The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (5 page)

“We can camp here tonight, then cross the bridge separately in the morning.”

“Thank you for everything,” Roskin said.

“Remember, the humans expect all dwarves to be engaged in some labor, so always look busy, or you’ll find yourself in chains.”

“I see.”

“Watch yourself. This world is not what you think, and you are worth nothing dead.”

Darkness came early at the base of Keshgheon, and the old dwarf went to sleep shortly after supper. Roskin felt numb and hollow from the day’s excitement, and he wanted to sleep, but the thought of being hunted made him uneasy. He didn’t want Torkdohn to get caught helping him, so he decided to cross the bridge and sneak into Murkdolm during the night. With any luck, he could find Evil Blade and be out of town before anyone knew he was there.

Chapter 3

To Find Evil Blade

Murkdolm is a small town that, prior to the conquest, had served primarily as a resting point between Kehldeon and Sturdeon, but after the Great Empire captured the eastern lands, it became a military outpost to defend against the Resistance. The Ghaldeon part of town was mostly abandoned, yet the stone and mortar structures stood firm even without repair, and the only dwarven buildings still in use were a tavern, two blacksmith shops, and houses. A wooden fort, which housed barracks and an archery range, had been built on a hill southeast of town, and the old dwarven inns had been torn down and rebuilt as brothels and gambling halls for the soldiers. Several taverns had developed near the fort, and they served only humans, for according to law, dwarves were forbidden to eat or drink in the presence of humans.

Roskin first saw the abandoned buildings as he sneaked into town, and at night they were an eerie presence. As one who had grown up surrounded by darkness, Roskin wasn’t bothered by the night, but something about the vacant buildings, with missing doors and broken windows and wind moaning through the holes, made him walk briskly. Lights from the dwarven tavern caught his eye, and he crept along the shadows to take a closer look. Inside, several dwarves sat at different tables in groups of two or three. The barkeep was a middle-age female with a pretty but stern face and auburn hair, and to Roskin she looked tired beyond her years. He peered through the window for several minutes, deciding if the bar was safe. After the day’s excitement, he wanted a drink and, after making sure only dwarves were there, decided to take the risk.

He entered the door and scanned the room, noticing a human stretched out in the floor. His heart skipped a beat at the sight, but then he realized that the man was just an old bum, no one to fear. He found an empty table near the door and sat, propping his backpack in the empty chair beside him. A few of the dwarves closest to him stopped their conversations and stared at him, but most continued as if nothing had changed. The barkeep came to his table and leaned down to him.

“Black beard, you’d better hide those weapons,” she said, pointing to his axe and dagger. “No one in here cares, but if a soldier happened by, you’d not like where you found yourself.”

“I apologize, ma’am.” He tucked each weapon in the folds of his sleeping bag.

“Give me your order.”

“Just ale.”

She returned in a moment with his drink, then checked the other tables. She moved from group to group, not smiling or chatting with the customers, just getting their orders in a perfunctory manner. He had never seen such an unfriendly bartender, and her temperament bothered him. He had hoped to find a conversation, maybe even a warm bed for the night, but he could see that this place offered no tenderness. When she returned, he paid for his ale and asked directions to the inn.

“Hear that Grussard?” she asked, looking sideways at his coin before making change. “This Tredjard wants the inn.”

“Send him to it,” Grussard replied, slapping his friend’s back.

“Maybe we should. At least they’d have someone to play with for a day or two,” the friend returned.

Several dwarves laughed, and it was the first laughter Roskin had heard in the place. He rose from his seat and grabbed his backpack.

“Thank you for the kindness,” he huffed, moving for the door.

“Sit down, pup,” Grussard said. “We’re just having fun.”

“Where I’m from, we treat strangers kindly till they give us reason not to.” His temper was at the boiling point, but he had had enough action for one day and wanted to leave before he had to fight again.

“Tredjards don’t know the first thing about kindness,” the barkeep said through gritted teeth.

“I’m a Kiredurk,” he returned, stopping at the door.

“Of course you are, dark beard,” another dwarf said.

They laughed again.

“Come on, pup. We’ll let you buy the next round. How’s that for kindness?”

Roskin reached for the doorknob, but the door swung open, hitting him in the wounded ear and knocking him backward. Two human soldiers entered the tavern, stooping through the doorway and groaning as they stretched back to full height. Roskin backed away, holding his ear and fighting back tears.

“Good evening, workers for the Great Empire. We have come to collect taxes.”

The dwarves pulled coins from their tunics and purses without question and held the coins in hands raised above their heads. Roskin quickly followed their example, using change the barkeep had given him. One soldier stood by the door while the other dropped the coins into a sack. When the collector reached Roskin, he stopped and called to his companion.

“Look here. A stranger.”

“What’s your labor?” the other guard asked, moving closer.

“I...uh…”

“He’s my new apprentice,” Grussard said, standing and bowing his head. “He’s from Turhjik. Just got here tonight.”

The soldiers seemed satisfied with the answer and moved back towards the door. The one who had collected the money walked to the human passed out on the floor and nudged him with his boot.

“What about it? Where’s your taxes?”

The old man mumbled something unintelligible, and the other soldier covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.

“Here’s his,” the barkeep said, handing the soldier a coin.

After the soldiers left, the dwarves returned to their drinks, but the conversations were held to whispers. Roskin turned to Grussard.

“Thank you.”

“There are Ghaldeons in league with the humans and orcs, but you’ll not find them here,” Grussard said loudly, bringing on a light chorus of cheers. “We are sons and daughters of the Resistance.”

“I am grateful.”

“Good, good. Sit here, pup, and let’s have that drink.”

Roskin nodded and joined Grussard and his two friends. The companions gave a sarcastic toast to the soldiers, and Roskin felt more at ease. He asked about the strange hour for paying taxes, and the dwarves explained that soldiers would come by the tavern every night to collect enough money for their own revelry. As long as the dwarves gave something, the soldiers usually didn’t bother them. If someone didn’t have anything to pay, like the old bum they called Red, someone else always offered to cover them to keep the soldiers from causing trouble.

“But why help that human?” Roskin asked, glancing at the filthy figure curled up on the floor.

“Molgheon, the barkeep there, she lets Red sleep here. He guards us in return, you could say.”

Another round of laughter came from the nearby tables.

“What about it? You really a white beard?” one of the friends asked.

Roskin explained about his mother without saying that his father was king and told that he was traveling to the Loorish Forest to find her. The dwarves commented on the forest and the elves, telling legends about the magical powers of the people. It was said that the elves could read men’s minds and see the future. They lived in the trees and could fly from branch to branch like birds. One of the dwarves asked if Roskin had any of these powers, since he was half elf.

Roskin was taken aback by the question. He had never thought of himself as anything but Kiredurk, even though he had seen the painting of his mother almost every day until he began the mapping. Somehow, he had never thought about being an elf.

“No, I have no magic,” Roskin managed.

“Too bad. That would be fun,” the dwarf replied.

“I’ve had a long day. Is there any place I can sleep tonight?”

“Upstairs,” Grussard said, motioning for Molgheon. “But there’s not a bed. Only the stone floor.”

“More drinks?” she asked without meeting their eyes, just staring into space.

“Can our friend use the upper room? He’s tired from his travel.”

“Just tonight. Don’t need another freeloader.”

“She plays gruff,” Grussard said, play punching her arm. “But she’s a softy.”

“Watch your mouth, smith, or it might get mashed. Now, do you need another round or not?”

“On me, ma’am,” Roskin said, pulling out another of his stepmother’s coins.

“That’s from the old kingdom,” Grussard said, grabbing the coin. “Where’d you get that?”

“It’s mine, smith,” Molgheon said.

“I’ve plenty more,” Roskin said, holding another towards her.

She snatched it quickly and went behind the bar for their drinks. Grussard passed the coin to his friend, who leaned forward to get a better look. Roskin sipped his ale and wondered why the fuss over a coin when the currency of his kingdom was just as ornate and solid.

“Look at those markings,” the friend said, passing it to the other.

“My papaw made coins,” Grussard said, crossing his arms and staring ahead. “Those haven’t been made for eighty-five years.”

“Keep it,” Roskin said.

“Give the pup back his coin,” Grussard said sharply, uncrossing his arms and slamming his hands on the table. “I’ll not rob a dwarf, not even a fool.”

“Really, I have more,” Roskin said, reaching for his purse.

The knife was at his throat before he saw Grussard move, and he held still, not even breathing.

“I don’t need your charity,” the blacksmith said. “Molgheon might short-change you with these coins, but I haven’t fallen that far.”

“Leave me out of it,” the barkeep said, placing their drinks on the table. “And put that blade away. They’ll shut me down.”

“That one coin is worth more than a sack of these flat pieces of tin,” Grussard said, tossing a handful of coins on the table.

“I’m sorry,” Roskin said. “I meant no offense.”

Grussard returned the knife up his sleeve and stood. Roskin let out his breath and felt his neck through the coarse hair of his beard. Several shorn strands had fallen to his lap. Grussard was almost to the door when he turned back to face his friends who were still examining the coin and Roskin who was stunned.

“We may be under their rule, but we ain’t serfs to other dwarves, too.”

“Grussard, look,” one of his friends called, waving wildly. “It’s from the Keshgheon mines. Look at these markings.”

“Shove it.”

“My family might’ve mined this silver. Yours might’ve cast it.”

“A lot of smiths made coins. I’m going home.”

With that he left, and the others were too mesmerized by the coin to talk to Roskin, so the Kiredurk gathered his backpack and asked Molgheon to show him upstairs. She led him up a wooden ladder that passed through a wide hole in the ceiling. The air in the upstairs room was stale and dusty, but it felt more like home to Roskin than the outside. The room was filled with empty crates and barrels and had no furnishings except a square table that was covered with dry-rotted maps of the ancient Ghaldeon kingdom. There were small, round windows on each wall, but very little light came through.

“This is it,” she said. “I’ll let you out in the morning.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t mind Grussard. He’s just proud and stubborn.”

She went back to the ladder and descended with the same detached movements that she used taking and serving drinks. Roskin wondered what made a pretty dwarf like her so cold. As he unrolled the sleeping bag, the axe and dagger fell to the stone floor, and the axe chipped severely in the blade. He cursed under his breath and slid it in his backpack. The dagger was fine, so he crawled inside the bag and kept it by his side. Very shortly the long day was behind him.

Some time in the night, Roskin woke from a presence near him. He sat up quickly and drew the dagger. A large figure lurched backwards and fell into some crates, causing a terrible noise. Roskin jumped to his feet and charged the intruder, but stopped short when he heard a tired, raspy voice beg for mercy.

“What do you want?” Roskin asked.

“Don’t hurt me. I just wanted to see them.”

“See what?” Roskin asked, stepping closer to the figure who he realized was the bum, Red.

“The coins. The dwarves said they were pretty.”

Roskin glanced back and saw the contents of his backpack arranged neatly on the floor, but the purse was on his belt, which relaxed him slightly. Figuring that the old man was not a threat to outrun him, Roskin tossed the purse to Red, telling him to have a look. Red rolled to his side and poured the coins on the floor. Even in the faint light, they glittered brightly, and Red ran his fingers through them. Roskin had never spent much time around the human merchants who came to his kingdom, so he marveled at the intensity with which the man rubbed the coins.