Whill of Agora: Book 1, Michael Ploof [read aloud TXT] 📗

placed. The explosives were made from dragon’s breath—taken from the glands of dragons, and therefore very rare. An ample supply had been provided for the mission at great cost. One of the most profitable professions in Agora was a dragon’s-breath harvester; it was also the most dangerous. Roakore thought it ironic that dragon’s breath would be fundamental in the elimination of the half-breed Draggard.

The X’s were strategically placed within tunnels or chambers that would cut off the enemy troops most effectively from each other. The result would be thousands of trapped Draggard that could be dealt with later, and a main group that, with the grace of the dwarf gods, would be dealt with tonight.

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Though the moon gave its light to the battle below, it was overwhelmed by the fire. The dragon, which Whill knew now to be the same that had aided in the fight with Cirrosa, circled his ship and set aflame any Hawk Rider that dared come into view. How the dragon could see them, he could only guess, but the fact that the beast stayed near to the ship instead of attacking them told Whill that many, many more were about. The ship was under full-out attack.

Using his mind-sight once again, his deduction of the situation was confirmed when he saw dozens of Hawk Riders above and all around the surrounding ships.

“There are at least fifty,” Zerafin said.

Abram and Rhunis did not wonder how he knew this. “What can I do?” Rhunis asked. “I cannot see them as you can.”

Avriel shot an arrow into the night and turned to him. “We cannot see them against the great aura of the ocean, Rhunis; those we can see are far off, out of the reach of an arrow.”

“Surely not the arrows of the elves.”

“Surely not, no, but we will not expend that kind of energy. We will wait them out. If they wish to try and overpower the dragon, it is their funeral.”

“Heh, the dragon, indeed. Why is he helping, anyway? Never in our history has a man ever befriended a dragon. Whill, do you know him?”

“Yes... I have seen him before.”

“Why did you never tell us of this before?” asked Zerafin.

Whill was surprised. “I don’t know. It was when I had first used my powers. It didn’t seem important.”

“Not important! And when we told you that the sword had been given to a dragon to be kept safe—did it seem important then?”

Whill was dumbstruck. “Do you think he could be the one?”

Avriel put her hand to Whill’s cheek. “Either this dragon is the first in history to meddle with the affairs of men, or this is the dragon of elven bedtime tales.”

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It had been an hour since the battle in the chamber of trading, and Roakore and his unit were making good time. Over fifty such units, most of them a hundredth of this size, now waited for the appointed minute to blow the many tunnels. That minute would soon be at hand, thought the dwarf as he stopped at the tunnel to the exit chamber—the one that needed to be destroyed if they were to ensure that Whill’s dream did not come to be. He motioned for the five explosives carriers, and together they started down the tunnel. Scouts had reported it deserted, and Roakore believed them. There was not a dwarf in the unit who could not hear the snarls, pounding feet, and shouts of the Draggard. Murmured and inaudible the sounds might be to men, but a dwarf with his ear to a rock could hear the heartbeat of a nearby rat. The Draggard were in the main chamber, the cavern that had first been settled by Ro’Sar. It acted as the kingdom’s largest city, housing over twenty thousand dwarves in Roakore’s youth. It was the biggest natural cavern of all the mountain kingdoms. Menacing stalactites hung from the ceiling, so mammoth that it would take fifty dwarves to reach around it. The massive stalagmites had been incorporated into the city, hollowed and polished, adding to the unique dwarven architecture.

Within that cavern, Roakore knew, Draggard awaited the order to charge out from the mountain and destroy every form of life that opposed them. Their mouths drooled in anticipation of flesh; their claws ached with the want to tear, to gouge, to crush. They lived for one purpose: destruction. And for that reason, Roakore knew, they would never win—never be victorious. Life and love and light would always hold death and hate and darkness at a stalemate. The battle would rage on forever, but neither could ever dominate, for they were one. That was what Roakore’s father had told him at an early age, and that is what he had told all of his children since before they could understand. The idea of good and evil was a stone in their religious foundation. They believed that—like love and hate—the world, the moon, the animals, and even they themselves possessed two battling spirits.

Roakore came to the exit chamber, and as he had been told, not a Draggard could be seen. He thought of Ro’Quon’s heroic flight and how the kings of old were cheering him now.

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The small battle raged on for almost an hour, but the ship did not stop nor change course. Relentlessly the riders came, swooping down out of the night, trying to capture their prize. Then suddenly, and to Whill’s surprise, they stopped, and every hawk he could see with his mind-sight turned and headed east. As they flew out of view, the dragon circled and sent rings of smoke from its nose every so often as if scoffing.

“What do you make of their retreat?” Whill asked.

“The dragon does not follow,” Rhunis said.

“And it is focused on the west. The opposite direction of the Hawk Riders,” Avriel said through closed eyes.

“Whatever it is, I doubt it is an ally,” added Abram from the wheel.

The Celestra was literally at the center of the great fleet of many hundreds of ships. Looking west with his mind-sight, Whill began to see something, not an object, but a disturbance along the water. He began to relay this information when Avriel spoke.

“I see it also. What do you make of it, brother?”

Zerafin moved closer to the side of the ship and put his hand to the hilt of his sword. After a moment he spoke, unsheathing it. “Whatever it is, it is big, and moving with great speed.”

Like the elves, Whill could see through the surrounding ships, and looked on as the ones far off were bombarded with great waves; the disturbance in the ocean’s aura was moving closer. Arrows were strung and feet planted as it came closer and closer still. When it was within two hundred yards, it disappeared. The silence that followed was disturbed only by the faint shouting of the crew on nearby ships. Suddenly off the starboard side came a huge wave as something of great size came out of the ocean. There was an ear-piercing shriek, and Whill could make out the water-covered silhouette of another huge dragon and, to his surprise, a rider. Instantly he, Avriel, and Zerafin each shot an arrow almost in unison. The circling red dragon also had attacked at that very moment, sending a huge sheet of flame at its fellow. The arrows flew true, as did the flame, but instead of hitting their target, each turned in flight and rocketed back towards them. Before Whill could take in what had happened, his arrow came at him with blinding speed, only to be stopped by the elves. It and the others were diverted to the ocean, but the flame found its mark even as the red dragon breathed it, turning on the creature and, enveloping its face in flames.

It immediately dove into the ocean, the fires going out with a hiss. The attacking dragon was invisible to the naked eye, but with mind-sight Whill could still see its steadily fading outline as the seawater receded and fell from it.

“There has never been a dragon in the known history of this world that can become camouflaged as this one does,” Zerafin said.

“What!” Rhunis cried. “Another dragon—is that what that thing was? How in the name of the gods did it send back your arrows and the fire?” 

“It was not the dragon who did it,” said Abram, turning the wheel into a wave. “Its rider is a Dark elf.”

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Roakore looked to his timepiece: less than five minutes until the explosives would go off. The explosives carriers had set the bombs in place and given the signal that they were ready. He motioned for the remaining force to enter the cavern. The troops filed in with a silent stealth one wouldn’t expect from thousands of dwarves.

Two minutes later his army was still filing into the room. Mostly young dwarves they were, under a hundred years. They were hardly old enough to be parents; though it might seem that dwarves who could live to see a thousand years would have a hundred children by their middle age, in dwarf society one did not reproduce until he has proven that he has contributed his share to the kingdom—lest overpopulation plague the mountains. The dwarves could not have a child without the blessing of a dwarven monk. This was where the epic dwarven folk song “Leranna’s Curse” came from. It told the story of a young dwarf wife who went to a monk with her husband and asked to be blessed with a birth. As the monk gazed on her radiantly beautiful face, he was stricken on the spot. If he lived to be two thousand years old, he knew he would not see such beauty again. He was a good dwarf, but he could not bring himself to allow the birth, and turned them away. A year passed and they returned with the same request. Again his heart stopped as he looked upon her; again he could not allow it. As long as he refused the birth, she would have to come back, and then he could gaze on her again. For one hundred years this went on, until finally, when all the male dwarves in her husband’s family had died, he was faced the end of his line.  So in love with Leranna was he, that he refused the advice to take another wife. That year, on the day when the couple always visited the monk, only Leranna arrived. Without a word she stabbed him through the heart. The last thing he saw was her golden face, not weeping but smiling the most beautiful smile. It was then put into law that if a birth was repeatedly denied by the monks, the couple could go to the king, and if the king also denied it, they would ask the dwarves in a gathering of at least a hundred. The one day a year when they voted on this affair was called Leranna’s Day.

Though most dwarves Roakore’s age would not have had any children yet, he had two hundred. His clan having been diminished so, the monks, the king, and the people had ordained that any couple could have as many children as they wished until the clans were strong again. This included allowing every male dwarf of the clan to take as many wives as would have him from the other two clans. All marriages were blessed by the monks, of course—and even the other wives—for every dwarf, male and female,