The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (12 page)

“Do you know how stupid that was?” he asked, turning to Roskin. His voice rang strong and deep in the cold air.

“They were no match for me.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“We’re safe. We got out of there.”

“This is not the schoolyard. You are a wanted man in a foreign land. Those dwarves won’t be any help to us now. Stupid, stupid.”

“You’re not a dwarf. You don’t understand our ways.”

“I know that you let a childish insult draw you into an unnecessary fight. Are you a warrior or a barroom brawler?”

“Maybe I’m both.”

“You can’t be both. When brawlers fight, it’s for fun, to settle a stupid quarrel, and they only want to knock their opponent silly. Warriors fight only when they have to, and they intend to kill.”

Roskin didn’t say anything back to the old man. Instead, he climbed into the bed and arranged their gear to set up the campsite. He was angry at Red and flung the gear around the bed, muttering to himself. He stuffed equipment into his backpack and piled what wasn’t needed for the night back on the sheet, which he retied into the makeshift pack. Red had unhitched the horse to let it graze and was gathering wood for a fire.

They ate a very late supper in silence, and Red fell asleep as soon as he finished eating, but Roskin stayed awake and stared into the dying fire, sharpening his sword. Deep inside, he knew Red was right about making a choice, but at that moment, he was still too angry to think clearly. He was angry at the humans for chasing them, at the drunken renegades for picking a fight, at Red for calling him stupid, and at himself for feeling confused. His plans had fallen apart, and he had no idea how to convince Red that they should turn east and head to the fortress.

From being chased, they had gone much farther north than Roskin wanted, and they were at least three weeks from the treasure. If they went north for much longer, they would leave Rugraknere and enter ogre lands, which would make Roskin safe but endanger Red. If they turned west, they could go to his kingdom and regroup, but that would cost him at least a month. If they turned east, he had no idea what might happen. The plains between Rugraknere and the Great Empire had not been mapped since the conquest, and Roskin didn’t know if the humans had begun settling those lands or not.

As he pondered the situation, Red began tossing and turning in his sleep. He muttered something about orcs and sugar cane, and Roskin watched him for a few minutes. At times, the old man called out in a fearful tone, but at others, his voice was fierce and commanding. Roskin’s anger faded as he watched the old man’s nightmare unfold. Red or Crushaw or Evil Blade was no longer the ferocious general who marched against the ogres and showed no quarter. He had become a shell of that person, needing handouts to eat and alcohol to stave off his memories. Roskin couldn’t name what he felt for the old man. On the bridge and during the shakes it had been pity. Since learning who the man really was, it had been a mixture of admiration for the military brilliance and disgust for the ruthlessness, but as he watched the old man sleep, he felt something new – understanding he might have called it, but that didn’t seem quite right.

As he puzzled over these things, he became aware of a noise to the south, a low murmur that came from the direction of town. He peered in that direction, but even in the dark, his eyesight was poor beyond a hundred yards. Instinctively, he closed his eyes and focused on the sound, trying to connect a thought to what he heard, but instead, an image of dozens of Kiredurks armed with broken bottles, sticks, and tools amassed in his head. They slogged towards Roskin and Red with drunken determination, calling to each other with declarations of bravado and spurs of rage. Roskin opened his eyes and called to Red.

The sleeping man rolled away from Roskin’s voice and pulled his wool blanket tighter to him, but the dwarf moved closer and shook him. Red bolted awake and scrambled a few feet away, before realizing who it was. As the man tried to collect himself, Roskin explained about the mob, motioning towards the noise that had grown considerably. Red told the dwarf to load the wagon and went to get the horse.

They were ready to travel in a couple of minutes and were back on the road well before the mob reached their abandoned campsite, but Roskin and Red were completely exhausted and the ride was miserable. The clouds from the west that had been gathering all day began raining thick, cold drops that soaked them within seconds. They shivered against the rain and bitter air yet kept moving away from the mob. An hour later, they found shelter beneath a decrepit watchtower, and without unhitching the horse or building a fire, they covered up as well as their meager sleeping bags and blankets would let them and fell into restless and fitful sleep. At last, the long day came to an end.

Chapter 7

As a Willing Proxy

Roskin awoke to the sensation of rising from the ground rapidly. A pair of enormous, ogre hands gripped his arms and torso, and he was gagged by another before he could cry out. Then, his arms were bound behind his back, and he was shoved to his knees in the mud. Steady rain still fell, and he was soon shivering where he knelt. To his right, the dull thump of heavy fists against skin and bone thudded with a sickening rhythm. Whenever he would try to turn his head in that direction, one ogre would slap his face, and the other would grip his neck and jerk his head forward. A third warned him to stay still or he would get the same. For several long, agonizing moments, he listened to the beating and sobbed from the feeling of impotence.

When the sounds finally stopped, the one that had been hitting Red stepped in front of Roskin and lifted him to his feet by the beard. The ogre stood well over ten feet tall, and his pale skin was thick with folds of blubber. His gnarled hands were flecked with scars, and he wore a coat of furs draped over his back. He held Roskin’s beard firmly and told the dwarf that any effort to escape would be dealt with swiftly and finally. The dwarf nodded as much as the grip would let him.

Red’s motionless body was tossed into the wagon by two other ogres, and the one that had been behind Roskin took the horse’s bridle and began leading it north. Roskin was forced to march behind the wagon with an ogre on both sides and the one in back. They marched until noon, when the ogres stopped for lunch, but the dwarf was only given a couple of small drinks of water. Whenever he tried to ask questions, the ogres either smacked him or threatened to take away even the sips. Red barely moved, save shallow breathing, but Roskin was glad to see that the old man was still alive.

He knew enough of ogre customs to know that they were being taken to a clan village and that when they were in front of the clan council he would have a chance to defend himself, but he had no idea what ogres were doing this far south. By his map, they should be at least a couple of days away, and ogres were not known to patrol more than a day’s walk from their clan. Somehow, something had gone terribly wrong.

As they moved north, tall and thin black spruce formed a meager forest that offered little protection from the wind. The rain changed to sleet and then to snow, and by evening, the ground they walked was six inches deep in a layer of heavy, wet snow on top of a sheet of ice. Branches from the trees bent to the point of cracking, and Roskin was utterly spent from tromping and slipping. Several times he had fallen face first in the snow, and without his arms to catch himself, his mouth and nose dripped blood onto the gag and his beard. On top of that, his stomach burned for food, and his throat was parched.

When they reached the village, he was shoved into a wooden building with a dirt floor and no windows, but Red was not put in the room with him. As evening turned to night, a pair of ogres brought him a bucket of water, a loaf of bread, and his soggy sleeping bag, and his arms were untied and the gag removed. Long after the ogres left him alone, he still sat in the corner and rubbed his arms to regain feeling. The bucket of water was almost crusted over with ice, and the bread was cold and hard, but he drank and ate as much as his belly would hold before curling up in the sleeping bag and shivering against the cold.

The ogres lived in close-knit clans that were loosely bound together by a central council that was comprised of a representative from each clan. The council had no authority over the clans and served primarily as a means to share information and defenses against the Great Empire. Each clan was like a sovereign nation, with its own council of elders and clan matriarch to govern local matters. While their clans were separate entities, all ogres were bound by common customs, and as the heir, Roskin had spent much of his education learning their ways.

His sleep was disjointed and broken, and for hours he simply stared at the darkness and hoped that Red was okay. Near sunrise, an ogre came to his door and tossed in another piece of bread, and he ate it greedily, hoping the food might warm him. In the underground cities of his kingdom, furnaces and natural fissures kept the temperature above freezing, and whenever he had spent time in frigid temperatures, he had always been properly clothed. Now, his feet and hands were numb to the point of pain, and he couldn’t imagine ever being warm again.

As far back as history remembered, the dwarves and ogres had moved peacefully between each other’s lands. Erycke the Just had called upon the ogres for help against the cave trolls, and many Kiredurk of the First Kingdom had died helping the ogres conquer the polar bears and snow leopards of the Northern Plains. Through every Kingdom, the peace had endured and the friendship had grown. Roskin couldn’t fathom why he was being treated so cruelly by his allies.

Around lunchtime, two ogres took him from the room and half dragged, half carried him into the village square. There he was met by the clan matriarch and her council of elders, and the square was filled by nearly the entire clan. Children taunted him and dared each other to touch him, but the adults who stood in an orderly assemblage shushed and ushered them away from the scene. The matriarch, an elderly ogre dressed in thick furs and an ornamental headdress, rose from her seat and called the trial to order.

“Tredjard, you are charged with trespassing on our lands. What say you to this charge?”

“With respect to ogre courtesy, I ask that you tell me of my friend before I answer.” He shivered in the cold wind.

“He waits, like you, for our judgment.”

“He’s wounded and needs attention. Your patrol was too enthusiastic in capturing him”

“Rest assured, Tredjard,” the matriarch spoke calmly. “Any human found on our lands will be treated likewise. But fear not. His suffering will be eased soon enough. Now, what say you to this charge?”

“I say that the customs of our two peoples allow for free travel between our lands.”

“Black beard, the ogres have no such custom with your kind.”

“My beard betrays my race, for I am a Kiredurk from Dorkhun.”

“Speak carefully, dwarf. Being false to this tribunal carries a precious penalty.”

“I am Roskin of the Dark Beard,” he said, raising himself more erect as he had been taught to when announcing his name. “Eleventh Heir of the Eight Kingdom and first son of King Kraganere.”

A murmur ran through the assemblage, but the matriarch silenced them by raising her hand.

“Your manners are well trained and your tongue is well polished like so many dwarven jewels, but the house of Lord Kraganere is known to me. You do not carry his insignia, as the heir to the kingdom surely would.”

“Clan Matriarch, if you know of our ways, then you know of Erycke’s proclamation. I am serving a year of isolation to find my inner peace. My word is all the proof I have, but for eight Kingdoms that has been enough between our peoples.”

“Well said. Well said, indeed,” she said, before motioning to the elders. “What does the council say?”

One at a time, the elders rose from their seats and spoke. Three believed the dwarf and wanted him released, but the other three believed the story a fabrication and wanted him drawn and quartered for his crimes. The matriarch waited in silence for what seemed to Roskin a very long time. She stared at him intently, and he held her gaze, trying not to blink or show his fear, but in the cold, he couldn’t stop shaking.

“Since the elders are divided, my decision is final, and that is a grave resolution to reach. If you are the future heir and I condemn you, many of my people will surely pay the price in blood, but if you are an enemy and I set you free, who can guess what terror you might unleash?”

She paused as if in deep thought, but Roskin dared not interrupt.

“Many winters ago, I sat in the Hall of Gronwheil and listened to the king’s children, two boys and two girls, sing about the harvest. If you are the heir, you shall remember that song, and if you sing it to me now as you did back then, I will grant your freedom.”

Roskin tried to remember singing at the winter festival as a child, but no memory or song would come to mind. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever singing with his brother and sisters in public. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and then said as much to her.

“Well played, young one, for no such song happened. I am convinced of your claim, and as such, there can be no crime of trespassing.”

She ordered a guard to bring furs to warm the dwarf and sent another for proper food and drink. A place was made at the council’s table for him to sit, and the dwarf climbed into the wooden chair that was much too large. A moment later, he was wrapped in a bearskin blanket, and thick meat was placed before him. Forgetting manners, he tore into the meat with his fingers and began devouring the meal. Several ogres murmured to each other at the scene, but the matriarch hushed them and apologized to Roskin for allowing his hunger to interfere with manners. He realized his gaffe and graciously accepted the apology. The rest of the meal was eaten with a knife and fork.