The Mantle of Darkness: Whill of Agora Book 7: Legends of Agora

by Ploof,Michael James

  Tarren shrugged. “After being beaten on by the dwarf boys of Ro’Sar, this is a walk among the lilies.”

  Whill messed the lad’s hair. “Don’t be getting cocky. You don’t have Lunara around to heal you every other day.”

  “It was more like every day, I’m afraid.”

  “Come, sit. Have you eaten yet?”

  “I can always eat.”

  “Good, have some of mine. My cook always takes the term ‘food fit for a king’ a bit too literally.”

  Talon took the seat across from Whill and helped himself to a big piece of ham. “So tell me of the adventures you had in the north,” he said eagerly between bites.

  Whill took his time telling Tarren what had happened after he traveled north to deal with the false kings. As usual, the lad had many questions, all of which Whill was glad to answer. He had missed the boy since he had been away to the academy, and he cherished the familiarity of their conversations. Tarren reminded Whill that there was still wonder in the world.

  “What about you?” Whill asked. “How has it been at the academy?”

  “It’s harder than I thought it would be,” Tarren admitted with a scrunch of his nose. “They got us getting up by sunrise and running five miles with full packs before we even have breakfast. Even after all that, the meal is only bland porridge and goat’s milk. Then it is straight to classes until noon. Lunch is usually no more exciting than breakfast, and then we work on grappling and sword work, and some days bows or spears. Dinner is usually hearty food, meat and potatoes mostly. By the time we hit the pillow, everyone is beat.”

  “How they treat you?” Whill asked, having been concerned that Tarren would be singled out by bullies because of his being Whill’s ward.

  “They treat me the way I demand to be treated,” said Tarren. “A few bigger boys tried pushing me around early on, but compared to the dwarf boys that me and Helzendar went against, the humans might as well have been toddlers.”

  Whill laughed at that. “The dwarves toughened you up that much, eh?”

  “Ye’re gods damned right,” said Tarren in his best Roakore impression.

  There was a knock at the door, and on Whill’s command a guard popped his head in.

  “Sire, an ambassador from Eldalon has just arrived. He is waiting outside the throne room,” said a guard.

  “Thank you,” said Whill. He rose from the table.

  “Can I come along?” Tarren asked.

  “Trust me, this meeting will be as bland as that porridge you speak of. You should go see Teera and your aunts. Teera adores you, and she would be delighted by a surprise visit.”

  Tarren scrunched up his nose at that. “She always pinches my cheeks, hard.”

  “Keeping them rosy, I suspect,” said Whill, remembering the old woman’s habit. “I am to have lunch with her and my sisters this afternoon. I will see you then.”

  Whill left and made his way for the throne room with a smile on his face. Tarren’s surprise visit had lifted his spirits, and the thought of having everyone together did his burdened heart good.

  Chapter 4

  The Battle of the Valley of Bones

  Dirk led the charge down the steep hillside with fifty men at his back. Below, in the dell, the last remnants of the undead army had stopped in their flight and turned to face the soldiers of Uthen-Arden. Only one among them sat upon a horse, the dark elf necromancer Levothyan.

  “Chief, come to me!” Dirk yelled on the run, and soon Chief was at his side. “See the one on the horse?”

  Chief gave a bark.

  “He’s mine.”

  They reached the bottom of the hill and were met with a hundred gleaming swords, held by all manner of undesirables. There were men with rotten skin and milky-white eyes, as well as draggard and dwargon who were long dead, and draquon who could no longer fly due to their ripped and torn wings. Dwarves and elves who had fallen and been risen once more stood before them as well, adding to the already formidable group.

  Dirk let loose an enchanted dart and leapt up over the explosion, tucking himself into his enchanted cloak and spinning through the air. He opened and landed on the chest of a twelve-foot dwargon. The beast’s surprised green eyes disappeared when Dirk drove two long daggers into them to the hilts and rode him to the ground. The soldiers of Uthen-Arden exploded into the fray behind him, and he cut a line toward the mounted necromancer.

  Cold eyes stared back at him, and Dirk pointed a bloody dagger at Levothyan and smiled. “I’m coming for you, big boy. You and me are going to dance!”

  The roar of a dragon drowned out his last word, and Fyrfrost came swooping down behind him. Dirk parried the spear thrust of an undead elf and chopped his head off with a short sword.

  “He’s mine!” he yelled up at Krentz as she flew overhead on the dragon he had summoned.

  She ignored his claim and continued on. Fyrfrost let out another great roar and bathed the undead army with fire. The necromancer had brought up a shield, which absorbed the flames and left a wide ring of unburnt grass beneath his feet.

  Levothyan remained still as stone as Dirk fought his way toward him through the burning and thrashing undead. His blades moved in perfect harmony, blocking and countering the attacks of beast and man alike with ease.

  As Dirk fought toward him, the necromancer rose in his saddle and bellowed a word before slamming his scepter down into the ground. A green, webbing shockwave ripped through the earth, splitting the ground between Dirk’s feet. He stumbled momentarily, and many men and undead alike went down, some falling into the large cracks now forming in the valley. Giant plumes of dust and dirt shot into the air as the ground was torn asunder. Dirk kept his feet, however, and took a step toward the necromancer. A boney hand grabbed ahold of Dirk’s ankle, and he instinctively chopped at it, severing it from the arm.

  It was then that he saw the many clawed hands reaching up from the wide cracks. The skeletons of men long dead rose out of the depths and began pulling soldiers back down with them. Levothyan laughed a deep, wet, guttural laugh and spurred his horse. Dirk was quick enough to get off three darts before the horse and rider were too far away, and even though they struck, the energy shield absorbed every blast.

  Clawed hands grabbed his legs once again, and he hacked his way to a wider piece of land from which to fight. Many of the undead had fallen into the cracks, some as many as ten feet wide, but they simply climbed out again, ready to pull down a soldier of Uthen-Arden.

  “Lively now, boys, and follow me, or else you’ll all be dead men!”

  Dirk began back toward the hill, leaping from one land mass to another while at the same time clearing a path through the undead and skeletons waiting upon each little island. Glancing back, he saw a few men following him.

  Too few.

  He continued on, leaving the men to their fates. There were hundreds of skeletons rising up out of the ground in the torn-up valley, and there was simply no way to help the men. He looked to the sky for Krentz and found Fyrfrost far to the east, no doubt in pursuit of the necromancer.

  “Chief!” he yelled, and the wolf came leaping from another outcropping. “Go help Krentz.”

  Without so much as a bark, Chief turned into a streak of blue light that went zipping across the valley and into the forest beyond.

  Dirk continued on in the other direction, toward the hill. He leapt the final distance and turned to hew the head off a skeleton that had landed behind him. They came in droves across the tortured valley, ripping and tearing any flesh they could get their hands on and pulling down those hapless men who had been too slow of foot and blade. Only a half dozen men made it to the foot of the hill, and Dirk ordered them up. He planted his feet and faced the undead and skeletons of warriors long dead.

  He stood, ready with darts in hand for the opportune moment. The creatures of the grave leapt from outcroppings to the tilted ledge across the steaming valley, eyes aglow with light and holding rusty swords gripped tight.

 
Dirk was ready to throw his dragon’s breath darts when all at once the undead and skeletons alike went ridged and began to fall, one after another, into the hells that had born them.

  She killed the necromancer, Dirk realized.

  But too late, he realized as his smile slowly faded. More than forty men had perished here in the valley of bones. Still, it was finally over. He and Krentz had tracked down the last reported army of the dead and had finally killed its leader.

  Sudden worry overcame him, and he had the urge to rush across the broken valley to see if Krentz was alright. He nearly gave in to the urge when he saw Fyrfrost fly back over the treetops.

  He ran to the top of the hill to meet her as she landed.

  “I said he was mine,” said Dirk.

  She gave a laugh and leapt down. “It looked like you needed some help.” She glanced around at the only men left. “It looks like I could have done better. What the hell happened down there?”

  “I don’t know. Must have been an old battleground or something.”

  Krentz stood with him, looking out over the smoldering valley. “They were brave men, and they will be remembered as such.”

  “Indeed. The last battle against the undead. The Battle of the Valley of Bones. It will be a good song to spread for the campaign.”

  “That again,” said Krentz with indignation. “At a time like this? Are you always scheming?”

  “Isn’t everyone?” Dirk asked, quite serious.

  Chapter 5

  Raene’s Decree

  Roakore stood before the thousands of dwarves and swallowed hard. He hated giving eulogies—they made his eyes itch. He had been giving far too many of them these last few months, it seemed. A great many dwarves had been killed when the dragons invaded Ro’Sar, but they had beat the beasts in the end, and the undead army as well. Finally, it was over.

  Now came the aftermath: dinners with the families of the deceased, giving or standing for speeches for just about every fallen dwarf, and ceremonies dedicated to their honor. Then there was the overseeing of the rebuilding—it seemed that Ro’Sar was in a constant state of repair. His many wives ensured that he got no rest when his head did manage to find a pillow. It seemed that they were in a bit of a battle over who could bear him the most children, and he had found that they were all highly motivated.

  It was a female dwarf for whom they had gathered today. Not one of his wives, but a great dwarf female nonetheless.

  “Her name was Gemma Silvervein,” he said, his voice booming throughout the natural cavern. “She was the daughter o’ Bruke and Fennon Silvervein, and one o’ the first blessed o’ the gods that I had the pleasure to test. Some o’ ye woulda seen her kept below with the other females and the children, some o’ ye might be sayin’ that she would still be alive to this day, and what a shame on Ky’Dren it be that a female fell in battle with axe in hand. But know this, afore she and her silver hawk fell, they killed over a hun’red undead and downed three dragons.”

  He let his words set in and watched his people’s reactions. Many nodded in agreement, and those who had once thought it a shame now reconsidered.

  “How many did she save? How many still be alive today because o’ her sacrifice? Will her children not smile when they speak o’ her? Will her parents not feel pride? Is she not sitting with Ky’Dren in the Mountain o’ the Gods? I say that he has taken her as a wife!”

  The crowd laughed. Roakore had them right where he wanted them.

  “She was a blessed o’ the gods. As are many other females. The gods be thinkin’ there be more to females than child rearin’, cookin’, and cleanin’, and I be in agreement!

  “Many o’ ye heard about me cousin Raene the Goldenheart, she who slew untold thousands in the battles in the north. And ye be knowin’ ‘bout her decree.”

  The crowd waited: males anxiously, and females excitedly.

  Roakore cleared his throat.

  “In the name o’ Gemma Silvervein, I decree that from this day forth, and for all days forth, dwarven females be equal to males.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. The only sound came from the many dripping stalactites.

  Roakore glanced over at Raene, who stood off to the right behind a thick stalagmite. He extended his hand, and she walked forth purposefully. She wore the huge golden pendant that had been awarded her. Along with new golden armor and a flowing purple cape. Her red hair was braided up into a high bun that came to a point like a horn on top of her head.

  When she stepped up to the podium, the females cheered, and the males looked on with grudging enchantment.

  Roakore hurried out of sight behind the stalagmite where Helzendar was waiting.

  “It went better than I thought it might,” said his son.

  Roakore nodded. “Ye and me both.”

  “Ye think it’ll be easy as all that? This be a big change.”

  “Bah,” said Roakore. “Like I said, if it be good enough for the gods, it be good enough for me.”

  “Didn’t Raene write that speech?”

  “Never mind yer smart arse. I need a damned drink.”

  Helzendar chuckled, slapping his father on the shoulder, and together they left Raene to placate the males and inspire the females.

  They found Philo waiting for them at the mouth of the tunnel through which only Roakore and a select few were allowed passage. It would lead to the rail that would bring them on the long journey home. But it was better than walking the thousands of steps and hundreds of halls leading from here to there. The rail system could get them back in an hour’s time, just in time for dinner.

  Philo passed around a silver flask half full of rum and jested with Roakore over what his wives would say of the proclamation.

  “So this mean ye be takin’ on all o’ their names, or ye goin’ to keep yer own?”

  “I be keepin’ me own,” said Roakore, snatching the half-tipped flask from his old friend.

  “Bwahaha,” Philo roared. “That would be one hell o’ a long name.”

  Helzendar laughed, and Roakore gave him a dry look.

  “Ah, what harm can really come o’ it?” Helzendar asked his father.

  “We’ll be seein’ what harm might be comin’ from it soon enough, I be thinkin’,” said Roakore. “But some good be comin’ from it too. Empowerin’ yer people be the best way to be strengthenin’ the mountain.”

  “But what are they really gainin’?” the lad asked.

  “Well,” said Roakore, thinking. “Say a dwarf dies and leaves behind a wife and child. Dwarf law says that all his possessions go to the next male kin, and the wife and child become his wards. The wife is left to serve the dwarf, and has no legal claim to her husband’s money or property. Under Raene’s decree, dwarf females be inheritin’ everythin’, as is right I say, for it be rightfully theirs, be it not?”

  “So, what? The female keeps a home with no husband in it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe she’ll find another dwarf, maybe she won’t.”

  “And on top o’ all that,” said Philo exuberantly, and with a bit of a slur. “They’ll be able to run businesses. Can ye imagine? A female runnin’ a business?”

  “Bah,” said Roakore. “Any good dwarf takes his wife’s opinion into consideration afore making big decisions. How many simple-minded dwarves ye think be prosperous already because o’ their wife’s good sense? A hell o’ a lot I be thinkin’!”

  The rail came to a stop, and a guard opened the door for the king. This rail, used only by the king and military and other high-ranking dwarves, led to the deep catacombs below the royal quarters.

  Roakore had moved to a new castle since the end of the wars, one that overlooked the quickly growing city he had ordered built due to the discovery of a new gold mine that ran deeper than the dwarves had yet discovered. He told his people that it was yet another sign from the gods, and so he named the city God’s Gold, or Godsgold, as the dwarves called it. There were rumors that in the dwarf mountains, the streets
were paved in gold, and in Godsgold it was true. Roakore had wanted to make the city the grandest of the modern dwarf cities, and so the main street leading from Gold Castle was paved with a strip of gold bars running down the middle.

  The dwarves had been hard at work since the victory in the north those months ago, and they had carved out enough living space for a thousand families already. A stream of mountain spring water poured steadily from the peaks above and had been redirected into a large pool, almost like a small lake, at the center of the city. It collected there, but was not allowed to become fetid, and swiftly flowed out into numerous tributaries that continued on into an intricate plumbing system that brought fresh water to every abode. There was already a market square where dwarves from all surrounding cities, towns, and villages gathered in the thousands, as well as cousins from other mountain kingdoms, who had come to behold the street of gold.

  Gold Castle was just that, and it cast a fiery sunset-orange glow upon the nearby walls, giving that entire end of the cavern city a godly glow. Being built into the end of the cavern, and partially exposed to the mountainside through hundreds of feet of thick stone, Gold Castle was immense. A testament, Roakore said, not to his own glory, but to that of the gods. All dwarves were welcome in Gold Castle, for it had no door, and visitors walking through the threshold to the cathedral beyond often dropped to the white marble floors with reverie and itchy eyes.

  Among the many features of Gold Castle, it was also home to a new perch for the silver hawks and a new barracks for the riders. One hundred stories up the perch sat, carved out of the peak of the newly named Golden Mountain.

  Roakore’s personal quarters and that of his wives’ was built near the side of the mountain and offered breathtaking views. Huge windows and balconies had been carved from the side of the mountain, and from them one could sit and watch the sun set over Mount Ro’Sar to the east, or look out over the mountain valley with its freshly harvested crops of wheat and the new farms nestled in the many crooks of the range