by D. A. Adams
The Loorish elves asked to speak with the leaders of this group, and Roskin, Molgheon, Leinjar, and the two elves who had led them across the plains were sent forward. Upon seeing the Tredjard and Ghaldeon, the wild elves became slightly agitated, and the tension between the two sides became palpable.
“These dwarves come no closer to our lands,” the leader of the wild elves said.
“They freed us from bondage,” one of the freed slaves returned. “We owe them gratitude.”
“No matter; dwarves can’t enter the forest.”
“What nonsense is this?” Molgheon asked. “We need supplies and rest before heading north.”
“It’s okay,” Roskin said, placing his hand on her elbow. She jerked her arm away and stared at the wild elves.
“Tell us what you need, and we will bring you supplies.”
“We fought as brothers to win freedom from the orcs,” Leinjar said. “I was friends with elves as a slave. Why am I not welcome?”
“You’re not an elf.”
Roskin had never been torn between being an elf and a dwarf before, and the sensation was sickening. On one side, he understood the elves’ mistrust of outsiders, for they had been betrayed by the Great Empire, their closest allies before Theodore the Daring attacked them. Since then, millions of elves had been killed in battle or from disease and starvation. These few thousand in this forest were all who were left to keep their kind alive, and much as Tredjards had little use for outsiders, the elves had become insular, suspicious, and paranoid.
On the other side, the dwarf in Roskin was insulted that his friends, who had shed their blood to free slaves of all races, were being treated so rudely. Without Molgheon’s leadership and skill on the Slithsythe, none of them would have escaped, and without Leinjar’s bravery and cunning at the Battle for Hard Hope, they might not have won the fight. They deserved better than this insult.
“Am I welcome?” he asked, the dwarf half getting the upper hand.
“Of course, your mother has been expecting you.”
At the mention of her, his anger subsided for a moment. Ever since the post, he had dreamed of seeing her again, and now, she was close at hand and waiting for him.
“Tell my mother this,” he said at last, the dwarf half retaking control. “Unless my friends can join me, I’m not welcome here either. Tell her that just as she had to leave me to help her kind, I have to stay with my friends. Make sure you tell her that.”
The wild elf huffed at the statement and turned his attention to the two freed elves, speaking in elfish for a few moments before gathering his sentries and returning to the forest. The two freed elves spoke to each other before turning to the dwarves.
“You should camp here and wait for us to bring back supplies. They won’t budge on this.”
“We don’t need their supplies,” Molgheon huffed. “You people have strange ways of showing gratitude.”
“We had nothing to do with this. We know how much we owe you. Please, Molgheon, listen.”
She didn’t respond, instead returning to her campsite and packing her equipment. Leinjar followed her lead, barking at the other Tredjards to get ready to march. Roskin, however, stayed there for a few moments longer, staring after the wild elves and thinking about his mother’s touch when he had needed her most. Even though he had to stay with his friends, his heart wanted nothing more than to see her face again. Before the emotions overtook him, he composed himself and looked at the two freed elves, who appeared confused and humiliated by what had just transpired.
“We part here,” Roskin said, extending his hand.
“We didn’t know this would happen,” one said, shaking the Kiredurk’s hand.
“Let it go,” Roskin returned.
“I was on the Slithsythe, as well,” the other said, also shaking Roskin’s hand. “I’ll make sure they know what she did for us.”
With that, Roskin bade them farewell and hurried to his campsite to gather his things. The other dwarves were already walking north, and he didn’t want to fall too far behind.
***
Vishghu, Crushaw, and the Ghaldeons stood on the rolling grasslands to the southern side of Kwarck’s home. Something was amiss, and Crushaw wouldn’t go forward until he knew what it was. Vishghu couldn’t see or hear anything unusual, and the house and surrounding buildings looked the same as when they had left. The fields also looked as they had the previous year, so the ogre wasn’t sure what made Crushaw think something was wrong.
“Vishghu,” he said. “Ride ahead and see what’s there. We’ll wait here until you say it’s safe.”
“Why me?”
“I think I smell ogres.”
“You think?”
“My nose isn’t what it used to be. It might just be the cows.”
“Funny.”
She mounted her buffalo and rode through the gate where she and Crushaw had fought nine months before. As she neared the house, she also smelled her kind and marveled that Crushaw had caught the scent from a half mile farther away. However, none of the ogres were visible, and she wondered where they were. Before she could spot them, Kwarck appeared from a barn with a wheelbarrow full of manure. As soon as he saw her, he set down the load and called out a cheerful greeting.
She rode closer and dismounted near him. After so many months, he appeared somehow smaller and frailer than before, but Vishghu couldn’t be sure if maybe she was just misremembering. Like Roskin, he was only half Loorish elf, but instead of dwarven, his other half was human. Before Theodore the Daring’s conquest, he would have been welcome among either side, but in these days, he was shunned by both.
“Welcome back,” he said, removing a dirty pair of gloves. “You must be hungry.”
“I’m fine,” she said, continuing to scan for the ogres.
“Are the others behind you?” Kwarck asked, moving closer to her.
“That depends. Is it safe here?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.
“My home is welcome to any who come in peace.”
“What about those who don’t?” she asked, looking him in the eyes.
“They stay off my lands,” he returned, holding her gaze. “I’ll clean up while you fetch the others.”
With that, he went inside the house and left her alone between it and the freshly planted fields. Her instincts warned of danger, and even though she trusted Kwarck, she was certain that some ambush awaited them. If Crushaw came near the house, her kin would attack him without question or warning, so instead of riding back to where he waited, she tethered the buffalo to a post and walked north to the orchard. As she entered the thick swatches of trees, she heard rustling to her right and looked in that direction.
The open row was empty, but she knew they were hiding somewhere near. She continued straight ahead around another thick cluster and circled back several yards from the rustling. When she stepped into the next clearing, she was suddenly behind a dozen ogres, all kneeling at the bases of different trees and pulling weeds from around the roots and trunks. None of them had heard her, so she ducked back into the trees and retraced her steps to the house.
Her anger rising from the slap of betrayal, she burst through the door and stomped into the kitchen, where Kwarck was putting on water to boil. For a moment, she stood still, her fists clenched and her eyes riveted on the old hermit. He returned the gaze, surprised at her outburst.
“We trusted you,” she said in a low grumble.
He continued to stare with the same look of shock.
“Did they bribe you? Threaten you?”
“I don’t follow,” he said at last.
“I saw them in the orchard. Were they going to ambush us in the day or night?”
“You’re mistaken. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said before turning and storming back out of the house.
Her hammer was strapped to the saddle on her buffalo, and while she wasn’t sure exactly what she was going to do, she w
anted to be armed for whatever was about to happen. From behind, Kwarck gave chase, calling for her to listen. By the time she reached her mount, he was beside her, talking rapidly:
“These ogres aren’t here about Crushaw. They’re expatriates seeking refuge.”
“Why would ogres need shelter in the south?”
“They’re opposed to the war.”
“That’s absurd. Why would they not defend against the Great Empire?”
“Not that war.”
Vishghu stared at him blankly, confused and befuddled. Kwarck explained about the war between the ogres and the Kiredurks that had been growing in scale for several months. When he finished, the shock was so great she had to sit down and catch her breath. Kwarck put an arm around her neck and whispered that it would be okay, but she barely heard him. Roskin had fulfilled his punishment by bringing Crushaw here to the hermit’s home, and even though she didn’t particularly like the matriarch’s ruling, everyone had more or less abided by it. Crushaw had left the farm, but she had accompanied him, so in effect he was still serving the sentence. Any way she looked at it, she could see no reason for her people to be at war with the Kiredurks, but one thing was clear – she and Roskin needed to return home and fix this before any more blood was shed.
***
Three days later, the group of dwarves reached Kwarck’s from the Koorleine Forest. Molgheon was still upset with the elves, but other than that, the trip had been an uneventful walk across the expansive prairie. When they reached the hermit’s farm, they were greeted by Vishghu, who gravely ushered them to the house. Inside, the mood was serious, and Roskin was afraid of whatever news awaited them. Before anyone spoke, however, Kwarck made sure each dwarf had food and water. When the hermit was satisfied that his guests were taken care of, Crushaw spoke:
“Your feelings were right, Roskin. Something awful has happened to your home, to the Kiredurks.”
“Just tell me what’s going on,” he responded. “This is wearing thin.”
Together, Crushaw, Kwarck, and Vishghu explained to them about the war. The other dwarves listened with mere curiosity, but as the story came into focus, Roskin began to feel ill, as if he had eaten something bad. Before they could finish all the details, he ran from the house to the fields, fell to his knees, and vomited. In a moment, Crushaw was beside him, offering a rag to clean his beard.
“What have I done?” Roskin asked, looking up at his friend.
“I’ve seen wars begin from less,” Crushaw said, sitting on the freshly turned dirt. “But whatever you think right now, I’ll guarantee there’s more to this than what you did.”
“I have to get home. I have to get Bordorn and get home.”
“I can’t go with you, young master. I’m too tired for another fight.”
“I understand,” Roskin said, seeing the age in his friend’s eyes. “But I have to get home.”
With that, he jumped to his feet and went back to the house. The other dwarves were eating their meal and discussing the news, but they fell silent when he entered the room. Without speaking, he gathered his pack and weapons from beneath the chair and then turned to Kwarck. The hermit had already prepared a small sack of dried meats and nuts, and before Roskin could say anything, he held out the sack.
“I wanted to spend some time with you,” Roskin said, stuffing the bag into his pack. “There’s so much I want to learn.”
“Perhaps, when this is over, you’ll come back.”
“I will,” he answered, starting for the door.
“Just a minute,” Leinjar said, standing from the table. The other Tredjards followed suit. “You’re not going anywhere without us. Are you coming, Molgheon?”
“This ain’t my fight,” she answered before taking a bite.
“It’s okay,” Roskin said to her. “You’ve already done more than anyone had a right to expect. My kingdom will always be grateful. I’ll always be grateful.”
“I’ll head north to the clans,” Vishghu interrupted. “Maybe, I can talk some sense into them.”
“I’ll do likewise,” Roskin returned, looking around.
“Let me finish this meal,” Molgheon said, not glancing up from her plate. “And I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to,” Roskin said, turning back to her.
“I know that,” she said, cutting a piece of meat. “I’m a dwarf of the Resistance. I don’t have to do anything except take my last breath.”
Kwarck excused himself from the room and went outside. Roskin and the Tredjards strapped on their packs and weapons while Molgheon finished her meal. They were at least two weeks from Bordorn and then another week or two from the western gate, and after the months of constant marching, the thought of this last push was almost too much. Roskin’s body wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest, to let the ache ease from his legs. He had hoped for a week or so of eating the fresh meats, nuts, and vegetables that Kwarck prepared each night, but that was not to be.
When Molgheon finished, they said farewell to Vishghu and went outside. Kwarck, Crushaw, and the Ghaldeons were in the yard, talking softly to each other by a weathered hay wagon, but as the dwarves came from the house, they ended the conversation and walked with them towards the west. No one said anything until they had crossed the last cow pasture and were on the edge of Kwarck’s land. Then, Crushaw spoke in a low voice that barely hid his emotions.
“I’ve never had better soldiers,” he said. “I wish I had the strength to go with you.”
“It’s okay,” Roskin said, reaching out and shaking his friend’s hand. “I’ll be back to see you in no time.”
“Yeah,” Molgheon added. “This’ll end soon. Take care till we get back, Red.”
“Be wary, young master. I fear there’s more to this than what we’ve heard.”
“Don’t worry, General,” Leinjar said. “I’ll watch them.”
“Be safe,” Kwarck said. “War is a terrible thing. Mind that you don’t lose your self in it.”
“If it’s all right with you,” one of the Ghaldeons asked Roskin. “We’d like to come with you. The way we see it, you’re as much our king as anyone has ever been, and we’ll pledge our lives to protect yours.”
“You’re free dwarves with beards as thick as mine,” Roskin answered. “If you want to travel with me as such, I’ll be proud to walk beside you.”
Each Ghaldeon shook Roskin’s hand to show their allegiance, and when that was done, there were many handshakes and hugs goodbye between the dwarves and Crushaw and Kwarck. Then, the group turned west and marched away from the hermit’s home and towards the lands of the Kiredurk outcasts where Bordorn waited. The sun was high in the sky, and the day had grown rather warm. Spring was giving way to summer, and the thick grass of the prairie had already begun to show hints of yellow in the plush dark green.
Chapter 12
An Ominous Sign
Hardly more than a year had passed since Roskin had recuperated in the logging town among the Kiredurk outcasts, but as he walked the last couple of miles to Bokwhel’s house, it seemed a different lifetime. She had taken him in without knowing any more about him than that he was injured, and she cared for him with tenderness and concern. Most of his memories of those weeks were good, but when time came for him to leave, she had turned strange, acting as though he were not healthy enough to travel when in fact he was fully healed. It had been as if she needed him to be hurt. And then there was Jase, her adopted son who had accused Roskin of being selfish and ungrateful for leaving in such a rush when there were soldiers that wanted him dead just down the street. Those words had stung then and nagged at him now, making him wonder if he had indeed not returned enough kindness to Bokwhel and her husband.
Despite having left on uneasy terms, he had to visit them to gather as much information about the goings on in town as he could, and as he cleared the last rise, the house and yard came into view. The sight of it unsettled him. In the yard, grass had grown well over waist deep,
and trash littered the walkway. On the porch, piles of garbage stood as tall as him, and a pungent mixture of rotten food and stale alcohol wafted from the mounds. Even among the slaves and the lowest of the lowly orcs, Roskin had never seen such filth, and for a moment, he thought he had come to the wrong house. While Bokwhel and Dagreesh had never been steadfast cleaners, they had also never let their home look like this.
Roskin kicked a path across the porch and, placing his right hand on the pommel of his sword, knocked on the door with his left. After a few moments, their only natural child, Jokhreno, opened the door, and, when she recognized him, smiled and asked him to come in. She had been one of the first healers to care for Roskin after he had been shot by two arrows, and if not for her skill, he might not have survived the ordeal. Seeing her, he relaxed his grip on the pommel.
“Welcome back, stranger,” she said, shuffling to the chair that Dagreesh usually sat in after work.
While the porch was shocking, the inside of the house was horrifying. Before, the living room had been a humorous mess, mostly knick-knacks and clutter the old dwarves wouldn’t part with. Now, piles of dirty dishes and empty bottles buried the clutter in a layer of grunge and decay. Soiled clothing lay in clumps around the floor, and every flat surface seemed to be coated by a thin layer of crumbs. Roskin’s breath caught in his throat, and he gagged from the stench.
“What’s happened here?” he asked, stretching the front of his shirt over his mouth and nose.
“Pappy died last winter,” she returned, her face a mask of sadness. “We’ve had a rough time.”
“Dagreesh died?” Roskin asked. “How? What happened?”
She explained that after Roskin and Crushaw had fled, the humans from the Great Empire had remained, claiming the small town as their own. Then, they proceeded to tax the dwarves heavily, taking as much as any of them had to give and still asking for more. Dagreesh, already old and tired, had to work even longer and harder to pay the new taxes, and as the cold and snow had moved in, his health had turned bad. It didn’t take long for illness to overwhelm his frail body.