by D. A. Adams
The gate rose from the mountainside like a warning to turn back, its stone and steel fortifications offering no hint of hospitality. Even on this border, far from any threat of orcs or the Great Empire, the bars were thick and sturdy, and crossbows peeked through the slots, watching for a threat. As he neared, Leinjar held out his palms and advanced slowly, anticipating the order to halt. His last opportunity to turn back was gone, for the crossbows shifted positions, trained on him and the other two.
***
The sergeant at the Ghaldeon gate, as it was known, peered through the slots and watched the three Tredjards moving down the trail. They were dirty and unkempt, their beards and hair tangled, matted, and greasy with no beard clip to signify rank. Their clothes were a beggar’s rags, and they looked thin and aged. However, their weapons, orcish pikes, were battle-tested and well-maintained. If any Tredjards seeking re-entry to the kingdom fit the profile of outcasts, these three were it, and the sergeant told his troops to ready themselves for trouble.
“That’s far enough,” he called, stopping the three ten yards from the gate. “State your business.”
“We seek an audience with the king on behalf of the Kiredurks,” the middle one said, his eyes those of a madman.
“That so?” the sergeant scoffed. “You’re the best those weaklings could send?”
“We’ve covered many miles. Please, forgive our appearance.”
“Lie to me, and we’ll fill you with bolts. Where did you get those weapons, dark beard?”
“The orc plantation we escaped from, sergeant.”
“How do you know my rank?”
“I once wore the same clip.”
The sergeant turned to his archers, who shrugged in confusion. He looked back at the crazy-eyed dwarf:
“Your name, then?”
“I’m Leinjar, Sergeant of the Torjhien and Stoljehn gate.”
The sergeant glanced back at his archers, whose expressions had changed from confusion to bewilderment. Surely he had misheard the dwarf. Only a fool would appear at the gate, using that name to gain entrance. He asked the archers if they had heard him, and they nodded.
“Say again,” the sergeant called through the bars.
“My name is Leinjar.”
“What should I do?” the sergeant whispered to the dwarf beside him.
“It can’t be him,” the archer whispered back.
“I’ll give the scum this much,” another archer said. “He has guts.”
“What should I do?” the sergeant repeated.
“Call the captain,” the first archer said.
“Good idea,” the sergeant whispered. Through the bars he called, “You three wait right there.”
***
The captain left the interrogation room and looked at his sergeant. For two hours, he had grilled the outcast, trying to make him reveal his true identity, but the dwarf’s story never changed. Though the facts fit, he couldn’t believe that this dwarf -- dirty, gaunt, and pungent as he was -- had ever served in the Tredjard military. They prided themselves too much on discipline and order. And then, there were his eyes. Surely, this dwarf was simply a lunatic using that name in some misguided attempt to return to the kingdom. The sergeant shrugged.
“It can’t be him,” the captain said, scratching his beard.
“What if it is?” the sergeant asked. “Think of the reward we’ll get for taking him to the king.”
“Let me see those weapons again,” the captain said, ignoring his sergeant.
The pikes had been hung on hooks in the tunnel, and the captain traced his fingers along the markings. They were authentic orcish pikes, but the captain couldn’t believe the story the outcast had told of escaping a plantation. Ogres, humans, and elves overthrowing slave masters in a revolt. The notion itself was preposterous. Still, the weapons were real, for he had fought along the front lines and had seen their like firsthand. His only choice was to take this lunatic before the king for judgment.
“Sergeant, you’ll be in charge of the gate while I’m gone.”
The sergeant saluted, grinning at the opportunity.
“Assemble a team of five while I gather my things. Tell them to be ready to travel in one hour.”
“If it is him,” the sergeant said. “Don’t forget I’m the one who first found him.”
“And when it’s not, I won’t forget, either.”
The sergeant’s smile faded as he contemplated the ramifications of that possibility. The captain laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. Then, he turned and walked to his quarters to tell his family that he would be leaving for the capital. They would want to travel with him, but he would have to deny them, for while these Tredjards were filthy and ragged, they also had an air of danger. The risk was too great for his family to travel in the presence of dwarves such as these. His wife would be angry, and his children would pout, but he would rather face that than gamble with their lives. As he followed the tunnel towards home, he wondered what would happen if this dwarf turned out to be Leinjar.
***
Molgheon knelt and examined the tracks along the road. She had followed Torkdohn down the mountain, but near the base, he had been picked up by a wagon. For two weeks, she had been following its path through the mountains as it snaked into the conquered lands, heading towards Sturdeon. She had already passed Murkdolm and was grateful to have gotten by without being spotted, but she was low on rations and needed rest. However, she feared losing the wagon’s trail if she slowed her pace or stopped in a village for supplies. She rose from the ground and continued, satisfied she was still following the right tracks.
Her best guess was the wagon belonged to another slave trader who had recognized the old dwarf. Another possibility was that the Great Empire had captured him and planned to imprison him in Sturdeon, but she hadn’t gotten close enough to see the wagon, so both were guesses. By her reckoning, it was a full day ahead but traveled slowly, for it hadn’t put significant distance between them in two weeks. That’s what made her suspect a slave trader. Those villains usually crept along, watching for stray dwarves to capture.
Her face had healed quite a bit, but the long scabs on her cheeks told her she would have prominent scars. Leinjar and the others had arrived just in time, though, and she was grateful to have her fingers intact. Had they been one minute later, she would have been as helpless as Bressard, unable to fight or hunt for herself. She wasn’t ready to face that future, and as she pushed herself along the path, she reminded herself that Torkdohn had to pay for his crimes, both against Roskin and herself. Those thoughts kept her marching, despite the pains in her feet and back.
***
Captain Polmere watched his troops train for the spring assault on the Kiredurk gate. They would camp in this valley for at least six months, living off the farms and surviving the winter. When thaws came, they would march up the slope, hauling battering rams to smash stone and iron. General Strauteefe would attack the eastern gate around the same time, and they would meet in Dorkhun before summer to capture the kingdom. Once they controlled the Kiredurk resources, they would turn their attention to the ogres, crushing their forces before the winter snows returned.
At Black Rock Fortress, four regiments trained to attack the ogres from the south. As those 20,000 troops pushed north, General Strauteefe would attack from the west, using the eastern gate as his launching point. Captain Polmere hoped to be part of that campaign, and if all went well, he would request a station directly serving Strauteefe. He knew the general had trained under Crushaw and was revered as the greatest living general in the Great Empire. The captain wanted to learn as much as he could from Strauteefe before assuming his own command as a general.
His aide beckoned for his attention, so he turned and motioned him forward. The aide delivered news of several platoons of Kiredurks that had marched onto the trail. Captain Polmere looked up at Mount Gagneesh and, though he couldn’t make out any figures, saw sunlight glittering off metal. He thanked his
aide and requested his horse. The young man disappeared and returned moments later, leading his horse by its bridle. The captain mounted and rode in the direction of General Mongaham’s tent.
Inside the tent, the general entertained several officers, passing around a jug of whiskey and telling a story about capturing Ghaldeons during the Resistance. The men roared with laughter as he described the dwarves’ fear, but the amusement was as much from the alcohol as the tale. Captain Polmere gritted his teeth at the scene and saluted his general.
“Pull up a chair,” General Mongaham said, motioning for the jug to be passed to the captain.
Polmere declined both offers and apologized for interrupting.
“Nonsense,” the general said, grabbing the jug. “They’ve heard it a dozen times.”
The captain explained what he had learned about the Kiredurks appearing on the trail and waited as the general, who sat sprawled in his seat, scratched his chest. The other officers continued to pass the jug.
“What are my orders?” Captain Polmere asked, growing impatient.
“You see, gentlemen,” the general said to the officers. “All business, just like I said. Keep an eye on this one. He’s ambitious.”
“Just doing my duty, sir,” the captain said, staring down.
“Duty, yes, duty,” the general said, chuckling. “I meant no offense, but you must learn to relax.”
The other officers laughed, muttering jibes at the captain. Polmere remained silent, waiting for an answer.
“How many dwarves?” the general asked, growing serious.
“Several platoons, according to the scouts.”
“So I’m safe to assume less than a thousand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The general belched loudly, which caused another round of guffaws.
“What kind of threat do they pose?” the general continued.
“No threat, sir, but I think we should engage them.”
“See, burning with ambition.”
“He’ll be Emperor Polmere, one day,” an officer called, causing the group to roar again.
The captain ground his back teeth, fighting against the anger rising in his chest.
“What good will it do to engage?” General Mongaham asked.
“There’s obviously a reason for them to have exited the gate,” the captain said. “We should learn that reason.”
The general gathered himself erect in his seat and leaned forward. The officers stifled their laughter, but occasionally snickered as the general stared at the captain, who peered back fiercely.
“You’ve not seen many battles, have you?” the general asked.
“None, yet, sir.”
Several snickers broke out from his candor, and Captain Polmere suddenly felt foolish.
“If these dwarves march down to face us, you have my permission to slaughter them en masse, but as long as they are high up, please, don’t worry about trifles.”
The captain nodded, his eyes fixed on the worn rug under the general’s chair.
“You’re a fine soldier, but execute my plan. We don’t go up that slope until spring. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, either join us for a drink or back to your duties.”
The captain thanked the general for the offer but excused himself and started for the exit.
“Good day, Emperor,” one officer said, standing and saluting.
Thunderous laughter erupted, and Captain Polmere hurried from the tent to his horse, squinting as his eyes readjusted to sunlight. Twice now, he had come to the general with serious concerns, only to be treated like an imbecile each time. Not one of those officers, the general as well, were half the soldier he was, yet somehow he felt small and insignificant riding back to his post. Part of him accepted the general had more experience, but mostly, he believed the general had grown complacent from too many years overseeing a conquered people. Perhaps in his youth, the general had been a focused soldier, but now, he cared more for drink and entertainment than the task at hand. The Kiredurks were up to something, and Polmere wanted to know what, but as a dutiful captain, he would not go against his general’s wishes. Instead, he dismounted at his station and examined the slope as his aide returned the horse to the stable. Soon, his opportunity to prove himself would arrive, and when it did, he would rise to the challenge.
When his aide returned, the captain asked him to fetch his personal scout. The aide saluted and hurried off, and as he waited, Polmere continued to gaze at the slope, where glints of sunlight sparkled off armor and weapons. It made no sense tactically for the dwarves to leave the safety of their gate, so they must be planning something. When his scout arrived, the captain ordered him to ride east and search those mountains for any sign of ambush.
“Take as many scouts and trackers as you can,” the captain said. “Watch for any signs of a new tunnel or path we don’t know about. Be thorough.”
“As you wish,” the scout said, saluting and turning for the stable.
The general might have grown complacent, but Captain Polmere would stand resolute. If these dwarves were planning an ambush, he would learn of it and prepare. The others could squander their lives on alcohol and leisure, but he was ambitious. Their jokes and dismissals only fueled his desires. After this campaign, he would become a general, the youngest in the history of the Great Empire, and one day, children at the academy would study his record in awe.
Chapter 8
The Trials of Bordorn
Butterflies filled Bordorn’s stomach, and his palm sweated as he waited to be called before King Johreon the Red. Roskin and the others were forbidden from attending this initial meeting, and Bordorn had been stripped of his weapons, including his shield. Standing in the antechamber clothed in garments soiled from the earthquake and the flight from Dorkhun, he felt inappropriately attired for a meeting of such importance. His education has taught him propriety, and as a Ghaldeon noble, he wished he had more stately clothes to greet the king.
A heavily-armed page appeared from the court and summoned him inside. Across the room, King Johreon the Red sat on his throne, a high-backed palladium structure with thick cushions and ornate carvings. On either side of the king, his most trusted aids sat facing Bordorn, their expressions grave and unmerciful. The page motioned for Bordorn to move forward, and he obeyed, walking to the center of the room and kneeling. As he did, his left arm slipped off his leg and dangled in the air. He attempted moving it back onto his thigh, but in that position, with his right arm bracing him for support, he couldn’t maneuver the nub onto his bent leg. Bordorn’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“So you are my cousin from the east,” King Johreon said. “Please, rise.”
Bordorn stood and faced the king, whose red beard showed no traces of gray.
“Have you come to contest my throne?”
“What?” Bordorn asked, incredulous.
The king stared at him, his eyes piercing.
“No,” Bordorn said, tripping over the words as he spoke rapidly. “You are the rightful leader of the Ghaldeon tribes. My family has always supported your rule.”
“I’m just teasing, cousin,” the king said, laughing and slapping the marble table. “You should see your face.”
“Well, now that you mention it,” Bordorn said, smiling in relief.
“It’s good to meet you, Bordorn. I always hoped you would leave the Kiredurks and move here.”
“Actually, I left them many years ago, settling in the Snivegohn Valley. That’s what brings me here today.”
“Oh, really? Please, explain.”
Bordorn carefully explained the story he and Roskin had rehearsed, describing how the Great Empire had overrun the valley and his small militia had been driven onto Mount Lokholme to hide. The king listened intently as he told of Kraganere’s pledge to send troops and how Roskin had risked his life to deliver the pledge. When Bordorn finished, he expected a barrage of questions, but instead, the king
simply sighed.
“Everyone but Bordorn, leave this room at once,” he said forcefully.
One of the advisors protested, but the king silenced her with a sharp stare. The advisors rose and filed out the rear entrance. The king told his page to leave as well, and the soldier saluted and stepped into the antechamber, closing the door behind him. When the room had emptied save the two of them, the king exhaled and slumped in his throne.
“You’ve come to me nobly, my kin,” Johreon said. “You’ve obviously fought valiantly, and for that, I’m proud of you.”
Bordorn glanced at his left arm and dirty clothes then up at the king.
“But you’ve come to me during hard times. Our lands are troubled, cousin.”
“How so?”
“Come, sit beside me,” the king said, patting the chair to his right.
Bordorn circled around the marble slab and sat in the cushioned seat. Johreon looked him in the eyes, and Bordorn returned the gaze, smiling. As he smiled, the king’s face melted from an expression of strength and leadership to one of stress and fatigue. Bordorn reached out and gripped the king’s right hand, and moisture filled the king’s eyes.
“My rule is failing, cousin. Our people are broken and fragmented.”
“What’s happened?”
“For starters, some of the outlying towns have stopped recognizing my authority and are being run by local thugs.”
“Horseshoe Bend one of them?” Bordorn asked.
“The worst. It’s run by an upstart named Alganeon who lusts for power. He’s building his own militia and forming alliances with other towns. One day soon, he’ll come for my throne. Have you heard of him?”
Bordorn nodded, clenching his jaw.
“You’re lucky to have survived. He’s wicked and sly. Whenever I’ve sent troops to capture him, his sentries warn him, and he slips off before we can surround the town.”
