Whill of Agora: Book 1 by Michael Ploof (early reader books txt) 📖

slowly became deeper. His throat burned and he went into a coughing fit that made his head spin. He fell forward, exhausted, and groaned in pain as he reached for the tail still stuck in his leg. With great effort and immense pain he pulled it from his flesh.

He crawled towards the ledge, wondering what had become of Roakore and Abram. He peered into the darkness below and saw Roakore hacking away at a lifeless Draggard that lay next to the fallen boulder—the beast was already in pieces. Roakore swore profusely and kicked a decapitated head, sending it rolling. He looked up at Whill with a hard scowl still on his face. “Ye still alive, boy?”

Whill could not answer. He simply nodded and pointed in the direction Abram had last been. The dwarf ran and began to look. Whill’s heart sank as Roakore raised both arms in the air as if to say “I don’t know,” and continued searching.

Whill feared the worst. Crawling back from the ledge, he attempted to stand. His head spun and his leg gave out as he fell to his knees, wheezing. He heard heavy footsteps coming toward him suddenly and moved to retrieve his knife. With an effort, he pulled it from the fallen Draggard body and struggled to see what approached. When it was almost upon him, Whill began to make out a large figure and prepared himself for another fight. Then he heard a familiar voice:

“Whill, are you alright?”

He dropped his knife as Abram knelt beside him.

Chapter 12 The Mountain Passage

The thick cloud cover made the moonless night pitch black. The wind upon the mountain had picked up, and a chill rode on the air. Roakore had joined Whill and Abram, and was busy trying to light a torch Abram had retrieved from his bag.

“If this damned wind would let up fer a minute, we’d have some light,” Roakore grumbled as he struggled with the flint. Finally a spark caught, and the oil-soaked torch lit, quickly illuminating the night. Roakore grinned. “Ah, that was easy. Now let’s hurry and dress them wounds.”

Whill’s leg was bleeding profusely and his throat felt as though he had swallowed a handful of small blades. When he attempted to speak, he found that his voice was rough and grainy, and his throat burned terribly. Roakore patted his back.

“Save yerself the agony lad, by the looks o’ yer throat yer lucky to be breathin’.”

Abram tried in vain to conceal his worried look. “Well done, Whill.”

“Indeed,” Roakore agreed, surveying the slain bodies with a hearty laugh. “Them hell-born scum didn’t know what they were getting into messin’ with us three, now did they?”

Abram retrieved a bottle of clear liquor he had attained from Iam and showed it to Whill, who nodded and clenched his teeth. Abram poured the antiseptic onto his wound gingerly. Whill let out a low growl as hot pain surged through his leg. Roakore watched keenly.

“Good wound. That’ll take some time to heal that will. Dress it as well as ye can, Abram.” Roakore turned his attention to the surrounding darkness. “We must get to the passage as soon as possible.”

Abram retrieved some bandages from his pack and took a look around for himself. Beyond the torchlight was pure blackness. “Yes, we must go. Can you walk, Whill?”

“Too slow,” Roakore said. “Besides, the boy would bleed to death afore we got there. No, I will carry him the distance.” Whill tried to argue, but the dwarf cut him off. “I insist.”

Abram tied the bandage tightly. “He’s right. He’s much stronger than I, and you cannot walk the distance with an open wound.” He offered Whill a drink of water, which he accepted. It went down like thorns and made his eyes water. Abram loaded Whill’s weapons and packs onto his back as Roakore offered the injured young man a hand.

“Put yer weight on yer good leg when I pull ye up.”

Whill nodded and Roakore pulled him up and over his shoulder with ease. He turned to Abram and said, “Follow me,” as he started off at a jog.

Whill was amazed yet again at the dwarf’s strength. Roakore ran with ease even with Whill over his shoulder and his great axe in his left hand; he was also careful not to put pressure on his injured thigh. They ran for what seemed like hours, and Whill became dizzy with pain from his aching leg and throat. Blood had rushed to his head and pounded dully in his ears. With every step the pain increased, and he could see little in the torchlight.

Finally Roakore stopped and slowly let Whill down onto his good leg. Abram was quickly at his side, offering him a shoulder to lean on.

Before them was a great wall of stone, smooth as ice. Its edges escaped the torchlight, giving it a mammoth appearance in the black night. As they watched Roakore keenly, he slowly ran his right hand along the stone, as if looking for something, and then turned to them and said, “All assume that elves alone have the power to do magic—or so ’tis called by ye humans—but we dwarves have powers also. ’Tis a gift from our gods, bestowed upon us to aid in our purpose.” His expression hardened and he took a step forward. “What yer about to witness is to never leave yer lips, nor be set to paper, as long as ye draw breath, Understood?”

“I swear with my life, it shall fall upon no ear,” Abram said solemnly.

Whill struggled to find his voice. “I swear the same.”

Roakore eyed them for a moment, then turned and raised his arms. Head bowed, he stood like a statue for a moment. Nothing happened. Then words burst from him so loud it startled Whill. “Ohn zrak kytho sjendi zwikor henin ty!” The dwarf reached out into the air as if grabbing something, and the stone wall rumbled. Roakore slowly pulled the phantom object with both hands. Whill stood in awe while a circular section of the rock wall began to move as if hinged. Roakore took a step back and, as if pulling an invisible rope, heaved the door open. Before them was the tunnel to the city.

The dwarf stood breathing heavily; Whill had not yet seen him tire, but now beads of sweat ran down his brow as he walked into the passage. Whill and Abram followed.

Within, the tunnel was perfectly round. Having been made for dwarves, the ceiling was low; Whill and Abram had to crouch. Roakore turned and once again spoke the command, this time for the door to close. The heavy stone door moved inward with a great rumble, and gave a loud thud as it came to its resting place. Roakore breathed heavily and sat down to rest on the stone floor.

Whill wondered about the dwarf’s power to move stone but decided against asking him. He and Abram sat as well, and Whill rolled up his pant leg to look at the blood-soaked bandages over his wound. Abram found a needle and thread and positioned himself to stitch it up. “Why?” he asked in a raspy voice. “Can’t I just—?”

“No.” Abram shook his head. His eyes darted to Roakore and then back to Whill. The dwarf did not notice.

Whill understood. If he used his powers to heal himself, the dwarf would become suspicious; only elves had powers to heal, and dwarves did not like elves. Reluctantly he let Abram begin, who went to work quickly but carefully. Masterfully stitching the wound, he soon finished and Whill inspected the work. “It looks good, Abram. Thank you.” He tried to keep the pain from his voice.

Roakore nodded with a low “hmm,” and helped Whill up as they prepared to keep moving. “So, lad, ready fer another ride?”

Whill tried to clear his hurt throat. “No, we are in no danger now. I can walk. Slow though I may be.”

“Aye, then let’s be off. Not far ahead the tunnel widens; it should be a wee bit more comfortable fer ye tall ones.”

Whill again put his arm around Abram and together they followed Roakore. Shortly they came to the wider part of the tunnel. It was about ten feet high and just as wide, but unlike the last section, had a flat floor.

“This tunnel runs for fifteen miles southwest under the mountain,” Roakore explained, his voice echoing. “Along the way it is met by other tunnels as well.”

The going was slow, even now that they could walk fully erect. Whill slowed them down considerably. Roakore looked back at them. “At this pace we’ll not reach the city until after noon—that is, if we stop to rest.”

Whill limped along as quickly as he could with Abram’s help. “Do you intend to rest, Roakore?” he asked hoarsely.

The dwarf laughed. “Aye, Whill, that I do. I been on patrol for many a day and night with no sleep. Even we dwarves grow weary—though not easily.”

They walked on for another hour, torchlight leading the way in the dark passage. Little was said, as they were all very tired. It was surprisingly warm in the tunnels. Either that, Whill thought, or he was beginning to run a fever. Finally, to his relief, Roakore stopped. “We should get some rest. This be as good a place as any.”

Whill sat on the stone floor, his leg throbbing madly. From one of the packs Abram retrieved food and water. He offered Whill some cheese and dried meat. “I imagine your throat still hurts, but you should eat what you can. We’ve had quite a day, and you will need your strength.”

Whill accepted the food and ate what he could. Every swallow was torture, though the cool water from his canteen helped a little. He ate only enough to quiet his growling belly and then lay back, propping his head on his pack. His eyes were grainy and heavy, his body sore. Even on the stone floor, with no pillow but a lumpy bag, he soon fell asleep to the sounds of Roakore and Abram’s voices echoing softly throughout the tunnel.

His dreams were dark, filled with broken bodies and blood. He imagined he was in a great battle. All around him lay the slain bodies of elves, men, and dwarves. Thousands of Draggard warriors surrounded him and Abram. Overhead dragons flew, their fire raining down. Whill fought hard against the hordes of Draggard, but as he slew one, more took its place.

Whill was awakened by the nagging pain in his leg. He lifted his head from his bag to find Abram and Roakore awake. “Good morning, laddie,” said Roakore as he gnawed on a piece of dried meat.

Abram smiled at Whill, “Sleep well?”

Whill sat up. “Not really, but I feel a little better.” He rolled up his pant leg. The bandages around his wound were slightly soiled, but not enough to constitute changing them. He rolled the pant leg back down with a groan. His throat felt a little better, though it was very dry. He took a long drink from his canteen, finishing it off with a satisfied sigh.

“Here.” Abram offered Whill his own canteen. “Roakore says we can replenish our water supply up ahead. Help yourself.”

Whill accepted the canteen and drank greedily. He was surprised by his own thirst.

Roakore stood and brushed