The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 03 - The Fall of Dorkhun

by D. A. Adams

  “What’s this about?” Krondious asked when the other two were convinced they hadn’t been followed.

  “We can’t take it anymore,” one returned. “We’re dwarves, not pigs. They can’t treat us like this.”

  “It ain’t right,” the other agreed.

  “I know,” Krondious said, stroking both braids of his beard. “What do you have in mind?”

  “We need to fight,” the first said, his eyes burning with hatred.

  “It’ll take time to train enough to fight,” Krondious responded.

  “We can surprise them.”

  “These are professional fighters,” Krondious said, putting his powerful hand on the other’s shoulder to calm him.

  “You can lead us,” the other said. “You are better than any of them.”

  “I’m a woodcutter,” Krondious scoffed. “Not a warrior.”

  “You’re the toughest dwarf I’ve ever met. You’re a natural warrior.”

  “Look, the Ghaldeon told us not to make trouble or they’d retaliate.”

  “Forget her, and forget that. She skipped out. For all we know, she’s one of them, like some of them slave traders are.”

  “No, she went after her friends. She’s not one of them.”

  “Come on, Kron. I’d rather die than live like this.”

  “The timing isn’t right,” Krondious said, his voice hinting that he was tired of discussing the matter. “We need to plan and organize.”

  The other two relented and agreed to organize a group. They would find dwarves willing to follow through, and they would develop a surprise attack. Krondious was satisfied with that arrangement, so the three left the forest and returned to town to recruit the members of their uprising, but that night Roskin entered the tavern, climbed on a table, and made his speech. As he talked, Krondious remembered what Aleichan had said about luck, and he knew there would never be another opportunity like this, a group of trained dwarves here and ready to overthrow the humans. Then, when Roskin offered to pardon any who stood with him, Krondious’s heart nearly jumped through his throat.

  ***

  A half day’s walk from Dorkhun, Roskin stopped Krondious and Bordorn outside a small township. They had caught and passed the king, but a few platoons were still ahead. Roskin had said he wanted to get to the capital first to see the state of things, so Krondious was confused by the stop.

  “Something’s not right,” Roskin said, taking his swords from the pack on the horse and strapping them to his waist. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  Bordorn and Krondious retrieved their weapons and moved to each side of the heir.

  “Everything seems okay to me,” Bordorn said, fastening the shield to his left arm.

  “I smell something,” Krondious said, barely more than a whisper. The scent was familiar but he couldn’t place it.

  Roskin strode forward, his right hand gripping the pommel of Grussard’s blade. Krondious and Bordorn moved with him, and they entered the township.

  “That smell,” Krondious said. “It’s driving me crazy.”

  “I smell something, too,” Roskin said. “But I don’t know what it is.”

  “It’s from the deep.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yes. For some reason it reminds me of my papaw.”

  “If your papaw smelled like that,” Bordorn said, trying to ease the tension. “No wonder you became an outcast.”

  Krondious chuckled, but in a flash, he remembered where the smell came from. It reminded him of his papaw because the old dwarf had taught him as a boy that the smell was a portent of extreme danger and if he ever smelled it he should hide until the smell was gone. Then, he should find an adult as soon as he could.

  “Cave troll,” he said, his voice quivering slightly. Even now, twenty-seven years since his last encounter with one, the memory terrified him.

  “Cave troll?” Bordorn asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not this high in the kingdom.”

  “He’s right, Krondious,” Roskin said. “There’s not been one this high up for hundreds of years.”

  “There’s a cave troll close,” Krondious insisted, composing himself. “I’m certain of it.”

  Roskin and Bordorn looked at each other, and the Ghaldeon shrugged, as if to say he would follow Roskin’s lead. The heir faced the center of the township and told his friends to ready their weapons. They resumed their march, and as they neared the middle, shouts and screams to their left caused all three to jump. They rushed in that direction, and Roskin, the fastest, got ahead of them. Krondious shouted for Roskin to slow down, and though he was an outcast from the deep with no status, the sound of his voice caused the future king to stop.

  “Stay behind me,” Krondious ordered. “Bordorn, make sure he does.”

  “He’s right, Pepper Beard. You don’t need to go charging into a cave troll’s arms.”

  Roskin gritted his teeth as his temper flared, but he stepped behind Krondious and followed.

  “It’s on the next street over,” the white beard said, lifting his new axe to his shoulder in anticipation.

  They moved swiftly but carefully, searching for any sign of the troll. The cacophony of shrieks was getting louder, but with the sounds reverberating off buildings and rocks, they couldn’t tell exactly where. Then, as they stepped around the corner and onto the next street, it loomed before them, less than twenty yards away. Dozens of Kiredurks, soldiers and civilians, surrounded it, and several lay in heaps at its feet and against the walls of nearby buildings. The troll was disoriented, scared, and angry, swinging its long arms at anything near that moved.

  In Erycke the Just’s day, cave trolls were plentiful, and living in competition with each other kept them reasonably small, rarely more than fifteen feet in height. By this time, there were so few so far apart some bodies had been found twice that size. This one was still fairly young and was just over twenty feet tall. Its gray skin was nearly identical to the stones of the deep, and its head was bigger than Vishghu’s buffalo. As it swung at the terrified dwarves, large strings of slobber dripped from the corners of its mouth.

  The soldiers stabbed at it with pikes, and some civilians had grabbed long-handled tools, but even accurate blows bounced off its skin. With each strike, the troll grew more enraged. Krondious stopped and turned to Bordorn.

  “Make sure he stays right here,” Krondious said, pointing at Roskin. His eyes were wide and wild as he spoke.

  “Where are you going?” Roskin asked, raising his shoulders back and assuming an air of someone in charge.

  “These fools don’t know how to fight a cave troll.”

  “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

  “Just make sure he stays here,” Krondious repeated to Bordorn before turning and charging in the direction of the troll.

  ***

  Roskin tried to go with Krondious, but the Ghaldeon blocked the way with his shield, stepping with him each way he moved.

  “You’re my friend and the heir to this kingdom. He’s right. You aren’t going anywhere near that thing.”

  “I liked you better in the wheelchair.”

  “You gonna stay here?” Bordorn asked, smiling.

  Roskin nodded, glancing over Bordorn’s shoulder as Krondious turned down an alleyway just before the troll. With agility that defied his thick stature, the white beard scaled a building beside the creature and jumped from one roof to another and yet another until he was directly behind his prey. The dwarves on the street fighting couldn’t see him above and continued their futile stabs at its legs and torso.

  “He’s not gonna do what I think he is?” Roskin asked.

  Bordorn turned and watched, his mouth gaping.

  “Krondious, no,” Roskin stammered.

  The outcast steadied himself and measured his steps. He backed up two more paces and took a deep breath. Then, exhaling sharply, he sprinted to the edge and leapt into the air. As he jumped, he hefted the massive axe over his head, gripping with both
hands. The blade nearly touched his heels as he reared it back, and for a moment, it seemed he were suspended in mid-air. The twin braids of his beard had blown over his shoulders, and his leather helmet flew from his head as he soared towards the back of the troll’s skull.

  At the last possible moment, he torqued his body and brought the axe forward with all his might. As he swung, the grunt that erupted from him bellowed louder than the commotion below. With perfect timing, the axe smashed the troll’s head just as Krondious landed on its back. One full blade of the weapon sank to the handle, and Krondious let go and jumped onto an awning of a storefront. The frame wasn’t meant to hold that much weight and broke, sending Krondious and the awning to the ground in a pile.

  For a moment after the axe had struck, the troll continued as if unharmed, but a couple of heartbeats later, Roskin understood why Krondious had jumped. The creature suddenly thrashed wildly, its arms flailing towards its head but unable to reach the axe. The dwarves nearest to it scattered, and Bordorn grabbed Roskin and pushed him back around the corner. The troll roared louder than thunder, and the roar dwindled into a screech. Then, there were crashes followed by silence.

  Roskin shoved Bordorn aside and rushed onto the street. He hurried to Krondious who lay tangled in the awning with shards of wood over him. Roskin and Bordorn cleared the mess and untangled him, and Krondious sat up groggily.

  “Where’s Aleichan?” he asked.

  “Who?” Roskin asked.

  Krondious gazed at him blankly, but slowly his wits returned.

  “Did I get it?”

  “You can say that,” Bordorn said, pointing to where the troll had crashed through a building. Its body lay still under a pile of rubble.

  “I need my axe,” Krondious said, struggling to his feet. Roskin and Bordorn steadied him.

  “How did you do that?” Roskin asked, astonished by what he had seen.

  “Cave trolls have one major weakness. Their skulls never fully fuse at the back. My papaw taught me that before I even had a beard.”

  “My friend,” Bordorn said, resting his hand on Krondious’s shoulder. “Remind me never to make fun of your papaw again.”

  Krondious smiled at Bordorn and then at Roskin. A crowd had formed, and dwarves murmured about the feat that had just occurred. From the back, one dwarf began to clap and was quickly joined by several more, and within moments, the entire crowd was cheering wildly. Roskin whistled sharply to get their attention

  “Spread the word to every Kiredurk in this kingdom. This is Krondious of the deep, and he fells trolls with one strike.”

  The crowd erupted again, and as the trio made their way to the troll’s corpse, dwarves patted Krondious on the shoulders and back as he passed. It took several attempts to dislodge the axe from the troll’s skull, but the weapon wasn’t damaged. As Krondious cleaned it with a rag found in the destroyed building, Roskin and Bordorn examined the troll’s body.

  “What do you suppose drove it this high?” Bordorn asked.

  “I don’t know,” Roskin responded. “Food? Water?”

  “Papaw always said that when a cave troll showed itself to dwarves, it was a sign of terrible danger.”

  Roskin thought about his visions of Dorkhun in ruin, and the thought made him shiver.

  “Let’s get moving,” he said, more sharply than intended. “We need to get to the capital quickly.”

  With that, they exited the ruined building and retraced their steps to where they had left the pack horse. All three dwarves returned their weapons to its back and without any further ceremony continued to Dorkhun. They marched swiftly, almost at a trot, and with the pace none bothered speaking. In the small township, dwarves were clearing the disaster, and as they worked, they told and retold the tale of what Krondious had just done. By end of day, every Kiredurk in the township had heard the story at least twice, but none was tired of hearing it or telling it.

  Chapter 11

  A Race in the Wilderness

  Molgheon led the group along the abandoned logging trail that snaked around Mount Khendar. They had been marching for two days, over rough terrain, and each dwarf was fatigued from the steep slopes, loose footing, and thick undergrowth. Their skin was scratched and torn from thorns and thistles, and their nerves were frayed and frazzled from the soldiers on the main road to their west and the treacherous ravine to their east. On each dwarf’s face, the strain of ever-present danger showed through gritted teeth, furrowed brows, and pursed lips.

  The only thought that kept Molgheon moving forward was that once she got them to the gate on the southern face of Mount Gagneesh, she would return to Bressard’s home and be finished with war. She hadn’t told anyone of her plan and had decided she wouldn’t until they were at the gate. By that point, the others would be so relieved at reaching civilization, the shock of her decision wouldn’t deter them from delivering the criminals to Dorkhun.

  Her only hesitation was Roskin. He wouldn’t understand why she needed to escape to Mount Roustdohn and hide from the world. He was young and ambitious, and for him, life was still moving upward. Molgheon, on the other hand, knew her best days were behind her. Her aching hands and joints told her every morning that youth was gone, and the loneliness she felt from spending a lifetime with nowhere to call home had eaten at her. She wished there was a way to tell him all of this herself.

  But at this point, Bressard needed her more than Roskin did, so she would lead them to the gate but no further. By her calculation, that would get her back to the mountain in time to prepare for the coming snows. Any deeper into the kingdom and she risked both of them starving. All her life, she had put duty and responsibility ahead of her own desires, and for the first time, she had set her will on something she wanted only for herself. In exchange for caring for Bressard in his final days, she would live her life in the solitude of Mount Roustdohn, far from the turmoils of the encroaching Great Empire. While part of her felt guilty for being selfish, she knew she had earned the right to make this choice.

  As she dwelled on her thoughts, she grew aware of something moving parallel to them through the forest. At first, she thought it was a mountain lion or maybe a pair of rock wolves, but as time passed, she realized it was something more intelligent. It matched their speed perfectly and kept a constant distance from them. In some ways, it reminded her of the dog beast in the eastern mountains, but this was a far more dangerous predator.

  Centuries before, when elves and humans lived together peacefully, some humans lived among the Koorleine and learned their ways of hunting and tracking. Now, the descendants of those humans served the Great Empire as scouts and sentinels. During the Resistance, some of the closest calls Molgheon encountered were because of the trackers, known to dwarves simply as the Ghosts. She wasn’t certain that’s what followed them now, and she couldn’t be definite if there were one or two, but she was sure that if she didn’t end the threat soon, they would be overtaken by several platoons of soldiers and have no chance of escape.

  She whispered to the Ghaldeon behind her to keep following the trail and maintain the pace. She conveyed seriousness with a stone cold expression. When he nodded, she slowed and moved to the edge of the path to let the others pass so she could discuss the problem with Leinjar. In the middle of the group, Torkdohn and Jase were each tied across the back of a horse, and their mouths were gagged. As his horse passed, Torkdohn’s eyes burned with rage. She matched his stare, and both refused to look away. Finally, the curve of the trail turned his horse from her. The memory of being trapped in the cage still fresh and painful, she continued to stare after him until Leinjar was beside her.

  “We have an issue,” she whispered, moving in step with him on the narrow trail.

  “I think I saw them,” Leinjar whispered back. “Two humans to our left.”

  For a moment, Molgheon was speechless. She hadn’t expected a Tredjard to be so keen in a forest.

  “What’s your plan?” he asked.

  “I’m not s
ure.”

  “Let’s take them,” Leinjar growled, his eyes wide and crazed.

  “I promise you one thing,” Molgheon returned, holding up her hand to steady him. “Those two are far stealthier in the forest than anything you’ve ever encountered.”

  “What then?”

  “They’ve been tracking us for a couple miles, and neither has broken off to bring soldiers, so they may not think we’re worth bothering about.”

  “We can’t risk hoping for that.”

  “You’re right, but we have only one chance to do this. If even one of them gets away, we won’t make it to the valley.”

  Leinjar took his pike from his back and held it with both hands, resting the wooden shaft across his torso. Carrying his weapon in marching formation, he looked less a threadbare escaped slave and more the soldier he had once been. Molgheon notched an arrow and nodded.

  Without word to the other dwarves, they darted off the trail and sprinted up the incline towards the Ghosts. The two humans drew short swords and spread out. Molgheon motioned for Leinjar to take the one to the right, and he rushed in that direction. She raised her bow and aimed for her target, but he had stepped into a cluster of trees, blocking a clear shot. She circled around and watched for any sign.

  In a forest, most people rustle branches or crunch brittle twigs without realizing, and those subtle motions and noises make them easy prey. Ghosts had learned from the elves to move through the forest undetected, and they rarely gave away their positions. As Molgheon continued to circle the cluster, she strained her ears and eyes for any hint of the tracker. She had learned during the Resistance to listen for noises they made to mask their movements, sounds that mimicked the natural din of the forest. To most, their subterfuge blended perfectly, but part of Molgheon’s training had been to detect them.

  Behind a thick bunch of leaves, she heard buzzing like a swarm of winged insects, but the pitch was off slightly from the natural sound, so she aimed at the center of the buzz. Though she couldn’t see any trace of the human, she trusted her instincts that he was the source. The arrow whizzed from the elven bow in a flash, slicing through the green wall of leaves and striking a surface. The Ghost stumbled through the leaves in her direction. A low groan escaped as he collapsed to his knees, the arrow piercing his right lung. He looked at Molgheon, shock and disbelief on his face as he struggled to reach the arrow. She notched another and finished him before turning to locate where Leinjar had gone.