The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves

by D. A. Adams

  He entered the door and scanned the room, noticing a human stretched out in the floor. His heart skipped a beat at the sight, but then he realized that the man was just an old bum, no one to fear. He found an empty table near the door and sat, propping his backpack in the empty chair beside him. A few of the dwarves closest to him stopped their conversations and stared at him, but most continued as if nothing had changed. The barkeep came to his table and leaned down to him.

  “Black beard, you’d better hide those weapons,” she said, pointing to his axe and dagger. “No one in here cares, but if a soldier happened by, you’d not like where you found yourself.”

  “I apologize, ma’am.” He tucked each weapon in the folds of his sleeping bag.

  “Give me your order.”

  “Just ale.”

  She returned in a moment with his drink, then checked the other tables. She moved from group to group, not smiling or chatting with the customers, just getting their orders in a perfunctory manner. He had never seen such an unfriendly bartender, and her temperament bothered him. He had hoped to find a conversation, maybe even a warm bed for the night, but he could see that this place offered no tenderness. When she returned, he paid for his ale and asked directions to the inn.

  “Hear that Grussard?” she asked, looking sideways at his coin before making change. “This Tredjard wants the inn.”

  “Send him to it,” Grussard replied, slapping his friend’s back.

  “Maybe we should. At least they’d have someone to play with for a day or two,” the friend returned.

  Several dwarves laughed, and it was the first laughter Roskin had heard in the place. He rose from his seat and grabbed his backpack.

  “Thank you for the kindness,” he huffed, moving for the door.

  “Sit down, pup,” Grussard said. “We’re just having fun.”

  “Where I’m from, we treat strangers kindly till they give us reason not to.” His temper was at the boiling point, but he had had enough action for one day and wanted to leave before he had to fight again.

  “Tredjards don’t know the first thing about kindness,” the barkeep said through gritted teeth.

  “I’m a Kiredurk,” he returned, stopping at the door.

  “Of course you are, dark beard,” another dwarf said.

  They laughed again.

  “Come on, pup. We’ll let you buy the next round. How’s that for kindness?”

  Roskin reached for the doorknob, but the door swung open, hitting him in the wounded ear and knocking him backward. Two human soldiers entered the tavern, stooping through the doorway and groaning as they stretched back to full height. Roskin backed away, holding his ear and fighting back tears.

  “Good evening, workers for the Great Empire. We have come to collect taxes.”

  The dwarves pulled coins from their tunics and purses without question and held the coins in hands raised above their heads. Roskin quickly followed their example, using change the barkeep had given him. One soldier stood by the door while the other dropped the coins into a sack. When the collector reached Roskin, he stopped and called to his companion.

  “Look here. A stranger.”

  “What’s your labor?” the other guard asked, moving closer.

  “I...uh…”

  “He’s my new apprentice,” Grussard said, standing and bowing his head. “He’s from Turhjik. Just got here tonight.”

  The soldiers seemed satisfied with the answer and moved back towards the door. The one who had collected the money walked to the human passed out on the floor and nudged him with his boot.

  “What about it? Where’s your taxes?”

  The old man mumbled something unintelligible, and the other soldier covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.

  “Here’s his,” the barkeep said, handing the soldier a coin.

  After the soldiers left, the dwarves returned to their drinks, but the conversations were held to whispers. Roskin turned to Grussard.

  “Thank you.”

  “There are Ghaldeons in league with the humans and orcs, but you’ll not find them here,” Grussard said loudly, bringing on a light chorus of cheers. “We are sons and daughters of the Resistance.”

  “I am grateful.”

  “Good, good. Sit here, pup, and let’s have that drink.”

  Roskin nodded and joined Grussard and his two friends. The companions gave a sarcastic toast to the soldiers, and Roskin felt more at ease. He asked about the strange hour for paying taxes, and the dwarves explained that soldiers would come by the tavern every night to collect enough money for their own revelry. As long as the dwarves gave something, the soldiers usually didn’t bother them. If someone didn’t have anything to pay, like the old bum they called Red, someone else always offered to cover them to keep the soldiers from causing trouble.

  “But why help that human?” Roskin asked, glancing at the filthy figure curled up on the floor.

  “Molgheon, the barkeep there, she lets Red sleep here. He guards us in return, you could say.”

  Another round of laughter came from the nearby tables.

  “What about it? You really a white beard?” one of the friends asked.

  Roskin explained about his mother without saying that his father was king and told that he was traveling to the Loorish Forest to find her. The dwarves commented on the forest and the elves, telling legends about the magical powers of the people. It was said that the elves could read men’s minds and see the future. They lived in the trees and could fly from branch to branch like birds. One of the dwarves asked if Roskin had any of these powers, since he was half elf.

  Roskin was taken aback by the question. He had never thought of himself as anything but Kiredurk, even though he had seen the painting of his mother almost every day until he began the mapping. Somehow, he had never thought about being an elf.

  “No, I have no magic,” Roskin managed.

  “Too bad. That would be fun,” the dwarf replied.

  “I’ve had a long day. Is there any place I can sleep tonight?”

  “Upstairs,” Grussard said, motioning for Molgheon. “But there’s not a bed. Only the stone floor.”

  “More drinks?” she asked without meeting their eyes, just staring into space.

  “Can our friend use the upper room? He’s tired from his travel.”

  “Just tonight. Don’t need another freeloader.”

  “She plays gruff,” Grussard said, play punching her arm. “But she’s a softy.”

  “Watch your mouth, smith, or it might get mashed. Now, do you need another round or not?”

  “On me, ma’am,” Roskin said, pulling out another of his stepmother’s coins.

  “That’s from the old kingdom,” Grussard said, grabbing the coin. “Where’d you get that?”

  “It’s mine, smith,” Molgheon said.

  “I’ve plenty more,” Roskin said, holding another towards her.

  She snatched it quickly and went behind the bar for their drinks. Grussard passed the coin to his friend, who leaned forward to get a better look. Roskin sipped his ale and wondered why the fuss over a coin when the currency of his kingdom was just as ornate and solid.

  “Look at those markings,” the friend said, passing it to the other.

  “My papaw made coins,” Grussard said, crossing his arms and staring ahead. “Those haven’t been made for eighty-five years.”

  “Keep it,” Roskin said.

  “Give the pup back his coin,” Grussard said sharply, uncrossing his arms and slamming his hands on the table. “I’ll not rob a dwarf, not even a fool.”

  “Really, I have more,” Roskin said, reaching for his purse.

  The knife was at his throat before he saw Grussard move, and he held still, not even breathing.

  “I don’t need your charity,” the blacksmith said. “Molgheon might short-change you with these coins, but I haven’t fallen that far.”

  “Leave me out of it,” the barkeep said, placing their drinks on the ta
ble. “And put that blade away. They’ll shut me down.”

  “That one coin is worth more than a sack of these flat pieces of tin,” Grussard said, tossing a handful of coins on the table.

  “I’m sorry,” Roskin said. “I meant no offense.”

  Grussard returned the knife up his sleeve and stood. Roskin let out his breath and felt his neck through the coarse hair of his beard. Several shorn strands had fallen to his lap. Grussard was almost to the door when he turned back to face his friends who were still examining the coin and Roskin who was stunned.

  “We may be under their rule, but we ain’t serfs to other dwarves, too.”

  “Grussard, look,” one of his friends called, waving wildly. “It’s from the Keshgheon mines. Look at these markings.”

  “Shove it.”

  “My family might’ve mined this silver. Yours might’ve cast it.”

  “A lot of smiths made coins. I’m going home.”

  With that he left, and the others were too mesmerized by the coin to talk to Roskin, so the Kiredurk gathered his backpack and asked Molgheon to show him upstairs. She led him up a wooden ladder that passed through a wide hole in the ceiling. The air in the upstairs room was stale and dusty, but it felt more like home to Roskin than the outside. The room was filled with empty crates and barrels and had no furnishings except a square table that was covered with dry-rotted maps of the ancient Ghaldeon kingdom. There were small, round windows on each wall, but very little light came through.

  “This is it,” she said. “I’ll let you out in the morning.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Don’t mind Grussard. He’s just proud and stubborn.”

  She went back to the ladder and descended with the same detached movements that she used taking and serving drinks. Roskin wondered what made a pretty dwarf like her so cold. As he unrolled the sleeping bag, the axe and dagger fell to the stone floor, and the axe chipped severely in the blade. He cursed under his breath and slid it in his backpack. The dagger was fine, so he crawled inside the bag and kept it by his side. Very shortly the long day was behind him.

  Some time in the night, Roskin woke from a presence near him. He sat up quickly and drew the dagger. A large figure lurched backwards and fell into some crates, causing a terrible noise. Roskin jumped to his feet and charged the intruder, but stopped short when he heard a tired, raspy voice beg for mercy.

  “What do you want?” Roskin asked.

  “Don’t hurt me. I just wanted to see them.”

  “See what?” Roskin asked, stepping closer to the figure who he realized was the bum, Red.

  “The coins. The dwarves said they were pretty.”

  Roskin glanced back and saw the contents of his backpack arranged neatly on the floor, but the purse was on his belt, which relaxed him slightly. Figuring that the old man was not a threat to outrun him, Roskin tossed the purse to Red, telling him to have a look. Red rolled to his side and poured the coins on the floor. Even in the faint light, they glittered brightly, and Red ran his fingers through them. Roskin had never spent much time around the human merchants who came to his kingdom, so he marveled at the intensity with which the man rubbed the coins.

  “Pretty indeed, white beard,” Red said.

  “What makes you think I’m a Kiredurk, stranger?”

  “Your axe. Only white beards carry that kind.”

  For a moment Roskin was impressed, but then he realized that the man had likely heard him telling the others downstairs. He stepped closer, keeping the dagger in his hand, and knelt beside the human, who stank of stale beer and filth.

  “Would you like to earn a couple of those?”

  “I’m old and feeble.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t need labor. I’m looking for someone.”

  “My memory is not so good.”

  “Do you know the exiled general?”

  “The one the ogres call Evil Blade?”

  “The same.”

  “He’s dead,” Red said sadly. “Three years ago.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  Red described how the general lived in a wooden shack just outside the fort. During a long freeze, the dishonored man took a cough that got worse and worse until the guards were tired of hearing it day and night. They drug him from his home and left him in the ice and snow to die. He stayed alive through the day, but that night, his cough went silent. When sunrise came, the guards saw that wolves had drug off and eaten the body. Only bloody rags were found in the woods.

  Roskin sat down in disbelief. The notion that Evil Blade was not here had never entered his mind. He had been so sure of his plan that he hadn’t considered any alternative, yet here he was at a dead end. Without the general to get him inside the castle, he might never reclaim the treasure. This can’t be happening, he thought.

  “I still get my coins. I did what you asked.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know him?” Red asked, sorting through the money to find two he liked.

  “No. Did you?”

  “Yes. Oh yes. He was a great general. I served with him against the ogres.”

  “Really? Do you know of his fortress?”

  “You can’t make me go there,” Red whimpered, rolling away with his coins. The other pieces still shimmered on the floor.

  “It’s okay. I won’t.”

  “Bad place. Bad things happen there.”

  “Like what?”

  Red described the torture chambers, designed by Evil Blade himself specifically for ogres. He told of watching the ogres struggle to escape as part by part their bodies were maimed and broken and of hearing their screams that sounded unreal echoing through the halls, screams he could hear even now. Roskin shuddered at the images and thought of the ogres he had known, of their hatred for that man. It seemed wrong that they would never get their justice. Even though he was dead, he had never been punished properly.

  Roskin returned the other coins to the purse and hung it from his belt. He was unsure of the time but still felt tired, so he told Red that he was going back to sleep. Red asked if he could stay upstairs, and Roskin said yes but also reminded the old man of the dagger. Red fell asleep quickly, wheezing and snoring in the dark, but Roskin barely noticed, falling asleep easily himself.

  He awoke again long after sunrise and found his equipment repacked. Red was not upstairs, and Roskin pulled some dried meats from his pack and had breakfast alone. He wouldn’t abandon his plan for the Brotherhood, but without Evil Blade, he had no idea where to begin. The old man would be no help, and Roskin didn’t know if anyone else had even been to the fortress. Not only that, he was sure few people knew the secret passages. If he did find someone who could show him inside, how would he get them to help? The dead ends seemed endless, so he decided to put the problem from his mind and focus on something he could fix, like the cracked axe.

  After finishing breakfast, he put more salve on his ear, wincing as his fingers touched the tender skin. After rolling up the sleeping bag and slipping on the loaded backpack, he went down the ladder to find Molgheon cleaning the tavern. She didn’t acknowledge that he was there, so he went to the window to look at the town in daylight. To his surprise, he saw Torkdohn driving the wagon up the street. Roskin wanted to step outside and greet his friend, but he knew that might cause problems for the merchant, especially after word reached town about the slain orcs. Perhaps they would meet again, and Roskin would have the opportunity to say a proper farewell to the dwarf.

  The abandoned buildings looked much less eerie in daylight, and Roskin admired the masonry. Murkdolm had been founded by a Ghaldeon named Murkdol some seven hundred years earlier. The dwarf had been a disgruntled nephew of the king and had been asked to leave Sturdeon, so he had traveled west. The original house that he had built and used as an inn still stood by the river. The dark gray blocks were carved from dolerite, and each block was a two foot square. The rows were straight and tight, with no blocks out of line, and the mortar bo
nds were even and smooth, having very few cracks of any significance. The other buildings had been built during Murkdol’s lifetime and followed the same architecture and materials. They ranged from one to three stories, and a couple were close to a hundred feet in length. Roskin tried to imagine the town before the conquest, the energy and industry that must have existed even in this small town and the pride the dwarves must have felt. He remembered vividly the pride he had felt at seeing the doors of the Kireghegon Halls, and for a moment, he felt the same about the withering town of Murkdolm. He studied the buildings for a few more minutes, trying to guess what each structure had been, but his imagination failed, and he decided to see about fixing his axe.

  “Where’s Grussard’s shop? I need to repair something,” he said to Molgheon.

  “Up the road a bit,” she said, not looking up from the metal tankards that she was scrubbing. “Red can show you.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “Out back with a bottle. You shouldn’t give him no more money. He’ll be drunk for weeks, the poor thing.”

  Roskin excused himself and went outside to find the old man, who was standing in a small plaza and facing north. Roskin had to shield his eyes from the sun as he opened the back door, and at first he could only see the old man’s silhouette. Standing erect in daylight, Red looked imposing to the young dwarf for a moment. He was at least a foot and a half taller than Roskin and didn’t look as frail as he had curled up on the floor. His tangled, gray hair nearly reached his waist, and his beard touched his chest. His face was splotched with scars across his forehead and cheeks, but his eyes, though bloodshot, were fierce and bold in the morning light. He turned to the dwarf and smiled, revealing a full set of dirty teeth.

  “Morning, young master,” Red said, holding the bottle, which was two thirds full, towards Roskin. His voice, while still raspy and thin, was much stronger than during the night. “Care for a taste of Murkdolm’s best whiskey. I bought a whole crate.”

  “No thanks. I was hoping you could lead me to Grussard’s shop.”

  “For you, anything, but that axe is beyond repair.”

  With that, Red turned and started down the alley, walking with a determined stride that Roskin would have never believed possible. The dwarf struggled to keep pace as Red passed by the stone houses, and when they reached the blacksmith’s shop, Roskin was slightly winded. Red sat on a wooden bench by the side door and took a drink from his bottle. Roskin hesitated for a moment, then entered the building. The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal filled the room, and he watched as Grussard fashioned the blade of a broadsword. When the shape was to his satisfaction, Grussard dipped the sword in a barrel of black water, causing a sharp hiss and a puff of steam. He hung the blade on a hook and reached for another piece of metal but stopped when he saw Roskin in the doorway.