The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (25 page)

A tall and slender elf entered the kitchen and greeted Roskin with the courtesy of a diplomat. He asked the dwarf to follow him, and Roskin agreed, glad to be distracted from his thoughts. The elf led him through the house and out the front door, where the sun had completely risen and glowed orange. On the manicured lawn, the freed slaves had camped, and smoldering fires dotted the yard. Near the center, he saw the horse he had taken from Murkdolm and Vishghu’s buffalo tethered to an orcish wagon. Crushaw sat in the wagon’s bed with his damaged ankle dressed by a crude splint. Even though the sun had barely broken the horizon, the old man was already calling out directions to the freed slaves around him, and with each instruction he gave, a group of three or four would hurry away to complete the task. For a moment, Roskin could imagine Crushaw at the helm of the Northern Army, barking orders before battle.

“Young master!” Crushaw called. “Come sit with me.”

Grimacing from the tightness across his back, Roskin climbed into the wagon and shook hands with his friend. Then, he sat beside him – careful not to lean back – and looked at the crowd of dwarves, elves, and humans, many of whom he recognized from the gathering around the post.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to you yesterday,” Crushaw said, pointing to his leg.

“I wasn’t much company, anyway.”

“You look thin, young master. I wish we’d made it sooner.”

Roskin shrugged. His eyes filled with moisture.

“We had to finish the harvest. Then, the wilds slowed us some.”

“How’s your leg?” Roskin asked.

“Fine. It’s nothing. I have something for you.”

From the pack beside him, Crushaw pulled out the two throwing axes he had stolen in Koshlonsen. He handed them to Roskin, and the dwarf marveled at the craftsmanship of the weapons. He couldn’t help but feel unworthy of their splendor. While he studied them, another group of freed slaves came to Crushaw for guidance. The old man gave them several tasks to perform, and they scurried away.

“We’ve gotta get moving, soon,” Crushaw said, scanning the horizon as if expecting to see an army.

“What can I do?” Roskin asked, tucking the axes into his belt.

“Find Molgheon and Vishghu and bring them here. They can organize units to carry the wounded.”

Roskin gingerly climbed down and went back inside to find Vishghu. She was still asleep on the parlor floor and grunted her disapproval as Roskin shook her awake. After a few moments, she rose from the floor and stretched, her knuckles scraping the high ceiling as she did. Roskin asked if she knew where to find Molgheon, and without a word, the ogre turned and left the parlor. Roskin followed her up a flight of stairs and into a massive bedroom with an elegantly crafted canopy bed that had silk sheets and feather pillows. In the middle, Molgheon slept alone.

“She said she had always dreamt of such luxury,” Vishghu whispered.

Roskin called out to the sleeping dwarf, knowing that from her military training she might attack at even the slightest touch. She sat up quickly, drawing her knife and fixing her eyes on the intruders.

“Crushaw needs us,” Roskin said, unfazed.

“You look rough,” Molgheon returned, sheathing her knife.

“He looks better than yesterday,” Vishghu said, chuckling.

“That must’ve been a sight.”

Molgheon climbed from bed and gathered her bow, the fresh quiver of arrows she had taken from the barracks, and her pack. Roskin led them to the kitchen, where a group of Tredjards were preparing breakfast for the entire plantation, even the orcs. They explained to the three that they had all been cooks in the infantry and that they had all been dreaming about getting to prepare another meal during their bondage.

“Cooking a meal is an act of love,” one of them said. “We’ve been without love for too long.”

“So true. So true,” another agreed.

The others laughed and teased the two. Molgheon and Vishghu each took slices of fresh sausage and thanked the cooks. Then, they followed Roskin out to Crushaw, eating as they walked. At the wagon, the general had gathered together a large congregation, and once the three had joined him, he divided the crowd into three units. Each unit was given a different task. Roskin’s group was to gather wood for building stretchers to carry the wounded. Vishghu’s was to get the wounded outside and ready to travel, including helping to build the stretchers, and Molgheon’s was to bury the dead.

The groups worked all day, stopping only for a short meal, and by evening most of the labor was complete. Crushaw was pleased with their progress and informed the camp that they would be leaving by noon the next day. At this news, a long cheer erupted. Standing in the crowd and hearing the cheer, Roskin realized that he hadn’t thought of the Brotherhood for some time and that its grip on him had mostly vanished, and he was glad. Then, in almost the same moment, he also realized that he was ready to return to Dorkhun and see his family. While he didn’t feel quite ready to take his place on the council, he was done with glory, and as he thought about it, his guilt subsided. Even if he hadn’t been part of the battle, he was part of helping these people back to freedom, and that was more gratifying than any dream of glory had ever been.

That evening, Molgheon came to Roskin before he fell asleep and gave him his sword. She had meant to give it to him all that day, but they had both been too busy with their tasks. Roskin stared at the blade, the enormity of his emotions overcoming him, and he fought against the tears that pooled in his eyes.

“Forgive me for all this,” Roskin said, looking down at her boots.

“Grussard was my friend, poor thing,” Molgheon replied. “But he knew the risk when he sold this to you.”

“I never meant for him to die or you to lose your home.”

“That wasn’t my home, just a place to grow old and die.”

“I was foolish.”

“Yes, you were, but you’ve paid for it. I saw you on that post. It’s a hard sight to see a fellow dwarf beat up like that.”

“They broke me with the lash.”

“When Carloghone died, I was broken, too.”

“Will I ever beat this?”

Molgheon shrugged and looked away, her eyes distant.

“Is Bordorn well? Has he healed?”

“I don’t know. I followed the slave trader just after you left. As far as I know, he’s still there.”

“Once we get these people to safety, I’m going to take him home. He doesn’t belong among those outcasts.”

Molgheon sat beside him on the soft grass and leaned back on her elbows. She stared at the stars for several minutes without speaking, which made Roskin uncomfortable. He wanted to break the awkward silence, but her expression was so serene that he didn’t want to disturb whatever pleasant emotion had overcome her.

“Between battles, Carloghone used to talk about what he wanted to do when the war was over,” she said, still looking at the stars. “He wanted to rebuild every town and village that we saw, and he sometimes talked about going south to help the Tredjards against the orcs. I thought he was a fool. All I wanted was to survive the war and have a family when it was over. You reminded me of him just now with your talk of helping others. Strange how things turned out.”

“At least we all survived this war,” Roskin offered.

“That was just a battle. The orcs will chase us to Kehldeon if they have to. Then, we’ll see how many of us have survived.”

With that, she stood and bade Roskin a good night. All around him, campfires danced and sparked against night, and the sounds of laughter and long-stifled conversations blended into a soothing symphony. He was shaken by the thought of being chased by these orcs, but he would gladly fight them when the opportunity came. He held up his sword and looked at it in the faint light. Its handle felt right in his palm, and he was glad to feel it again – the curve of the guard against his right hand, the slight give of the leather when he squeezed the pommel, the perfect balance from tip to tang. While the ancient throwing axes were crafted from better metal and were a superior grade of weapon, the sword somehow fit him better. He traced his left index finger along one of the fullers and whispered thanks to Grussard for forging it so well.

D.A. Adams Bio-presented by Christopher Rico

D. A. Adams is a novelist, a farmer, an instructor of English, and in my estimation, a true gentleman. His breakout fantasy series,
The Brotherhood of Dwarves
, transcends genre and illuminates the human soul in all its flashes of glory and innumerable failings. His ability as a storyteller breathes life into every character, and his craftsmanship as a writer makes these stories about relationships; human or otherwise.

He is active on the Con circuit and has contributed writing to literary as well as fine art publications, and maintains his active blog,
The Ramblings of DA Adams
. He lives and works in East Tennessee, and is the very proud father of two sons, Collin and Finn.

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