The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (4 page)

The rest of the day was a pleasant walk, and he covered several miles of the valley, passing small farms that dotted the quiet landscape. To the east Mount Rorgrume rose into the thin clouds, and to the west Mount Lokholme towered even higher, but the road south stayed mostly flat and smooth, heading for Mount Khendar. Roskin found himself singing out loud as he soaked up the sunshine and watched insects dart in and out of the tall grasses. Having lived underground where he hadn’t needed to see more than half a mile, he couldn’t focus well on distant objects, but the world within a hundred yards was sharp and crisp, and he tried to absorb as much as he could.

That night he watched the moon and stars, hypnotized by the closeness and depth of the shimmering lights. In one moment they appeared close enough to touch, and in the next they seemed ages away, all without visibly moving. Nothing from the underground had prepared him for the open sky at night, and Roskin wondered why his people remained hidden in the darkness. Watching the sky, he didn’t want to sleep, but his body was sore and exhausted, and the struggle didn’t last long.

For three days, he continued through the valley, but by midday of the fourth the flat terrain gave way to broken, rocky land as he began back up the mountains. When he reached the Khendar Fork that led to either Kehldeon or Sturdeon, he turned east towards the conquered lands. According to the map, he could reach the border in a week, and then he would only need to find the town where Evil Blade sat in exile, which by what he had learned from the ogre was along the Yuejdeon River, well before Sturdeon. As he walked the ground grew rockier, the incline became steeper, and snow reappeared, until his legs burned and his breath came in short gulps from the hike. When evening finally arrived, he was halfway up Mount Khendar, 6,000 feet above the valley.

Khendar Pass was only 2,000 feet higher, so Roskin walked well into the darkness, wanting to cross over before making camp. Since leaving the old merchant at Mount Gagneesh, he had not seen another person, only distant farmhouses on the valley floor, and he had no idea how far he was from a town or village. The dark fear that stayed on the edge of his thoughts nagged and irritated him. He wanted rid of the gloom, wanted his thoughts to be clear and bright on this adventure, but the hint of danger would not leave, not even in this solitary place, so he trudged on in the darkness. By midnight he reached the pass and made camp on the eastern side.

The next day he descended Khendar and started up Mount Roustdohn, feeling the last remnants of soreness from the fight leave him. The swelling around his eyes was gone, and he had barely used the ointment. His legs and back felt strong, so he climbed all day, reaching 3,000 feet by early afternoon but not making 4,000 until late evening because the slope turned severe. He stopped early and ate a big supper, then woke the next morning and continued up. He crossed the pass of Roustdohn late that day and camped 8,000 feet up. He continued this way for seven more days, climbing and descending and creeping closer to the border.

On the eighth day the road split north and south, which wasn’t on his map, and Roskin was unsure of the way. He knew enough of mountains to be sure that the wrong direction could cost him weeks, so he sat on a rock and stared at the map and horizon, trying to decipher some clue. After a few minutes, he decided to walk each trail for a mile to find a stream that would lead to the Yuejdeon, so he started south. After a short distance, that trail split again, this time into three directions. He returned to the first split and went north, but that trail tapered off into wilderness well before a stream was within earshot. He turned back south and decided to take the most easterly path, but after descending deep into a ravine, that trail disappeared. By this point his frustration was boiling over, and as he climbed out of the ravine, he cursed the paths and kicked stones down the slopes. When he reached the top, he realized that birds had stopped singing and a deep silence descended as the dark fear flared suddenly, turning into terror.

He whipped around in time to see an orc step from behind a boulder. The creature’s skin was charcoal gray and cracked like sun-blistered earth, and its sharp teeth glittered in the daylight. It approached Roskin slowly, tossing its club from one hand to the other. The young dwarf remembered his military drills and realized that this orc was merely the decoy because there was no tactical advantage to brandishing its weapon in that manner. Roskin spun back in time to punch the second orc in the stomach, knocking it to its knees. The dwarf scurried up a small rise, fumbling for his hand axe and stumbling in the loose earth. He found solid footing and faced the orcs, who were joined by a third. They hissed to each other in their own language and spread out, following him up the rise. A taste like copper filled Roskin’s mouth, and his legs turned to stone. The black terror enveloped him, almost overwhelming his senses, and in that moment, he realized that he might die.

“Back you beasts,” he called, waving his axe clumsily, as if he had never trained with it.

“Now, boy,” the middle orc who had been tossing his club returned in the common language. “No need to be nasty. Come down nicely, and we’ll be gentle about this.”

“I don’t want to use this,” Roskin said, extending the axe even more. The orc to his right slipped on the gravel and slid back a few feet.

“He’s right. You’ll be a good one,” the middle orc hissed.

The orc to Roskin’s left pulled out a net and readied it to toss. The dwarf knew his time was short, and terror gripped him like cold steel, but he was a Kiredurk. They might kill him and grind his bones for supper, but he would at least make them earn it. With that thought, he hurled the axe at the orc with the net, striking it firmly in the shoulder. The orc fell down, squealing in pain and writhing in the dust. Then, Roskin charged the middle one. The creature hesitated from surprise, and Roskin knocked it off balance and down the rise. He then pulled his dagger and crouched as the one that had slipped approached cautiously, hissing to the others. When the orc was within reach, he lunged forward with the dagger, and the blade struck the thick hide, resisting at first but sinking quickly into the creature’s belly. Nausea passed through the dwarf as he twisted the blade, which caused the orc to shriek in a high-pitched wail. The creature struck Roskin in the ear with a club and stumbled backwards, dark blood oozing from its wound. The dwarf watched, frozen in place, as life faded from the orc’s eyes.

The dark terror forced him to wheel around, and he saw the middle orc charging up the rise. He crouched again and felt blood dripping from his ear onto his neck and shoulder.

“Now you die, Tredjard,” the orc said.

Roskin held his ground as the orc raised its club to strike. He had practiced this move a thousand times, a simple block and counter, but his arms and legs were feeble from fear, and the blood from his ear tickled his neck. The orc’s arm started forward, and sunlight glittered off the polished handle. As he had rehearsed so many times, Roskin stepped towards the orc and blocked the blow. A sharp pain jolted through his arm from the impact. Without thinking, he thrust the dagger into the orc’s chest. It twitched sharply as the blade pierced its heart. Another wave of nausea washed through Roskin as the orc grunted, and the young dwarf stumbled backwards and landed on his backside. His breath came in ragged gulps, and his arm and ear throbbed with pain. He could hear the third orc groaning as it tried to pull the axe from its shoulder, but Roskin’s legs and arms were too weak to move, so he sat in the dust and gravel trying to catch his breath.

The orc began squealing wildly, and Roskin turned to see Torkdohn tear the hand axe from the orc’s wound. The old dwarf swung more deftly than his age suggested possible, and the orc lay silent, its legs twitching in the dust. Then, Torkdohn moved to Roskin.

“Others will be coming, mark my words.”

“They ambushed me. I had no choice.”

“Hush and get to my wagon. We must get going.”

The old dwarf led Roskin to the rickety wagon that was loaded with barrels. The two climbed up, and Torkdohn snapped the reins, which caused the horse to lurch forward. They took the central path that wound south for several hundred yards along the side of Mount Keshgheon, then turned back east and snaked down the mountain. The dwarves didn’t talk until they were a safe distance from the skirmish.

“You were very lucky, young one,” Torkdohn said.

“They were going to eat me.”

“Nonsense. Those orcs were trying to capture you.”

“Why?”

“How does a Tredjard not know why?”

“I’m a Kiredurk, sir.”

“Curious. A dark bearded Kiredurk. I thought you looked awfully pale.”

“What were they going to do with me?”

Torkdohn explained that the orcs of the southern lands were slave traders who mostly dealt in dwarves. The Great Empire allowed them to wander the conquered lands and capture any dwarf not engaged in imperial business. The orcs had created the misleading paths to trap unsuspecting travelers, and many a Ghaldeon youth had been taken captive where Roskin was attacked. Torkdohn also explained that he was heading to Sturdeon from the Kiredurk kingdom with a load of grains and wheat. He had heard the commotion and knew what was happening. Normally he wouldn’t have stopped because as a merchant he was safe unless he interfered, but when he saw Roskin, the one who had been so nice on Mount Gagneesh, the old dwarf couldn’t help himself.

“Now, you’ll be hunted.”

“But they attacked me,” Roskin said, feeling the damage to his ear.

“You’re a dwarf, on the edge of an empire that hates dwarves.”

“What should I do?” His ear throbbed terribly.

“This business you are on, how important is it?”

“To me, very.”

“Then continue forward. It will be a few days before news reaches a town, so no one is looking for you there. I will take you to the Yuejdeon.”

“Do you know the one they call Evil Blade?”

The old dwarf stared at Roskin without speaking, a look that caused the young dwarf to shiver. “Yes,” he finally said.

“Which town does he live in?”

“Your business is your own, but that man is the lowest scum. Whatever the business, he’s not worth finding, mark my words.”

Without thinking, Roskin began telling the story of the Brotherhood of Dwarves and his plan to reclaim it. He hadn’t shared the tale with anyone, and the words poured freely. Torkdohn listened intently, only nodding or grunting occasionally. When Roskin finished, the old dwarf gave a deep sigh.

“That’s some idea. Let me tell you about that monster you think will help you.”

Forty years before, Torkdohn and his father had a trade route from the ogre city of Grefdoughn to Sturdeon, a lucrative and usually safe trip in those days until the Great Empire declared war on the ogre clans. Evil Blade, whose real name was Crushaw, was then only a foot soldier, but on the battlefield he was fearless and highly skilled. He stood seven feet tall and had the strength of three normal men, the ogres would say. He led every charge into the lines of ogres, who themselves could grow up to nine and ten feet, and he could be heard laughing as he hacked and sliced his foes to pieces. On a trip to Grefdoughn, Torkdohn and his father were pinned in a hollow by a battle, and the dwarf had climbed a tree to watch what he could. He saw the ogres braced in trenches and armed with pikes and clubs, waiting for the army to advance. Across the field, the ranks of human soldiers seemed endless, but even from that distance and in that crowd, Torkdohn could make out Crushaw, who had hair like fire that hung to his waist.

When the army charged, Crushaw was first to meet the line, sidestepping pikes and dodging clubs with the grace of a dancer, and his blade was merciless as he pushed into the line. Torkdohn counted fifteen kills in the first charge and twelve more in the second, which broke the ogres’ lines. The ogres fled in terror, and the human army scoured the battlefield. The dwarf watched, horrified but unable to look away, as Crushaw found wounded ogres and butchered them where they lay, even those who begged for mercy or surrendered. Torkdohn lost count of how many he killed that way.

“I’ve never seen such savagery, not even from orcs and Tredjards.”

“But he is old, now.”

“You think that matters? Evil like that has no age.”

“Will this ointment work on my ear?” Roskin asked, not wanting to argue.

“Let me see. No, this salve is better,” he said, producing a small oilskin pouch from his cloak. “That’s a nasty wound.”

Torkdohn kept one hand on the reins and spread the salve on Roskin’s ear with the other. Roskin wanted to yelp from the pain, but he gritted his teeth and gripped the side of the wagon, trying not to appear weak. The salve burned as it coated the wound, but as the burning faded, the ear and scalp became numb.

“Back there. Those orcs,” Roskin said, stopping short.

“Go on.”

“That’s the first time. I never killed anything before.”

“The first is the hardest, mark my words.”

The wagon kept moving down the trail, and as they neared the river, Roskin cleaned his hand axe and dagger, both of which were still bloody. First, he used water and a rag to get the crusty blood off the metal; then after making sure the weapons were completely dry, he sharpened each blade with his whetstone. Finally, he oiled, polished, and returned the dagger to its sheath and the axe to his backpack. When he finished, the river was becoming a whisper in their ears, and Torkdohn pulled the wagon into a clearing behind a mound of boulders, announcing that he would not be able to take Roskin any further. They unhitched the horse, letting it graze in the weeds, and Torkdohn explained how to get to Murkdolm as they shared a supper of dried meats in the twilight.