The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (6 page)

“Pretty indeed, white beard,” Red said.

“What makes you think I’m a Kiredurk, stranger?”

“Your axe. Only white beards carry that kind.”

For a moment Roskin was impressed, but then he realized that the man had likely heard him telling the others downstairs. He stepped closer, keeping the dagger in his hand, and knelt beside the human, who stank of stale beer and filth.

“Would you like to earn a couple of those?”

“I’m old and feeble.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need labor. I’m looking for someone.”

“My memory is not so good.”

“Do you know the exiled general?”

“The one the ogres call Evil Blade?”

“The same.”

“He’s dead,” Red said sadly. “Three years ago.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

Red described how the general lived in a wooden shack just outside the fort. During a long freeze, the dishonored man took a cough that got worse and worse until the guards were tired of hearing it day and night. They drug him from his home and left him in the ice and snow to die. He stayed alive through the day, but that night, his cough went silent. When sunrise came, the guards saw that wolves had drug off and eaten the body. Only bloody rags were found in the woods.

Roskin sat down in disbelief. The notion that Evil Blade was not here had never entered his mind. He had been so sure of his plan that he hadn’t considered any alternative, yet here he was at a dead end. Without the general to get him inside the castle, he might never reclaim the treasure. This can’t be happening, he thought.

“I still get my coins. I did what you asked.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know him?” Red asked, sorting through the money to find two he liked.

“No. Did you?”

“Yes. Oh yes. He was a great general. I served with him against the ogres.”

“Really? Do you know of his fortress?”

“You can’t make me go there,” Red whimpered, rolling away with his coins. The other pieces still shimmered on the floor.

“It’s okay. I won’t.”

“Bad place. Bad things happen there.”

“Like what?”

Red described the torture chambers, designed by Evil Blade himself specifically for ogres. He told of watching the ogres struggle to escape as part by part their bodies were maimed and broken and of hearing their screams that sounded unreal echoing through the halls, screams he could hear even now. Roskin shuddered at the images and thought of the ogres he had known, of their hatred for that man. It seemed wrong that they would never get their justice. Even though he was dead, he had never been punished properly.

Roskin returned the other coins to the purse and hung it from his belt. He was unsure of the time but still felt tired, so he told Red that he was going back to sleep. Red asked if he could stay upstairs, and Roskin said yes but also reminded the old man of the dagger. Red fell asleep quickly, wheezing and snoring in the dark, but Roskin barely noticed, falling asleep easily himself.

He awoke again long after sunrise and found his equipment repacked. Red was not upstairs, and Roskin pulled some dried meats from his pack and had breakfast alone. He wouldn’t abandon his plan for the Brotherhood, but without Evil Blade, he had no idea where to begin. The old man would be no help, and Roskin didn’t know if anyone else had even been to the fortress. Not only that, he was sure few people knew the secret passages. If he did find someone who could show him inside, how would he get them to help? The dead ends seemed endless, so he decided to put the problem from his mind and focus on something he could fix, like the cracked axe.

After finishing breakfast, he put more salve on his ear, wincing as his fingers touched the tender skin. After rolling up the sleeping bag and slipping on the loaded backpack, he went down the ladder to find Molgheon cleaning the tavern. She didn’t acknowledge that he was there, so he went to the window to look at the town in daylight. To his surprise, he saw Torkdohn driving the wagon up the street. Roskin wanted to step outside and greet his friend, but he knew that might cause problems for the merchant, especially after word reached town about the slain orcs. Perhaps they would meet again, and Roskin would have the opportunity to say a proper farewell to the dwarf.

The abandoned buildings looked much less eerie in daylight, and Roskin admired the masonry. Murkdolm had been founded by a Ghaldeon named Murkdol some seven hundred years earlier. The dwarf had been a disgruntled nephew of the king and had been asked to leave Sturdeon, so he had traveled west. The original house that he had built and used as an inn still stood by the river. The dark gray blocks were carved from dolerite, and each block was a two foot square. The rows were straight and tight, with no blocks out of line, and the mortar bonds were even and smooth, having very few cracks of any significance. The other buildings had been built during Murkdol’s lifetime and followed the same architecture and materials. They ranged from one to three stories, and a couple were close to a hundred feet in length. Roskin tried to imagine the town before the conquest, the energy and industry that must have existed even in this small town and the pride the dwarves must have felt. He remembered vividly the pride he had felt at seeing the doors of the Kireghegon Halls, and for a moment, he felt the same about the withering town of Murkdolm. He studied the buildings for a few more minutes, trying to guess what each structure had been, but his imagination failed, and he decided to see about fixing his axe.

“Where’s Grussard’s shop? I need to repair something,” he said to Molgheon.

“Up the road a bit,” she said, not looking up from the metal tankards that she was scrubbing. “Red can show you.”

“Where’s he?”

“Out back with a bottle. You shouldn’t give him no more money. He’ll be drunk for weeks, the poor thing.”

Roskin excused himself and went outside to find the old man, who was standing in a small plaza and facing north. Roskin had to shield his eyes from the sun as he opened the back door, and at first he could only see the old man’s silhouette. Standing erect in daylight, Red looked imposing to the young dwarf for a moment. He was at least a foot and a half taller than Roskin and didn’t look as frail as he had curled up on the floor. His tangled, gray hair nearly reached his waist, and his beard touched his chest. His face was splotched with scars across his forehead and cheeks, but his eyes, though bloodshot, were fierce and bold in the morning light. He turned to the dwarf and smiled, revealing a full set of dirty teeth.

“Morning, young master,” Red said, holding the bottle, which was two thirds full, towards Roskin. His voice, while still raspy and thin, was much stronger than during the night. “Care for a taste of Murkdolm’s best whiskey. I bought a whole crate.”

“No thanks. I was hoping you could lead me to Grussard’s shop.”

“For you, anything, but that axe is beyond repair.”

With that, Red turned and started down the alley, walking with a determined stride that Roskin would have never believed possible. The dwarf struggled to keep pace as Red passed by the stone houses, and when they reached the blacksmith’s shop, Roskin was slightly winded. Red sat on a wooden bench by the side door and took a drink from his bottle. Roskin hesitated for a moment, then entered the building. The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal filled the room, and he watched as Grussard fashioned the blade of a broadsword. When the shape was to his satisfaction, Grussard dipped the sword in a barrel of black water, causing a sharp hiss and a puff of steam. He hung the blade on a hook and reached for another piece of metal but stopped when he saw Roskin in the doorway.

“Morning,” Grussard said flatly.

Without speaking, Roskin pulled out his axe and extended it to the blacksmith. Grussard took it and looked at the cracked weapon for a couple of seconds. Then, he tossed the weapon on a junk pile, muttering something about Kiredurk weapons that Roskin didn’t completely catch.

“I need an axe,” Roskin said.

“I can see that. What do you expect from me?”

“I want to buy one.”

“Well, I know you can afford it, but I can’t make any axes. That’s the law.”

“And a son of the Resistance always obeys.”

“Watch it, pup.”

“What can you make that I could wield?”

Grussard went to the far wall and fingered through several swords, finding a blade that was just over two feet long. He removed the sword from its hook and tested the balance by swinging it in a figure eight several times. He smiled proudly and handed it to Roskin, who hadn’t held a sword since Bordorn had taught him almost ten years before.

“A fine sword for your height,” Grussard said. “But it’s not yet very sharp.”

“How much?”

“Five of those old coins.”

“Sounds steep by your reasoning last night.”

“It is, but the price of selling arms to dwarves is my life, so it’s five coins or nothing.”

Tucking the sword under his arm, Roskin opened his purse and saw that he only had six coins total, so he made an offer of three. Grussard laughed and looked at the broken axe on his scrap pile, scratching his beard and humming a tune unfamiliar to Roskin. Both dwarves stood without talking for nearly a minute.

“Tell you what,” Grussard said, taking the sword back from Roskin. “Make it four coins, and I’ll give you some of the local currency to get you around.”

“Agreed.”

“Come back in a bit. I need to sharpen this thing and find something for you to carry it in. And I’ll take half my pay now.”

Roskin gave Grussard the two coins and went outside to get Red to show him to a tailor’s house to get local clothing. The old man was still on the bench, and the bottle was less than half full. His speech had become slurred, and he wobbled when he stood.

“May I?” Roskin asked, reaching for the bottle.

“Sure. Anything for you, my good friend.”

Roskin corked the bottle and slipped it into a small sack on his belt.

“That’s mine. I paid for it.”

“I’ll let you have it back, but take me to the tailor’s.”

“Okay, but that’s my whiskey. I’ll not be swindled.”

“Just lead the way.”

Red looked around at the buildings, trying to get his bearings, but the liquor was doing its job too well. He sat back on the bench and closed his eyes. Roskin helped him lay on the bench, and he began muttering about some battle he had been in long ago. Disgusted, Roskin left the old man there and started back to Molgheon’s place. She could give him directions, and by the time he could get fitted, the sword would be ready. Then, he would pick up and pay for the clothes and feel less conspicuous. On the way, he got lost twice and had to backtrack to find the right alleys. As he neared the tavern, the dark fear began to rise, not as suddenly as with the orcs but steadily nonetheless, and as he reached the back entrance, he heard human voices coming from inside. He crept to one of the rear windows and peeked inside.

Several guards were there in full arms, and two were badgering her about where the stranger had gone. For her part, Molgheon kept repeating that he had left before sunrise and that she knew nothing else. Roskin wanted to help her, fearing that they were about to get violent, but he had no weapon, save the dagger, and there were too many of them to grapple, so he watched as the interrogation continued. To his surprise, the humans didn’t touch her, despite raising their voices and knocking chairs from the tables.

“He was just passing through,” she said. “He paid me a few coins to sleep upstairs.”

“Dwarf, if we find out you are lying, we’ll tear this place to pieces.”

“Yeah. He’s worth a lot to the slave trader, which means he’s worth a lot to us. You wouldn’t want us to have to collect that money from you, right?”

“I got no reason to help a dark beard,” Molgheon said, still not showing any emotion.

“That’s good. You’ve always been good, for a dwarf.”

“If you remember anything, let us know. We’ll consider it a favor, if you understand.”

“I’m loyal to the Great Empire,” she said, staring down.

The two soldiers in charge barked instructions at the others, telling them to pair off and search the whole town, but Roskin didn’t wait to hear everything. He hurried back down the alley towards Grussard’s shop and made the right turns this time. Red was asleep on the bench, wheezing in a steady rhythm, and Roskin shook him mightily. The old man coughed from deep in his chest and slowly opened his eyes.

“I need out of town,” Roskin said.

“Follow the road.”

“Wake up, you old fool. I’m in trouble. Help me.”

“Where’s my bottle? Give me my bottle.”

“I’ll give you the bottle when I’m safe.”

“That’s not fair. I paid for it myself.”

“I don’t have time for this. The soldiers are after me for killing three orcs.”

“Orcs!” Red growled, stumbling to his feet. “Where? I’ll tear them apart.”

“I already killed them.”

“You killed them all?”

“I think, but the soldiers are after me.”

“I’ll help you kill more orcs,” Red said, his eyes wide and his nostrils flared.