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

Whill could hardly comprehend such an estimation. He tried to envision an army so vast, and his body involuntarily shuddered at the prospect.

Roakore stood, red-faced. “I said it long ago, we should’ve taken back the mountain immediately!” He pointed at Ky’Ell with a shaking hand. “Ye have damned me father to the hells! Why have ye made us wait? Just so the children o’ the fallen mountain could partake in the reclaiming o’ it! Are ye not now shamed in yer folly, in yer cowardice?”

King Ky’Ell sprang to his feet, his own rage twisting his face into a snarl. His voice boomed throughout the room. “Do not forget who ye speak to, Roakore o’ the Ebony Mountains! I’ll not be called a coward in me own halls. If ye were any other dwarf, I would kill ye where ye stand! But the gods have another plan for ye, son of the fallen mountain. Do not anger me again!”

From Roakore’s twisted face came tears of frustration. He bent his head low and weakly hit his fist to his chest. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I am sorry, great king o’ Dy’Kore, me tongue was led by me rage. Ye have been nothing but good to me people.”

He slumped back into his chair and peered at the king. His face was no longer filled with anger; rather, he looked like a dwarf without hope. His despair was so great that it eased the king’s rage as well. Ky’Ell spoke again, more softly this time.

“Ye will have yer chance, son o’ Ro’Din. Sooner than ye think. But know this: I’ve waited to help ye take back the mountain fer many reasons. Yer correct, I do feel it’s the right o’ the eldest sons o’ the fallen mountain to fight fer it, but I intended on fightin’ alongside ye in them halls; and since I be old an’ at the end o’ me days, I had to leave me mountain in order, an’ know that the son o’ me choosin’ be ready to lead if I don’t be returnin’. Call it a selfish ol’ dwarf’s vision o’ glory in the eyes o’ the gods, an’ ye’d be correct. Now it seems I be needed here in me own mountain after all.”  He turned to Abram and added. ”If indeed what ye say be true.”

He paused to consider his next statement, and turned back to Roakore. “I’m thinkin’ ye should go with ’em to Kell-Torey an’ represent the dwarves. Ye’ll speak fer meself an’ fer King Du’Krell o’ the Elgar Mountains. When ye return, we begin plans to reclaim the Ebony Mountains. What say ye, son o’ Ro’Din?”

Roakore rose once again and slammed his fist to his chest. “I would be honored to represent our people.”

The king looked to Abram and Whill. “’Tis settled. These two sons o’ fallen kings shall journey together to Kell-Torey, and the fate of Agora will be decided. Let many a song be written to tell the tale o’ this great war. An’ may the Draggard be destroyed once an’ fer all!”

After the meal Whill and Abram returned to their rooms without the guidance of Fior—Ky’Ell had made it known that a visiting king of men was a guest within the city, and free to roam as he pleased. He had also offered them a tour later that day, and they had graciously accepted

As they entered their quarters, Whill turned and asked, “How do you think the meeting went?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing, Whill. What is your opinion?”

Whill sat down upon a heavily cushioned chair and thought for a moment. “I like Ky’Ell. He is gruff, opinionated, and stubborn—everything you would expect from a dwarf king—but he is kind and wise as well. I must say, though, I do not presume to be qualified to judge such a character.”

Abram laughed. “But, Whill, you are qualified. You are the rightful king of the most powerful throne in all of Agora! I see the title makes you cringe, but you may as well get used to it if you intend on claiming the throne.”

Whill sighed and slowly put a hand through his hair. “All of my life I have wondered of my parents. I have dreamed of them in many ways, but never have I considered such a possibility as the story you have told me Abram. I can still hardly believe it to be true”

Abram spoke gently. “I do not mean to press.”

Whill sat up in his seat, his elbows upon his knees, and a smile spread across his face. “I know, and you are right. I do intend to claim the title, and I intend to see Addakon pay for his treachery, but I am afraid. If my uncle has been taught by the elves—worse yet, if he has teamed with Eadon, as you said—then what chance do I have?”

Abram sat down across from Whill and lit the pipe he had been preparing. “You mean what chance do we have, Whill. When I made my vow to your father, I swore with all of my heart to see to your survival; but I also swore that one day you would take back the throne. I still live by that vow, and I shall die by it. I have told you before that I will follow you down whatever road you choose—because of the vow, yes, but more so because I love you as a son and a cherished friend.

“And do not forget,” Abram went on, “You have powers far beyond your contemplation—powers that, when fully understood and mastered, will make you a very real threat to Addakon.”

Whill furrowed his brow. “But the trouble has already begun. I know I must be trained by the elves, but I assume that training will take years. How can I be of any use in the coming war?”

“I also have pondered that point. It is unfortunate that Addakon has begun his crusade against Agora so soon, and it would seem that time is indeed against us. But do not forget your history: wars are not won and lost overnight, and the other kingdoms of Agora are strong indeed. You must prepare to face Addakon, and let that be your goal.

“We have trained every day for the last ten years. Your prowess as a fighter is great indeed, and will only become greater. The elves will teach you things I cannot, and I do not doubt, given the abilities you have already demonstrated, that you will master their ways quickly.”

“And when do you suggest I go to Elladrindellia?”

“After the meeting in Kell-Torey—the elf queen is invited, do not forget. I suggest that we depart with her.” Whill was happy with the idea. He was eager to learn the ways of the elves like his father had.

Roakore walked the distance to his clan’s housing. It was not a great distance from the king’s quarters, but he took his time. His thoughts drifted to that dire day twenty years before when his mountain had fallen to the Draggard. News that a queen was most likely within the Ebony Mountains, laying her thousands of filthy eggs, did not settle well with the dwarf. His anger towards King Ky’Ell had died quickly; he himself had been shocked by his own words.

Roakore thought of the coming journey he was to take with Abram and Whill. In his few dealings with man, he had never acquired much of a liking for them—but these two had proven themselves great warriors in his eyes.

As he turned the last bend in the tunnel to his clan’s caverns, he could hear the telltale sounds of dwarves training with weapons. Every dwarf within the mountain lived for one thing, and one thing only: to aid in the will of the gods. If a dwarf dedicated his life fully, it was believed they would find a place among their kin within the Mountain of the Gods. Their cause was to mine the great mountains of the world and retrieve the many precious metals and gems their gods had created, and which the god of the dragons had hidden deep long ago. To kill a dragon was the greatest feat of all, one that would ensure not only a place within the Mountain of the Gods, but even a seat among them.

This belief was set firmly in the minds of the dwarves from childhood. It was their religion. They spent their lives mining and crafting their treasures, which were then—by means of trade—returned to the world above.

Shortly after Roakore’s clan arrived in Dy’Kore, however, it was deemed that they should not participate in the mining; rather, their salvation would come in the reclaiming of the Ebony Mountains. Since that day they had trained for battle. More than five thousand women and children had escaped, along with about a hundred adult males. Over a thousand of the children were now considered men, and trained hard with their elders for the coming battle. The women were not expected to fight; their duty was to increase the numbers of the diminished clan, which had once numbered more than fifty thousand. Because each elder male had many wives, Roakore’s clan had seen over ten thousand births in twenty years. Roakore himself boasted the highest number with twenty-seven wives. In those long two decades, they had borne him over two hundred children, one hundred and nine of them males. At the age of 120, he was young by the reckoning of the dwarves, who could live to see hundreds of years. He had not previously given much thought to women, however, and had not sired a child before the attack. His love had been the mines and, though he was a prince of the Ebony Mountains, he worked side by side with the other dwarves. He was renown throughout all the dwarven clans as a craftsman, indeed one of the greatest. His forte was weapons, and his masterful works were some of the most sought-after pieces every trading season.

Roakore came out of the tunnel and into the main chamber of his people; at the opposite end stood two more tunnels—one to the living quarters, and the other to the training chambers. He headed toward the main training room, passing many smaller ones and armories. As he stepped into the main room, pride welled in his heart at the sight of his loyal people.

The room was vast with a domed ceiling. Three of the walls boasted a number of huge fireplaces, and an enormous chandelier held hundreds of torches. The highly polished surfaces of the chamber reflected the many torches and shed a great amount of light throughout the room.

Roakore watched from the shadows as his fighters, mostly young dwarves with only small beards, practiced as hard as ever. These grueling sessions had gone on the last twenty years for fourteen hours a day, and he knew that those before him were the greatest warriors that dwarf history would ever know. Each had a horrible story to tell of the evil day their mountain was taken, and each harbored within him the rage that drove them to train so intensely each and every day thereafter.

Roakore did not want to disturb their practice but, having been gone at his own request on sentry duty, he knew that his appearance would inevitably bring the training to an abrupt halt. Preparing himself, he walked slowly into