by D. A. Adams
“It’s okay,” Roskin said. “You’re okay.”
“That is what drove me.” He turned to Vishghu, who pretended to ignore him. “The more I killed the more I hated.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t…” Roskin began.
“Let him speak,” Kwarck interrupted the dwarf.
“I can’t change it. I can’t make it right, I know.”
Vishghu didn’t look up from the row she was hoeing.
“When I saw myself that day with death upon me, I thought that stopping would make me better, but the orcs stayed in my head, and the ogres haunted my heart. I thought that saying Crushaw was dead and calling myself another name would make me better, but the memories wouldn’t go as easily as the lies would come.”
“What do you want from me?” Vishghu bellowed, standing erect and drawing back her hoe like a weapon.
Roskin started to jump between them, but Kwarck grabbed his tunic.
“Kill me if you need to,” Red said, holding her gaze.
“You aren’t worth the energy,” she returned and then spat at his feet. She tossed down the hoe and stormed away towards the open lands beyond the fields. Red turned and slunk towards the house, his shoulders bent and his chin against his chest. Roskin wanted to follow and console him, but Kwarck placed a hand on his shoulder and told him to let them both have privacy. Words would only add fuel, he said. Just as rain was the best police, time and silence were the best conciliation. Roskin nodded and went back to his row.
For the next few weeks, Red stayed to himself, eating his meals in his room, tending a separate field, and not drilling with the swords. Roskin, who burned for the Brotherhood, wanted to ask him about Black Rock, but any time the dwarf tried to approach him, he was stopped by a gentle reprimand from Kwarck. The hermit insisted that Red remain alone until he wanted to return to the others. While Roskin neither understood nor agreed, he obeyed out of respect, but with each day, his need for the statuary grew and tortured him more.
***
Spring blended into summer, and on the plains, the heat would reach nearly a hundred every day. Roskin had never spent a summer day in the lowlands, and the heat was as foreign to him as the forests and meadows had been. Most days he had to work early in the morning and late in the evening, but between the heat and pests, the fields required constant attention, and the dwarf had grown tired of watering, weeding, and picking bugs. He had enjoyed the labor at first because it was different from sitting through lectures or reading, but as each day passed, the work became more and more tedious. Despite the adoration he felt for the hermit, he began to resent the work.
One night, as he sat outside to enjoy the cool air and to sharpen his sword, he was joined by Red for the first time in over two months. They sat in the noises of night for a long time without speaking. Roskin’s mind searched for a way to bring up Black Rock or the Brotherhood, but he remembered the old man’s reaction at Molgheon’s tavern, so every idea seemed ridiculous. Finally, Red’s voice, which had grown stronger and clearer since being at Kwarck’s, resounded in the darkness:
“I owe you my life, for the bridge and the ogres and getting me here, getting me out of my nightmare.”
“I’m glad you’re getting better.”
“I will never be better, but each day I feel stronger, more alive.”
“That’s good.”
“Why did you? Why were you looking for the general…for me?”
“Curiosity, I guess.”
Red didn’t say anything, but Roskin felt stupid for the lie. Now was the best time, maybe the only time, when he could ask about the fortress, but he simply couldn’t get the words to start.
“In Murkdolm,” Red said. “The dwarves took me in when my own left me to die. You dwarves have good hearts.”
“We were once bound together, the three races of dwarves, but time has weakened it.”
“I know little history. All I know is military history, battles and tactics.”
“Have you heard of a relic called the Brotherhood of Dwarves?” Roskin asked, bracing for the answer.
“No.”
“It was a platinum statue,” the dwarf continued, holding up his hands to show the size. His courage grew. “It symbolized the unity of our nations.”
“Art and beauty and such, right?”
“Something like that. It was stolen from Sturdeon after the conquest.”
“Sounds like spoils not theft.”
“What?” Roskin asked, distracted from his point.
“Once Sturdeon was conquered, it belonged to the Great Empire. You can’t steal from yourself.”
“Whatever.”
“That’s how war works, young master.”
“Anyway, I want to find it and take it back to my people.”
“You want to steal it.”
“It belongs with the dwarves.” The dwarf’s temper rose, and he tried to fight it.
“It’s okay if you want to steal it. Just call it what it is.”
“Okay, Red. I’m going to steal it from Black Rock.”
Red stared at him, his eyes wild and his jaw clenched.
“That’s why I was looking for you. I want you to help me.”
“That place,” Red said coldly. “Is not for dwarves.”
“I’ll sneak in and out. They’ll never even see me.”
“Those soldiers from Murkdolm were sloppy idiots. The ones at Black Rock fight ogres. You have skills, young master, but they would kill you without remorse.”
“Do you have knowledge that could help him?” Kwarck asked from behind, causing the two to start.
“I know every stone, but that’s not the point,” Red said, after he had composed himself.
“Did this dwarf save your life as you told me?”
“Yes, but Black Rock is a fool’s destination.”
“I can do this,” Roskin said. “I can sneak in and out.”
“Crushaw, the dwarf will go to Black Rock with or without your knowledge. His will is set on it. You owe him at least the safest way inside.”
Red sat quiet for several moments. The crickets continued to sing, and a cow occasionally gave a low moo in the distance. Kwarck turned and went back inside, and Roskin, while waiting for an answer, resumed sharpening his sword.
“There’s an entrance few of us know about. It’s for getting important people in and out unnoticed.”
“Is it guarded?”
“Of course, but only by a couple. I’ll draw you a map and show you how to find the treasure room, but I don’t know of this statue. It may or may not be there.”
Inside, Red drew him detailed floor-plans of the secret entrance and the lower levels of the fortress. Roskin listened intently to every description and warning and went to bed with his mind swimming with imaginations of the fortress. The next morning he packed his equipment before breakfast and hitched the wagon after. Vishghu bade farewell in the barn and helped him fix the bridle. Kwarck gave him enough food to get him to Black Rock and back, and the dwarf agreed to return and assist with the harvest. By the time he returned, several crops would be ready, and they would need his help if other travelers didn’t come around. Red walked with him to the end of the eastern fields with Vishghu keeping an eye on them. While she had grown to respect and even like the dwarf, she believed the human would flee at the first chance. The old man joked about that as he opened the gate for the horse and wagon. Roskin shook his hand and promised to return within a month. With that, he snapped the reins and started across the plains.
***
It took him two full weeks to reach the fortress, and if he could have seen it clearly, his mouth would have dropped open from surprise. In his life, all of the masonry he had seen was dwarven, which meant it was functional but ornate, simple but flawless, and while some of the structures in his kingdom were large by dwarf standards, none could rival the fortress. It was built on the highest hill of the region, and the blocks were entirely black gabbro polished to a gloss. The maso
nry was sturdy but unrefined with ragged lines and imperfect blocks. The outer wall rose thirty feet from the ground and formed an equilateral hexagon. Each edge ran for a hundred and fifty feet, and there were towers at every corner. The main entrance faced north, and the gate was made from thick bars of steel. A trench had been dug around the perimeter and was filled with cheval-de-frise. The barracks and archery range barely rose above the outer wall, but the main castle stood nearly a hundred feet above it with spires, turrets, and towers covering all six directions. The shingles were painted deep forest green, and each month a team of soldiers repainted them to keep the fortress sharp. To be elected to the paint team was a great honor, for the danger was immense, and each year at least two soldiers fell to their deaths.
Since all he could see was an immense black blob, Roskin stopped the wagon in a dale over a mile from the wall and unhitched the horse. He thought about letting it graze freely but decided that it might wander too close and be spotted, so he tethered it to a scrub bush and gathered his things. All he needed were his dagger, the maps, and a sack for the statue, so he covered the rest in the wagon and crept along the dale to the creek that Red had described. It led to a grove of trees behind the southern walls, and the dwarf stayed in the bed until he reached the trees. As Red had said, in the middle of the grove there was a trap door in the ground, disguised by a stump that lifted away.
After removing the false stump, he heaved the stone block from its place, using its rusted handle and grunting from the immense weight. According to Red, the two guards would be stationed at the other end of the tunnel inside the fortress, so the dwarf climbed down the ladder and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He was surprised by how long it took to see well enough to move safely, and his vision wasn’t as sharp as he remembered from home, but he still moved towards the guards’ position.
As the dwarf crept forward, the dark fear began to rise, and he tried to resist it, but images of torture and death filled his head, flashing rapidly and clearly. He staggered backwards, but the fear kept rising and filled him. His breath came in short gulps, and nausea washed over him, causing him to gag audibly. He rushed back to the entrance and climbed up the ladder, but the fear didn’t lessen as he stumbled back to the creek. Instead it grew, and a new image formed in his mind, one of a wagon that seemed familiar.
The net was on him before he could react, and he was tangled before he could draw the dagger. Hands grabbed him and shoved him down, knocking the wind from his lungs, and in a flurry of motion and chaos, ropes bound his ankles and pinned his arms to his sides. He was flipped on his back and saw several human soldiers around him, each with hatred in their eyes but smirks on their faces, and the dwarf was sure his life was almost over.
One soldier grabbed his legs and another took his shoulders, and the two lifted him like a sack of flour. They carried him towards the fortress but stopped well before the main gate and tossed him in the back of a covered wagon, the one from his vision. He had seen it before but couldn’t place where. As he tried to remember, one of the soldiers spoke to the driver:
“You were right about the tunnel, old boy. Now, where’s our money?”
Roskin heard the coins clank and the human count them as they were handed over, and then he heard the driver climb down and walk towards the back. Roskin turned his head and saw Torkdohn come around the corner, and the young Kiredurk’s heart lifted at seeing his friend. The old merchant looked him over and told the soldiers that they had done well. Then, he reached through the net and took Roskin’s dagger from its sheath. The soldiers told the old dwarf to get going before their captain asked any questions, and Torkdohn climbed back in his seat and got the wagon moving. When the horse reached a steady trot, the merchant called back to his bound passenger:
“You’ve caused a lot of trouble, young one. I didn’t think they’d let you live, but enough silver can make anything happen.”
“Thank you. Can you let me loose soon? These ropes are cutting off my circulation.”
“When we reach the market,” Torkdohn returned. “Then, we’ll see what happens with those ropes.”
“But I can’t feel my fingers.”
“Too bad, young one. Maybe your new master will be kind.”
“New master? What? Stop joking and let me loose.”
“You better fetch as much as I figure or this whole year will be mighty lean, mark my words.”
Slowly, the realization sank in, and Roskin’s temper flared at his own naivety. The old merchant was one of the Ghaldeons that Grussard had warned against, but Roskin had been too slow to see it. Now, he was bound and headed for the slave block, and no one would know where to look for him. Red, Vishghu, and Kwarck would assume he had died at Black Rock, and his family would figure the Loorish forest had claimed him. He gritted his teeth and strained against the ropes, but they were much too secure for him to break. After several minutes, he was exhausted from the effort and gave up. He would have to plan an escape and outwit the old merchant, so he relaxed and tried to get comfortable as the wagon bounced and rumbled along the dirt road. As he settled in, he remembered his horse tied to the bush. It would either starve to death or get eaten by wild dogs, and Roskin pitied the poor animal as he jostled and shook with the bumps in the road.
Chapter 9
A Soldier Remembers
On good nights, Crushaw would dream about the childhood he had never had, dreams of being the son of nobility in a prosperous kingdom. His mother and father would read stories to him about dragons and sorcery as he went to bed, and he would get to sleep until noon. After waking, he would receive his breakfast, exotic fruits and rich meats, in the luxury of his bed. His mother’s hair would be pumpkin orange, like his, and his father would rule their lands with justice and mercy. On good nights, he could see their faces clearly.
But on bad nights, the dreams were of the morning horn calling slaves to the fields; the food troughs flowing with slop for them to eat like pigs; the sun beating down on sugar cane; the lash splitting flesh. On bad nights, he slept little and wanted to forget that he had never seen his mother’s face, had never heard her voice.
Since being at Kwarck’s, he had had mostly good nights. The wizard had explained about the herbs, how they soothed nerves and helped the body heal itself, and Crushaw was glad to have them. The shakes had almost killed him, and staying sober was harder than crossing the wilds on foot as he had done after escaping the plantation. Every morning he woke wanting a taste, and the feeling stayed with him all day. Most days it was like an afterthought just beneath the surface, but some days it crept into his arms and shoulders and burned. He didn’t want to know how bad it could be without the herb’s help.
Since Roskin had left, Crushaw and Vishghu still worked in different fields every day and took their meals in different rooms, but Kwarck was so focused on the coming harvest that he paid little attention to either one. Each morning and evening the wizard would spend time preparing stalls in his barn for the new crop. Crushaw had offered to help, but the wizard had refused because he believed only the master of a house should handle its ruined food. The custom was strange to the former slave, but the wizard was earnest in that belief, so Crushaw was left to himself.
Even without the dwarf, Crushaw practiced swordplay every evening, using the sword the horseman had dropped when Roskin had sliced his arm. The old man’s muscles had grown stronger, and he felt thirty years younger from the labor and exercise. Still, his legs were cumbersome and clumsy as he went through his footwork, and his feet were heavy like stone slabs, making him much slower than he had once been. Since he had no intentions of going back to war, the slowness didn’t bother him too badly, but Crushaw knew the fearsome days of his youth were long gone. Even those pitiful soldiers from Murkdolm could probably take him now.
He remembered being fierce, the looks in his enemies’ eyes as he swept into their lines. Many were so frozen by fear that they were beaten before his blade reached flesh. Others had the fire to k
ill him but not the skill, for he had been an almost perfect swordsman. Not only was he as fast and nimble as an elf and strong as an ogre, but his slicing and drawing techniques were flawless from the years of chopping sugarcane fourteen hours a day. And from the torment of his former masters, his heart was solid iron, forged for killing and numb to any fear of death.
The battles of his career were a blur, a collection of memories that bled together into one long war. He remembered his first kill clearly, and he remembered the tornado, but between those two images, he could not create a chronology. The first had happened when he was twenty-one, a green foot soldier in the ranks of veterans who pushed him to the front in a vicious battle. As he had reached the vanguard, an ogre had knocked him to the ground where he had lain in a stream of blood. The bodies and pieces of bodies around him were still warm, and he thought about staying there until the churning mass of warriors stopped, but Crushaw was not a coward. He struggled to his feet and thrust his sword into the side of an ogre who had just crushed the skull of some skinny boy no more than sixteen. The ogre staggered backwards, a look of disbelief and agony on its face, and Crushaw rushed forward to finish it off.
As he practiced swordplay in the evenings, he remembered fragments of battles, and sometimes as he made a particular slash or thrust, he could see a kill vividly, the muscle memory sparking an image in his mind. He had only felt alive on the battlefield, and while the battles were a jumble and the kills seemed almost one continuous fight, he clearly remembered the feeling of being in a fray. Usually, he could hear little, but his eyesight became sharper, and things seemed to move in slow motion. As a foot soldier at the front, his mind became quiet and still, and his focus was concentrated on the enemies before him, but as he moved up the ranks and more tactics were his to decide, he began to envision the whole battle. Even as he struck down a ten foot ogre and sidestepped another, he was constantly picturing the entire field. Most times his imaginings were accurate, and from this ability to read a battle, he rarely made a tactical mistake.
