The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 04 - Between Dark and Light

by D. A. Adams

  Bressard’s death was a pleasant surprise, for it removed any possibility of the old dwarf warning her, and apparently her grief had dulled her senses. Torkdohn had learned enough about this archer to know she was not to be underestimated again, and joy filled him that she wasn’t fully focused. She had proven she could best him in a fight, and he had no intention of allowing her to defend herself. This time, he would trammel her in his net and bind her arms and legs before she could react.

  When he reached the far stall door, he worked the gray wooden handle, which was stuck from years of disuse, and pried open the door just enough to fit through. Inside, the barn was piled with rubbish and ruin from years of neglect, and large sections of the roof had collapsed inward, creating a maze of debris. Under his breath, he cursed the dead hermit. His wagon sat on the opposite side, so he climbed onto a stack of rotting crates and crawled forward. A cloud of dust swirled around him with each movement, catching in his throat and burning his eyes. More than once as he climbed, he had to stifle the urge to cough for fear of alerting the archer.

  Once he cleared the crates, he lowered himself onto a pile of damp rugs that squished under his feet. Then, he froze in place, for on the wall just inches away sat the largest spider he had ever seen, its body as big as his fist and its long, hairy legs stretching out twice as long as his fingers. Camouflaged against the gray wood, it sat motionless, waiting for the next rodent. Torkdohn backed away slowly, fearing that sudden movements might trigger aggression.

  Once he had reached a safe distance, he resumed towards his wagon, glancing back occasionally to ensure the spider was still on the wall. Climbing over fallen timbers and squeezing through narrow gaps was exhausting work, and by the time he reached the wagon, he was soaked with sweat and breathing heavily, so he climbed onto the seat and rested. The dwarves had ransacked his gear, strewing items all over the bed, and as he caught his breath, he scanned the mess for anything useful.

  Fortunately, they had left his crossbow and the two remaining bolts, so he set them in the seat beside him and continued looking. His net lay buried under a pile of cooking gear, and he climbed into the bed and quietly moved the metal pots and pans off of it. Then, he spread it out and folded it into throwing position. Once it was ready, he placed it over the crossbow on the seat. He gathered a pair of bolt cutters and two small paring knives and tucked them into his belt. Finally, he found two sets of shackles and stuffed them into his back pockets.

  He strapped the crossbow to his back, looped the quiver over his belt, and climbed down from the wagon near the main stall. He grabbed his net and clutched it with both hands, envisioning the thrill of capture as he had experienced so many times before. He would have one chance, and his throw had to be perfect. He peered through a bent board in the wall and watched the house, searching for her through the windows. After several minutes, she emerged from the front door with an armful of dirty sheets and blankets. She crossed the yard and hung each over low-hanging branches in the trees in front of the porch. Then, she went back inside and only to reappear soon with an old broom.

  With her back to the barn, she began beating dust from a blanket, and with each strike, a swirl of particles caught the breeze and dissipated into the air. Torkdohn pushed open the main stall and slipped into the yard. He considered going straight for her, but there were too many steps to cover. If she turned too soon, he would miss his chance, so he crept around the barn and ran for the back door. Once inside, he purposefully left the door ajar and hid in an alcove along the wall. Then, he waited.

  The sound of the broom whacking the blankets and sheets was faint, but he focused on it, tensing with each extended pause. After nearly an hour, she finished, and he heard her footsteps on the front porch. The front door opened and closed, and she returned the broom to the front closet. Her footsteps started towards the kitchen but stopped for a heartbeat and turned down the hallway towards him. His pulse and breathing accelerated as she neared, and he was certain she could hear both, but as she passed the alcove without noticing him, he steadied his feet and tossed the net.

  She turned at the commotion but was too late, for the net spread out perfectly, its weighted corners blocking the hallway. As the net collapsed, pinning her arms against her body, Torkdohn raced from the closet and tackled her. She struggled against his weight, and as she did, he punched her in the head. He struck her over and over, rage overtaking him. After several vicious blows, she went limp. For a moment, he was afraid he had killed her, but after finding her pulse, he removed the first set of shackles from his pocket and bound her feet. After lifting the net, he bound her wrists with the second set.

  Once she was subdued, he dragged her to the living room and looked for the best place to secure her. The wooden chairs around the dining table were too flimsy, so he took Bressard’s sitting chair and dragged it to the center of the room. He hoisted her onto it and searched the closet for extra rope. After emptying several bags and boxes, he found enough to tie her securely. First, he tied each of her feet to the wooden legs in front. Next, he looped a rope around each of her elbows and bound them to the rear legs. Finally, he pried open her mouth and, using the rope as a bridle, tethered her head to the top of the chair.

  When finished, he set his crossbow on the sofa and went to the kitchen for water. As he drank, the adrenaline faded, and a torrent of nervous energy coursed through him, which made him laugh audibly. He coughed as water went down the wrong way but couldn’t stop laughing, so he set down the dipper and went back to the living room. Molgheon moaned and stirred but didn’t open her eyes, and seeing her like that made him laugh even harder.

  After a couple minutes of nervous laughter, he composed himself and sat on the sofa beside his crossbow. He had captured hundreds of dwarves, some much tougher and meaner than she, so he couldn’t understand why he had been overcome by such foolishness over this conquest. Then, it hit him. It was her smugness when she had had her friends’ protection. Yes, she had been so certain she was safe that she had mocked him openly, and now, of course, the fact that he had turned the tables had made him giddy. He might be getting older, but he was still a dwarf to be reckoned with. No one could deny that.

  He went to the kitchen, got another dipper of water, and returned to the living area. He stood in front of her and splashed it on her face. She stirred and opened her eyes, terror enveloping her features. Torkdohn smiled and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. She recoiled and struggled against her bindings.

  “Save your strength,” he chuckled. “Those shackles were fashioned by Tredjards, and I’ve been tying knots since before you were born.”

  She settled down and stared at him.

  “Surprised, aren’t you?” he mocked. “It’s okay. Many have discounted my abilities, so I take no offense to that. Want to know what I do find insulting?”

  She didn’t even blink.

  “I don’t like being hit with a mallet. And I don’t like being tied to a horse like a sack of flour. And I especially don’t like smug little girls who act like they can mock me while their friends are there to protect them.

  “Speaking of them, you’re probably wondering how they are, so let me tell you. Judging by the damage to the gate from that earthquake, they’re probably being sliced to ribbons by the Great Empire as we speak. Does that bring you comfort?”

  She uttered something, but the rope muffled her sounds.

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about them,” he continued, grinning. “You have much more important concerns, mark my words. First, I’m going to carve up your face with this knife.” He removed one of the paring knives and waved it near her before setting it on the ground by her feet. “Then, I’m going to use these to cut off your bow fingers.” He took out the bolt cutters and set them beside the first knife. “To make sure you don’t expire too soon, I’ll cauterize those wounds like you did to poor Jase. After that, I’m gonna get creative, and we’ll find out just how tough you really are. I’ll give you a m
oment to compose yourself. Oh, and by the way, thanks for starting a fire in the stove this morning. I’ll get some metal nice and hot for your fingers.”

  As he stepped back, she struggled against the restraints again, and he punched her hard on the tip of her nose. Her head snapped back, and blood gushed from her nostrils. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the blood, and her head lolled forward. He grabbed a handful of hair and lifted her face.

  “I told you to save your strength.”

  He went to the kitchen and found the poker for the stove. The coals smoldered cherry red on the grate, and sparks danced as he set the poker in them. He returned to the living room and knelt in front of her, raising the paring knife.

  “Let’s get started,” he said, pressing the knife against her left cheek.

  The blade sliced into her flesh, but he didn’t cut deep, instead making a thin gash from her cheek to her ear. She clenched her jaw against the pain but made no noise, so he repeated the process on her right cheek. Again, she tensed but made no sound.

  “You should see yourself,” Torkdohn whispered. “Let me check that poker, and then we’ll remove those fingers.”

  ***

  Leinjar climbed the rise before the flat path leading to Bressard’s house. He and the other two Tredjards had marched nearly as hard as Roskin had pushed them in the kingdom, and he was hoping for a hot meal and a good night’s rest before resuming early the next morning. As he cleared the rise, he stopped and motioned the others to halt. The house wasn’t visible, but a strange noise filled the forest.

  “Do you hear laughter?” he asked, turning to his friends.

  Both nodded.

  “Something’s not right,” he said, knowing that Bressard couldn’t possibly laugh that loud. “Be on guard.”

  They advanced more slowly, scanning the forest for anything amiss. The barn came into view, and Leinjar noticed the rear stall open. Not only had that door been closed before, it hadn’t been opened in years, and fear filled him. He signaled for the Tredjards to draw their weapons and unshouldered his own pike.

  “I’ve got a very bad feeling,” he whispered. “Stay close together. We may be outnumbered, so don’t get separated.”

  They crept towards the house, where the back door was wide open. A male voice drifted to them from inside, and Leinjar quickened his pace to the steps. He slowed on them to avoid creaking the boards and peered through the doorway. At the far end of the hall, Torkdohn emerged from the kitchen, carrying a poker and heading for the living room.

  “You!” Leinjar yelled, charging into the hallway.

  Torkdohn froze for a heartbeat, shocked by the intrusion, but composed himself and flung the hot poker at Leinjar. The Tredjard dodged the missile but slipped on the wooden floor. As he clambered to his feet, he saw Molgheon tied to Bressard’s chair, her face and tunic soaked in blood. Torkdohn scrambled out the front door, but Leinjar didn’t give chase, instead dropping his weapon and rushing to Molgheon. The other two Tredjards were behind him, so he yelled for them to help him untie her.

  While he undid the rope around her mouth, one unlocked the shackles on her ankles and the other loosened the rope on her left arm. It took a couple minutes to get her freed from the bindings, but as soon as the shackles came off her wrists, she leapt from the chair and bolted for the closet. However, she was unsteady from the blows to her head and crumpled to her knees.

  “Where are you going?” Leinjar asked, grabbing her elbow.

  “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, yanking away from him.

  “I have to stop your bleeding,” he said, stepping back and showing her his palms.

  “I’m going after him!” she yelled, crawling to the closet.

  “Do you smell smoke?” Leinjar asked, looking around and seeing the poker in the hallway, a stream of smoke rising from where it lay. “You two, put that out.”

  Molgheon got to her feet and opened the door. Leinjar stepped beside her but made certain not to touch her again.

  “Of course you’re going after him, but let me stop your bleeding first.”

  She turned and looked at him, her eyes like a cornered and wounded animal’s. She punched him in the chest, first with her left fist and then her right, blood pouring from her wounds as she did. He absorbed the blows and leaned back.

  “How did he get away from you?” she screamed, still punching. “You idiots!”

  “The earthquake,” Leinjar stammered, backing away. Each blow stung worse than the one before. “We thought he was loose in the Kiredurk tunnels.”

  She stopped punching at last and turned away.

  “I’m sorry,” Leinjar said. “We had no idea he was coming for you. We were focused on the army.”

  Molgheon staggered from the exertion and caught herself on the closet door. Leinjar moved closer and motioned for her to sit. She nodded and lurched towards the chair but passed it and went to the empty sofa. She collapsed there, blood still streaming from her nose and cheeks. Leinjar knelt and examined her.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he said.

  “Get the salve from my bag,” she said, pointing to the closet.

  The other Tredjards had extinguished the fire and stood at the edge of the hallway. Leinjar asked them to find him something to use as bandages and also rags to clean the blood from the floor and walls. They disappeared down the hallway, and he opened the closet and rummaged through her bag until he found the salve they had used on Jase’s leg. He returned to Molgheon and knelt again.

  “Is Bressard okay?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “He’s gone,” she whispered.

  “Did Torkdohn...” He couldn’t finish the question.

  “No,” she said, looking at him, her eyes damp. “He went gently during the night.”

  Leinjar nodded. The others came back with piles of rags, and Leinjar took a handful. He pressed one to each of her cheeks and held them, counting to sixty. Then, ever so gently, he wiped the blood from her cheeks and applied the salve while the others cleaned the floor and walls. Leinjar tore one rag into several small strips and wadded them up.

  “Tilt your head back,” he said. “This’ll be unpleasant.”

  She leaned back, and as he stuffed the wads up her nostrils, she gripped the sofa with both hands and tensed her legs. After all the pieces were packed in, he took one more rag and wiped as much blood as he could from her mouth, chin, and neck. Much of it had dried, so he found water and finished cleaning her.

  “I’m sorry,” Molgheon said, her voice odd from the blockage in her nose.

  “Don’t be,” Leinjar said, offering a half smile. “At least you didn’t have a sword.”

  She laughed but winced from the pain.

  “You need to rest,” Leinjar added.

  “I have to go after him.”

  “Of course. And you will, but he’s old. You can track him easily enough.”

  She closed her eyes and reclined on the sofa. Leinjar returned the salve to her bag and helped the others clean up her blood. They organized the living room, moving the sitting chair to its proper place and putting the knife and bolt cutter in a desk drawer. When the room was tidy, they prepared lunch and ate at the dinner table, none talking. Molgheon had fallen asleep, her breathing labored from the rags stuffed in her nostrils.

  Leinjar looked around the house, feeling its emptiness without Bressard. At least Torkdohn hadn’t hurt the old dwarf. That was something to be grateful for, but the house seemed different. Before, it was warm and welcoming, an oasis of safety on the mountainside. Now, a coldness had settled in, and any illusion of safety had been shattered by the vision of Molgheon strapped to the chair and covered in blood. He wasn’t sure if Molgheon would be able to return after she had hunted down the slave trader. He glanced at her sleeping and guilt filled him.

  He should’ve done more to find Torkdohn immediately after the earthquake. He should’ve pushed harder to get to the house sooner. If they had marched
a little faster or rested a little less, they might have overtaken the old dwarf and prevented this from happening. He hung his head and fought against the emotions. He already carried guilt for failing to hold his gate, for failing to protect his family. Now, he would have to bear this shame, too. He rose and told the others to rest for the remainder of that day but to be prepared to march before first light. He retrieved one of the blankets hanging in the trees out front and covered Molgheon on the sofa. She stirred but didn’t wake, so he went outside and sat on the porch, staring towards his homeland. He had failed his people and Molgheon, but he wouldn’t fail Roskin.

  ***

  Molgheon awoke with a start, her face swollen and pounding with pain. The rags in her nostrils created an unbelievable pressure, and she instinctively reached up to pull them out but caught herself and resisted the urge. Outside, the sky was black, and around the living room floor, the three Tredjards slept soundly. She looked at them, grateful they had made it when they did. The day before was a blur, and she replayed it in her mind, trying to recall the details, but it was all too fuzzy. She vaguely recalled punching Leinjar in the chest, but she couldn’t remember if that was real or a dream. Too many images ran together and were out of order for her to be certain. All she knew was that these dwarves had saved her life, and for that, she was indebted to them.

  She rose from the sofa, her head swimming, and staggered to the kitchen. She drank three dippers of water, trying to ease her parched throat, and leaned against the counter. The pains were intense, and her vision was hazy. How had Torkdohn gotten the drop on her? She was better trained than to let an old lout outsmart her. She wished she could remember what had happened so she could figure out what she had done wrong.

  The house was quiet, a silence deeper than any she had known, and part of her expected Bressard to shuffle down the hallway at any moment. But she knew he was gone, even if she didn’t fully accept it. She needed to focus, to block out the pain, and prepare to hunt Torkdohn. She would need to close up the house and hope she could return before the weather turned bad. And she would need to pack enough rations, at least two weeks worth, for stopping to hunt would slow her too much. She would also have to march after him, ignoring these pains, and end his miserable life in whatever way proved most expedient. Then, she would have to return to this house and fulfill her promise to take care of it. Glancing around, she decided to start by securing all the windows.