Michael Ploof - Whill of Agora

No longer cornered, he found himself again in the midst of his kin. He retrieved his great axe and downed another beast, but then he heard a sound that tore at his heart and made him turn in horror. It was the pained cry of his father. Ten feet away he saw him, a spear imbedded in his back and two severed tails protruding from his chest. But the king fought on; his two axes chopped and slashed, and even as another spear found his belly he did not relent.

Roakore screamed in horror and fought his way towards his father as he fell. With his axe he plowed a path to him. “The king has fallen!” he cried, and all surrounding dwarves came to his aid, blocking off any further attack. Roakore carried his dying father to the door of the Chamber of Hiding and set him down beside it.

The king’s grey eyes met Roakore’s, and through labored gasps and bloodied teeth he spoke. “My son, yer all that remains. Yer brothers have all fallen.” He coughed, and blood spattered Roakore’s armor. The king fought back death to utter his final words. “I be damned, me son, fer I’ll not see the Mountain o’ the Gods this day. I’ve failed. The mountain be lost.”

Roakore started to protest, but his father quieted him with a raised hand. “Ye must go, me son; ye must lead the remaining fighters an’ the women an’ children to Ky’Dren. Swear to me that ye’ll avenge this day. Swear to me that ye’ll take back this mountain someday.”

Tears fell from Roakore’s eyes as he looked upon his dying father. “I will, Father, ye have me word. I’ll free ye from yer limbo, and this mountain will again be ours. I swear it.”

A smile was his father’s only response as his head fell back and his eyes closed, never to open again.

Roakore shook uncontrollably. He wanted nothing more than to rejoin the fight, to kill every last one of the damned dragon half-breeds. But he did not. He had given his father his word; he knew what he had to do. He went to the door and knocked upon it in code. “It be Roakore, son o’ the king. I command ye to open this door.”

A muffled voice came from the other side. “I’ve orders from the king not to open this door til I hear the song o’ victory! I’ll not disobey!”

Roakore slammed the door with his fists. “The king is dead! I be all that remains o’ his sons, and so ye now answer to me! I order ye now, boy, to open this door! It is the wish o’ the fallen king himself that we flee! Now!”

Roakore waited for what seemed like an eternity; the dwarves’ line of defense was weakening with every passing second. Finally the door opened a crack, and a young armored dwarf peeked out. Roakore looked at him sternly. “When the retreat be completed close this door, but not a moment sooner, or ye will answer to me. Understood?”

The young dwarf only nodded. He had caught sight of the battle raging behind Roakore. Terror filled his eyes as he looked upon the Draggard army.

Roakore fought back his feelings of intense shame and turned to his army with a snarl. “The king is dead! We must retreat to the Chamber o’ Hiding!”

Those dwarves near to him looked perplexed. He faced many scowls and looks of disgust. All that echoed of his cry was the fact that the king had died. The proclamation was taken up by dwarf after dwarf. The battle then escalated; upon hearing of the king’s fate, the dwarves fought with a ferocity yet unseen. They were outnumbered ten to one, but the Draggard only fell faster and shrieked in terror, even as dwarf warriors who should have died from their injuries kept chopping them down.

Roakore knew he must get as many out as he could, but the dwarves were blind in their fury, more than willing to die where they stood if it meant avenging the king. Again he yelled, “By order o’ the king we must retreat! Now!”

Still no one heeded his words, and the doomed dwarves fought on. They numbered less than one hundred now as they were fully engulfed by the horde. Roakore found the door behind him shut once again and several beasts closing in. “We must leave!” he screamed, but his pleas again fell upon deaf ears. None of the dwarves understood his motives, and none had any intention of giving up and running.

Roakore found himself in an ocean of Draggard and dwarves. Blood flew with every blow as the dwarves fought on, but the battle had become a slaughter. Everywhere he looked he saw one of his kin falling, more often than not taken down by two or more of the beasts. Roakore fought with them, glad that he could no longer see the door in the horde, thinking for a split second that it would be much better to die now gloriously. Then he remembered the words of his father, and his own promise.

Desperately he hacked and sliced his way back to the door. He chopped the head off one Draggard and sliced the face of another. One of the beasts jumped upon his back and bit hungrily, tearing off his ear. Another stabbed its spear clean through his forearm as he chopped down a beast in front of him. But Roakore knew no pain; he was desperate, and fueled by rage he fought on. He snapped the shaft of the spear with his free hand and tore it loose; using the broken spear he stabbed over his head, sending the pointed blade through the eye of the Draggard upon his back. He chopped down the spear-wielder with a growl and went again for the door.

A group of fewer than thirty dwarves fought shoulder to shoulder against the back wall guarding the door to the Chamber of Hiding. Roakore joined then and banged again upon the great iron door. It opened a crack and the young guard peered out.

“Be ready!” Roakore ordered. Then he mustered all his strength and pleaded one final time to his fellow dwarves. “Hear me now: the king has bade us leave these halls! Not to run as cowards, but to seek the help o’ our kin! Follow me now, an’ know the glory o’ one day taking back our mountain!” He turned and opened the door. “Hurry now, let us make safe the young ones!”

To Roakore’s amazement, many of the dwarves followed. They backed into the doorway, fighting the attacking horde all the way. Many of the beasts tried to get in, but each fell to Roakore’s great axe. When the last of the dwarves was through the door; Roakore himself backed into the doorway, fighting off his pursuers. The last thing he saw before closing the great door was a blood-soaked dwarf, many spears protruding from him but still fighting. The dwarf took a final spear in the back, and as he fell he screamed a curse at Roakore.

The dwarf’s scream echoed in Roakore’s mind even as he passed through another doorway and secured the second bolt. That one word, hollered by a dying warrior who had fought for his home till the last, would haunt Roakore until the end of his days:

“Coward!”