The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (9 page)

“Archers,” Molgheon hissed. “Move it.”

As Roskin hoisted Bordorn onto the bed, a blinding pain ripped through his back, and he fell forward against the wood. He tried to crawl in beside his friend, but the pain burst again in his shoulder, knocking him to his knees. The wagon’s bed slipped from his fingers, and the soggy ground smacked him on the chin. He tried to stand, but his body was frozen from the two molten embers, and Roskin passed out from the pain.

Chapter 5

Into the Land of the Outcasts

Roskin awoke in a soft bed with the scent of powder all around him; his dreams had been strange and much too long – mice gnawing on his back and shoulder and a sprite from the deep washing his beard. It was dark in his room, that familiar black darkness of the underground, and he was glad to be home. He wanted to get out of bed, but his limbs were heavy and stiff from sleep, so he lay still and listened to the darkness. Across the room, labored breathing ground in and out, in and out. It was strange for someone to be sleeping in his room, and he was curious to learn who it was.

He tried to sit up, but a sharp tightness in his back and shoulder froze him, so instead he turned his head in that direction. As he stared across the room, his grogginess lessened, and he realized that the darkness was not that of underground but of thick blankets covering the room’s windows. He could just make out a faint iridescence where blanket and sill were not flush. The realization broke his heart, for he understood that he wasn’t in his bedroom in the safety of Dorkhun, and his stepmother and siblings weren’t down the hall waiting to have breakfast with him. Even worse, he had no idea where he was or how he got there.

He remembered the scuffle with the guards of the southern gate and the fight with the orcs. Torkdohn, the tavern, Molgheon, and Grussard all came back slowly. The blacksmith was dead because of him. He remembered Red and the bridge, how they barely escaped capture, and the wagon in the mud, how they struggled to push it to the road. Then, there was a fight, and he had killed several men. No, only two or three. Molgheon and Bordorn had killed the rest, but Bordorn had fallen and was bloody all over. He had wanted to get Bordorn to safety, but then his memory became a blur of images that wouldn’t quite connect. There were a voice shouting and a lot of bouncing. Then, he was drifting through his kingdom, mapping it all again. At some point, a beautiful woman was bathing him and pouring liquid in his mouth, and he wanted to marry her. Maybe that was the story his father used to tell about his elfish mother. He didn’t know.

He tried to call out, wanting anyone to come to him and tell him if Bordorn was alive or if Red and Molgheon had escaped, but his mouth and throat were too dry. He could summon only a whisper. He moved his right arm above his head and felt along the mattress’s edge for something to bang, but the wall was stone, and he couldn’t reach the bed’s rail. He reached out from the bed and felt a small stand beside it, so he grabbed an edge and pushed as hard as he could. The stand rocked just enough to send something clattering to the floor. A moment later, footsteps neared the door, and suddenly light flooded the room, causing him to shut his eyes and roll his head away.

“He’s awake,” a female voice said.

“Water,” he said, hardly more than a murmur.

“Fetch him a drink,” a male voice said. Roskin didn’t recognize either one.

“Can you see?” the male dwarf asked, picking up the metal pan that had fallen from the stand.

“Too bright,” Roskin answered.

“Good. That’s good. You are very lucky, young Tredjard. Those arrows almost took you.”

“Arrows?”

“You were shot. Twice.”

The other dwarf returned with a wooden cup of water and held it to his lips. His pupils had adjusted to the light, and he could see her face, but she was not the woman in his dreams. He held the water in his mouth and swallowed slowly, letting only small sips down his throat.

“You’ve been here for two weeks, barely awake at all till now.”

“Where are the others?”

“Molgheon and Red are downstairs,” the female said. “Bordorn is in that bed, sleeping like you.”

“He’s alive?”

“Barely,” the male replied. “We’ll see.”

“I’ll get the others,” the female said.

She left the room, and the other dwarf sat in a chair. Roskin stared at the ceiling. Grussard was already dead, Molgheon was a refugee, and Bordorn was nearly dead all because he wanted to steal a statue. He didn’t even need the riches it would bring. The thrill and glory were all he wanted, and shame filled him. But even as he cried softly, he remembered the story of the Brotherhood and couldn’t let go of the need to have it. The others would be there soon, so he wiped his eyes with his right hand and tried to compose himself.

Molgheon entered the room first but did not smile when she saw him. In fact, Roskin had never seen her smile. She always held that look of stern concentration. He held out his hand, but she did not take it. Instead, she moved a stool beside the bed and sat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Just rest,” she said. “Save your strength.”

“Young master,” Red said, kneeling at the foot of the bed. His beard and hair had been washed and trimmed, and he wore a new set of clothes. “Thank all that’s good.”

“That soldier called you Crushaw,” Roskin said, remembering.

“Crushaw is gone. I am Red.”

“You said ‘Just take me.’ You...”

“Let it go, Roskin,” Molgheon said sharply.

Roskin looked at her, and her eyes burned with anger. He apologized to Red, but in his heart he knew the old man was lying. He had found Evil Blade, and a resurgence of conviction seized him. Grussard shouldn’t die in vain, he reasoned, not with the one who could show him the fortress there at hand.

Much as he had told and retold the story of Roskin on the bridge, Red launched into an explanation of the second wave of soldiers. When Roskin was struck by the arrows and slumped to the ground, Red had almost left him, believing the dwarf already dead, but Molgheon ordered him to remain because she refused to leave anyone behind for the humans to defile, dead or alive. Then, she pretended to surrender by lying in the bed and making Red raise his arms above his head. As the seven archers marched up the hill, she took a bottle from Red’s stash and stuffed a piece of dry cloth in the neck, letting the whiskey soak the cotton. When the soldiers were within range, she lit the cloth with her flint and steel, still lying face down in the bed and using Bordorn’s body as a shield. One of the archers called for her to stand and turn slowly, and she did stand but spun quickly and tossed the bottle into the middle of them. It shattered on a rock, and the whiskey-fire sprayed the soldiers. She grabbed Roskin’s sword and finished them off as they scrambled to put out the flames that had ignited the cotton padding beneath their mail.

Red helped get Roskin in the wagon, and they raced to the nearest village, which was a logging camp on the border of the conquered lands and Rugraknere. The loggers sent for their healers, who often had to deal with accidents from saws and axes, and somehow, the two dwarves were saved. Bordorn had not yet regained consciousness, but he was stable and had a good chance to make it.

“You’ll be sore for awhile,” said the male healer, who Molgheon introduced as Beshnic. He was somewhat older than Roskin, and a round belly bulged over his belt, and his fingers were thick and stubby. “But I don’t think you’ll be disabled. You were terribly lucky.”

“Indeed,” Red added.

Molgheon made the two stop talking and told Roskin that he needed nourishment. Since it was a couple of hours after dinner and several before supper, she sent Beshnic to find leftovers and asked Red to help him. When they were gone, she unrolled a corner of the blanket to let in light and shut the door.

“Why were you in Murkdolm?” she asked.

“I was passing through.”

“Is that so? And that’s why you were looking for the general?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Red told me, poor thing, why you paid him.”

“I was just curious,” he said, sure that the statue would not appease her.

“If you ever again accuse that old man of being that monster, I’ll rip out your tongue myself. I’ve known him for ten years, and in all that time, he never caused as much trouble for me or my friends as you caused in two days. Are we clear?”

“Molgheon, please. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“No one ever does.”

“Where is your husband?” Roskin asked, hoping to end that conversation.

“Dead.”

“When? How? I want to know about you.”

“It’s none of your business. I’m only here because they were coming to hang me beside Grussard. We’re not friends.”

With that, she left the room, and Roskin stared after her, torn between shame and anger. He knew she was right about the trouble, but he also knew that Red was not a helpless old man. Things hadn’t gone the way he had hoped, but he would make them right, and she would see.

It took two days for him to get out of bed, and when he finally did, his back and shoulder were so sore that he had to walk gingerly. For the first week, he couldn’t go more than a few feet without succumbing to the pain, but each day he made it a little further, and by the end of the second week, he could almost circle the town at a regular pace. During that time, Bordorn woke from the long sleep, but he was in a pitiful condition. His right arm was amputated just below the elbow, and he had lost so much blood that he was pale and weak, scarcely able to speak. While Red spent most of his time at the tavern, Molgheon stayed with Bordorn each day, helping the healers clean his wounds and keeping his spirits bright.

Roskin was moved from the original room, which was reserved only for patients in critical condition. The family of the female healer, who lived down the street from the infirmary, had taken him in and was helping him rehabilitate. Their house was modest, a one story brick building with a storm cellar that smelled of mold and stagnant water, and they were not very diligent housekeepers. A coating of dust covered all the furniture, and whenever anyone would sit or stand, a thin fog of particles would swirl around that person. In the mornings, Roskin would sneeze for ten minutes before getting out of bed, and his sinuses stayed inflamed and stuffy all day. Decades of clutter littered every room – books, letters, bric-a-brac, folk art, tools, and junk. The house was like a bizarre, unorganized museum, but the kitchen was simply a horror from years of poor cleaning.

Even so, Roskin grew to love the family. The patriarch, Dagreesh, was a logger who was at least as old as Red. His back was bent from all the years of hard labor, and his feet and ankles remained swollen and sore every day. Still, he was a cheerful man who rose each morning before sunrise to build a fire and prepare breakfast, and then he would take his axe and limp off to the logs.

The matriarch, Bokwhel, was a few years younger than Dagreesh, but her health was much worse than his because she was obese. Her knees and hips had worn out from the extra weight, and she would lie all day in bed and read and write letters or gossip with the neighbors who stopped in to see about her while Dagreesh was away. In her youth, she had been a healer, and even the youngsters who had never known her as such referred to her as Shaman Bokey.

Their only child, the female healer named Jokhreno, stayed with the sick and injured for twelve to fourteen hours every day, and when she wasn’t working, she would stay in her room and sleep. Roskin rarely saw her around the house or in town. While she was their only natural child, Dagreesh and Bokwhel had adopted two boys from the infirmary. One worked as a cook in the tavern and was home even less than Jokhreno. The other suffered from a nervous stomach and couldn’t work much more than a few minutes around the house. Any more than that would make him sick for several days.

Dagreesh and Bokwhel were both descendants of outcasts. His grandfather had been a thief, and her mother had attacked a peace keeper without provocation, but neither was outwardly bitter towards the kingdom. In fact, Dagreesh often spoke of wanting to see the ancient cities before he died. While their customs were different from the underground, Roskin found himself glad to be around Kiredurks. He would sit for hours with Bokwhel and listen to stories from the town. She seemed to know everyone and had at least a dozen tales about each family. He also became friends with the sickly adopted son, who was called Jase but was fully named Jaesorkohn, and many nights they would end up at the tavern with a pitcher of ale and a crowd of workers who loved listening to Roskin’s tales.

On one such night, he was telling about killing the orcs, and the inebriated Kiredurks were riveted to every word. He told about the vanishing trails and the trap, and he carried them on with details about how badly the orcs stank and how their swords were as wide as him. Of course, he only had the dagger, but he was never scared because no orc was a match for any dwarf. The tired workers cheered loudly. Then, he told about killing each one, how he dueled with them one at a time, but after the third was beaten, several more jumped out from the trees. That was when Torkdohn arrived with the horse and wagon and rescued him. The workers clapped and yelled wildly, but Red, who had regressed back to his disheveled appearance, had been drinking for several hours, and the alcohol had made him mean that night. In this raspy voice, he called from across the room: