Whill of Agora

“A Draquon? It can’t be.”

Roakore spat on the ground and patted Whill on the back. “Ye really know how to make enemies now, don’t ye?”

The Draquon were a less common, winged version of the Draggard. They were taller than the Draggard, some nearly twelve feet, and had longer tails as well. The Draquon more resembled a dragon than any human, with thick gnarled horns upon their heads and long pointed spikes running the length of their backs.

The three companions ducked low as the Draquon began to cross the meadow, now moving swiftly in their direction. Abram took up his bow and strung an arrow, and Whill followed suit.

“A scout, no doubt,” said Whill. Abram nodded in agreement.

Roakore began a low chant then, and Whill noticed that he held two large, rounded stones, connected by chain to a well-adorned metal handle.

Abram put his hand upon Roakore’s shoulder, gesturing for the dwarf to wait. “It has not yet spotted us!” he said in a hushed whisper.

Roakore shrugged Abram’s hand away. “Why wait till it spots us? The damned thing’ll be long gone before the two o’ ye get off a shot.”

Whill winced at Roakore’s loud voice. It was as if he meant to give away their position.

“It may not see us,” Abram pressed

Roakore’s face twisted into a maniacal grin. “Oh, it’ll see us, alright. I’ll not be letting a beast such as that fly free.” With that he pushed past the protesting Abram and ran out into the field, waving his arms and yelling to the low-flying Draquon, now less than one hundred yards away.

“Here we are, ye stupid, dragon-spawned, demon-lovin’ beast! Come an’ taste me blade!”

Abram only rolled his eyes and with a great sigh sprang from the woods, bow ready. Their suspicions that this beast was only a scout were proven right when the Draquon reared and turned swiftly in the opposite direction. Whill and Abram let off a shot each but didn’t even come close as the beast rose into the air and flew away from them.

Just as Abram was about to chastise Roakore for being so stupid, the dwarf let out a guttural scream and swung the two-stoned weapon in wide arches, gaining more and more momentum as he chanted loudly. Finally he let loose the weapon with a great growl and raised his hand in the Draquon’s direction. Abram and Roakore watched in amazement as the spinning stones ascended higher when they should have fallen, and turned towards the flying beast when they should have gone straight.

The stones gained speed with the help of Roakore, who used his innate abilities to guide the stones with sheer willpower. The weapon came in hard on the beast, catching it in the side with so much force that the creature flipped four times in midair before descending to the ground in a heap of flailing wings. The Draquon crashed hard to the ground less than thirty feet from Whill and Abram, who came running, bows at the ready.

The Draquon rose to its feet with a roar. One wing was broken, but though it could not fly, it could still run with great speed. Whill and Abram took up a shooting stance twenty feet from the monster and let loose their arrows. The beast snarled defiantly as the arrows deflected harmlessly off its scaly armor.

Roakore was still standing in the same spot he had been, arms extended, chanting. The Draquon charged on all fours, baring its razor-sharp teeth, meaning to devour the lone dwarf. Suddenly Roakore’s stone bird came whirling across the meadow. To Whill and Abram it was but a blur, so fast did it move. It slammed into the Draquon’s chest, sending the beast flying back ten feet.

Even as it came to a halt Whill and Abram were upon it, blades drawn. Abram went straight for the eyes of the prone monster, jabbing frantically and managing to take out one amidst the Draquon’s thrashing. Whill hacked and chopped, doing minimal damage to the monster’s armor. Then the dazed beast was on its feet again. It had lost an eye, broken a wing, and no doubt fractured a number of ribs thanks to Roakore, and it was angry. It stood eleven feet tall, towering over Whill and Abram. They waited in a defensive crouch as Roakore barreled in, axe in hand, screaming to the dwarf god of war. The beast turned to face him, and as it did it brought its ten-foot long tail around in a great sweep. Roakore hopped the tail without missing a beat. At that instant Roakore appeared to Whill more ferocious than the Draquon. Fire burned within his eyes, and his face was a picture of pure, twisted rage.

The Draquon brought its tail across again, and Roakore jumped over it once more, flying straight at the monster, axe raised over his head. The Draquon caught Roakore in its massive claws, which only increased the momentum of the dwarf’s great axe. It came down fast, even as the monster realized its folly, but too late. With a primal scream, Roakore buried the axe into the Draquon’s head. The creature instantly fell in a dead heap, bringing Roakore along for the ride. The dwarf spat and cursed, kicked and thrashed, trying to get out from under the massive corpse.

Whill and Abram quickly helped free Roakore, who emerged unscathed. With a great tug he freed his axe and, laughing all the while, wiped the blood from his blade with his sleeve.

“Ha! Thought he could get away didn’t he, stupid beast. Ye see me stones take him right outta the air?”

“A great weapon indeed,” Abram concurred.

Whill only nodded, his gaze wandering to the west.

“What are ye thinkin’, lad?”

“There, over the trees.” Whill pointed across the meadow.

Abram and Roakore both squinted as they looked to the west. Abram noticed it first.

“Smoke rises in the distance.”

Roakore peered harder at the spot. “That’s the direction the Draquon was headed when he spotted us.”

Whill nodded. “The beast was headed for Sherna.”

They grabbed their packs and started west at a frantic pace. As the hours passed and they neared Sherna, the smoke could be seen much more clearly. They were at least five miles from the town, and at a lower elevation, but the smoke was easily visible. It was thick and black, rising high into the air, and even from the great distance Whill could tell that a great many large fires had caused it.

Rhunis stood at the helm of the warship Thunder as it made its way steadily eastward. His face was stern, his brow bent, his scowl only intensified by the burn scar that covered a large portion of his face. He had been sent by King Mathus to find and aid Whill and Abram. Mathus had learned that upon the pair’s hasty leave from Fendale, they had been tailed by none other than Captain Cirrosa. Rhunis had found the wreckage of the Black Dragon three days after Whill and Abram’s departure, and to his amazement he had found it utterly destroyed. He knew well Abram’s prowess as a fighter, and he had experienced Whill’s firsthand, but the idea of the two of them taking down the Dragon with only a fishing vessel made no sense. Cirrosa had a crew of more than fifty, and the Dragon was a warship stolen from Uthen-Arden. They’d had help in the fight, no doubt, but Rhunis could think of no logical explanation. If one of the many Eldalonian warships had helped in the battle, they would have taken the wreckage to port, where they would have been treated like heroes for such a kill. No, it hadn’t been the Eldalon navy, but if not them, then who, or what?

The king had known Whill and Abram’s destination-a small fishing town on the southeastern coast of Eldalon, named Sherna. That was now the warship Thunder’s destination. Soon Rhunis would catch up to Whill and Abram and find his answers. From there he was to bring them to Kell-Torey, where they were to meet with the king personally.

Rhunis was jolted from his ruminations by the lookout, who yelled down from the crow’s nest.

“Smoke ahead, smoke ahead!”

Rhunis looked eastward and saw it also. They were but five miles from Sherna. He knew instinctively that the town was in trouble.

The fires were visible through the trees as Whill, Abram, and Roakore sped through the woods toward Sherna. They had taken a route that would bring them out close to the beach, where they could get a good view of the town. As they reached the edge of the forest they could hear the unmistakable sounds of battle, metal striking metal, screams of both women and men, and the growls and snarls of Draggard.

They reached the edge of the forest, and what they saw took Whill’s breath away. Almost the entire town was burning, as was the navy vessel which had been docked when they’d arrived. A few hundred feet from shore