by D. A. Adams
“It seems like another lifetime that I first taught you.”
“Yeah.”
“Once I learn how to use my shield, I’ll be able to whip your butt again.”
Roskin sat up and looked at his friend. Bordorn had lost his arm protecting him, and Roskin had yet to talk to him about it, at least not seriously. He wanted to apologize, but words seemed weak and hollow. Bordorn smiled at him and then rose. From the hard labor at the logging town, his body was lean and solid, and even with half his left arm missing, he still carried himself as someone of noble birth. As a kid, Roskin had always looked up to him, and now, seeing his friend still proud, still positive, still with his sense of humor, he respected him even more.
“Let’s get some food,” Bordorn said, walking to the door.
“Sounds good,” Roskin returned, standing and following him.
Bordorn stopped and spoke with the attendant, telling the still scared dwarf that if Roskin tried anything like that again to let him know, and he would take care of it. Looking down and blushing, the attendant mumbled, and Bordorn patted him on the shoulder and smiled. The attendant looked at Roskin briefly, then back at the floor. Roskin patted him on the shoulder also and told him to take the rest of the night off. Then, he and Bordorn made their way to the dining room, and as they neared it, the smells of meats and stews wafted from the kitchen.
“Oh, that smells good,” Bordorn said.
“It’s been too long since I had a hot Kiredurkian meal.”
“That slop they make in Rugraknere is worthy of exile itself.”
Laughing, Roskin pushed open the dining room door and found a seat at the table. Bordorn sat beside him, and the two introduced themselves to the ones at the table they hadn’t met. After the introductions, Bordorn began telling the story of how he lost him arm. Roskin laughed again as he exaggerated the details, and Bordorn had everyone riveted. Roskin leaned back in his seat, listened to his friend, and watched the other dwarves’ faces as they reacted. Bordorn had always loved social dinners and had always been good at spinning a yarn, and sitting there at the table, for a little while, Roskin forgot about the trading block, the cage, the vanishing trails, the dark fear. For a little while, he was just another dinner guest caught up in Bordorn’s charm, and it was good to be back among his kin.
Chapter 7
To Serve Justice
Molgheon grasped the crossbow bolt and got a strong grip. Leinjar and the others held Jase down so he couldn’t move, but he was screaming hysterically, even though nothing had been done to him yet. Molgheon had removed many arrows and bolts from many wounded, so she knew what she was doing. She applied pressure to the bolt to determine whether it was lodged in muscle or bone, and satisfied her shot had only pierced muscle, she ripped the missile from his leg in one swift motion. Jase howled, but she ignored him and picked up the metal rod that had been heating in the campfire. Aiming carefully, she jabbed the rod into his wound to cauterize it. On impact, Jase’s voice dropped into a guttural moan that broke into a silent scream. The smell of burnt flesh rose with the smoke from his wound, and he passed out.
Molgheon laid the metal back in the fire to re-clean it, and the other dwarves stood, leaving Jase prone. Molgheon inspected the wound closely and saw the bleeding had mostly stopped from the cauterizing, but the surrounding area was already red and swollen, showing early signs of infection. She looked up at Leinjar and said:
“We need something, or he’ll lose this leg in a day or two.”
“What’s it matter?” one of the Ghaldeons returned. “He’ll be executed soon enough.”
“If we don’t stop it, he won’t make it to Dorkhun.”
“Slave traders carry different things to heal their captives,” Leinjar said, staring at Torkdohn. “Makes the slaves more valuable on the block. Isn’t that right?”
Torkdohn just glared at him, so Leinjar went to the wagon and began rummaging through the crates underneath the seat. He located a small box of glass jars and bottles and carried it to the cage where Torkdohn sat, his right arm shackled to an iron bar.
“Which one will heal that wound?” Leinjar asked.
Still, Torkdohn remained silent.
“Believe me,” Leinjar said, leaning as close to Torkdohn’s ear as the cage would allow. “I’ll enjoy making you tell me, so we might as well skip the pain.”
For a moment, the hatred in Torkdohn’s eyes alternated as fear. He swallowed hard but remained defiant.
“I lost track of how many years I lost because of people like you. Wanna find out if there’s any pity left in my heart?”
“The green one,” Torkdohn muttered, pointing with his left hand at a small jar in the middle.
Leinjar took the green jar and handed it to Molgheon. While she removed the lid, he returned the box to the wagon. With two fingers, Molgheon scooped a glob of salve and spread it around the wound. Jase’s skin absorbed the salve as she rubbed in a circular motion around the area. Then, she motioned for the others to redress him. Two Ghaldeons lifted him to his feet, and a third pulled up his pants and fastened his belt. Then, they carried him to the wagon and returned him to the cage. Once the lock was secure, Molgheon removed the shackle from Torkdohn’s arm and handed him the salve through the bars.
“Put this on him when he needs more,” she said. “Or you won’t like the consequences.”
“I’m thirsty,” Torkdohn said, clutching the jar against his body with his left arm.
“Get him a drink,” Molgheon said to the Ghaldeons.
One of the dwarves retrieved his waterskin from his horse and passed it to him. Molgheon watched Torkdohn closely as he took a long drink and handed it back. Then, she went to the front of the wagon and found a handful of bolts for the crossbow. Using a leather pouch, she formed a makeshift quiver and turned to Leinjar, who had sat down with the other Tredjards by the fire.
“We need fresh meat,” she said. “I’m gonna get us a couple of rabbits or squirrels.”
“Someone should go with you,” he returned, moving to stand.
“Sit down,” she said sharply. “I can manage. You’ll just scare everything away.”
Leinjar settled back, a hurt look on his face. Molgheon stepped closer to him and said:
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you. I just don’t need protection.”
“It’s okay,” Leinjar responded. “Thought it might not be safe.”
“I know these lands,” she said. “And I can be quieter alone. Just keep an eye on them, and I’ll be back shortly.”
With that, she turned and walked a few feet down the trail and darted into a grove of junipers. She moved down the slope, picking through the trees as silently as she could. Once she was deep into the woods, she found a small clearing and lay on her belly. She locked a bolt into place and remained still, waiting for any game to come into view. Through the trees, she could see the trail at a point down the mountain. They had climbed at least 2,000 feet that day, winding and twisting up the old road that had once been a fairly busy trade route. During the Resistance, she and her unit had traveled this area dozens of times, and from what she remembered, the Snivegohn Valley was only three or four days away.
Twigs cracking caught her attention, and careful not to make any noise, she aimed in the direction of the sound. A good-sized rabbit came into view, sniffing the air and twitching its long ears. The shot wasn’t clear, so Molgheon held still and adjusted the crossbow to where the shot would be if the rabbit moved forward. Without warning, it lifted its ears, held still, and then disappeared back where it had come from. Molgheon hadn’t made a sound, so she strained her ears to hear whatever had startled the animal. Other than the breeze in the trees, she heard nothing for several heartbeats. Then, a familiar sound brought a flood of memories.
She had heard soldiers from the Great Empire marching more times than she could count, and she knew instantly the clangs of armor and the certain rhythm of feet stepping in time. Her blood ran cold, and
she peered down the hill to find them on the trail. A moment later, they came into view through a clearing, at least four dozen, far more than she and the others could fight. Cursing under her breath, she jumped to her feet and started up the hill.
She ran as hard as she could up the incline, retracing her path. Low branches and underbrush scratched her face and arms, and twice she slipped on loose earth. The first time, her crossbow fired, the bolt hitting a fallen log, and for a moment, she thought about dropping it to better maintain balance. However, she kept her wits and held on to the weapon. The second time she fell, most of the bolts in her improvised quiver spilled, leaving only two. She got to her feet and kept running, but the slope was harsh. Her legs were jelly, and her lungs ached.
Finally, she burst onto the trail and stumbled a third time as the incline leveled off. Leinjar and the others jumped to their feet and started for her, but she scrambled up and waved her arms for them to halt. She tried to yell, but her breath was too short to form more than a syllable. Her legs weak, she ran to the campsite, trying to motion for them to mount their horses and wagon, but none understood, so she stopped at the back of the wagon and took a couple of deep breaths.
“Soldiers,” she managed, pointing down the trail.
Finally, Leinjar got the message and called for everyone to pack and mount, and the dwarves each moved swiftly. They tossed pans and blankets into the wagon, and attached weapons to saddles. Within a couple of minutes, everyone was ready, and Molgheon hopped into the wagon’s seat and took the reins. Leinjar sat beside her, and the other two Tredjards got in the back of the wagon with the cage. The five Ghaldeons mounted their horses, and Molgheon shouted for them to follow.
She released the brake and snapped the reins sharply. The horses jumped forward, causing the wagon to lurch violently. Leinjar furrowed his brow at her, questioning whether she knew what she was doing, but she returned his look with an icy glare that forced him to look away. Working the reins, she settled the horses into a smooth pace. As they climbed the mountain with the sun sinking, she searched her memory for any side trails that might help. When they rounded the next bend, the landscape brought something back, an old dwarf who had sheltered her unit a few times during the Resistance. If he were still there, he might be able to help, and his house wasn’t too far away.
“I’ve got a friend,” she shouted to Leinjar above the clatter.
“Glad to hear it.”
“It’s a long-shot.”
“I understand.”
“We may get cornered.”
“I trust your judgment,” Leinjar said, his wide eyes staring forward.
Up ahead, she saw the landmark that marked the path to the old dwarf’s house. It was a salt and pepper boulder on the trail’s edge. On either side of the gabbro block, thick underbrush gave no hint of any trail, but Molgheon stopped the wagon by the boulder and hopped down. She motioned to the Ghaldeons to watch for soldiers behind them and then walked to the left side of the boulder. Reaching through the underbrush, she felt around until she located the gate’s latch hammered into the rock. The latch was rusty and hadn’t been used in some time, and once she got it to release, she pushed on the gate to swing it in, but the honeysuckle, which once only been a decoy, now held it fast.
Her heart sank, but she returned to the wagon and found two daggers. Handing one to Leinjar, she motioned for him to follow her and returned to the gate. Using the dagger, she hacked at the vines, and following her lead, Leinjar did likewise. Within a couple of minutes, they cleared enough that the gate started moving, so Molgheon pushed it open enough to get the wagon through. She signaled to Leinjar to drive the wagon, and he ran to it and released the brake. The horses hesitated, not trusting the new way, but Leinjar guided them through and onto the overgrown path. The Ghaldeons followed one at a time, and when the last reached her, Molgheon stopped him.
“Wait for me right here,” she whispered.
He nodded and raised his hand for the others to stop, and the group halted in the tall grass. Molgheon pulled the gate shut and fastened the latch. Then, she brushed pieces of branch and root that lay scattered on the trail’s edge underneath the base and fluffed the vegetation on the gate. Shortly, she was satisfied that in the failing light, only a dwarf from underground would be able to tell anything had been disturbed. From down the trail, the sounds of marching reached her, so she climbed over the boulder and crouched on the other side. She signaled to the others to remain quiet, and everyone held still.
As the soldiers got closer, Molgheon’s heart beat harder and harder, and the time it took for them to reach the boulder seemed impossibly long. She was certain at any moment one of them would notice the gate or hear one of horses whinny or even worse be called to by Jase or Torkdohn. If the dwarves were found, Molgheon would fight to the death, for she would never again be taken alive by them. She pushed those thoughts from her mind and focused on breathing.
As the regiment marched by, bits of conversation came to her, and Molgheon gathered the soldiers seemed not to care about the quickly abandoned campsite or that there were dwarves on the trail somewhere. Instead, most of them were more interested in when they were going to stop to eat and how long they would get to rest before continuing the climb. Molgheon was relieved by their disinterest and, for the first time since spotting them, relaxed a little. Once they were out of earshot, she rose from behind the boulder and walked to the wagon.
As she neared, the Ghaldeons dismounted and let their horses graze in the tall grass. She had expected Torkdohn to call to the soldiers and wondered why he hadn’t, but as she neared the cage, she saw why. Leinjar had gagged him with a thick strip of cloth and still held both ends tightly outside the bars. The old dwarf clawed at the binding, but the Tredjard’s grip was too much.
“The coward kept silent from a threat, but didn’t think I should give this one the chance,” Leinjar said to Molgheon, smiling.
“Good. You can let him go, now.”
“Maybe I should tie this to the bars.”
“No, they’re gone. We’ll be fine until morning.”
Leinjar released the cloth with his left hand and pulled it through the bars with his right. Torkdohn spat and coughed to regain his breath as Molgheon leaned close.
“Try to call for them, and I’ll shoot you myself,” she said. “Understand?”
“I won’t need to call out,” Torkdohn returned. “These mountains are crawling with soldiers. You’re all dead, mark my words.”
“If it comes to that, you’re the first to die.”
She turned to Leinjar and told him to drive the wagon, then motioned for the Ghaldeons to get their horses. Without waiting for anyone to answer, she marched down the old path that led to the house. No one had traveled this way for some time, and she was certain the old dwarf had passed on, but with luck, the house would still be there. They could sleep in it for the night and regroup in the morning.
Twilight gave way to darkness as she strode towards the house, her head full of memories she wished she didn’t have. The last time she had been at this place was a few days before her capture. She had been half-starved and mostly frozen, and the old dwarf, while not able to offer much because his stores of food had been depleted by the retreating dwarves, had given her warm clothes and a decent meal. She had always remembered his kindness and, truth be told, had taken in Red in part as a way to repay that generosity.
The path curved with the mountain’s contour, winding deep into a grove of trees. Up ahead, a light flickered from inside the old house, and Molgheon froze. From the condition of the trail she hadn’t expected to find anyone, and now, seeing the light, she was unsure what to do. Leinjar stopped the wagon, hopped down, and moved beside her. She pointed to the light, and the two stood for a moment before either spoke.
“Maybe it’s your friend,” Leinjar finally offered.
“I don’t know how. You saw the gate, the path.”
“Only one way to find out.”
&
nbsp; Molgheon nodded and continued forward. Leinjar followed in the wagon. The yard around the house was overgrown, and vines climbed wooden walls that hadn’t been painted in years. The front porch was littered with leaves and branches, but the house still looked sound. While most dwarves prefer the certainty of stone, some Ghaldeons are renowned carpenters, and like the elves, many of their wooden structures can survive for decades. Molgheon hesitated at the bottom of the porch, but then, brushing away debris with her feet, she climbed the three steps, crossed the creaking boards, and knocked on the door.
Through the curtain, a shadow slowly rose from a seat and approached the entrance. The door opened, and a stale, musty aroma rushed out, causing Molgheon to catch her breath. A bent, frail figure stared at her, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize him. Before she could say anything, the old dwarf’s eyes lit up and a toothless smile showed through his thick, white beard.
“Molgheon,” he said, reaching out a thin hand to touch her arm. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Yes,” she said, placing her hand on his. She was surprised not only that he remembered her name but also that she hadn’t recoiled from the touch. “It’s been a long time, Bressard.”
“Please, come in, come in.”
“I have friends with me.”
“Sounds like the old days,” the dwarf said, chuckling. “They’ll have to excuse the mess.”
“Of course,” Molgheon said, laughing. “Let me get them.”
She hurried back to the wagon and called for the dwarves to carry the cage inside. In a moment, they hoisted it from the bed and started for the porch. Molgheon walked a few feet in front, clearing branches so that nobody twisted an ankle, and when they reached the porch, she told them to give her a minute to clear the leaves and branches that hadn’t been swept away for years. When she finished, she guided them up the steps and through the door. The dwarves found a clear spot for the cage and set it down. Moving with the difficulty of old age, Bressard walked over and peered through the bars.
