by D. A. Adams
The king rushed across the room and embraced his son, sobbing audibly, a cross between ecstasy and despair. Roskin returned the embrace and cried, too. Master Sondious sat quietly. Though he couldn’t fully comprehend the moment, he respected how the king had missed his oldest child.
“I thought I had lost you,” the king said, leaning back but still holding Roskin’s shoulders.
“Me too, sir.”
“They said the ogres sold you to the orcs.”
“No, the ogres had nothing to do with it. I was captured by a Ghaldeon slave trader.”
“Captain Roighwheil,” the king called. Still smiling, the captain stepped back into the room. “Send a message to the ogres that we request a temporary truce.”
“You can’t do that!” Master Sondious yelled.
“My friend,” the king responded, his voice lowering in authority. “There’s no reason to continue this war.”
“If you surrender to them, you dishonor those who’ve fallen.”
“Master Sondious, we’re not surrendering. We’ve held our gate.”
“This war is my fault,” Roskin said, his voice cracking. “No one else needs to die.”
“They need to pay!” Master Sondious’s eyes widened with rage.
“That’s enough, Master Sondious,” the king said, gritting his teeth. “I have spoken.”
The king turned back to his captain and repeated the order. The captain saluted and hurried from the chamber. Kraganere called for his attendant and motioned for Roskin to sit. Roskin adjusted the sword at his waist and settled onto the chair.
“You look terrible, son,” the king said, taking his seat.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Roskin, please, call me dad.”
“What can I get for you, my lord?” the attendant asked Roskin.
“Just some water. But will you check with my friends, too?”
The attendant excused himself, and Roskin turned to Master Sondious.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
“It’s wonderful news that you’re safe,” Master Sondious returned, still fuming over the king’s reprimand.
“Son, please, tell me what happened.”
Roskin started into the story, beginning with his plans of finding Evil Blade. Master Sondious listened intently, leaning in as close as his chair would allow. The attendant returned with a pitcher of water and three tankards, and as Roskin resumed, the king interrupted several times, asking for more details about Roskin’s time with the outcasts and the ogres. When Roskin reached the point of arriving at the Slithsythe Plantation, he stopped, his voice catching in his throat.
“I can’t talk about that place,” he managed.
“It’s okay, Roskin,” Kraganere said, reaching over and touching his shoulder.
The heir composed himself and continued, explaining how Evil Blade, Vishghu, and Molgheon liberated the slaves and overran the orcs. Then, he described the Battle for Hard Hope, how Evil Blade lured the orcs into the narrow strip of land to even the odds, how Roskin had fought with Leinjar at the rear to cut off the orcs’ retreat.
“Most of my life, I’ve heard horror stories about Evil Blade, but he sounds like someone I’d like to meet,” the king said.
“Yes,” Master Sondious agreed. “He sounds nothing like the ogres describe.”
“He’s not.”
“Maybe we can bring him to Dorkhun to honor him for rescuing you.”
“There are others, too. Vishghu did as much as anyone for me. She deserves to be recognized.”
“Under the circumstances, I’m not sure we could invite an ogre into the kingdom for some time.”
“If ever,” Master Sondious added.
Roskin leaned back in his seat and stared at the ceiling. For a moment, Master Sondious saw a glimmer of the Roskin who had left a little over a year before, but as quickly as it came, the glimmer faded. The special advisor could see the pain in the young dwarf’s eyes, a deep wound that could never fully heal. He wanted to tell him that he too understood that kind of suffering. He wanted to tell him about his own ordeal; how he had believed himself already dead; how his legs ached every moment of every day; how he woke most nights from the same nightmare. He knew Roskin would understand in a way the king couldn’t, and more than anything else, he needed to share it with someone who had been through something similar.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Roskin said, rising from his seat.
The heir went to the door and called to his friends. Then, he returned to the table and stood near his father and the special advisor. In a moment, a new figure came through the doorway. This dwarf was also very thin but in a more toned, muscular way. His left arm was missing from just below the elbow, but he carried himself with grace and dignity. Master Sondious immediately recognized him as the great nephew of the lost Ghaldeon king. When Bordorn had been a youth in exile in Dorkhun, Master Sondious, who then was only an assistant to the council, had served as his tutor, teaching him about government and politics. As well as Master Sondious could remember, Bordorn had been an excellent student, and the two had been fond of each other.
Then, a Kiredurk entered the room, a thickly muscled and imposing dwarf whose very walk warned of trouble. His white beard was braided in two long strands, and his cheeks were damaged from too much sun exposure. Even though it had been many years since Master Sondious had seen him, he recognized his nephew immediately, and he wanted to embrace his kin but hoped the king didn’t recognize him, too.
“You remember Bordorn,” Roskin said to the king.
“Yes,” Kraganere responded, rising and shaking hands with Bordorn. He hadn’t yet looked at Master Sondious’s nephew.
“And this is Krondious,” Roskin continued, gesturing at the white beard.
“You,” Kraganere said, stepping back, his face tightening. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“He is…” Roskin began, but the king cut him off.
“I know who he is. The Butcher of the Deep! Guards!”
Several well-armed Kiredurks rushed into the room, axes drawn. Krondious turned to face them, reaching for his own weapon, but Roskin jumped between the guards and the nephew. Bordorn stood frozen, and Master Sondious’s assistant pulled his chair as far back as it would go.
“Call them off!” Roskin screamed.
“Get out of the way!” Kraganere yelled back.
Krondious got his axe from its loop and drew back, but Roskin grabbed his arm just under the elbow and held him.
“Krondious, stand down!” Roskin shouted, struggling to keep his grip on the nephew’s powerful arm.
Krondious suddenly relaxed, focusing on Roskin’s face. In a lower tone, Roskin repeated the order, and Krondious lowered his axe. In all his years, Master Sondious had never seen anyone control his nephew that way.
“He’s with me,” Roskin said to the king. “Call them off.”
“I can’t do that, son.”
“He saved my life.”
“He’s a villain and an exile. Guards, shackle him.”
“No!” Roskin screamed.
The guards circled them, and two readied sets of shackles, one for his arms and the other for his legs. Krondious stood still as stone, not resisting.
“Don’t hurt him,” Roskin barked.
The guards attached the shackles, and the king moved over and grabbed Roskin. He pulled his son from the throng and pushed him against the wall.
“Don’t fight them, Krondious,” Roskin called. “I’ll get you out of this.”
Krondious nodded his understanding and let the guards put his arms behind his back and connect the bindings. Once he was bound, the king ordered them to take him to a holding room down the hall. One guard pushed Krondious in the back to force him forward, and the nephew stumbled from the tightness of the chain between his ankles. The guard drew back to strike him, but Roskin broke the king’s grasp and rushed the guard.
“If you touch him, I’ll te
ar you apart,” Roskin threatened, his voice reverberating off the walls.
The guard jumped back, his eyes wide.
“Don’t hurt him,” the king said. “Just get him to the room. Roskin, sit down!”
The heir turned to his father and glared at him, not the look of spoiled nobility who hasn’t gotten his way as before. This look was different. It was mature, wise, and pained. Roskin stood still for several moments, and the king stared back, his expression torn between the love for his son and his duty as king.
“He knew the penalty for returning,” the king spoke at last.
“I brought him here. I needed soldiers in Rugraknere, so I offered a full pardon to any who would fight beside me.”
“He’s the Butcher of the Deep, Roskin. He killed six dwarves in a drunken rage, injured several more. I only spared his life out of respect for Master Sondious.”
“He swore his life to mine,” Roskin said, stepping closer and clenching his jaw. “He’s not that person anymore.”
“For what it’s worth, your highness,” Bordorn finally spoke. “He did save our lives, and he did swear an oath to Pepper Beard.”
The king sighed and asked Master Sondious what he thought.
“I’ve never defended my nephew’s actions. He shamed our family’s name.”
“He’s different, now,” Roskin pleaded. “He defended me when none of the other exiles wanted to. He respected you for your fairness. He risked his life to help me.”
“I will consider all that,” the king said, slumping in his chair. “You must be exhausted. Go get fresh clothes and a good meal. We’ll discuss this later.”
“Yes, sir,” Roskin hissed, turning for the door.
Once Roskin and Bordorn were gone, Master Sondious told his assistant to push him back to the table. Though the king had called for a truce, he didn’t believe the ogres would honor it, so he wanted to finish his plans to defend the destroyed tunnel. Kraganere looked at him as he picked up a map.
“The war is over,” the king said, his tone low and serious.
“Of course, but just in case they don’t accept your terms, I think we should be prepared.”
“Am I or am I not your king?”
Master Sondious looked up from the map and made eye contact with his old friend. Master Sondious wanted to remind the king that he had been the one who had tried to avoid war, that he had been the one who had gone to the ogres with an offer of peace before the fighting had begun. He wanted to remind the king that Kraganere’s own irrational grief for his son had brought this about. Instead, he dropped the map onto the table and smiled.
“My friend, you’re right. Roskin is safe. We’ve no need to keep fighting.”
The king nodded his approval and rose from his seat. Then, he strode from the room without a word. Master Sondious watched him go, thinking to himself the king had proven more than once that when his emotions were stirred, he was not a competent ruler. Then, he reached down and picked up the map. Truce or not, the Kiredurks would be prepared to keep the ogres from resuming the tunnel.
Chapter 4
To Protect His Family
Leinjar kissed his oldest son on the forehead and tucked the wool blanket under his chin. The boy was already asleep, his bottom lip sucking in under his tongue as he did every night. Leinjar lingered there for a few heartbeats, then stepped over to the baby’s crib and stared down at him. He was scared to touch the baby because he was such a light sleeper and difficult to get back to sleep, so Leinjar contented himself with gazing into the face that could be his own. The baby rolled onto his side and stretched his legs but didn’t wake, so Leinjar crept away, smiling.
In the master bedroom, his wife was already asleep, her back to his empty spot. This was the third night in a row that he had stayed late at the barracks, preparing for an impending orc attack. The farmers on the surface had fled underground four days earlier, spreading news of a massive force marching to the gate, and as first sergeant, Leinjar was responsible for preparations. Still, his wife wasn’t happy he had barely been home. For a moment, he thought about waking her to talk, but she had been chasing the children all day and wouldn’t appreciate the interruption to her much needed rest.
He unbuckled his chest plate and lifted it over his head. After placing it on the dresser, he removed the vambrace on his forearms and set them to the right of the plate. Then, he unclipped his beard piece and laid it on the left. As a sergeant, his clip was silver, fashioned into a halberd. In Tredjard society, beard pieces signify social status, and while his was not as ornate as the captain’s, he had worked hard to earn it. As he reached to unbuckle his pants belt, the barracks’ alarm sounded, loud and imposing in the still of night. From his crib, the baby started crying.
“Lorshia, wake up,” Leinjar called, grabbing his beard clip.
“Are you home?”
“The alarm,” he returned, unsure what else to say.
“It’s probably another false one,” she said, but the fear in her eyes showed that she didn’t believe it.
“Take the children to the shelter.”
She climbed from bed and reached for her clothes, and for a moment, Leinjar looked at the thin sheen of sweat on her caramel skin. He wanted to hug and kiss and tell how much he loved her, but there wasn’t time.
“Please, get them out of here,” he said, his voice sharper than intended.
She ran to the children’s room and lifted the baby from his crib and then roused the oldest.
“I’ll come for you when the battle is over,” Leinjar offered as he tightened the straps on his vambrace.
“Okay,” she said, moving to the front door with the baby on her left shoulder and the oldest clutching her right hand.
“Daddy, come with us,” the oldest said, trying to pull away.
Leinjar stared at his sons, wishing with all his heart that he could go with them to the shelter and play their nightly games, riding them on his shoulders and letting them jump on his belly.
“Daddy has to keep us safe,” Lorshia said to the toddler.
“I love you, son. Daddy’ll be there soon.”
“Be careful,” Lorshia said to him.
“They’ll regret coming to this gate. Now, please, get going.”
She made a game of having the oldest open the front door, and a heartbeat later, the three of them were gone. As he adjusted his chest plate, Leinjar glared at the closed door and fought against the scream building in his stomach. He grabbed his halberd from its rack in the hallway and hustled after them. Instead of turning right towards the shelter, he turned left towards the barracks.
The streets were full of dwarves, an odd sight for this time of night, and the sounds of chaos were overwhelming: mother’s calling children; babies crying; elderly singing old battle songs; soldiers shouting orders. Leinjar blocked out the din and focused on pushing through the crowd to reach his station. As he made his way, some dwarves begged him for protection, others wished him luck, while others asked to join the fight. He ignored them all, going through his objectives in his mind.
The captain had gone to a military meeting in the capital and wouldn’t return for at least another week, so Leinjar was the highest ranking soldier on duty. As such, he had to lead these dwarves, most of whom had never fought in a serious battle, and keep them centered on their duty. First, he had to make a quick roll call, followed by a status report from the sentry who sounded the alarm. Then, he needed to station the archers and check their equipment. After the archers, he had to align the infantry and also check their weapons. Finally, he had to keep them at the gate for as long as possible regardless of the force they faced. They had been rehearsing for three days, but from past battles, he knew that sometimes when metal clashed, nerves undid even the best of training. He had to stay focused.
At the barracks, soldiers moved in every direction, grabbing weapons, adjusting armor, fetching water, and settling into formation. He barked for them to get ready for roll call, his voice b
ooming over the cacophony, and in a matter of seconds, their motions resembled order. He moved to his stand at the front and grabbed his duty roster from the shelf. He boomed again for them to line up, and the stragglers rushed into position. Quickly, he called off the names, and all fifty-three were accounted for. Then, with the group assembled, he called the sentry to report. The young dwarf approached the stand.
“They’re at the base of the hill, not more than half a mile,” the sentry said, leaning close, his eyes wild with fear.
“How many?”
“A thousand,” the sentry whispered. “Maybe more.”
Leinjar looked at the dwarf, wondering about the validity of his estimate. A force that large hadn’t pushed this far north in a hundred years. After reading the sentry’s face, he realized that, if anything, the young Tredjard was underestimating the number.
“I need two runners,” Leinjar called to the unit. “The two fastest, now!”
Two dwarves rushed to his stand and saluted.
“You, go to the shelter and tell everyone there to flee to Torjhien. Tell them not to delay, and escort them yourself. No loafing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My family is there so move your backside. Go!”
The dwarf saluted and sprinted away in the direction of the shelter, and Leinjar watched him leave before turning to the other.
“You, go to Stoljehn. Tell them to send every unit to this gate. Tell them we’ll hold as long as we can.”
The dwarf also saluted and sprinted away. The remaining soldiers whispered amongst themselves, and palpable tension rippled through the lines. Leinjar composed himself and banged on his stand.
“Every Tredjard at this gate,” he bellowed. “Shut your mouth and listen.”
The whispers fell silent.
“Our job is to hold this gate. We fight for those who can’t, for our friends, for our families. You are Tredjards, dark beards of the southern mountains. We do not fear orcs.”
The soldiers cheered and raised their weapons above their heads.
