Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords

by Michael Ploof

  Dirk added the last of his gear to the pile and stepped barefoot onto the slick stones. Ten feet away, General Strawn did the same.

  The general had numerous scars across his body; it appeared that he had been in his share of battles indeed. He was a head taller than Dirk and nearly twice his size, with thick, knotted muscles covering his lean body. His thick black body hair only added to his beastly appearance in the quickly growing downpour.

  Dirk did not have the tree-trunk arms like General Straun, but neither was he weak. The two men circled each other as lightning suddenly ripped through the heavens, and thunder boomed, shaking the ground. Oil-soaked torches were lit by both men and dwarves. The twilight sky was at that most transcendent point, when the vales between night and day collided for a time. Shadows were born slowly across the land; this was a time when phantoms of the twilight swam in and out of one’s vision. It was said that in the twilight the spirit world was opened, and ghosts could be seen in the corner of the eye. Dirk’s father had taught him that this strange time was the best for executing an ambush. Men’s eyes played tricks on them when shadow and light collided, and if you could move like a phantom, you could move unseen.

  The men paced faster now as the torrent of cool rain shone as a million burning drops on their skin. Fists cut through the rain as both men took a shot at the other. Dirk had only feigned the punch after seeing the general’s eyes decide to strike. Rather than punch, Dirk sent Straun’s strike down and wide with a blocking arm. He was inside the big man’s reach in a flash and landed a swift elbow to the chin that sent the general staggering back. Dirk leapt with a quick spin and brought a heavy kick down meant for Straun’s neck. But the big man was faster than he looked. Straun deflected the kick and countered with a sweeping kick of his own. Dirk went with the momentum of the trip. He leapt from the one planted leg, and it looked as though he would smash his head against the stone. In a great show of strength, Dirk caught himself with his hands, and arching his body he leapt with his arms back onto his feet.

  Straun attacked with a barrage of fists, forcing Dirk back and blocking frantically. Dirk’s heel found the edge of the stone border on the dwarven side and he began an assault of his own. Both hands came from his chest as he double-blocked a jab and hook. As Straun’s hands went wide, Dirk brought his in to box the general’s ears. The blow landed and Straun jerked and screamed in agony.

  Stumbling back, Straun found his left hand bloody from his ear. His nostrils flared as his murderous eyes found the assassin. Like a charging bull blind with rage, the big man charged and Dirk did the same. A big right hand came barreling in toward Dirk’s head as he twisted around and under the blow. Coming up behind Straun, he kicked him in the rear as he passed. Straun had anticipated the strike and arched his body forward with it, lessening its impact. He recovered quickly and stalked Dirk in a circle, waiting for the assassin to attack. Soon the general seemed to realize that Dirk was not attacking, only reacting. With a growl he came in swinging. Dirk blocked the blows and countered with a body blow that the solid man absorbed easily. Straun landed his first punch, and though it was a glancing blow that rolled off Dirk’s chin, it sent the watching soldiers into a frenzy of cheers.

  Dirk reached up and, pretending to nurse a sore jaw, took hold of a fake tooth and twisted it. He bit the fake tooth, crushed it, and swirled the liquid in his mouth. Straun came in hard again with a barrage of fists. Dirk turned them aside without backing off, and when Straun came in too hard, Dirk made him regret it with a quick jab that left the big man’s nose bloody. In a rage Straun barreled in, and ignoring Dirk’s rib-crushing flurry of punches caught hold of the assassin’s arm and tried to take him to the ground with a sweep of his legs. Dirk shifted his weight and with a twist brought them both crashing to the stone.

  Dirk wrestled himself on top of the general and rained hammer fists down on his nose, sending blood spraying. Straun punched up from below, unable to connect with anything but a glancing blow. Straun threw Dirk from him in a rage but the assassin was on him in a flash, choking him from behind. Straun immediately lurched backward in an attempt to crush Dirk beneath him and shake him loose. Dirk bit the big man on the neck as hard as he could and forced the liquid from his mouth into the wound. Straun screamed and raked at Dirk’s eyes but the assassin quickly shoved away from the howling man.

  “You!” Straun spat, accusation bathing his voice as he held his neck. “What have you done, you sneaky coward?” He stumbled and nearly fell across the border onto dwarf land.

  “It seems I have won,” Dirk answered nonchalantly, wiping dirt and blood from his arm. Lightning crashed upon the mountainside and the big Uthen-Arden general charged the assassin with murder in his eyes. Dirk met the man blow for blow and noticed as the poison went to work.

  “The harder you fight, the sooner you will die,” Dirk warned and slammed a quick jab into Straun’s chin. Straun roared and with surprising speed hit Dirk with a powerful uppercut that sent the assassin flying back. Dirk wavered but recovered quickly, cursing himself for letting his guard down. If the fist had been a blade…but it seemed that Straun had used the last of his strength in the blow, and now he panted upon his knees. Dirk walked to the poisoned and beaten man. “Admit defeat in this match and I shall provide you with the antidote.”

  Straun looked up at Dirk weakly, impotent fury burning in his eyes. “I know who you are, with your tricks and trinkets and a dagger up your arse,” Straun spat, and fell into a coughing fit that left the rain to wash away blood. “You are the assassin Dirk…Black…” Straun grabbed his stomach and wavered on the brink of consciousness. “You…killed my…ahh!” He screamed as the poison ran its course. “My brother…Wren…” Again he fell into coughing.

  The Arden soldiers urged their general to get up, to keep fighting. The dwarves became restless at the inaction. “Be ye beat or be ye fightin’, Uthen man?” a dwarf yelled.

  Straun grabbed Dirk’s calf and squeezed as convulsions wracked his body. “Wrendel Kwarren. You know the name. Wrend…” He shuddered and fell to the stone.

  Dirk knelt down to the dying man’s ear and whispered, “Your brother was killed because he owed a very powerful man a fortune—a fortune he lost after his child slavery ring was destroyed. Your brother was as low as they come, and he got what he had coming to him.”

  Straun twitched and thrashed with rage as Dirk strode across the stone border toward the mountain pass. Immediately two soldiers moved to retrieve their general. They dragged him across the stone and a medic began working on him in vain. The only thing that would help Straun was the antidote. Dirk himself was immune to the poison and many others due to his methodical taking of them in small amounts.

  Dirk retrieved a dart from his gear and skidded it across the border. “That is the only thing that will help your dear general,” he said to the soldiers. He returned to his gear and began to dress. The gray-haired dwarf eyed him with a frown.

  “What was that ye did to make him falter?” asked Dar’Kwar.

  Dirk pulled on his pants and looked at the dwarf incredulously. “I punched him in the face. Ain’t you ever seen a fight?”

  “Ye know what I be meanin’ you did.”

  Dirk only shrugged and put on his shirt, coat, and cloak. “All I know is that I won the fight, and now with your blessing I will continue on my journey, for I bring important information to Eldalon that may determine the fate of the royal family themselves.”

  Dirk moved to mount Frostmore but a strong dwarven hand stopped him. “I heard the man call ye Dirk Blackthorn.” He searched Dirk’s eyes. The assassin wondered if word from Roakore about Dirk had yet spread this far, if at all. He did not know if the king had returned. Dirk looked at the dwarf’s hand, but the gray-beard was not to be intimidated. “I am Dirk Blackthorn. I am friend to Whill of Agora, Rhunis the dragon slayer, and your king Roakore.”

  “Roakore, ye be sayin’? It ain’t wise to be utterin’ lies with the name o’ me king tied to ’e
m,” Dar’Kwar warned.

  “He is a wide-shouldered dwarf, about this tall. Wild brownish red hair, big axe, kind of moody.”

  Dar’Kwar scowled, obviously not finding the dark man funny. Dirk pulled his arm loose and mounted Frostmore. “What will it be, good dwarf, shall I be given passage or nay? If not, I must go now with all haste around the mountains to the sea, possibly to the cost of your king’s allies, and Whill’s line.”

  At the mention of Whill’s family line, the dwarf perked up and his scowl disappeared. He knew as well as any other Ro’Sar dwarf the high esteem in which Roakore held Whill, and the friendship they had forged. It had been for Whill that the king had left his mountain.

  “I will see you through the pass meself,” Dar’Kwar said.

  The dwarves waited behind for the Uthen-Arden soldiers to withdraw as Dirk headed for the pass.

  “Assassin!” Straun bellowed from the border. His soldiers had given him the antidote and he stood in the rain shaking his fist. Dirk and the dwarf turned to regard the furious man.

  “I will not soon forget you, Dirk Blackthorn!” Straun bellowed.

  “Thank you! I usually only get that reassurance from the ladies!” Dirk retorted, and turned once again for the pass.

  Chapter 19

  Dwarves at Sea

  The dwarves awoke with the sunshine and groaned one and all. The ale had flowed freely the night before, as had the elven spirits. And even though Roakore himself felt as though a dragon were kicking him in the temples, he roused the others. He kicked dwarves in the shins and hollered orders.

  “If you be feelin’ like shyte, it be ’cause ye can’t be controllin’ yerselves and that be your own doin’! Get your lazy arses up, we got a boat to catch!”

  After a breakfast of fish and bread, the company stood before a great fin-sailed elven warship. It had been sent to await the dwarf king’s arrival. Roakore admired the ship with awe. He noticed Tarren at his side looking quite ill and patted the lad’s shoulder. “Mark me words, boy, I be gettin’ me one o’ these.”

  Tarren had seen that wide-eyed look before, when Roakore had promised him that he would one day own a silver hawk. But the boy too stared at the great ship in wonder. With such a vessel he could chase down any pirate of the sea. He could rid the world of them all. Tarren imagined himself and Helzendar, maybe even elves, sailing the seas of Agora and beyond, hunting down the murderous scum.

  “C’mon, Silverwind!” Roakore yelled to the sky. Two fingers disappeared under his dark beard and he whistled. “There be room enough for ye on the ship!” But the silver hawk did not appear.

  The dwarves made their way onto the ship, many of them grumbling low and eying the vessel beneath them suspiciously. The deck was not planked but seemed to be made of a single piece of wood, black and polished to a high sheen. The rail was three entwined vines as thick as oak branches. The three masts seemed to grow out of the deck, and from them long sails billowed in the wind.

  Roakore was the last dwarf on board and he whistled to Silverwind one last time. Still the bird did not appear. “Bah!” He turned, grumbling about stupid birds, and boarded the ship.

  “Have you sailed before?” Nafiel asked as they began to turn out of the harbor.

  Roakore looked for rowers or any explanation as to how they were moving. “Aye, I sailed plenty, but never on an elven ship.”

  “Ah.” Nafiel smiled. “Then you should enjoy this.”

  The warship left the harbor slowly and was soon sailing northeast across the Gulf of Arden. Tarren and Helzendar joined Roakore and Nafiel at the front of the ship. There was little wind and the elven ship moved along at a slow pace as the group looked out over the waters.

  Roakore looked at Nafiel with an arched brow. “Be this all she got?” he asked, unimpressed.

  Nafiel grinned at that and hollered to the captain, “The good dwarf king Roakore wishes to see her best speed.”

  The captain nodded and bellowed a command in Elvish. From below deck came four elves who quickly made their way to the stern and stood shoulder to shoulder. Roakore looked on curiously, as did the rest of his men.

  “I suggest you find a grip upon the rail,” Nafiel warned as he himself wrapped an arm around it. Roakore scoffed at that and waited for the four elves to do something.

  The elves began chanting in unison and raised their arms to the heavens. What wind had been at their backs died and Roakore laughed and shook his head. His men joined in and released the rail, now feeling silly for having held onto it. But then the wind picked up, slowly at first, then growing until the sails were full and the ship was speeding through the still waters. Still the dwarves did not see the need for the security of the rail. Nevertheless, Roakore nodded to Nafiel, pleased.

  Roakore was about to say that the speed of the ship left much to legend when a huge gale took his breath away and the ship lurched forward as if something had slammed into it. The elves chanted all the louder and the gale doubled in strength. Roakore was thrown, slamming into a cannon with a ping. He got to his feet laughing, and using the rail he fought the momentum of the ship and returned to Nafiel. Tarren was still laughing, and Nafiel tried without success to hide his smile.

  “Now this be sailin’!” Roakore roared over the gale as the ship sliced through the waters at breakneck speed.

  “Your bird seems to have changed her mind,” Nafiel yelled over the conjured wind.

  Roakore spun his head back and forth and spotted Silverwind behind the ship. She gave a squawk and pumped her wings to catch up.

  “Fly, girl, fly!” Roakore laughed, but his words were drowned by the wind. “Nafiel, let’s slow her down a bit an’ let me bird catch up, eh?”

  The elf turned and motioned for less speed. Everyone lurched forward as the wind wielders let up on their spell work. Silverwind caught up quickly and circled the ship. The dwarves cheered and coaxed her to come aboard but she would have none of it. She squawked angrily and disappeared, changing the color of her feathers to match the sky above. There was a delighted murmur from the elves aboard and laughter from the dwarves.

  “I think yer bird be pissed!” Philo laughed and took a long drink from a frothing mug.

  Roakore scowled at him and slapped the mug from Philo’s lips. “No drinkin’! Ye be on dut—”

  Roakore suddenly flew over the rail and sailed through the sky, out over the dark waters of the Gulf of Arden. “What ye doin’, ye damned crazy bird!” he bellowed and beat upon invisible talons.

  Silverwind changed back to her natural color and the dwarves and elves alike laughed to see such a spectacle. Roakore hung kicking and screaming from Silverwind’s claws. The bird circled the ship and dropped unceremoniously Roakore into the water.

  “Dwarf overboard!” yelled Philo.

  “Bah, he’ll be all right. He ain’t wore no armor since we entered Elladrindellia, he ain’t about to be sinkin’,” said Holdagozz as Nafiel scrambled to keep Roakore in sight as the ship passed by.

  “But can he swim?” asked Tarren, concerned.

  “Yer damned right, me king be a swimmer. Look!” Helzendar pointed and everyone looked. The ship had slowed to a stop and the dwarves cheered their king on as he swam to them.

  Nafiel went to the stern and almost fell overboard as Tarren bumped into him.

  “Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly.

  Nafiel only smiled and pushed back the right sleeve of his lokata. He extended his hand toward Roakore and the swimming dwarf was thrust up onto the suddenly bulging water. The water rose beneath Roakore and snaked up and over the ship. Roakore landed with a splash at the bow of the ship to the many cheers of the dwarves.

  He got to his feet, soaking wet and swearing. Silverwind flew overhead and gave a cry. The wind wielders began their chanting anew and the ship set off once again for Cerushia.

  Tarren stood at the bow long after the dwarves had been shown to their quarters below. A barrel of ale had gone with them and already the boat shook to the rhythm
of stomping feet. He could not wait to see Whill again. The last he had seen of him had been seven months ago in Kell-Torey. Nafiel had informed him that the ship would make it to Cerushia by early morning. For Tarren, it would be a long and sleepless night.

  Chapter 20

  The Greatest Enemy is Thy Self

  Whill would not tell Avriel about the Other. He could not, not yet. He still had to work out what in the hells was going on for himself. He convinced her to let it go after too long, telling her he only wanted to fly and to rest his mind. She looked at the open tomes and projected her smile.

  “Come then, we shall explore the rivers,” she bade him, and lowered her shoulder.

  Thankful for her understanding, he climbed up and strapped in. When she was sure he was secure, she took two leaping steps and dove over the balcony and fell with the waters of the falls. To Whill’s shock, she did not extend her wings at all and dove straight into the cool frothing waters. They dove deep, and when finally Avriel emerged, she swam up swiftly and shot out of the water and into the sky. Water fell from her glowing white scales like rain as she soared toward the moon.

  For nearly an hour they flew in silence. Avriel gave Whill the space she knew he needed, and he was grateful for that. He wondered if he was crazy, and laughing at that he wondered how crazy he was. Could the Other truly be more than a delusion? Could he have his own sense of self outside of Whill? The Other believed it, and the implications of this did not escape Whill. But the thought remained: what if the Other was somehow created or implanted inside Whill’s mind? The Other might not even know it—or worse yet, he did know it and was meant to betray Whill. If Whill gave in to the Other, and together they somehow took from Eadon the sword of power taken, would the Other then destroy Whill’s mind and betray him? This and many questions filled his mind as they flew out over the jungle.