The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (20 page)

“Be on your best guard,” he cautioned. “You’ve never seen the likes of what lurks out there.”

“I guess you have,” Vishghu snorted.

Crushaw didn’t respond.

“Just keep alert,” Molgheon said sharply.

They traveled for several miles, and the horse and the buffalo grew more and more uneasy the deeper they went. For nearly half an hour, Crushaw had noticed a beast stalking them from their left. He couldn’t be sure, but its outline was like a sand lion, the deadliest predator of the wilds. On his previous journey across, none of those beasts had attacked him, but he had seen them take down prey. It was a sight to behold. Many stood six feet tall at the shoulder and their paws were as large as a dwarf’s torso. Their claws were as long as daggers and could rip flesh as well as any blade. They lived in prides of twenty to thirty, with a dominate male that hunted for the rest.

“Whatever happens,” he whispered to Molgheon. “Go to Roskin.”

“What’s out there?” she asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“A nightmare. Warn the ogre.”

Crushaw drew his sword and held it with his right hand while he continued to hold the reins with his left. Molgheon motioned for Vishghu to ride closer to the wagon, and the ogre, a look of terror on her face, obeyed the dwarf’s request.

“When it attacks, stay with the horse. Others creatures might come.”

He handed the reins over to Molgheon and readied himself for the charge. As he had always experienced in battle, his pulse dropped and a sense of calm washed through him.

The sand lion burst from the darkness with a speed that defied its massive size. It sprang towards the wagon, its mouth agape for the attack, and luckily for the travelers, its first pounce struck the wagon’s left wheel. The wood cracked and snapped and the wagon tipped on its side from the impact. Crushaw leapt from his seat as the wagon flipped and caught hold of the lion’s coarse mane with his left hand. He pulled himself onto its back and stabbed it with his sword. The lion’s thick muscles kept the blade from penetrating deeply, and it rolled onto its side to rid itself of the rider.

Crushaw rolled himself, just clearing the beast’s haunches, and jumped to his feet. The lion came to all fours and charged him. It swung one of its paws, but the warrior coolly slipped aside of the blow and stabbed again. His blade barely pierced skin, and the lion sprang at him, its front legs and claws outstretched. Crushaw tried to sidestep again, but the length of the lion’s leg struck him, knocking him backwards. The lion was over him before he could recover, and it brought its mouth down to catch his throat, but he managed to raise his left arm to block the bite. The lion’s teeth hit against the plate vambrace, and the metal gave but did not puncture. The lion released its grip, and its hot breath was right in the warrior’s face.

Suddenly, the lion gave a sharp yelp and fell to its side. Vishghu stood over it and quickly brought her club down on its head to end the fight. Crushaw lay still for a moment, trying to catch his breath, but the ogre reached down and grabbed his shoulder.

“We have to get moving,” she said, pulling him to his feet.

“This dwarven armor is well-made,” he said, holding up his arm to look at the teeth marks. “My arm should be gone.”

At the wagon, Molgheon had managed to unhitch the horse, and other than being scared, it was unharmed from the attack. The wagon, however, was beyond repair. Crushaw and Vishghu gathered the equipment and repacked what had been spilled. Then, they loaded as much as they could onto the buffalo and horse. The rest they divided between the three of them and continued on their way.

Sunrise was not far away, and the southeastern horizon began to lighten. Slowly, the light increased, revealing the cinnamon landscape of rocky dirt and sparsely scattered sagebrush. Tufts of thick, yellow grasses grew randomly along the uneven ground. As the sun rose, the predators retreated into hiding, and small herds of herbivores ventured out to graze. The Crimson Road, which got its name as much from the red blocks lining the path as from the blood that had been spilled along it, stretched to the horizon. At intervals, large bones of various animals could be seen along the roadside.

“We’ll sleep through the day,” Crushaw said. “It’ll be safer than at night.”

They found a good campsite near a sagebrush tree and tethered their animals to its trunk. Then, the travelers went to sleep until the early afternoon. When they awoke, Molgheon shot a wild hare, and Crushaw cleaned it for breakfast. Once the meal was complete, they continued on their journey and reached the first oasis well before sunset.

The Crimson Road had been marked by Theodore the Daring’s daughter, Penlough the Adventurer. She had believed in her father’s vision of connecting Koshlonsen to the orc lands and had gone into the wilds with two hundred veteran soldiers. It took two years to create a path that connected to several oases, and when she was finished, she returned to Koshlonsen with only twenty-five soldiers. The Crimson Road, however, proved to be a valuable route for both nations, and Penlough had been lavished with riches.

At the first oasis, the travelers filled their water-skins and drank heartily from the spring. The canopy of the oasis was dominated by fan palms with thick underbrush of squaw waterweed and arrowweed. The plants weren’t in season, which allowed the travelers to see well enough to avoid any creatures that might be lurking. Every year in the springtime, many orcs and humans were killed at an oasis by a snake or leopard curled up in the brush, but the travelers had no such ill-fortune and were able to continue on their way quickly.

That night passed without any major encounters, and they were able to sleep well the next morning. Again, they woke in the early afternoon, had breakfast of freshly caught wild game, and resumed the march. That evening, when the temperature dropped and heat escaped from the arid land, they encountered eight orcs traveling from the south. Crushaw had removed his gambeson after the fight with the sand lion and wore only the hauberk and vambrace, offering no insignia. As they approached, the orcs kept their hands on their weapons, and one spoke in poor common:

“What come you to land this?”

“Relax, friend, I am from the court of Emperor Vassa, may her life be long and sustained,” Crushaw returned in orcish.

“You speak our tongue well, stranger,” another orc said. “Almost native.”

“I had a good teacher.”

“Answer the question,” the first orc said gruffly.

“I am traveling with my servants to the Slithsythe Plantation.”

“On what business?”

“That is between my emperor and the masters of that plantation.”

“Something’s not right about this,” a third orc said. “I know that dialect.”

“Me too,” a fourth added.

“It’s spoken in the northeast, at the Seershythe Plantation,” the third continued.

The name made Crushaw’s blood run cold, and he rubbed his hip instinctively. From his movement, the orcs drew their weapons. Crushaw froze at the sight of the orcish swords. For forty-five years he had charged into teeming lines of ogres, each wanting him dead. He had never been afraid of any enemy’s weapon, but the orcs’ swords sent terror through his heart. In that moment, images from the plantation flooded him, and he stepped backwards from them.

With her club, Vishghu smashed the chest of the orc nearest to her, and as it fell it tripped the one behind it. She killed them both before they could get to their feet. Molgheon shot the one closest to her and dove from the swipe of another. When she hit the ground, she rolled to her left, spilling several arrows, but she recovered in time to scurry away from a third orc that tried to stab her. Crushaw saw the orc’s arm coming down, and he felt the metal strike his mail, but it was like a dream. The orc’s sword bounced off his left arm, bruising his bicep deeply, and he saw a second swing at his head, but his legs were like slabs, unable to move.

Vishghu thrust her club into the orc aiming at Crushaw’s head, and it collapsed with a grunt. Then, she hit the other orc with an uppercut from the end of her club. It staggered backwards, dark blood oozing from its gray mouth, and she finished it off with a whack to the side of its head. Molgheon had managed to get enough space between herself and the two chasing her to shoot one through the throat. It collapsed with a squeal that faded into a gurgle. Then, she shot the seventh orc in the chest, and it collapsed at her feet.

The eighth orc had turned and run as soon as it saw the ogre kill the first two. It was nearly a quarter mile ahead of them, and Molgheon reached for an arrow to shoot it before it got out of her range, but her quiver was empty. Vishghu turned and yelled at Crushaw to help, but the old man had slipped to his knees where he stared at the dying eyes of the orcs nearest to him. Vishghu got to her buffalo and gave chase.

“If he gets away, we’ll have an army waiting for us,” the ogre called.

Molgheon gathered her arrows and reloaded her quiver. Then, she went to Crushaw and stood beside him.

“You okay, Red?” she asked, putting an arm across his shoulders.

“I was scared. After all these years, they still scare me.”

“It’s okay. It happens.”

“Not to me.”

He stood, drew his sword, and stabbed the orc before him. It twitched for a moment and was still. Then, Crushaw went to each one and stabbed them all to make sure they were dead. When he finished, he dragged the bodies off the road with Molgheon’s help. Once the road was clear, he suggested that they try to catch the ogre in case she was having trouble. Molgheon agreed and got the horse, but Crushaw marched away swiftly, his long legs putting distance between himself and the dwarf. He didn’t want her to see his shame, and he needed time to clear his head. He had never frozen like that, had never felt fear before an enemy, but even after a lifetime of embracing death, he was still under sway of the lash. Since escaping, he had convinced himself that he had not been scared of them, but now he knew that nothing could be more untrue. They were still the masters and he was the slave. Running away from them had been easy, but raising his sword to strike them was a different matter.

Chapter 12

Death Nears

Even in winter, the afternoon temperature on the Slithsythe Plantation can reach the upper eighties, and the sun, while not as brutal as in summer, can still blister skin. As punishment for trying to escape, Roskin had been tied face-down to a wooden post and left shirtless throughout the day. Once his skin was sunburned, he was lashed until his pants were soaked with blood. At first, he gritted his teeth and tried to withstand the pain, but after a few strikes, he began to moan. Then, his moans became pleas and finally bellows for mercy. Every field-hand on the plantation was forced to watch, and while the overseer sweated and grunted from the exertion, the lowly orcs ridiculed the dwarf, tossing rotten food and dried feces at his face.

He was at the end of his threshold, unable to endure much more. Again, he called out for mercy, and as he did, he rose from the post like fog from a river basin. Like in a dream, he saw himself still tied down with the overseer lashing him mercilessly, but he was no longer there. He floated above the plantation and drifted north. For a moment, he thought he saw Crushaw, Molgheon, and Vishghu just beyond the plantation, but he was moving too fast to be sure. He raced across the wilds and over Koshlonsen. Then, he was skimming just above the canopy of the Koorleine Forest. The sounds of birds rose up and soothed him. Then, he saw an elfin settlement in the trees, and a part of him stirred much like when he had first seen the gates at the Kireghegon Halls.

Along the canopy, the main platform connected several large trees for nearly a hundred yards. The structure was wooden and stained to camouflage with the forest. Had he been on the floor, Roskin didn’t think he would have seen it. Small towers extended from the platform every twenty yards, and archers stood watch in each tower. Houses were built near the trunks, and their architecture was like that of Koshlonsen, simple and elegant, but every structure was built to blend with the trees.

He drifted beyond that place before he could see more, but there were other settlements throughout the heart of the forest. Most were obviously Koorleine, having clearly defined platforms and houses, but other settlements were much more crude and more a part of the trees instead of built onto them, more nests than buildings. Roskin had never seen anything like them, but he knew immediately that they were Loorish, the wild elves who had been driven from their own lands – his kin.