The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (2 page)

The king remarried when Roskin was five and had three more children – two being girls who became the chief engineers on the structural reformation project after an earthquake had damaged much of Dorkhun’s foundations, but that is a different tale. Early on, Roskin was considered unusual as a dwarf and a Kiredurk. For one, he was much taller than most, standing just over five feet tall and having much larger feet and hands than even the biggest dwarf. For another, his hair and beard were black with streaks of white and silver, just like the hair on the heads of the Loorish elves, but the most striking difference between Roskin and other Kiredurks was his temper. Most white beards remain calm and relaxed even under powerful stress, but Roskin easily became frustrated. If he could not get the sound right on a particular instrument, that flute or lire or fiddle would find itself at the bottom of a lake. In log chopping events, if he missed a stroke, he would smash his axe into the nearest stone, and he had been completely banned from all grappling events in the kingdom, by order of his father. His temper only added to the whispers.

On his twenty-second birthday, Roskin was summoned to his father’s private study, a room high in the palace where the king would spend his evening hours with a book or a pen. Roskin had rarely been inside the study, but he had always been fond of the dark mahogany desk that faced the Hall of Gronwheil and the gray marble bookshelves that were lined with volumes of history, lore, and poetry. Roskin’s favorite was the oil canvas of his mother that hung with the other family portraits. He had a similar painting in his bedroom but preferred this one because the artist had more fiercely captured the wildness of her eyes. As he entered the study, Roskin stopped beside the painting and stared.

“She was magnificent,” his father said, standing from behind the desk and moving toward his son. “But she wasn’t happy here.”

“I know,” Roskin said, looking away from the painting. He often wondered why she had never attempted to visit him, and each year on his birthday he would hope all day that she would remember him and arrive at the palace.

“You also have trouble with our ways.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I try to do better.”

King Kraganere laughed and hugged his son. “Do not apologize for who you are. You can’t help your feelings. A person should be measured by their actions.”

“Yes sir.”

The two sat by the window, staring into the perpetual night of the underground city, darkness broken only by torches and the faint glow on the fields outside of town. As they watched people move towards the entrance to the symphony hall, on their way for the evening concert, Roskin wanted to reassure his father that he loved the city and the people, subjects who would one day bind themselves to him without question. He did love them, but the love was drowning in a fear he could not place.

“I want you to update the maps of our kingdom,” the king spoke after a long silence. “They are old and missing information.”

“I will start tomorrow morning at the Hall, before lecture.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Sir?”

“To be accurate, you must see what you are mapping.”

“We have good maps of Dorkhun.”

“Yes, we do, but the rest of the kingdom is poorly recorded. I think you can do better.”

“But I’m supposed to study the Fifth Kingdom from Master Hinkroh this session and finish my songs for the festival.”

“You need a change, something to help you relax. A little travel helps me.”

“I have never complained about my duty, sir,” Roskin said, suddenly afraid that this was a test.

“This is your assignment. Map the whole kingdom from the River of Fire to Erycke’s Tomb to the Kireghegon Halls of the great peak. There is no argument. The maps must be complete before you take your place on the council.”

“I cannot join the council until I finish school, at least five more years.”

“Do not question my orders. You have your duty. I expect not to see you in the morning.”

After that, the king returned to business, and Roskin went to his room, packed for the journey, and then said goodbye to his friends, siblings, and stepmother. Early the next morning, he gathered a set of maps from the Hall and set out for the Kireghegon Halls, the oldest remaining section of the kingdom. The city was actually from the Second Kingdom of Lord Thysian the Explorer, but all of the First Kingdom had long been abandoned because of structural issues. The Kireghegon Halls were two month’s walk from the capital, but to Roskin, that boundary was the most logical place to start because it was the highest point of the kingdom.

Travel was easy for the heir to the throne. In every township once someone recognized the king’s insignia, food and shelter were readily offered. For the first two and a half months, Roskin spent each night in a new tavern or inn, surrounded by new people who all laughed at his jokes and listened intently to his theories on goshkenh ball, and he was never in need of companionship or lonely at night. This new freedom began to quench his need for battle and lessened his dreams of glory, but in every new place and with every new companion, the dark fear scurried around the edges of his mind. While he never had reason to feel physically threatened – not even the most foolish or distressed outlaw still underground would consider harming the heir – Roskin constantly felt that his life was at risk, but he dared not mention this fear to anyone.

When he reached the Kireghegon Halls, Roskin was astounded by the ancient architecture and engineering. Every town and city that he had seen were open at the entrances because the Kiredurks had learned that, during a siege, heavy fortifications can cause catastrophic cave-ins as they are ravaged by battering rams, so sometime in the Third Kingdom all new settlements were built with only guard posts at the tunnels. However, Kireghegon was built with and still utilized metal doors that rose forty feet from floor to ceiling, and the hinges alone were taller and thicker than Roskin. The surface facing away from the city was carved with images of great leaders who had long been forgotten, even by the best scholars, and the surface inside the city was covered by mosaics of Erycke the Just as he defended the first town from cave trolls. The mosaics were made from gems and minerals and still glimmered and sparkled in thousands of shades of every color, but to Roskin the most astonishing feature was the mechanism for opening and closing the gate. One person of average size could turn the crank that stood on a two foot tall pedestal beside the main path, and the crank would wind or unwind a chain that disappeared into the ceiling and snaked through a system of pulleys that leveraged the massive doors. As the guard who was at least eighty years old demonstrated the system, pride surged through Roskin, for his ancestors had built this contraption that still functioned flawlessly after thousands of years.

In Roskin’s time, most cities had been built by hollowing large caverns, then using the stones as blocks for new buildings. Ceilings were always reinforced with metal pillars and cross members, because they had found this system to offer more stability, yet every structure in the Kireghegon Halls was carved directly from the mountain. Many buildings were adorned with platinum, silver, and palladium ornaments, and all the doors were made of sturdy metals that showed no signs of rust. While he had seen paintings of this ancient city, Roskin found himself stopping every few steps and absorbing the grandeur of the former capital, and mapping the city took nearly two weeks.

During that time, he grew fond of the citizens. For the most part, they were taciturn and stoic but not malicious or bitter; they simply had little to say because, as one dwarf put it, living around such history humbled them enough to keep them from thinking they had anything new to offer. When they did speak, they usually told some local legend or piece of trivia about a structure. Roskin listened to most only from respect for his hosts, but one story in particular caught his attention.

According to the legend, the Kiredurks of this city had crafted a ceremonial figurine for the Ghaldeon king during the Second Kingdom. The sculpture was cast from platinum and portrayed two dwarves standing shoulder to shoulder in a defensive posture. The gift symbolized the Ghaldeon spirit of brotherhood after they had helped the Kiredurks repel an invasion, and it had remained in Sturdeon for over two thousand years. Rumor was that when the Great Empire captured the city, all precious artifacts were moved to a human town to the east. A group of dwarves, loyal to the fallen Ghaldeon king found the hiding place and reclaimed several pieces. After this, the remaining treasure was transferred to a fortress along the northern border for protection. The fortress had been built by the most ruthless general of the Great Empire, a man referred to by the ogres on whom he had waged war as “Evil Blade.” None who had been taken to the fortress was seen again, so no dwarf or ogre actually knew if the Brotherhood of Dwarves was there or not, but it had not been part of the recovered treasure.

Roskin heard that story three times in Kireghegon, and it appealed to him. He had met the descendants of the displaced Ghaldeon king, who had died in the barn of a pig farm seventy miles from his palace. The farmer never knew that the king had been hiding on his farm until he noticed the smell one morning, and even then the farmer only knew that a filthy, disheveled old man had ruined a week’s worth of feed. The farmer went to his grave without sharing the story with anyone, fearing he might be charged with murder by the Great Empire, and for years few believed the king was dead because the body was never recovered.

The king’s grandson, now an old man himself named Gebdorn, had sought and received exile in Dorkhun, and Roskin had grown up hearing stories about the Ghaldeons and their once mighty kingdom. As a boy, he had always felt sorry for Gebdorn and had many times offered to help reclaim the lost lands, but the old dwarf would smile, pat Roskin’s head, and say that the old ways were lost, the old brotherhoods broken. As Roskin grew into a young man, more of the fallen king’s family moved to Dorkhun, and he had become close friends with a great nephew named Bordorn, who was two years older and taught Roskin how to wield a short sword. When he came of age, Bordorn decided to join the Resistance of the western tribes, and on the night he left, Roskin had walked with him for several miles.

“I go to certain death,” Bordorn had said.

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

“Your city and kingdom are magnificent, but I would rather die fighting for my name than hide like a coward and grow old.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“I can see that. Then, I’d have two armies to fight.” Bordorn laughed and punched Roskin in the arm.

“When I’m of age no one can stop me.”

“Then join us if you wish, Pepper Beard.”

But after Bordorn had left and Roskin had returned to the palace, King Kraganere lectured his son for three months on how the Kiredurks had not joined in that battle because the Great Empire was too powerful for their armies, and it was better for their kingdom to help the Ghaldeons through other means, like food and money, than to risk an invasion they could not repel. Roskin never agreed with his father but gave up that dream of glory as more and more duties became his. Yet he had remained in touch with Bordorn, who had not died because the Resistance had grown so weak and insignificant that there were no battles left to fight. For his part, Bordorn lived with a small tribe in the Snivegohn Valley and also gave up fighting for what was already lost.

After the Kireghegon Halls were mapped, Roskin traveled north to Geishkuhn, the most distant township, and there he found more hospitality and more legends told around more pitchers of ale. He spent a week in that city, and from there he crisscrossed east and west on his way south. He mapped every major city and minor township until he reached the outer gate that opened onto the Ghaldeon lands. Over two years had passed when he finished the last map, and Roskin was ready to return home, but one night in a township outside of Dorkhun, he heard again the tale of the stolen statue, the Brotherhood of Dwarves, from an ogre merchant traveling on business.

“They say it’s kept in Evil Blade’s castle, but no one knows,” the ogre said, waving his gnarled hands for effect.

“What do you know of this statue?” Roskin huffed.

“I know that its worth is more than this whole township.”

“Sounds like a fool’s treasure to me,” the barkeep said from behind the bar.

“Yeah, you’d never make it in and out,” another ogre added.

“Surely there’s a secret entrance,” Roskin said.

“You’d be full of arrows before you found it,” the second ogre returned.

“There’s one who knows the way in and around that place, and he might be willing to help,” the first ogre said.

“Help with what?” the barkeep asked, wiping out a tankard.

“Stealing the treasure.”

“None of you are that crazy, I hope,” the barkeep said, returning the mug to its hook above the bar.

“We’re just talking,” the first ogre said. “But there is one who would do it.”

“Who?” Roskin asked.

“Evil Blade, himself.”

The second ogre nearly fell backwards from his seat. “That
is
crazy. He would cut your throat or boil your head in oil. He’d never help any but himself.” He spat on the floor when he finished.

“He’s an old man, now, and he’s not on good terms with Emperor Vassa anymore.”