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

by D. A. Adams

  She ordered the guards to take them back to their rooms, but Roskin refused to leave Red unattended. She conceded and had them taken together to one room, and that evening, as part of the punishment, they only received one bucket of water and one piece of bread. Since he had eaten the meat, Roskin let Red have all the bread, but the man’s jaw was too swollen to chew well. The dwarf soaked the bread in water and made his companion swallow it. When Roskin was satisfied that Red had eaten enough, he helped him drink from the bucket. More water ended up on them than in Red’s mouth, and with the temperature dropping back below freezing, they both shivered in the darkness.

  “Maybe we won’t freeze,” Red said, trying to smile.

  “How’d we get this far north?” Roskin asked. “We should be a week away from them.”

  “Maybe you misread your map.”

  “I can read maps. It must be wrong, or the ogres have moved south into part of Rugraknere.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past them to steal land.”

  “I thought you had had a change of heart about ogres.”

  “I hate them. Crushaw lost his taste for killing, but I still loathe them.”

  “Try to keep your feelings to yourself, and we might get out of this.”

  “They’ll not let me leave. Why’d you do that, trying to take my place?”

  Roskin wanted to tell him about the Brotherhood, about his need to hold it, but he was afraid the old man would laugh at him.

  “Just let them kill me, young master. I’ve lived my life.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s awful to think about.”

  “Death? There are worse things, believe me.”

  “What can be worse than being dead?”

  Red shook his head and stopped talking. Roskin tried to get him to answer, but Red curled into the fetal position and stayed quiet. Roskin covered him with the bearskin and then lay with his back pressed against the man’s, trying to share body heat. After two nights without good sleep and the previous day’s forced march, he was exhausted and longed for a comfortable bed and a nice fire. He tried to imagine that the slight warmth coming from Red was a furnace vent back in Dorkhun, but the cold made deep sleep all but impossible. He dozed on and off until just before sunrise, but the night was almost as exhausting as the day had been.

  At sunrise, the matriarch and three guards led them from the room into the gray light. In the street, their horse and wagon were hitched, and their equipment was repacked in the bed. Beside the wagon, a large buffalo was adorned with a saddle and bridle, as ogres rode them on long distances. The matriarch ordered Roskin and Red into the wagon, and the two guards who carried Red flung him into the seat as Roskin climbed in the other side. The other ogre mounted her buffalo and waited.

  “If we wait for the council, both of you will be torn to pieces by the mob,” the matriarch said to Roskin. “Your punishment is to accompany him to the wizard Kwarck’s home, where he is to remain in exile until his death, natural or otherwise.”

  She faced Red, and her eyes danced with hatred.

  “You are fortunate this day, Evil Blade. The dwarf has spared you a gruesome end, but if you leave your exile, no proxy will be allowed a second time.”

  “Clan Matriarch,” Roskin said, bowing his head. “Accept my gratitude for this judgment and know that the house of Kraganere will remember your grace and mercy.”

  “Save the courtesy, Lord Roskin. We part as tenuous allies, at best. I cannot forbid you to enter our lands, but know that your safety is out of my hands. Vishghu, lead them to Kwarck and remain there as a guard. The dwarf is free to go once you reach the house.”

  The ogre on the buffalo nodded and motioned for Roskin to follow. She snapped her reins, and the beast snorted clouds of steam as it moved forward. Roskin released the brake and followed her south. Beside him, Red pulled a wool blanket from one of the packs and wrapped it around himself. Then, he placed the bearskin over the dwarf’s shoulders, and the two hunkered down to lessen the wind as they moved away from the clan village of Ghustaugaun.

  Chapter 8

  The Hermit of the Plains

  The wizard, as some called him, lived in the open lands between Rugraknere and the Great Empire. Like Roskin, he was half Loorish Elf, and instead of trying to assimilate where none would accept his mixed blood, he had chosen self-exile on the plains. During the decades of war, he had healed ogres, dwarves, and humans, which made him both beloved and suspect among those races, but because he lived so far from civilization, none wanted to waste the time to punish him for helping their enemies.

  On his farm that spanned twenty-five square miles, Kwarck raised pigs, chickens, and cows on the open range to the west. The southern and eastern fields were tilled and fenced, and he rotated crops on them in a pattern that kept the soil fertile. To the north, he had planted fruit and nut bearing trees, and the orchard grew in intricate swatches of species that kept the ground nourished and the trees healthy. Each year, he produced an abundance of food, but the excess was always sent to towns and villages in need.

  The ride from Ghustaugaun to Kwarck’s home took a week. As the three travelers moved south, the snow and ice of the north gave way to late spring, and the gentle hills of black spruce forests flattened into open grasslands. On the trip, Roskin had used all of his ointment and salve to heal Red’s wounds, but while the bruises and scrapes were gone, the old man had finished his whiskey during the first day. By the time they neared the house, he had the shakes even worse than in the mines. He could only lie in the wagon, moaning loudly and scratching the invisible spiders. Vishghu and Roskin were both exhausted from tending to him, and more than once the dwarf had had to stop the ogre from hurting him. Eventually, she had ridden ahead to keep from smashing his skull with her club.

  As she wound up the worn path to the house, Vishghu was greeted by Kwarck at the edge of the forest, and as Roskin approached, he studied the hermit whose legend had reached even Dorkhun. He was an inch or two taller than Roskin but thinner than anyone the dwarf had ever seen. His hair was the same texture as the dwarf’s but silver with streaks of white. He wore earth-toned clothes made in part from animal skins but also from fibers. When the hermit looked up, he smiled as if the dwarf were an old friend who was expected. Roskin returned the greeting, feeling a bond between them, a sensation that was foreign and familiar at the same time.

  “What’s the matter with this one?” Kwarck asked, peering in the wagon at Red.

  “He needs a taste of liquor.”

  “Bah. Poison. Bring him inside, Vishghu.”

  The ogre, who had already dismounted and unsaddled the buffalo, lifted the oblivious man from the bed. Fearing she might try to harm him again, Roskin watched her carefully as they entered the house. Inside, the ogre placed Red in a back room with wide windows that faced east. Kwarck thanked her, and the ogre went outside to groom her mount. Roskin stayed inside to see what the hermit would do for his companion. Kwarck took a bottle of herbs from a shelf and crumbled them in a wooden cup of water.

  “If there’s any strength left in his spirit,” he said. “I can help him. But it has a tight grip on him.”

  “He has dark memories. They haunt him.”

  “One who deals in death should be haunted.”

  The comment stunned Roskin like a slap, and he stared hard at the ground. The images of his own fallen foes came to him every time he closed his eyes, splatters of blood or grunts of pain, but most of all he remembered the orc at the vanishing trails, the one that had scarred his ear. He couldn’t forget the light draining from the orc’s eyes as its blood rushed from its stomach. The dwarf didn’t want to end up like Red, hiding from memories once so eagerly sought.

  He excused himself and went to unhitch and groom his horse. Outside, the warm wind bent the grasses in waves of dark and light green, but the dwarf found no solace in that beauty. As he unhooked the bridle, he thought about the Brotherhood and how much it had already cost him, yet his will hardened to reclaim it. H
e was sure that once he held it and carried it back to Dorkhun, the sacrifices would be worth the glory.

  He led the horse west to the open pasture where Vishghu had already released her buffalo to graze. The ogre sat against a smokehouse full of dried meats and stared at the animals that roamed the field. By the next winter, many of those pigs and cows would themselves be hanging in the small, wooden building, curing to last the next year. Kiredurks had no need to cure meats, but Roskin had heard of Ghaldeons using salt and smoke to preserve food through the warm months. The process was done in the late fall or early winter, preferably before temperatures stayed below freezing, and the meat had to be cured at less than 100°. Otherwise, it would begin to cook instead of curing and would spoil as the weather warmed. In Ghaldeon culture, an entire week was dedicated to this process, and the Festival of Smoke was a time of hard work followed by two or three days of celebrations. Roskin wanted to see this ritual for himself.

  Vishghu was barely an adult, and her skin, though thick and pale, had not yet developed the layers of fat for insulation against the lethal cold of the northern winters. As a boy, Roskin had wrestled half-grown ogres for sport, but looking at her muscles, he couldn’t fathom having to grapple a full-grown one and marveled that Red had once been strapping enough to terrorize them. The dwarf leaned against the grayish brown planks of the smokehouse and looked down at her, but even as she sat, her head was only a few inches below his.

  “I don’t want to be your enemy,” he said.

  “Then why are you friends with him?”

  “I don’t know. We’re not friends, really.”

  “Really?”

  “For my part, I am still your ally.”

  With that, he went back to the wagon and organized their equipment. During the shakes, Red had made a mess in the bed, and it took Roskin more than an hour to organize, clean, and repack everything. By the time he was finished, the shadows were growing long as the sun dipped in the west. He shouldered his backpack and carried the other inside. Kwarck, who was cooking supper, showed him to a bedroom.

  Other than the fresh meat at Red’s trial, Roskin hadn’t had a decent meal since leaving the logging town, and to his hunger, the food that Kwarck prepared was as good a feast as any back home. There were fresh chicken, cured ham, nuts, cheese, and bread. After the meal, he served them peppermint tea from leaves he had grown and dried the previous year and preserved fruits from the orchard. Roskin wished that Red had been able to join them, but the old man was sleeping soundly in his room.

  After supper, Kwarck told them stories of travelers who had stayed with him before. There were the last of the Koorleine Elves, the civilized cousins to the Loorish, who wandered from nation to nation as entertainers. They had set up their tents and performed songs and plays just for him as tribute for a place to rest for a few weeks. There were also the human nomads who stayed with him each winter as they migrated in their circular pattern. The nomads refused allegiance to the Great Empire and labored in different regions each season. They were the ones who had helped him dig the underground section of his home that served as both storage for foods and protection from storms.

  When his stories were finished, Kwarck excused himself and prepared for bed. Vishghu didn’t seem interested in sitting alone with the dwarf and went underground to the room Kwarck had prepared for her. Since she was nearly as tall as the ceiling, none of the upper level rooms were large enough for her to be comfortable. Not feeling tired, Roskin went to Red’s room and sat beside the old man who slept soundly. His breathing was smooth and even, without the wheezing or snoring, and the dwarf’s heart warmed at seeing Red comfortable after the arduous battle with the shakes. Near midnight, Roskin retired to his room and fell into his own sound sleep.

  The next day, he woke long after sunrise to the drone of voices in Red’s room. Kwarck and the recovering man were speaking intently with each other, but the dwarf couldn’t make out what they were saying. He rose and looked for his clothes but found strange ones in their place. He dressed quickly, impressed by how well and comfortably the clothing fit, and went to the kitchen to find breakfast. As Roskin fried a couple of eggs on the barely warm enough stove, Kwarck entered the kitchen and greeted him. The dwarf thanked him for the clothes, and the hermit explained that he had washed and hung out the others.

  “How’s Red. I heard you talking.”

  “He hurts,” Kwarck said, taking an apple from a basket.

  “Will he be okay?”

  “Much too early to tell,” the man returned, slicing the apple with a pocket knife.

  “When I’m sure he’ll be fine, I guess I’ll be leaving,” Roskin said, flipping his eggs.

  “Fortune and glory beckon. That’s a dangerous path to travel.”

  “I’m not afraid.” The dwarf’s temper rose slightly, but he fought against it.

  The hermit chuckled and crunched a slice.

  “Maybe I get a little scared.”

  The hermit didn’t respond.

  “Okay,” Roskin said, taking his eggs from the skillet. “I get this strange fear. It overcomes me just before something happens.”

  “The elves are said to have intuition.”

  “Actually, it’s always with me.”

  “Always?”

  “It’s like a shadow in the corner of my eye that I can’t quite see.” Roskin sat beside his confidant.

  “Listen closely and maybe you’ll hear its warning.”

  “Sometimes I get images of my attackers.”

  “That’s your mother in you.” The hermit slid the last two slices of his apple to the dwarf.

  “How do you know?”

  “We are both part Loorish, young friend. I have felt you in my heart for some time. There are few of us left. Someday, I’ll tell you that story, but for now, we have work to do. Finish up.”

  With that, the hermit rose and went outside. Roskin finished his eggs and apple slices and then hurried outside to find his host, who was at one of the fields, tending a fence that had been damaged during the winter. He told Roskin to use a sledgehammer and wedge to split new rails, and the dwarf obeyed without question. Back home, outside of military drills, only his father gave him direct orders, and if even one of his masters at school had not asked him courteously to do a task, he would have gotten offended. But with the old hermit, it seemed natural, not a breech of etiquette, so Roskin gathered the tools and went to work.

  He split new rails until noon and was tired from the work, but the lunch of nuts and cheese reenergized him for the afternoon of carrying the new rails to spots where Kwarck had pulled apart the damaged ones. By evening, the dwarf’s new clothes were drenched with sweat, and his arms and legs were heavy from the labor, but there was a feeling of contentment he had seldom known. Most of his life had been spent preparing his mind for leadership, and only rarely was he asked to do manual labor. When Kwarck commended the work, Roskin was surprised by the pride he felt in his heart, a feeling like when he had watched the guard open the heavy doors of the Kireghegon Halls.

  For the next week, he and Vishghu helped the hermit plow and sow his fields. The man showed them both how to drive a mule and plow, and they worked from sunup to sundown each day to get all of that year’s crops planted. While they worked, Red slowly recovered in the house. He slept most of each day and barely ate, but the shakes and hallucinations were all but gone. Kwarck’s herbs kept them away, and the old man became more and more lucid each day. By the time the fields were planted, he was able to get out of bed.

  Vishghu avoided Red completely, and if they did happen into the same room, she would leave, but the ogre had warmed to Roskin enough that she would sit with him in the evenings. They shared stories of their homelands with the hermit, who soaked up their tales with the glee of a child. Kwarck never seemed to tire of hearing any story, regardless of how mundane or banal. Roskin also enjoyed listening to her. He already knew much about ogre culture, but since he had felt a taste of the cold, he had a new
appreciation for the stories of shoveling snowdrifts or hunting moose.

  Once the fields were planted, Kwarck turned his attention to weeding the forest. Roskin and Vishghu were shown which grasses and flowers not to touch, and the ogre was given a large sickle to clear the tall grasses. Roskin was left with clearing weeds from the bases of trees, and much of that work required him to kneel at the trunk and pull by hand the unwanted plants from the ground. It was backbreaking labor for both, but while they did that, the hermit mixed and used a special fertilizer that would not only help the trees grow but also protect them from diseases and pests.

  When he wasn’t fertilizing the trees, Kwarck stayed busy cooking and cleaning for the four of them and helping Red break his addiction. The old man was capable of staying awake much of the day, and he could take short walks in the morning, but he still craved a taste and would lie in his room for hours and cry out for help. For a few days, Roskin feared that Red would either die from or give in to the pain, but by the time the forest was finished, the worst of Red’s cravings passed, and to Roskin, he seemed a different person.

  Once the fatigue and chills had passed, Red cleaned and groomed himself every morning. His tangled, filthy hair was cut shorter, and his beard was shaved, revealing a myriad of scars. He helped Kwarck cut and sew new clothes for him, and he kept them clean and neat, almost to the point of obsessive. While the others weeded and watered the fields in the daytime, he helped prepare food or cared for Roskin’s horse. He offered to do the same for the buffalo, but Vishghu refused. In the evenings, he would practice swordplay with Roskin, drilling the dwarf on proper technique and footwork.

  Once his strength was enough to allow it, he went to the fields with them and proved to be an excellent farmer. When Roskin asked where he had learned such skills, Red was at first peevish, snapping that the dwarf should mind his own labor, but Kwarck took the old man aside and spoke with him in private for nearly an hour. When they returned, Red apologized and explained that he had grown up a slave on an orc’s sugar plantation. He had worked in the fields from an hour before sunrise until several after sunset every day for many years, and the penalty for not being there on time was a beating from the overseer, a powerfully built orc who relished every opportunity to use his lash. Red had learned to farm from the other slaves, who were mostly Tredjards, Elves, and humans, because – in addition to the sugarcane for export – they had to grow all the food for the plantation. As the old man told his story, his scarred cheeks became streaked with tears, and he hung his head in shame. Roskin put an arm around Red’s waist.