Whill of Agora woa-1

by Michael Ploof

  The chamber erupted in cheers. The deep, booming voices of the thousand dwarves was deafening.

  “But be know’in this: we must not underestimate our enemy! Fer a trusted source tells me that a queen Draggard now inhabits our lost mountain.” Roakore spat at the mention of the beasts, as did hundreds of his followers. “We may be facing an army o’ over two hundred thousand!”

  Roakore watched closely as many hushed conversations broke out. On the faces of his followers he saw surprise, and anger, and confusion, but he did not see fear.

  “But, me brave warriors, we’re not alone! When the time comes, our kin’ll march with us, from Ky’Dren and the Elgar Mountains to the east.” He raised his voice so that his next statement echoed loudly throughout the chamber, his great voice booming. “An’ let it be known now, the march o’ the three clans o’ the dwarves will be echoed in song fer all eternity! The great deeds we do in the name o’ our fathers-like the flowing o’ our own blood, which we gladly give-will live on in our sons fer all time. We will reclaim our mountain, we will defeat the Draggard, and we will bleed with wide smiles in the faces o’ our enemy. Victory, glory, our home, will soon be ours!”

  The chamber roared. The cheers and the stomping boots of the excited dwarves were so great, they could be felt by Whill and Abram, far down the long corridors of Dy’Kore.

  There came a knock at Abram’s door, and Ky’Ell entered. “Are ye ready for a tour o’ me great city, then?”

  They followed the barrel-chested king through the many halls and chambers of Dy’Kore. After descending a number of stairs they came to the great under-city. Huge furnaces roared on all sides as they walked through. Thousands of dwarves were hard at work shoveling coal into the large pyres, or wheeling barrels of coal from adjoined tunnels. The heat was almost unbearable for Whill, and after only a few minutes his brow dripped with sweat. Here steel and iron, gold and silver were melted down to be reshaped by the great smiths of the city. Next to each furnace was at least one work station, and here hundreds of smiths banged away tirelessly, crafting goblets and jewelry, weapons and armor.

  It took almost five minutes to walk the length of the furnace room, and though Whill was amazed at what he had seen, he was relieved to be out of the great heat. The next stop was an entrance to the great mines. This mining tunnel, being so close to the main under-city, had been milked dry centuries before. Ky’Ell led them on for almost a half hour, taking many turns in the maze of mine shafts and tunnels. Finally they came to the entrance of a newly discovered tunnel. He handed both men a lantern and Whill gasped aloud as they entered the rich tunnel. The walls on both sides gleamed and shimmered as the light shone on the many veins of gold within the rock.

  “This tunnel were made not a month ago,” the king boasted. “The gold veins go on into the stone fer thirty feet, as far as we can yet see. The devils tried to hide it away forever, they did, but we found it. We always do, fer the glory o’ our gods.”

  Whill knew that the king referred to the dragons-the evil gods, as the dwarves called them. It was said in dwarf religion that in the beginning there were two kinds of gods. The Dwarnevly, the good gods, created the beauty of the world: the gold, silver, diamonds, and jewels. The Dargandae, dragons, the evil gods, were insanely jealous, for until then they themselves had been the most magnificent beings in all the world. A great war ensued, and the dragons, unable to destroy the beauty of the Dwarnevly, hid the treasures instead. Deep in the earth and mountains they buried it, never again to be seen. And so the dwarves were created, to retrieve and spread the great beauty of the Dwarnevly’s creations throughout the world.

  When Whill had first heard the many stories of the dwarves from Abram, he had been more than skeptical and thought the dwarves’ beliefs rather silly. But after what he had experienced in the last few weeks, he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.

  After returning from the mines along the same route they had taken, and passing once again through the hot furnace chamber, the king led Whill and Abram above the under-city to the Chamber of Treasures. This chamber, aptly named, was the largest and most breathtaking Whill had yet seen. Here were some of the most beautiful artifacts the dwarves had ever crafted. The room was brightly lit with golden chandeliers and hundreds of torches, positioned in such a way that not a shadow could be seen in the vast room. The walls, floor, and ceiling aided in the effect, for they were covered with diamond dust. Millions of sparkles caught Whill’s eye from every direction as Ky’Ell led them deeper into the magnificent chamber. The crowns of each of the many kings were set upon marvelous pillars, in order from Ky’Dren down, along the right side of the room. Whill could hardly believe that he was looking upon the actual crowns worn by so many ancient dwarven kings, and he realized he was one of few humans to have ever lay eyes on these priceless treasures.

  To the left of the crowns were various treasures, many crafted by a king or his sons, or by one of the many famous smiths of Ky’Dren. Great axes and war hammers, maces and hatchets of old stood proudly on display, along with magnificent suits of armor adorned in jewels and plated in silver and gold. The three spent more than an hour within the Chamber of Treasures, the king telling the many tales that went along with each item, and Whill looking on in amazement all the while.

  Next the king brought them to one of the main living quarters of the dwarves, a twenty-story cylindrical shaft more than five hundred feet wide. Whill stood in awe as he looked over the rail from the top story down onto the many balconies. Each level was identical, with hundreds of doors all spaced the same distance apart, and a torch burning at every one. The only thing that was different upon each of the doors was the family name, each set in stone and decorated to the inhabitant’s liking. The living quarters boasted four large pulley machines, set the same distance away from each other, with four stout dwarves manning each. Up and down they went, carrying up to ten passengers within a circular cage. The machines made it much easier for the more than fifty thousand dwarves within these quarters to come and go.

  The king showed Abram and Whill many more wondrous sights that day, and made a point of repeating that it would take years to see all of the dwellings and tunnels of the mountain. For Dy’Kore, though large, was but a small piece of the Ky’Dren kingdom, which stretched more than seven hundred miles within the mountain range, under the Ky’Dren Pass and north to the sea.

  When they returned to the king’s chambers, Ky’Ell rubbed his stout belly and informed them with a grin that it was dinnertime.

  This time Roakore did not join the friends, to Whill’s dismay. But Whill was delighted and greatly impressed when he walked into the great dining room once again and discovered more than four hundred dwarves, men, women, and children alike, seated at the massive table. This, Abram quietly told him as they sat down, was due to the tradition of the king’s banquet. Every other night the king would dine with his people, regardless of rank or position. Invitations were sent out months in advance, and dwarves would come eagerly from the farthest reaches of the mountain, some traveling for weeks, to dine with their king.

  Whill was truly impressed. His respect for Ky’Ell had been great from the beginning, but now it was profound. Upon every the face of every dwarf seated at the massive table was a bright smile, and each regarded their king with utter reverence.

  Before the food, came the ale in large mugs, white froth dripping down the sides of the overfilled and heavily adorned goblets. Barrels had been set along the table every five feet, each tapped and ready, to better accommodate the ale-loving lot. The king took his cup and stood, and every dwarf in attendance followed in his lead.

  “Let me begin by commending each and every one o’ ye, me dear dwarves. May yer beards grow to the floor, and may yer families prosper. May each and every one o’ ye, through yer many great deeds, whether large or small, find yer way into the Mountain o’ the Gods.”

  The dwarves responded with a hardy “who-waaahh” and chugged their beers. Whill and Abram
followed suit, guzzling their own drinks frantically to keep up with the veteran king. They all followed the Ky’Ell’s lead and once again filled their mugs.

  “Also, to me left are two visitors from the outside, great warriors an’ great men indeed-Draggard slayers they be! Our friends an’ allies, Abram an’ Whill o’ Agora!”

  The dining hall erupted into many cheers, which were eventually muffled as the dwarves chugged down another ale.

  With introductions complete, the king refilled his mug and sat down at the head of the great table. On cue, Fior nodded to the waiting servers and the food came out by the wheel-barrels, literally. Whill had never seen so much food, and indeed did not know what some of it was. There was duck and chicken, goose and partridge, pig and boar and lamb. It did not take him long to surmise that the dwarves favored meat, and lots of it, for the only vegetables he could see were potatoes. Nevertheless the food was excellent, nothing less than what one would expect from the table of the king.

  Such feasts were commonplace among the dwarves, whose wealth had no rivals. Every last dwarf of Ky’Dren lived a lavish and comfortable life, aside from the constant hard work they reveled in. That hard work was rewarded tenfold, for Ky’Dren was the greatest Kingdom of all the dwarf mountains, the precious metals, weapons, jewelry, gold and other such wares were traded throughout Agora, and in return the dwarves received all the food, supplies, and ale they would ever need.

  The feast went on for more than two hours and by that time Whill was feeling the effects of the dark dwarf ale, he was so full he thought he might burst. The dwarves spoke openly with the king, telling stories, sharing jokes, and simply enjoying their once a year dinner with the great dwarf. Whill looked around in wonderment at the joy around him, the hearty laughter of the king, the joyous smiles of the common folk. He made a mental note to host similar banquets when he became king.

  When he became king. That thought brought a solemn expression to the young man’s smiling face. How could he become king? Uthen-Arden was the largest Kingdom in all of Agora, with hundreds of thousands of citizens. How could he, Whill, just a simple man, rule such a powerful empire with what knowledge he know possessed?

  Whill was not the sort to think little of his self, on the contrary, he knew he was well educated, could speak every language of the peoples of Agora, and was indeed a great fighter. But a voice within him told him that this task was beyond him, that he would fail, and that many would suffer his folly. Perhaps it was the pressure of the sudden responsibility, perhaps it was the ale, but Whill had a keen feeling that his story, his legacy, would be one of tragedy and failure. Whill indeed feared King Addakon, his uncle, the murderer of his father and mother. Could he defeat such a foe? For when Whill finally looked upon Addakon he would be in essence looking upon the image of his own father. They were identical, in appearance if not mind and soul. Whill’s first encounter with Addakon, with his most hated enemy, would give him a glimpse of his lost father. In those first moments of revelation, in the heat of the inevitable battle, could Whill lift his sword for the kill, could he strike the image of his father down?

  After four hours of hard training with his great fighters, Roakore commanded all to stop. This had been one of the most grueling sessions to date. Every dwarf within the training room was winded and soaked with sweat, each had obtained more than a few bruises, and all were utterly spent. They had sparred nonstop for ten hours straight, and how proud Roakore was. He looked upon his dwarves now with a great smile, knowing that before him stood the greatest warriors the dwarven race had ever seen, and he imagined their glory when the mountain was finally taken back.

  “Ye have all done well, ye have all done me proud!” Roakore cried as he fought back the swelling in his throat and the moisture in his eyes at the sight before him. Here stood one thousand loyal dwarves, most barely considered adults, all of whom had seen or heard the fall of their prided mountain, had endured the loss of their fathers, uncles, friends, and families. Many of these lads before him would die in the reclaiming of the Ebony Mountains, perhaps all, but none cared. Each and every warrior before him would walk to the ends of the earth, would fight an army of demons with a grin upon their faces, for the glory of their king, for the vengeance of their kin. Roakore knew then, as he looked into the eager eyes of his followers, that no force within the world would stop them in their time of glory. Dragon or Draggard be damned, the mountain would be theirs once again!

  “Our time o’ glory soon approaches! Soon we will march to our homeland; soon we’ll again see the great peak o’ Drenzedell; soon will be our hour o’ vengeance!”

  The room once again erupted in cheers as a misty-eyed Roakore smiled at the sight of his people. Soon, Father, he said to himself. Soon will be the hour.

  He left the training room and made his way to his family’s hall. He did after all have twenty-seven wives waiting for him, all hoping for a chance to aid the cause with another child.

  After another hour of fine ale and shared stories, the dwarves, along with Whill and Abram, filed out of the dining room and down several winding corridors. It had come to Whill’s attention that today was a holy day among the dwarves, being the day of the month in which Dy’Kore himself had settled the great mountain. The day of promise was celebrated every month of the year, with the largest of the rituals taking place in June, the actual month that the settlement had taken place. Feeling very warm inside and unable to hide his ale-induced grin, he ambled along with a group of very excited dwarves. All of them had welcomed Whill and Abram warmly, uncharacteristic of their gruff reputation. No doubt it was due to the spreading story of the fight with the Draggard two nights previously.

  With every step Whill could hear the growing sound of many drums, hundreds it seemed beating in unison in the chamber ahead. Soon the group entered a massive natural cavern, much unlike the halls and tunnels of the rest of the city. Here no walls had been smoothly chiseled, no level ceiling had been smoothed out; indeed, the only alteration to the immense cavern were the carvings on the many walls, and the massive stalactites and stalagmites. The cavern, he guessed, was more than two thousand feet in circumference, and within, an ocean of dwarves waited.

  Abram and Whill stood side by side in mutual awe at the sight of the tens of thousands of dwarves within the cavern. Before Whill could comment on the sight, the drumming abruptly stopped, and all attention fell upon the western wall of the cavern, where Fior stood upon a ledge high enough so that all in attendance had a clear view of their high priest. He wore red flowing robes with gold trim, and in his left hand was a staff adorned with enough jewels to see ten men through fifty years of comfortable life. As the drumming echoed and was lost in the surrounding stone, and the murmurs died away, Fior spoke.

  “Six thousand years ago, on the vast green surface world, a great dwarf by the name o’ Ky’Dren was born.”

  He paused for effect as his deep melodic voice echoed throughout the cavern. Near him four dwarf children stood as still as stone, looking up wide-eyed at the storyteller. They had of course heard this tale a hundred times, but only rarely did they have the pleasure of hearing it from the mouth of the gifted Fior.

  “Before the time o’ Ky’Dren, our people lived on the surface, on the neverending rolling fields o’ green we called home. We were aimless creatures, broken into many tribes; many o’ us fought amongst ourselves as with the humans. Always were we at war, ever threatened by the horrible dragons. But our gods sent us a prophet, a messiah-indeed, the greatest dwarf that ever lived!”

  Fior paused as the crowd bellowed “Ky’Dren” in unison.

  “The gods spoke to Ky’Dren, and bestowed upon him the ability to move stone with only a thought. ‘Go to the mountains,’ the gods told him, ‘for within them lies the most beautiful o’ our creations, buried by the jealous and evil gods. Defeat the dragons, find and free our riches, and forever shall ye live within the Mountain o’ the Gods.’”

  He paused once again as a slow beat was tak
en up by the many drummers. “And so Ky’Dren and his many followers went to the great mountain range now named after him, and there Ky’Dren and his people carved out what would become the first halls of our ancient city.”

  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, a great pride of the race that had come so far. Their faith was stronger than Whill had ever seen among any people he had ever met. The peace within the eyes of those he looked upon-those who dedicated their lives to the greater good, those with the knowledge that their actions would undoubtedly find them a place within the Mountain of the Gods-gave Whill a feeling of great longing for a faith so strong, so resolute.

  Whill followed no deity, had no god, but he was a spiritual man. Abram those many years ago had not presented Whill with any one religion, but rather had shown him all religions and told him it was for him to decide which he believed. Whill 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, always quick to ask the many questions that, with religion, inevitably led to the same answer. 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. By following his heart and doing always what he saw to be right, Whill would find his salvation.