by D. A. Adams
“The Kiredurks are grateful,” the general said. “We didn’t expect this.”
“Neither did they,” Leinjar chuckled, waving his hand at the fallen humans.
The dwarves all laughed.
“Some got away,” the general said, turning serious. “Do you think they’ll head for Sturdeon?”
“Maybe,” Leinjar said. “We’ll follow their trail after we’ve rested.”
“They could’ve fled to Rugraknere,” Bordorn said, walking up to the group with Krondious beside him. “When we left, the Great Empire controlled much of those lands.”
Since they were all soaked in blood, Leinjar didn’t hesitate to hug them. Though he had spent little time around either, because of Roskin, they felt like close friends. Captain Roighwheil hugged them as well, saying he was proud of what they had done. The group exchanged stories, explaining what each had done up to that point, and when everyone finished, Leinjar looked around and asked where Roskin was.
“That’s a long story,” Bordorn said. “But he deserves credit for this.”
“Yes, he does,” Leinjar said. “I would’ve never returned home if not for him. Is he okay?”
“We don’t know,” Krondious responded. “He’s got some kind of strange fever.”
“Where is he?” Captain Roighwheil asked. “We can get him to healers.”
“We don’t know that, either,” Bordorn said. “He wandered off with an elf.”
“An elf!” the general exclaimed.
“I know Roskin,” Leinjar returned. “He has his reasons.”
“I hope you’re right,” Krondious said.
“We’re all exhausted,” Leinjar said. “Let’s get some rest and discuss this in the morning.”
The dwarves agreed and shook hands before splitting up and heading back to their troops. Leinjar watched the small flakes of snow drift to the ground and asked Tehnjar to see if the farmers who had given him the water would let them sleep in their barn. His son jogged back to the house, and Leinjar sat down. His muscles had tightened up in the cold air, and he groaned as he sat. The reality of defeating the Great Empire had not fully sank in, but he had come through for Roskin. That thought gave him peace. The Snivegohn Valley was free and the Kiredurk gate no longer threatened. He would sleep well that night.
Chapter 14
In the Darkest Hour
A fine powder of snow covered the southern slopes of Mount Khendar. Sprigs of dried, yellow grasses poked through the wisps of white, and the wind blew light flurries in erratic swirls through the air. Kwarck stood atop a small rise, watching Roskin and Lorac approach. The hermit had felt the heir for two days, a foggy, confused noise of anger and hate. Roskin’s mind lingered on the edge of cracking permanently, and this would be the hermit’s only chance to save him and prevent the Dark One from reaching the forest. As the two neared him, the cold, poisoned sensation filled him, and he was powerless to resist it.
Move away, feeble one, and I’ll make your suffering short.
“Roskin,” Kwarck called. “Don’t give in to him.”
Roskin looked at Kwarck, no flicker of recognition in his eyes, and the hermit pushed with all his might to enter the Kiredurk’s mind. A sharp pain shot down his spine, and he crumpled to his knees. In his mind, Lorac laughed.
Your skills are no match for mine.
“What happened to you, Lorac?” Kwarck asked, raising to his hands and knees.
“You really want to know?” Lorac returned, his voice almost humble. “I saw the future. This future. Our people slaves and refugees. I learned this world is a dark, evil place.”
“That’s not true,” Kwarck returned, struggling to his feet. “There’s good in this world.”
“There is?” Roskin asked, looking at Lorac.
“Like you, healer? Are you good?” Lorac mocked. “Every living being on this planet cares only for itself.”
“Don’t listen to him, Roskin.”
“Let me prove it, son of Sylva,” Lorac said. “Do you think it was your idea to go after that statue?”
Roskin stared in the distance, as if scanning his memory.
“Kwarck planted that seed in your mind. He guided you to Murkdolm.”
“Is that true?” Roskin asked, his voice distant.
“Not like he says,” Kwarck responded, stepping forward.
“He’s a liar,” Lorac huffed.
“Did you lead me from home?” Roskin asked, his expression as one remembering something long forgotten.
“Yes,” Kwarck said, holding out his palms. “But it’s not what he says.”
“You see!” Lorac exclaimed. “You’re a murderer, and he’s power hungry. You’re both just like me.”
“No,” Kwarck said calmly. “Listen to me, Roskin. Please.”
“Enough of this,” Lorac said. “Kill him.”
Roskin drew Grussard’s blade and started for Kwarck. The hermit backpedaled and pushed into Roskin’s mind, begging the heir to stop. Suddenly, Roskin doubled over in pain and slumped to his knees, crying out. Another sharp jolt ran down Kwarck’s spine, and Lorac shoved him from Roskin’s mind. Kwarck collapsed, the cold racing through him. Roskin remained where he was, moaning.
Very well, healer. I’ll kill you myself.
***
As Roskin approached Kwarck to kill him, he felt the two elves tugging at his mind. The sensation overwhelmed him, knocking him down. A flood of memories came to him, distant and foreign as if from a different life. Until that moment, all he could remember was seeing Lorac’s beautiful face for the first time. Afterwards, all seemed a foggy dream of walking through forests and across mountains, unsure of where he was going or who he was. As Lorac had shown him the memory of the statue, however, his previous life trickled to him. Now, with Lorac approaching Kwarck, the memories rushed all at once.
He was on the plantation, tied to the post, being beaten for escaping. He was in a cave, fighting the dog beast to protect his friends. He was in his kingdom, drawing maps. Faces of friends, bits of conversation, and moments of battle fluttered through his mind. He saw his mother in the Koorleine Forest, soothing him during the beating. He saw Crushaw admonishing him after the bar fight. And he saw his father, wounded and vulnerable after the earthquake, his blood covering Roskin’s hands.
In that moment, Roskin saw himself, naked and void of all pretense. He was selfish and vain, spoiled and pampered. He was weak and vulnerable, uncertain and unfocused. Those weaknesses belonged to him as surely as his bones. But he was also kind and just, loyal and faithful. He loved his family, friends, and subjects. He loved his kingdom, from the Kireghegon Halls to the River of Fire, and would forfeit his life to defend it. Despite his weaknesses, he was also strong and trustworthy, humble and generous. Stripped bare he saw himself, the true self of his core, and from that core, a light shone, filling him with hope. All fear slipped away. At his core, he was brave.
He looked at Kwarck, kneeling on the ground, his face contorted in pain, and for a moment, anger filled him again as he thought of the hermit sending him after Crushaw, but he fought against the emotion and peered more closely at the healer. Warmness filled him, a gentle soothing kindness, edging out the cold that had ravaged him for so long. He looked at Lorac, who had drawn his swords. The elf looked nothing like Roskin remembered. His face sagged with deep wrinkles, and his eyes flashed with hatred. Suddenly, as if waking from a nightmare, Roskin scrambled to his feet and jumped between Lorac and Kwarck.
“You’ll not touch him,” Roskin said, setting his feet and holding his sword as Crushaw had taught him.
Don’t be foolish, boy. You serve me, now.
“No,” Roskin snarled.
Murderer, you’re no better than I. Step aside or I’ll cut out your heart.
An image of the night of darkness came to Roskin, and he saw Lorac’s children murdered in their beds. For an instant, the coldness filled him again, but he fought against it and allowed the warmth to course through him.
In a blink, Lorac drove at him, swinging his two blades. Roskin spun aside to avoid the attack and drew his shorter sword with his left hand. Again Lorac came, and this time, Roskin blocked the swings with both of his blades. The clash of metal echoed down the mountain. Lorac moved with speed and savagery, swinging both swords in a blur. Roskin focused on the flashes of metal, barely keeping up with the motions. He backpedaled, defending himself against the onslaught. As he adjusted to the elf’s speed, he noticed flaws in his opponent’s technique.
Crushaw had often chastised Roskin for “slinging an axe,” meaning his swings arced too widely. The general had shown him over and over to tighten his arm motion for better control. While Lorac was fast, he also swung too widely. Roskin stopped backpedaling and, as he blocked the next set of blows, raked at the elf’s left arm. The blade sliced skin, dark blood oozing from the wound, but the cut was only superficial. Lorac stepped back and smeared the blood across his face, licking his arm in the process. Roskin froze. The elf smiled, blood streaked across his face and lips. Before Roskin could react, Lorac charged and punched him in the mouth with the pommel of his right sword. The dwarf staggered backwards, slipping on the snow.
As he landed on his back, the handles of his axes pressed into his shoulders, blinding him with pain. Instinctively, he brought up his swords and somehow blocked Lorac’s diving attack. He kicked the elf in the chest, knocking him backwards. Roskin clambered to his feet, blood filling his mouth, and braced for the next assault.
Lorac circled him, scissoring his blades back and forth. The grate of metal on metal rolled down the mountain. The elf charged a third time, his blades hacking and slicing at Roskin with dizzying swiftness. Again, the heir backpedaled, using both swords to block the blows. In the fury, the elf’s blades raked across Roskin’s forearms, opening slight gashes. Finally, Lorac tired from the assault and retreated a few steps to catch his breath. Roskin gathered himself, gasping for air, and eyed the elf closely.
This time, Lorac circled slowly, laughing as blood and sweat dripped from his chin. Roskin studied his movements, watching for an opening. Before the elf drew back to charge, a tendon flexed on his right forearm, and Roskin braced for another series of blows. Blood spewed from his cuts as he blocked and parried, and his eyes stung from sweat rolling down his face. His legs burned from the backpedaling on the slope, and his strength waned as Lorac swung again and again and again. Roskin’s swords felt like anvils, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he a missed a block and Lorac ran him through. Just as he felt he couldn’t hold out any longer, Lorac retreated once more.
The elf’s chest rose and fell as he sucked in large gulps of air, and Roskin rested the tips of his swords against the ground. His arms felt too feeble to raise, but his focus never waivered from Lorac’s right forearm. The elf circled him again, his face still dripping blood-stained sweat. Roskin gripped the pommels of his swords, mustering strength to strike at precisely the right moment. His own blood trickled down his arms, and sweat stung his fresh wounds. Focusing attention on the tendon that had flexed before, he ignored the discomfort and concentrated. This would be his last chance.
As the skin on Lorac’s right forearm rippled, Roskin spun in that direction. He swung Grussard’s blade with all his might, aiming where Lorac would draw back to. The sword struck the elf’s right arm just above the elbow. Metal sliced through skin, muscle, and tendons and snapped bone. The elf howled in pain as his arm flopped limply to his side, the two parts barely connected by a thin layer of skin. Lorac’s sword tumbled to the ground.
Roskin dove and rolled, avoiding a wild swing from Lorac’s left arm. On hands and knees, he scrambled a few feet away and got to his feet, gathering his balance. He turned and faced the elf, whose right arm dangled at his side with blood spraying onto the trampled snow. Lorac’s skin faded gray, and each breath came in deep, raspy gasps. Roskin readied himself in middle guard, raising both swords. The elf brought up his left arm in high guard, the blade quivering in the air.
“Give up,” Roskin called. “You’re beaten.”
I’ll bathe in your blood, son of Sylva.
Roskin spat a mouthful of blood and gritted his teeth. While Lorac was gravely wounded, his own energy waned. He wouldn’t have any more openings to finish the fight. Marshaling his strength, he charged. The elf swung downward, a fast and powerful strike, but Roskin parried it with a short, crisp upward thrust. As the elf’s sword recoiled, Roskin drove his shorter blade into Lorac’s diaphragm. The elf grunted from the wound and wobbled backwards. Without hesitating, Roskin thrust with Grussard’s blade, piercing his foe’s heart. Lorac crumbled to the ground, the life draining from his eyes. Roskin withdrew his blade and slumped to the snow, panting for breath.
For the first time, he could feel the elves, thousands of voices calling out in joy, some from plantations, some from the forest, and others from Kwarck’s farm. He could feel them all, a deep connection that startled him. He saw his mother’s face, smiling. Focusing on her, he told her he was safe, and tears streamed down her cheeks. As the foreign sensation settled, he looked over and saw Kwarck lying on the ground. He struggled to his feet, wiped his swords on Lorac’s clothes, and sheathed them. He then staggered to Kwarck and knelt beside him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, touching the hermit’s shoulder.
“You’re alive?” Kwarck asked, opening his eyes.
“I think so,” Roskin chuckled.
“Let me get something for those wounds.”
“You rest,” Roskin said, sitting on the snow. The sharp wetness tingled his skin.
“How did you resist him for so long?” Kwarck asked, standing and removing his backpack.
“I don’t know. It’s all a fog. Did I?”
“Trust me. If you hadn’t, you’d have sliced me to pieces.”
“I guess he didn’t know one important factor,” Roskin said, grinning as blood dripped from his mouth.
“What’s that?” Kwarck asked, opening his backpack.
“The stubborn nature of dwarves.”
Kwarck grinned, and Roskin looked at Lorac’s body on the ground. He remembered the elf inside his head, drawing out all his hate and anger, and he remembered the dwarf he had killed in the cage. Shame filled him as he thought about his selfishness, and Kwarck must’ve sensed his feelings, for the hermit placed a hand on his cheek and smiled.
“None of us are as bad as our worst moments,” Kwarck said. “You’ve proven your heart.”
“Did you really send me after Crushaw?” he asked.
“Please, forgive me,” Kwarck said, still holding his cheek.
“It’s okay,” Roskin replied. “I know why you did it. But I do have a favor to ask.”
“Anything,” Kwarck said, rummaging through his herbs.
“Go heal my father. The kingdom needs him.”
Kwarck nodded, dabbing some dried leaves on the split in Roskin’s lip. He winced at the touch, but as the herbs soaked into the wound, the area grew numb. Kwarck rubbed the herbs onto his arms. Again, he winced from the burning, but quickly the gashes grew numb. He looked around at the landscape and got his bearings. Somehow, Lorac had led him to the southeastern slopes of Mount Khendar, a full day’s hike to the Snivegohn Valley. He asked Kwarck if he were able to walk, and the hermit nodded, shouldering his backpack and adjusting his bow. Roskin rose from the snow, turned northwest, and began climbing the steep path. With the fog now lifted from his mind, his urgency returned. He had lost too much time and had to reach his friends. He struggled up the slope, his legs screaming in protest, but there was no time for rest.
***
On outskirts of Kwarck’s farm, a bitter wind drove from the north, and thin, wispy clouds dotted the sky. Crushaw watched Suvene lead a group of elves through a technical series of strokes that required flawless footwork and absolute balance. The orc executed the routine perfectly, and the elves repeated it, showi
ng much improvement from when they had first arrived. Stopping mid-routine, every elf froze in place and turned to each other, disbelief on their faces. The disbelief faded to broad smiles, as if a terrible weight had been lifted. They yelled and cheered wildly, hugging each other. Crushaw turned to Sylva, who stood beside him, tears streaming down her face.
“He did it,” she said, throwing her arms around the old man.
“Kwarck?” Crushaw asked, hugging her back.
“No, Roskin. He defeated Lorac. On his own.”
Crushaw leaned back and looked into her eyes. She smiled and nodded that he had heard her correctly. Crushaw turned and gazed west, overcome with relief. He asked Sylva if she knew how, and she described the entire fight as she felt it from Roskin’s memory. As she told him about Roskin seeing the flaws in Lorac’s technique and finally understanding what Crushaw had meant by “slinging an axe,” the old man smiled and bowed his head.
He soaked in the moment, the surge of pride he felt. He had known pride before -- gaining promotions, winning battles, and proving his worth on the field -- but to an escaped slave, the feeling always seemed strange. The orcs demeaned slaves to eradicate self-respect, and even though he was fifty-six years removed from bondage, those scars still lingered. Against all hope, Roskin had triumphed, and while Crushaw wouldn’t claim any credit publicly, he knew the hours spent drilling the dwarf on footwork and discipline were the difference in the fight. In his search to find more meaning in his life than having savaged ogres, he savored this instant. At least in part, he had given Roskin the tools to survive. For Crushaw, that was enough.
Remembering the task before him, he turned to Sylva and told her to ready the elves to march the next morning. They would have to move in a wide arc to reach Rugraknere and avoid detection, and there was little time to waste if they were to make it before the solstice. He wanted them in place early so he could scout the area to make certain the ogres were in position and see how Strauteefe had countered with his troops. Sylva saluted him and closed her eyes. Within seconds, the elves dispersed from their training groups and moved to their campsites. As the elves disbanded, Suvene walked to him and asked what was happening.
