The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (22 page)

“What about you?” Vishghu asked.

“If I escape, I’ll catch up to you.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Your duty is fulfilled.”

“I’m not used to leaving soldiers behind, Red,” Molgheon said, staring hard at him.

“We both know the odds,” Crushaw said, not returning her gaze and falling silent.

Sunrise was still a couple of hours away, and the sounds of the wilderness punctuated his silence. Vishghu went to her buffalo and brushed its thick fur. The beast snorted and stamped from the pleasure. Crushaw sharpened his sword, and Molgheon waxed the string on her bow and checked her arrows. Nearly half an hour later, Crushaw broke their silence:

“You should get going. Find the highest point you can. Wait for my signal before you fire.”

“Fight well, Red.”

“Don’t get caught. Our success depends on cover. Protect Vishghu until she and Roskin are on their way.” When he finished with the instructions, he handed Roskin’s sword to her. “He will want this. Tell him to swing a sword, not sling an axe.”

After strapping the sword to her belt, Molgheon shook his hand and then disappeared across the grasses. Crushaw rose from his seat and moved to Vishghu. The ogre had finished grooming her mount and was packing camp.

“When I draw my sword, you head for Roskin. Don’t look back, and don’t stop.”

“I’ll do
my
part.”

“When you return to your people, tell them whatever you want about me.”

Vishghu turned and finished packing. Crushaw went to the horse and removed his uniform from the sack. He dressed slowly, making sure that his aketon and hauberk were secure and that the gambeson looked neat and official. When satisfied with the fit of the uniform, he spread out the knives and axes on the ground. Using long pieces of leather cord, he tied one knife to each boot along the inside of his calves. Then, he strapped the other two to the lower side of the vambrace on each forearm. The throwing axes were attached to the right side of his belt, and his sword was sheathed to the left.

“Keep your eyes to the ground. Slaves are never supposed to make eye contact with their masters. Always call me ‘master’ or ‘sir.’ Act like you’ve just been scolded by your mother.”

“I can do
that
.” Vishghu smiled in spite of herself.

“We only need to keep up the ruse for a few minutes, but if they find us out too early, the whole plan is shot.”

They snuffed out the embers of their fire, and packed the gear on the horse and buffalo. Then, they led the beasts to a sturdy swamp chestnut oak along the edge of a marsh. The tree stood seventy feet high and was two feet thick at the trunk. Its lowest branches were twenty feet from the ground and formed a low crown that spread out like syrup. During his long days in the sugarcane, Crushaw had looked at trees like these with the ache of a lonely sailor. Their distant shade hinted at a life of leisure. If he had come to this land under different circumstances, he would have enjoyed a day by this tree with a pretty companion and a soft blanket, but as it were, its shade would have to wait for him.

“If we’re lucky,” he said. “Our mounts won’t get eaten while we’re gone.”

“Maybe luck will fall our way.”

“Maybe.”

They secured the reins to the trunk and started towards the plantation, which was several miles away. The sun was still an hour and a half from rising, and Crushaw wanted to reach the perimeter just after daylight, so they walked at a crisp but measured pace. As they traveled, he silently rehearsed his part, imagining the conversation and thinking of insults and gestures that would attract soldiers without instigating violence. He wanted a crowd, but he wanted them to be passive until he drew his sword.

When the plantation came into view, his heart froze at the sight of the fields and the big house. Other than the barracks, the layout of this place was much like the Seershythe, and as he scanned the horizon, he instantly found where Molgheon had hidden, even though he couldn’t see her. A hundred yards from the barracks and the house, a water tower with a concave roof to collect rain stood fifty feet high. It was a perfect spot for an archer to shoot from without being seen. He also saw the post where Roskin had been tied, but the dwarf was no longer there. His heart froze again.

“They’ve moved him,” he said.

“Where to?” They were very near the watchtowers at the main gate.

“I don’t know. I don’t see him.”

“What should we do?”

“He’ll either be in the field hand shack or the leisure slave pen,” Crushaw said, pointing at both structures. “Look there as quickly as you can. I’ll lead the soldiers in the opposite direction.”

“Halt and state your business,” an orc hissed in orcish.

“I am an emissary from the Great Empire who seeks council with the lords of this house,” Crushaw responded in common, not wanting his dialect to ruin the disguise again.

“What did he say?” the orc asked its partner.

“Who knows? Call the Captain. He speaks the barbaric tongue.”

The first orc climbed down from the tower and scurried towards the barracks. It returned shortly with a squat orc that limped severely on its left leg.

“What about this?” the orc captain asked in poor common.

Crushaw repeated his statement.

“What business about this?”

“My business is with your lords.”

“Keep your eyes on them,” the captain said to the other two. “I’ll be back with the major.”

The captain limped to the big house and returned with a tall and slim orc who seemed more practiced in bookkeeping than warfare. The captain followed him at a close distance.

“How may I serve you?” the orc major asked in very fluent common.

“I have traveled from Koshlonsen in search of my property. If your graciousness permits, I ask admittance to your lands.”

“What property have you lost here?”

“A good servant was stolen from me, not by your hands, but by a rock-brain from the western mountains. I seek council with your lords to discuss this matter.”

“I can assure you, we have no stolen property here.”

“Of course not. You are honest business owners, as am I. That is why I intend to greatly compensate you for your expenses with this property, by authority of Emperor Vassa, may her shadow grow long in the east.”

“Follow me. You may speak with my lords shortly.”

Crushaw followed the orc major close enough to smell the sourness of its sweat. He had a knot in his stomach, and his heart thudded against his sternum. The self doubt was still there, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to strike at them when the time came. He kept thinking that none of them knew that he was once a slave and that by orcish law the brand on his hip meant he still belonged to the Seershythe. All that was keeping him from a return to bondage was a thin piece of cloth.

Then, another thought came to him. Nothing could ever keep him a slave. No orc or emperor or bottle would take freedom from him again. He was Crushaw, First General of Black Rock Fortress, Butcher of the Northern Plains, Evil Blade. These orcs might take his life, but before they could, he would show them fury they had never imagined.

“Wait here,” the orc major said, stopping at the steps.

Crushaw nodded at the major and turned to Vishghu:

“It’s almost time,” he whispered. “When I start talking to the lords, you start slowly moving towards the field-hands’ building.”

Vishghu nodded slightly.

The major returned shortly, leading two orcs that were several years older than Crushaw. Their bent frames moved unsteadily to the top of the steps, where they stopped to wait for Crushaw to address them. As was orcish custom, strangers were never allowed inside the big house on their first visit. Orcs trusted few of their own race, and even fewer of others. Crushaw, blatantly dropping the courtesy he had shown the major, insulted the lords by not moving to the second step. Instead, he stayed on the ground and spoke much too loud.

“You have in your possession a dwarf that rightly belongs to me.”

Vishghu took a step back from Crushaw, but the orcs didn’t notice her, for their attention was riveted on him.

“All of our slaves bear our brand,” the nearest lord said, his tone showing his disdain for the human. “We comply with all orcish laws.”

“He has a dark beard with white streaks and a mangled ear. I demand my dwarf at once.”

“Major, escort this pig from our lands. Then, return to my office,” the second lord said in orcish.

“Stand back, major,” Crushaw said, switching to orcish. “I won’t go so easily.”

“Kill him, major,” the first lord said briskly.

“Guards!” the major called, pulling his sword.

Crushaw waited until several soldiers were within a few yards before he drew his sword. His breathing steadied, his heart rate slowed, and the clearness of thought came over him as it had so many times before. He studied the approaching guards to determine his striking order, and as they got within range, a smile crossed his lips.

“I’ve never tasted orc blood,” he whispered. “But tonight I drink my fill.”

Chapter 13

Unbridled Fury

From her vantage point atop the water tower, Molgheon watched Crushaw’s sword flash from its sheath and decapitate the nearest orc. Within seconds, the entire platoon lay dead. Vishghu had run towards the field-hands’ shack, and as the ogre ran, Molgheon launched arrows at the few soldiers who tried to stop her. Each arrow found its mark with stunning accuracy. Once Vishghu reached the building and went inside, Molgheon turned back to Crushaw, who was slaying another platoon. He had gotten onto the wrap-around porch of the big house and was forcing the unseasoned soldiers to funnel to him in pairs. The veterans didn’t fall for his trick and were retrieving long-handled halberds and pikes from the barracks, but Molgheon shot several dead as they came out the door, keeping the old man’s advantage.

Vishghu came out of the shack alone and ran back across the open space, moving to the leisure slaves’ cage. Again, Molgheon covered the ogre as she ran, but only a couple of orcs paid any attention to her. Most were too focused on trying to protect the big house. When Vishghu reached the cage, Molgheon glanced back at Crushaw, and he had reached the eastern side of the house, still using the porch to funnel the orcs. As he backpedaled, the aged general sliced and drew and thrust at the soldiers that chased him, and with each orc that fell, his face contorted more with rage, as if their deaths were insults.

But he was getting tired. His sword was not flashing as quickly, and his cheeks were flushed. Molgheon had to act quickly, or he would be engulfed. While she had been waiting in the dark, she had affixed a rope to one of the top posts to give herself a quick escape, and now, she rose from her hiding spot and rappelled down the side of the tower. Once on the ground, she ran towards the fallow sugarcane fields, looking for a mass of slaves, and found a large group turning the hard earth with hoes. Around them, two overseers popped their whips on the slaves’ bare backs, trying to control the chaos.

“Keep working, filthy swine!” one overseer yelled.

“Don’t mind nothing,” the other called. “Keep your eyes down.”

As she ran, Molgheon strapped her bow to her back and drew Roskin’s sword. She thrust it into the neck of one, and it slumped to its knees, coughing and spitting blood. The other turned towards her, its mouth agape and the whip limp by its side, but before it could move, a Tredjard smashed its head with the sharp hoe. The orc staggered sideways, fumbling for the gash in its skull. As it fell, several other dwarves hacked at it with their hoes.

“My kin,” Molgheon yelled, raising the sword. “We’ve come to free you.”

“Follow the warrior,” the Tredjard who had struck down the overseer shouted to the others. “We are their dogs no more.”

With that she turned and ran towards the area where she had last seen Crushaw. As they went, other field-hands saw them, and those not being guarded by overseers immediately joined the makeshift army. The ones being guarded turned on their field masters, using whatever tools they happened to hold. By the time Molgheon reached the big house, she had been joined by dozens of Tredjards, Koorleines, and humans. Before them, the trail of dead orcs stretched around the house and to the east, where scores of those still living chased Crushaw.

“To the orcs!” Molgheon called, waving her troops forward.

The freed slaves charged them, shouting their native war cries as they went. The mixture of cries grew into a roar of its own, and the sound crashed into the rear of the orcs’ line, causing several to turn around as the wave reached them. As Molgheon rushed into their line, she saw their fear turn to disbelief from the surprise of a slave uprising.

***

Vishghu reached the leisure slave cage and was greeted by a dozen Tredjards who were pressed against the bars, trying to see the chaos near the big house. She was sure that Crushaw had already been killed, which meant that at any minute the entire orc battalion would be upon her. Since she didn’t have much time, she scanned the crowd for Roskin, and when she didn’t see him, she stepped to the door and looked at the lock and hinges.