by D. A. Adams
Through it, he saw several familiar faces, mostly loggers who worked all day and spent each night commiserating over a few tankards of ale. Their faces looked more haggard and forlorn than before as the strain of the Great Empire’s taxes had taken its toll. In the back corner at his usual table, Jase sat with a couple of Kiredurks Roskin had never met, a treacherous looking pair who seemed like they’d rather steal than work. For his part, Jase was dressed in new clothes that belied the condition of Shaman Bokey’s house. Roskin’s temper rose at the sight.
Placing his right hand on his sword’s pommel, he entered the bar. At first, most of the dwarves didn’t notice him and continued with their hushed conversations, but as he made his way to Jase’s table, more and more recognized him. By the time he reached the lazy dwarf’s table, a tense silence had fallen over the tavern and all eyes were on him.
“Look who’s back,” Jase said, a smug expression on his face.
“Your nanna needs you,” Roskin said. “Have you forgotten about her?”
“She’s just sad,” he returned. “We’re all sad for poor Dagreesh.”
“You should get home, boy,” Roskin said. “And for once earn your keep.”
“That’s mighty big talk for a renegade all by himself,” Jase said to one of his companions. “Mighty big, indeed.”
“I’ve got no fight with you two,” Roskin said. “This is between me and him.”
“Any renegade wants to mess with Jase has to go through me,” one of them said, standing from his chair.
With one sharp jab, Roskin broke the dwarf’s nose, and he slumped to the ground with blood pouring onto the wooden floor. The other thief jumped from his chair and raced for the back door, abandoning Jase and the one on the floor. Roskin stepped towards Jase, who sat frozen in his seat. A murmur of excitement went through the crowd. Reaching down, Roskin took hold of Jase’s silk shirt and hoisted him from the seat.
“Go home,” Roskin said, slapping Jase across the mouth. Several in the crowd laughed out loud. “She deserves better than that.”
“Leave me alone,” Jase whimpered. “You’re making a big mistake.”
Roskin grabbed Jase’s beard and dragged him towards the door. When they reached it, he tossed him outside and told him again to go home. Jase lay on the dirty street for a moment before crawling to his hands and knees.
“Things have changed around here,” he said, nearly in tears. “You messed up, renegade.”
Ignoring him, Roskin closed the door and turned back to the crowd, most of whom were laughing and slapping each other on the back. He walked to a table nearby and climbed on it. Then, after clearing his throat, he called for the crowd’s attention. Again, a tense silence fell over them.
“Dark days have come,” he began. “These humans will not leave your town on their own. Many of you remember me from last year, and many of you remember my friend, Molgheon. She’s a brave dwarf and a good friend, and right now, they have her in a cage in the town square. My companions and I are going to rescue her, but we need your help.”
“Why should we get involved?” a dwarf called from the back of the room.
“How many of your friends or family have suffered from their cruelty?” Roskin returned.
“Too many,” a second dwarf answered.
The crowd began murmuring to each other their own tales of hardship, but Roskin quieted them with a booming voice:
“We can drive them from this town tonight, if you help us.”
“They’ll come back with more,” the dwarf in the back spoke again.
“Maybe,” Roskin said, nodding. “But I offer you this, as well. I am Roskin of the Dark Beard, Eleventh Heir of the Eight Kingdom and first son of King Kraganere.”
A gasp of shock came from them, and anger filled some of their faces.
“If you stand with me tonight, you and your families will be welcomed back in our kingdom. For those who want to remain above ground, you will be paid well for your efforts.”
“I’ve no love for the humans,” one dwarf with a hunched back said to the crowd. “But my hate for that throne runs deep. I say let the humans have him.”
Several dwarves shouted their agreement, and a bolt of fear shot through Roskin as he realized that revealing his identity might not have been a good idea.
“Settle down,” a thick-bearded dwarf at the bar called out. His chest and arms were broad with muscles from the years of chopping wood. “This dark beard was our friend. Nothing has changed that for me.”
“He’s the son of the leech that expelled my family to this place,” the other dwarf replied. “That changes a lot in my mind.”
“Some of you are second and third generation above-grounders,” the stocky dwarf continued. “Me, I was personally expelled by Kraganere. I spent my time goofing off and causing mischief, nothing terrible, mind you, but I wasn’t productive. For most of my youth, I was in front of the local magistrate for not pulling my weight, and as I became an adult, I got lazier and lazier. I appeared before the king five times, and for the first four, I was warned to straighten up, but I refused to listen. On the fifth visit, the king sent me here to live among the outcasts.
“You might think I’d be bitter about that, and for a time, I was, but now that I’m older and have learned that life is hard, I see that the blame is with me and me alone. More to the point, I was given four chances to do better by a just and wise ruler. These maggots don’t give us even one fair chance, so if you’d rather stand with them, go home and don’t help him. For my part, I’ll stand with my own.”
“Here, here,” several called out.
“I’ll not support that throne,” the bent dwarf said, standing from his seat and moving towards the door. “Your beards are too thick for your own good if you do.”
A handful of outcasts followed him to the door. Those that remained gazed back and forth between Roskin and the thick-chested Kiredurk at the bar. Roskin, moved by the dwarf’s comments, stared at him with a hint of awe. After a few moments of silence, the stocky one spoke:
“We’d better get moving if we’re gonna help your friend.”
“You’re right,” Roskin returned. “Let me get my friends from outside.”
He hopped off the table and hurried outside to the alley. Leinjar and the others followed him back inside where Roskin introduced them as heroes of the Battle for Hard Hope. The outcasts cheered at this news, but Leinjar silenced them.
“There’s not time for this,” he said. “We need a plan, and we need it quick.”
“It might be too late for plans,” a dwarf near the window said, pointing outside.
On the street in front of the tavern, Jase stood with two dozen human soldiers armed with swords. The lazy dwarf spoke with the captain of the group, pointing inside and nodding. Roskin then realized that Jase’s new status and disregard for Bokwhel were because he had betrayed his own kind to profit from the humans, like the slave trader Torkdohn. As he stared at the traitor, his hatred burst into a white ball that burned in his heart. Under his breath, he vowed to end the dwarf’s worthless life.
“You dwarves head out back,” the stocky one barked, motioning to the rear of the building. “We’ll hold them off while you make for the town square. We’ll meet you there shortly.”
Leinjar grabbed Roskin’s shirt and pulled him towards the back while the outcasts scrambled to get their axes. In a matter of moments, Roskin and the freed slaves were filing out the door and back into the darkness of night. Gathering his wits and corralling his temper, Roskin moved to the point and signaled for them to follow him forward. Behind them, the crash of metal on metal erupted in the tavern as the soldiers charged inside.
Chapter 13
Out of the Shadows
With the sounds of battle behind them, Roskin and the others ran up the narrow street toward the town square. Nearing a group of archers, Roskin motioned for the Ghaldeons, whose night vision was not very refined, to wait behind a stack of crates. Then, with t
he dark as cover, he and the Tredjards crept close to the humans and struck them down before they even knew an enemy was near. When that group was eliminated, they moved around the perimeter of the square and cleared out the other archers hiding in the alleys. Once the threat of arrows was gone, they returned to the Ghaldeons and prepared to attack.
At the edge of the shadows, Roskin examined the square and saw that Molgheon was still guarded by two dozen guards, six facing each direction. In the middle, Jase stood beside the cage and fidgeted, scratching his beard and wiping his hands on his silk shirt. Roskin’s anger rose again at the sight of him, and he signaled for the group of dwarves to form a tight huddle.
“There’s still too many of them for a straight attack,” he whispered, dulling the t and s sounds.
Leinjar agreed.
“One of us should move to the opposite side and get Molgheon from the cage. The others should draw away the soldiers.”
“You should get her,” Leinjar returned.
“I’d rather fight.”
“You’re the fastest one. You have the best chance.”
“Okay,” Roskin whispered after a moment. “But don’t stay engaged long. Once I’ve got Molgheon, I’ll go back for Bordorn. We’ll meet in the woods.”
With that, Roskin and Leinjar shook hands. Then, Roskin looked each dwarf in the eyes, trying to thank them for their loyalty. The odds of all of them surviving this fight were fairly slim, and before anyone fell, he wanted them to know how deeply he loved them for their allegiance. They returned his gaze, and for a moment, Roskin knew what it would feel like to be king, for in each dwarf’s eyes, he saw the unfaltering will to die in his service.
Before his emotions could best him, he turned and raced for the opposite side of the square. There were still soldiers hidden between buildings, so he had to make a wide arc around, and as he ran, he refocused on what he would have to do. Once the others attacked, he would only have a few seconds to get to the cage, bust the lock, and kill Jase before the soldiers could react and overwhelm him. After standing in the cage for that long, Molgheon might not be able to run, so he might have to carry her at least part of the way, which would mean they would have to get back in the shadows as quickly as possible to have any chance of eluding the pursuers. All in all, there was little room for error.
As he approached the place he would start from, he drew one of his throwing axes to use on the cage. The weapon was one solid piece and a much better grade of metal than the lock, so it offered the best chance for busting open the door. Gripping the handle, he stopped in the shadows and waited for Leinjar and the others to charge from the opposite side.
From his experiences in battle, he had come to dislike fighting itself: the abandon to primal urges, the sounds and smells of death, the complete absence of compassion; but he loved the moments just before the fight began. His eyesight and sense of smell became much sharper, and time slowed so that he was more aware of everything around him. These sensations made him feel more alive and more complete than at any other time, and he hated enjoying them that much.
Suddenly, Leinjar and the other freed slaves erupted from their hiding place and charged the soldiers. Caught by surprise, the humans hesitated at first, and given an opening, the dwarves exploded into the closest line, cutting down four of the six before anyone reacted. The hesitation also gave the dwarves time to retreat a few steps and draw the guards away from the cage. As soon as the last soldier made it beyond the stone pavilion the cage sat on, Roskin sprinted towards Molgheon, his axe ready to smash the lock. He was only a few feet away when Jase turned in his direction and spotted him.
“It’s a trick!” the traitor screamed. “Guards! Guards! It’s a trick.”
Only three soldiers heard him, but they each turned and charged Roskin. Without thinking, he hurled the axe at the first one, striking it in the chest with a wet thud. The man continued forward a couple of steps but then collapsed to the ground. The other two readied their halberds and continued, so Roskin drew his sword to meet them.
These soldiers were from the tiny outpost at Murkdolm and had little experience in actual battle. Their fear was obvious as they thrust their weapons at the Kiredurk. The one to his left lunged too far forward, throwing himself off balance, and the one to his right misjudged the distance and struck the ground at Roskin’s feet. The halberd’s blade bounced off the packed earth and nearly vibrated out of the soldier’s hands. With a quick stomp, Roskin snapped the pole near the blade and then drove his sword into soldier’s stomach.
Trying to regain his balance, the one to the left backed up, but Roskin pulled his sword from the unarmed man’s belly and pivoted to his right, spinning towards the clumsy one. As he spun, he swung his blade with a sharp backhand and sliced across the other’s throat. The man dropped his weapon to clutch at the gushing wound but soon fell to the ground. As he fell, Roskin hurried to the first soldier to retrieve his axe.
***
After catching the soldiers off balance and thinning their ranks, Leinjar and the others retreated down the main street in the direction of the tavern. As expected, the soldiers gave chase, calling out to their ambush units in the alleys. The ten dwarves formed a line twenty yards from the cage and braced for the onslaught. The clash of metal on metal as the lines collided was deafening, and despite being outnumbered nearly two to one, the dwarves absorbed the attack with hardly a scratch. Three more humans were killed, however, and four were wounded too badly to fight anymore. The remaining men retreated a few steps to regroup before attacking again.
Normally with that advantage, Leinjar would have rushed their line and overwhelmed them, but knowing that the remaining ambush units would be appearing at any moment, he wanted to give Roskin more time and free space, so he called for the dwarves to retreat ten more yards and reform their line. As the freed slaves backed towards the tavern, the hidden soldiers came rushing from the alleys and joined the others. The new formation was well over two dozen strong, so the dwarves hunkered down and waited for the charge.
Behind them, the sounds of battle in the tavern had gone silent, and fearing an attack from the rear, Leinjar turned to see if any soldiers were coming towards them. The door of the tavern flung outward, and instead of humans, the person who appeared was the stocky dwarf from earlier. His face was coated with a veil of sweat, and his breath came in deep gulps. His clothes and white beard were stained with dark splatters of fresh blood, and the thick muscles of his arms bulged from swinging his axe. No one else, dwarf or human, appeared from the tavern. Leinjar had seen his fair share of battle and had known many tough warriors, but as he watched this dwarf stride down the road towards them, he had never before seen a more menacing figure. Something in the dwarf’s eyes and swagger warned of bloodlust and fearlessness.
“Let’s drive these pigs back south,” the dwarf boomed as he neared the line.
The Tredjards and Ghaldeons cheered at the statement, and Leinjar turned back to face the humans. They had formed into two rows and were moving towards the dwarves, more slowly and with more control this time. The soldiers with swords were in the middle, and the remaining ones with halberds were on the ends. Leinjar saw that they were going to try to outflank them and pin them in with the longer weapons, so he called for the dwarves to spread out and not give up the outside. They widened the spacing between each other and took up most of the street.
“Let them get a little closer,” Leinjar said, peering over the humans for a glimpse of Roskin.
The dwarves gripped their weapons and stamped their feet in anticipation.
“Rush them!” Leinjar called, charging ahead. “Drive them to the plains.”
Screaming wildly, the dwarves stormed the soldiers for the second time, again catching them off guard. These humans were all too young to remember the time before the Resistance had been defeated, so their experiences with dwarves consisted of beaten down workers with broken spirits and exhausted bodies. They had expected a foe like that, not fier
ce and seasoned warriors who attacked with relentless fury. This time as the lines neared each other, the soldiers – especially those who had survived the first two waves – were ready to break and flee before blades even touched.
***
After getting his axe, Roskin turned back towards the cage. On the opposite side, Jase was calling into the darkness for someone to hurry, but Roskin paid him little attention. His eyes were riveted on the lock as he examined it to determine where best to strike. Like most dwarves, he had been well-trained in the basic physics of engineering, so he could tell from the design where the weakest points would be. As he reached the door, he raised the axe to smash the lock, but before he could swing, Molgheon called to him:
“Behind you, the captain from Murkdolm.”
Roskin turned and spotted the man just on the edge of the shadows. He had seen the captain one time before in Murkdolm on the morning when he and Crushaw had been chased from town. The captain had been in Molgheon’s tavern, interrogating her as to Roskin’s whereabouts. Switching the axe to his left hand, Roskin drew his sword and stepped towards the man.
“I’m guessing you’re the man that killed Grussard,” he said, gripping the pommel of his sword.
“And I’m guessing you’re the renegade I’ve been chasing.”
“He made this sword,” Roskin said, turning the blade from side to side so the man could see it well in the flickering light of the square. “Just so you know, it’ll take your life like you took his.”
“Enough,” the captain returned, drawing his sword.
Roskin wanted to return the axe to his back, but the captain was too close to risk it. For a second, he thought about tossing it to Molgheon at the cage, but then Jase might get to it first and strike him in the back. There was nothing to do but grip it with his left hand and wield the sword with his right. Once again, he was grateful for Grussard’s craftsmanship, for the sword was both light and balanced enough to use one-handed. Two hands would be better for blocking the larger foe, but he could manage.