by D. A. Adams
“You’ve captured a slave trader, eh?”
“We’re delivering him to Dorkhun for trial,” Leinjar responded. “Both of them.”
“So the hermit of Mount Roustdohn is still alive?” Torkdohn asked with a snort.
“He’ll be around longer than you,” Molgheon said.
“At my age, each sunrise is a pleasant surprise, but you can believe I’m happy to see the likes of you in a cage.”
“They won’t make it to Dorkhun, mark my words.”
“We’ll see,” Bressard said, returning to his seat. Slowly, he lowered himself. “The rest of you are friends of Molgheon, so you’re friends of mine. Please, make yourselves at home.”
The dwarves introduced themselves and thanked him for letting them spend the night. Two of the Ghaldeons went to the wagon for food, two more went for wood, and the fifth went to the stove to ready it for a fire. All three Tredjards stayed near the cage, moving items out of arm’s reach and watching the traitors closely. Molgheon sat in a chair beside Bressard and briefly explained the situation. He listened intently, nodding at times and asking her to repeat words when he didn’t quite hear. When she finished, he rubbed his beard and sat silently for a few moments, deep in thought.
“Well,” he said at last. “I’m glad for the company. It’s been awhile since anyone stopped by.”
The Ghaldeons returned to the house with wood and food. Within moments, a fresh fire sparked to life in the stove, the wood cracking and popping as it took to flame, and the dwarves prepared their meal. Molgheon leaned back and watched. More than twenty years earlier, she and her husband had sat in this living room and enjoyed their last home-cooked meal together. She smiled at the memory and reached over and took Bressard’s hand. His skin was thin as paper and his hand was lighter than seemed possible, but he held her hand gently and smiled again, his tired eyes shining in the faint light of his lantern.
***
Vishghu sat behind her mother as the clan matriarchs debated the latest proposal from the Kiredurks. They were evenly split, some believing the offer just and others holding firm that more land should be given. Vishghu’s mother was one of the few undecided, and her vote could decide the outcome of the war. Matriarchs took turns explaining their positions, and Vishghu noticed that the further to the east the clan lived the more they favored the proposal. She leaned forward and whispered the observation into her mother’s ear. The matriarch of Ghustaugaun turned and looked at her, pondering, and then smiled at her daughter’s keenness.
The two had talked well past darkness the night before, and Vishghu had told the story in as much detail as she could. Other matriarchs had gathered around and listened intently, especially whenever Evil Blade was mentioned, and when Vishghu had finished, her mother – while not convinced of Crushaw’s valor – had accepted that Vishghu had indeed fulfilled her duty by helping rescue Roskin from the orcs. The others agreed, and many had told the matriarch how lucky she was to have such a valiant and skillful daughter. Her mother had soaked up the praise with the pride only a parent can muster.
The story, however, had only more deeply divided them on the issue of the truce. Those wanting to accept the terms believed that since the heir was safe and Evil Blade still in exile there was no reason for continuing the war. Those opposed claimed that since Vishghu had been instrumental in freeing Roskin, the ogres deserved the lands from the gate to the Mother of Ice. For her part, Vishghu was frustrated by the lack of meaningful dialogue between the leaders. They were more interested in talking than listening, and the more one talked the more each seemed to solidify and defend her position. After having been around Kwarck, Crushaw, and the Marshwoggs, Vishghu had learned the value of listening and cooperating. This vain stubbornness for the sake of validating individual pride at the expense of the whole was not only ridiculous but dangerous.
Finally, it was her mother’s turn to speak, and she rose and walked to the center of the circle. She went through the standard diplomatic etiquette, thanking the other matriarchs for their thoughtfulness and for the opportunity to share her thoughts. Her mother was a good orator and a well-respected leader. If any could persuade the other undecided voters, it would be her, but Vishghu herself didn’t know which way her mother was leaning, so she listened intently as the matriarch started into her views:
“I am in a unique position. The Kiredurk heir and Evil Blade were discovered in our lands by my clan. I banished Evil Blade to the hermit Kwarck’s, sending my only daughter to watch over him. When Roskin, son of Kraganere, was taken as a slave, my daughter traveled across the Great Empire and into the orc lands to free him. My clan has fought at this gate from the beginning, and the blood of many of my kin stain this mountain.
“Nothing I can say here at this meeting could do justice to the sacrifices all of us have endured. I cannot give life back to those who’ve fallen, and I cannot take the grief away from those who’ve lost family. War is terrible, and the toll it takes on soldiers, leaders, civilians is immeasurable.
“We ogres have lived with war for many decades, and while we are far from broken, the strain of defending ourselves from the Great Empire has burdened us. Even as we stand here debating, human soldiers in the east are invading our lands and killing our people. All of us have sacrificed for that war, too, and I would argue that those sacrifices weigh more heavily than the ones on this mountain.
“While we haven’t broken through the gate and overrun the Kiredurks, we have wounded them deeply. As much of their blood covers these stones as ours, and we have shown them that they cannot send enemies into our lands and then blame us for defending ourselves. We have shown our strength and resolve, so much so that they kneel before us with wagons of gold and food. We have won this war, and they have surrendered to us.
“We all agree on that. Our only point of contention is whether or not we accept their terms of surrender, and today, I have listened as each of you have given your views on this matter, and I have been impressed by your thoughtfulness, your wisdom, your courage to speak your heart. On this day, I am proud to be an ogre. Now, the time is here to decide which path we will choose.
“I say to you, my sisters, that the prudent choice is to accept these terms and return our focus to driving the humans back south. They are our real enemy, and the gold and food we have won here, while not equal to even one ogre life, will serve us well against that enemy, and we should use it as such. For as long as history remembers, the Mother of Ice is our western border, and it does not serve us to cross it and give the Great Empire the impression that we are retreating from them. That is my belief, and that will be my vote.”
She thanked them again for allowing her to speak and then returned to her seat. One by one, the other matriarchs left to speak declined their turn, and finally, the moderator rose and addressed the assembly:
“Since no one else wishes to have their say, let’s break for lunch and return in an hour to hold the final vote.”
The ogres disbanded and settled into smaller clusters. Their attendants carried in their lunches, and soon, the din of many conversations filled the air. Vishghu wanted to say something to her mother about the speech, but she wasn’t sure what to say. She was glad that her mother had seen the prudence of returning focus to the Great Empire, and she had been moved by her mother’s words. Now, sitting here just the two of them, she wanted to tell her mother how proud she was and how much she loved her but couldn’t find the words.
“After we accept the surrender, I want you to return to Kwarck’s and finish your duty,” her mother said between bites.
“As you wish,” Vishghu said.
“You may think Evil Blade can be trusted, but we should watch him just the same.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Good. As soon as he dies, you can return to the village and take your place on my council.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
“You’ve earned it. Learn as much as you can from Kwarck. He is very wis
e. He can teach you all you need to know about how to rule.”
“Do you think we’ll ever heal this rift with the Kiredurks?”
Her mother shook her head, frowning.
“That’s a shame,” Vishghu said.
“We spent centuries living in peace,” her mother said. “But it only took a couple of months to tear that down. Strange how fragile it is.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Vishghu said, looking to the east. “How did things escalate so fast?”
“They found Evil Blade and were going to use him to attack us. It’s just fortunate we caught them before they made it to the gate. Who knows what they could’ve done with him leading them?”
“That’s not right. Roskin wasn’t taking him back to Dorkhun. They were heading east to Black Rock, something about a lost treasure.”
Her mother arched her eyebrows.
“Yes, I heard the story a few times. Something’s not right about any of this.”
“Well, hopefully this war is over, now.”
“I just hope we haven’t been weakened so much that we can’t fend off the invaders.”
“Me too, Vishghu. Me too.”
Vishghu stared at her plate of food and thought about the situation. She had learned at Kwarck’s that the dwarves believed Roskin had been sold into slavery by the ogres, and the ogres believed the Kiredurks were planning to attack them with Crushaw. How had both sides been led so astray from the truth? How had such inaccurate information made it to leaders of both sides? There was something she wasn’t seeing, but she knew there was more to this war than Roskin and Crushaw. She just needed to figure out what she was missing.
Her mother told her to stop daydreaming and eat her food, and the reprimand brought back memories from childhood. She had heard that line many times, and now, even though she was grown, she still minded her mother. Grabbing her fork, she tore off a piece of meat and chewed it slowly. The meat was cooked and seasoned perfectly, and she savored the flavor before swallowing. Soon enough, she would be back at Kwarck’s, and while his food was good, he couldn’t prepare meat like the ogres could. She would enjoy dining at her mother’s table for as long as possible, but even as she relished the meal, her mind mulled over all she had learned, trying to decipher what had driven two allies to turn on each other so completely. There was an answer, and she would find it.
Chapter 8
One Conflict Ends
Roskin stood in a blacksmith’s shop next to the armory and marveled at the volume of weapons produced. The Ghaldeons had been at work night and day, hammering out axes and pikes with unrivaled efficiency. Many of them, like Molgheon, had been part of the Resistance, and they had been biding their time for the opportunity to put their skills back to use. When King Kraganere had requested they work for him, they had come in droves and had worked with the fervor only those whose livelihoods have been restored can. Now, with the war winding down, Roskin could sense their disappointment.
He had brought Bordorn here to see about the shield he wanted and had decided to have an axe forged for Krondious as well. Each dwarf was talking individually with a blacksmith, describing in detail what they wanted. The blacksmiths were taking measurements and scribbling notes. Roskin told the one with Bordorn to fashion a sword he could wield with one hand, and the smith added that to his notes. Once the blacksmiths were satisfied that they knew enough to fashion the equipment, Roskin handed them his sword and throwing axes and asked them to sharpen and polish his weapons.
“Where’d you get these?” one smith asked, his face glowing as he held the ancient weapons.
“Long story,” Roskin returned. “Please, take good care of them.”
“They were forged at least three hundred years ago. Look at the casting.”
The other blacksmith stepped closer and inspected one of them. His face also lit up as he rubbed his fingers along the handle, around the blade, and back across the counterweight.
“We’ll watch them like a mother with her newborn,” the second blacksmith said. “My papaw and daddy used to tell me stories about the skills of the elders, but I always thought them just legends passed down.”
“Know what you mean,” the other said. “I heard the same, but we always had to make things so fast we never got to focus on craft. Do you mind if we show them to some others?”
“Not at all,” Roskin said.
“Just make sure no one walks away with them,” Krondious added, pointing at each of them. “If my master doesn’t get them back, you’ll answer to me.”
The two blacksmiths smiled to ease his mind, but when Krondious’s expression didn’t change, both stammered they would make sure the axes were returned. Then, as if to prove it, they placed them inside a safe and locked it. Roskin thanked them and handed each a couple of gold coins as a good faith down payment, and the blacksmiths shook his hand and returned the thanks.
“Can you have my weapons ready by tomorrow for the ceremony?” Roskin asked.
“Of course, my lord,” the first smith said. “And we’ll let your friends take a couple of axes to have something to carry, too.”
“That’s much appreciated,” Roskin said. Then he turned to his friends. “Let’s go and let them get to work.”
The three dwarves left, and Roskin led them to the temporary palace where servants were busy packing for the trip to Dorkhun. Lunch time was near, so they went to the dining room to find what had been prepared. Captain Roighwheil sat alone in a corner, staring at his food and moving it around the plate with his fork. Roskin led Bordorn and Krondious to a table on the other side of the room and then excused himself to speak with the captain. The two dwarves barely noticed him leaving as a servant brought the first course.
Roskin extended his hand to the captain, and the dwarf stood and shook it firmly. The captain had always had one of the strongest grips Roskin had ever known. His son was nearly Roskin’s age, and the two had spent many hours boxing and wrestling as they grew up. Now, the son served in the elite guard, which had been stationed at the gate from the beginning of the war. The unit had seen more fighting than any and had also suffered far more casualties. The son had been wounded twice, neither time seriously, but the strain of worry showed around Captain Roighwheil’s eyes and in the gray now streaking his beard.
“May I join you?” Roskin asked.
“Of course, my lord,” the captain said, returning to his seat.
“Please, sir, I’m just Roskin,” the heir responded, sitting beside him. “I’m glad your son is safe.”
“Thanks. It’s good you’re back, too.”
Roskin looked around the room to see if anyone was close and, pleased that they had privacy, leaned closer.
“I need to talk to you about something,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“Anything you need.”
“It’s Master Sondious. He’s up to something.”
Captain Roighwheil nodded.
“I heard about the two of you trying to delay the war.”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” the captain said, looking away.
“No, Captain. You served the kingdom well. My father is grateful.”
The captain looked back at him, tears filling his tired eyes.
“I also heard how you saved him from the ogres.”
“Just doing my duty.”
“Now, I need you to do something else, and it could be just as dangerous.”
Captain Roighwheil nodded again.
“Leave for Dorkhun after we finish this meal and find out what Master Sondious is planning. I have a very bad feeling, and I don’t want my father to walk into some kind of ambush.”
“Do you really think he would betray your father like that?” the captain asked, tightening his jaw.
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“He’s not been the same since they hurt him,” the captain said, his voice distant.
“He trusts you. Whatever he’s planning, pretend to go along. I’ll make sure my father knows
who you really serve. You’ll be protected.”
“Once I know something, I’ll send a runner. I serve this kingdom. I serve your family.”
After they said farewell, Roskin returned to Krondious and Bordorn, who were already on the third course and nearly ready for the fourth. Roskin teased them about the empty plates, and both returned the jests with jokes about Roskin worrying more about diplomacy than his friends. Roskin took his seat and ate a bite of the small salad waiting for him as the first course. The tender greens were covered in finely grated cheese and an oil and vinegar dressing. Something in the freshness of the salad reminded Roskin of Kwarck, and he thought about the hermit. The harvest was near, so he would probably be cleaning out his stalls.
From deep inside, a warm feeling came, and for just a moment, he was back on the farm, watching Kwarck and Crushaw have their lunches. The two old men looked content, as if the hardships of life were far away. A voice whispered inside Roskin’s mind to stay strong, that he was ready for his next challenge. Then, just as quickly, the vision and the voice were gone, and Roskin was back at the table.
“Where’d you go, Pepper Beard?”
“Just daydreaming.”
“You weren’t with us, that’s for sure.”
“You okay?” Krondious asked.
“I’m fine. Really. Let’s finish eating so we can prepare for tomorrow. My father wants us to rehearse a couple of times before we meet with the ogres.”
“You’re the one who’s behind,” Bordorn chuckled. “Don’t rush us.”
“I’m not very hungry,” Roskin said, pushing the salad bowl away. “Let’s go.”
They left the dining hall and went to the king’s chamber. The king was busy at his table, signing documents and sending runners to different parts of the kingdom with news the war was over. Each township was asked to send food to replenish the stores emptied for the truce. The gold and gems had come from Kraganere’s personal treasure, not the kingdom’s, so none of the citizens were asked to bear that burden, too. He looked up at the three dwarves and waved for them to have a seat and wait.