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

by D. A. Adams

  ***

  Leinjar woke to the sound of Molgheon packing her gear. He sat up from the floor, his back stiff from sleeping on the hard surface, and looked at her. Both eyes were black and swollen, and her cheeks were scabbing over along the wounds that had swollen and turned bright red overnight. Despite the injuries, her expression was resolute and uncompromising as she stuffed dried meats and nuts into her bag. She saw him and offered a half smile.

  “If you see Roskin before I do, tell him Torkdohn is dead and that I hope he understands.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Leinjar returned, getting to his feet. He roused the other two and began gathering his own gear.

  “Torkdohn said the southern gate is destroyed. That true?”

  Leinjar nodded.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  Leinjar explained Roskin’s decisions to send the captain to the capital to warn Sondious, to head for Kehldeon himself to request help, and to send Leinjar to the Tredjards for the same. She pondered the plan for a moment and then slung her bow across her back.

  “The Ghaldeons will be loathe to help a Kiredurk, even against the Great Empire. Kraganere never sent us any troops.”

  “I doubt my people will offer much, either, but I have to try.”

  “Maybe the white beards can hold their gate,” she said, crossing the room and extending her hand. “I owe you. I’ve never felt I needed saving before, but you saved my life.”

  “I wish we’d been sooner and kept this whole mess from happening.” He shook her hand and bowed his head.

  “Life’s too short for what ifs,” she responded, turning and shaking hands with the other two. “The fact is you Tredjards saved my life. For that, I owe you.”

  “The way I see it we’re even,” Leinjar said. “You helped free us from that cage.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “Not to rush you off, but I have to secure this door behind us. The rest of the house is taken care of, and I need to hunt him while his tracks are fresh.”

  “Take care of yourself,” Leinjar said, motioning the others out the door.

  “I hope we cross paths again some day,” Molgheon said, following him outside where the horizon was just lightening. She stopped at the door and secured the handle with a rope. “Under better days than we’ve seen so far.”

  Leinjar led the other two down the path to the camouflaged gate and didn’t look back. They would press south with as much speed as they could and hopefully cross into the Tredjard lands within three weeks. He would do his best to beg forgiveness and gather troops to lead back to the Snivegohn Valley. He would come through for Roskin or lose his life. There were no other options.

  Chapter 5

  On the Edge of Civilization

  Without interrupting, King Sondious listened to the General of Dorkhun explain what Captain Roighwheil had done. He should’ve expected this treachery after what Jase had told him, but because the captain had saved his life, he had been blinded by a sense of loyalty. When the general finished, the king paused. His advisors stared at him, and Jase, who sat in the back of the room, looked up from his third fresh meal of the day.

  “So Roskin and Captain Roighwheil want to overthrow me?” he grumbled. “Well, let them come. We’ll crush their pitiful army and make examples of them.”

  “With your permission, my king,” the general said, bowing. “Please, allow me to take a garrison and chase down the traitors before they reach Roskin.”

  “And leave the capital undefended?” King Sondious nearly shouted.

  “No, sir,” the general answered. “Three garrisons will remain, and my captains are more than capable of defending this city.”

  King Sondious thought for a moment. On one hand, the general made sense, but on the other, it seemed foolish to weaken the city’s defenses. He was torn on which direction provided more tactical advantage.

  “My king,” the general continued. “Captain Roighwheil only has a handful of troops. With one garrison, I can end this uprising before it begins, and we can get back to our plans against the ogres.”

  “You make a good point,” the king replied. “Jase, what do you think?”

  “That captain fellow needs to learn a lesson,” Jase said, before wiping the ale from his beard with his sleeve.

  “Indeed,” the king muttered.

  “I give you my word,” the general said. “I will follow him all the way to the Snivegohn Valley if I have to, and he will be punished for any and all crimes he’s committed.”

  “Very well,” King Sondious said. “Go after him, but return as quickly as you can.”

  ***

  Roskin led his group around the Snivegohn Valley, moving steadily but avoiding sentries as they went. It took a week to circumnavigate the western edge of the valley and reach the closest trail to Kehldeon, but they avoided being detected and, once on the trail, were beyond any patrols by the Great Empire. The road, never much used even before the Great Empire split the Ghaldeon kingdom, wound steep and treacherous over Mount Lokholme, crossing the pass at 9,000 feet. As the group climbed the mountainside, the plush grasses of the valley became small scattered clumps, and the ponderosa pines, thick and plentiful at the lower elevations, gave way to bristlecone pines and Engelmann spruces, more thinly dispersed on the rocky terrain. They saw no wildlife, though occasionally small game could be heard scurrying for cover as they approached.

  In all his travels, Roskin had never experienced such desolation, and the inhospitable landscape made him uneasy. High above the pass, the peak loomed at 13,000 feet, its slopes blinding white from the permanent layers of snow and ice, and he was grateful they didn’t have to hike that high. The air at this elevation was thin enough, and the mere thought of climbing above the tree line caused him anxiety. Because of their systems of mirrors, even in the deepest regions of his kingdom, plants and wildlife flourished, and the notion of an environment so harsh where nothing could live for long gave him pause.

  The climb, snaking back and forth on the rocky slope, burned his legs, so he rested the group every hour. The others voiced gratitude that he had eased his pace. Even the horses, which carried most of their weapons and gear, seemed to welcome the break. Though his sense of urgency had not lessened, he recognized this was no place to push any of them. Tired legs were prone to missteps, and one stumble could damage an ankle or a knee or cause a fatal fall down one of the drop-offs. While he knew time was against them, he also needed everyone safe.

  They reached the pass at nightfall and slept in shifts, more to guard against predators than sentries, and then started down the mountain before sunrise. As the sky brightened, the view stunned the Kiredurk. Even with his poor eyesight, he could see the Ghaldeon lands stretched out before him, the mountains rising and falling to the horizon. Some peaks sat well below the cloud line, some disappeared into it, and still others jutted through the wisps of white.

  They moved down the trail slowly, for the footing on the loose rocks became worse as gravity urged them downward. While this hike wasn’t as strenuous, the footholds made it just as difficult. They only covered half the slope that day, sleeping in shifts again, and reached the mountain’s base by late evening the next day. As the terrain leveled out to smaller hills, they camped earlier to ease their exhausted legs and sore backs. While Roskin ate his supper, one of the Ghaldeons sat beside him.

  “We’re not far from my home,” the dwarf said.

  “That so?” Roskin asked, offering his companion a handful of nuts.

  “We should reach town by noon tomorrow,” the dwarf responded, accepting the offering. “I haven’t seen it since before I grew my beard.”

  “How did you get captured?”

  “I was traveling to the valley with my papaw on business. He was so proud to have me with him. We were on a different road, one considered safe, but got jumped by orcs in the forest.”

  “I’m sorry,” Roskin said, placing a hand on the Ghaldeon’s shoulder.

  “I never thought I
’d see this place again,” he continued, staring in the distance. “Papaw died that day, and I spent twenty years a slave. I need you to know how much it means that you’ve brought me back here.”

  Roskin nodded, unable to find any words.

  “When I was a boy, there was an inn on the eastern edge of town. The best rabbit stew you’ll ever taste. Maybe we can stop there for a hot meal before turning for Kehldeon?”

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Roskin returned. “The guys deserve it. If you can find the inn, we’ll do that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The Ghaldeon rose and went to the others. Roskin heard him sharing the news, and they cheered and patted him on the back at the thought of fresh rabbit stew. Roskin smiled and for a moment forgot the perils behind them in the Snivegohn Valley. These Ghaldeons had endured years of slavery, and now, finally, they had returned to their free lands. He knew the feeling of believing he would never see home again; the scars on his back reminded him of it daily. At least one of them would see his town, possibly even his family, before they turned back for battle, and that filled him with happiness.

  Despite being over the mountain and fairly close to town, they continued sleeping in shifts, just in case any mountain lions or rock wolves wandered into their campsite. But the night passed quietly, and at first light, they resumed the march, with the local Ghaldeon leading the way. He pointed out various landmarks, telling story after story about his childhood. Roskin listened closely, soaking in the details. As the dwarf had predicted, by noon, they reached the outskirts of the town, named Horseshoe Bend for the small river arcing around the southern end.

  But the Ghaldeon’s excitement faded as they passed the first buildings, for the town had seen brighter days. Most of the structures hadn’t been painted in years, and the dwarves who trudged through the streets reminded Roskin of Rugraknere, their shoulders slouched and eyes cast downwards, and none spoke a word of hello. The dark fear, which had disappeared since the earthquake, crept into Roskin’s mind, so he moved beside the Ghaldeon and whispered:

  “No offense, but we better be on guard here. Something dim has settled on this town.”

  “I swear to you,” the Ghaldeon returned. “This place was nothing like this before.”

  “I believe you,” Roskin said. “Let’s just find that inn and hope the stew hasn’t suffered the same as the place.”

  “It should be one street over.”

  They turned down an alley between two dilapidated buildings and stepped onto a broad dirt road rutted deeply by years of travel and lack of repair. Just ahead, the inn sat on the right like an oasis in the wilds. Fresh paint adorned the walls, and all the exterior boards were well-maintained. Six Ghaldeons sat in rocking chairs along the wooden porch, laughing and joking, the first voices Roskin had heard since entering town.

  “Well, that’s a good sign,” he said to the Ghaldeon.

  As they approached the inn, the group on the porch stopped their conversation and watched them. They tethered their horses to the stand, and Roskin asked Krondious and Bordorn to stay with the horses while he and the others went inside. Both dwarves nodded and sat on the bench beside the tether post. As he turned to enter the inn, Roskin noticed one of the group from the porch leave and walk south, away from the direction they had approached. The dark fear gnawed at him.

  Inside, the lobby was deserted, so Roskin asked the Ghaldeon to lead them to the tavern. The dwarf turned left and followed a hallway that opened into a broad room with a polished stone floor, a mahogany bar, and several well-crafted tables. The bar was full of dwarves, all drinking ale but not talking, but none of the tables was occupied, so the Ghaldeon sat at the first one and motioned the others to join him. Roskin reluctantly obeyed, glancing around the room for any hint of trouble. After a couple of minutes, an old Ghaldeon emerged from behind the bar and lumbered to their table.

  “Can I help you folks?” he asked.

  “Kohldorn, is that you?” the Ghaldeon asked.

  “How do you know my name, stranger?”

  “You may not remember me, but I’m Krestreon. You were friends with my papaw.”

  “Krestreon? Your papaw was Hemelreon, right? Why, you disappeared two decades ago.”

  Krestreon related the story of his capture by the orcs and how his papaw had died trying to protect him. He introduced the other Ghaldeons and Roskin, explaining their escape from bondage, the Battle for Hard Hope, and the long march home. Roskin was grateful Krestreon didn’t mention his status as the exiled heir to the Kiredurk kingdom, for he wasn’t sure how that would be received.

  “I always hoped Hemelreon was safe and sound somewhere, and it hurts to hear he died like that. But welcome home, young one. Let me get you dwarves a round of ale, on me.”

  Krestreon thanked him, muttering about not being so young anymore, and as Kohldorn chuckled, Roskin’s apprehension diminished slightly. At least the barkeep seemed friendly, but the dwarves at the bar hadn’t even glanced in their direction. Something about this town wasn’t right, but other than a nagging feeling, the dark fear had offered no vision of what was amiss. The barkeep returned with seven tankards of ale and, after serving them, raised his own and proposed a toast to the safe return of Krestreon. Roskin took a long drink, the ale sweet and fruity on his dry tongue.

  “Do you still make your rabbit stew?” Krestreon asked.

  “Of course, boy!” Kohldorn exclaimed, stroking his gray beard. “I remember how much you and your papaw loved my stew. Six servings coming right up.”

  “Actually,” Roskin said, stopping the barkeep. “Can you make it eight servings and two more ales? Two of our companions are outside with the horses.”

  “Certainly,” Kohldorn said. “Have it right out. Oh, this is a good day.”

  When the barkeep returned with the bowls of steaming stew, Roskin took two bowls, the crockery hot against his bare hands, and started for the lobby, but he was greeted in the hallway by ten well-armed Ghaldeons with menacing expressions. One he recognized as the Ghaldeon who had left the porch. Roskin stopped mid-stride and stepped back to allow the dwarves into the tavern.

  “It’s nice to see travelers on such a fine day,” one of them said, advancing towards Roskin.

  “We’re just passing through,” Roskin responded, his hands burning from the bowls.

  “That so? Well, since you’re strangers, I’ll forgive you for not knowing our customs.”

  “Actually, I’m from here,” Krestreon said, rising from his seat and moving beside Roskin.

  “Really, now? Then, why don’t I know you?”

  “He’s Krestreon,” the barkeep said. “The young one who disappeared so many years ago.”

  “Shut up, gray beard,” the Ghaldeon said, pointing his finger at the old dwarf who lowered his head and stepped back. “Not another word.”

  Roskin clenched his jaw and considered tossing one of the bowls of hot stew in the dwarf’s face, and under different circumstances, he might have followed the impulse, but his mission was too important to squander time on a bully. Instead, he slowly turned and set the bowls on the table, hiding the pain in his hands and fingers.

  “Krestreon, eh?” the Ghaldeon asked. “Do you recognize me?”

  “Afraid not,” Krestreon said, squinting to study the dwarf’s face. “Too many years have passed.”

  “A shame. I’m Alganeon, magistrate of Horseshoe Bend.”

  “Alganeon!” Krestreon exclaimed, extending his hand. “We learned to fish together on Willow Bank.”

  At his gesture the nine other dwarves drew their swords and readied themselves in low guard, but Alganeon raised his hand to stop them. The dwarves didn’t advance but held their stances, glaring at Krestreon, Roskin, and the others. Roskin braced himself, preparing to grab a chair to defend himself if necessary.

  “Please, forgive my guards,” Alganeon said, smiling. “They’re overly protective. Since you’re an old friend, I’ll forgive your transgressions thi
s time, but all who enter this town must pay the toll for using my roads.”

  “Since when is there a toll?” Krestreon asked, his voice rising an octave.

  “Since I said so,” Alganeon sneered. “Now, that’ll be one gold coin each, plus the horses.”

  “That’s absurd,” Krestreon scoffed.

  “Let me handle this,” Roskin said, grabbing Krestreon by the elbow and pulling him backwards. “I’ll pay your toll, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Make it fifteen gold coins for his insolence.”

  Roskin took his pouch and counted out the coins. He handed them over and motioned for his companions to leave. Then, he laid two more coins on the table and thanked the barkeep for his hospitality. The five freed slaves had already reached the hallway, but as Roskin moved to join them, Alganeon blocked his path.

  “I’ll take that pouch,” he said, winking.

  Roskin’s temper flared, but he took a deep breath and held it out. Alganeon snatched it from his hand and felt the weight.

  “Smart dwarf,” he grinned. “Now, get moving and don’t come back.”

  Pulling back his shoulders as if about to address his father, Roskin strode down the hallway to the main door. Outside, Krondious and Bordorn were surrounded by twenty more heavily armed Ghaldeons, five of them those who had been sitting on the porch. Despite the odds, both dwarves had their weapons drawn ready to fight. The freed slaves were busy un-tethering the horses, shaken by the scene they had just witnessed.

  “Put your weapons away,” Roskin barked at Bordorn and Krondious.

  “We can take this filth,” Krondious growled.