by D. A. Adams
“It’s as clean as I can get it,” he said.
Molgheon nodded, barely hearing.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” the boy asked, gazing at her in awe.
Molgheon turned and looked at him but didn’t answer. When she was his age, she had already been fighting in the Resistance for a full year. She had learned to shoot because she had to, and she happened to be good at it because of her eyesight and steady hands. Over the years, she had killed hundreds with a bow and arrow, but she felt no pride about it. War had been thrust upon her. Given the choice she would’ve chosen a peaceful life, and here was a young pup who had just barely escaped a lifetime of slavery admiring her ability to kill. He knew nothing of what it meant to take another’s life, and even if she spent the rest of the day trying to explain, he wouldn’t grasp the gravity. Finding her patience, she took a deep breath and asked where they lived.
“About a mile from here,” he said. “We live in a small village just off the main road.”
“Go get the others,” she said.
He ran to the woods and returned shortly, leading the younger dwarves. Molgheon helped them into the cage, explaining that they had to hurry. The two oldest girls resisted climbing into the cage, but when Molgheon showed them she had removed the door, they relented. Molgheon told the boy to get in the seat with her to show her the way. He nodded and rushed to the front. Molgheon checked the four horses to make sure they had calmed down from the commotion and climbed into the seat, laying her bow beside her. She undid the brake and snapped the reins. The wagon lurched forward, and she worked the team into a steady trot.
After a half mile, the boy showed her the path to turn onto, and within a few minutes, they reached the village. Dwarves working in their fields looked up from their harvest and followed the wagon to the boy’s house. By the time Molgheon stopped the team, more than a dozen dwarves were walking towards her. She latched the brake and hopped down, leaving her bow in the seat. The boy jumped down, too, and ran to the dwarves who were approaching.
“What’s going on?” one Ghaldeon asked, his face weathered from years in the sun.
“We got jumped down at the stream by slave traders,” the boy replied excitedly. “But she saved us.”
As the dwarves questioned the boy, Molgheon helped the children from the bed. The women came from their houses and gathered around, asking what was happening. The children ran to their parents and wrapped their arms around them, and everyone talked at once. Molgheon whistled sharply to silence them.
“None of you are safe here,” she said. “Four slave traders are dead, and when the soldiers find them, they will come looking.”
“I know you,” one of the women said. “We served together some twenty years ago.”
Molgheon studied her face but didn’t recognize the dwarf.
“We need to listen to her,” the woman said. “She’s a member of the Resistance.”
“Where do we go?” one of the men asked.
“Do any of you have kin in the mountains?” Molgheon asked.
“I do,” another dwarf said. “It’s a couple day’s walk.”
“How many of you live in this village?” Molgheon asked.
“This is just about all of us,” the one who recognized her said. “Maybe five or six more.”
“Do your kin have room for all of you? A barn or something?”
“I suppose,” the dwarf said.
“Gather your things and get moving,” Molgheon said.
The crowd began squabbling, some saying they couldn’t leave their crops and others saying they weren’t scared. Molgheon whistled again and spoke sharply:
“Those of you who want to live, get moving. The rest of you, if you’d rather watch your family die, then stay here and wait.”
“Gather what you can carry,” one of the older men said. “I’ve seen enough death in my time.”
In groups of three and four, the dwarves went to their homes, leaving Molgheon alone at the wagon. She went to the front and rummaged under the seat, searching for rations. She found a box of dried meats and gobbled down three pieces, barely tasting the food. As it hit her stomach, she realized just how hungry she was. She located a waterskin and took a long drink. The water cooled her parched throat, and she leaned against the wagon, exhausted from the weeks of walking on barely any food. She needed a good night’s rest before resuming her hunt.
“I just wanted to thank you,” a woman said, walking towards her with a basket full of food and clothes. “One of the girls you saved is my only child.”
“It’s just lucky I happened along when I did.”
“Can I do anything to repay you?”
“Do you have any arrows,” Molgheon asked.
“My cousin might. She’s a hunter. Let me check.”
The woman hurried off, and several more of the families returned to the wagon to wait for everyone. One by one, the children she had rescued came to her and hugged her, and each of their parents thanked her and offered her gifts. Molgheon politely turned them down, but then she asked if anyone had a barn she could sleep in.
“You can sleep in our house,” one of the fathers said.
“If they come tonight, they’ll search the houses first. If I’m in a barn, I have a better chance of hearing them before they find me.”
“I reckon that makes sense,” he said. “I’d be proud if you’d stay in my barn.”
He pointed to an old building on the back side of the village, one the farthest structures from the main road.
“That’s perfect,” Molgheon said, shaking his hand.
“Here’s a dozen arrows,” the mother from before said. Her cousin was beside her and handed Molgheon the quiver.
“That’s all I have.”
“This’ll do,” Molgheon said, taking six arrows from the quiver.
“Are you sure?”
Molgheon nodded and thanked both women.
“What happened to your face?” the dwarf who had served with her asked.
“Just battle scars,” Molgheon muttered, turning away.
“I didn’t mean to be so rude,” the dwarf said, touching her arm. Molgheon recoiled from the touch. “It’s just that those are fresh scars.”
Molgheon turned and faced her, trying desperately to remember the woman, but no memory would come.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I shouldn’t have blurted that out.”
“I guess I look hideous, huh?”
The dwarf held up her right hand, revealing that her index and middle fingers were gone.
“I was an archer, too, before they caught me.”
Molgheon stared at her hand and thought about Torkdohn waving the bolt cutters in her face. She touched the dwarf’s shoulder and smiled.
“We all have scars,” the woman said.
One of the men called out that everyone was accounted for and that they should get moving. Molgheon reminded them to stay off main roads and cut cross country. The dwarf whose family they were going to led the way, and the group started out, waving goodbye and thanking her as they passed. The former archer remained beside her until everyone had passed and hugged her goodbye before falling in line. Molgheon watched them leave, hoping they would make it. Once they were beyond the last field, she unlatched the brake and led the horses to the barn. When the wagon was inside the main stall, she unhitched the team and led them outside to roam free. When the horses were all in the pasture, she searched through the barn and found fresh vegetables that didn’t need cooking. She ate until her stomach ached and then curled up in the bed of the wagon and fell asleep.
***
She awoke with a start and sat up. The morning light shone through slits in the barn, and she realized she had slept at least twelve hours. She strained her ears for any sound, but all was quiet. Slowly, she climbed down from the wagon, stiff from sleeping on the hard wood, and crept around, looking through the slits for any sign of soldiers. Once she was satisfied no one was ther
e, she packed as many dried meats as her pack would hold and retrieved her bow from the seat. She counted the arrows in her quiver to make sure none had spilled out while she slept, but all ten were there. She crept to the stall door and opened it enough to squeeze through.
In the pasture, the horses grazed on the dew damp grass, and the deserted village was eerily still. She scanned the area for any motion, but other than a few chickens running around, all was calm. Using the sun as her guide, she walked in the direction of Sturdeon. Like the villagers, she would have to avoid main roads until she reached the city. Then, she would have to sneak into town during the night. During the Resistance, she had done it several times, so she wasn’t too concerned with getting into the city. Once she got there, however, searching for Torkdohn would be another matter.
She used to be acquainted with a few tavern owners, dwarves who might know where to find him, if any of them were still there. Her biggest concern was that as a slave trader Torkdohn probably knew more people in Sturdeon than she did, and the kinds of dwarves he would know were an unsavory lot, thieves and murderers and thugs. She had no money to bribe them, so she would have to be on her guard to navigate the places she would have to search. But she would find him, and when she did, he wouldn’t get away again. As she entered the forest at the end of the pasture, she adjusted her pack and bow before stooping beneath a low-lying branch. Her body ached from the hard sleep, and she didn’t look forward to struggling through the dense brush for three or four days. Focusing on her training, she picked her way through the forest silently and ignored the stiffness in her joints and muscles. They would loosen up soon enough. The important thing was not to get caught before she made it inside the city.
Chapter 12
Darkness Spreads
Bordorn and Krondious crouched at the bridge just outside Horseshoe Bend. Behind them, Roskin sat on the ground, shivering and shaking even though the temperature hovered in the mid-fifties. Lorac stood behind him, gazing into the distance, his aged face expressionless as it had been for most of the trip. They had decided to enter town under cover of darkness, in case the king had sent troops to watch for them, and as they crouched, Krondious peered through the dark to look for any sign of danger. After a few moments, he signaled all clear to Bordorn, so the Ghaldeon rose and led them into town.
Bordorn was worried about Roskin. Ever since Lorac had joined them, the strange fever had returned, and his moods were dark and sullen. From the moment they had seen the dwarves hanging at the castle, he had grown more and more withdrawn, snapping at Bordorn and Krondious if they spoke to him. In all the years Bordorn had known the Kiredurk heir, even in his early teens when he was prone to outbursts, the Ghaldeon had never seen him so angry and brooding. He even seemed to have forgotten about the danger to his kingdom, for not once since they had left Kehldeon had he uttered a word about how they were going to drive the Great Empire from the valley. Given how single-minded he had been, Bordorn found that most peculiar.
Staying in the shadows, he crept to the inn and climbed the steps to the front door. He turned to make certain the others were still with him. Roskin and Lorac sat on the bench where he had waited the first time they came here. He walked over to the edge of the porch and spoke directly to Lorac:
“Aren’t you coming inside?” he asked, as Krondious tied the horse to a post.
“We’ll wait here,” the elf said. His voice reminded Bordorn of a wounded animal.
“Roskin needs something hot to eat,” Bordorn persisted. Krondious moved beside him and folded his arms across his chest.
“He said we’ll wait here,” Roskin snapped. “Now, go.”
Bordorn bit his lip and glanced at Krondious, who stared at the elf with a menacing glare. Bordorn nudged his arm and asked him to come inside. The white beard exhaled sharply and turned away. The two entered the inn, where they were greeted by a smiling Ghaldeon behind the desk. Bordorn explained they were going to the tavern first, and she nodded and told them to enjoy themselves. He was grateful for the hospitable welcome, for after traveling with Lorac for nearly two weeks, he was sick of icy stares and sharp tones.
“I’m about to drive my axe into that elf’s skull,” Krondious said, as they walked down the hallway.
“I wouldn’t stop you except one thing,” Bordorn replied. “Something tells me, we’d have to fight Roskin, too.”
“You may be right, but I’m done with his attitude.”
“Me, too, Kronny.”
As they entered the tavern, Kohldorn saw them and called out in joy. He came from behind the bar and shook both their hands. He looked around and asked where Roskin was, a look of worry on his old face. Bordorn stated he was outside and didn’t want to come in. The barkeep asked why, and Bordorn and Krondious both shrugged. Kohldorn scrutinized them for a moment and then called to a young dwarf at the bar:
“Go fetch Krestreon. Tell him his friends have returned.”
The dwarf finished his drink and hurried down the hall. Kohldorn pointed for them to find a table and went behind the bar. He returned shortly with two tankards of ale and set them at their table. The dwarves thanked him, and each took long pulls from their beverages. Bordorn needed to clear his head and think this through. The king had betrayed them, leaving them with no army, and Roskin was lost in his own world. Bordorn had no idea how to fix this. He took another long drink and leaned back in his chair, resting his aching body. After a few minutes, Krestreon entered the tavern, dressed in new clothes and wearing a sword on his hip.
“What’s wrong with Roskin?” he asked. “He wouldn’t even speak to me. And who’s that elf?”
“Someone we met on Delkhun,” Bordorn replied, disgust in his tone. “We think he’s what’s wrong with Roskin.”
“Well, it’s good to see you both,” Krestreon said, laying his sword on the table before sitting. “Are the troops behind you?”
“There are no troops,” Bordorn said.
“I don’t understand.”
“My cousin lied to us.”
“What happened?”
Bordorn explained the whole story, and Krestreon interrupted often with questions. When Bordorn described all forty-three dwarves hanging outside the castle, the dwarf leaned forward in his seat.
“All of them?” he asked, after a long pause.
“All.”
“That’s harsh, even to send a message.”
“Too harsh,” Krondious said, running his thumb up and down the handle of his tankard. “That wasn’t just.”
“The king wields a heavy hand,” Kohldorn said, setting three fresh tankards on the table.
“I’ve been judged by a king,” Krondious said, barely above a whisper. “And I can tell you mercy goes much farther.”
“Agreed,” Bordorn said. “I’m ashamed to call him my cousin.”
“It’s not all bad news,” Krestreon said.
“How so?”
Krestreon grinned and leaned in closer. He explained that since they had captured Alganeon, word had spread through the countryside and many Ghaldeons wanted to join the dwarves who stood against tyranny. Arching an eyebrow, Bordorn asked how many, and Krestreon said nearly a hundred.
“That’s a start,” Krondious said.
“A hundred against ten thousand?” Bordorn asked.
“More will come,” Krestreon offered.
“We need rest,” Bordorn said, before taking yet another long drink.
“I’ll arrange rooms for you,” Kohldorn said.
Bordorn thanked him and told Krondious to wait there while he went for Roskin. Krondious nodded and mumbled about not wanting to see the elf anyway. Bordorn strode outside and told Roskin and Lorac that they were getting rooms in the inn. Without turning to face him, Lorac said they would prefer to sleep in the woods. Bordorn stepped closer and asked Roskin to come inside, but the Kiredurk shook his head and tightened his cloak around his shoulders. Bordorn studied his friend, whose face appeared strained from fever. He asked Lora
c to please tell Roskin to come inside.
“Elves prefer the outdoors,” Lorac said, still facing east.
“He’s sick.”
“I’m fine,” Roskin snapped, shivering as he said it. “Leave us alone.”
Bordorn sighed and stepped off the porch to retrieve his sword and Krondious’s axe from the horse. He would feel safer having them close at hand if any soldiers showed up in the night. As he strapped the sword around his waist, Lorac turned to face him.
“How long do you plan to linger in this place?”
“A day or two. Then, we’ll head to Mount Lokholme.”
“That’s north. We need to head east.”
“No,” Bordorn quipped. “We don’t. In case Roskin hasn’t told you, there’s an army on the doorstep of his kingdom that we’re trying to defeat.”
“What army?” Roskin asked, his voice distant.
“This is madness!” Bordorn called, hefting Krondious’s axe from the horse. “You know what army! Pull yourself together, Pepper Beard.”
“Watch your tone with me, dwarf,” Roskin growled. To Bordorn, his voice sounded like Lorac’s.
Gripping the axe tightly, Bordorn turned and headed up the steps. He couldn’t fight his friend, but if he stayed there a moment longer, he would say something that would make it inevitable. Walking through the lobby and down the hallway, he calmed himself. When he entered the tavern, he laid the axe on the table and told the others he was going to bed. Krondious rose, lifted his axe, and said that sounded like a good idea. Kohldorn handed them two keys, mentioning that each room had two beds. Bordorn handed him one key back and said to hold the other in case Roskin came inside. The old dwarf nodded and explained where the room was located. Krondious and Bordorn ascended the steps to their room, collapsed on their beds, and were asleep within minutes.
***
As moonlight shone down on him, Kwarck knelt beside a stream and took a deep breath. In all his planning and maneuvering, he had pulled one too many strings, disturbing the balance of nature. That’s why all this had happened. He hadn’t felt anything from Roskin since the last night at his farm and needed to know where he was. Using all his energy, he searched for the heir, but no feeling would come. He washed his hands in the cold water and splashed some on his face. There was only one choice left, and it was the last one he wanted. Clearing his mind and focusing, he reached out to Lorac. A wave of coldness rushed through him as he connected with the Dark One.
