Plenty of dwarves came to Fréden wanting to fight—fight men, goblins, trolls, other dwarves—but many of them didn’t have the aptitude for battle. With his advisers and counselors, Fréden had developed a system of ascertaining a dwarf’s strengths and weaknesses so they may better place them in a job that would suit their contribution to the new society, hidden away in El’Beth-Tordûn. Certainly, some dwarves became upset with Fréden’s assessment, but it wasn’t his fault. The testing had been created by the finest minds, and, as a dwarf argued that he or she wished to fight, Fréden would simply explain to them it was for the greater good.
He had only lost a few recruits due to the results of the test, and none since the last defector had openly opposed the outcome. He began shouting at Fréden, and he met a quick demise under the spear of Belvengar, testimony to his inability as a warrior. Since Belvengar’s example had been set, whether a dwarf was placed with the builders, engineers, agriculturalists, or cooks, they didn’t complain.
These new recruits marched to the warrior proving grounds. It was one of the old training grounds of the fortress at El’Beth-Tordûn and, even though Fréden Fréwin could have cared less about the physical tests Kizmit and Belvengar put new recruits through, his general insisted he come so he might learn what made a qualified soldier, and to show his new followers that he cared. He did care; he just didn’t care about fighting or a dwarf’s prowess in battle. It was a necessary evil, but the truly intelligent and worthy dwarves were better off spending their time learning policy and procedure, and politics and history.
These two dozen dwarves entered the proving grounds, a dilapidated arena that once contained racks of weapons and armor and training dummies.
“I know it doesn’t look like much,” Belvengar said, “but as soon as we have the time and resources, we will repair the proving grounds.”
“We have more important things to spend our limited resources on, Long Spear,” Fréden said.
“Yes, my lord,” Belvengar said with a quick bow.
“This should be a priority,” Kizmit said, “if we want to truly assess our new recruits, and if we want to properly train them.”
General Kizmit was always so combative. He thought the military was the most important aspect of their new kingdom, but Fréden knew otherwise.
“I would think the ability to train our recruits rests with the trainer,” Fréden retorted.
Kizmit looked at Fréden evenly, but he said nothing. The insult hadn’t fallen on deaf ears, but, for as combative as Kizmit was, always seeking more resources and more bodies for their growing military, he was loyal.
“Get on with it,” Fréden said. “I have matters of the state I need to get back to.”
Both Belvengar and Kizmit bowed; the rest of the recruits simply stood at attention and readied themselves for the ensuing physical test. As he waited, Fréden couldn’t help but think this new Mungrun gave him a quick, smirking look.
The first phase of the testing was a simple test of endurance—a run that started and ended in the proving grounds. Two of the recruits failed that one. Then, a test of strength, lifting boulders and pushing weight carts and carrying loaded wheelbarrows and baskets; after that one, Kizmit disqualified five more dwarves from military service. The third assessment, one Fréden had thought pointless and silly, but Kizmit insisted upon, was a mental test of knowledge, history, and arithmetic.
“They need to be able to throw a spear and swing an axe,” Fréden had said.
“We need thinking warriors, my lord,” Kizmit had replied in protest.
Fréden figured he would give his general this little victory, perhaps appeasing him and making him less likely to fight him on other army policies. Kizmit was a military genius, but Fréden was lord and knew what was best for his people as a whole.
Only a dozen dwarves were left after the mental assessment, and Fréden selected two of those to work for the engineers since their scores were so high, leaving ten. Knowledge of martial weapons eliminated two more, and hand-to-hand combat eliminated yet another two. Mungrun was one of the last six that stood before him that day. Kizmit looked over at them and shook his head.
“My lord,” Kizmit said, and Fréden already knew what he was going to say, “two dozen came to fight, and we now have a quarter that number.”
“But they aren’t soldiers,” Fréden said.
“I can make them soldiers,” Kizmit replied, “Belvengar and I.”
“We are not having this conversation again, General,” Fréden said. “We need men to rebuild and cook and take care of our crops.”
“And soldiers can do that, my lord,” Kizmit said. “It is the way we have always done things. Everyone is trained to fight.”
“Enough!” Fréden shouted, causing the remaining potential soldiers in his army to stare. “We are creating a new world and, therefore, doing things a new way. I will hear no more of it. Now, continue.”
Kizmit bowed quickly.
“My lord.”
The final test was actual combat. Fréden thought there was something special about this Mungrun, and he had always heard of the battle prowess of the northerners, and the dwarf did not disappoint. It seemed that only one of the other dwarves gave the warrior any sort of challenge, and that was hardly.
“Have I pleased you, my lord?” Mungrun said.
“We’ll see,” Fréden replied. He rubbed his chin, eyeing Belvengar. “Long Spear … fight this dwarf. I want to see what he can really do.”
“My lord,” Kizmit said. Fréden could see the apprehension in his general’s eyes.
“No arguing,” Fréden said, putting up a hand. “Just do it.”
Belvengar bowed and crouched into a fighting stance, his namesake spear held in both hands. Mungrun chose a sword that was broad-bladed but short and a round shield. Kizmit was, of course, afraid Belvengar would hurt this new recruit who had so much potential, but Fréden wasn’t so sure.
The fight lasted far longer than either Fréden or the general thought it would, ending with Belvengar finally besting Mungrun by disarming him with an elbow to the nose and then the butt of his spear to the dwarf’s wrist. Fréden wiped sweat from his brow.
“That was exhausting, was it not?” Fréden said, slapping Kizmit on the shoulder and smiling, almost like a child. “And exciting.”
Belvengar helped the other dwarf up and shook his hand, but Fréden couldn’t help but notice two things. Firstly, he noticed the scowl on Mungrun’s face as he accepted Long Spear’s help. He was a fighter and a competitor; that was good, and he didn’t like losing, so he would be a valuable asset. The second thing Fréden noticed was the look Belvengar gave Mungrun when the northern dwarf wasn’t looking. It wasn’t the same look of derision the northern dwarf had given. It was a look that consisted of scrunched eyebrows and questioning eyes as if there was something off about the dwarf. But, then again, Belvengar was also a competitor and a great warrior. He was probably just irritated it took him so long to defeat this recruit.
“You are from the north?” Belvengar asked.
Mungrun just nodded.
“Where?” Belvengar prodded.
“Near Ghrâg,” Mungrun replied, wiping blood and snot from his nose with the back of his hand. It left a smear across his cheek that looked like war paint.
“Were you a soldier in the northern armies?” Belvengar asked.
“Please, Long Spear,” Fréden said, “must we continue with the hundred questions?”
“It is all right, my lord,” Mungrun said. “My last post was at Stangar.”
“That is a large outpost,” Kizmit said.
“Are there others there that might heed our call?” Fréden asked.
Mungrun thought for a moment.
“Possibly,” he finally said, and Belvengar gave the dwarf another questioning look.
“Welcome to El Beth-Tordûn and Düum Wastûk,” Fréden said with a smile—his name for his resistance movement—before Kizmit had led the six r
ecruits away.”
“My lord,” Belvengar said then.
“What is it?” Fréden asked, wanting to get back to more important matters of state.
“Beware of that new recruit,” Belvengar said, “the one from the north.”
“Are you irritated that he gave you such a hard time in battle?” Fréden said with a laugh.
“He is well trained, surely,” Belvengar said, “but that is not why you should keep an eye on him.”
“Then why, Long Spear?” Fréden asked.
“There’s just something off about him,” Belvengar said.
Fréden gave another short laugh and patted Belvengar on the shoulder.
“You worry about our soldiers and our spies, Long Spear,” Fréden said, trying not to be too condescending, “and let me worry about reading our new recruits and their intentions.”
Belvengar bowed.
21
Erik was in an air pocket where debris was mixed with the snow, but he could see only white, and did not know how much of it was above him; his air wouldn’t last long. One arm was trapped beneath him, and he pushed his other hand through the snow, scooping it to one side, and tried to leverage himself up with his legs. His body moved only a bit, and he began to push snow away again. His nose and cheeks were numb, but eventually, he broke through and looked up, seeing nothing but falling snow. He wiggled his other arm free, and eventually, he freed his torso, which made completely escaping his snowy tomb all that much easier.
Erik found Turk easily enough. He was curled up under the broken trunk of a pine tree.
“Are you all right?” Erik asked.
Turk nodded, sitting up. His face was bruised and scratched, and, as he stood, Erik could tell he was sore, but he looked relatively unscathed.
“Have you seen Bryon?” Erik asked.
Turk shook his head.
“I lost Nafer as well,” Turk said. “I tried to hold on to him, but …”
Turk’s gaze trailed off, down the steady slope of the forest. Erik followed his gaze and bore witness to the destructive force of fast-moving snow. Many of the trees were broken in half or uprooted, and amidst the snowy remains of trees and boulders, he saw animals—large elks, deer, a bear, and a cougar—frozen and dead.
“We have to go searching for them,” Erik said. His heart quickened as he thought of his cousin out there, buried under who knew how much snow.
In his condition, Bryon wouldn’t last long. If the cold and poison didn’t kill him, he would be easy prey for some scavenging predator, picking through the remains and looking for an easy meal. And Nafer was in the same situation.
“Just give me a moment,” Turk said. He put his hands on his knees and breathed long and hard.
“You are hurt,” Erik said.
“I am afraid so,” Turk said, trying to stand up straight. I think I’ve cracked some ribs and twisted an ankle.”
“You stay here then,” Erik said. “I have to go and look for Bryon.”
Erik turned to leave.
“And the dwarves,” Turk said.
“Yes, of course,” Erik said, looking at the dwarf over his shoulder, “and the dwarves.”
Erik found Bofim right away. The dwarf was lodged up against a large boulder and part of a tree. He was unconscious with the same scrapes and bruises on his face that Turk had borne. His mustache and beard were matted with blood, and one cheek looked swollen, but when Erik shook his shoulder, he slowly came to.
“Turk is back that way,” Erik said as Bofim rubbed his face and winced when he touched his cheek.
“Where are you going?” Bofim asked. “What about the others?”
“I am going to go look for them,” Erik replied.
“I’ll go with you,” Bofim said.
“No,” Erik said with the quick shake of his head. “You’re hurt, and so is Turk, and I am not. You’ll just slow me down, and I need to find Bryon … and Nafer and Beldar.”
Bofim nodded. Erik helped him to his feet and sent him in Turk’s direction while he continued his search for any signs of his cousin … and the dwarves. Erik felt bad for not thinking of the dwarves at the same time as Bryon. They were like brothers, closer than brothers, but the thought of losing both his brother and his cousin …
Erik searched the whole day, zigzagging back and forth, looking for signs of his cousin and the dwarves—clothing, weapons, body parts, anything. He saw dozens of animals, all broken and shattered against trees and rocks, but no sign of his friends. As the day waned, Erik thought of going back to Turk and Bofim, but then how long would it take him to reach this place, so he found a felled tree, dug some of the snow out from underneath it, pulled his bearskin tight, and did his best to sleep. It seemed that as soon as he closed his eyes, he opened them, but it was the morning. The night had passed without any dreams, and the snow had stopped.
“Thank the Creator for that,” Erik muttered as he stood and brushed snow off him.
Erik had barely walked a hundred paces when the snow under his boots moved. He jumped to the side, retrieving Ilken’s Blade from its sheath. The snow moved again, undulating as if it were a bubble trying to burst. He sheathed his sword and began to dig. At first, he saw the links of a mail shirt. Then, the toe of a boot and the tip of a sword scabbard.
“Bryon!” Erik shouted, his heart beating ever faster, and his digging quickening.
Within moments, Erik uncovered a beard and a bald upper lip. The nostrils above the upper lip moved and sucked in air jealously. He pushed the snow away from Nafer’s face, and the dwarf, hurt and sick and half-conscious, stared up at him with a smile.
Erik’s heart sank. He cursed himself for it, but he thought Nafer was his cousin. He helped the dwarf emerge from the snow, sitting him up and then finding a tree to lean him against.
“How do you feel?” Erik asked.
“Broken,” Nafer replied, his words slurred and slow.
“Your arm doesn’t look good,” Erik said.
His sling was gone and, even as Nafer cradled it, it undulated in spots it wasn’t supposed to. His shoulder hung oddly as well, and Erik knew it was dislocated. And with the way Nafer was breathing, he certainly had broken ribs as well.
“I am going to set your shoulder,” Erik said. “It is dislocated, but it’s cold, and I am sure it’s numb so you won’t feel it … at least for now.”
“Wait,” Nafer said. “Have you ever set a shoulder before?”
Erik paused a moment.
“No, but I’ve seen it done,” Erik said.
“We should wait for Turk,” Nafer said, putting up his right hand. “He has set hundreds of shoulders.”
“He’s a day’s walk from here and in no condition to heal anyone but himself,” Erik said, grabbing the dwarf’s arm.
“Wait, wait,” the dwarf said, but Erik tugged on the arm hard, and it slid into place with a quick clicking sound.
“See, right as rain,” Erik said with a smile.
Nafer leaned his head back and passed out.
“Stay here,” Erik said to the unconscious Nafer. “I am going to go find Bryon and Beldar, and then I’ll be back to get you.”
Erik didn’t go far when he came across another giant elk, its huge head exposed from its snowy tomb, its antlers spread out large and wide. A fallen tree lay next to the beast, its branches broken and scattered about in large piles. Much of the snow had melted away under the fallen branches, and icicles hung from both branch and antlers. He stepped over the elk’s head, and his foot broke through a small web of branches covering a shallow indentation in the ground. He felt his boot hit something hard and he heard a low groan. He retrieved his foot quickly, found solid ground to get his balance, and hurriedly put his face to the small hole. He found Bryon there, buried underneath dirt, wood, and half-melted snow, lying on his back with a large piece of tree trunk across his chest and both legs stuck underneath the dead buck.
“Bryon!” Erik yelled once more, starting to pull away the smal
ler branches he could easily break with one hand. A low groan was the only response he got.
Erik bent down to pull larger branches away with both hands. Once the hole Bryon laid in was clear of wood, he began to lift the piece of tree trunk off his cousin’s chest. It was heavy, and as Erik stepped on both sides of Bryon and bent to lift it, he felt pangs of sharp pain shoot down his hamstrings and up his spine. It wouldn’t move.
He stared at Bryon, stared at the tree trunk with perplexity written on his face. Bryon moaned again, tried to move but never opened his eyes. Erik figured he really wasn’t conscious. He was, rather, in some dream, or moving simply out of instinct.
“I have to get you out of here,” Erik said and looked again at the scene. An alternative idea came to mind.
He sat down, his bent legs against the log and his back against the elk’s chest. He took in a huge breath and pushed, his vision growing red as blood rushed through bulging arteries on his neck, and he was sure his face turned the same color. The log moved slightly, and Erik yelled, trying to give himself extra power. He pushed again, and it moved a little more. Another yell. A little more.
You’re going to kill me, cousin.
Eventually, Bryon was free of the tree, but still trapped, his legs stuck under the dead, frozen elk. He moved so that he was behind Bryon, standing halfway up the small bank of the ditch Bryon rested in. He set his torch down and scooped his arms under his cousin’s shoulders, counted to three, and pulled. Immediately Bryon came to as if cold water had been splashed across his face – or pain shot through his whole body – and gave out a sudden, blood-curdling scream that caused Erik to jump.
“Bryon,” Erik said, tapping his cousin’s chest with an open palm, “it’s me, Erik. I’m here.”
Bryon winced, caught Erik’s hand, and gave him a one-eyed look.
“Yes, I see that, but stop ... stop pulling me. It feels like ... like my ribs are broken.”
His voice was strained and labored. He had to catch his breath after only a few words, and it seemed he used all of his energy just to simply open one eye and look at his cousin.
Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1 Page 16