Red Sky at Dawn (10 page)

In his own kingdom, a town of this size would only have at most two tailors, blacksmiths, bakers, and butchers, each offering basically the same products of the same quality, but this town had several of each one. The individual tailors offered different styles and grades of clothing. Likewise, the different bakers provided different styles of bread and pastries. Every other business was like that, as well, and Roskin stopped into a cobbler’s shop to buy a new pair of boots, if he could afford them with what he had left.

Inside the shop, the smell of leather and polish was pungent, but otherwise the place was clean and well-organized. The front of the store had several racks of various boots and shoes, and for a moment, Roskin was overwhelmed with so much choice. He hadn’t been in the shop for more than a few heartbeats when a Marshwogg appeared from the back and offered to assist him. Roskin marveled that so many of them spoke the common language. He explained that he needed a good pair of boots that could withstand extremely long marches but also offer good footing in battle.

The Marshwogg measured the dwarf’s foot and went to the back to retrieve a couple of different styles. He returned with a pair in each hand and motioned for Roskin to sit. The dwarf obeyed, and the Marshwogg removed the tattered, blood-stained leather strips he had been wearing for two months. The first pair of boots were uncomfortable, but the second wrapped around his foot and ankle like a warm pillow. He stood and tested them, and not only were they comfortable, they gripped the wooden floor and provided excellent footing, as well.

“How much?” he asked, holding out his coins.

“I’m afraid you’ll need about five more of those.”

Roskin stared ahead, his mouth agape. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t afford to purchase something he wanted, and the feeling was maddening. He began to remove the boots, but the Marshwogg stopped him.

“Let me make you this offer,” he said. “I have some materials around back that need to be hauled to the end of this street. I’ll pay you the five coins if you’ll do that labor for me.”

Remembering how much he had enjoyed working on Kwarck’s farm, Roskin agreed to the deal and followed the Marshwogg out back. Scraps of leather and other materials were stacked in a dozen barrels, and the cobbler directed Roskin to empty them into the bins on the back of a large wagon at the end of the street but not to throw away the barrels. Roskin went to work, hoisting each barrel in a bear-hug and muscling it to the bins. Within an hour, his clothes were soaked with sweat, but the job was finished, so he returned to the cobbler to make sure they were settled.

“Fine work,” the cobbler said, patting the dwarf on the back. “I’m glad we could make the trade.”

“Me, too,” Roskin replied. “I’m just curious, though. What will the owner think of it? Won’t this mess up tax collection?”

“Well, I’m one of the owners, and since the others didn’t want to haul all that scrap themselves, I’m sure they won’t mind.”

“There’s more than one owner? Do all of you work in the shop like common laborers?”

“Of course!” the Marshwogg gasped as if Roskin had said something bizarre. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“In my culture, there’s the ruling class who govern, the management class who own and oversee businesses, and the working class who perform the manual labor.”

The Marshwogg stared in disbelief.

“Why does that seem so strange?” Roskin said. “That’s what I’ve seen pretty much everywhere else I’ve been, too.”

“These ruling and management classes, what do they do for income?” the Marshwogg asked, still staring.

“They make sure things run properly.”

“But how do they know to run things if they don’t work?”

“That is their work. Some people are good at labor, while others are good at organizing.”

The Marshwogg described for Roskin how all businesses within the republic were owned and managed by the people who worked in that business. Wages were determined by the quality and quantity of work performed in making a product or providing a service, so each person within the business had an incentive to grow, improve, and progress the venture. In order to have leadership and vision, most businesses would elect their most talented individuals as managers to guide the others. As long as the manager performed well, that person would stay in charge until a change was needed. Of course, some businesses failed because of poor leadership, ineffective labor, or bad craftsmanship, but the consumers within a community determined that by choosing whether or not to do business there.

“As far as taxes, we’ll pay our 10% just as if you had paid the full amount.”

“The business pays 10%, so how much of your income do you then have to pay, as well?”

“I don’t.”

“Come on!” Roskin exclaimed. “You can’t just pay 10%.”

“Why? How does it work in your kingdom?”

“Each business pays 15 to 25%, based on sales, and then each laborer pays the same from their wages.”

“So you tax both the transaction and the worker? How does anybody own anything in your kingdom?”

“Well, the king maintains all the mines and cities and passages. Then, there are the schools and the military, and of course the granaries.”

“That sounds painfully inefficient.”

“My kingdom is very efficient,” Roskin almost shouted, his temper flaring. “We work hard to keep it as lean as possible. We are a very successful nation.”

“I meant no disrespect. We have our way that works for us, and you have your way.”

Roskin took a deep breath and let his temper dissipate. He didn’t want to argue with someone who had been so friendly. Besides, despite his uneasiness, he was intrigued by the way these strange people operated. He had grown up studying the economic history and evolution of his kingdom, and he could see some advantages to this system. His kingdom hindered competition and innovation and, as such, could not evolve beyond its current form without major changes. From this epiphany, he wanted more than ever to return home and share what he had learned with his father.

“Thank you for the boots,” he said. “I’m grateful for your kindness.”

“You’re welcome, my friend. I’m grateful for your assistance. I hate emptying the barrels.”

“When I see my friends, I’ll send them here for their own boots. I’m sure they’ll need them.”

“Thank you. Come back and visit me anytime. My partners will be here later, too. We expect a lot of business, so we’re all going to work the next few days.”

Roskin said goodbye and returned to the street. After marching for so long in the crude strips of leather, he had almost forgotten how good it felt to walk in comfortable boots. The more he moved in them, the better they fit his feet. His personal cobbler, who had fitted him for footwear his entire life and made what Roskin had thought were good shoes and boots, had never made anything as exquisite as this pair.

As he walked around, he saw that the first of the freed slaves were entering town, so he moved towards them to find his friends and show them around. As he walked among the dwarves and elves, he quickly realized that the only ones in town were the wounded and elderly. He was bothered that - other than a few who carried the seriously wounded, including Vishghu - none of the healthy were in town, so he headed back towards the guard tower to find out why. As he walked, a flood of terrible thoughts went through his head, and he feared that something unspeakable had happened to them. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt that he had been suckered into some trap, and his friends were paying the price for his clumsiness. By the time he reached the tower, the magistrate was already long gone, and the new guard offered little on the situation. The fear morphing into anger, Roskin got directions for finding the magistrate and stormed back to town.

He found the house easily, and it was the same as most of the others he had seen, modest and pragmatic, warm and inviting. He pounded on the door and waited for a response. After a couple of minutes, he could hear someone stirring inside, so he knocked again, in case they hadn’t heard him. In a few heartbeats, the magistrate opened the door, smiling at the Kiredurk.

“Where are my friends?” Roskin asked, a hint of threat in his voice.

“They’re all over town,” Rewokog returned, the smile fading from his thin face. “I led them here myself.”

“There’s only the ones needing medicine. Where are the others?”

“Son of Kraganere, watch your tone on my doorstep.”

On the street, a handful of passersby gathered to watch the scene.

“Just tell me where my friends are. Why are they not in town?”

“I have only shown you respect and courtesy, young dwarf. Don’t insult me at my home.”

Roskin turned and stepped off the magistrate’s porch, trying to calm his temper. The gathering crowd murmured to each other about what was going on, but Roskin ignored them. He only wanted to know where Crushaw and others had gone if not into town. They were tired and hungry and, because of his selfishness, had been left in the mountains longer than was necessary. He couldn’t fathom why they weren’t with the wounded and elderly, and his fear and anger had clogged his judgment.

Suddenly, a group of Marshwoggs surrounded him, and one spoke with the magistrate. Roskin was trapped and considered overpowering one of them and running for the mountains, but he thought better of that. The magistrate and leader continued to croak at each other, and when they finished, the leader turned back to the officers and motioned for them to move aside. Roskin was left facing the magistrate with an even larger crowd watching the episode.

“By our laws,” Rewokog said. “I could send you to jail for creating this disturbance, but I admire your passion for your friends.”

Roskin bowed his head in humble thanks.

“Hopefully, this news will ease your mind. Your leader chose to keep the healthy ones outside of town to keep from overwhelming our resources while the wounded are tended to. To my knowledge, they are safe and should be receiving food as we speak.”

“Please, forgive me,” Roskin returned, looking the magistrate in the eyes. The fear had subsided, and he suddenly felt ridiculous. “You’ve treated me as a friend, and I’ve returned it with suspicion and foolishness.”

“I accept. Let’s forget this.”

Roskin extended his hand, and the magistrate shook it firmly. The crowd, satisfied that the scene was resolved, continued on their ways, but the peace officers lingered a while longer to make sure their magistrate was safe. Motioning with his long arms, Rewokog croaked at them, and they moved further down the street. Then, the magistrate asked the dwarf to enter his home to continue their conversation from the tower, and Roskin accepted, glad to have met such a kind, forgiving person. After supper, they talked late into the night, explaining their customs and laws to each other, and before Roskin left, Rewokog gave him a book that illustrated in detail how Marshwogg laws and economics work. It had been Rewokog’s textbook as a boy, and Roskin cradled the gift in his arm, hopeful that once he returned home he would have the time to study it.

Traveling Home

Molgheon sat by a campfire, her belly full of crawfish. She and the others had been camped outside of town for a week, and each night she had eaten her fill of the most amazing food she had ever tasted. For most of her life, she had survived off of what game she could catch in the wild and had rarely had access to spices or herbs. Most of her meals had been bland acts of necessity, and as she savored the last bite of this one, she realized just how much comfort and joy she had missed.

The elves healthy enough to travel were leaving the next morning. They would head north along the mountains until they reached a western pass that led to Lake Vassa. From there, they would make their way - either on the lake or by foot - to the Koorleine Forest. The trip would take them nearly two months and was extremely dangerous, since most of the territory was controlled by the Great Empire. There were barely 300 of them able to travel, so they wouldn’t be able to fight any kind of a pitched battle. On the other hand, it would be difficult to move that many secretly, and if they were caught, they would face either a return to bondage or execution. Still, they were ready to be among their kin, and since they had fulfilled their oaths to Crushaw, none could rightfully stop them.

Roskin had decided to travel with them, for in his words, there was trouble in his kingdom that needed his attention. He explained that something had happened to his father, something terrible, and that a great peril threatened his people. Molgheon wasn’t sure how he knew this, but after looking in his eyes, she knew that at least he believed it to be so. He would follow the elves to the forest and turn northwest back to Kwarck’s. From there, he would cut west, stopping among the outcasts to retrieve his friend, Bordorn, and then continuing to the eastern gate.

Since the trip from the forest to the gate would consume two more months, Molgheon had decided to travel with him. She was also ready to be among her kin, and even though the Marshwoggs were kind, generous people, she longed for the shadows of the western mountains and the murmur of the Yuejdeon River. These lands, though fertile and temperate, were still foreign, and the truth be known, she feared Roskin traveling that far alone.

To her right, Crushaw lay stretched out on his back, staring at the stars. He was also full of crawfish, and in the flickering light of the campfire, he looked as calm and content as Molgheon had seen him. He wouldn’t be traveling with them, for Vishghu was still too seriously wounded to move. Even though she was getting better, she needed a couple more weeks to allow the deep lacerations to heal, and Crushaw intended to fulfill his promise of returning with her to Kwarck’s farm and serving his banishment.

“I’m grateful for all you’ve done,” he said to Molgheon. “I haven’t told you before, but we wouldn’t have made it without you.”

“It was nothing,” she said. “Just good to be more than a barkeep to drunk Ghaldeons.”

“You’re a good soldier.”

“You, too,” she said, wanting to tell him to forget what had happened before, but the memories that made her despise touch were too painful. She couldn’t say anything more.

“Take care of Roskin,” Crushaw continued. “Make sure he gets home. He’ll be a good king some day.”

“Maybe,” she returned. “I had my doubts at first, poor thing.”

As her words faded, Leinjar appeared by the campfire and asked to join them. Molgheon motioned for him to sit and offered the last of her crawfish. He accepted and gobbled them down quickly. All the leisure slaves ate that way, and Molgheon, who had known starvation herself, understood the impetus to scarf food. For many years after the War of Resistance had ended, she had eaten all of her meals in less than a minute for fear that someone hungrier and stronger might snatch them away.

“We’ve been talking about it,” Leinjar said after he had swallowed the last bite. “And we want to go with you and the tall one.”

By “we” Molgheon knew he meant himself and the last two remaining leisure slaves from the Slithsythe. All three were Tredjards who had spent nearly as much of their lives in bondage as free.

“What we had before the cage is gone forever, and we owe you and the tall one our lives. We want to serve as your guards, if you’ll have us.”

“Who says I need a guard?” Molgheon asked.

“I do, for one,” Crushaw said. “It’s none of my business, but that would ease my mind. There’s a lot of ground from the forest to Kwarck’s. Five can watch each other much better than two.”

“What are you talking about?” Roskin asked, sitting beside Crushaw.

“The Tredjards want to go with us,” Molgheon said. “They don’t think we can make it on our own.”

“That’s not what I said,” Leinjar returned, shaking his head. “We respect your skills, but...”

“Leinjar, I’m just teasing you,” Molgheon said, laughing out loud and slapping him on the shoulder.

The others stared in disbelief. None could remember her laughing like that before.

“It’s fine by me,” she said, composing herself. “What do you think, Roskin, we need guarding?”

“Has she been in the indulgent side of town all day?” Roskin asked Crushaw.

This time, they all laughed.

“Seriously,” Leinjar said. “Will you have us as your guards?”

“I already said yes,” Molgheon responded. “Ask the Kiredurk.”

“Well,” Roskin said. “If you’re asking if you want to serve me as a guard, then my answer is no.”

“Why?” Leinjar asked, raising his arms and shrugging.

“Because as Red already told you, you’ve earned your freedom. You serve no one. If you want to travel with me as my friend and my equal, then I’d be honored.”

“Well put,” Crushaw said.

Leinjar reached out and shook hands with the Kiredurk. They stared at each other for a moment in silence, but Molgheon recognized the look and knew that it, though unspoken, was allegiance as powerful as any oath. From their shared experiences, each dwarf would protect the other to the death.

“Then, it’s settled,” Molgheon said, ending the moment. “The four of us will escort Roskin back to his kingdom.”

***

Much as Suvene had done a few days before, Toulesche staggered along the worn path to the fortress. He couldn’t remove the arrow from his shoulder, and the skin around the wound was already beginning to blacken with rot. He knew enough about wounds to know that he might lose his arm, but he suspected that it could be worse. Still, his sense of duty drove him back to the fortress to report what had happened, in case no one else had made it, and to accept whatever punishment for his failure.

After he had fallen in the river, he had floated downstream for almost a mile before stopping in a sandy shoal. He had dragged himself out of the water with his good arm and had lain motionless for nearly a full day. The entire time he had expected to die, if not from the wound then from a hungry animal, but when it hadn’t happened by noon the next day, he had struggled to his feet and started for the fortress.

Now, seeing its stone walls and iron gate before him, he was ashamed of what had happened during the battle. Too many of their troops had panicked from the archers, and as a sergeant, he felt as if he hadn’t fulfilled his duty preparing the orcs for battle. Even though his platoon had performed well, he was also involved in drilling other soldiers, so in his mind, he was as responsible for the debacle as the arrogant general who had decided not to encircle the slaves before attacking.

A small detail emerged from the fortress and met him with a stretcher. He collapsed on it, and they carried him inside to the infirmary where dozens and dozens of orcs lay in various states of injury or dismemberment. Once Toulesche was on a cot, an orc healer examined him and called for his instruments. He gave the sergeant a drink of dark liquid, and within a few heartbeats, the pain in his shoulder vanished. Then, the healer ordered several others to hold him down.

Toulesche was aware of their hands pressing down on him, but the sensation was like the heaviness of a leg that has fallen asleep. Then, he felt the healer pull on the arrow, and he could feel the pressure of his shoulder rising from the cot with the tugging on the arrow, but there was no pain. It took several tries for the healer to remove it, and when it finally dislodged from the bone, the release of pressure was like having a bad tooth removed. Then, the healer gave him another drink of a different liquid, and this time, within a few heartbeats, Toulesche faded into unconsciousness.

***

Roskin woke well before dawn, another dream of his father and the kingdom haunting him. He packed his things and ate a breakfast of dried meat, not wanting to wake anyone with a fire. The dreams and the dark fear each grew more and more intense, the images palpable and visceral. He could almost smell their fear. The torment of being so far away frustrated him to the verge of madness, and part of him wished that he had never left home. At least then, he could protect his father, his people, his kingdom.

As he sat alone in the darkness of pre-dawn, he saw Crushaw rise from his sleeping place and stretch. Not wanting to be by himself anymore and needing to say a proper farewell to his friend, Roskin stood and walked to where the old man was preparing to strike a campfire. As Roskin approached, Crushaw looked up and smiled.

“Good morning, young master,” he said, knocking sparks against dry leaves.

“Morning, Red.”

“What has you stirring so early?” Crushaw asked, laying twigs and more leaves above the small flame.

“Nothing.”

“That so?” Crushaw returned.

Roskin sat beside the growing fire and watched the flames dance and flicker. Crushaw took a skillet from his pack and placed it on the iron grill above the fire. Then, he took out three eggs and two slices of salt-cured ham. When the skillet was hot, he laid the ham in it, and when there was a little grease popping and sizzling against the iron, he cracked open the eggs. In silence, Roskin watched him cook. As soon as the food was ready, Crushaw removed the skillet from the flame and scraped the ham and eggs onto his plate. He offered to share, but the dwarf shook his head and muttered a polite refusal.

“It’s a long road home,” Crushaw said between bites.

“Too long.”

“Molgheon and the Tredjards will get you there.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to track down that traitor Torkdohn and punish him for what he did?”

“I hadn’t thought about it?”

Chewing a piece of ham, Crushaw stared at him.

“I just want to get Bordorn and go home. That’s where I belong.”

Crushaw nodded his understanding.

“Red, I know I said it before, but I need to say it again: thank you for getting me out of there.”

“Young master, thank you for getting me out of Murkdolm.”

“That was different. I helped you because I wanted that statue from Black Rock.”

“The why is insignificant,” Crushaw said. “I owed you my life, so I repaid the debt. It’s that simple.”

“I’ll visit you at Kwarck’s as often as I can.”

“I know you will. I think I’ll enjoy living with that wizard. I can learn a little about protecting life before I die. That’ll be a good change.”

“You have a good heart, Red.”

“No, young master, my heart isn’t kind. I have a sense of loyalty and justice, but don’t confuse that with goodness.”

Roskin nodded and fell silent, not wanting to argue the point. All around them, elves were beginning to stir, and they would be on the road home within an hour or so. Even though he was ready to travel, he wanted to enjoy the company of his friend, for he knew it would be many months, possibly years, before they would see each other again.

***

When the news of Toulesche’s return reached him, Suvene leapt from his seat and sprinted to the infirmary. He had been certain that his friend had perished, for none from that platoon had returned, and many fragmented reports of their encounter with the phantom were passing around what was left of the eastern army. As he burst into the room, he saw his childhood sparring partner face down on a cheap cot. Toulesche’s skin was pale and splotched with swollen, purple veins, and despite being wrapped in a fresh bandage, the black rot of his shoulder was a grim harbinger. The most startling image for Suvene was the vacant space where Toulesche’s left arm should have been.

He knelt beside the cot and spoke his friend’s name. Toulesche opened his eyes, smiled weakly, and muttered something unintelligible before falling back asleep. Then, Suvene found a chair and sat beside the cot. He sat there for two straight days, not eating and barely drinking, and whenever anyone suggested that he should take a break, he responded with an iron stare. At the end of the second day, Toulesche regained consciousness and shouted a command at his platoon.

“You’re safe,” Suvene said, holding his friend’s right hand.

“Take the flank!” Toulesche yelled. “Overrun the phantom!”

“It’s okay,” Suvene said. “You’re safe, now.”

“Where are we?”

“In the fortress,” Suvene choked.

“Watch the archers.”

“He’s got a fever from the infection,” the healer said, feeling Toulesche’s forehead. “He’s delirious.”

“Will he come out of this?”

The healer stared at the floor and shrugged his shoulders.

“Its eyes are so cold. Be on guard!”

“Can you give him anything?”

“I’ve done all I can. It’s out of our control, now.”

“Suvene, you were right,” Toulesche said, looking at his friend with wide eyes. “It’s not natural.”

“Rest, Toulesche. You need your strength.”

“Take the other flank! Take the other flank! You hear me?”

“I will. Now, rest.”

Toulesche closed his eyes and fell back asleep. Suvene sat with him for three more days, and from time to time the sergeant would awaken and make a similar rant. Each time, he warned Suvene about the phantom, and with each warning, Suvene’s resolve grew stronger. On the fourth morning – seven days after he had returned – Toulesche spiked an even higher fever. The purple veins all over his body turned midnight blue, and green puss oozed from the rotting wound. Suvene rose from his seat and called for help, but before the healer could make it, Toulesche began thrashing on the cot, flailing with his right arm and kicking with his legs. When the seizure ended, his body went limp, and he was gone.