Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (26 page)

Roakore guided the stone bird to the left to slam into the head of another Draggard thirty feet away. The creature went down with a thud and moved no more, its head thoroughly crushed. A spear flew by, barely missing Whill, followed by another and another. The three warriors found themselves deflecting spear after spear as the Draggard that had witnessed the fighting took a more practical approach.

“There are too many!” Abram yelled as he deflected another spear.

“Bah! We got ’em right were we want ’em!” roared Roakore as he ducked a spear.

They were now being attacked by more than a dozen Draggard, who threw spear after spear and had the warriors backing defensively.

“We must regroup!” cried Whill as a brave Draggard jumped at the three, its spear leading the way. Abram blocked the spear and Roakore met the beast as it landed, greeting it with an axe blow to the groin. Whill quickly chopped the head off the beast as it bent over in agony.

More than a dozen Draggard slowly advanced, throwing spears and snarling, drool falling from their hideously sharp-toothed mouths. The town hall was still more than two hundred yards away. Hundreds of Draggard stood between the warriors and those trapped within. The warriors were pushed back steadily, doing all they could do to hold off the spear-throwers. They had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Every building around them was ablaze, and the woods held no options. The attacking Draggard had signaled to their kin, and now dozens of the monsters came rushing at the three, including several flying Draquon.

“We need a plan!” Whill shouted, frantically deflecting the steady assault of spears.

“Block me fer a sec, boys!” Roakore yelled. It sounded to Whill as if the dwarf either had a good idea brewing, or he was indeed crazy. Nonetheless, Whill and Abram stepped closer to Roakore’s sides as he closed his eyes and began to chant so fast that Whill could hardly decipher the words. The Draggard pressed on, more than twenty now. Some threw spears, others jabbed with gleeful laughter. Whill and Abram were reaching the end of their abilities. Death crouched ever closer with each passing second.

Suddenly Roakore’s stone bird whirled before them, spinning in midair right before the chanting dwarf. Around and around it went in a blur of motion. Roakore moved his right hand in circles before him, tight circles at first but steadily widening the arch. In contrast the stone bird began to spin around and around in wider circles. Faster and faster Roakore’s hand moved, and faster did the weapon spin, until Whill and Abram no longer needed to block any missiles, for none could get through the spinning shield that the flying bird had become.

Whill and Abram looked at each other wide-eyed as Roakore continued his chant. Soon the Draggard gave up on the spears and took a more straightforward approach. Two of the beasts leapt into the path of the weapon as it buzzed before the three warriors. With great howls they came, and with great screeches they were chopped to pieces, their bodies unrecognizable as they landed in bloody pieces all around the ground.

The other Draggard backed away in horror and awe. Even Whill and Abram flinched and gaped at the spectacle.

“I can’t hold it much longer!” Roakore warned as he staggered back, continuing his frantic chant.

“Be ready to rush ’em, Whill!” cried Abram.

Whill, sensing that this indeed was the end, looked at Abram and raised his two swords. “It has been an honor, Abram.”

Abram shook his head, bringing up his own sword with fire in his watering eyes. “And it will be an honor to fight beside you for years to come!”

Whill had to grin. Abram
would
insist on being optimistic, even in the face of obvious defeat.

Roakore let out a final frantic chant and with a heavy sigh fell to the sand. The Draggard had pushed them all the way back to the beach.

Rhunis and his two hundred soldiers rowed frantically towards the beach. As they neared the dock he could finally make out the three fighters. They were being driven towards the water by a host of seething Draggard. At once Rhunis recognized Abram and Whill, though not the third fighter, a dwarf.

“Whill and Abram need our swords, men! Shall we stain them with Draggard blood?”

Every man cheered as the ships reached the beach and the soldiers scrambled to reach the three outnumbered warriors.

Roakore and his stone bird collapsed with a thud. Whill and Abram now faced more than twenty bloodthirsty Draggard. But the monsters did not advance. Instead they backed off a step as one, doubt seeming to suddenly haunt their grotesque features. Then, in the silence after Roakore and his weapon fell, Whill heard it. From the beach behind them came their salvation in the form of hundreds of screaming Eldalonian soldiers, led by Rhunis the Dragonslayer.

As the Draggard backed up and finally broke into an all-out run, Abram and Whill joined in the charge. Swords held high they grinned at each other, and together they overtook and took down the closest beast.

The soldiers poured onto the beach and were soon killing and trampling the fleeing monsters. On they charged full-tilt towards the town hall, where the remaining Draggard and a dozen Draquon waited. But behind those Draggard stood fifty men who, at the sight of the oncoming rush of Eldalon soldiers, made a charge of their own. Soon the Draggard, found themselves in the middle of two fierce forces: the villagers of Sherna, who fought to protect their women and children with every ounce of their being; and the soldiers of Eldalon, who had sworn above all else to fight to the death against all enemies of Eldalon.

The Draggard had nowhere left to go. They were cornered, and like any cornered beast, they fought. Swords sliced and spears stabbed, and the blood of both men and Draggard alike fell to the dirt. Whill had never experienced anything like it in his life. He no longer depended on his mind to guide him but functioned on instinct and reflex alone, blocking, ducking, and killing all that stood before him. He knew no fear, only rage, and through his body that rage was transferred to his dual swords and into any unlucky beast that found his blades.

Soon Whill found himself fighting alongside Abram and Rhunis. More than 160 Draggard awaited them, hissing and growling, their spears red with human blood. But the men did not relent, did not back down. All around them was pure chaos. The Draggard fought viciously, spears, tails, and teeth. They stabbed, chopped, and bit their opponents; to the right of Whill a man was impaled and raised high, only to be taken swiftly by a Draquon. The men were hard pressed against the vicious monsters but they did not waver, did not relent.

The fighting went on for what seemed to Whill an eternity. To the left of him Abram fought valiantly, as did Rhunis to his right. Together they plowed through the Draggard forces. Abram took a spear to the shoulder, but if he felt any pain it did not show, for rather than crying out in pain he chopped hard at the attacker, cutting deep into its neck.

Whill had abandoned his own sword and now had only his father’s. Years of pain and sorrow flowed through him and into the sword he now held, the sword that had cut him from his mother’s womb, Sinomara, the sword that had saved his life once before. He thought of his mother and father with every slash, saw Tarren’s dying form with every stab, and the injustice of it sent Whill into a rage. He now fought for the memory of his parents, for the life of Tarren, and for those helpless women and children huddled within the town hall.

Roakore opened his eyes and at first did not know where he was. He lay for a moment upon the beach, blinking at the blue sky above. All around him were great fires, and in the distance were the sounds of battle.

Battle! The dwarf jumped to his feet as he became aware of his surroundings. He turned and saw a great battle playing out more than a hundred yards away. The last thing he remembered was falling to the ground as a host of Draggard had pressed on. Now it seemed help had arrived, for near to the town hall was an army of hundreds of Eldalonian soldiers, fighting hard against the Draggard.

“They’ll not have all the fun,” Roakore muttered, and with that he began his own charge up the beach, his great axe in hand, and a great smile upon his face.

Abram watched as Whill went at the Draggard with wild abandon. The sword of his father slashing, chopping, and hacking the Draggard with ease—too much ease. He watched in awe as Whill not only blocked but chopped a huge, thick spear in half, and in one fluid motion severed the legs of its wielder. Before any of the beasts nearby could react, Whill was upon them, hacking and slicing, Draggard heads and limbs alike flew away before the wild man.

Abram had taught Whill for ten years in preparation for a moment such as this. But never had he expected what he now saw. Whill took down all that stood before him, graceful in his dance of death, meeting aggression with all-out devastation. Though Abram was proud when he looked upon Whill, he was also frightened, for he knew what powers Whill was using, even if Whill himself did not. The thought was more than unsettling to the old warrior.

The men of Sherna fought for all they held dear, and the soldiers of Eldalon fought for king and country, all till the bitter end. The numbers were all but even, and that should have meant a bloody victory for the Draggard. But the creatures fought no ordinary foe this day, no mere men. When a man of Sherna received a mortal wound he fought on, blood flowing freely from his grinning lips, and when an Eldalonian soldier thought he could fight no more he cut through yet another monster. The ground was red with both human and Draggard blood as the sun began its descent from its midday perch.

The men of Sherna would not relinquish control of the town halls steps, even as they fell one after another. The Draquon swooped down time and time again, plucking hardy men from the ranks and devouring them quickly. Still they fought, even managed to take down one of the flying beasts. Finally Whill, Abram, and Rhunis met the men of Sherna as they fought through to the steps. At the apparent command of the Draquon, the Draggard came around the charging force and regrouped, leaving the entirety of the human force between themselves and the town hall.

Of the fifty men of Sherna, fewer than ten remained; of Rhunis’s two hundred soldiers, fewer than sixty stood, most bleeding from more than one nasty wound. The Draggard backed off a bit and the fighting ceased. The Draquon came down from the sky to take command of the diminished Draggard force. The remaining men stood together at the very steps of the town hall, along with Abram, Rhunis, Whill, and a very eager, blood-soaked dwarf.

The Draggard force had taken fewer casualties than the humans, but not many—less than one hundred of the beasts remained, along with eleven Draquon, each of which, to many folks of Agora, could be counted as ten Draggard. The men were outnumbered; the many dead lay about them as a sobering reminder. But they did not fall into despair, they did not give in, could not!

The cry was taken up by none other than Whill, who, despite the fact that he bled from many wounds, showed upon his face not defeat but determination.

“Good men of Sherna!” he bellowed. “Before you stands a host of beasts bent on destroying all that you hold dear! All that you live, breathe, and die for!” He strode towards the Draggard band, lips curled in a snarl, sword held high. The Draggard gnashed at the air, hissed and growled, but they did not advance.

“Shall we lie down and die from our wounds?”

“No!” the crowd answered in unison.

“Shall we leave our women and children as playthings for these wretched monsters?”

“No!” the crowd answered again, and Abram found himself to be one of those many voices. He beamed at the sight of Whill.

“Shall we let these damned creatures take what is ours without a fight?”

“NO!”

“I say then, man to man, shall we make these foul Draggard wish they had never set foot on our beaches?”

“Yes!” the men responded, weapons held high.

“Then come with me now, brothers of Eldalon, and let them know the rage of man!”

“YES!” they cried, and joined the charge taken up by Whill and a certain crazed dwarf.

Before the Draggard could begin to counter, the men pressed in, charging full tilt, death be damned, hearts bent on victory. Whill led the charge with Roakore, Abram, and Rhunis at his heels. He met the front line with devastating effect, taking down three Draggard in one mighty swipe. On he and the men charged into certain death or into victory, it did not matter. The men were focused on one thing and one thing only: the destruction of every last beast upon their beaches.

As the men began to effectively rout the Draggard, the Draquon took to the sky and again began their attack from above. Down they dove into the ranks of men, and up they came, holding their victims in their wicked claws. One such victim, one such man, though he bled from the gut profusely, managed to bring his blade to bear upon his captor. With a great heave Rhunis impaled the Draquon through the neck, and together they fell twenty feet to the sand below.

Roakore brought his axe around in a great swoop, into the torso of one unlucky beast as Abram chopped wildly at another. Before them Whill steadily cut through the Draggard ranks. Suddenly, to Abram’s horror, Whill left the ground, nabbed by a descending Draquon. The beast had Whill firmly by the shoulders, claws sinking deep, wings lifting them high into the air. With one great slash of Sinomara, Whill severed the arms of the flying beast and fell to the ground.

Abram blocked a spear and pushed aside his opponent as he tried to watch Whill’s descent. To his shock and amazement he saw Whill fall twenty feet only to fall upon a Draggard, driving his father’s sword straight through the monster’s head and body and into the sand.

Roakore hadn’t been bothered with any of the surrounding fights, for he was fully enthralled in his own. As he swung he saw the great walls of his homeland, the many chambers of his great mountain. Rage beyond reason drove the stout dwarf as he cut through the beasts before him. His great axe claimed the lives of many unfortunate beasts that day, and as they died, one after another, the last thing they heard was the battle song of the dwarves.