The Fall of Dorkhun (14 page)

“You can leave a team here to bury your dead, and we will assist in any way necessary,” the king said, bowing slightly.

“We will send our best people to design and build a suitable monument.”

“Just let me know what materials you need.”

“This whole affair has been regrettable.”

“War always is,” the king said.

“True. We know war all too well.”

“My hope,” King Kraganere said. “Is that one day we can put this behind us and once again be allies.”

The ogre shrugged slightly, then turned and strode back to her lines, stopping for her club. The other one followed, and the two dwarves also retrieved their weapons. The king signaled to the elite unit to move from the wagons towards the gate. Then, he signaled to the generals to lead everyone underground. Roskin quickened his pace to catch the elite unit before it reached the gate, and when he caught them asked the sergeant if he could speak to Captain Roighwheil’s son for a moment. Gruffly, the sergeant agreed and called for the dwarf to hurry. The captain’s son stepped out of line and jogged towards the heir. His left cheek had a thick scar just above his beard, and he had a slight limp.

“Kanwheil, it’s been a long time,” Roskin said when his former sparring partner reached him.

“Yes it has, my lord.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Roskin returned, stepping from the other soldiers as they filed towards the entrance.

“Is everything okay,” Kanwheil asked, moving with him.

“Your father has gone to Dorkhun to check on something for me. I can’t tell you much more.”

“Is he in trouble?”

“No. He’s fine.”

“He’s worried about what happened before the war, that stuff with that little weasel.”

“All I can tell you is that he serves the kingdom, no matter what anyone else tells you. Please, remember that.”

“He’s a good soldier,” Kanwheil said, rubbing the scar on his cheek.

“So are you, my friend.”

“Can I speak freely, my lord?”

“Of course.”

“Just so you know,” Kanwheil said, lowering his voice and leaning in slightly. “There’s more than a few of the troops who blame you for this mess.”

“I count myself as one of them.”

“I just thought you should know that.”

“Better get back to your unit before that sergeant gets angry,” Roskin said, extending his hand.

“He stays that way,” Kanwheil answered, smiling somewhat. His grip was nearly as strong as his father’s.

The dwarf jogged back to his unit, which had assembled outside the gate and was waiting for the king and generals to pass before entering. Roskin also jogged to catch his father and walk with him. The War of the Eastern Gate was over, but Roskin knew that a lot of work remained to return the kingdom to peace, and though he had suspected that some may resent him, what Kanwheil had said weighed on him. It would take a great deal of time to rebuild his reputation and gain the respect of troops who had bled and lost their friends at his expense.

***

The shield forged for Bordorn fit around his left arm in two places – above his bicep near his deltoid and also just above his elbow. The shield extended from right above his shoulder to a foot below where his arm ended and was oblong in shape. In the middle, it was eighteen inches wide and tapered to six inches at both ends. The metal was dark gray and polished smooth on the outer side. The inner part was reinforced by three cross bars. In all, it weighed over thirty pounds, and before he had spent months working with the logging crew, he probably couldn’t have wielded it, but now, he carried it easily. His sword was very basic, a short blade merely a foot and half long with a fuller running the length of each side. Though not ornate, both the shield and sword were functional.

Krondious’s axe stood three feet tall, nearly to his chin, and each blade extended out a foot. The blades curved in a crescent and were sharp as razors. The metal was nearly black and hadn’t been polished, so it reflected very little light. The handle had been wrapped tightly with leather straps that offered an excellent grip. At the base of the handle, the tang was fashioned into a hammer head, offering not only a counter-weight but an additional weapon as well. The axe weighed under forty pounds, but with his massive arms, Krondious held it as easily as Roskin held his sword.

As the two dwarves handled their new weapons, Roskin settled his bill with the blacksmiths. He added an extra gold coin for each and thanked them for their speed. He was about to leave when they stopped him and said they had a gift. Krondious and Bordorn stopped playing with their weapons and came closer to see what it was. One of the blacksmiths produced a sword the same size as Bordorn’s, but a near perfect replica of Grussard’s blade. Other than the size, the other major difference was the color. The smiths had forged it with both the black and shiny metals together, and the sword was a marbled texture similar to Roskin’s beard.

“We wanted to make it striped,” one of the smiths explained. “But this was the best we could do.”

“This is awesome,” Roskin said, beaming at the beauty of the weapon.

“Nice,” Krondious said.

“That fits you,” Bordorn added.

“We wanted something to honor you. Your father gave us back our pride.”

“I am honored. I’m sure my father will appreciate it, too.”

“Here,” the other smith said. “Let me attach your scabbard.”

The blacksmith slid the leather strap through Roskin’s belt and fastened it to the lower hook on the scabbard, and Roskin reached around and sheathed the short sword.

“Look at you,” Bordorn said. “Who’d have thought the skinny little dwarf I used to boss around would one day carry two axes, two swords, and a dagger. Just so you know, I was only teasing you back then.”

“That so?” Roskin asked, smiling. “You seemed pretty sure of yourself.”

“Folly of youth,” Bordorn returned, and all five dwarves shared a good laugh.

“Well, like you said, once you learn how to use this shield, you’ll be bossing me around again in no time.”

“We’d better get moving,” Krondious said, hoisting his axe over his shoulder. “Your father has probably already started for Dorkhun.”

“Kronny’s right,” Bordorn said, sheathing his new sword in the scabbard one of the blacksmiths still held. The smith handed the sword and scabbard back, and Bordorn clutched it in his right hand.

“What’d you call me?” Krondious asked, stopping at the door but not turning.

“That’s my new name for you.”

“Get used to it,” Roskin said, slapping Krondious on the back. “He won’t call anyone by their real name.”

Again, the dwarves shared a laugh, and the three young warriors said good bye to the blacksmiths before heading for the road to Dorkhun. Bordorn and Krondious were still bickering about the new nickname as they turned onto the main road, but without warning, the dark fear washed through Roskin, and he saw again, even more vividly this time, the vision of the capital in ruins. Buildings lay in rubble, fires raged, and voices cried in agony. Roskin fell to his knees from the images, gasping for air.

“Pepper Beard!” Bordorn gasped, reaching for him.

Krondious squatted beside him and asked what was the matter. Roskin caught his breath and looked first at Bordorn and then at Krondious. The concern on their faces was as sincere as any he had ever seen, and he was grateful to have these two with him to face whatever terror waited for them in Dorkhun. He got to his feet and brushed the dust from his knees and palms.

“We have to hurry,” he said. “We have to catch up to my father.”

Chapter 9

Gathering Near the Valley

Leinjar woke early and relieved the Ghaldeon who had taken the last watch. The sleepy dwarf stretched out on the floor to get more rest before the day began. Moving quietly so as not to wake anyone, Leinjar prepared the stove for the breakfast fire. As he snapped small pieces of wood for kindling, his mind drifted to the life he had before slavery. At some point after his capture, he had forced himself to stop worrying about his family and had concocted an elaborate life for them in his mind. His wife had met someone fine and upstanding, who then gave his sons a good life. The boys had forgotten their father, for it would be easier to forget him than be reminded constantly that he was the one who had failed to protect the gate. While a leisure slave, he survived by convincing himself they were living a good life.

Now that he was free and back in the western mountains, he wondered if they really were happy, if their lives had been everything he had dreamed. In his heart, he knew more than likely his wife had been shunned because of his failure, and his children had probably been relegated to service in the lowest class of hard laborers. The guilt he carried for not defending his home was crushing. He couldn’t imagine returning there, to bring his shame to their doorstep. For all their sakes, it was best to deliver Torkdohn and Jase to Dorkhun and live out his days among the Kiredurks.

Once he had the stove ready, he rummaged through the food the Ghaldeons had brought from the wagon the previous night and found enough slices of cured meats to make everyone breakfast. The food had been Torkdohn’s and had been sufficient to get him, his crew, and his captive back into the conquered lands, but now with six extra mouths, the rations were running low. They needed wild game to get to the Kiredurk lands.

He looked around Bressard’s pantry and found little other than beans, cucumbers, and tomatoes, most of which had been canned in glass jars. The old dwarf had no meat, no spices, and nothing to make cheese. It reminded Leinjar of being in the cage and only having scraps from the lowly orcs. Rarely did the leisure slaves get more than half-rotten vegetables, and he sympathized with the old dwarf, who had grown too old to hunt and probably felt half-starved most of the time. Leinjar knew that feeling, the deep desperation of needing nourishment but not having the means to find it. That was no way to live and was not a just end for someone who had offered so much generosity to those in need. The previous night, before everyone had settled in, Molgheon had told stories about Bressard and what he had done for the soldiers of the Resistance. He deserved better.

By the lightening of the horizon along the eastern ridge, Leinjar figured there was roughly an hour before dawn. He stared at the silhouette of the mountain, fringed by an aura of purple, and soaked in the beauty. Before the ogre had smashed in the door to the cage, he had long given up on ever seeing the sun rise over the western mountains again, and now standing in this home and watching it, the enormity of what he had endured was clear. He had missed his children’s lives – someone else had seen them off for their first days in school; someone else had taught them to wield a pike; someone else had braided their beards for the first time. Those were a Tredjard father’s responsibilities, and all of that had been taken from him and from them. No matter who had done those things, no matter how patient he had been, no matter his social standing, he was not their daddy. Nothing could ever give that back.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, tears streamed down his cheeks and dampened his beard. He held on to the counter, trying to steady himself, but fell to his knees and sobbed against the worn wood. For the first time in his life, he didn’t try to stop it. He had been able to convince himself his children had been fine without him, but he hadn’t been fine without them, and he missed their faces, the wonder and light in their eyes, the innocent beauty of their laughter. In the cage and on the trip home, the threat of death had remained so palpable he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of grieving, but now, alone in this kitchen, he surrendered to it.

Some minutes later, a hand touched his shoulder and then stroked his tangled, matted hair. He lifted his face from the cabinet and saw Molgheon beside him. Her eyes also filled with tears, she sat beside him and continued to rub her fingertips across his temple. Usually, she avoided all physical contact, and for one of the most lethal warriors he had ever known, her touch was as tender as any mother’s.

“I won’t pretend to know your pain,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he responded, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his filthy tunic.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” she continued. “You’ve lost more than your share, but right now, you need to pick yourself up, pull yourself together, and not let the others see you like this.”

Leinjar nodded and wiped away his tears.

“You’re their leader,” she said. “They need your strength. It’s a tough road to make it through the valley and to the gate. They need you.”

“Guess a blubbering idiot doesn’t inspire much confidence, huh?”

“Not usually,” she chuckled.

“It just came over me.”

“I know.”

Leinjar grabbed hold of the counter and pulled himself to his feet. Molgheon rose and studied Bressard’s kitchen and pantry as Leinjar had earlier. Her face drooped in sadness, and she briefly described to Leinjar how it had looked most of the times she had been here. There had been canned vegetables, rows upon rows, but also cured meats, ripe cheeses, and baskets of nuts. The yard had always been groomed with a garden on the southern slope to catch the full day’s sun. The only exception was her last visit when his shelves were nearly bare and his meats sent with unit after unit of half-starved Ghaldeons. When Molgheon had arrived, Bressard barely had food remaining to get through winter, and still he had shared with her.