by D. A. Adams
He continued up the trail, his legs and lungs burning from the climb, and as the third night approached, he scanned the mountainside for a good tree to sleep in. Through the day, he had managed to scavenge a few berries, but he was weak with hunger. If he didn’t find a good meal soon, he would become too weak to fend off his hunter. After everything he had survived, the thought of dying a predator’s prey before killing Crushaw tormented him.
To his right, a few yards off the trail he spotted a tall oak. Its base was wider than his arm-span, and its lowest branches were eleven feet off the ground and thick enough to support him. He fixed the shaft of the pike to his back and drew his two daggers. Then, using the daggers, he climbed to the first branch that was good enough to stretch out on. He drove the daggers deep into the bark of the trunk and, using strips of cloth from his shirt, tied the pike to the branch above. Satisfied that his weapons were secure, he leaned against the trunk and steadied himself.
He dug out the berries he had kept and chewed each one slowly, as if relishing them might offer more nourishment, but as soon as the last one was gone, his hunger roared more fiercely. How had his life come to this? He had been a loyal soldier and had stood toe-to-toe with the phantom on the Slithsythe Plantation. He had risked certain death to get word to the fortress of the approaching slaves and had tracked down the phantom in the Marshwogg lands. But here he was, a fugitive running from his own masters, starving in a tree, and hunted by a creature he couldn’t spot. None of it made any sense.
He looked around the forest floor for a hint of the predator, but there was no trace. After surveying the area, he was certain that this position offered him the best opportunity to defend himself. If something started up the tree, he was sure he would wake and be able to get the daggers drawn before anything could reach him. He stretched out as much as he could and got as comfortable as possible in the crook of a branch twelve feet off the ground, and within moments, before the sun had set, he was fast asleep.
***
Crushaw drove his hoe into a thick clod and carved out a weed to its deepest roots. Sweat dripped from his nose and forehead onto the hard dirt and disappeared as it hit the ground. He only had two and a half more rows to finish, and he wanted to be done before the hottest part of the day. He had more work to do in the evening, but now that his age was catching up to him, he didn’t like staying in the fields through the afternoon heat.
Behind him, he heard Kwarck approaching and pretended not to notice. Since Crushaw had returned, the old wizard had been trying to sneak up on him, but at each attempt, Crushaw had heard his footsteps, seen a rustle, or smelled the scent. After each failure, Kwarck had joked the next would be successful. Crushaw stepped to another plant and dug out a new weed, offering no hint he knew Kwarck was within a few feet. Then, with unnatural quickness for his age, he spun and faced the wizard.
“Your footsteps are too loud,” Crushaw said, laughing.
“Seems so. You’re quite keen.”
“In my youth, I could make out the slaves’ songs two fields over. Not anymore.”
“In my youth, I could see for many miles. It’s the elf in me. Haven’t been that sharp for some time. I brought you some water.”
Crushaw accepted the canteen from his friend and took a mouthful but didn’t swallow. He swished it around his mouth, letting his cheeks and gums absorb as much as they could before spitting. Then, he took a second drink and swallowed it slowly. He had learned that trick as a young boy in the fields. The elves had taught him that by rinsing his mouth first, the actual drink felt more satisfying and his mouth and throat wouldn’t feel quite as dry. He had followed the habit his entire life, unsure if it really worked or if he just believed it to be so. Handing the canteen back, he thanked Kwarck.
“Not at all. You earn it every day.”
“I want you to know. I’ve never had a real home before. You’ve been a true friend.”
Kwarck nodded silently, a look that told Crushaw the feeling was mutual.
“This elfish bond you spoke about, can you tell anything about Roskin?”
“As far as I can feel, he is safe. That’s all I know.”
“I wish I could’ve gone with him.”
“Don’t worry yourself. You made the right choice. This next part is his and his alone.”
“You’re right. You’re right, but still…”
“You trained him well. He’s as ready as possible to face this. Try not to worry.”
This time, Crushaw nodded silently and pointed at the field, indicating that he wanted to finish his task.
Smiling, Kwarck turned and started for the house, and Crushaw stared to the west for a moment. He hoped the young dwarf would be okay. To him, the whole situation seemed more than a conflict over Roskin, and he was certain more was at work than any of them knew. He refocused on the row in front of him and located the next weed. As he stepped closer, he heard Kwarck call from the edge of the field:
“Next time, Crushaw, you won’t hear me.”
Chuckling, the aged general struck the ground and ripped out the weed. The sun was nearing its apex, and the temperature was climbing, so he quickened his pace, moving down the row.
***
Vishghu stopped at the river dividing the ogre clans from the Kiredurk Kingdom and let her buffalo drink. The Kiredurks called it the Ganheren River, but to ogres it was known as the Mother of Ice, for its source was said to be at the end of the world. After leaving Kwarck’s, she had ridden for six days to her village, but when she arrived, she had learned the clan leaders were at the front near the eastern gate. She had rested a few hours, enjoying the cool weather, then gathered enough provisions to get her to the gate and set out again. After having ridden for another week, she was now only a day’s ride from the front.
In her village, she had seen many wounded ogres and had heard terrible stories of the fighting. What surprised her most was the hatred her people showed for the dwarves that had been their closest ally for centuries. It was as if the ogres had turned all their anger at the Great Empire onto the Kiredurks. The thought bothered her, not just because she had seen Roskin’s valor and respected him personally, but also because she knew the humans had not stopped invading. The ogres couldn’t long survive a war on two fronts.
Once the buffalo had drunk well, she remounted and crossed into the Kiredurk Kingdom. She had been able to see the mountains on the horizon for a couple of days, but as she neared Erycke’s Peak, which rose 10,000 feet, she was truly in awe. The first mountains she had ever seen were those of the eastern range, but the highest she had seen was barely over 5,000 feet. At the time, she had been impressed by the majesty of those green and purple folds in the land. Now, staring at the gray and white jagged rock that seemed ripped from the ground itself, she was overcome by the beauty.
As the buffalo plodded along the stone road that wound around the base of the mountain, Vishghu saw thin columns of smoke in the near distance. The ogre camps were not too far away, so she rehearsed what she wanted to say to the matriarchs. She had been practicing for most of the trip, but now that she was close, anxiety and doubt crept into her thoughts. On the ride between Kwarck’s home and her village, she had been certain that she could persuade them, but now, her words felt weak and hollow. She wished Crushaw were with her. He could help make her argument stronger and clearer. Suddenly, two well-armed ogre males stepped from behind a grove of ponderosa pines and ordered her to halt.
“What’s your business on this road?” one asked.
“I need to speak to the matriarchs.”
“In case you haven’t heard, they’re a little busy.”
“I am welcome at their table.”
“That so?”
“I am Vishghu from the clan Ghlounsourhan. They will see me.”
“What’s your business?”
Part of Vishghu wanted to tell them about Roskin and Crushaw, the Slithsythe Plantation, the Battle for Hard Hope, and the Marshwoggs, but these two foot soldi
ers, who had been assigned to guard the least vulnerable part of the ogre formation, wouldn’t understand the significance of her story, so she steadied her gaze on the one she had discerned was of higher rank and spoke with all the authority she could summon:
“I bring news of Evil Blade.”
The two looked at each other, their shock obvious. Vishghu waited for them to speak, holding herself erect and projecting confidence as she had seen Crushaw do when he gave unpopular orders. Finally, the one of higher rank stepped aside.
“Ride ahead about half a mile,” he said. “You’ll find a small camp. One of them can take you to the matriarchs.”
“You have my thanks,” she returned, digging her heels into the buffalo’s sides to spur it forward.
As she rode away, the guards broke into a rushed conversation, debating what news she could have. The stone road turned steep, but the Kiredurks were master craftsmen, for the quality of the path didn’t change. As she climbed towards the camp, she glanced to her right and saw the northern plains stretching to the east. In early summer, the fields were still mostly green with swatches of yellow. The Mother of Ice wound through the open field, its course bordered by a thin line of trees on either bank. She was hardly more than 2,000 feet up the mountain, but the view was already spectacular.
She refocused on the trail and guided the buffalo forward. Not far ahead, she could make out voices in the camp, and soon after, she rounded a bend that leveled out into a clearing. Ogres sat in several groups of three and four, talking in low tones. From their faces and body language, Vishghu could tell that they had spent time at the front. As she neared, they eyed her warily, and she returned eye contact without smiling or showing emotion. Instead, she held herself as if she belonged there, too. She rode directly to the closest cluster and spoke:
“I need an escort to the Matriarchs.”
“We’re not pages,” one said, standing and stepping to within arm’s reach. Her companions also rose, and the other groups stared at the commotion.
“I’ve ridden for two weeks to deliver important news. I just need someone to lead me to them.”
“What sort of news?”
“That’s a matter for them,” Vishghu said, holding the other’s gaze. “I’m from the clan Ghlounsourhan. It’s very important.”
“Tell me, if your clan matriarch is part of this war, why is such a healthy, young warrior like yourself just now coming to the fight?”
“I was away from my village, serving my matriarch’s orders. I just learned of the war two weeks ago. I rode as hard as I could to get here.”
The other stared at Vishghu for several seconds, contemplating the story. Vishghu kept her ground and maintained eye contact. The others gripped their weapons, and several more stood and moved closer. Still, Vishghu showed no fear. Finally, the leader motioned for the group to relax.
“I like you, young one. You’ve served your matriarch well. I’ll lead you there myself.”
With that, she turned and started up the next rise on foot. As a sign of respect, Vishghu dismounted and, leading her buffalo by its bridle, followed. She caught up to her guide and settled into the same stride. After riding for nearly two weeks, her legs and back were stiff, and for the first few hundred yards, she limped noticeably. The steepness of the climb took her breath, and her thighs burned, but she managed to keep up.
“For someone not at the front, those are some serious scars,” the guide said as the slope lessened.
Vishghu flashed back to the Battle for Hard Hope, the moment when the last wave of orcs had overrun her position. She had believed herself already dead as they stabbed and beat her, but somehow, Crushaw had sensed her waning strength and had moved to her flank to assist. Before the orcs could deliver a fatal blow, he had single-handedly driven them off.
“Was that part of your service to your matriarch?”
“Yes,” Vishghu responded, unsure how to explain.
“Then, we’re lucky to finally have you here.”
As the road opened onto a level stretch, several guards stepped onto the path and halted them. The guide gave her clan name and explained the situation. One of the guards recognized her from the front and motioned for the others to step aside and let the pair through. He pointed to a line of trees and explained the matriarchs were in a clearing on the other side. The guide and Vishghu thanked him and moved in that direction. When they reached the trees, Vishghu tethered her buffalo to a sturdy branch, and then the two pushed through the thick branches.
In the clearing, a large camp had been erected with several tables and dozens of chairs. Various maps of the Kiredurk eastern gate were strewn on the tables, and clusters of matriarchs huddled around the maps, discussing strategies and debating tactics. From their faces and voices, Vishghu could see a recent battle had not gone well. She scanned the camp for her matriarch and found her at a table near the middle. Vishghu turned to the guide and thanked her.
“I’ll wait here for you,” the guide said. “In case you need anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’ll confess. I’m curious about this news.”
Vishghu moved through the crowd to where she had spotted her clan leader, and as she neared the table, the ogre looked up and spotted her. A smile came over the matriarch’s face and she rose from her seat.
“Vishghu, you’re safe,” she said, hugging the young ogre.
“Yes, ma’am,” Vishghu said, returning the hug.
“I was worried about you. You look thin, and what are all these scars?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Is Evil Blade dead?”
At the mention of the name, several other matriarchs stopped their conversations and turned their attention to them.
“No ma’am, but he is still at Kwarck’s. He will not leave.”
“Vishghu, you were under strict orders to stay with him until he died. He can’t be trusted.”
“He will not leave.”
“I picked you for this task because I thought you could handle it,” the matriarch’s voice droned with disappointment. “Why have you forsaken your duty?”
Vishghu gathered herself and leaned in close:
“Mother, we need to talk.”
Chapter 3
A Son Returns
Master Sondious stared at the map, imagining the path the ogres would take along the northern ridge of the recently destroyed tunnel. Several reports indicated they were planning to retake the position and resume digging, and there were three main paths they could take. Each one offered them ample cover before they reached crossbow range, so Master Sondious wanted to ambush them before they could reach the tunnel, but he had to decide which was most likely for them to take. The Kiredurks could cover one and possibly two of the trails, but they didn’t have units for all three.
The chamber he sat in was nothing like the council room in Dorkhun. The table was a modest stone slab, large enough for eight dwarves at most, and the chairs, while well-crafted and cushioned, were purely functional. No decorations or ornaments adorned the walls. After months of spending twelve to sixteen hours a day in here, Master Sondious ached to see again the splendor of the Hall of Gronwheil.
Across the room, the king was lost in his own thoughts. Since Captain Roighwheil had brought news that Roskin had possibly been spotted in the realm of the outcasts, Kraganere had been useless during strategy sessions. Master Sondious had planned the tunnel attack alone, and it had worked flawlessly, destroying the mouth of the excavation and trapping inside at least three dozen ogres. If it had been left up to the king, the ogres would have already burrowed into the kingdom and overrun the defenses. Although he hadn’t spoken the thought, Master Sondious had begun to doubt the king’s ability to rule.
Now, he was left alone again to plan this battle, and while he had grown to enjoy developing the attacks, he didn’t like feeling unappreciated. Ever since his capture by and subsequent rescue from the ogres, Master Sondious felt that Kr
aganere no longer valued his service, as if somehow it were Master Sondious’s fault the kingdom were at war. Kraganere had said more than once that Master Sondious acted too aggressively and with too much venom, but Kraganere had not seen the savagery of the ogres firsthand. He was not the one who had been crippled by having his legs crushed by an ogre’s club, and he was not the one who had lain alone in snow for two days with no food or water. If Master Sondious did develop vicious battle tactics, it was only because he knew the darkness of the ogres’ hearts. And now, with this news of the heir, the king had even proposed that they postpone attacks and offer a truce. The very idea was preposterous.
Suddenly, outside the room, a great commotion arose, and he and the king looked at each other and then at the door. In a moment, Captain Roighwheil entered the chamber, a smile across his face, and bowed to the two. The king rose from his seat, and Master Sondious called for his assistant to help with his chair.
“What is this?” the king asked, his voice stern.
“Sir, sorry to interrupt…”
“We’ve grown accustomed to it,” Master Sondious muttered.
“But there’s a visitor to see you,” the captain continued, ignoring him.
With that he excused himself, backing out the doorway. A second later, a figure entered. He was taller than most dwarves but too short for a human, and his frame was thin and wiry. His left ear was mangled, his cheeks were sunken, and his beard was matted. His clothes were filthy, stained with splotches of mud and blood. His eyes flashed danger, making him the most wretched renegade Master Sondious had ever seen, and for several moments, the special advisor to the king had no idea who it was.
“Roskin?” the king half-exclaimed, half-asked.
“Hello, sir.”
Master Sondious’s mouth fell open, and he studied the figure, trying to find a familiar feature. The heir had left the picture of health and royalty, his skin smooth and soft, his mannerisms spoiled and pampered, his eyes naïve and youthful. This dwarf had none of that.