The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (13 page)

While Roskin ate, Red was brought before the council. The man couldn’t stand but was held erect by two guards. His face was wrecked with scrapes and dark bruises, and his eyes were swollen shut, but Roskin was certain that now that his identity was known, Red would also be set free and receive treatment for the wounds. They would leave the village as soon as Red could travel, and Roskin would be able to retrieve the Brotherhood. He could almost feel it.

“Human male,” the matriarch began. “You are charged with traveling into ogre lands as a hostile combatant. What say you to this charge?”

“Excuse me,” Roskin said, furrowing his brow. “May I speak on his behalf?”

“Lord Roskin, this matter does not concern you.”

“But I am responsible for this man. He is only here because of me.”

“That is of no consequence before this tribunal. Any human who enters ogre lands will be punished accordingly.”

“You ogres,” Red rasped weakly. His voice was audible only to those closest to him. “Feeble minded beasts.”

“Red, stay quiet,” Roskin said.

“Lord Roskin, please do not interfere with this proceeding.”

“I once rode your lands at will,” Red continued.

“Hush,” Roskin hissed.

Several in the crowd began whispering, and one member of the council jumped to his feet and shouted:

“I know you!”

“Your laws mean nothing.”

“Please, Red,” Roskin called.

“Evil Blade! Evil Blade!”

“You trembled before me.”

The guards who held him let go and stepped back in horror, and the old man fell to the ground. The crowd began pushing and fighting each other, some trying to flee and others trying to get to him. Roskin leapt from his seat and dove across Red’s prone body, and the matriarch silenced the crowd with a bellow that shook windows and sent birds to the air. She stepped down from her position to where Roskin and Red lay.

“Move away, Roskin,” she growled. “This monster must be killed.”

“No,” Roskin said, looking up. “I can’t let you.”

“Heir or not, I will go through you to destroy this one.”

“Your laws demand a trial. He must be tried first.”

“Very well,” she said, composing herself. “We will try him.”

She moved back to her position and ordered the council to take their seats. The crowd pushed in closer to listen as she declared the new charge of innumerable counts of murder and torture. The two guards stepped in to lift him, but Roskin shouted for them to back away. They looked to the matriarch with puzzled expressions. She started to speak, but the dwarf stopped her short.

“By your custom,” Roskin said, scrambling to his feet but staying close to Red. “I demand that you take me in this one’s place.”

“I cannot allow this,” the matriarch returned.

“You must,” Roskin said. “You cannot refuse a willing proxy. I demand to take his place.”

The matriarch stepped backwards and slumped into her chair, a mix of revulsion, rage, and bemusement burning in her eyes. She collected her thoughts and then began to laugh. As she did, the crowd began whispering conjectures about her decision.

“Very good,” she said at last, standing and moving back in front of the council. “You have a sharp mind, son of Kraganere. I cannot refuse your request to proxy, as you say, and I cannot put you to death without causing a war between our peoples. Very well played.”

“Let us leave this land,” Roskin said. “We did not mean to be here anyway. Let us travel back to my kingdom.”

“While I cannot have you put to death, I cannot let that one leave. I need to think about this punishment. We will reconvene in the morning.”

She ordered the guards to take them back to their rooms, but Roskin refused to leave Red unattended. She conceded and had them taken together to one room, and that evening, as part of the punishment, they only received one bucket of water and one piece of bread. Since he had eaten the meat, Roskin let Red have all the bread, but the man’s jaw was too swollen to chew well. The dwarf soaked the bread in water and made his companion swallow it. When Roskin was satisfied that Red had eaten enough, he helped him drink from the bucket. More water ended up on them than in Red’s mouth, and with the temperature dropping back below freezing, they both shivered in the darkness.

“Maybe we won’t freeze,” Red said, trying to smile.

“How’d we get this far north?” Roskin asked. “We should be a week away from them.”

“Maybe you misread your map.”

“I can read maps. It must be wrong, or the ogres have moved south into part of Rugraknere.”

“Wouldn’t put it past them to steal land.”

“I thought you had had a change of heart about ogres.”

“I hate them. Crushaw lost his taste for killing, but I still loathe them.”

“Try to keep your feelings to yourself, and we might get out of this.”

“They’ll not let me leave. Why’d you do that, trying to take my place?”

Roskin wanted to tell him about the Brotherhood, about his need to hold it, but he was afraid the old man would laugh at him.

“Just let them kill me, young master. I’ve lived my life.”

“Don’t say that. It’s awful to think about.”

“Death? There are worse things, believe me.”

“What can be worse than being dead?”

Red shook his head and stopped talking. Roskin tried to get him to answer, but Red curled into the fetal position and stayed quiet. Roskin covered him with the bearskin and then lay with his back pressed against the man’s, trying to share body heat. After two nights without good sleep and the previous day’s forced march, he was exhausted and longed for a comfortable bed and a nice fire. He tried to imagine that the slight warmth coming from Red was a furnace vent back in Dorkhun, but the cold made deep sleep all but impossible. He dozed on and off until just before sunrise, but the night was almost as exhausting as the day had been.

At sunrise, the matriarch and three guards led them from the room into the gray light. In the street, their horse and wagon were hitched, and their equipment was repacked in the bed. Beside the wagon, a large buffalo was adorned with a saddle and bridle, as ogres rode them on long distances. The matriarch ordered Roskin and Red into the wagon, and the two guards who carried Red flung him into the seat as Roskin climbed in the other side. The other ogre mounted her buffalo and waited.

“If we wait for the council, both of you will be torn to pieces by the mob,” the matriarch said to Roskin. “Your punishment is to accompany him to the wizard Kwarck’s home, where he is to remain in exile until his death, natural or otherwise.”

She faced Red, and her eyes danced with hatred.

“You are fortunate this day, Evil Blade. The dwarf has spared you a gruesome end, but if you leave your exile, no proxy will be allowed a second time.”

“Clan Matriarch,” Roskin said, bowing his head. “Accept my gratitude for this judgment and know that the house of Kraganere will remember your grace and mercy.”

“Save the courtesy, Lord Roskin. We part as tenuous allies, at best. I cannot forbid you to enter our lands, but know that your safety is out of my hands. Vishghu, lead them to Kwarck and remain there as a guard. The dwarf is free to go once you reach the house.”

The ogre on the buffalo nodded and motioned for Roskin to follow. She snapped her reins, and the beast snorted clouds of steam as it moved forward. Roskin released the brake and followed her south. Beside him, Red pulled a wool blanket from one of the packs and wrapped it around himself. Then, he placed the bearskin over the dwarf’s shoulders, and the two hunkered down to lessen the wind as they moved away from the clan village of Ghustaugaun.

Chapter 8

The Hermit of the Plains

The wizard, as some called him, lived in the open lands between Rugraknere and the Great Empire. Like Roskin, he was half Loorish Elf, and instead of trying to assimilate where none would accept his mixed blood, he had chosen self-exile on the plains. During the decades of war, he had healed ogres, dwarves, and humans, which made him both beloved and suspect among those races, but because he lived so far from civilization, none wanted to waste the time to punish him for helping their enemies.

On his farm that spanned twenty-five square miles, Kwarck raised pigs, chickens, and cows on the open range to the west. The southern and eastern fields were tilled and fenced, and he rotated crops on them in a pattern that kept the soil fertile. To the north, he had planted fruit and nut bearing trees, and the orchard grew in intricate swatches of species that kept the ground nourished and the trees healthy. Each year, he produced an abundance of food, but the excess was always sent to towns and villages in need.

The ride from Ghustaugaun to Kwarck’s home took a week. As the three travelers moved south, the snow and ice of the north gave way to late spring, and the gentle hills of black spruce forests flattened into open grasslands. On the trip, Roskin had used all of his ointment and salve to heal Red’s wounds, but while the bruises and scrapes were gone, the old man had finished his whiskey during the first day. By the time they neared the house, he had the shakes even worse than in the mines. He could only lie in the wagon, moaning loudly and scratching the invisible spiders. Vishghu and Roskin were both exhausted from tending to him, and more than once the dwarf had had to stop the ogre from hurting him. Eventually, she had ridden ahead to keep from smashing his skull with her club.

As she wound up the worn path to the house, Vishghu was greeted by Kwarck at the edge of the forest, and as Roskin approached, he studied the hermit whose legend had reached even Dorkhun. He was an inch or two taller than Roskin but thinner than anyone the dwarf had ever seen. His hair was the same texture as the dwarf’s but silver with streaks of white. He wore earth-toned clothes made in part from animal skins but also from fibers. When the hermit looked up, he smiled as if the dwarf were an old friend who was expected. Roskin returned the greeting, feeling a bond between them, a sensation that was foreign and familiar at the same time.

“What’s the matter with this one?” Kwarck asked, peering in the wagon at Red.

“He needs a taste of liquor.”

“Bah. Poison. Bring him inside, Vishghu.”

The ogre, who had already dismounted and unsaddled the buffalo, lifted the oblivious man from the bed. Fearing she might try to harm him again, Roskin watched her carefully as they entered the house. Inside, the ogre placed Red in a back room with wide windows that faced east. Kwarck thanked her, and the ogre went outside to groom her mount. Roskin stayed inside to see what the hermit would do for his companion. Kwarck took a bottle of herbs from a shelf and crumbled them in a wooden cup of water.

“If there’s any strength left in his spirit,” he said. “I can help him. But it has a tight grip on him.”

“He has dark memories. They haunt him.”

“One who deals in death should be haunted.”

The comment stunned Roskin like a slap, and he stared hard at the ground. The images of his own fallen foes came to him every time he closed his eyes, splatters of blood or grunts of pain, but most of all he remembered the orc at the vanishing trails, the one that had scarred his ear. He couldn’t forget the light draining from the orc’s eyes as its blood rushed from its stomach. The dwarf didn’t want to end up like Red, hiding from memories once so eagerly sought.

He excused himself and went to unhitch and groom his horse. Outside, the warm wind bent the grasses in waves of dark and light green, but the dwarf found no solace in that beauty. As he unhooked the bridle, he thought about the Brotherhood and how much it had already cost him, yet his will hardened to reclaim it. He was sure that once he held it and carried it back to Dorkhun, the sacrifices would be worth the glory.

He led the horse west to the open pasture where Vishghu had already released her buffalo to graze. The ogre sat against a smokehouse full of dried meats and stared at the animals that roamed the field. By the next winter, many of those pigs and cows would themselves be hanging in the small, wooden building, curing to last the next year. Kiredurks had no need to cure meats, but Roskin had heard of Ghaldeons using salt and smoke to preserve food through the warm months. The process was done in the late fall or early winter, preferably before temperatures stayed below freezing, and the meat had to be cured at less than 100°. Otherwise, it would begin to cook instead of curing and would spoil as the weather warmed. In Ghaldeon culture, an entire week was dedicated to this process, and the Festival of Smoke was a time of hard work followed by two or three days of celebrations. Roskin wanted to see this ritual for himself.

Vishghu was barely an adult, and her skin, though thick and pale, had not yet developed the layers of fat for insulation against the lethal cold of the northern winters. As a boy, Roskin had wrestled half-grown ogres for sport, but looking at her muscles, he couldn’t fathom having to grapple a full-grown one and marveled that Red had once been strapping enough to terrorize them. The dwarf leaned against the grayish brown planks of the smokehouse and looked down at her, but even as she sat, her head was only a few inches below his.

“I don’t want to be your enemy,” he said.