by D. A. Adams
“Freedom,” Alysea said.
“How’s that?” Suvene asked.
“These fields are free,” she answered. “They are grown with love, not greed.”
“Daughter, you are very wise,” Stahloor said, smiling.
“Freedom,” Suvene whispered.
“Breathe it in,” Stahloor said, touching the orc’s shoulder. “It’s yours, now.”
Suvene stared into the distance. Beyond the field, the roof of the barn was just visible. For the first time since the alarm bell had sounded that morning on the plantation, he felt safe, and the weight of endless anxiety lifted. With it, a wave of emotions coursed through him. Tears flowed down his face, and his legs weakened. The two elves steadied him, and he struggled to compose himself. Then, as if appearing from the air itself, Kwarck was beside him.
“Welcome to my home,” the hermit said in orcish, his voice as soothing as a mother’s.
Kwarck was smaller than Suvene had imagined. Not only was he much shorter than any elf Suvene had seen before, his frame was also thin and wiry. His hair was streaked with silver, gray, and black and mostly covered his pointed ears. His face was aged but full of life, as if drawing strength from the land, and his dark eyes glimmered with kindness. Without thinking, Suvene kneeled and bowed his head.
“I am Suvene,” he said. “Thank you for welcoming me.”
“My friend, please rise,” Kwarck said, extending his hand. “I am no lord or master.”
Suvene grasped the hand and marveled at the strength in the old half-elf’s grip. Kwarck helped him to his feet and handed him a waterskin. Suvene thanked him and took a long drink. The liquid was cool and fresh on the orc’s parched throat. Once finished, he handed the waterskin to Alysea, who also drank heartily before returning it to Kwarck.
“Lunch is waiting for us,” the hermit said, turning for the house. “I’ll introduce you to the others before we eat.”
“Others?” Stahloor asked, walking alongside.
“A human and an ogre. They live here and help me tend these fields. There were other ogres camped in the orchard, but they’ve returned home now that the Kiredurk war is over.”
“I’ve never seen an ogre,” Alysea said, her voice rising with excitement.
“They’re impressive,” Suvene said. “Massive creatures.”
“You’ve seen them?” she asked.
“One.”
Alysea pressed him for details, and he described the one from the Slithsythe Plantation as well as he could remember. As he talked, she bounded along, barely containing her exhilaration. Suvene smiled at the sight. Training and fighting for most of his youth, he had lost his childlike wonder long ago, but seeing hers made him feel younger. Ahead of them, Kwarck and Stahloor spoke quietly in elfish as they traversed the path to the gate. For a moment, Suvene wondered what they were discussing, but the peace of the fields pushed all worry from his mind.
After they passed through the gate, the front of the house came into view, and Suvene froze, for sitting on the porch steps was the last person he had expected to see. Crushaw’s eyes met his, and the old man stood. Suvene unshouldered his halberd and set his feet. In an instant, Kwarck was before him, ordering him to lower his weapon, but the orc could barely hear the hermit. All his senses were focused on his enemy.
“You,” Crushaw said, holding his gaze.
Kwarck called out to the old man in the barbaric tongue, and Crushaw held his ground, not moving.
“This is not allowed on my land,” Kwarck said to Suvene, his voice belying the serenity of the farm.
“Suvene, please,” Stahloor added.
Alysea stepped in front of him and touched his arm. At the contact, Suvene relaxed and looked at her. She smiled and asked him to lower his weapon. The orc glanced back at Crushaw, who still hadn’t moved, and then stepped back.
“He’s a murderer,” Suvene said to her, his voice trembling.
“Yes, I am,” Crushaw called in orcish. “But I will not fight you here.”
“Why is he here?” Suvene asked Kwarck, who had moved beside him, holding up his palms.
“Same as you,” Kwarck responded.
“Please, Suvene,” Alysea said, reaching for the halberd. “Give it to me.”
“If you want freedom,” Kwarck said. “Listen to her. Otherwise, leave now. It’s your choice.”
Suvene looked at the hermit, and his anger faded. The calm from before returned, and he released his weapon. Alysea caught it and handed it to her father, who moved behind the hermit.
“The others, too,” Kwarck added. “Until I’m convinced you won’t use them.”
Suvene hesitated but removed the daggers and gave them to Kwarck.
“Much better. Now, let’s have lunch.”
With that, he started for the house. He spoke to Crushaw again in the barbaric tongue, and the old man entered. Stahloor followed Kwarck, but Alysea waited for Suvene. He questioned her with his eyes, unsure if he could share a table with the human.
“It’ll be okay,” she said, taking his hand.
Electricity ran up his arm once more, and their gazes met. The orc gripped her hand, and she smiled, pulling him with her. He wanted her approval more than revenge, so he would do his best to abide by the rules of Kwarck’s home.
Chapter 2
Of Dark and Twisted Paths
Roskin and the others reached the southern gate in five days, barely stopping for food, rest, or sleep. Roskin’s pace was brutal, and at the gate, the group demanded rest. At first, he stood firm but relented when even Leinjar insisted they needed to catch their breath. The Tredjard was as tough as anyone, and if he needed a break, the others must have been near collapse. As they found seats on piles of rubble, Roskin went to find who guarded what remained of the gate.
Near the twisted metal and cracked stones that had once been a fortified entrance to the kingdom, he found a solitary soldier staring out the opening. He remembered her as the same one who had threatened to cut out his heart the last time he had been here, and for a moment, his temper stirred at the memory. As he looked more closely, however, he saw the sadness of one who had lost many friends from the earthquake, so he approached slowly, not wanting to startle her. When he was nearly within arm’s reach, she flashed him a challenging glare.
“Do you recognize me?” he asked.
She peered, focusing on his face, and then her eyes widened with recognition.
“The renegade?” she asked, reaching for her sword, but her gaze then found the insignia on his cloak. She froze, her arm mid-air, confusion contorting her face and her eyes dancing in thought. Finally, they lit up as she realized who he really was, and she knelt before him. “Please, forgive me. I didn’t know.”
“On your feet,” he ordered, lifting her by the elbow. “Where are the others?”
“Most are dead,” she said, turning away. “Only a handful of us watch the gate. We take shifts.”
“Listen to me carefully,” Roskin said, moving in front of her. “You have to go to the nearest township and find as many blacksmiths and masons as you can. Bring them to repair this gate.”
“There’s so much to rebuild,” she mumbled, her voice lost in the past.
“This gate is now first priority,” he said sternly. Then added, “By the king’s orders.”
“Yes sir,” she said, awakening from her trance.
“Once the repairs are underway, find every able body you can to guard it. Train them yourself if you have to. Can you do that?”
She nodded.
“I’m counting on you. You must succeed.”
“But the Snivegohn Valley is hardly a threat.”
“My friend over there,” he answered, motioning to Leinjar. “Has seen for himself a massive army gathering in the valley to attack us.”
Her expression changed from sadness to fear.
“There’s no time for that,” Roskin scolded. “You must go.”
The guard gathered herself and saluted
him. He returned the gesture and motioned for her to get moving. She collected a few possessions and jogged down the tunnel in the direction of the closest township. He watched her leave before walking to the gate and looking through the opening. He half expected to see human soldiers outside, but only a cloudless blue sky and the worn trail snaking down the slope greeted him. His eyesight couldn’t make out much detail, but he was satisfied the path was clear for as far as he could see. After a moment, he rejoined the group and sat beside Leinjar.
“We’ll stay together down the trail,” he said. “If we run into scouts, we’ll try to take them out before they can run. If they get away, we’ll come back here and help with the defenses.”
Leinjar half-nodded his agreement.
“At the base, we should split up. That’ll improve our odds of at least one of us making it through.”
“Once we make it through the valley,” Leinjar said, his voice detached. “We can follow the old road Molgheon led us on.”
“Please,” Roskin said, sensing the lingering reluctance to return to the Tredjard lands. “Know that I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t think it necessary.”
Leinjar pursed his lips and stroked his beard, staring straight ahead.
“I’ll push west and cross the mountains toward Kehldeon,” Roskin continued.
“You realize even if I can get soldiers, we probably can’t make it back in time?”
Roskin had considered that point but decided it worth the effort. He patted Leinjar’s knee as affirmation.
“But more likely I’ll be tossed in a dungeon, or worse.”
“If it makes any difference, I don’t believe that will happen.”
Leinjar turned towards him, his eyes wide much like their first meeting in the leisure slave cage. Roskin held his gaze, hoping that the Tredjard would see the certainty in his eyes. Like Kwarck had taught him, he concentrated on Leinjar, searching for any warning of danger, and while no clear vision came, a feeling of triumph warmed him.
“You’ve earned my trust,” Leinjar said. “I hope you’re right this time.”
“We need to get moving,” Roskin said, smiling and patting him on the knee again.
“I guess so.”
With that, they rose from their seats and called for the others to get ready. At first, there was grumbling, especially from Bordorn and Krondious, but Roskin silenced them with one rebuke. Then, speaking to the entire group, he reminded them of the army gathering in the valley, of the stark reality of the Great Empire conquering not only his kingdom but the rest of the Ghaldeon lands as well. After that, they would drive south against the Tredjards, until every dwarf of the western mountains was enslaved. When he finished speaking, he turned for the gate and resumed his torrid pace, and the others followed without complaint.
***
Torkdohn took cover behind a row of bushes and waited for the human scouts to pass. At this point, he wasn’t certain if his status as a trader with the Great Empire was still valid, and without his wagon or any of the gear to prove that status, he didn’t want to risk capture. Once they were out of sight, he darted from the bushes and scurried for the old road that led to Bressard’s house.
When the earthquake first began, he had rolled from the horse and scrambled towards the gate, dodging falling rocks and hoping his luck would hold. As soon as the trembling subsided, he had crawled through what remained of the gate and had concealed himself behind a pile of rubble. With all the dust swirling through the tunnel, hiding hadn’t been difficult. He had listened while Leinjar and the others cleared a path, and once they were out of earshot, he had hurried outside and down the mountain as fast as he could move. From laying across the horse for so long, his body had been stiff and sore, and at his age, the trip down the mountain hadn’t been pleasant.
Despite the pain, he had pushed himself, for his will was set on tracking Molgheon back to the house and avenging the shame she had caused him. With each footstep, he had imagined subduing her. Along the way, he had stolen enough provisions from the farms not yet captured by the Great Empire to get him to the house, and now, as he darted onto the old, abandoned road, he fantasized about the expression on her face when she realized who had tracked her to Bressard’s home.
***
At the base of Mount Gagneesh, Roskin’s group journeyed west towards Kehldeon, and Leinjar and the two Tredjards followed the trail traveled two weeks earlier, snaking their way south along the outer edge of the valley to avoid the main road and as many houses as possible. As they advanced, each scanned the distance for any hint of a human, and none spoke. They moved quickly and stealthily, staying in the shadows whenever possible and jogging through the open areas. Leinjar hoped they could reach the abandoned road before being spotted, for he knew that once they were out of the valley, the Great Empire would mostly be behind them.
They carried enough dried meats to reach Bressard’s house, and Leinjar figured they could resupply there before continuing south. It would take at least a month to reach the closest gate of the Tredjard Kingdom, and at least another week to reach the capital, if they made it that far. Despite Roskin’s reassurance, he still believed his failure to hold off the orcs on that terrible night made him a pariah among his people, and Tredjards were known to hold long and deep grudges. In his heart, he was marching to his own execution, and he feared for the safety of his two companions. While they had not served with him on that day, they too might be viewed as traitors just for traveling with him.
As he walked along the narrow trail, his heart was heavy with those thoughts, and part of him wanted to abandon the plan and disappear into the mountains. He could live out his days like Bressard, a hermit surviving off the bounty of the land. But his sense of duty kept him forging south. Roskin was counting on him to ask the Tredjards for assistance, and he at least had to try, even if his life were forfeit. The Kiredurk was the reason he had escaped the cage, and being executed by his kin was better than dying a leisure slave.
***
The Captain of Emperor Vassa’s Western Regiment sat on his horse and scanned the valley, taking in the layout of the mountains. So far, the army had captured over half the farms with little resistance, and he estimated the rest would fall within the month. The Ghaldeons didn’t have as much as a militia for protection, so the only trouble was in subduing them with little loss of life. They needed the rock-brains alive to harvest crops and feed the army, so they were taking their time, laying siege to each farm. A few had resisted and been made examples of, but as word had spread, most surrendered without bloodshed.
The mountains to the west were steep and foreboding, which is why those lands still lay unconquered. To the east, the slopes were not as difficult and could be traversed if necessary. Mount Gagneesh in the north, the second goal of this campaign, was small compared to the surrounding peaks, but the sole road to the dwarven gate was narrow and would make an assault tedious. Mount Khendar to the south was controlled by his forces, so if for some reason they needed to withdraw, they could easily regroup on its slopes and hold their ground as long as necessary. He didn’t anticipate a retreat, but it was best to have contingences.
“Captain Polmere,” an aide called, interrupting his thoughts. “Your scout has news of the trackers.”
“Send him to me.”
Moments later, the scout appeared, his countenance worn and haggard. He explained that he had found the bodies of both trackers in the woods and that the party of dwarves had likely reached the valley ahead of the army. While he hadn’t followed their tracks all the way, he believed they had made their way up Mount Gagneesh to the gate.
“Those pathetic trackers,” Captain Polmere fumed. “So the Kiredurks are aware of our presence?”
“That would be my assumption, yes sir.”
The captain dismissed his scout and surveyed the valley again, especially to the west. Rock-brains were tunnelers and could have passageways all through those mountains. If they were prepared, they could ea
sily send regiments out to attack the army’s west flank while they were climbing the mountain. He needed to warn General Mongaham, who had recently arrived in the valley and was pleased with the captain’s progress. He spurred his horse and rode hard for the general’s camp.
The general greeted him warmly and offered him food and drink, but Captain Polmere declined. Above all, he was highly disciplined, and since he had already eaten lunch, there was no need for gluttony. He also never touched alcohol, having witnessed what it had done to General Crushaw during his time in Murkdolm. When Crushaw had first arrived, he had been Polmere’s vision of the perfect warrior. As drink took hold, the old man’s dignity and judgment had rapidly declined until he was living on the floor of a rock-brain’s tavern. The captain, whose ambition was to surpass the once stellar legend of Crushaw, wanted no such fate.
“What’s bothering you, Captain?” General Mongaham asked, tearing a piece of meat from a bone.
The captain explained what he had learned of the dwarven party sneaking by the army and reaching the Kiredurk gate. He described his concerns for the western flank if the rock-brains emerged from some unknown tunnel and attacked by surprise. Then, he suggested dispatching patrols to watch for ambush. As he spoke, the general gobbled down his steaming meat, nodding here and there to indicate he was listening, but Captain Polmere could see from the general’s posture that he gave little credence to the fears.
“I never pegged you for the cautious type,” the general said, dabbing his gray beard with a napkin.
“No sir, but I don’t think our flank should be exposed.”
“First, these are Kiredurks. Even if they sent their entire army, we would paint the valley with their blood. They are poets, not warriors.”
The captain agreed.
“Second, I’ve studied much about these lands. The Kiredurks and Ghaldeons never connected their lands underground. No such tunnels exist, so relax. You’ve done good work, my boy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’ll stick to our plan of holding this valley through the winter and attacking the gate once the snow melts in spring. So what if they know we’re coming? We’ll still overwhelm them with our superior weapons and skills.”
