by D. A. Adams
The captain raised his sword to middle guard and crept forward, and his footwork was very familiar. For many weeks, Roskin had trained with Crushaw, and this man’s movements were nearly identical to the old general’s. Roskin also moved into middle guard and stepped forward. The captain struck first, thrusting at him in a flash. Roskin parried the thrust and countered with a rake at the captain’s forearms. The man moved just beyond the dwarf’s reach and smiled.
“You’ve been well-trained,” he said, returning to middle guard. “So the old man can still teach, even to a dwarf.”
Roskin responded with a horizontal slash that the captain blocked and countered with another thrust. Roskin avoided that one as well and circled to his left. They continued in this manner for a few minutes, feeling out each other’s strengths and weaknesses and searching for an opening. With the exception of Crushaw, the captain was the most skilled swordsman Roskin had yet faced.
For those first few minutes, the blows were not very intense, almost light-hearted like two old friends catching up after many years apart, but suddenly, the captain launched at Roskin with a flurry of downward strikes that smashed against Grussard’s blade with a shower of sparks in the faint light. Roskin matched the other’s intensity, and they circled around the town square, their blades clanging and ringing. As they fought, their breathing grew to deeper and deeper gulps, and finally, each one stepped backward to catch his breath.
Roskin lowered his sword until the tip was against the ground to rest the muscles in his arm, but he kept his attention focused on the hilt of the captain’s sword, watching for the slightest movement that would indicate an attack. For his part, the captain held his sword with his left hand and stood still, save the rise and fall of his breathing. They stood like that for a full minute, but then, without a word, the captain rushed forward, raising his sword to high guard, and struck at Roskin with a powerful downward blow.
Roskin raised his sword just in time to block the attack, and as the weapons locked together, he swiped with the axe at the captain’s exposed stomach. The blade tore into the thick hauberk and caught flesh, cutting him from one side to the other. The captain winced in pain and scrambled backwards, gathering himself into a defensive position. Seeing blood, Roskin pounced his enemy and assailed him with a series of blows from both sword and axe. Using his own sword and the vambrace on his left arm, the captain managed to block each swing. Still, the pain from his wound showed on his face, and his strength waned with each block. Roskin knew it was just a matter of moments before he found an opening and ended the fight. Suddenly, the dark fear rose inside him, but wanting to finish off the captain, he ignored it and pressed the attack.
Then, Molgheon called out, but before he could discern her warning, a blinding pain exploded in his left shoulder blade. He collapsed to his knees and dropped both weapons. Gasping for air and clutching his left arm against his side, he fumbled with his right to recover one of them, but his vision had blurred, so he couldn’t distinguish the blades from the ground. After what seemed an eternity, his fingers found the handle of the axe, and he scrambled to scoop it into his palm.
As he waited for the final blow to fall, Roskin thought about all that had happened since he had left Dorkhun. He remembered the three orcs at the vanishing trails, how the life drained from their eyes as they died. Then, there were the soldiers that chased them from Murkdolm, and the soldiers at Black Rock. For a moment, he could still hear the terrible sounds of the slave block at Koshlonsen and smell the stench of the leisure slave cage. There was the Battle for Hard Hope, and then the Marshwoggs. Finally, he could almost feel the hot breath of the dog-beast. As these memories overtook him, he pushed them aside and thought about his mother. At least he had met her. He didn’t want his last thought to be about anything else, so he focused on the memories of her face and touch as he braced for the blow.
“What are you waiting for?” the captain yelled. “Get the net!”
“It’s in the wagon,” Jase responded from behind Roskin. “He ain’t here yet.”
“Go see what’s keeping him,” the captain ordered. “I’ll watch this one until you get back.”
Jase rushed away, and gritting his teeth against the pain, Roskin raised himself to his knees and looked up at the captain. The man’s blade was inches from Roskin’s chest.
“You’re lucky that dwarf is such a weakling,” the captain said, holding his left arm across his stomach to stop the bleeding. “He barely broke the skin.”
“You best finish me, then,” Roskin returned, his voice dry and cracking. “While you can.”
“Oh, I’ve no intention of killing you. You’re much too valuable, and since you escaped, I’m sure you’re worth even more, now. Between you and the barkeep, we’ll make a nice profit from the orcs.”
Having resigned himself to death, Roskin was surprised by the wellspring of fear at the mention of being sold again. His left shoulder throbbed with pain, and he knew he wouldn’t get more than one chance to subdue the captain, but he couldn’t go back there. He could die on this night, but he would never return to bondage. Gathering his focus, he stared at the captain’s exposed ribs and steadied his grip on the axe handle.
“It’s a shame, though,” the captain continued. “You’re pretty good with a sword. For a dwarf, that is.”
Before the man could say more, Roskin hurled the axe with his right hand and launched his body backwards in one motion. When he hit the ground, the jolt of pain nearly knocked him unconscious, but with all his remaining strength, he rolled onto his stomach and clambered to his feet. As he got his balance and bearings, he half expected the captain’s sword to pierce him, but as he wheeled around and faced the man, he saw that the axe had found its mark better than he had hoped. Having dropped his own sword, the captain had both hands on the axe’s handle and tugged at it to dislodge the blade from between his ribs.
Roskin found his sword and, grunting from the pain, lifted it from the dirt. Growing paler by the second, the captain doubled his efforts to remove the axe, but as Roskin neared him, he realized the attempt was in vain. A disappointed frown came over his face, and he stared the Kiredurk in the eyes. Not flinching, Roskin drew back his blade and swung for the captain’s neck.
As the man’s body crumbled to the ground, Roskin collapsed again from the pain in his shoulder. He struggled to his knees and gasped for breath against the throbbing sensation. To his left, he could hear the other dwarves making their way back to the town square, and to his right, he heard Jase’s frantic voice calling again for someone to hurry. Despite his rising anger, Roskin couldn’t go after the traitor.
“You’ve got to get me out of here,” Molgheon said from the cage, her voice more panicked than he had ever heard it. “The wagon’s almost here.”
His arms and legs were weak from the fight, and as blood clotted in his wound, his shoulder became tighter and more sensitive to movement. While he wanted to rush to the cage, his body simply wouldn’t let him. He remained balanced on his knees, using his sword for support, and focused on taking regular breaths.
“Roskin,” Molgheon hissed. “Get to your feet, now.”
“Give me a moment,” he returned, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“We don’t have a moment. They’re almost here.”
Again, he tried to stand, and again, his body failed. He turned to look at Molgheon, hoping she could see his pain was sincere, but as he turned, he saw the wagon emerge from the far alley and back to the stone slab. Jase lead two thuggish dwarves around the wagon and motioned for them to grab the cage. Then, a fourth dwarf appeared from around the wagon, and at the sight of the slave trader Torkdohn, Roskin’s blood turned white hot.
Ever since Crushaw and the others had freed him, Roskin had been so focused on returning home that he had buried the memory of what Torkdohn had done to him. He had figured that if he wasted his thoughts on the old dwarf, he would become obsessed with finding and punishing him, and that might keep him from re
turning home for a long time. Now, with the dwarf standing only a few feet away, all of those emotions flooded him in one torrent.
“Get her loaded,” the old dwarf barked at the thugs.
“Look!” Jase nearly squealed from fright. “Roskin killed the captain.”
“Hurry up, then,” Torkdohn returned. “We need to go, mark my words.”
“Should I get the net for Roskin?” Jase asked.
“Forget him. The others are too close to risk it. Just get in the wagon. You two hurry with her or I’ll send you to the orcs, too.”
As the two lifted the cage onto the bed of the wagon, Roskin forced himself to his feet and started towards them. For a moment, his eyes met Torkdohn’s, and from the venom of Roskin’s stare, the slave trader’s expression morphed to fear. Roskin switched his sword to his left hand, which was still pressed against his body, and with his right hand reached for the second axe on his back. Torkdohn turned and, with speed that defied his age, rushed to the wagon’s seat, calling for the two dwarves to kill Roskin. They shoved the cage into the wagon, causing it to lurch and rock.
When the thugs turned for him, Roskin hurled the axe at the one to his left and struck the dwarf directly in the chest. The wagon began moving away from the square, and the wounded dwarf reached to grab hold of the sideboard, but his fingers slipped off the coarse wood. He fell to the ground with a thud and lay moaning on the hard earth. Seeing his friend fall, the other thug drew his wood axe and charged. Roskin grabbed his sword with his right hand and, ignoring the screaming pain from his left shoulder, rushed forward to meet him.
The thug drew back as far as he could with the axe and swung with all his might. Roskin slipped to his right, and the axe smashed into ground, sticking firmly. Roskin drove his sword into the dwarf’s side and, as the thug fell, again into his chest. Then, Roskin ran to where the other dwarf lay dying in the dirt and stabbed him through the back. Without stopping for the axe, he ran after the wagon, but it had already turned from the narrow alley onto the main street and was gathering speed.
Running as fast as he could with one arm pressed against his body, Roskin chased it across town, but his efforts were in vain, for the horses had settled into a good stride. Losing his balance, Roskin stumbled and fell face first in the road. Once again, he tried to stand, but this time, the exhaustion and pain were too much. Helpless and desperate, he lifted his head and watched as the wagon disappeared over the last hill at the edge of town.
Chapter 14
The Clouds Threaten Rain
On the loose dirt and gravel of the road south, Leinjar found Roskin where he had fallen and, after deciding that the Kiredurk was able to stand, helped him to his feet. At first, Roskin tried run again for the wagon, which was by then a couple of miles away, but Leinjar held him fast. Roskin struggled for a moment but quickly realized his folly.
“I need a horse,” he said, looking around for the closest stable. “I can catch them with a good horse.”
“You’re in no shape to ride,” Leinjar returned, wiping clean Roskin’s sword and returning it to the scabbard on his belt.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ll live a while longer. That’s for sure, but you can’t ride at speed with one arm. Not long enough to catch them, anyway.”
“I failed her, Leinjar. I just let them take her.”
“We know better than that. She knows better. You fought like a king.”
The other dwarves caught up to them, and Roskin frantically explained what had happened. When he finished, one of the Ghaldeons who had been on the Slithsythe plantation spoke up:
“I’ve pledged loyalty to you, but Molgheon freed me and that old dwarf has sent too many to the orcs. Let me chase them down.”
“That’s right,” another Ghaldeon agreed. “I’ll go, too.”
“We’ll all chase them,” Roskin returned, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“You can’t travel like we’ll have to to catch them,” Leinjar said. “Besides, what about your kingdom? What about the war?”
Roskin shook his head and cast his eyes at the ground. Leinjar was right. There wasn’t time for him to chase Torkdohn and return to his father to stop the fighting. While he owed Molgheon his life, he would have to trust that they could track the wagon and stop Torkdohn and Jase before they reached the Great Empire. After a moment, he looked up and spoke.
“One condition. You have to bring the two traitors back to Dorkhun to be tried for their crimes.”
“By our beards,” Leinjar said. “They won’t reach the Yuejdeon.”
Each one swore the same, and to dwarves no oath is more sacred.
“Excuse me,” the stocky lumberjack said to Roskin after they had finished. “If I overstep my bounds, forgive my poor manners, but I don’t know her very well, so I think I’d rather travel with you.”
“You fulfilled your end of our bargain,” Roskin said. “You’re free to travel as you please.”
“You fought well back there,” Leinjar said, stroking his beard. “What’s your name and where’d you learn to swing an axe like that?”
“I am Krondious, and I’ve been cutting trees since the king expelled me. All I know about axes I learned in the forest.”
“You learned that chopping trees?”
Krondious shrugged.
“Time’s wasting,” Roskin said to Leinjar. “Find horses and get after them.”
The Tredjard nodded and asked Krondious where a stable was located. The stocky dwarf pointed to a building on the western edge of town, and after saying a brief farewell, the freed slaves rushed to find mounts. Dwarves by nature aren’t good horsemen. Their senses and limbs are built for tight, dark places underground and rugged subsistence in the mountains. Mostly, they use horses to pull wagons and plows, but Ghaldeons, who spend much of their lives above ground, learn to ride at an early age and are often as capable as most humans. As such, the group only took five horses from the stable, and the three Tredjards, their arms locked around each rider’s waist, sat behind and held on with all they had. The horses thundered by where Roskin and Krondious stood and charged down the southern road after Molgheon and the two traitors.
***
Suvene marched in the middle of a line of Marshwoggs, his arms bound behind his back. They had crossed the mountains and were near the boundary that separated the orc and Marshwogg lands. Much to his surprise, they had decided that instead of executing him for attacking the phantom on their soil, they would expel and ban him for life from any of their territories. That kind of mercy was foreign to orcs, and it made the frog-like creatures seem weak. Still, he was grateful for his life, for one more opportunity to hunt the phantom.
As they reached the border, they were greeted by a platoon of six orcs armed with pikes. Rewokog, the Marshwogg leader, stopped his group a few feet from the sentries and walked forward to speak with them. Suvene had learned that Rewokog spoke excellent orcish, and the two had spent several hours conversing while Suvene was held in a small jail in the base of a guard tower. The strange creature was curious about orc customs and asked dozens of questions about everyday life. All in all, Suvene had come to like the Marshwogg and wished that they had met under different circumstances.
When he finished talking to the orcs, Rewokog returned to his group and spoke in his strange tongue with the others. Without a response, they retreated several yards away, leaving the two alone. Rewokog removed the binding from Suvene’s wrists and stepped back.
“Return to your people,” the Marshwogg said in orcish. “And please don’t test our will. If you return to our lands, you will die.”
“Understood,” Suvene responded, rubbing his wrists where the cord had been. “Thank you for treating me well as your prisoner.”
Rewokog nodded and then walked to where the other Marshwoggs waited. Suvene moved to the platoon of orcs, expecting at least a cordial greeting, but instead, he was grabbed on either arm by two soldiers and clasped in shackles around his wr
ists by a third. Suvene was speechless, and when one of the soldiers poked him with a pike and ordered him to march, he responded with perfunctory steps in the direction of the fortress. They walked in a single line, three in front and the other three behind him, and nearly a mile passed before anyone spoke.
“The Masters are disappointed with you,” the platoon’s sergeant finally said. “They never should’ve sent a commoner for this.”
“I almost had him,” Suvene managed in response. “I was tricked.”
“Save your excuses for them. I’m sure they’re interested to hear them.”
The rest of the platoon laughed at the sergeant’s sarcasm, and in that moment, Suvene realized that because he had failed, the Masters planned to execute him. While his head understood that he deserved punishment, his heart was broken by the betrayal. Twice he had matched the phantom blow for blow and had come closer to defeating it than any other orc. He didn’t deserve the end of a thief or coward, and as they continued towards the fortress, which was still at least two miles away, he decided that he would not die at the hands of his own kind, not without resisting until the end.
In one motion, he looped the shackle-chain over the head of the orc in front of him and with a sharp twist snapped the neck. Then, turning towards the dumbstruck soldiers behind him, he flung the lifeless body at them. The first two dove aside, but the third was struck in the legs and toppled to the ground. Without pausing, Suvene grabbed the dropped pike and speared one of the remaining two in front before he could turn around. The other one did turn to see what was happening but was greeted by a thrust to his chest. Suvene twisted the pike, and the orc collapsed with a faint sigh.
Of the three still alive, one dropped his weapon and sprinted for the fortress. The one knocked down had gotten to his feet and had retrieved his weapon, and he and the final one crouched into offensive postures and were moving to get on either side of Suvene. As a boy, one of his favorite training games had been bull in the ring. In it, one person stands in the middle, and the other players form a ring around him. Then, the ones forming the ring will attack two and three at a time from random directions. The one in the middle has to learn how to anticipate the blind charges and react to them with timing that reverses the element of surprise. Suvene had always been excellent at bull in the ring, so instead of trying to out maneuver these final two, he simply stood still and waited for their attack.
