more than five hundred feet wide. Whill stood in awe as he looked over the rail from the top story down onto the many balconies. Each level was identical, with hundreds of doors all spaced the same distance apart, and a torch burning at every one. The only thing that was different upon each of the doors was the family name, each set in stone and decorated to the inhabitant’s liking. The living quarters boasted four large pulley machines, set the same distance away from each other, with four stout dwarves manning each. Up and down they went, carrying up to ten passengers within a circular cage. The machines made it much easier for the more than fifty thousand dwarves within these quarters to come and go.
The king showed Abram and Whill many more wondrous sights that day, and made a point of repeating that it would take years to see all of the dwellings and tunnels of the mountain. For Dy’Kore, though large, was but a small piece of the Ky’Dren kingdom, which stretched more than seven hundred miles within the mountain range, under the Ky’Dren Pass and north to the sea.
When they returned to the king’s chambers, Ky’Ell rubbed his stout belly and informed them with a grin that it was dinnertime.
This time Roakore did not join the friends, to Whill’s dismay. But Whill was delighted and greatly impressed when he walked into the great dining room once again and discovered more than four hundred dwarves, men, women, and children alike, seated at the massive table. This, Abram quietly told him as they sat down, was due to the tradition of the king’s banquet. Every other night the king would dine with his people, regardless of rank or position. Invitations were sent out months in advance, and dwarves would come eagerly from the farthest reaches of the mountain, some traveling for weeks, to dine with their king.
Whill was truly impressed. His respect for Ky’Ell had been great from the beginning, but now it was profound. Upon every the face of every dwarf seated at the massive table was a bright smile, and each regarded their king with utter reverence.
Before the food, came the ale in large mugs, white froth dripping down the sides of the overfilled and heavily adorned goblets. Barrels had been set along the table every five feet, each tapped and ready, to better accommodate the ale-loving lot. The king took his cup and stood, and every dwarf in attendance followed in his lead.
“Let me begin by commending each and every one o’ ye, me dear dwarves. May yer beards grow to the floor, and may yer families prosper. May each and every one o’ ye, through yer many great deeds, whether large or small, find yer way into the Mountain o’ the Gods.”
The dwarves responded with a hardy “who-waaahh” and chugged their beers. Whill and Abram followed suit, guzzling their own drinks frantically to keep up with the veteran king. They all followed the Ky’Ell’s lead and once again filled their mugs.
“Also, to me left are two visitors from the outside, great warriors an’ great men indeed-Draggard slayers they be! Our friends an’ allies, Abram an’ Whill o’ Agora!”
The dining hall erupted into many cheers, which were eventually muffled as the dwarves chugged down another ale.
With introductions complete, the king refilled his mug and sat down at the head of the great table. On cue, Fior nodded to the waiting servers and the food came out by the wheel-barrels, literally. Whill had never seen so much food, and indeed did not know what some of it was. There was duck and chicken, goose and partridge, pig and boar and lamb. It did not take him long to surmise that the dwarves favored meat, and lots of it, for the only vegetables he could see were potatoes. Nevertheless the food was excellent, nothing less than what one would expect from the table of the king.
Such feasts were commonplace among the dwarves, whose wealth had no rivals. Every last dwarf of Ky’Dren lived a lavish and comfortable life, aside from the constant hard work they reveled in. That hard work was rewarded tenfold, for Ky’Dren was the greatest Kingdom of all the dwarf mountains, the precious metals, weapons, jewelry, gold and other such wares were traded throughout Agora, and in return the dwarves received all the food, supplies, and ale they would ever need.
The feast went on for more than two hours and by that time Whill was feeling the effects of the dark dwarf ale, he was so full he thought he might burst. The dwarves spoke openly with the king, telling stories, sharing jokes, and simply enjoying their once a year dinner with the great dwarf. Whill looked around in wonderment at the joy around him, the hearty laughter of the king, the joyous smiles of the common folk. He made a mental note to host similar banquets when he became king.
When he became king. That thought brought a solemn expression to the young man’s smiling face. How could he become king? Uthen-Arden was the largest Kingdom in all of Agora, with hundreds of thousands of citizens. How could he, Whill, just a simple man, rule such a powerful empire with what knowledge he know possessed?
Whill was not the sort to think little of his self, on the contrary, he knew he was well educated, could speak every language of the peoples of Agora, and was indeed a great fighter. But a voice within him told him that this task was beyond him, that he would fail, and that many would suffer his folly. Perhaps it was the pressure of the sudden responsibility, perhaps it was the ale, but Whill had a keen feeling that his story, his legacy, would be one of tragedy and failure. Whill indeed feared King Addakon, his uncle, the murderer of his father and mother. Could he defeat such a foe? For when Whill finally looked upon Addakon he would be in essence looking upon the image of his own father. They were identical, in appearance if not mind and soul. Whill’s first encounter with Addakon, with his most hated enemy, would give him a glimpse of his lost father. In those first moments of revelation, in the heat of the inevitable battle, could Whill lift his sword for the kill, could he strike the image of his father down?
After four hours of hard training with his great fighters, Roakore commanded all to stop. This had been one of the most grueling sessions to date. Every dwarf within the training room was winded and soaked with sweat, each had obtained more than a few bruises, and all were utterly spent. They had sparred nonstop for ten hours straight, and how proud Roakore was. He looked upon his dwarves now with a great smile, knowing that before him stood the greatest warriors the dwarven race had ever seen, and he imagined their glory when the mountain was finally taken back.
“Ye have all done well, ye have all done me proud!” Roakore cried as he fought back the swelling in his throat and the moisture in his eyes at the sight before him. Here stood one thousand loyal dwarves, most barely considered adults, all of whom had seen or heard the fall of their prided mountain, had endured the loss of their fathers, uncles, friends, and families. Many of these lads before him would die in the reclaiming of the Ebony Mountains, perhaps all, but none cared. Each and every warrior before him would walk to the ends of the earth, would fight an army of demons with a grin upon their faces, for the glory of their king, for the vengeance of their kin. Roakore knew then, as he looked into the eager eyes of his followers, that no force within the world would stop them in their time of glory. Dragon or Draggard be damned, the mountain would be theirs once again!
“Our time o’ glory soon approaches! Soon we will march to our homeland; soon we’ll again see the great peak o’ Drenzedell; soon will be our hour o’ vengeance!”
The room once again erupted in cheers as a misty-eyed Roakore smiled at the sight of his people.
He left the training room and made his way to his family’s hall. He did after all have twenty-seven wives waiting for him, all hoping for a chance to aid the cause with another child.
After another hour of fine ale and shared stories, the dwarves, along with Whill and Abram, filed out of the dining room and down several winding corridors. It had come to Whill’s attention that today was a holy day among the dwarves, being the day of the month in which Dy’Kore himself had settled the great mountain. The day of promise was celebrated every month of the year, with the largest of the rituals taking place in June, the actual month that the settlement had taken place. Feeling very warm inside and unable to hide his ale-induced grin, he ambled along with a group of very excited dwarves. All of them had welcomed Whill and Abram warmly, uncharacteristic of their gruff reputation. No doubt it was due to the spreading story of the fight with the Draggard two nights previously.
With every step Whill could hear the growing sound of many drums, hundreds it seemed beating in unison in the chamber ahead. Soon the group entered a massive natural cavern, much unlike the halls and tunnels of the rest of the city. Here no walls had been smoothly chiseled, no level ceiling had been smoothed out; indeed, the only alteration to the immense cavern were the carvings on the many walls, and the massive stalactites and stalagmites. The cavern, he guessed, was more than two thousand feet in circumference, and within, an ocean of
