The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (21 page)

As he tried to absorb the designs and layouts of the different settlements, he suddenly dove into the forest and landed softly on the bough of a Loorish home. He sat in the crook of the bough and enjoyed the peacefulness of the forest for what might have been a minute or an hour. Time meant little. His wounds didn’t hurt, and the shame and loneliness of being a slave had melted away. He was simply Roskin, the core of himself.

A pair of hands began stroking his hair, but he didn’t jump from the sensation, for they were the softest touch he had ever felt. If he could have stayed on that bough and let those hands soothe him for the rest of his life, he would have done so. His need for battle and glory was gone, and the Brotherhood was just out of reach of memory. For the first time in many years, he was home.

He turned and looked at the Loorish elf who touched him so, and her smile embraced him warmly. Her intense features – the sharp nose, long chin, smooth cheeks, and thin lips – were as familiar as his own reflection, for he had seen them his whole life. The fierceness of her eyes had faded but had been replaced by hard-won wisdom and understanding. Her smile turned to tears as she wrapped her arms around him.

“My baby boy.”

“Is this a dream? Am I dead?”

“No, I heard your call.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You called for me.”

“But how did I get here?” he asked, looking around at the other nest-like homes.

“We are elves,” she answered. “Your life is bound to ours with a thread stronger than iron. If you listen, you can feel any of your kin.”

“Why didn’t you come?” he asked, his temper flaring. “All those years, you never heard me before.”

She took his face in her hands and held him tenderly.

“I heard you every time, but you didn’t need me until now.”

“I always needed you. You are my mother. I needed you my whole life.”

“No, you were always surrounded by love, and my place was helping others to these woods. This thing I’ve done, bringing you here, is a greater gift than you can know.”

“Am I free from them?”

“I’m afraid not. You’ll have to go back soon.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” she said. “You are dwarf and elf. Your ancestors endured much worse than this.”

“My body is broken,” he said, looking down at the thick underbrush. While the pain was gone, its memory made him shiver. “I’ve been broken.”

“Nonsense! What if your father heard that?”

Roskin shrugged.

“You are the Eleventh Heir to the Eighth Kingdom. Never forget that.”

He nodded and looked into her black eyes. She smiled again, but before he could reach out to her, he began to recede from the bough. In an instant, he was back on the post, needing water but finding himself alone. He wasn’t sure if his mother had been a delusion or not, but he closed his eyes and tried to remember her face and touch.

***

Crushaw sat beside the smoldering campfire and watched the embers fade. Molgheon had gone to scout the plantation, and Vishghu was dozing near the horse and buffalo. He had been trying to understand why he was still terrified of the orcs, but nothing made sense. His heart had never known pity for a foe, and he hated orcs with fervor. He didn’t fear death, but at the moment those orcs had drawn their weapons, his terror had been acute. During his years in battle, he had always wanted an opportunity to face them in fair combat. He was ashamed that when the moment had come, he had not taken it.

Even worse, he could see in Vishghu’s eyes that she didn’t trust going into battle with him. Molgheon was not as judgmental about his cowardice, and he was sure that was because of her experience with war. She had seen her share of valiant dwarves lose their nerves on the field, but Vishghu knew little of war. In her eyes, Crushaw saw that she believed him to be a weakling and a coward, despite how easily he had disarmed her at Kwarck’s gate.

And Crushaw was unsure of himself. In less than twelve hours, he would be on the Slithsythe Plantation surrounded by orcs, and he didn’t know if he would charge into them with foolhardy bloodlust or freeze again. He wanted to believe that given a second chance he would draw his weapon and strike down as many as he could, but he was full of doubt.

Molgheon returned from her scouting and sat beside him. She took a stick and stirred the embers, and sparks popped and rose into the darkness. For a moment, flames washed through the nearly spent wood, but just as quickly, they died, and the coals glowed orange in the winter air.

“Roskin’s there. He’s lashed to a post and hurt bad, poor thing. But I’m afraid there’s bad news, Red,” she said. “This won’t be easy.”

“We knew that.”

“There’s a military outpost on the plantation,” she said, drawing an outline in the dirt. She sketched all the major buildings and the post on which Roskin was tied. “I saw at least thirty soldiers.”

He was silent, considering the makeshift map and calculating a strategy.

“I’ll still follow you in there,” Molgheon continued. “No dwarf should be left to them, but I don’t see a way to make this work.”

“We can figure at least thirty more in the barracks, maybe more,” Crushaw said. “We have at least seven hours until sunlight. Get some sleep. You’ll be sneaking back in just before dawn.”

“I can slip by them easy enough,” she said.

“Good. Get some rest.”

She spread out her sleep sack and crawled inside, and within seconds, light snoring drifted out. Crushaw watched the rise and fall of her breathing, and a heavy sadness settled on him. He had led thousands of soldiers to their deaths, but now, he was leading himself to die at the hands of the masters he had escaped. The cruel irony of it was almost too much, but he would not abandon his friend. Even though it would cost him his own life, he would make sure the dwarf would not remain a slave to orcs. With that thought repeating in his mind, he fell asleep by the fire.

***

When Roskin awoke, he was no longer tied to the post. He had been moved to a cage near the barracks with a bucket of water and a tray of slop on the floor. Night had fallen, and he was still alone, except for the patrols around the perimeter and whatever creatures prowled the grasses at night. His back was raw and throbbed from the fresh wounds that stung almost as badly as the arrow punctures had. He struggled with the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles, but they held firm, offering barely enough slack for him to eat and drink. Despite the tremendous pain, he was famished and would have gladly eaten a second helping.

As he ate, his thoughts turned to his adventures. He had been foolish to chase glory. His life, which now seemed to belong to someone else about whom he had read, had been good, but in his vanity, he had wanted more. Now, he resigned himself to this fate. He would do anything to never feel this pain again.

His thoughts drifted back even more. When he had been ten, he had watched his father and the Council banish a Kiredurk who refused to do his share of labor. The dwarf had lived in a township just outside of Dorkhun and came from a long line of expert miners, but he had no desire to follow in the family business. He had wanted to be a bard and travel the Kingdom singing tales of yore. Unfortunately, he had been tone-deaf and a poor musician, so no one had wanted him to play even in the lowest of taverns. Still, the dwarf had believed that because he had this passion for singing and playing, he shouldn’t have to do physical labor. Roskin vividly remembered the exchange between the dwarf and the Council.

“My boy,” King Kraganere had said. “You are not a musician. I can’t allow you to pursue this career. It’s not in the best interest of the Kingdom.”

“Your Excellency, I cannot subsist in the mines. I am an artist.”

“Do you paint or sculpt or write poetry?” Master Londragheon, a council member, had asked.

“No ma’am. I am only a bard.”

“But you can’t sing well,” she had returned. “You can’t earn a living doing something poorly.”

“I’m a poor miner, too.”

“Then, you do not have to be a miner,” the king had responded. “Find something else you do well.”

“But I love music.”

“Loving something is not enough to pursue a career. You must exhibit some capacity for it,” Master Sondious, another council member, had said.

“Perhaps you could try another art,” the king had offered.

“With all due respect, your Majesty, I don’t want to try anything else. I’ve found my love.”

“No one is telling you not to play music as a hobby, but you are not a professional,” Master Londragheon had said.

“My boy, we are not in the habit of expelling Kiredurks as young as you,” the king had said. “Will you return to your township and try something else? You can even stay in Dorkhun or any other city, but you cannot claim music as your profession. Will you try this?”

The young dwarf shook his head.

“Then you leave us no choice but to expel you to Rugraknere. Will you please reconsider?”

“I’ll leave. I’ll be a bard among the outcasts.”

“May your passage be peaceful. This consideration is closed,” the king had said, striking his silver hammer against a small bell.

The noise had hung in the air as the council members and the king filed out of the Hall. The young dwarf had stayed put, shuffling his feet on the polished marble floor. Roskin had stayed, too, feeling sorry for the exile. He had believed his father’s ruling unjust and had tried to get it reversed. He had believed that everyone should be able to choose any path they wanted, without interference from an outside force, but now, he saw that he and the young dwarf had been guided by immature indulgences.

“People should never feel above the whole,” his father had said. “And they should not be so blinded by vanity that they fail to see their limitations.”

His own vanity had brought him to this point, and he would probably never get to tell his father that he had finally learned the lesson of that banishment. The thought made him so wretched that he wanted to be done with it all. Eventually, he drifted back to sleep and slept fitfully till the sun rose. He had hoped to dream more about his mother, but his dreams had been disjointed and unmemorable. When he reawakened, the lowly orcs were feeding the leisure slaves, and their jeers were eerily welcome to him.

A handful of the lowly orcs came to his cage and tossed leftovers at him. He scooped up what he could and shoveled it in his mouth, and as he did, the orcs laughed and tossed rotten, greasy vegetables at him. For a moment, his temper flared, but he didn’t want to upset them and bring back the overseer’s wrath. He would gladly endure this mild ridicule to avoid that. The orcs soon grew bored with him and continued on to their day’s labor. Roskin picked the chunks of rot from his skin and pants and tried to get comfortable, but his back made comfort nearly impossible.

About an hour after breakfast, three soldiers came to his cage and opened it. Two stood on either side of the door with their swords trained on him, and the third stepped inside and hissed at him in orcish. Not knowing what was being said, Roskin stood and hoped to appear obedient. The orc pushed him out of the cage, and the hand on his back almost dropped Roskin to his knees. Grinding his teeth, the dwarf maintained upright posture and walked forward. The two orcs kept their swords on him the entire way to the leisure slave cage, where several other soldiers had already forced the slaves away from the entrance. After the shackles were removed, Roskin was shoved through the entrance and fell face first onto the hard ground.

The door slammed shut, and the orcs secured the lock within seconds. Roskin tried to stand, but the pain wouldn’t let him. He could see the Tredjards gathering around him, and he was sure that they were going to kill him as retribution for the dwarf he had impaled. He didn’t want to die without fighting back, but he couldn’t push himself up. Any movement from that position sent blinding pain through him, so he braced for the kicks and stomps that were sure to come.

“Welcome back, tall one,” the dwarf with crazy eyes said, kneeling in front of him. “I’m not usually one to say it, but I told you so.”

“Get it over with,” Roskin said. “I can’t fight back.”

“Get what over with?”

“Kill me. Just get it over with.”

“For what? For Sweeger?”

“Poor Sweeger,” another dwarf said. “He never saw it coming.”

Several other dwarfs murmured agreement.

“You did what you had to, tall one. We’ll not kill you for that,” crazy eyes said. “Let’s get you up, now.”

More gently than he would have believed from fighting with them, Roskin was lifted up and carried inside by the leisure slaves. They laid him on his side and covered his back with what pieces of cloth they had. He closed his eyes and drifted in and out of sleep. While awake, he was aware of the dwarves huddled around him like his attendants had been whenever he caught a cold, and while asleep, he dreamed of the mines and of shimmering jewels in torchlight.

***

Crushaw woke three hours before sunrise, but he had never slept more than four or five hours the eve of a battle. He cooked breakfast for all three, replaying his strategy and visualizing what he had to do. When the food was ready, he woke the others and, as they ate, explained his plan. Molgheon was to find a high point and cover them. He and Vishghu would enter as master and slave, and he would use the story of looking for his stolen dwarf. Of course, the orcs would deny having any such property, and he would raise enough of a ruckus to attract several soldiers. Then, he would start the fight, and Vishghu would get to Roskin and free him as fast as she could. Once the dwarf was unchained, Molgheon would slip out to the west, and Vishghu would take Roskin east. Crushaw would flee south, allowing Vishghu and Molgheon to loop back north and make for the wilds.