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

by D. A. Adams

  “People are approaching,” Bordorn whispered to the dwarves behind him.

  The volunteers gathered their weapons and formed up around Bordorn and Krondious. As the footsteps came closer, Bordorn distinctly heard the sound of clinking metal. He gripped his sword and glanced at Krondious, who peered intently at the approaching foe. The twin braids of his beard fluttered in the breeze, but otherwise, the Kiredurk stood frozen, his feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, and axe drawn back to strike. Bordorn refocused on the sound, staring up the slope for the first glimpse of whomever drew closer.

  At the clearing he had crossed a week earlier, Ghaldeon soldiers appeared, heavily armored and marching double-file. Bordorn couldn’t believe they had found him so quickly, and for a moment, he feared for Krestreon’s safety. The soldiers must have passed through Horseshoe Bend and gotten the information from him, and Bordorn was certain the former slave wouldn’t have betrayed them easily. Gritting his teeth, he raised his sword to high guard and prepared to call for a volley from the archers.

  “Who’s your leader?” a Ghaldeon soldier asked, stepping ahead of his troops with no weapon drawn.

  “I am,” Bordorn replied, not lowering his sword.

  “We are soldiers from Kehldeon,” the dwarf continued. “And we’re here to serve you, if you’ll have us.”

  “I don’t understand,” Bordorn said. “The king is no friend of mine.”

  “We no longer submit to him,” the dwarf said, looking back at his troops. “If you are brave enough to fight what’s down there, we’d rather die with you than collect taxes for the likes of him.”

  Bordorn lowered his sword and called for the others to do the same. He told Krondious to wait there but remain alert and then strode forward to meet the dwarf face to face.

  “You must be Bordorn,” the soldier said, extending his hand. “I’m Prolgheon, General of Kehldeon.”

  “Pardon my suspicion,” Bordorn returned, shaking the dwarf’s hand. “But what led you to this choice?”

  “We’re Ghaldeons,” Prolgheon said, sticking out his chest. Behind him a cheer rippled through his troops. “Our dads and papaws gave their lives fighting the Great Empire. We can’t shame their memory anymore.”

  “How many are you?” Krondious asked, walking forward and lowering his axe.

  “Five hundred,” Prolgheon said. “You must be the Kiredurk I’ve heard so much about.”

  Krondious stood beside Bordorn and shook the general’s hand.

  “They say you fight like the warriors of old,” Prolgheon continued. “Where’s the son of Kraganere?”

  “Fighting his own battle,” Bordorn said, his tone sharper than he intended. Softening, “Come, join us. We don’t have much but are happy to share.”

  “We have supplies,” the general said, turning and calling to his aide. “Krestreon sends his regards.”

  The aide approached with several other dwarves, carrying racks of freshly cooked meats. The volunteers moved forward as the meat was carved from the bone and handed to them. The general asked Bordorn to brief him on what had been happening, and he, Bordorn, and Krondious moved away from the feast and found good rocks for seats. Bordorn removed his shield before sitting. As he relayed the successes of the ambushes and also the battle that evening, the general smiled and nodded at him. When Bordorn finished, the general stroked his beard and glanced at the volunteers.

  “When I was a boy,” he said. “My papaw told me the greatest soldiers are citizens fighting for their homes. He would be proud of you dwarves.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Bordorn said.

  “He also said our spirit was still alive, just wounded. On his deathbed, he promised me it would rise again.”

  “My dad said the same,” Bordorn whispered.

  “More will join us,” the general said, looking him in the eyes. “You’ve awakened that spirit.”

  “I’m no warrior,” Bordorn muttered. “These dwarves are the fighters.”

  “I disagree,” Krondious said, putting his hand on Bordorn’s shoulder and squeezing.

  Bordorn blushed and looked down.

  “Let’s get some rest,” the general said, rising from his seat. “There’s still much to do.”

  Bordorn watched the general walk away and then turned to Krondious, who eyed the last of the meat still on the bone. Bordorn nudged him with his left arm and told him to go eat. Without hesitation, Krondious jumped up and promised to bring back some. Bordorn gazed east, thinking again of Roskin. Whatever glory anyone received from this campaign belonged to the heir, for all this had been his plan. One day, he would make sure everyone knew the truth, that Roskin had set this in motion. As darkness descended, the wind shifted and low, gray clouds formed along the horizon. Bordorn gathered his cloak around him and pulled up his hood. Winter approached quickly, and by the looks of it, they might be in for snow that night.

  ***

  In the twilight, Leinjar stood in front of his officers and explained what his scouts had seen. He told them of his idea to attack that night, catching the humans off guard. Most of them cheered, but a couple raised questions about fighting after a full day’s march. Several officers hurled insults at them for being scared. Leinjar hushed the ones who jeered and told them the concerns were valid.

  “We may never again have this moment,” he added. “Right now, they don’t expect us. Tomorrow, a scout could spot us, and their lines might shift. They’re also planning some kind of party tonight, so they’ll be even less prepared.”

  “You’re right,” one of the dissenters said. “We can see better at night than they can, too. My soldiers will be ready as soon as you give the word.”

  The other dissenter nodded his agreement, and the officers broke into a loud cheer. Leinjar raised his arms to silence them.

  “I’m not much on speeches,” he said. “You’re the finest warriors in these lands and know what to do. We’ll drive straight into their camp and fan out as the road allows. Let’s push them from this valley.”

  Again the officers cheered wildly, and Leinjar dismissed the crowd, calling for them to be ready to march in two hours. Then, he turned and strode to the top of the rise. His sons and the two former slaves followed closely. Below him, a couple of miles away, hundreds of campfires flickered around the valley. He stood silently, imagining the charge into the camp. The humans were arrogant for believing they controlled this road and didn’t need a rear guard. As a young soldier, his instructors had instilled in him a deep understanding that a position is only as secure as its weakest point. To his west, low clouds drifted down from the mountains, and a cold breeze pushed against him. From all the years on the plantation, he had nearly forgotten real cold, mountain cold. He inhaled deeply, feeling the sharpness of the air in his lungs.

  ***

  Captain Polmere sat in his tent with his scout, an aide, and two sergeants. He described to them what he had learned of the debacle earlier that evening, and the men listened without interrupting. He explained that he had requested more troops to negate the longbows and encircle the dwarves before they could disappear up the mountain. His companions shook their heads and muttered about the general’s incompetence. The captain leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Nearly two hundred good soldiers were dead, the rest wounded badly, and even though he had argued against the plan, he still felt guilty for following the order.

  “You sensed an ambush,” his scout offered. “We just searched the wrong location.”

  “Those dwarves will pay,” one of the sergeants added.

  “And do you want to know what the general is doing right now?” Captain Polmere asked, looking up.

  “Don’t tell me they’re still having that party,” the other sergeant muttered.

  “I know this is insubordinate, but I no longer trust his judgment,” the captain said gravely.

  The three men agreed, and he started to admonish them that this conversation didn’t leave his tent, but a noise caught his a
ttention. Grabbing his sword, he rushed from his tent, followed by the others. From the camp’s rear, in the vicinity of the grand tent, clangs of metal and screams filled the air. He told the sergeants to gather troops and ordered his scout to follow him. Throughout the camp, soldiers rose from their card games and beds, scrambling to grab weapons. As he ran towards the noise, Captain Polmere screamed for them to move faster.

  Nearing the grand tent, he froze. Pouring down Mount Khendar, hundreds of dwarves charged them. The rear guard and the grand tent had already been overrun, and the soldiers closest to the rear, who hadn’t even strapped on armor, were being pushed back. Running back towards his post in the center of camp, he called to the troops nearest him to retreat and form up. In the chaos of darkness, some listened to him, but others charged into the battle. As he ran, he continued barking orders at the confused soldiers, trying to assemble a regiment. Behind him, the screams of agony and terror rose as the dwarves drove through the panicked soldiers. Finally, he reached his post and began to establish order. Platoons gathered around him, and he created a defensive line facing the rear. Through the ranks, sergeants screamed at troops to rally around the captain, and soon, the formation took shape, resembling a military grouping more than a crazed mob.

  ***

  Captain Roighwheil rushed to the gate and peered through the iron bars. He couldn’t see anything except the flickering campfires, but he could hear the sounds of battle from deep in the valley. He called for troops to open the gate and ran to the general’s quarters, which were little more than an orderly pile of rubble with a curtain for a door. The captain burst through the fabric and yelled for the general to come to the gate. Grabbing his axe, the dwarf climbed from bed and followed him back. Captain Roighwheil ran through the open gate to the road’s edge. Outside, the sounds of battle were even louder, and he turned to the general and exclaimed:

  “It’s Roskin!”

  “It sure sounds like it. Rouse the troops. We’ll not wait for light. I’ll send my runner to alert Sondious we’re engaging the Great Empire.”

  The captain ran through the damaged tunnels, calling for the Kiredurks to grab their armor and weapons. Within minutes, they had assembled near the gate, some wiping sleep from their eyes and others grumbling about the hour, but the General of Dorkhun silenced them. He told them to listen to the sounds below, and as the clangs of metal drifted up to them, the Kiredurks came to attention. The general told them that Roskin had gathered an army to fight the humans. Several conversations broke out, but again, the general silenced them.

  “Are we gonna leave him down there alone? Or are we gonna fight?” the general asked.

  “Fight!” the soldiers screamed.

  “For Roskin!” the general cried, starting down the road at a trot.

  The Kiredurks cheered and followed him. Captain Roighwheil fell in line and found his pace. He had fought in many battles against the ogres, but those had felt more like perfunctory chore than real defenses of the kingdom. Now, for the first time in more than thirty-five years of his military career, he was excited to charge into battle. As they jogged down the hill, the dwarves began chanting, “For the heir, for the king, we fight. We fight. We fight.” Tears filled the captain’s eyes as he chanted with them, for ever since the earthquake, he had felt as if the kingdom were lost. At this moment, he was pleased once again to call himself a Kiredurk, and he was proud of Roskin for coming through. Having his faith in the young dwarf rewarded was the greatest feeling he had known since the birth of his son.

  ***

  Bordorn woke with a start and reached for his sword. Beside him, Krondious leapt to his feet and ran to the clearing that overlooked the valley. The other dwarves had awakened, too, and Bordorn called for them to steady themselves and find their weapons. The newly arrived soldiers strapped on their armor, and the general strode to where Krondious peered down the slope.

  “It’s Leinjar!” Krondious yelled at Bordorn. “The Tredjards are attacking!”

  “What?” the general asked.

  “A friend of Roskin’s,” Bordorn said, running to the clearing.

  “Well, boys, so much for sleep,” the general said to Bordorn and Krondious. He turned to his soldiers, who had assembled behind him. “I know your legs are tired, but we have waited too many years for this chance. Tonight, we honor our ancestors. Tonight, we reclaim our lands!”

  The roar that erupted from the Ghaldeons, soldier and volunteer alike, hurt Bordorn’s ears, and he winced from the sound. The general didn’t wait for them to fall quiet. Instead, he drew his sword and started down the slope, and Krondious marched beside him. The Ghaldeons followed them, the soldiers and volunteers blending together into one column, including the nineteen elderly who so far hadn’t fought. Bordorn ran back to his campsite and strapped on his shield. Then, he hurried back and caught up with the tail of the line.

  ***

  The Tredjards swept through the southern half of the valley with little resistance, but Captain Polmere’s line halted their advance. Now, the dwarves and humans fought fiercely. Because of the ambush, the Tredjards had gained the advantage in numbers, but the humans who had rallied around Polmere had regained their wits and struggled against the onslaught. He moved along the line, shouting instructions at the frantic soldiers, and the Tredjards’ momentum stalled. For nearly an hour, dwarves and men fought in the middle of the valley, the clangs of metal echoing off barns, houses, and distant slopes. Then, the dwarves fell back and formed a stationary line across from the captain’s front. As the dwarves formed their line, Polmere rushed from platoon to platoon, screaming orders and sending runners to call for more troops from the base of Mount Gagneesh. For the rest of that night, however, the Tredjards didn’t attack again.

  At first light, the fighting resumed, and this time, the Tredjards were joined by a small force of Ghaldeons from the west. In daylight, Captain Polmere was stunned by the sheer number of dwarves. His force, which the day before had seemed impenetrable, had been thinned by at least two thousand troops during the ambush, and now, the dwarven line wrapped around each flank, even as most of the troops from the north had joined this force. However, the soldiers had regained their organization, and their years of training and drills carried the day as they repelled every attack. By nightfall, the dwarves retreated again, and Captain Polmere believed that by the end of the next day, his men would drive the dwarves from the valley.

  On the third day of fighting, Captain Polmere still deemed his troops could win the battle, and as the lines pushed against each other throughout the afternoon, his men did thrust the Tredjards back on the eastern flank. But these dwarves were not the lazy, heartless rock-brains he’d been taught about all his life. From his command position watching the battle unfold, he saw how they rallied each time his men gained an advantage. These dwarves fought with tenacity and honor, and even the Ghaldeons on the western flank were unlike any he had known in Murkdolm. Those downtrodden peasants shuffled through their days with eyes cast downwards. These warriors displayed discipline and resolve, holding the flank and even driving his men closer to the valley’s center. As afternoon faded to evening, so did his last glimmer of hope for salvaging the battle.

  With darkness overtaking the valley floor, his scout grabbed his arm and pointed north. Approaching at a steady trot, a column of Kiredurks charged what was now his rear guard, and he shouted at the closest platoons to face them. The men scrambled into position, forming a thin line, but before the Kiredurks even reached them, the captain knew his men couldn’t hold the ground. The Kiredurks were too many, and moving those platoons had weakened his main line. His heart sank, for he knew the battle was lost. They were outnumbered and surrounded with only one direction to retreat. He grabbed his scout’s arm and yelled into the man’s ear:

  “Do you remember any paths to the east?”

  “I can find my way,” the scout replied, his eyes wide with terror.

  “Get us out of here!”

  T
he scout didn’t hesitate, bolting between the front and rear lines, and Captain Polmere stayed on his heels, calling to the soldiers to retreat. Dozens of platoons broke off from the fighting and followed them. Using houses and barns for cover, the scout drove them east, and the platoons lucky enough to hear the retreat order reached the woods before the dwarves could cut them off. The ones that didn’t continued to fight, and as he darted into the trees and started up the first hill, Captain Polmere listened to their screams as the dwarves overran their lines. Gritting his teeth, he stayed close to his scout, who marched swiftly up the rise. Of the ten thousand soldiers who had held the valley just three days earlier, less than a thousand followed the captain and his scout out of Snivegohn Valley.

  ***

  In the middle of the valley, Leinjar stood, soaked in blood and sweat, his breathing ragged. As his adrenaline faded, his arms and legs grew rubbery. Beside him, his sons, too, were soaked in blood, but neither had been injured. The two leisure slaves had cuts and scrapes but weren’t seriously wounded. Leinjar asked his oldest son to gather reports from the officers. He wanted to know how many Tredjards were dead and wounded and how many prisoners they had captured. Zhenjar saluted and rushed off to find the officers. Leinjar asked his youngest to find them water.

  Dwarves had emerged from their homes, terrified from the three days of fighting but joyous at the liberation, and all around the valley, cheers and songs replaced the clash of metal and screams of battle. Tehnjar hurried to the closest farmhouse and returned with a bucket of water. Leinjar thanked his son and took a long drink. Light snow fell, and as he took a second drink, Captain Roighwheil approached him, followed by another Kiredurk.

  “Leinjar,” the captain said. “This is the General of Dorkhun.”

  “It’s good to see you, Captain,” Leinjar said, setting down the bucket and shaking his hand. He greeted the general, bowing his head in courtesy.