by D. A. Adams
“Get to your positions and be ready.”
The archers moved to their perches, two rows of wooden scaffolds set back from and on either side of the gate. The infantry fell into place beneath the scaffolds, forming an arc around the entrance. Leinjar followed the archers and checked each dwarf’s crossbow and quiver. Satisfied that all twenty were ready, he climbed down and walked through the infantry, adjusting armor on some, repositioning others, and giving words of encouragement to all. When he completed the inspection, he took his place in the center of the arc.
“They come for slaves,” he called. “Don’t get taken alive.”
The soldiers readied themselves, and no one spoke. The only sounds were those of their own breathing, and as the minutes stretched on, Leinjar began to think that maybe the orcs had turned back south to another gate. Then, the faint sound of marching reached him, hundreds of feet moving in unison and armor clanging. At first the sound was pleasant, and as a well-trained soldier he admired the precision of it, but as the orcs got closer, the noise grew louder and more ominous, much the way thunder becomes more threatening the closer a storm gets. Then, the marching stopped and was followed by a voice hissing orders in orcish.
Suddenly, the first wave appeared at the gate with a battering ram. It was a recently felled tree with an iron cap fashioned on one end and several branches left to serve as handles. At least a dozen orcs charged the iron gate with the ram. Leinjar called for a volley from the archers, and they fired as one, the bolts whistling through the bars and striking the orcs near the front. The ram slammed into the gate with a crash, and the bodies of the front orcs were thrust against the bars. As the ram retreated a few steps, their broken bodies slumped to the ground.
The archers reloaded their crossbows, but the ram got in two solid blows before they could get off another shot. The gate was damaged beyond repair, so Leinjar called for the archers to hold fire. The ram thudded against the gate a fourth time, and its hinges gave. The Tredjard infantry readied their halberds, and the archers took aim. Leinjar called for them to fire in waves so there would be a constant volley coming down, and the head archer signaled his understanding and repeated the order.
A moment later, the first orcs came through the broken gate. They were armed with heavy clubs meant to subdue the dwarves. The archers unleashed the first wave, and the orcs fell in the entranceway, but more poured in. The second wave fired, and more orcs fell, but as soon as one fell, another pushed through. While the first and second waves reloaded, the third fired, but enough orcs had stormed through to reach the infantry.
Leinjar ordered his men forward, and with their halberds the Tredjards hacked and stabbed the orcs. For several minutes, they easily held the gate, and dozens upon dozens of orcs lay dead, but there was no end to the charge. A Tredjard to his left yelled above the noise:
“Sir, we have to fall back!”
“No!” Leinjar screamed, striking an orc. “We hold this gate to the last dwarf.”
“There’s too many!”
“Then, we die here,” Leinjar answered.
In his peripheral vision, he could see that several dwarves had been taken, and the flanks near the gate were being pushed back. In his heart, he knew they wouldn’t last much longer. The remaining infantry was tiring from the onslaught, and the archers were nearly out of bolts, but he knew that even if they retreated, they would quickly be overrun anywhere in town. Their best strategy was to give the people in the shelter as much of a head start as possible and hope the soldiers from Torjhien and Stoljehn would hold their tunnels.
Despite the fatigue in his arms, he moved forward, rallying those nearby to make one last push. From deep in his chest, he screamed for the Tredjards to fight, and several voices answered. Archers jumped from the scaffolds into the melee and drew their daggers, and for a few moments, the dwarves drove the orcs all the way to the broken gate, but the enemy was too many. Fresh troops appeared in the doorway, climbing over dead bodies. As soon as the Tredjards reached the gate, they were pushed back by the new wave. Leinjar tried to stand his ground, but he slipped in a pool of blood and landed on his backside. He struggled to get up, but a sudden thud struck the side of his head, and then all went black.
***
He awoke on the surface, shivering in the cold of dawn. His armor and beard piece were missing, and his arms and legs were bound by heavy irons. All around, dozens of his soldiers were held in similar chains. Some were awake, some asleep, and others near death. He tried to count how many were there, but his mind was foggy, and each time he lost track around twenty. By his best estimate, there were probably forty of them. He tried to stand, but two orcs rushed over.
“Stay down,” one said in the common language, jabbing him in the mouth with a club.
Leinjar’s head snapped back, and his mouth filled with blood.
“You not try again that,” the orc added, his accent poor.
Leinjar sat still, staring at the ground and spitting blood. His worst fear had come to life; he had been taken alive. He thought about his wife and children, hoping desperately they had made it to safety. The townsfolk had probably had a half hour head start, and if anyone had kept their wits enough to close the gates in the tunnel, that could have bought more time. Torjhien was a major city with a force significant enough to withstand even that invasion. If they made it there, they were safe.
He raised his head and looked around. The sun was just beginning to lighten the horizon, and the terrain was becoming more visible. They were still in Tredjard territory, hardly a mile from the gate. How had the orcs pushed this far north? The reason his gate was so sparsely guarded was because no one believed it susceptible to an immense attack. He had served there for two years and had barely seen any action. Before he had made sergeant, he had served in the infantry at Stahljein to the south, where attacks were regular, and had fought in dozens of battles. When he had been transferred to this gate, he had felt slighted because he had moved so far from combat, believing he would not get the opportunity to rise higher in rank.
“On your feet,” an orc barked, walking through the Tredjards and kicking their legs.
Leinjar, woozy and disoriented, struggled to stand, and the dwarf beside him, an archer who had only been in service for a couple of months, steadied him. Scared to speak, Leinjar nodded his thanks, and the young dwarf nodded back. Then, the orc ordered them to march, so the dwarves shuffled forward in their chains. They marched for two hours without stopping, and each time one would slip or lose pace, those closest would keep him on his feet. When the precession finally stopped, the orcs brought them a barrel of water and let them drink, but no food was offered.
“We’re done for,” one dwarf said to Leinjar.
“You’re a Tredjard,” Leinjar returned. “Conduct yourself.”
“We should’ve fallen back to the tunnels.”
“We did our job,” Leinjar said. “We gave the others a chance.”
“Nonsense.”
“We held them long enough,” the archer from before said. “The sergeant was right to hold the gate.”
“What do you know, green pea? Thanks to him we’re in chains.”
The orc that had struck Leinjar earlier grabbed the disgruntled dwarf by the hair and spun him around. In his chains, the dwarf couldn’t resist, and the orc smashed his face with its club. The dwarf slumped to his knees, and the orc struck him again on top of the head. The dwarf crumpled into a pile and lay twitching.
“No talk,” the orc said, waving his club at Leinjar and the archer.
Then, the orc called for the barrel to be taken to the wagon at the front and barked for the dwarves to resume marching. They marched until the sun was at its zenith, then paused for more water. No one spoke, not even a whisper. In the distance to the south, a thick column of smoke rose into the sky, and Leinjar calculated it must be the fortress near Turljein. That was the only explanation for how the orcs had pushed to his gate with such a massive force. If they’d ra
zed the fortress, there wouldn’t have been much to slow them. He couldn’t imagine the size of the force it would have taken to conquer the fortress.
After a few minutes rest, they continued marching. The orcs pushed them hard but not to the point of exhaustion, stopping for water every couple of hours. As the sun set, several loaves of dark bread were tossed onto the ground, and the Tredjards scrambled to grab it. Leinjar got a full loaf and divided it into quarters, then gave three portions to dwarves who hadn’t been able to push into the pile. He found a decent spot on the uneven ground and sat down to eat.
The bread was gone in a couple of bites and did little for his hunger, but Leinjar didn’t care. His thoughts were with his family. He had not spent a night away from his children since his transfer from Stahljein, and even then, he had not been away from his oldest for more than two nights. He fought against his darkest fears that something had happened to them and imagined them safe and warm and well-fed in Torjhien. The thought gave him a little comfort, but he couldn’t undo the knot in his stomach. It burned and ached, not from hunger, but from the terror that he had failed to protect his family, and now that he was in chains, there was nothing he could do.
Once the sun set, he fell asleep quickly, but it was a fitful, restless slumber, and after a couple of hours, he bolted up from the dew-damp ground. His hands shook, and the knot in his stomach tightened. He looked around at the other Tredjards, unsure what to do. Every instinct roared for him to return to his sons, to make sure they were safe in their beds, but the irons that bound his wrists and ankles were too solid. For the rest of the night, he sat there, crying.
When the sun rose, he was exhausted, but the orcs shouted for them to march, so he staggered to his feet and moved forward. That day proceeded much like the previous, but in the late afternoon, a line of wagons appeared in the distance, and the orcs cheered. By sunset, they reached the wagons and were greeted by a new group of orcs that inspected each dwarf and ordered them one by one to board specific wagons. Leinjar climbed inside, happy to see the young archer was there. He sat beside him and waited for whatever was going to happen.
After several minutes, an orc tossed several more loaves of bread in with them and set a barrel of water on the floor. The dwarves scrambled for the food and, in their haste, spilled much of the water, but after two days of marching, they were too hungry to care. Leinjar ate half of his loaf and tucked the other half inside his blood-soaked tunic just in case they weren’t offered more food. The archer saw what he had done and followed his lead.
Four orcs returned to the wagon and lifted the steel ramp to close them in. As it slammed shut, the inside of the wagon went dark, and panic ran through him. Outside, the orcs fastened locks to secure the ramp, and he struggled to regain his composure. Then, the wagon lurched forward, jostling them against each other, and the dwarves shoved each other and growled curses back and forth. The tension continued to rise until the archer shouted:
“Settle down! We’re still dwarves, not beasts!”
“He’s right,” another dwarf returned in the darkness. “Let’s keep our wits.”
The others grumbled their agreement, and several apologized to each other. For a moment, Leinjar imagined they were inside the barracks, arguing over sleeping arrangements, but the knot in his stomach and the trembling in his hands quickly reminded him he was as far from there as he could be. He hung his head and stared into the blackness.
“Sir, what should we do?” the archer asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t have any answers.”
“You’ll think of something.”
“I wish they’d taken my life,” he said, his voice low and distant.
“Don’t say that. It’s awful to think.”
Leinjar didn’t respond. Everything that mattered to him was gone, probably lost forever – his rank, his post, his soldiers, his wife, his children – he would never know these things again. Never in his life had he wished to be dead, but in the back of the wagon in darkness like the deep, he hated being alive.
“Where are they taking us?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He cared little for the world outside the Tredjard lands and hadn’t bothered to learn geography.
“I’ll tell you where,” a dwarf said from the front. “Koshlonsen.”
“Where’s that?” the archer asked.
“Somewhere we never wanted to see,” the dwarf answered.
“No more questions,” Leinjar huffed.
The dwarves fell silent, and the sounds of the wagon rolling along the uneven ground were loud and merciless. One by one, they stretched out as best they could in the tight quarters and tried to rest. Leinjar feel asleep, too, but a couple of hours later, he sat up again and called for his sons. Another dwarf snapped for him to keep quiet, and he curled into the fetal position and fought against the waves of anxiety coursing through him. Each time a wave would pass, he would gain a moment of poise, but then, another wave would wash through him and cause the trembling to resume. In that manner, he lay on the floor of the wagon wide awake for the second night in a row.
***
By the time he reached the Slithsythe Plantation, time had ceased to matter. The trip to Koshlonsen had taken over a month, and he had remained on the auction block for several days. He hadn’t slept a full night’s sleep since his capture and spent most of his days sitting and staring at nothing. No orc wanted such a lethargic, grief-stricken dwarf. Finally, a squat orc with a bad limp had stopped at his stall and inspected his physique and made an offer to the trader. After much haggling, Leinjar was sold for a small pile of copper coins.
When he reached the plantation, he and three other slaves were stripped and lined up single file. One by one, they were branded, and when the hot metal touched his hip, Leinjar howled. Then, a dozen well-armed orcs surrounded him and pointed for him to march across the manicured grass to the edge of the fields. They led him to an enormous iron cage with razor blades and spikes ringing the top. The orcs shouted for the Tredjards inside to stand on the far end of the cage, and the dwarves obeyed. Then, ten orcs stood near the door, their pikes readied for any who might charge. One orc unlocked the door, and another shoved Leinjar inside. Behind him, the door slammed shut and was quickly locked.
The ground was packed hard and stank of rotten food and feces, and Leinjar stood frozen, not sure if he should introduce himself or hide in the rectangular building in the center of the cage. Once the orcs were gone, the Tredjards approached him, and one very muscular dwarf, who clearly was their leader, stepped so close their noses touched.
“These are the rules,” the dwarf said with rotten breath. “We fight for meat. You fight well, we let you live. You don’t, we squeeze you through those bars. Understand?”
Leinjar stared blankly. Part of him wanted the dwarves to kill him.
“Are you stupid?” the dwarf asked.
“No.”
“Then, you best answer me.”
“I understand.”
“We start practice soon. Be ready.”
With that, the dwarf turned and strode across the cage, and the others followed him, some glaring at Leinjar with expressions that made him shiver. He walked to the rectangular room and went inside. There were no furnishings or decorations, save a few crude drawings on the walls, and the dirt floor was packed as hard as the rest of the ground inside the cage. Leinjar went to the far corner and lay down, curling into the fetal position. He had heard rumors at Koshlonsen that the orcs had overrun many cities, taking all of the adult males as slaves and some of the female but killing all the children and elderly. But no one knew anything about Torjhien, and not knowing his children’s fate was the most torture. He buried his face in his arm and sobbed.
“What kind of sissy have they thrown in here?” the leader of the cage said, standing over him.
“Just leave me alone,” Leinjar said. “I’ve lost everything.”
“We’re starting practice. On your feet
or I’ll stomp you where you lay.”
“I just want my life back,” Leinjar said, looking up. His face was streaked with tears and snot flowed from his nose.
“Get this through your head, whoever you were is gone. Here you either fight and survive or you die a very painful death.”
“I couldn’t protect my family.”
“Your family is dead,” the dwarf returned. His face was checkered with scars, and he was missing several teeth.
“Don’t say that.”
“On your feet,” the dwarf said, reaching down and grabbing Leinjar’s beard.
An image of his children flashed through his head, and the empty cavern where his heart had been ached with a pain he couldn’t comprehend. The knot in his stomach swelled until he thought he would explode, and as the leader pulled on his beard, his pain morphed into anger. Suddenly, he stopped crying and stared at the leader, his eyes wide with rage.
“Stand up,” the leader said, his voice low and threatening.
Leinjar sprang to his feet and struck the leader in the forearm, knocking his grasp from Leinjar’s beard. Before the leader could recover, Leinjar struck him in the chest, knocking the wind from him. The dwarf stumbled backwards from surprise, and Leinjar drove into him with all he had. Something inside him had broken, and he couldn’t control the fury. He pounded on the leader with every ounce of strength, forcing the bigger dwarf across the room and against the wall. As the dwarf slid down the wall, bleeding and wheezing, the other dwarves charged into the room and wrestled Leinjar to the ground.
“Get off me!” Leinjar screamed, struggling against their weight. The dwarves held him still until he stopped moving.
The leader spit out a mouthful of blood and pulled himself to his hands and knees. He glared at Leinjar for several heartbeats, but then, a smile slowly spread across his face.
“That’s more like it,” he said. “Let him up.”
The dwarves obeyed, and Leinjar scrambled to his feet, turning to face them.
