by D. A. Adams
“Arrows?”
“You were shot. Twice.”
The other dwarf returned with a wooden cup of water and held it to his lips. His pupils had adjusted to the light, and he could see her face, but she was not the woman in his dreams. He held the water in his mouth and swallowed slowly, letting only small sips down his throat.
“You’ve been here for two weeks, barely awake at all till now.”
“Where are the others?”
“Molgheon and Red are downstairs,” the female said. “Bordorn is in that bed, sleeping like you.”
“He’s alive?”
“Barely,” the male replied. “We’ll see.”
“I’ll get the others,” the female said.
She left the room, and the other dwarf sat in a chair. Roskin stared at the ceiling. Grussard was already dead, Molgheon was a refugee, and Bordorn was nearly dead all because he wanted to steal a statue. He didn’t even need the riches it would bring. The thrill and glory were all he wanted, and shame filled him. But even as he cried softly, he remembered the story of the Brotherhood and couldn’t let go of the need to have it. The others would be there soon, so he wiped his eyes with his right hand and tried to compose himself.
Molgheon entered the room first but did not smile when she saw him. In fact, Roskin had never seen her smile. She always held that look of stern concentration. He held out his hand, but she did not take it. Instead, she moved a stool beside the bed and sat.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Just rest,” she said. “Save your strength.”
“Young master,” Red said, kneeling at the foot of the bed. His beard and hair had been washed and trimmed, and he wore a new set of clothes. “Thank all that’s good.”
“That soldier called you Crushaw,” Roskin said, remembering.
“Crushaw is gone. I am Red.”
“You said ‘Just take me.’ You...”
“Let it go, Roskin,” Molgheon said sharply.
Roskin looked at her, and her eyes burned with anger. He apologized to Red, but in his heart he knew the old man was lying. He had found Evil Blade, and a resurgence of conviction seized him. Grussard shouldn’t die in vain, he reasoned, not with the one who could show him the fortress there at hand.
Much as he had told and retold the story of Roskin on the bridge, Red launched into an explanation of the second wave of soldiers. When Roskin was struck by the arrows and slumped to the ground, Red had almost left him, believing the dwarf already dead, but Molgheon ordered him to remain because she refused to leave anyone behind for the humans to defile, dead or alive. Then, she pretended to surrender by lying in the bed and making Red raise his arms above his head. As the seven archers marched up the hill, she took a bottle from Red’s stash and stuffed a piece of dry cloth in the neck, letting the whiskey soak the cotton. When the soldiers were within range, she lit the cloth with her flint and steel, still lying face down in the bed and using Bordorn’s body as a shield. One of the archers called for her to stand and turn slowly, and she did stand but spun quickly and tossed the bottle into the middle of them. It shattered on a rock, and the whiskey-fire sprayed the soldiers. She grabbed Roskin’s sword and finished them off as they scrambled to put out the flames that had ignited the cotton padding beneath their mail.
Red helped get Roskin in the wagon, and they raced to the nearest village, which was a logging camp on the border of the conquered lands and Rugraknere. The loggers sent for their healers, who often had to deal with accidents from saws and axes, and somehow, the two dwarves were saved. Bordorn had not yet regained consciousness, but he was stable and had a good chance to make it.
“You’ll be sore for awhile,” said the male healer, who Molgheon introduced as Beshnic. He was somewhat older than Roskin, and a round belly bulged over his belt, and his fingers were thick and stubby. “But I don’t think you’ll be disabled. You were terribly lucky.”
“Indeed,” Red added.
Molgheon made the two stop talking and told Roskin that he needed nourishment. Since it was a couple of hours after dinner and several before supper, she sent Beshnic to find leftovers and asked Red to help him. When they were gone, she unrolled a corner of the blanket to let in light and shut the door.
“Why were you in Murkdolm?” she asked.
“I was passing through.”
“Is that so? And that’s why you were looking for the general?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Red told me, poor thing, why you paid him.”
“I was just curious,” he said, sure that the statue would not appease her.
“If you ever again accuse that old man of being that monster, I’ll rip out your tongue myself. I’ve known him for ten years, and in all that time, he never caused as much trouble for me or my friends as you caused in two days. Are we clear?”
“Molgheon, please. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“No one ever does.”
“Where is your husband?” Roskin asked, hoping to end that conversation.
“Dead.”
“When? How? I want to know about you.”
“It’s none of your business. I’m only here because they were coming to hang me beside Grussard. We’re not friends.”
With that, she left the room, and Roskin stared after her, torn between shame and anger. He knew she was right about the trouble, but he also knew that Red was not a helpless old man. Things hadn’t gone the way he had hoped, but he would make them right, and she would see.
It took two days for him to get out of bed, and when he finally did, his back and shoulder were so sore that he had to walk gingerly. For the first week, he couldn’t go more than a few feet without succumbing to the pain, but each day he made it a little further, and by the end of the second week, he could almost circle the town at a regular pace. During that time, Bordorn woke from the long sleep, but he was in a pitiful condition. His right arm was amputated just below the elbow, and he had lost so much blood that he was pale and weak, scarcely able to speak. While Red spent most of his time at the tavern, Molgheon stayed with Bordorn each day, helping the healers clean his wounds and keeping his spirits bright.
Roskin was moved from the original room, which was reserved only for patients in critical condition. The family of the female healer, who lived down the street from the infirmary, had taken him in and was helping him rehabilitate. Their house was modest, a one story brick building with a storm cellar that smelled of mold and stagnant water, and they were not very diligent housekeepers. A coating of dust covered all the furniture, and whenever anyone would sit or stand, a thin fog of particles would swirl around that person. In the mornings, Roskin would sneeze for ten minutes before getting out of bed, and his sinuses stayed inflamed and stuffy all day. Decades of clutter littered every room – books, letters, bric-a-brac, folk art, tools, and junk. The house was like a bizarre, unorganized museum, but the kitchen was simply a horror from years of poor cleaning.
Even so, Roskin grew to love the family. The patriarch, Dagreesh, was a logger who was at least as old as Red. His back was bent from all the years of hard labor, and his feet and ankles remained swollen and sore every day. Still, he was a cheerful man who rose each morning before sunrise to build a fire and prepare breakfast, and then he would take his axe and limp off to the logs.
The matriarch, Bokwhel, was a few years younger than Dagreesh, but her health was much worse than his because she was obese. Her knees and hips had worn out from the extra weight, and she would lie all day in bed and read and write letters or gossip with the neighbors who stopped in to see about her while Dagreesh was away. In her youth, she had been a healer, and even the youngsters who had never known her as such referred to her as Shaman Bokey.
Their only child, the female healer named Jokhreno, stayed with the sick and injured for twelve to fourteen hours every day, and when she wasn’t working, she would stay in her room and sleep. Roskin rarely saw her around the house or in town. While she w
as their only natural child, Dagreesh and Bokwhel had adopted two boys from the infirmary. One worked as a cook in the tavern and was home even less than Jokhreno. The other suffered from a nervous stomach and couldn’t work much more than a few minutes around the house. Any more than that would make him sick for several days.
Dagreesh and Bokwhel were both descendants of outcasts. His grandfather had been a thief, and her mother had attacked a peace keeper without provocation, but neither was outwardly bitter towards the kingdom. In fact, Dagreesh often spoke of wanting to see the ancient cities before he died. While their customs were different from the underground, Roskin found himself glad to be around Kiredurks. He would sit for hours with Bokwhel and listen to stories from the town. She seemed to know everyone and had at least a dozen tales about each family. He also became friends with the sickly adopted son, who was called Jase but was fully named Jaesorkohn, and many nights they would end up at the tavern with a pitcher of ale and a crowd of workers who loved listening to Roskin’s tales.
On one such night, he was telling about killing the orcs, and the inebriated Kiredurks were riveted to every word. He told about the vanishing trails and the trap, and he carried them on with details about how badly the orcs stank and how their swords were as wide as him. Of course, he only had the dagger, but he was never scared because no orc was a match for any dwarf. The tired workers cheered loudly. Then, he told about killing each one, how he dueled with them one at a time, but after the third was beaten, several more jumped out from the trees. That was when Torkdohn arrived with the horse and wagon and rescued him. The workers clapped and yelled wildly, but Red, who had regressed back to his disheveled appearance, had been drinking for several hours, and the alcohol had made him mean that night. In this raspy voice, he called from across the room:
“Tell them about our adventure on the bridge, young master.”
“That is your tale,” Roskin said, not catching the sarcasm in Red’s voice. “I couldn’t steal it from you.”
“Then tell them about the ambush,” Red continued. Tell them how Bordorn fell so bravely.”
“Leave my friend out of this.” Roskin felt his temper growing.
“Tell them about Grussard. Tell them about his bravery, young master.”
“Maybe I should tell them about the general who was beaten by the ogres and banished to a remote outpost.”
“Beaten? Do you really think a pack of mindless ogres could outwit Crushaw?”
“That is how I heard it, from one who was there.”
“An ogre, no doubt. Let me tell you how the great general really lost his post.”
The other dwarves began jeering at the old man, but Roskin hushed them. He wanted to hear the story.
“I’m sure you’ve heard that Crushaw was bloodthirsty, and that much is true. He loved to fight, to smell fear. He was an escaped slave, you know, and enlisted with the Great Empire to fight the orcs, but they sent him north, instead. He quickly rose through the ranks because he was so fearless. When he took command of the northern army, he was ordered to rid the world of the ogres. His first task was to build Black Rock because he needed a defensive position to start from. After the fortress was complete, he raided village after village for five years, and few survived his attacks.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the torture chambers, and that also is true. The general would capture leaders and torture them for information. Torture is not for the weak, young master. It takes an iron will to keep turning the wheel after bones crack or to peel back more flesh with a scream in your ear, but the general had his orders, and he was loyal.
“Then, on the way to a raid, his army was caught in a storm. Wind and hail battered them, and lightning struck many of his men. Crushaw was caught in the open with a tornado in the distance. He knew death was at hand, and he was scared. He rode as hard as he could for shelter, but the roar of the funnel grew closer and closer. For a moment, he saw his life in perfect clarity. Somehow, he reached a small cave before the tornado took him, and for several hours he waited out the storm alone, thinking about warfare and slavery and torture. When the storm cleared, he gathered his soldiers and marched to the village they were going to raze, but instead of attacking, he rode through town and told the ogres that he would never again attack their lands. Then, he marched his confused soldiers back to the fortress.
“When word reached Emperor Vassa, she was furious and wanted him beheaded on the steps of his fortress, but the other generals were loyal to him and bargained for his life. Instead of death, he was exiled to the west. That, young master, is how Crushaw lost his army. He simply lost his taste for blood. No stupid ogres ever beat him.”
With that, Red turned back to his drink, and the room was silent. Part of Roskin wanted to strangle the general who had slaughtered so many, but the other part, the one that had held him in the mine and had sung lullabies to sooth him, wanted to move beside the lonely man and listen to more. As Roskin sat in silence and thought about the story, the group of workers disbanded and staggered out the door in twos and threes, muttering about Roskin’s duel with the orcs. Only Roskin, Jase, and Red were left as customers, and Jase ordered another pitcher of ale.
“You sure are brave,” Jase said. “I’d wet my pants and run.”
“You’d be amazed what’s inside you when you need it,” Roskin returned, using a phrase his father had repeated many times.
“I’m too sick to be a warrior.”
Roskin nodded and took a sip of ale.
“Tell me about the bridge. What happened there?”
“Another night, Jase. I’m storied out.”
They finished the ale with Jase prattling about Roskin’s bravery. As Jase talked on and on, Red stood from his seat at the bar and staggered out the door, and Roskin stood and told Jase to follow him. The dwarves tailed the old man into an alley where he lay down behind a stack of crates. Roskin watched as the old man covered himself with a rotten blanket, and the dwarf shook his head in disgust. He needed to get the man clear-headed to help him find the statue.
“Think Bokey would mind another guest?” he asked Jase.
The sickly dwarf shrugged.
Roskin walked down the alley and told Red to get up.
“Leave me be,” Red snapped.
“Come on. I’ve got a bed for you.”
“You’ve no idea.”
“Come on.”
“You don’t know pain. You know nothing.”
Roskin reached down and took Red’s arm, but the old man held still.
“Nothing,” he yelled.
“Okay, Red. Just come with me.”
“I see their faces. They’re everywhere I go.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll never escape them.”
Finally, Roskin coaxed the old man up, and he and Jase helped him back to the house. They put him in Roskin’s bed, and he was asleep shortly. The dwarf slept on the floor that night, and the next morning he explained to Bokwhel that Red was his responsibility because of what had happened at Murkdolm. She agreed to let the old man stay as long as needed, but since he was human, he would have to earn his keep. When Red awoke, Roskin told him of the deal and asked him to accept the arrangement. Red had forgotten his anger of the night before and offered to cook for the family. Upon hearing the offer, Bokwhel nodded and told him to start with that day’s lunch.
Each day, Roskin would exercise to speed his healing, and Red would cook stews and cornbread, which were about all he knew, and clean the kitchen. The work seemed to do him good, for he didn’t drink quite as much, and he began to start grooming himself regularly. Each afternoon they would check on Bordorn, who was healing slowly, and each night, they would go to the tavern with Jase and drink with the workers. Roskin was mostly healed and had regained nearly full motion in his shoulders, but Bokwhel told him everyday not to rush it. Those wounds were deep and needed time, she would say.
After a week, Roskin started practicing with his sword to stret
ch his shoulders and back, and when Red saw him in the backyard, the old man went outside to watch. The dwarf was uncomfortable with someone watching him, but he continued his exercises, fighting an imaginary foe with the few moves he could remember.
“You have a lot of natural skill,” Red said. “But you need better technique. You look like you’re slinging an axe.”
“I’m better with an axe,” Roskin huffed.
“A swordsman who relies on skill alone will die very young.”
Red corrected the flaws in Roskin’s stance and showed him a few basic cuts and draws. For the next three weeks, they worked for at least an hour a day on different moves, but Bokwhel didn’t like them having weapons in the house and would fuss about the wasted time. To keep her from knowing, they would wait until a neighbor stopped in to check on her and sneak out through the storm cellar. They also had to bribe Jase, who didn’t like anyone to disobey Nanna Bokey, but he would keep quiet as long as Roskin would pay for the nightly ale.
During those three weeks, Roskin felt that his wounds were completely healed, and he often thought about leaving to get the statue, but whenever he mentioned departing to Bokwhel or Jase, they would warn him that he was still mending. If he were to travel in that condition, he would surely get an infection, they would warn. Even though he felt fine, Roskin listened to Shaman Bokey because she had been a healer, but he began to suspect that Jase was not as sickly as he let on. For someone with a bad stomach, Jase could hold a lot of ale and stew. The only times his stomach seemed to bother him were when someone mentioned work, but the one time he had mentioned this observation to Bokwhel, she had become defensive of her adopted son, so he didn’t bring it up again.
In his time there, Roskin didn’t get to know Dagreesh very well. The old dwarf worked nearly every day, and when he came home in the evenings, he usually fell asleep just after eating supper. Roskin wanted to do something for him, to somehow make his life easier, but the money was growing thin. He simply didn’t have enough on him to help out more than a day or two, so he tried to do little things, like repairing loose shingles or clearing rubbish from the yard. The old dwarf seemed to appreciate the effort, but Roskin still felt guilty about not being able to do more for him.
