his axe at the closest Draggard, and chopped its leg off above the knee. He followed with a heavy blow that hewed the beast’s head. The beast fell over dead as blood poured from the wound. The dwarf rolled sideways and was quickly attacked by the other Draggard.

  Whill was inspired by what he had seen of Roakore’s masterful counterattack. He blocked again as the uninjured of his two attacking Draggard wielded its long spear. The beast that Whill had cut screamed again in rage and barreled straight at him. As he exchanged blows with the one before him, the other jumped with a mad look of pure hatred burning in its eyes. It dove at him, arm extended, legs spread. Whill exchanged blows with the Draggard still before him as the other flew toward him. He blocked an overhead attack and simultaneously turned his back on the diving beast. He ducked a blow meant again for his head and at the same time changed his grip on his sword so that it pointed at the ground. He thrust his sword under his right shoulder and impaled the one-armed beast through the chest as it attempted to jump on his back. The Draggard before Whill did not let up on its attack, and as Whill impaled the other it stabbed at his chest. Being in a crouch, with his sword stuck in the chest of the dead beast, Whill had no time to parry. Instead he abandoned his sword and jumped high into the air as the spear barely missed him. He performed a back-flip over the impaled Draggard and landed behind it as the other’s spear found the neck of his fellow, rather than Whill. The beast wailed in anger as it pulled its spear from its dead kin.

  The monster Roakore had been fighting, Whill realized, was but five feet from him. It abandoned its fight with Roakore and came at Whill, who was now unarmed but for his knife. He ran toward the ledge, the Draggard close behind, Roakore following. Whill was almost to the ledge. In the darkness he could barely see his abandoned bow lying four feet away. He scrambled to reach it in time. He dove as he pulled an arrow from his quiver and upon landing grabbed his bow. He was now on his back as he strung his bow and frantically pulled back. He shot at the Draggard, which was now three feet away. The arrow found its mark and hit the beast in the belly as it reached him. But the arrow only slowed the beast as it raised its spear to kill him. The blade came down fast, aimed for his head. He feebly raised his knife in defense as Roakore barreled into the Draggard before the spear struck. He and the Draggard flew over Whill and disappeared over the ledge.

  Whill went to look over the ledge but remembered the other Draggard. He whipped his head around in the direction of the rock wall and there it was; a demonic silhouette fifteen feet away. He got to his knees and took a shooting stance as the monster ran at him with a menacing howl. He shot the Draggard in the chest, but the arrow barely penetrated its scales. He shot again, hitting it in the belly. The beast slowed but did not stop; it was now eight feet away. It came at him with both arms forward in an impaling attack. He shot again, pulling back hard on the bow. The arrow sliced through the air and hit the Draggard again in the belly, sinking deep this time. The beast stumbled and dropped its spear, falling to its knees four feet from Whill. He had another arrow ready and aimed for the monster’s face. The dying Draggard quickly swung its tail around and broke the bow in two as it lunged forward and grabbed him by the neck. The Draggard’s strength was incredible. Whill could not breathe and knew his neck would soon be crushed. As the Draggard’s sharp claws sunk into his flesh, he brought up his knife into the chest of the monster. Its grip loosened as Whill stared into the Draggard’s hideous black eyes. They stared back, burning with anger. The grip on Whill’s neck tightened once again as the Draggard whipped its tail and sank it deep into Whill’s left thigh. The beast bared its pointed teeth in triumph. Whill could not scream in pain, he could not breathe; his vision had begun to go black at the edges. He could only sink his knife deeper with what strength he had left. He shoved the knife as far as he could until it could go no further. The beast’s eyes widened and its growl turned to a gurgle. The hand around his neck loosened and finally fell as the beast dropped on its side, dead.

  At first Whill could not breathe; he was on the verge of passing out. On his knees still, he struggled for breath as his damaged windpipe finally opened enough to let in a shallow breath. He sucked greedily at the air as his breathing slowly became deeper. The air burned his throat and he went into a coughing fit that made his head spin. He fell forward, exhausted, and slowly his breathing returned to normal. He groaned in pain as he reached for the tail which was still in his leg. With great effort and immense pain he pulled it from his flesh.

  He crawled towards the ledge, wondering what had become of Roakore and Abram. He peered into the darkness below and saw Roakore hacking away at a lifeless Draggard that lay next to the fallen boulder. The beast was already in pieces. Roakore swore profusely and kicked a decapitated head, sending it rolling. He looked up at Whill with a hard scowl still on his face. “Ye still alive, boy?”

  Whill could not answer. He simply nodded and pointed in the direction Abram had last been. The dwarf ran in that direction and began to look for Abram. Whill’s heart sank as Roakore looked back up at him and raised both arms in the air as if to say “I don’t know,” and continued searching.

  Whill feared the worst. Crawling back from the ledge, he attempted to stand. His head spun and his leg gave out as he fell to his knees, wheezing. He heard heavy footsteps coming toward him suddenly and grabbed his knife. He looked in the direction of the noise but saw only darkness. Whill struggled to see the figure that came at him but could not, until it was almost upon him. When it was but ten feet away Whill began to be able to make out a large figure and prepared himself for another fight. Then he heard a familiar voice.

  “Whill, are you alright?”

  He dropped his knife as Abram fell to his knees before him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Mountain Passage

  The thick cloud cover made the moonless night pitch black. The wind upon the mountain had picked up, and a chill rode on the air. Roakore had joined Whill and Abram and was busy trying to light a torch Abram had retrieved from his bag.

  “If this damned wind would let up fer a minute, we would have some light,” Roakore grumbled as he struggled with the flint. Finally a spark caught, and the oil-soaked torch lit, quickly illuminating the night. Roakore grinned. “Ah, that was easy.
Now let’s hurry and dress them wounds.”

  Whill’s leg was bleeding profusely and his throat felt as though he had swallowed a handful of small blades. When he attempted to speak he found that his voice was rough and grainy, and his throat burned terribly. Roakore patted his back.

  “Save yerself the agony lad, by the looks o’ yer throat yer lucky to be breathing.”

  Abram tried in vain to conceal his worried look. “Well done, Whill.”

  “Indeed,” Roakore agreed, surveying the slain bodies with a hearty laugh. “Them hell-born scum didn’t know what they were getting into messin’ with us three, now did they?”

  Abram retrieved a bottle of clear liquor he had attained from I am and showed it to Whill, who nodded and clenched his teeth. Abram poured the antiseptic onto his wound gingerly. Whill let out a low growl as hot pain surged through his leg. Roakore watched keenly.

  “Looks like that tail near went clean through. That’ll take some time to heal, that will. Dress it as well as ye can, Abram.” Roakore turned his attention to the surrounding darkness. “We must get to the passage as soon as possible.”

  Abram retrieved some bandages from his pack and took a look around for himself. Beyond the torchlight was pure blackness. “Yes, we must go. Can you walk, Whill?”

  “Too slow,” Roakore said. “Besides, the boy would bleed to death afore we got there. No, I will carry him the distance.” Whill tried to argue, but the dwarf cut him off. “I insist, young Whill.”

  Abram tied the bandage tightly. “He’s right. He’s much stronger than I, and you cannot walk the distance with an open wound.” He offered Whill a drink of water, which Whill accepted. It went down like thorns and made his eyes water. Abram loaded Whill’s weapons and packs onto his back as Roakore offered Whill a hand.

  “Put yer weight on yer good leg when I pull ye up.” Whill nodded. Roakore pulled him up and over his shoulder with ease. Due to the dwarf’s height, Whill’s hands touched the ground if his arms were left limp. Roakore repositioned him on his shoulder and turned to Abram. “Follow me,” he said, and started off at a jog.

  Whill was amazed yet again at the dwarf’s strength. Roakore ran with ease though he carried Whill over his shoulder and his great axe in his left hand. He was also careful not to put pressure on Whill’s thigh, holding his legs well below the knee. They ran for what seemed like hours. Whill became dizzy with pain from his aching leg and throat. Blood had rushed to his head due to his awkward position and pounded dully in his ears. With every step the pain increased as he watched the feet of the dwarf trek steadily onward. He could see little in the torchlight, only the dwarf’s pumping legs and feet, and Abram following. Whill glanced at him once in awhile, causing more pain in his neck.

  Finally Roakore stopped and slowly let Whill down onto his good leg. Abram was quickly at his side, offering him a shoulder to lean on.

  Before them was a great wall of stone smooth as ice. Its edges escaped the torchlight, giving it a mammoth appearance in the black night. Whill stood on his good leg with his arm around Abram, and together they watched Roakore keenly. He ran his right hand along the stone slowly as if looking for something, then turned to them. “All assume that elves alone have the power to do magic, or so ’tis called by ye humans. But we dwarves have powers also, though different. ’Tis a gift from our gods, bestowed upon us to aid in our purpose.” His expression hardened and he took a step forward. “What yer about to witness is to never leave yer lips nor be set to paper as long as ye draw breath, Understood?”

  “I swear with my life, it shall fall upon no ear,” Abram said solemnly.

  Whill struggled to find his voice. “I swear the same.”

  Roakore eyed them for a moment, then turned and raised his arms. Head bowed, he stood like a statue for a moment. Nothing happened. Then words burst from him so loud it startled Whill. “Ohn zrak kytho sjendi zwikor henin ty!” The dwarf then reached out into the air as if grabbing something, though nothing was there. The stone wall rumbled. Roakore slowly pulled the phantom object with both hands. Whill stood in awe as a circular section of the rock wall four feet in circumference began to move as if hinged. Roakore took a step back, and as if pulling an invisible rope, heaved the door open. Before them now was a tunnel the same size as the open door.

  Roakore stood breathing heavily. Whill had not seen him tire since he had met him, but now beads of sweat ran down the dwarf’s brow as he walked through the passage. Whill and Abram followed.

  Within, the tunnel was perfectly round. Having been made for dwarves, the ceiling was low; Whill and Abram had to crouch in able to maneuver. Roakore turned and once again spoke the command, this time for the door to close. The heavy stone door moved inward with a great rumble and bang as it came to its resting place. Roakore breathed heavily and sat down to rest on the stone floor.

  Whill wondered about Roakore’s power to move stone but decided against asking the dwarf. He and Abram sat also. Whill rolled up his pant leg and found blood-soaked bandages over his wound. Abram found a needle and thread and positioned himself to stitch Whill’s wound. “Why?” he asked in a raspy voice. “Can’t I just-?”

  “No.” Abram shook his head. His eyes darted to Roakore and then back to Whill. The dwarf did not notice.

  Whill understood. If he used his powers to heal himself, the dwarf would become suspicious. Only elves had powers to heal, and dwarves did not like elves. Reluctantly Whill let Abram begin. He went to work quickly but carefully. Masterfully stitching the wound in tight stitches, he soon finished with the gash. Whill inspected the work. “It looks good, Abram. Thank you.” He tried to keep the pain from his voice.

  Roakore nodded with a low “hmm.”

  Abram again loaded his and Whill’s packs as Roakore helped Whill up. “So, lad, ready fer another ride?”

  Whill tried to clear his hurt throat. “No, we are in no danger now. I can walk. Slow though I may be.”

  “Aye, then let’s be off. Not far ahead the tunnel widens. It should be a wee bit more comfortable fer ye tall ones.”

  Whill again put his arm around Abram and together they followed Roakore. Shortly they came to the wider part of the tunnel. It opened up into another rounded tunnel, about ten feet high and ten feet wide. But unlike the other part of the tunnel, this one had a flat floor.

  “This tunnel runs for fifteen miles southwest under the mountain,” Roakore explained, his voice echoing. “Along the way it is met by other tunnels as well.”

  The going was slow, even in the larger part of the tunnel where they could walk fully erect. Whill slowed them down considerably. Roakore looked back at them. “At this pace we’ll not reach the city until after noon-that is, if we stop to rest.”

  Whill limped along as quickly as he could with Abram’s help. “Do you intend to rest, Roakore?”

  He laughed. “Aye, Whill, that I do. I have been on patrol for many a day and nights with no sleep. Even we dwarves grow weary-though not easily.”

  They walked on for an hour, torchlight leading the way in the dark passage. Little was said, as they were all very tired. It was surprisingly warm in the tunnels. Either that, Whill thought, or he was beginning to run a fever. Finally, to his relief, Roakore stopped. “We should get some rest. This be as good a place as any.”

  Whill sat on the stone floor, his leg throbbing madly. From one of the packs Abram retrieved food and water. He offered Whill some cheese and dried meat. “I imagine your throat still hurts, but you should eat what you can. We’ve had quite a day, and you will need your strength.”

  Whill accepted the food and ate what he could. Every swallow was torture, though the cool water from his canteen helped a little. He ate only enough to quiet his growling belly and then lay back, propping his head on his pack. His eyes were grainy and heavy, his body sore. Even on the stone floor, with no pillow but a lumpy bag, he soon fell asleep to the sounds of Roakore and Abram’s voices echoing softly throughout the tunnel.

  His dreams were d
ark, filled with broken bodies and blood. He imagined he was in a great battle. All around him lay the slain bodies of elves, men, and dwarves. Thousands of Draggard warriors surrounded him and Abram. Overhead dragons flew, their fire raining down. Whill fought hard against the hordes of Draggard, but as he slew one, more took its place. Soon only he and Abram remained.

  Whill was awakened by a nagging pain in his leg. He lifted his head from his bag to find Abram and Roakore awake. “Good morning, laddie,” said Roakore as he gnawed on a piece of dried meat.

  Abram smiled at Whill. “Sleep well?”

  Whill sat up. “Not really, but I feel a little better.” He rolled up his pant leg. The bandages around his wound were slightly soiled, but not enough to constitute changing them. He rolled the pant leg back down with a groan. His throat felt a little better, though it was very dry. He took a long drink from his canteen, finishing it off with a satisfied sigh.

  “Here.” Abram offered Whill his own canteen. “Roakore says we can replenish our water supply up ahead. Help yourself.”

  Whill accepted the canteen and drank greedily. He was surprised by his own thirst.

  Roakore stood and brushed off his legs. “A little farther down the passage there is a spring that trickles down from the ceiling. The best darn water ye’ll ever drink, or I’m a midget.” He burst into hearty laughter at his own joke. His voice boomed in the small space, echoing throughout the tunnel. Whill had a slight headache, and the sound was like a hammer to his temples. Nevertheless, he found the dwarf funny and laughed also. With a hand from Abram, he got to his feet. His leg still hurt, but he was able to put a little more weight on it now.

  They began once again down the tunnel. It had run fairly straight for most of the journey, but now it began to wind in some places. It became slightly steeper in some spots, and then ran down again. With no sunlight penetrating the space, Whill had no idea what time of day it was. He guessed it was early morning. Roakore spoke as they walked, giving them a short history of the mountain and the Ky’Dren dwarves. Whill remembered that Roakore had said he was from the Ebony Mountains and wondered if it would be rude to inquire.