by D. A. Adams
The others stared in disbelief. None could remember her laughing like that before.
“It’s fine by me,” she said, composing herself. “What do you think, Roskin, we need guarding?”
“Has she been in the indulgent side of town all day?” Roskin asked Crushaw.
This time, they all laughed.
“Seriously,” Leinjar said. “Will you have us as your guards?”
“I already said yes,” Molgheon responded. “Ask the Kiredurk.”
“Well,” Roskin said. “If you’re asking if you want to serve me as a guard, then my answer is no.”
“Why?” Leinjar asked, raising his arms and shrugging.
“Because as Red already told you, you’ve earned your freedom. You serve no one. If you want to travel with me as my friend and my equal, then I’d be honored.”
“Well put,” Crushaw said.
Leinjar reached out and shook hands with the Kiredurk. They stared at each other for a moment in silence, but Molgheon recognized the look and knew that it, though unspoken, was allegiance as powerful as any oath. From their shared experiences, each dwarf would protect the other to the death.
“Then, it’s settled,” Molgheon said, ending the moment. “The four of us will escort Roskin back to his kingdom.”
***
Much as Suvene had done a few days before, Toulesche staggered along the worn path to the fortress. He couldn’t remove the arrow from his shoulder, and the skin around the wound was already beginning to blacken with rot. He knew enough about wounds to know that he might lose his arm, but he suspected that it could be worse. Still, his sense of duty drove him back to the fortress to report what had happened, in case no one else had made it, and to accept whatever punishment for his failure.
After he had fallen in the river, he had floated downstream for almost a mile before stopping in a sandy shoal. He had dragged himself out of the water with his good arm and had lain motionless for nearly a full day. The entire time he had expected to die, if not from the wound then from a hungry animal, but when it hadn’t happened by noon the next day, he had struggled to his feet and started for the fortress.
Now, seeing its stone walls and iron gate before him, he was ashamed of what had happened during the battle. Too many of their troops had panicked from the archers, and as a sergeant, he felt as if he hadn’t fulfilled his duty preparing the orcs for battle. Even though his platoon had performed well, he was also involved in drilling other soldiers, so in his mind, he was as responsible for the debacle as the arrogant general who had decided not to encircle the slaves before attacking.
A small detail emerged from the fortress and met him with a stretcher. He collapsed on it, and they carried him inside to the infirmary where dozens and dozens of orcs lay in various states of injury or dismemberment. Once Toulesche was on a cot, an orc healer examined him and called for his instruments. He gave the sergeant a drink of dark liquid, and within a few heartbeats, the pain in his shoulder vanished. Then, the healer ordered several others to hold him down.
Toulesche was aware of their hands pressing down on him, but the sensation was like the heaviness of a leg that has fallen asleep. Then, he felt the healer pull on the arrow, and he could feel the pressure of his shoulder rising from the cot with the tugging on the arrow, but there was no pain. It took several tries for the healer to remove it, and when it finally dislodged from the bone, the release of pressure was like having a bad tooth removed. Then, the healer gave him another drink of a different liquid, and this time, within a few heartbeats, Toulesche faded into unconsciousness.
***
Roskin woke well before dawn, another dream of his father and the kingdom haunting him. He packed his things and ate a breakfast of dried meat, not wanting to wake anyone with a fire. The dreams and the dark fear each grew more and more intense, the images palpable and visceral. He could almost smell their fear. The torment of being so far away frustrated him to the verge of madness, and part of him wished that he had never left home. At least then, he could protect his father, his people, his kingdom.
As he sat alone in the darkness of pre-dawn, he saw Crushaw rise from his sleeping place and stretch. Not wanting to be by himself anymore and needing to say a proper farewell to his friend, Roskin stood and walked to where the old man was preparing to strike a campfire. As Roskin approached, Crushaw looked up and smiled.
“Good morning, young master,” he said, knocking sparks against dry leaves.
“Morning, Red.”
“What has you stirring so early?” Crushaw asked, laying twigs and more leaves above the small flame.
“Nothing.”
“That so?” Crushaw returned.
Roskin sat beside the growing fire and watched the flames dance and flicker. Crushaw took a skillet from his pack and placed it on the iron grill above the fire. Then, he took out three eggs and two slices of salt-cured ham. When the skillet was hot, he laid the ham in it, and when there was a little grease popping and sizzling against the iron, he cracked open the eggs. In silence, Roskin watched him cook. As soon as the food was ready, Crushaw removed the skillet from the flame and scraped the ham and eggs onto his plate. He offered to share, but the dwarf shook his head and muttered a polite refusal.
“It’s a long road home,” Crushaw said between bites.
“Too long.”
“Molgheon and the Tredjards will get you there.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to track down that traitor Torkdohn and punish him for what he did?”
“I hadn’t thought about it?”
Chewing a piece of ham, Crushaw stared at him.
“I just want to get Bordorn and go home. That’s where I belong.”
Crushaw nodded his understanding.
“Red, I know I said it before, but I need to say it again: thank you for getting me out of there.”
“Young master, thank you for getting me out of Murkdolm.”
“That was different. I helped you because I wanted that statue from Black Rock.”
“The why is insignificant,” Crushaw said. “I owed you my life, so I repaid the debt. It’s that simple.”
“I’ll visit you at Kwarck’s as often as I can.”
“I know you will. I think I’ll enjoy living with that wizard. I can learn a little about protecting life before I die. That’ll be a good change.”
“You have a good heart, Red.”
“No, young master, my heart isn’t kind. I have a sense of loyalty and justice, but don’t confuse that with goodness.”
Roskin nodded and fell silent, not wanting to argue the point. All around them, elves were beginning to stir, and they would be on the road home within an hour or so. Even though he was ready to travel, he wanted to enjoy the company of his friend, for he knew it would be many months, possibly years, before they would see each other again.
***
When the news of Toulesche’s return reached him, Suvene leapt from his seat and sprinted to the infirmary. He had been certain that his friend had perished, for none from that platoon had returned, and many fragmented reports of their encounter with the phantom were passing around what was left of the eastern army. As he burst into the room, he saw his childhood sparring partner face down on a cheap cot. Toulesche’s skin was pale and splotched with swollen, purple veins, and despite being wrapped in a fresh bandage, the black rot of his shoulder was a grim harbinger. The most startling image for Suvene was the vacant space where Toulesche’s left arm should have been.
He knelt beside the cot and spoke his friend’s name. Toulesche opened his eyes, smiled weakly, and muttered something unintelligible before falling back asleep. Then, Suvene found a chair and sat beside the cot. He sat there for two straight days, not eating and barely drinking, and whenever anyone suggested that he should take a break, he responded with an iron stare. At the end of the second day, Toulesche regained consciousness and shouted a command at his platoon.
“You’re safe,”
Suvene said, holding his friend’s right hand.
“Take the flank!” Toulesche yelled. “Overrun the phantom!”
“It’s okay,” Suvene said. “You’re safe, now.”
“Where are we?”
“In the fortress,” Suvene choked.
“Watch the archers.”
“He’s got a fever from the infection,” the healer said, feeling Toulesche’s forehead. “He’s delirious.”
“Will he come out of this?”
The healer stared at the floor and shrugged his shoulders.
“Its eyes are so cold. Be on guard!”
“Can you give him anything?”
“I’ve done all I can. It’s out of our control, now.”
“Suvene, you were right,” Toulesche said, looking at his friend with wide eyes. “It’s not natural.”
“Rest, Toulesche. You need your strength.”
“Take the other flank! Take the other flank! You hear me?”
“I will. Now, rest.”
Toulesche closed his eyes and fell back asleep. Suvene sat with him for three more days, and from time to time the sergeant would awaken and make a similar rant. Each time, he warned Suvene about the phantom, and with each warning, Suvene’s resolve grew stronger. On the fourth morning – seven days after he had returned – Toulesche spiked an even higher fever. The purple veins all over his body turned midnight blue, and green puss oozed from the rotting wound. Suvene rose from his seat and called for help, but before the healer could make it, Toulesche began thrashing on the cot, flailing with his right arm and kicking with his legs. When the seizure ended, his body went limp, and he was gone.
Suvene grabbed the chair he had sat and slept on for six days and hurled it at the wall. The wood shattered against the stone, sending shards and splinters across the room. Then, he charged from the room towards the Masters’ chambers. He didn’t stop to request admission from the guards, instead pushing passed them and into the room. The Masters turned to look at him, their mouths agape at this transgression, but before any could admonish him, Suvene spoke:
“Grant me permission to hunt down the phantom and make him pay for his crimes.”
“Young soldier, this is very improper,” the eldest Master said, waving away the guards who had moved in behind Suvene.
“He already has a two week head start. There’s not time for proper, or I’ll lose his trail.”
“What chance do you think you stand against this creature?” another Master asked.
“I beat him on the Slithsythe. I can do it again.”
A murmur went through the room, and for a moment, Suvene was afraid they didn’t believe him.
“Give us a few minutes to decide this,” the eldest said, pointing to a room in the rear.
“Thank you,” Suvene responded, before moving to the room.
A little later, a page brought him back before the Masters. Their expressions showed the intense fear and turmoil that had befallen them since news of the debacle had trickled in. Suvene stood in the same spot as when he had told his story of capture and escape and waited for the eldest to address him.
“Young soldier, we can’t spare anyone to accompany you, so you’ll be alone. Do you still want to proceed?”
“For my honor, I must.”
“Then, we grant you permission. If you fail, we’ll have lost a brave soldier. If you succeed, you’ll have wealth beyond your dreams. Equip yourself as needed, and hunt well.”
Suvene thanked them and marched to the armory. He would travel light but needed a good blade, strong mail, a sharp knife, a bow with arrows, a water-skin, and a blanket. He would take a horse for the open stretches when he could ride without fear of losing the track, but most of the travel, especially through the mountains, would be on foot. When he reached the armory, he called for the steward to assist him, and from the tone in Suvene’s voice, the steward didn’t question the order. Within an hour, he was armed and packed, and without ceremony, he rode from the fortress to track down and kill the enemy that had taken so much from him.
Chapter 9
On a Perilous Road
Roskin and the other dwarves led the progression north through the foothills. The elves weren’t highland people and didn’t feel comfortable guiding themselves up and down the grades, so the dwarves had been asked to take the point. Once they crossed the eastern mountains and reached the central plains, the elves would assume the lead since their eyesight tended to be keener over long distances, but the dwarves’ senses were adapted to these elements. Even in a foreign range, they were right at home.
Roskin liked traveling without fear of an enemy at every turn. Since leaving home, he had grown to love the open road, the vast expanse of the world just waiting for him to enjoy it, but the march from the Slithsythe to the Marshwoggs had been miserable. With the constant threat of the orcs, there had been no time to take pleasure in the savannah. Now, many miles from an enemy, he relaxed and soaked in the scenery.
Spring growth dominated the landscape. Every hillside and mountain slope was a swatch of tender greens and vivid blossoms. The most prevalent blooms were the dogwoods, white and pink flowers fluttering in the breeze. Roskin had seen dogwoods before, but never so many and never so vibrant. Occasionally, petals would float down, and to a dwarf from underground, the sight of such delicate beauty was inspiring. As he walked, he composed a song in his head that he would write down whenever they stopped.
They had been traveling north from the Marshwoggs for two weeks, and so far, the going had been relaxed. They had plenty of food and plenty of arrows for hunting. The weather had been warm and clear, the kind of days young lovers relish for a picnic. Everyone in the group was healthy, so they had been able to make great time, walking at a brisk pace and only stopping for lunch. As such, they had now reached the road that turned west towards the Great Empire and Lake Vassa.
The road was very old and hadn’t been used much since the Koorleine elves had been driven into the forest. Before Theodore the Daring conquered them, they had maintained a trade route with the Marshwoggs, but the Great Empire didn’t trust the strange creatures that lived mostly in swamps and had no tangible leadership structure. For their part, the Marshwoggs cared little for traveling outside their own peninsula, so the road had eroded to little more than a broken path through the mountains.
The mass stopped for lunch before turning onto the road, and Roskin took the opportunity to write down his song. None of the others kept a journal, and as he scribbled the lines onto a loose piece of parchment, the Tredjards teased him jovially. He didn’t get upset from their jests as he would have done before leaving home, and instead of returning the barbs, he laughed along with them. When the song was written down, he gobbled a meager lunch and prepared to resume the march.
They walked all afternoon, moving carefully over the jagged blocks of the old road. Roskin’s new boots served him well on this surface, and he was surprised at how little trouble he had keeping his footing. A dwarf or elf slipped or stumbled every few feet, and the hills echoed with their profanities as they skinned their shins and banged their knees. Whenever one of the dwarves would lose his footing, Roskin would bite more tightly on his lip to keep from teasing them as they had him about the song.
With the mountains looming ahead, sunset came early in the foothills, and as soon as Molgheon found a good spot, they stopped early that day. Campfires sparked to life the length of the progression, and the aromas of wood burning and meat cooking soon filled the air. As daylight gave way to twilight, Roskin and the dwarves consumed their suppers quickly, and then leaned back against their packs to stretch their legs.
All day, they had heard the normal sounds of wilderness - birds singing, twigs cracking, and leaves crunching as animals scurried for safety, but now that night had arrived, the woods went quiet, an eerie silence that made the hairs on Roskin’s neck stand up. The dark fear of his intuition warned him of something, but he had no image of the threat, only a feeling.
“I don’t like this,” he said to the other dwarves.
“Me either,” Molgheon returned.
“We’d better keep watch all night,” Leinjar said.
“Agreed,” Molgheon said. “Spread word to the elves. Tonight, we sleep in shifts.”
Once they were ready to unroll their blankets and drift off, each dwarf stood watch at the point for two hours, and throughout the camp, the elves followed suit. Since he could rarely sleep more than three or four hours before a nightmare woke him, Roskin took the middle shift. When the time came, he relieved Molgheon, and she quickly covered herself and went to sleep.
With his excellent night vision, he could see the whole camp and most of the surrounding trees, and there was nothing unusual moving around. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something sinister was watching them, and he remained uneasy through his entire shift. When he woke Leinjar for the next turn, he walked through the camp, talking briefly with the elf sentries who spoke the common language. None had seen anything amiss, but each felt the same uneasiness of being stalked.
Finally, he figured that it must be a mountain lion or some other nocturnal predator watching them from the trees, and most wild creatures would not risk an attack against such a large group. Convinced of that, he returned to his blanket and stretched out, hoping for a couple more hours sleep before the next day’s walk. Even though they weren’t marching as swiftly as Crushaw had driven them, he didn’t want to walk for twelve hours on so little rest.
He slept fitfully, and when he woke just before dawn, the camp already buzzed with activity. He hopped to his feet and strapped his belt and sword around his waist before finding Molgheon. She stood with Leinjar and two elves, and they spoke almost in unison, talking over each other so much that Roskin could barely make out any words. Finally, he interrupted them with a loud whistle and asked what had happened.
“An elf is missing,” Molgheon said.
“That’s impossible,” Roskin scoffed. “We had watches every ten yards.”
