by D. A. Adams
“Where’s Shaman Bokey?” Roskin asked.
“In the bedroom. She hasn’t come out since the funeral.”
Not excusing himself, Roskin made his way through the house to her room, and there on the bed, lay an old dwarf he barely recognized. She had lost weight, and her skin hung from her frame in an unnatural looseness. Her face, contorted with grief and sorrow, was creased with deep wrinkles. Other than her shallow breathing, she looked as if she had already passed away.
“May I come in?” Roskin asked.
Without opening her eyes, she groaned what sounded like an affirmation, so he went inside the room and sat on the side of her bed. She held out her hand, and he took it. The coldness of her skin shocked him.
“Who’s there?” she asked, still not opening her eyes.
“It’s Roskin, Shaman Bokey. I’m passing through on my way home.”
At his name, she opened her eyes and looked at him. A flicker of anger crossed her face but was replaced by a weak smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a dry whisper. “I was mean to you.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Roskin returned. “But that’s over, now.”
“He’s gone.” She squeezed his hand more tightly.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes again.
“He was a good dwarf,” Roskin said. “His beard was thick as any.”
She nodded.
“Where’s Jase?”
“He doesn’t stay here much any more.”
Roskin’s temper rose at her words. Jase had always been lazy, faking sickness to get out of work, but at the very least, he had always loved his “nanna.” The thought of him not caring for her now made Roskin’s heart race.
“I have to leave, Shaman Bokey. There’s a friend who needs me, and I have to get home, but I’ll make sure Jase comes here to help you.”
“It’s no use,” she said.
“I have to get home, but I’ll do what I can to help you.”
“My time has passed,” she said, opening her eyes again, her expression clear and lucent. “They took it all from us, and nothing will ever satisfy them.”
At that, she closed her eyes and fell silent. They sat together with only the sounds of birds for several moments.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” Roskin broke the silence, not knowing what else to say.
“Go find your friend,” she said, letting go of his hand. “Save him from them.”
With that, she rolled away from him, groaning as she mustered what little strength was left in her atrophied muscles. His heart broken, Roskin stood from the bed and went back to the living room, where Jokhreno still sat in her father’s chair. Well before noon, the bottle of wine beside her was already half empty.
“You’re a good healer,” Roskin said, looking her in the eyes.
“Was,” she said, her voice distant and sad. “They won’t let dwarves do that anymore.”
“You don’t need their permission.”
“What do you know about it?” she snapped.
“Not much, I guess.”
Storming out the door, he didn’t wait for a response. On the porch, he kicked his way back through the piles of garbage and strode towards the camp where Molgheon and the others waited. He hadn’t expected to find this family desolated, and the images, still so fresh in his mind, weighed on him heavily. In part, he was responsible for bringing ruin upon them, and there was no way to make it right. Staring straight ahead, he marched away from the house and refused to look back for one last glance.
***
Sliding a ball of wax up and down her bow string, Molgheon listened to Roskin explain what he had learned about the Great Empire’s presence in the logging town. He was wanted by their army for killing a soldier in Murkdolm, so he wouldn’t be able to enter the town. The others didn’t know Bordorn and wouldn’t know where to look, so that left her as the one who would have to sneak passed the soldiers and retrieve the dwarf who had lost an arm and nearly his life to protect Roskin. She didn’t mind the task, however, for to her, any opportunity to get one over on the Great Empire was a chance she would take.
“Move to the western side of town,” she said. “We’ll be there by sunset.”
“Should one of us go with you?” Leinjar asked, rubbing his beard.
“No, two can be spotted quicker than one.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Roskin said. “Be careful in there. Something’s not right.”
“Just get to the western side. Bordorn has been here long enough, poor thing.”
She returned the ball of wax to her pouch and rose from the ground. Then, without saying farewell, she slung the bow over her shoulder and started for town. For early summer, the day was cool and pleasant, and she enjoyed the walk. While not quite the mountains, the logging town was in the foothills, and everything felt more like home. The trees, underbrush, and grass were more familiar, and to her, the air even smelled better here.
As she neared the edge of town, two soldiers patrolled the perimeter. Before they spotted her, she moved behind a blue spruce and waited for them to pass. After a few heartbeats, she peered around the trunk and, seeing that all was clear, sprinted from the tree to the nearest building. She stood against the wooden wall and caught her breath, glancing around to make sure no one had seen her. Satisfied that she was safe, she moved around the building and darted to the next.
She continued this way from structure to structure until she reached the one that had been the infirmary where she had left Bordorn. Given the Great Empire’s tendency to eradicate dwarven culture, she couldn’t be sure that he would still be here, but to her, this was the best place to start. Using a storm drain, she scaled the wall to the second floor and peered inside a window. The room was empty, so she raised the pane and climbed inside.
The room had only a small bed and a cabinet with three drawers, but it was obviously still a room for the sick and wounded. Her spirits lifted from this realization, and she moved to the door that led to the hallway. She had lived in this building for several weeks, watching over Bordorn until the slave trader had come looking for Roskin, so she knew its layout very well. She pressed her ear against the door and listened for any noises.
Not hearing anyone, she slowly opened the door and leaned forward to glance down the hallway. It was empty, so she stepped out of the room and crept towards where Bordorn had been kept. When she got a few feet from the door, two sets of footsteps began up the stairs, and two human voices talked back and forth as they climbed. Quickly, she opened the nearest door and ducked inside.
On the bed, a Kiredurk lay completely still, save the slight rise and fall of his chest. He had lost his right leg, and the sheets were dark with blood, some of it fresh. His face was gray and sunken, and from her experiences with the injured, he was well beyond healing. As she closed the door, he opened his eyes and called to her in a low moan. Luckily for Molgheon, his voice was too weak to travel far, so she rushed across the room and motioned for him to keep quiet.
When she leaned over him, his eyes were wide with terror, like an animal caught in a hunter’s trap, and he began thrashing his head back and forth on the pillow. She had seen dying soldiers do similar things from their fear of death, so gently, she took his trembling hands in hers. Feeling her touch, he stopped thrashing and looked at her. His eyes narrowed to near normal size.
“Be brave,” she whispered. “Don’t let them see fear. You’re still a Kiredurk.”
“I’m cold,” he moaned.
In the hallway, the humans closed the door across the hall and were talking about the patient in that room. Letting go of his hands, Molgheon motioned again for the dwarf to stay quiet and then crawled beneath his bed. Her bow scraped on the floor as she did, and she cursed under her breath for not removing it first. Then, the door opened, and the two humans walked a couple of steps into the room.
“Is this one still alive?” one asked.
“Looks like it. I don’t know why they even brought it here. What a waste of good sheets.”
Molgheon gritted her teeth and clenched her fists to keep herself from going after them.
“Let’s head on to the tavern.”
“Sounds good. It should be dead by morning. The mess’ll keep till then.”
They turned and left the room, and as soon as the door caught in its latch, Molgheon crawled from beneath the bed and looked at the dying Kiredurk. The fear had returned to his eyes, so she sat on the edge of the bed and held his hands. Softly, she hummed an old lullaby to him, one that she had also hummed to her husband on his death bed.
She sat with the unfortunate dwarf for over an hour, forgetting about Roskin and Bordorn. Her life had been a torrent of death and dying, and like Crushaw, she wanted nothing more than to leave battle behind and spend at least a few years happy. Before Roskin had come to Murkdolm, she’d thought that’s what she’d found at the tavern, but she had just been lying to herself. Her life among the humans and defeated dwarves had been a sham, and every day had been one long struggle after another not to grab a weapon and take a few, dwarf and human alike, with her.
What she wanted was a small house high in the mountains, far from anyone. If she couldn’t grow it or kill it herself, she didn’t want to be bothered about it. She wanted to learn to make delicious meals like Kwarck and the Marshwoggs prepared. Most of her life had been without good food, so to her the notion of preparing nice meals every day was the height of decadence. Most of all, she wanted to rest.
After a time, she noticed that the dwarf had fallen asleep, a nap from which he would never wake, so she quietly and gently stood from the edge of the bed and went to the door. There were no noises in the hallway, and she stepped from the room and continued towards Bordorn. At the end of the hall, she entered the room where she had left him, and somewhat to her surprise, he lay on the bed across the way.
His cheeks were sunken, and his body was lean, but he was there and alive. Molgheon breathed a sigh of relief and started for him. As she crossed the floor, she caught sight that his good arm and both legs were tethered to the bed with thick leather straps. She froze in the middle of the room. Roskin had warned that something didn’t feel right, but in her haste, she had ignored him. Now, she too felt that this was strange. Motionless, she waited for several heartbeats and listened for someone approaching, but after not hearing anything, she continued to the bed where Bordorn lay sleeping.
She began undoing the strap on his good arm, and as she did, he groggily stirred and mumbled unintelligibly. After unbinding his arm and glancing around for any intruders, she moved to his feet and began working on those straps. With his good arm now free, Bordorn motioned for her to come closer, and as soon as she finished loosening the straps, she moved to the head of the bed and leaned near his mouth.
“Leave me here,” he mumbled.
“Get to your feet,” Molgheon returned, hoisting him to a sitting position.
“Leave me here,” he repeated.
“There’s not much time,” she added, wrapping his good arm around her neck. “We’ve got to get moving.”
“It’s a trap,” he mumbled. “Run while you can.”
Her heart in her throat, she looked towards the door, and suddenly, a handful of soldiers rushed into the room, their weapons drawn. She looked out the window to see if she and Bordorn could jump for it, but in the street, more than a dozen archers were already aiming at them. She was cornered and couldn’t even unsling her bow. Slowly, she laid Bordorn back on the bed and then stood still.
“Welcome back, barkeep,” a voice said from behind the soldiers.
A captain from Murkdolm entered the room, a human of average height and slender build, with sandy blond hair and a well-groomed beard. Molgheon recognized him as one that often had come to her tavern to extort taxes from the workers. He was not known as merciful to dwarves, and more than once she had had to grit her teeth while he had beaten someone unable to provide the money.
“Now, you and that renegade will pay for the soldiers you murdered,” the captain said. “They were good men, with families that loved them.”
“We only fought in self-defense...”
“Shut your mouth, dwarf,” he said, backhanding her on the jaw hard enough to snap her head to the side. “You don’t speak to me without permission.”
Then, he turned to the guards and ordered them to lead her to the town’s cage that usually only held rowdy drunks until they sobered up. There, they would wait for Roskin to come looking for her, and when he too was caught, they would both be punished accordingly. The guards took her bow, arrows, and dagger and bound her hands behind her back. At their touch, she shuddered but, unable to stop them, retreated to a quiet corner of her mind. Glancing at Bordorn, who had fallen back asleep, she moved towards the hallway and hoped that he would be okay.
***
As twilight faded into darkness, Roskin paced back and forth among a grove of spruce. The rest of the dwarves lounged on the soft ground, enjoying the cool night air, but he knew something was wrong. Molgheon and Bordorn should have already been there, and he was ready to go looking for them.
“Calm down,” one of the Ghaldeons said. “They’re barely late.”
“Something has happened. I know it.”
“Do you know it like you knew something was wrong in your kingdom?” Leinjar asked, rubbing his beard.
“It’s different. I just know Molgheon. She’s never late.”
“Well,” the Ghaldeon added. “I say we wait a while longer.”
“I have to know if they’re okay,” Roskin said. “All of you can wait here if you want, but I’m going into town.”
Without a word, the Tredjards stood from their resting places and gathered their packs and weapons. Seeing the Tredjards, the Ghaldeons did likewise, and in a few moments, the entire group was making its way through the sparse woods back toward town. When they reached the outskirts, Roskin motioned for them to hide behind a stack of freshly cut timber. The smell of sap was strong in the air, and the ground around the pile was soft with wood powder.
“Wait here while I scout for her,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
With that, he darted from behind the wood and ran across the short opening into town. While the buildings were mostly still the same, the town itself was completely different. Before, on a night like this, there would have been musicians in the town square and at least a dozen townsfolk dancing. Now, very few dwarves were on the street, and all of them walked with their heads down and their eyes cast on the ground right before them. At various intervals, human soldiers patrolled the streets, sometimes mocking a dwarf, sometimes jabbing at one with the blunt end of a weapon, and sometimes snapping orders at another. The scene reminded Roskin of Murkdolm.
Staying in the shadows, he navigated around the soldiers until he reached the town square, where two dozen humans stood in a square formation, six facing each direction. Their mail glittered in the torchlight, and in the middle of the formation, the town’s drunk cage had been placed on a stone platform. Inside, Molgheon stood erect with her head high. Her bottom lip was busted and swollen, and the strain of having stood for too long in an uncomfortable position showed around her eyes, but she offered no sign of surrender.
Many years before when he had first seen the oldest remaining Kiredurk settlement, Roskin had felt a wave of pride that his kin had built such persevering splendor. Now, before her defiance, the same sensation washed over him. Still remaining in the shadows, he circled around the town square and found that, in addition to the twenty-four soldiers in the open, at least another two dozen were hidden in various locations to cut off the retreat of any would-be rescue. Once he had memorized their positions, he headed back to the woodpile.
Remaining calm but not wasting time, he gathered the freed slaves into a circle and drew the soldiers’ formation and ambush points in the dirt. As he did, Leinjar interrupted with quest
ions about weapon types with each group. Roskin responded that the soldiers in the formation all bore halberds but the ambush units had both swords and bows. When Roskin finished the briefing, Leinjar leaned back against a thick log and rubbed his beard.
“The odds are no good,” he said. “There just aren’t enough of us to take on that many well-armed soldiers.”
“I agree,” one of the Ghaldeons said. The others murmured their affirmation.
“We can’t leave her or Bordorn with them,” Roskin responded.
“That’s true, too,” Leinjar said. “We just need more of us to fight them.”
“How many?”
“A couple dozen would be good. Three even better.”
Roskin turned and stared at the town. The dwarves who lived here were either the descendents of or themselves outcasts from his kingdom, so their loyalty was suspect at best. Now, with the tyranny of the Great Empire already weighing on them, he wasn’t sure how many would have the courage to stand up to ones who punished even minor resistance with cruelty. Still, he had lived among them for several weeks and had gotten to know many of them quite well from his nightly trips with Jase to the main tavern. Asking them to rise up against these humans was worth the effort.
“Let’s try to recruit a few,” he said. “Follow me to the tavern. When we get there, stay hidden. I know them, and strangers will make them uneasy.”
They moved across the open space and into the dark shadows. Moving as a unit, they crept from building to building until they reached the alley beside the tavern. Without a word, Leinjar motioned for them to hunker down amongst piles of garbage, and once the others were hidden, Roskin slunk to the main street. A patrol marched by but didn’t notice him in the shadows, so when they were a good distance down the street, he stepped from the alley and moved to a window along the front of the tavern.
