When he landed, he found the three hours up and the townsmen and women ready and gathering supplies.
“What is the plan?” asked Jarred when Roakore landed.
“We be needin’ a few things.” said Roakore as he thought and absently stroked the Silverhawk’s neck. “That church there. Is there a back door?”
The priest stepped forward, bandaged and weary as any. “No, good king, there is not.”
Roakore pointed at the priest and four others. “Go make one, three men wide and one high. And able to close quickly and secure from the outside. Go!”
The men disappeared. “Blacksmith!” yelled Roakore.
“Ere!” said a grizzled man with an ever-dirtied apron and arms like a tree trunk. Upon his shoulder rested a well-used hammer.
Roakore looked the man over with approval.
“What be yer name?”
“I be Hanhollad.”
“Hanhollad, I will be needin’ every fire pit ye got glowin’ red, and every piece o’ metal ye got, weapons and scrap.”
“Yes, sir.”
The blacksmith and his three apprentices hurried off.
“Does that church have a basement?” Roakore asked the crowd.
He nodded as someone answered in the affirmative. “Good. I need every bit o’ oil ye got down there. And plenty o’ rags and scrap wood. Fill the basement till one can’t be walking down there.”
A group ran off to comply. Roakore then handpicked fifty of the burliest men and women. “You all stay back with me. Gimme a large paper and quill.”
The paper was brought, and Roakore laid out his plan. Tarragon listened, and the local scribe took notes. The plan would be recited until the moment came. Tarragon looked to Roakore when the plan was laid out. “But, good king, won’t that put you in mortal danger?”
Roakore scoffed. “Don’t be worryin’ bout me. Everyone do their part, and we may just see morning.”
Everyone went off to do their part. Roakore and his select fifty met the blacksmith hard at work. The fires raged, and sweat glistened from the working man’s skin. “As you asked, sir.”
There was a culmination of dull axes, swords, and spears in a pile. Roakore smiled. “If you would, I would like to test your hammer and anvil.”
The blacksmith handed over his hammer and watched, curious as the rest.
Roakore picked a dull ax at random and fed it to the fire. He took it out and began pounding away with that familiar rhythm. Into each strike, he added his will and intention, molding the metal with his mind until it was as strong and sharp as any. He cooled it in a bucket of water and handed it to a dumbfounded man. He repeated the process for hours, turning every weapon and scrap piece of metal into a lethal killing tool. Lastly, he took two swords from the pile, looked Jarred over once and nodded to himself.
The two blades he heated to glowing red and hammered them together with hammer and mind power until they merged to make one massive, five-foot-long sword. He cooled it and handed it to Jarred.
Jarred accepted the perfectly balanced blade with both hands. A tear found his eye and a smile his face. Roakore smiled also. “You’ll be needin’ that where I’m bringin’ ya.”
Night began to fall. Roakore took reports from the many different groups. Torches had been laid out from the steps of the church, widening as they descended away from the place of worship to the town beyond. The women that would not be fighting huddled with the children before the church. The windows of the building had been boarded shut, and the backdoor was ready. The oil and cloth lay in wait beneath the floor. The plan was clear, and all knew their role.
Roakore gathered from his pack a few small dragons’ breathe bombs and a lantern. He loaded everything on his mount and eyed the townsmen one last time. They looked tired, weary, and scared, but ready to fight to the death. Roakore was proud.
“When ye see me again, ye will be fighting for your lives. You know the cues; ye know yer jobs. May Ky’Dren look over ye.”
“Thank you, good Dwarf king of the mountain Ro’Sar,” said a woman among the crowd.
Roakore nodded and mounted Silverwind. “Thank me in the morning.”
Jarred was grasped by Silverwind by the shoulders, and together, they flew into the darkening sky and disappeared in a haze of color to match the setting sun. The screams began then, and Roakore could hear the curses of Jarred below him. He steered Silverwind low and in the direction of the taunting Draggard horde, not five hundred steps from the town. The beasts marched on the town once again, with the screaming hostages at the center of the pack.
Roakore flew in a path that would bring them directly over the horde. “Give ‘em hell, man!” hollored Roakore as Silverwind let loose the hanging Jarred and his five-foot-long sword.
Jarred fell screaming and landed near the outer ring of his townsfolk. “Everybody down!” he warned as the great sword came around in a full arch. Draggard scales cracked, and blood flew.
Just then Roakore lit and dropped the four dragons’ breath bombs directly into the Draggard horde nearest the town. They screamed as many were engulfed in flames. Jarred swung the heavy sword with all his might, clearing a path through the fire and bidding everyone to hurry and run for town. The six survivors ran for their lives. Roakore watched as one was taken up by Jarred. Even in the flames Roakore knew that the boy was Jarred’s son, and he also saw that the mother had fallen. Jarred’s anguished scream and deadly sword work crushed all beasts before him.
Jarred and the survivors made for town as Roakore jumped from his mount, and together, they stopped any Draggard from following. The surprise attack lasted long enough for Roakore to claim five heads and to give Jarred and his people time to reach town. As the Draggard became wise and began to dangerously press, Roakore mounted the bird once again, and they veered off toward the town.
The furious Draggard followed. Teeth gnashing and growls raging, they pursued the pair closely into the town square.
“C’mon, ye stupid beasts,” laughed Roakore as he dismounted near the church and ran to the door.
The children screamed as he motioned for them to go into the church. The Draggard charged harder at the sight of their prey. Roakore let out a sharp whistle, and from the darkness came the townspeople, charging into the monstrous Draggard. The beasts were stopped in their tracks before the church steps as the townspeople barreled into them from all sides. Roakore dropped from his mount and engaged the nearest monster. As he buried his ax deep into the Draggard’s chest he wondered if the trap within the church would be needed. The two dozen townspeople were tearing into the beasts with a ferocity only known by those that have recently lost loved ones, many with nothing left to lose.
Roakore blocked a Draggard tail meant for his head. His huge ax came sweeping back in a blur of motion and took the attacking beast’s arm off. The creature reared in pain, but Roakore advanced mercilessly. He hacked and chopped until the Draggard moved no more.
Next to him, a man fell dead with a spear through his neck. Jarred avenged the man’s death with the deadly long sword, which cut through the beast’s scales and crushed its head.
Though the men and women fought bravely, their numbers were thinning quickly. Roakore gave another whistle, and Silverwind answered with an ear-piercing squawk. The great Silverhawk dove into the fray and lifted a Draggard from the battle. She flew high and dropped the hissing monster onto its kin. Again she dove but this time landed next to Roakore, crushing an unlucky Draggard under her great weight. Roakore bid the townspeople retreat to the church as he and Silverwind squared off with the remaining group of at least twenty Draggard. Jarred remained behind with them as his townfolk scrambled up the church steps.
“Go on, Jarred, get with yer people!” yelled Roakore and sent his stone bird whirling into the advancing horde.
Jarred brought the heavy long sword down hard into the shoulder of a Draggard, severing its arm. He laughed wickedly in the face of the beast. “And miss this? Not for the world!�
�
Roakore’s laugh echoed Jarred’s. Silverwind took a spear hit to the neck, and sparks emanated from the impact. It seemed that Lunara’s enchantment was working well. And it was good that it did. A half-a-dozen Draggard had rounded on the bird and were taking turns landing vicious blows. Silverwind took a Draggard’s head in her beak and crushed it with apparent ease. She put the deadly beak to work on another, snapping its spear like a twig and gutting it with a lunging attack and a razor-sharp claw. The other Draggard did not relent, and Roakore screamed with rage as his beloved mount was attacked from all sides.
“Fly, ye crazy bird, fly!” screamed Roakore as he engaged another. Down came a spear; up blocked his great ax. The beast spun and followed up with a sweeping tail and, simultaneously, the butt end of the spear.
Roakore hopped the tail but not high; instead, he jumped quickly and came down with both boots on it. He hewed the tail in two with his ax, though it meant taking a hit from the spear handle. But being prepared as he was for such a move, he was not hurt by the spear. He raised an arm and caught the handle in his armpit and spun with the blow. The beast howled in pain as blood spurted from its tail. Roakore took up the spear and deftly threw it past the injured beast to strike another in the neck—one that had meant to stab Jarred in the back.
Jarred turned and laughed. The blood of his foes covered the madman; his own blood flowed freely from many wounds. Tears shed for his lost wife sliced through the blood, leaving strange markings on his cheeks. His wild, bloodshot eyes scanned the line of enemies, searching for his next opponent.
The signal sounded, meaning that everyone was out of the church. Roakore and Jarred retreated into it, and a dozen Draggard followed. Roakore’s stone bird followed the beasts and took the last in line in the head. When all of the Draggard were inside the church, the men outside slammed the doors shut and swiftly drove nails home, sealing it.
Jarred looked to the hissing Draggard and then to Roakore. “You sure this is gonna work?” he asked.
Roakore looked perplexed. “Of course it’s gonna work! It be me plan after all!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dyr Consequences
Abram turned down a dingy side alley; refuse and garbage littered the path. Rhunis followed a few paces back, his senses honed in on his surroundings. He watched the rooftops but saw nothing but the waning moon and her phantom gray lovers, the remnants of a cold fall rain recently passed. Darkness lived here, not only the shadows that fled from the street torchlight but the kind found in the hearts of men.
Their quarry was dragons’ breath, the liquid extract found within the glands of mature dragons. It was gotten at great cost, as many men died in the venture of obtaining it. Word had it that the man they were set to meet had large quantities at his disposal. This, of course, was ridiculous as no one but dragons had dragons’ breath at their disposal.
A thought had occurred to Abram when he heard of the supplier from not one or two but three separate sources. If anyone was to have endless quantities of dragons’ breath, they would have to either be a dragon or be really, really good friends with one or the person, or Elf, had captured one. The hunch felt right. If Eadon had kept Zhola alive, he could be milking the dragon daily of its fire-feeding venom. After all, a continent-wide war cost money, and if one were to have an endless supply of dragons’ breath, one would be rich. And Eadon would have no qualms about supplying every scumbag, ruffian, and pirate that had the gold to pay for it. It was called liquid gold after all, and from Zhola, Eadon would make it flow. This also meant that Eadon had a hell of a lot of explosives at hand to arm his human armies with.
Abram came to the door marked with nothing but a chicken bone nailed to the top; he knocked out the code and waited. Rhunis stood at his back, scanning the world of shadow surrounding them. The door opened slowly, moaning from lack of use. No one was to be seen within the doorway. Abram called to the darkness.
“Well then, anyone home?”
No one replied. Abram turned and nodded to Rhunis to follow suit. They walked five paces when a voice came from the doorway. “What be your quarry?”
Abram turned and approached the door. A dark form stood within the threshold.
“We are here for dragons’ breath.”
“Shhh, damn you, not so loud.” said the figure with a hiss.
Abram chuckled. “What is the big secret? This is a smelly back alley littered with rats and scat. You think the authorities give a dragon’s arse what goes on here? As long as they get their cut, there is no need for worry, eh?”
The figure’s hood moved as if the doorman were looking over Abram. “You are a strange one you are.”
Again, Abram chuckled. “Said the creepy, dark shape from the darkened doorway.”
Rhunis laughed at that as did the creepy, dark shape from the doorway, which made him even creepier. His laugh was not the “ghost song in the forest creepy,” but rather, the man was a “smells women’s hair secretly and shudders” creepy. This made Rhunis laugh all the more. He pushed past with torch in hand and faced the smaller, shorter, far less broad creep.
“We knocked out the code; we have the jewels. Shall we pass or shall we kick your…door down? We have business with your man.”
The hooded figure suddenly exploded into action, grabbing Rhunis’s throat, sweeping a leg, and slamming him into the wall while at the same time producing a dagger that stopped roughly behind the veteran knight’s earlobe.
“It is not wise to threaten the guard of my master. One may find himself very dead at the end of such an exchange.”
Rhunis smiled at the hooded figure and looked down at the man’s neck. Rhunis’s own dagger was pressed hard against the cloaked neck. A small disturbance rippled around the point of his blade, the power of a Dark Elf’s energy armor. Rhunis smiled wider. “One might, if he was not wise enough to use his cowardly armor against a foe more skilled than he. Yes, one might end up very dead at the end of such an exchange.”
The hooded Dark Elf pressed harder with his dagger, breaking skin. His nostrils flared at the insult. Rhunis let his smile go cold. “Face it, Elfie, if you challenged me without all the fancy flare, fire casting, and trickery, man to man, you would lose, and I am old.”
The Dark Elf sneered. “Stupid human, I have powers you cannot understand. Old you say? I am nearly five hundred in years. I bedded your grandmother’s grandmother.” He laughed. “Do not talk to me of power and age.”
He moved to the far wall and opened yet another door. “Go!”
Abram and Rhunis went. Upon passing the Dark Elf, Rhunis stopped. “I didn’t get your name.”
The scowling Elf narrowed his eyes. “Dyr I am called.”
Rhunis tried to hold it in but failed, and he smirked at the Dark Elf. “Next time you should say that there will be Dyr consequences.”
Dyr cocked his head to the side, not understanding. “Now you know the name of your killer, human!”
Rhunis chuckled again, which he knew infuriated the Elf. “If you kill me, at least you will be remembered for something.” He turned and followed Abram down a winding staircase.
As the door above closed, Abram turned but kept walking. “Why?” He chuckled. “Why would you tempt death so?”
Rhunis thought for a moment. “Does it matter? I have tempted death all my life. I guess death doesn’t like me.”
Abram shook his head. “One day you will tempt death, and he will answer, my friend.”
Rhunis hummed his agreement. “Won’t we all.”
They came upon the end of the stair, and before them stood another door. Abram sighed and kicked the code into this one. A small peephole opened, and an eye looked them over. From behind the door came the order. “Put your weapons on the table behind you.”
“No,” answered Abram.
The guard hesitated. “You are required to leave your weapons behind, or you may not enter.”
“No,” repeated Abram lazily. “We are here for business; we a
re not assassins. We pose no threat to Dark Elves as powerful as yourself, and we will remain armed if it pleases your master. We have great wealth and a need for services, which we have been told your master can provide. Our only terms are that we remain armed. I would not hand over the blade of my grandfather for any price.”
There was silence, and for long minutes there came no reply, and then they heard, “Enter as you will.”
Abram and Rhunis entered the room; their eyes took in the layout out of habit. One sweeping glance told Abram that there were seven guards. There were two at the door, one in each corner of the square room, and one behind the figure seated at a large wooden table. A door stood a few feet behind the seated figure. That another guard or guards waited behind that door, Abram did not doubt.
The familiar sound of a strong hand gripping a sword hilt was Rhunis’s way of telling Abram that a weapon was trained on them. Abram saw it then, a hole cut into the mouth of a cannon within a painting of a pirate ship.
Abram walked the length of the large room in seven strides and addressed the seated figure. “We have come here to do business with businessmen, not paranoid amateurs. Kindly have your man behind the painting take the crosshairs of his crossbow off of us.”
“No.” The figure answered just as Abram had. “You have insisted on remaining armed, as have I.”
Abram nodded. “I would hate to inconvenience you with my spilt blood should the weapon misfire.”
The figure’s hood fell back, revealing the tattooed and pierced face of a Dark Elf. “I assure you, if it misfires, I shall not let it touch you.”
The Dark Elf smirked. “I promise.”
As his last word was issued, there was a click and the whine of an arrow whizzing across the room. As fast as a striking snake, Abram’s dagger was before his face. The arrow would have been deflected had it not been stopped a hair’s width from the blade by a swirling phantom hand.
From the seated Dark Elf’s neck, the swirling tattoo had leapt out and taken the form of a fist. The hand turned to mist, and the arrow fell. The room stopped breathing, and everyone waited. No hands went to weapons, but everyone’s thoughts did. Abram was the first to move. He sheathed his dagger and squared on the Dark Elf. “Business then?”
Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings Page 12