Whill of Agora: Book 02 - A Quest of Kings (10 page)

“Yes, another pint of wine,” he answered.

Dirk breathed slowly, shunning the thought of Krentz from his mind and closing his eyes. He listened to the room around him, calling upon one of the gems within his earlobe to help him hear every sound within the room.

“It ain’t got nothing to do with skill. It got everything to do with study and hard-earned callous,” a blacksmith argued to his colleague.

Dirk extended his senses outward.

“Best fiddler in all the lands he is. Saw him last week, I did, over at the old burnt beard,” said another man across the room.

Dirk traveled through the room with his hearing, taking in all the conversations at once, slowly falling into a trance of awareness. It was then that he came to a whispered conversation at the far end of the room.

“I tell ya what, if the king thinks that he is going to be able to rid himself of Whill of Agora that easily, then he’s got another thing coming,” stated a man with a gruff voice.

“Oh yeah?” countered a weasel-voiced man. “The way I see it, if this Whill was so powerful, he wouldn’t have gotten himself caught in the first place.”

“Beh, you know nothing, Gerld! I heard what he can do just as well as you did. He healed a baby in Sherna and single-handedly killed a hunr’d Draggard. He and his buddy there, what’s his name, Abram, done killed Cirrosa and his whole crew,” the gruff-voiced man retorted.

“Yeah, yeah, and he pisses wine and farts opium smoke. You been listenin’ to too many drunkards and crazies, Mik. This boy didn’t do none of that.”

“Then why is he to be executed? Eh? If the man is of myth and legend, then what be the point in the big
show, huh? Use your damned head, Gerld! He is a real threat to the crown; else they wouldn’t bother with the big show.”

“He ain’t no threat to the crown; he be their prisoner. And for good reason. I hear that he be in league with the Draggard and Dark Elves himself.”

Mik scoffed at that statement, and Dirk heard him take a long swig from his glass. “All I know is that my brother-in-law got himself a gig with arena security, and he says that this execution ain’t gonna be no cut-and-dry affair. They are gonna give Whill a group of men, and a battle is gonna play out in that arena, and I, for one, am going to be there for it.”

Dirk opened his eyes and looked to the arena.

Another man piped in from another table. “I’ll wager ten silver that Whill, the traitor of men, cries like a babe when the time comes. Serves him right, siding with the Dark Elves and stinkin’ Eldalon.”

Mik rose to his feet and pointed a finger at the eavesdropper. “Listen here, you sheep-minded follower. Where was your great king when the Draggard invaded the Ebony Mountains, eh? Where was your great king when his twin brother was murdered for the crown? Holdin’ the bloody blade, I say!”

The man that had interrupted rose to his feet so fast his chair skidded across the floor. “Listen here, you conspiracy freak. Words like that against the king be punishable by hangin’.”

Mik took a step toward the man. “Case in point, sir! Any king that outlaws any kind of speech be a corrupt scoundrel and no king of mine.”

Dirk left the tavern as the fight broke out and ducked his head as the royal guard went running past him. Scenes such as that was commonplace in the last few months as the city and, indeed, the entire country teetered upon the brink of civil war. Though the propaganda machines worked tirelessly to spread lies against Whill, there were still those men and women alike that could tell lies when they heard them and saw the world for what it was. It was the masses, though, that had the vote on what was real and what was not, and, unfortunately, the masses were not always right.

Dirk headed in the direction of one of his informants. He would have to find out the whereabouts of Whill and quick, if he was to free Whill from his doom before the week was out.

He reached the rendezvous and found his informant waiting for him. He took a quick survey of the nearby street and surrounding buildings. He sensed no eyes upon him. The informant nodded when he saw him and walked over to Dirk.

“So what do you have of use for me, Nick?”

“Well, hello to you too, Dirk,” Nick responded with a fake pout.

Dirk did not respond. He had decided that he did not like the skinny, twitchy man very much after all.

“Straight to the point it is then, eh?” Nick asked with a twitch.

“My money is straight to the point, is it not, Nick? Quit wasting my time.”

“Alright, alright, there ain’t no more common courtesy anymore, there ain’t. So I been askin’ around and got me eyes looking this way and that.”

Dirk rolled his eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

Nick wisely got to the point. “What I hear is that this Whill character has been holed up in the castle, down in the dungeon, for more than six months. He’ll be training with the rest of the prisoners by day. And by night he is to be brought back to the castle.”

“How good is your information?” Dirk asked.

“Why, as good as it ever is.”

Dirk conceded the point with a nod and handed Nick a small sack of coins and turned and walked away.

“Alright then, be seeing you around!” Nick called after him.

Dirk took a roundabout route back to his lodging. His mind worked out all that he had learned. It would be almost as hard to spring Whill from the stadium as it would be to get him out of the castle. The stadium would be heavily guarded with humans and Dark Elves alike. It would take a small army to break Whill free from such a place. If he was left there during the night, it would be easier, but he was being transferred out of the arena at night.

Dirk turned down an alley and pondered the situation. Ahead he noticed three would-be ruffians taking notice of him. Their bodies stiffened as he neared, and he saw two of them lower their hands to their pockets. He toyed with the idea of letting them attack, just to clear his head with a little combat, but dismissed the idea. Instead, as he reached them, he swept his cloak to one side of his body, showing the many weapons stored there along his person.

The young men looked to the many weapons and to Dirk’s face. They backed out of his way as he slowly shook his head, indicating that it would be the last bad choice they would ever make. The only thing to be seen under the shadow of his enchanted hood was two moonlit eyes gleaming.

He walked on. No matter what he thought of, the idea seemed like nothing less than suicide. It then occurred to him that as he had seen the flyer about Whill, so too would Whill’s friends. Dirk had heard enough to know that Whill moved in some powerful circles. It was rumored that he had such friends as Elves and even the Dwarf king of the Ro’Sar Mountains. Whill was the grandson of King Mathus of Eldalon. Dirk knew also of the prophecy and would wager his wealth that they would be coming for Whill before his time was up. He did not need to free Whill from his bonds; he simply had to be in the right place when Whill’s friends did. He had to get himself arrested.

His decision made, he journeyed to one of his predetermined hiding places within the city. Into the city’s sewer system he slipped, without being seen by any but the rats. A short walk into the grime-covered tunnels brought him to his destination. He removed a series of bricks from the wall to uncover his hiding place.

He then stripped himself of everything he wore, weapons and armor alike, until all that remained were his underclothes. He stopped and thought again for another way but found none. Once again committed to his choice, he shrugged off the empty feeling of being without his many weapons and trinkets and armor and reapplied the bricks.

Confident that his possessions were safe, he returned once again to the street. He had gotten rid of his weapons and the like, but one thing remained that he could not be rid of. Krentz had given it to him during their time together. It was a single gem embedded into his chest. He could not call upon the energy within it at will, but it would respond to any injury he might attain. He could only hope that it would go unnoticed by the Dark Elves, for he had no way to be rid of it.

He walked until he found his mark. There were two of them, actually, walking toward him down a fairly busy bit of street. To attack a guard of the city was punishable by death these days, and the extreme punishment made it that much more surprising an act. Dirk came in low and fast and took the first guard by surprise, sweeping
his legs and landing a blow to his unarmored face before the man knew what was happening. Dirk jumped and spun on the next guard, who was busy wondering what had happened to his partner. The kick connected with the man’s armored chest and sent him back many paces.

The guard on the ground tried to pull his sword from the ground but fumbled. Dirk landed another blow to his face with his bare foot, and blood sprayed. Dirk spun back as the other guard’s sword slashed through the air and missed his face by inches. The infuriated guard slashed again and again, and Dirk twirled out of reach.

“This is how the mighty Del-Oradon Guard fights an unarmed man?” Dirk yelled, getting the attention of all nearby.

The street fell into a hush as all eyes turned to Dirk and the guards. Taverns and shops alike emptied. People peered through windows and began to fill the street.

“I have done nothing, yet these scoundrels attack me—I, who am unarmed and of no threat. Down with the guard! Down with the king!”

The guard upon the ground got to his feet as the other circled around Dirk, trying to put his brother at arms at Dirk’s back.

Dirk saw the ploy and went with it, crafting one of his own. “Down with the gut-rotten king! Down with the guards—his pawns against the people of this nation!” Dirk howled with all his might.

Many in the crowd began to cheer in approval; many disappeared, wanting nothing to do with the rebellious spirit at hand. The two guards rushed Dirk at the same time, from each direction, as he had anticipated. He jumped high into the air and performed a backflip over and out of the reach of the soldier behind him. The two men crashed together with a loud retort of armor upon armor, and Dirk, upon landing, booted the nearest in the rear, causing them both to fall into a mess of flailing arms and armor.

“Down with the king and his clowns!”

Two more soldiers emerged and hollered at the crowd to be gone. Dirk grabbed tomatoes from the nearest cart and began to pelt them both. Furious, the men charged. Dirk charged also and came up under the sword of one so quickly that the man blinked in astonishment when Dirk smashed him in the face with a tomato. Dirk quickly spun out of reach and ran back to the vegetables. Again, he began to pelt the men as they chased him round and round the marketplace. Now a huge crowd of hundreds filled the street and watched the fiasco. A dozen more guards came pounding down the street and parted the crowd.

“Down with the clown guard! Down with the false king of Uthen-Arden! Long live Whill of Agora! Long live Whill of Agora!” Dirk continued to holler as the guards fanned out and flanked him. He now had the attention of hundreds of people and was
safe. Though a few guards may have tried to kill him then and there, a captain of the guard was now present. He would not allow an unarmed madman to be killed in broad daylight with hundreds of witnesses, or so Dirk hoped. He prepared himself mentally for the beating that would follow and charged the line of guards. He barreled into one, knocking him over, before he was grabbed by half a dozen and driven to the ground.

Abram and Rhunis stared at the model of the arena they had hastily constructed. They had spent hours trying to devise a plan of attack and had come up with little. Abram packed his pipe and lit it as he walked to the window of their room within the inn. Outside, the crowd had dissipated, and the raving man that had caused the ruckus had been taken away.

“There were many cheers for the man who spoke of Whill,” Abram noted as he looked to the distant arena. It towered over all other buildings and could be seen from nearly all points within the city.

“Indeed,” Rhunis agreed.

“What if we…No, never mind, that will never work.”

Rhunis slammed his fist down upon the table in frustration. “We need an army of a thousand men to directly attempt such a feat.”

“We do not have a thousand men,” said Abram as he watched his smoke ring float lazily toward the window only to be obliterated in the breeze. “What we have is the element of surprise.”

Rhunis scoffed. “Surely Eadon will be expecting and will be prepared for a rescue attempt. This entire thing may be a trap. Making Whill’s execution public, announcing it to the world…he is practically inviting us into his clutches.”

Abram nodded in agreement. “Indeed, but what are we to do? Foil Eadon by not trying to free Whill? He is to be killed. We must intervene.”

“Why has Eadon not yet killed Whill then? Why wait six months before executing him? There is nothing Eadon could hope to learn from Whill through torture. He is baiting us, my friend.”

“I have not waited in the dark to hear word of Whill to sit idly by now that I have found him. I will free him from the Dark Elves, or I will die trying!”