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

by D. A. Adams

  ***

  Leinjar watched Molgheon leap from the bluff to Roskin’s aid and was stunned by her grace and agility. From countless generations below ground, Tredjards were stocky and powerful, built for mining and fighting. The Ghaldeons, on the other hand, mostly lived above ground and, as such, were taller and more sinewy. Leinjar had not known many dwarves outside his own race, and he had never encountered one as nimble as Molgheon. He couldn’t see her or Roskin in the crowd of orcs, but knowing how deep into the lines Roskin had pushed, he was certain they couldn’t defend themselves for long.

  “Push forward,” he called to the platoons nearest him. “Make a wedge between them.”

  Then, he attacked with all his fury. From his years in the leisure slave cage, he had almost forgotten his family. On some days, he couldn’t remember their faces, and lately, those days came closer and closer together. Each morning he had woken as a slave he had wished that he had died in the battle which had left him in bondage. For the amusement of his enemies, he had been forced to fight and kill fellow Tredjards in violent and disgusting bare-fisted combat. Those images and dreams made sleep difficult. From all of that and then some, his anger was not insignificant.

  He flew into the orcs as a starving dog devours meat and almost single-handedly drove the wedge through the orc lines. When Leinjar thrust aside the last orc between himself and Molgheon, she saw the opening and dragged Roskin through it. They both collapsed behind the dwarves and gulped for air. Their faces and arms were gashed in dozens of places and were bleeding quite a bit. Dropping his pike, Leinjar knelt beside them and began dressing their wounds with strips from his muddy tunic. Despite all the blood, none of the wounds appeared too serious, and in no time, he had the worst ones bandaged.

  “Rest here, tall one,” Leinjar said to Roskin. Then, he turned to Molgheon. “You rest, too. Both of you are too brave for your own good.”

  “It was my fault,” Roskin said, shaking his head. “I got ahead of my platoon.”

  “You lived to tell about it,” Leinjar returned. “At least there’s that.”

  Molgheon rose to her feet and asked Roskin if she could use the two ancient axes for the rest of the battle. He nodded and stood as well. Leinjar pleaded with them to stay put, but neither would listen. The battle was not over, and they were still able to fight.

  ***

  Vishghu’s arms were rubber, and she could barely raise the club to strike again. For nearly half an hour, the orcs had charged at her relentlessly, and she bested every wave that came. Now, she needed to rest and catch her breath, but the orcs had not yet abandoned hope of overrunning her position. Before the next group reached her, she collected her strength and prepared for one more wave. Either she would repel them, or they would beat her, but regardless of which, she knew this would be the last. Slowly, she raised the club into striking posture and waited.

  From her position, she could see that Crushaw’s plan had worked brilliantly. The field was strewn with hundreds of dead and wounded orcs, many of which had fallen victim to the archers and the pits. Still more had already deserted the battle, choosing to brave the river instead of the freed slaves. The ones that remained numbered less than five hundred with very few officers to organize and lead them.

  The freed slaves had not yet won the battle, however, for their ranks had been thinned as well. Along the front line, less than three hundred were still able to fight, and in the rear, there were barely a hundred. From this point forward, the battle would be a matter of will. There were no strategies or tactics left to play. Both sides only had muscle and sweat, wood and iron, to decide the outcome, so Vishghu steadied herself and dug deep inside to find energy and courage.

  The orcs had managed to retreat to the center, just above the pits, and organize themselves into one large unit that could attack the front line and protect against the rear. Once they were ready, they lowered their pikes and charged up the incline. Yet again, the brunt of their force drove at Vishghu and the bluff-flank, and as they neared, she moved forward to meet them, swinging her club to deflect their pikes.

  At first, she scattered them as she had each previous wave, but from her fatigue and their primal fear, three orcs managed to elude her blows and drive their blades into her stomach, left hip, and right thigh. She howled as the weapons pierced the thick layers of fat that all ogres carry as insulation from the bitter cold of the arctic, and she stumbled backwards, clumsily waving her club at them to keep each at bay. Luckily, none of the blades struck deeply enough to damage muscle or bone, and while the pain was intense, the wounds were mostly superficial.

  Regaining her balance and steadying her club, Vishghu let them approach, and those three were joined by a dozen more. With one broad stroke, she killed four of them and seriously wounded two more, but the other nine engulfed her, stabbing her with their pikes. She collapsed to her knees, and like rats, they piled on her body, some pushing her to the ground and others beating her with the poles of their weapons. She lacked the strength to resist them and realized that death would come soon. As she fell onto her back, she howled from the pain of their blows.

  Suddenly, a figure flashed above her, and the three orcs at her head and shoulders fell dead. As in a dream, she watched Crushaw raise his sword and strike the next one. His gambeson and face were already soaked dark with orc blood, and with each swing of his sword, his eyes danced with hate and joy. After he had killed six of them, the other three turned to flee, but Evil Blade chased them down and butchered each one. Their final screams rose above the din of battle, and Vishghu felt some satisfaction at knowing that they would not take her position after all.

  Chapter 7

  Roskin the Diplomat

  His clothes were stained with blood and mud; his skin was torn and bruised; and his hair was greasy and tangled. He had been gone from home for almost a full year, and his body was a tapestry of scars from his mangled ear to his crisscrossed back. From the time in the leisure slave cage, he was thin and wiry, and anyone just meeting him would have had a hard time believing that he was heir to anything more than a rat’s nest. Nonetheless, he was the most adept diplomat among the freed slaves, so he had been chosen to enter the Marshwogg Republic to request sanctuary.

  He had washed himself and his clothes in an icy mountain stream, but without soap, it had done little good. The only real bright spot was that he no longer smelled like a barnyard in August, rather more like a dog kennel in winter. As he strode down a mountain trail towards a guard tower, he hoped the Marshwoggs were not courtly people. When he was within crossbow range, he held out his hands to show that he was not armed and stopped to wait for an escort from the tower.

  After a couple of minutes, the door opened and a creature stepped outside. It was only a foot taller than Roskin, but its arms and legs were so long and muscular that it looked much taller. Its skin was drab green with large brown splotches, and its fingers and toes were webbed like a frog’s. Its face was long and thin with a sharp nose and a pointy chin. As it walked, it seemed to bob up and down as its legs bent awkwardly deep. It stopped a few feet away and spoke to Roskin in a low croak. The language was completely foreign to the Kiredurk, so he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head to show as much.

  “Our language is strange to outsiders. Forgive me,” the Marshwogg said in the common tongue. “Would you like something to eat?”

  Roskin was caught off guard by the question. He had expected a much ruder greeting because of his appearance and didn’t know what to say. He was famished, as they had run out of food a couple of days before in the mountains, and forgetting the people waiting for him, he nodded yes. The Marshwogg motioned for Roskin to follow it into the tower where it produced a hunk of yellow cheese and a few strips of dried meat.

  “That’s the best we’ve got at this outpost, I’m afraid. When you get to town, you’ll find much better hospitality.”

  “This is fine,” Roskin managed between bites. He finished the meal quickly and thanked his
host.

  “If we were at my house, I’d feed you a proper meal. Would you like a change of clothes?”

  “I don’t have any money,” Roskin responded. When Molgheon and Leinjar had divided up the pillaged gold, he had refused his share, not wanting anything more to remind him of the cage.

  “My friend, please don’t insult me.”

  Puzzled, Roskin stared at the Marshwogg. He wasn’t sure how that was an insult, and they sat for a moment in awkward silence.

  “Let’s find some clothes,” the Marshwogg said at last.

  The creature went to a trunk in the rear of the tower and sorted through several stacks. Finally, it produced a pair of pants and a shirt that looked close to Roskin’s size. Then, it gathered its bathing supplies and led Roskin back outside. They walked a short distance into the woods, stopping when they reached a small structure next to a stream. The Marshwogg opened the door and motioned for Roskin to enter.

  “Clean yourself here,” it said. “Take as long as you need.”

  Slowly, Roskin entered the room. His intuition had not warned him of danger, but he was unarmed and suddenly felt vulnerable. Inside, a five by five pit had been dug into the ground about two feet deep. One pipe extended horizontally from the wall and allowed water to flow from the stream into the pit. A second pipe stood vertically from the bottom to the surface and when the water level reached its opening, the water drained back to the stream. In the far corner, a wood burning stove stood ready, but since the day was warm and pleasant, Roskin saw no need for a fire.

  He took off the stained clothes and stepped into the pool. The water was chilly but, after the mountain stream, didn’t feel unpleasant. He took a bar of strong smelling soap from the bathing supplies and lathered his body for the first time since leaving Kwarck’s home nearly eight months before. The scars across his back felt strange and foreign even though he had carried them for two months. After covering his body in a thick layer of soap, he found a brush and dipped his hair into the water. At first, the bristles would not move through the tangled knots, but after several minutes of brushing, he was able to undo much of the mess. Then, he soaped his hair and repeated the process with his beard. For almost an hour, he stayed in the water and cleaned himself.

  When he finally emerged from the bathhouse dressed in the fresh clothes, he felt like a different dwarf. His skin tingled from the scrubbing and was several shades lighter than when he had entered. The Marshwogg had waited for him outside, sitting on a stump and carving on a small bar of cedar. When it saw Roskin, it spread a wide smile across its thin face and stood from the stump.

  “Now, let’s return to the tower and discuss why you’re here.”

  In his eagerness to eat and bathe, Roskin had forgotten about the freed slaves and his friends waiting for him in the mountains, and he was ashamed at letting his own pleasure come before them. They walked briskly back to the tower and went inside. The Marshwogg found two chairs and placed them where it could still see out the small window in the base. Roskin found it strange that the tower only had one guard and said as much after they both had sat down.

  “If I sounded the alarm,” the Marshwogg said. “The militia could be here in minutes. Besides, your army doesn’t seem poised to attack us.”

  “My army?”

  “You don’t think that many people could march across the mountains without our scouts noticing them, do you?”

  “I guess not, but you’re right. We have no desire to attack you.”

  “Actually, we know about your battle with the orcs, too. One of our sentries saw their army leave the fortress and followed them to the field. She hid upstream in the river and watched the fight. Did you lead that battle?”

  “No,” Roskin said, unsure of how much to tell. This creature had kept him off guard from the moment they had met.

  “I’d like to meet the one, then. Perhaps we can discuss strategy sometime.”

  “Well, I’ve come to ask your lord for refuge. There are many wounded and elderly who need help.”

  “We don’t have a lord in this region.”

  “How far will I have to travel to find one?”

  “Quite far, actually. We have none.”

  Roskin was baffled by the statement. All of the civilizations he had ever known followed some version of an aristocratic monarchy, even the ogre clans. He couldn’t fathom how to maintain law and order without nobility to guide the masses.

  “Who governs your people?”

  “We govern ourselves.”

  The Marshwogg explained the foundation of their republic. Each region was divided into counties based on a combination of natural and economic boundaries, and each county was responsible for its own government through a council of elected officials that were barely compensated for their service. To counter corruption, they also had a county magistrate – also scarcely paid – who ensured that the council’s decisions remained in the best interest of the Marshwoggs of that county. As another layer of protection, an independent system allowed citizens to defend themselves from laws and actions they believed unjust. These three layers shared governance, each with equal power, and in order for any law to remain intact, it had to remain in good standing with at least two of the three.

  Each region had a similar system on a larger scale, but as a whole, the republic had no centralized government to impose national laws. Instead, each region was left to govern itself as the citizens saw fit, and disputes between regions were settled through discourse and mediators from distant regions. In times of national crisis, such as an invasion from the orcs, each region would send a militia to help expel the invaders and protect the common good.

  Of course, there were examples of corruption and inefficiency in certain counties and regions, but history had shown the Marshwoggs that the people of those places were the best ones to overcome those problems. Interference in local matters by outsiders was absolutely forbidden in their tradition, and violators faced severe punishments for meddling in other people’s affairs. As such, their system had existed and evolved for hundreds of years, and as a race, the Marshwoggs knew very little poverty or despair within their borders.

  “I’m fascinated,” Roskin said. “I could talk about this for days, but right now, my friends need help. Some of them are desperate for medicine, so who do I need to talk to?”

  “As this county’s magistrate, I’ve been given authority to grant you entrance to our lands, as long as you agree to obey our laws.”

  “Of course,” Roskin said.

  The Marshwogg rose from his seat and went outside, where he rang the smaller of two bells. In a couple of minutes, a younger Marshwogg appeared, bobbing up and down as it hurried to the tower. The two spoke briefly, and once they finished, the younger one took off in the direction of the freed slaves. Then, the magistrate returned to Roskin.

  “He’ll bring your friends down here. If you’d like to wait with me, feel free. I have another hour on my watch. Otherwise, you can travel into town and make yourself at home.”

  Roskin thought about it for a moment and decided to go to town to get his bearings. He was fascinated by these strange people and wanted to learn more about their customs, and in his mind, the best way to do that was to immerse himself in their culture. He rose from his seat and shook hands with the magistrate.

  “Thank you for your kindness. I am Roskin, son of Kraganere.”

  “I am Rewokog, Magistrate of West Hills County.”

  Rewokog gave Roskin directions into town and handed him a few coins. The dwarf tried to refuse the money, but the Marshwogg insisted. They said good bye, and Roskin took the path Rewokog had indicated. As the trail wound towards town, small houses began to appear, and despite their modest size, each home was well-maintained with clean, neat lawns. To most Tredjards and Kiredurks – dwarves who lived underground in buildings of stone – homes of wood were cheap and temporary, but the carpentry of these houses was of such a masterful quality that Roskin admired them. Other than w
ith Kwarck and at Murkdolm, he had not felt very comfortable outside his kingdom, but the Marshwogg houses were warm and inviting, making him feel at home.

  The town itself was also well-built and inviting. The streets were broad and smooth, with simple signposts marking each road and providing brief directions to various sections and specific locations within the town. The buildings displayed the same excellent craftsmanship as the houses, and each business was indicated by a reserved, elegant sign. None of the structures showed signs of disrepair, and there was no trash on the ground. Other than a few of the townships in his kingdom, Roskin had never been so impressed by the austere beauty of a settlement.

  All around town, Marshwoggs went about their daily business, but despite their obvious industriousness, they were polite and civil to the dwarf as he wandered through the streets. In fact, they were the most gracious and orderly people he had ever met. Once he had walked around much of the business section and had familiarized himself with the layout, he chose a tavern for his meal. Inside, he found a table in a back corner and took a seat. He was greeted promptly by a server who brought him a tankard of cool water and a small basket of unshelled nuts.

  “Welcome to our town,” she said in the common language. Unlike the magistrate, she didn’t bother trying her native tongue with strangers. “What may I bring you?”

  “I only have this much money,” Roskin said, laying the coins on the table.

  “For this much,” the server said, picking up one coin. “I can bring you a plate of food and one tankard of ale, if that suits you.”

  “I haven’t tasted a good ale in several months. That’ll suit me just fine.

  She returned in a few minutes with the ale and a plate of freshwater trout cleaned and baked in fresh herbs. After thanking him for his business, she excused herself and went back to the kitchen. Forgetting all manners, Roskin tore the fish into large hunks with the table-knife and gobbled them down as quickly as he could cut them. If his step-mother had seen him, she would have scolded his uncivil behavior. The fish had been prepared perfectly and tasted better than anything he could remember eating. When he finished the meal, he turned up the tankard and took a long drink, and it tasted almost as good as the fish. He leaned back in his seat and finished it in just a few more pulls.