Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (29 page)

Whill watched the waters speed by below. His mind drifted to Abram, the man that had been as a father to him all his life. He had thought him dead for so long, only to be reunited and lose him once again. It occurred to him that this could all be fake, just another of Eadon’s elaborate illusions. The Dark Elf had tortured him many times with such false realities. Whill had been convinced many times, only to be violently torn from his delusions. Whill wished that this was just an illusion; he wished that Abram were still alive. He did not know how he could possibly continue without Abram’s wise guidance. But Whill knew that this reality was most likely real, for he had been lucid since being let out of the dungeon. Whill accepted the probability that this was, indeed, real, and his tears fell upon Avriel’s scales and then mingled with the ocean waters below.

His rage should have been spent by now, but it would not abate. He heeded Avriel’s words, but he was unable to feel anything but rage, anger, and sorrow. He knew he should have been happier to see Roakore alive and well and Avriel alike, though she was trapped within the body of a white dragon. But Whill would not allow
himself to feel any happiness nor hope. Realizing this, he knew that Avriel was right. To him, hope and joy and happiness had become the tools of his torture. Eadon had seen to that. He knew that the Dark Elf had hoped to inflict him with such a mindset, and, indeed, Eadon had been successful. But this knowledge did nothing to alleviate Whill’s fear. Too many times during his torture he had been shown illusions in which he was free, once again traveling the wide world with his friends. Too many times he had seen his friends die, one after another, during those dark sessions deep within the depths of the dank dungeon. Whill was left a husk of the optimistic boy he had once been. He was the same person now in name only.

Though he wanted to, he could not allow himself to feel too deeply for his living friends, for they, like Abram and Rhunis, would die before his eyes before this dark business was through.

They flew on into the afternoon as the sun crept at their backs. Below them the blue-green waters tediously wore on hour after hour. Unlike the ever-changing landscape of the countryside, the waters offered only the occasional school of fish just below the surface or a flock of seagulls. Behind them, Agora slowly slipped from view, like a dying behemoth sinking into water. They had spent many hours without land in sight in either direction when, finally, before them, land could be seen.

It was not until night had fallen over the world and the stars cast their heavenly light upon the waters, that they finally reached Drakkar Island. The legends Whill had heard saying that Drakkar was a dead island proved true. Not a tree nor plant nor single blade of grass grew upon its steaming land. Instead, it was covered with a strange gray-black rocklike substance. Drakkar’s shores were sharp and jagged; the beaches of rock mingled and curved like a giant’s hair. In the distance to the west loomed a single mountain without a peak.

Though Azzeal had given the mounts his offered energy, the dragons and Silverhawk were exhausted and sore from their long flight. The riders had not fared any better. The dragons landed, and the riders each dismounted stiffly. Roakore even fell to the ground with a groan and was not able to stand for some time. He sat upon the stony beach of the island, rubbing his legs and grumbling. Aurora, too, sat upon the stones next to a panting Avriel. Dirk had fared better than any of them as he had often gotten to his feet atop Zhola and sat on his heels to rest his legs.

“Gather your strength and eat what you will; we make for the volcano at first light,” Zhola told them all.

The group rested but none slept. Many times the silence of the night was disturbed by the roar of a dragon. Some of the eerie cries came from far away, and others seemed much closer. Both Avriel and Zhola sat alert, staring at the volcano and sniffing at the air
occasionally. Roakore never loosened his grip on his ax, nor did his eyes leave the sight of the volcano.

The first rays of morning broke through the sky, chasing away the stars. Zhola stood and stretched his muscle-laden hind legs one at a time as a dog might.

“The others of my kind will not be happy to see you all here. Follow my lead, or I cannot ensure your safety.”

“I’ll ensure me own safety dragon,” Roakore mumbled.

“And if they attack?” asked Aurora.

“If they attack, then you will die. This is your last chance to turn back.” No one moved. Zhola nodded and let out a puff of smoke. “So be it. You are all very brave, or stupid.”

“Then let’s get it over with,” Whill told them all. To Zhola, he said, “It was smart to hide the sword within a volcano.”

“The sword of Adimorda is not within the smoking mountain.”

Roakore took up an offensive stance and squared on Zhola. “Then it is a trap! Told ye not to trust the blasted dragon!”

Zhola scowled at Roakore. “The sword is hidden in Drindellia.”

Avriel and Azzeal perked up at the mention of their homeland, and Roakore looked confused.

“In Drindellia?” asked Whill.

“Yes, within the smoking mountain is an ancient doorway built by the Elves long ago and brought here by me.”

Azzeal looked to the volcano with wonder. “The gates of Arkron…” The Elf snapped out of his reverie and saw that the humans and Dwarf were staring at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

“The gates of Arkron were built long ago by one of the same name. Arkron was a very talented Elf, but he was most skilled in creating new spells and using Orna Catorna in ways no one had ever imagined. His greatest achievement was the creation of his gates or portals. One could step into one of his gates and immediately come out of the other, whether it was a few feet or many miles away. This was many centuries ago, long before the fall of Drindellia. Many of our people wished the gates destroyed, deeming them too dangerous due to Arkron’s methods. Somehow, he had discovered how to bend the very fabric of our reality, connecting the gates to one another in a seamless unity. Seven pairs of gates he built, and they were spread to the farthest reaches of our lands.”

“An’ ye’re saying that we’re gonna just go waltzin’ into a portal when we ain’t knowin’ what is on the other side?” asked Roakore.

“It seems that Zhola knows what is on the other side,” said Whill.

Zhola concurred with a low, humming growl. “As I have yet mentioned, death and destruction await us. When I last saw the smoldering ruins of Drindellia,
there was not but death to be found there. The cities burned, and the land bled. I ferried the gate here to Drakkar Island by raft across the great ocean. Over calm waters and violent alike, I towed it for many months and finally reached my destination. Once I had buried the gate deep beneath the volcano, I sought out my kin and told them that I had found a home for them, a place free from humans, Elves, and the vicious Dwarves.”

Roakore chuckled.

Ignoring him, Zhola went on. “So now Drakkar is home to dragons and feared by all, and it keeps the secret gate safe from those with ill intent.”

“What happened to the other portals? Are they known?” asked Dirk, who until then had not spoken, only listened.

“No,” answered Azzeal. “Three pairs were destroyed during the fall of Drindellia. One was brought with us on our sojourn to Agora. But many feared that its twin would be discovered and that Eadon would send his army through, so it was tossed overboard and lies on the bottom of the ocean. Three other pairs are unaccounted for; it seems we have discovered one of them. It was guessed that Eadon was in possession of them, but now it appears he may only have two of the seven.”

“And you say that entire armies can travel through these portals?” asked Aurora.

Azzeal nodded. “Yes, and your thoughts have been our own. Eadon could use these portals to march an army of Draggard from Drindellia to Agora instantly.”

“If he ain’t already,” stated Roakore as if coming to an epiphany. “We have always wondered how he did it. How so many Draggard could have kept on pourin’ through our tunnels, though we slew thousands. It explains why no lookout ever gave warnin’.”

Roakore began to shake, and his face became red with rage. “There was a bloody portal in me mountain!” His eyes went wide as he followed the thought down dark passages. “There could still be!” He began pacing in circles and wringing his hands together. To the ground, he spoke. “I been flyin’ around in the company o’ dragons and barbarians, and there well may be a gut-rotten bloody portal o’ Eadon’s in me mountain! Hand o’ Ky’Dren slap a stupid Dwarf’s arse!”

“You do not know that it remains,” Whill tried to assure him.

“And I don’t be knowin’ that it aint!” Roakore yelled a bit too loudly.

In the distance, there could be heard a growing number of dragon sounds. Growls and shrieks and deep roars echoed across the island. “Now you have awakened my kin. Mount up, and remain close to me.”

As Whill went to mount Avriel, Roakore stopped him with a strong hand on his arm. “What if the portal remains in me mountain?”

“When this business is through, I will return with you to look,” Whill assured him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Scepter of
Krowlen

T
arren began to follow Helzendar into the arena when a hand upon his shoulder stopped him. He turned to see Lunara smiling at him. “I am sorry you were upset earlier. Please take this to aid in your contest.”

She handed him a simple golden ring. He began to shake his head in protest but was cut off. Lunara’s tone became serious and took on a motherly note. “You are an eleven-year-old human boy fighting Dwarves seven times stronger and years older. This will even the odds.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“You are a stubborn boy, Tarren of Fendale.”

“Some things got to be done all by myself, Lunara. This is one of them. If I pass wearing your ring, I will wonder if it was because of the ring.”

She closed her hand and withdrew her arm. “Dwarves have died during these tests.”

Tarren nodded. “But no human has yet.”

“
Yet
,” countered Lunara cryptically.

Tarren smiled up at Lunara, with such courage in his eyes that hers watered.

“Then at least accept my well wishes.” She hugged him. “Bless you, Tarren. May you strike true and your enemies nigh.”

“Hey!” protested Tarren, releasing the hug. “Did you just—”

“I did nothing but wish you luck,” said Lunara straight-faced.

Tarren searched her eyes and finally shrugged. “Here goes nothin’.”

He turned from her and made his way into the arena. The cavern was massive. Stalagmites and stalactites reached high and hung low. Into them had been carved seats, and from them hundreds of Dwarves would watch the spectacle below. Aisles of seats were also carved into the walls of the natural cave. The stone floor was slick with mist from a waterfall at the opposite end of the arena. A great fire burned behind the waterfall, and so the cavern was illuminated with dancing light. It shone upon the walls and was refracted by the mineral-rich stone in such a way that there was not shadow, only dancing, multicolored light. It filled the cavern and, at first, was disorienting to Tarren.

The crowd roared and stomped, and the racket echoed deafeningly in the cavern. It was like an ocean tide of voices, ebbing and flowing and crashing in crescendo with a life of its own. Tarren swooned and patted Helzendar’s shoulder and steadied himself. “Good luck,” he said, trying not to sound nervous, but he was sure his voice sounded like a squeak.

“Bah, luck be havin’ nothin’ to do with it,” Helzendar boasted. Then his face changed, and Tarren saw the slightest look of concern. “Have no doubts, Tarren, you be faster than even meself. Keep your feet movin’ and go for the eyes.”

Tarren nodded to his best friend and looked to the center stalactite with the others as a loud voice boomed over the crowd. All speech stopped, and the high priest Bouldarr greeted them all.

“Good Dwarves o’ Ro’Sar, whose king be Roakore son o’ Ro’Din, nineth king o’ the Ro’sar Mountains. This be the day o’ the trials.”

The crowd gave a cheer so loud that Tarren feared one of the mammoth slabs would come crashing down on their heads.

“These strong, young Dwarves stand as a testament to our revenge, our steadfast determination, and the victory o’ our king.”

Again there was pandemonium as the chant for Roakore was taken up. Tarren blocked out the noise and took the opportunity to scope out the arena on the
level below him. The arena that would hold the trial was a maze that he guessed was nearly two hundred feet long and twice as wide. Stalactites protruded from the ceiling, threatening to crush those below should the world decide to twitch. They made Tarren feel his smallness.

Judges walked the tops of the maze walls. From their vantage point, they would be able to call out any Dwarf that was successfully hit by an opponent. The fighting was not to the death—though there were accidents. A competitor was called out when they received what would be a killing blow with metal weapons or were knocked out. For the trial wooden weapons, like those they trained with in practice, were used. Tarren gripped his staff, Oakenheart, tightly, his mind racing to memorize the maze.

The high priest Bouldarr again addressed the crowd; calling names from a long scroll, he divided the Dwarves into groups. Tarren was ecstatic to hear his name called along with Helzendar for the same team. The fifty fighters had been divided into ten teams of five, each with a captain. To no one’s surprise, Tarren’s team captain was Helzendar. Tarren knew it was not for his station but for his clear excellence in fighting and his leadership qualities that Helzendar was chosen. Tarren did not miss that many of the Dwarves, while not outright scoffing at the idea, nevertheless, were not happy having “the weakling human” on their team. But their
apprehension had disappeared and been replaced with jubilation when they learned that they would have Helzendar at their side.

The Dwarves separated into their groups, and Dwarf boys, that had only just stood together as mates, began to eye the opposite teams, sizing up the competition. Vulgarities abounded, and taunts were yelled. Helzendar brought his group together in a huddle.