The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 02 - Red Sky at Dawn

by D. A. Adams

  “You’re cunning, my lord,” Leinjar said, a smile erasing all the disgust from his expression. “I just hope this works.”

  “Me, too,” Crushaw replied. “Don’t let anyone know. When you get back to camp, get rid of the strap that held it to the wagon. We don’t need a panic.”

  Molgheon still stood away from them, so he moved behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder as if to comfort. He half expected a punch in the jaw if not a knife in the ribs, for in all the years he had known her, he had not once seen her allow anyone to touch her for more than a handshake. Many a drunken Ghaldeon had been beaten bloody in her tavern for making unwanted advances, and now in a short span, he had grabbed her in a bear-hug and touched her tenderly. Instead of attacking, however, she shivered, jumped away, and then turned to face him.

  “If you ever touch me again,” she said, her face a stone mask. “It’ll cost your life.”

  “She acts mean,” Crushaw said to Leinjar, trying to laugh off the threat. “But she’s not so bad.”

  “Try me,” she said, not blinking.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Leinjar barked. “You have to get moving, and we need to get back to the drills.”

  Crushaw wasn’t conditioned to ignore a threat, and had it come from nearly anyone else, he probably would have struck them down. He would forgive Molgheon, however, because she had been through so much at the hands of the humans after the Resistance had been broken. He shouldn’t have touched her either time, and he knew it.

  “Leinjar’s right. I’ve gotta get going,” he said to her. “Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking right.”

  “It’s nothing,” she said, still not blinking. “Forget it.”

  With that, she turned and marched swiftly back towards camp. Leinjar lingered for a moment and muttered something to him about smoothing things over while the general was gone. Crushaw nodded his thanks and then also turned away to find his horse and the two elves who would accompany him. When he reached the horse, he gritted his teeth and, using mostly his arms for support, hoisted himself into the saddle. As his injured ankle slipped into the stirrup, he groaned audibly from the pain. The elves, who would follow on foot, rushed to assist, but he stopped them cold with a glare that only a soldier who has endured unspeakable hardships can give.

  ***

  Suvene ran across the open lands for as long as he could. His body was weak from the meager amounts of food he had been given since the uprising, and because he was well beyond even the most skilled archer’s range, he slowed to a brisk walk to conserve energy. Darkness was a couple of hours away, and he wanted to walk until midnight to get plenty of distance between himself and the hunting party that would probably be sent for him at dawn, if not sooner.

  He came to a swiftly moving stream and stopped for a few minutes to get a drink and search for supper. Along the far bank, a formation of worn, mossy rocks created a shallow pool. In the evening light, it rippled and churned as fish fed on surface insects, and he crossed the stream and climbed the rocks to look down on the scene. Dozens of fish of all sizes darted and glided through the clear water, and even in his weakened state and without a net, he had little trouble snatching one from the pool.

  He didn’t dare light a fire and had no tools of any kind, so the meal was disgusting, even to a common soldier such as him. As part of their survival training, from time to time the regular infantry would be taken into the wilderness and left to fend for themselves, but in those situations he had always had at least a knife and a tinderbox. Eating a raw fish with scales and bones was a new experience. Still, it was better than hunger, and after a few minutes, he was ready to continue.

  Darkness came upon him quickly and with it came a feeling of aloneness. He had only a vague notion of where he was, and other than a handful of plantations, the nearest civilized settlement was the fortress, which was at least four more days away. Between him and it were wilderness and untold dangers. Behind him was an army of slaves that would assuredly end his life if he were caught. The isolation enveloped him like a sudden fog, almost overwhelming him, but he walked on through the emotions, trying not to let the fear stop his feet from plodding one step after the other.

  ***

  Roskin sat in the dark away from the camp. His fear no longer lingered on the edge of his mind; it had become a real and nearly constant vision of peril descending on his father. It also saturated his dreams, keeping him from more than a couple hours of sleep a night. As a result, he had taken to standing sentry and allowing the guards who had been assigned the task to get extra rest.

  He wanted more than anything to be home, beside his father to quell whatever danger had befallen the kingdom. Being two nations away, having terrible visions, and sitting alone through the night were torturous, and he had written several poems as a catharsis. He hadn’t written anything since leaving Dorkhun and had lost his leather-bound journal when captured at Black Rock, so he had to write with an ornate instrument on loose scraps of fabric and parchment that he had taken from the plantations. At first, the words dribbled onto the page with uncertainty, but after completing a couple of mediocre villanelles, he rediscovered his voice and composed one that was good enough to be presented at the spring planting festival, which would occur in just a month or so.

  As he wrote, he thought about the freed slaves. Crushaw had been gone for two days, and an anxious anticipation had overcome most of the army. Everyone obeyed without hesitation the orders Leinjar and Molgheon issued, but the anxiety was palpable. Roskin knew they had at best three more days of unquestioned obedience without Crushaw, and sitting there alone in the early morning dark with his newest poem in hand, even he wondered what chance they really had to escape this land.

  Those thoughts were futile and distracting, so he put away his writing instrument and the poem and pulled out his sword and whetstone. He dragged the stone along the blade, faint sparks jumping out in the dark, and turned his mind to the coming battle. Crushaw had told him that he would be in the second regiment that would attack from the rear, so he understood his rudimentary role. He imagined the situation as Crushaw had described it and envisioned the coming battle to prepare himself. It was a technique he had learned in goshkenh ball, and on more than one occasion he had helped win a game because he had imagined making a certain play before the match. Now, he hoped the technique would work as well under these circumstances.

  As he sharpened the blade, he remembered Grussard, the dwarf who had fashioned it. He had barely known the blacksmith, but this sword had become such a part of Roskin’s life that he felt as if Grussard had been a dear friend from childhood. He knew that was an absurd feeling, but as his father often said, a person can’t be judged by their feelings. Actions are what determine character, and Roskin’s had cost the smith his life, so he was bound to the sword by a blend of guilt and admiration.

  From Grussard, his thoughts drifted to Bordorn, who was a friend from childhood and who had been abandoned in a logging camp in the land of Kiredurk outcasts. Before Roskin could go home, he had to find Bordorn and get him away from that hovel. While the elfish intuition warned him of his father’s danger, a different feeling whispered that Bordorn was not safe among those dwarves.

  The eastern horizon showed the faintest signs of dawn, and Roskin put away his sword and went to where Leinjar and Molgheon slept to wake them. Knowing better than to rouse either one by touch, he stood a few feet away and spoke their names aloud. At his voice, each bolted upright – dagger drawn – and searched for the enemy at hand. Having grown up in the most peaceful kingdom in the known world, Roskin wondered at the experiences that had forged such reflexes, and he hoped never to know them firsthand.

  The captains grumbled and stretched against their stiff joints until each was awake enough to rise and begin waking the camp. The terrain had become much more hilly and broken as they neared the eastern mountains, and that day’s marched threatened to be the most difficult so far. Within half an hour, the cooks prepar
ed and distributed the breakfast of pecans, dried venison, and cheese, and within another half hour, the army was on the move.

  They marched nonstop until noon, and as expected throughout the morning, the inclines turned more and more severe as the rolling grassland became the foothills. During lunch, Roskin joined Molgheon and Leinjar, who marched at the point. Vishghu and the other leisure slaves marched at the rear to watch for deserters or possible escapees, and on most days Roskin ate with them because he felt a bond with those dwarves from their shared experiences in the cage. Today, he wanted to determine the captains’ moods as the battle neared, for while Crushaw had given him a vague notion of the strategy, the captains probably knew more. With his intuition overwhelmed by the images of home, he couldn’t focus on a feeling of this one. He needed to know if they believed there was a good chance to cross the pass.

  “Have a seat, tall one,” Leinjar said, motioning to the ground beside him.

  “Thanks,” Roskin said, sitting.

  “Care for some pecans? They’re left from breakfast. Don’t care much for them myself.”

  “Sure,” Roskin said, holding out his hand. From the excessive hunger as a slave, he couldn’t pass up food when it was offered. “How are you, Molgheon?”

  “Fine,” she mumbled, not looking up from her meal.

  “She’s a little tired today from making arrows all night,” Leinjar said after several seconds of awkward silence.

  “Can I help with those?” Roskin offered, wanting to be helpful. Of all the dwarves he had known, he respected her as well as any.

  She shrugged, stood up, and then without speaking walked away. Roskin watched as she disappeared over a rise.

  “What did I do?” he asked.

  “Forget it, tall one. She’s got a lot on her mind. It wasn’t meant at you.”

  Roskin lingered for a few more minutes with Leinjar, asking mundane questions about what tasks needed done. Molgheon had dimmed his hope, and he stayed with the other captain just long enough not to be rude but then returned to the rear. He had gone to the others to find comfort but went back more distressed than before. Molgheon had fought against the Great Empire in the bleakest days of the Ghaldeon Resistance. It took more than a trifle to shake her, but something had gotten under her skin. He could only suspect that it concerned the battle, and that was anything but comforting.

  ***

  Five days after escaping, Suvene reached the fortress at twilight. He was hungrier than he had ever been, for since catching the one fish, he had barely been able to scrounge more than a handle of berries. His face was gaunt, his clothes tattered rags, and his exposed flesh scratched and scraped from branches and briars as he fumbled through the wilderness. When the watch saw him approaching the iron gate, they sounded the alarm, and a platoon of heavily armored and well-armed soldiers surrounded him. He blurted out his warning to the sergeant and then collapsed on the dirt.

  “Must be some lunatic,” one orc said to the sergeant, poking at Suvene with a halberd. “Should we dispose of him?”

  “Not yet,” the sergeant said, motioning to halt the prodding. “He looks familiar. Take him to the barracks and get him food and water. If he is a lunatic, we can be rid of him later.”

  The orcs lifted him from the red clay packed hard from centuries of marching and mostly dragged him to their barracks. Once inside, they held open his mouth and poured in cold water, and Suvene coughed and spat as too much went down at once. He was given a piece of meat leftover from supper, and even in his delirious state, he tore into the chicken leg and devoured it. After a few minutes, he felt a little better, and the sergeant asked him to repeat what he had uttered.

  “The slaves have revolted. They’re marching this way.”

  “Nonsense!” a soldier cried from behind the sergeant. “He’s insane.”

  “Where are you from?” the sergeant asked.

  “I am stationed at the Slithsythe Plantation.”

  “No, I mean where did you grow up?”

  Suvene cocked his head and looked at the sergeant with a puzzled expression.

  “You’d better answer,” the sergeant said, his right hand resting on his dagger’s hilt. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

  “The Sorthosan Province, south of the capital.”

  “You fought in tournaments, didn’t you?”

  “Swords mostly,” Suvene responded.

  “That’s how I know you. I’m from the capital. We fought in many matches, Suvene.”

  “Toulesche?”

  “Yes,” the sergeant answered. Then, he ordered two soldiers to fetch better food and more water.

  Suvene was shocked and figured himself just delirious from hunger and fatigue. Like him, Toulesche came from common birth, and because neither had been allowed to fight in the closing rounds of tournaments, they had spent many hours of their childhoods sparring in practice yards away from center ring. Toulesche had been much better at grappling and boxing, but Suvene always beat him with swords. When they grew up and joined the military, each had been sent to different plantations for service. Suvene hadn’t seen his friend in at least eight years and barely recognized him.

  “How did this happen?” Toulesche asked.

  “It started on the Slithsythe. There was some kind of phantom...”

  “Phantom?” a soldier interrupted.

  Toulesche turned to his platoon and warned them that another interruption would be dealt with harshly.

  “It was some kind of phantom. It looked a little like a human, but no man could fight like this. Alone, it charged in and butchered most of the force. It bested me and many others hand to hand.”

  “It beat you with a sword?” the Toulesche asked, his interest piqued. “Go on.”

  “It organized the slaves and marched them east, taking down more plantations as it went. There are at least a couple thousand now, armed and marching this way. I think they’re heading for the Pass of Hard Hope.”

  “How did you escape?”

  Suvene told the story in as much detail as he could remember. Toulesche listened intently, shushing the soldiers whenever they grew restless. When Suvene finished the tale, Toulesche stood and called for someone to bring a fresh uniform.

  “We have to get you cleaned up and take you before the masters. You have to be presentable for them.”

  Outside the barracks at a water trough, Suvene washed away the month’s grime, noticing how lean his arms and legs looked from the meager meals the slaves had fed them. Back inside, he dressed in the fresh uniform and then ate the meal that had been brought from the leftovers. Despite still being exhausted, he felt much better and was ready to tell his tale to the masters.

  Toulesche led him through the fortress’s maze of stone walls, beyond many wooden doors that led to foreboding chambers, and into the main hall. There, seated around a massive, oak table polished to a high gloss, were the secondary masters who had reassembled for a special session at the behest of Toulesche. None looked pleased to have been called to a meeting so late in the night. Toulesche guided Suvene to where they should stand at the far end of the table so that all could face them.

  “What is this about, sergeant?” the highest ranking master asked. He was an older orc, at least seventy, and his face was pinched and sinister.

  “There is an army of escaped slaves marching in this direction. My friend, Suvene, risked his life to escape their clutches and warn us of their treachery.”

  “An army of slaves? How could that be?” the elder asked.

  “They are led by a creature not of this world.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “There has been great evil unleashed on our lands,” Suvene interrupted. “We must send out as many troops as possible to stop it.”

  “You were their prisoner?”

  Suvene told the entire story to the secondary masters, who gasped at the details. He told them of the carnage around the big house, of the ransacking of the entire plantation, of the weeks
of marching and capturing more plantations. When he finished his story, the eldest master rang for his page and ordered the young orc to call forth the primary masters at once. Only they could send out the troops, and time was of the utmost importance if they had any hope of intercepting this army of evil.

  Suvene was thanked for his service and dismissed from the meeting. Toulesche led him from the chamber and back to the barracks, where a bed had been readied for him. He argued with his friend at first, not wanting to miss the battle, but Toulesche ultimately convinced him otherwise. He was in no shape even for the march, never mind the fight, and the army would have to move swiftly. None would be able to help him if he got too tired. The best place for him was in the fortress, where he could rest and regain his strength.

  “You’ve already done your duty for this one,” Toulesche said. “Leave a little glory for the rest of us.”

  Suvene managed a smile.

  “Don’t worry,” the sergeant continued. “I’ll bring you this phantom’s head.”

  “Be careful,” Suvene returned, wagging his index finger at his friend. “Great evil surrounds it. It won’t die easily.”

  “Like I said, don’t worry.”

  With that, Toulesche turned to his troops and barked for them to prepare to march. At first, a couple groaned their displeasure, but the sergeant silenced them quickly with several short bursts of profanity. The soldiers stopped chattering and focused on preparing their weapons and gear for an extended march. Suvene wanted to help them, but the exhaustion was too much. He stretched out on the bed, a rickety cot from a storage closet that at this moment felt like a feather bed from the big house, and was asleep in seconds.

  Chapter 6

  The Battle for Hard Hope

  Crushaw had been gone for five days, and the restlessness of the army was evident as meals took longer and each march covered less ground before the freed slaves demanded a break. Leinjar and Molgheon preserved fragile leadership, and Roskin and Vishghu had grown more and more vocal as they helped maintain order and discipline. In short, the army was near its breaking point when, as they prepared for that night’s camp, one of the elves who had accompanied the general appeared at the crest of the next hill and approached at a steady run. The news of his arrival spread from the front to the rear quickly, and as soon as Roskin heard it, he rushed through the mass to reach the two captains.